Chapter 1
"Pay attention, Reno," Rufus says, as he points out something on the diagram. "This is the coolant control—"
"Don't see why I have to bother with this shit, anyway," Reno says, leaning back and yawning. "Rude can go and memorize the nitty gritty details."
-
Somewhere, years ago, there is a newly minted Vice President and relatively new Turk, one seated and one sprawled across the black leather couches gracing the living room of the former's apartment.
-
"Standard policy is to have all operators informed so that they can complete the mission individually if necessary. Now pay attention. If you take this elevator, it'll lead you to the service walks, where—"
"—where you can hop across and yeah, yeah. You seriously think Avalanche is going to get that far in?"
-
Somewhere, years ago, there is a beginning being made that neither was entirely aware of at the time.
-
"They might." Rufus leans back with a slight smile as Reno stretches, pushes himself off the table, and heads for the drinks cabinet. For his part, this is definitely one of the more enjoyable Sundays Rufus has had in a while, sequestered in his apartment trying to get a Turk to do his homework before an important mission. Avalanche is rumored to strike over the course of the next week, and orders from the President are to lure them in and try to wipe them out at one shot.
Privately, Rufus knows that Avalanche won't fall for that particular trick, but in the meantime, security has to be stepped up anyway, and well, it gives him the opportunity to spend the afternoon working with someone instead of wallowing in self-pity as he signs his way through piles of paperwork on his own.
The Turk is like a breath of fresh air. Rude is too quiet, Tseng too professional, and the afternoon would pass in the rapid flick of pages, all frantic business and the feeling of stress hanging in the air, and the evening would be spent slumped on the couch, massaging away the beginnings of a migraine.
Reno, on the other hand, has decided that the drinks cabinet is too hoity-toity for him, and has switched direction to head for the fridge instead. Rufus watches him as he carelessly raids it for a beer, grabbing a can without asking for permission first.
"Yes, you may have a can of beer. Thanks for asking," Rufus says dryly.
Reno glances back with his trademark grin. "You're welcome. Want one?"
Why not? "Pass me a can."
Reno tosses him the can he's holding, and reaches back in the fridge for another. "You have some good shit here."
-
And somewhere, years ago, there is the beginning to an end that neither could see coming.
-
"But of course. Some of us have good taste."
"I'm not complaining." Reno wanders over to the window, where a glorious sunset is just breaking out over the clouds, pink and blue and purple. In the distance, the Shinra Headquarters dominates the skyline, flanked by its phalanxes of mako reactors.
"Good." Rufus finds his eye drawn to the same view: the Midgar skyline illuminated in gold. Where the pollution can mix with nature in a peculiar, almost perverse way to produce a scene of rare beauty. At this time, in what passes for early autumn, the buildings are just dark, rectangular blocks against the sky, some speckled with lights. And then there is Reno's silhouette, in stark and sudden contrast, as he slouches, one hand stuck in a pocket of his black uniform jacket as the other hand cradles a beer can.
Idly, Rufus wonders what it's like to be a Turk. Or specifically, Reno. To be so utterly carefree and so utterly dangerous, and flaunt that so utterly boldly without fear of repercussion. Rufus himself is dangerous, far more dangerous than anyone in the Company would give him credit for, but his moves are all made in the darkness, orders sent over secured lines from secret locations, careful words in careful places engineered to chip away at the base of his father's power. To the world, he is still the young, helpless heir, and his father would like to keep it that way. And as much as he chafes at that description, chafes at the sneers from the ones who don't know better, he cannot afford to show his fangs. Not just yet.
At the same time, he cannot afford to be less than perfect. With his current reputation as bad as it is, the slightest slip up will demote him from 'helpless' to 'useless', and he cannot afford that. His achievements are masked, and so his failures must be too.
So Reno intrigues him. Was he always like that, Rufus wonders, as he watches the Turk rip the tab off the can and toss back several mouthfuls. Or did he only become so cocksure when he had established his reputation? For Reno is the most lethal man in the Department, their ace and their resident genius, if somewhat unreliable at times.
"Geez," Reno says, glancing at the wall clock. "It's past 6, boss. Can we at least call for take out if you're too stingy to bring me for dinner?"
And so utterly shameless.
Rufus doesn't mind. He stands, reaching for his keys, lying neatly in their little tray on the corner of his desk, polishes off most of the beer, and discards the rest. "Let's head out. There's a place nearby that's having a special." Sheer force of habit makes him close the file and tuck it under one arm, before a sudden tug on the binder stops him.
"Nuh huh. No bringing work to the dinner table," Reno says, whipping it away from him. "Besides, it's classified information, right? No bringing classified information out of secure territory."
Rufus raises an eyebrow at him.
"You don't scare me with that look, you little punk," Reno laughs. "Even if you scare the hell out of all your staff. You should treat them better, you know. Happy staff make for productive staff."
Rufus finds his arm abruptly snagged, as Reno tosses the binder on the couch and heads towards the door, still talking. Not for the first time, Rufus wonders at his casual familiarity. Certainly, the Turk hasn't tried to be over familiar with him just yet – there have been no mentions of going out to get smashed, or heading down to the Honey Bee, or similar escapades – which Rufus has been warned of. But still. This is their first time working closely together, and Reno is already—
--no, not already, Rufus realizes, as he dislodges Reno's arm and locks the door behind them. This is laidback for Reno, from what the rumors indicate, which speaks of a lingering caution on the Turk's part. Still testing the boundaries. After all, within Shinra Company itself, the figurehead Vice President is an imposing, terrifying, untouchable figure. Chillingly polite, so the secretaries say, and utterly terrifying.
Fools, Rufus thinks, wondering at their fear. They have no reason to be afraid. His chilling reputation has not been backed up by anything drastic apart from high standards. He does nothing without reason, and those who suffer from the malady of incompetence should be prepared to bite the bullet for their action.
After all, a few harsh words never hurt anyone.
Perhaps Reno realizes that, Rufus reflects, as he chases the Turk away from the driver's seat of the car.
"Don't get us killed, boss," Reno says.
"You're more likely to get us killed," Rufus demurs, as he snaps the keycard into the ignition and passes his hand over the palm scanner. Either the Turk has forgotten, or doesn't know, about the security features built into this vehicle. The features that would turn him into a mound of smoking ash in seconds if he even tried to drive the car before the security systems were programmed to recognize him.
Perhaps he doesn't care.
Reno, after all, seems the type to bite the bullet and walk off grinning after that.
"When you said some place having a special," Reno says, pausing in the doorway, "I didn't expect you to bring me to an all you can eat pizza buffet."
When he had sauntered into that nifty little apartment (in its own little building just a street away from the main building itself) an hour late for his appointment, to be greeted with a sardonic look and a comment about time keeping, he'd reflected that the Vice President was everything he'd expected him to be. The princely bratling with an attitude and a chip on his shoulder, utterly boring and way too focused on work for his own good. What kind of fifteen year old worked on Sunday, anyway?
"It seemed more to your taste. You were, after all, suggesting take out. You'd probably have called my usual haunts yuppie upper class food and turned your nose up at it," Rufus says with a chuckle, as the waiter shows them to a side table.
But he's being forced to revise his opinion by the minute. Sure, he's a high class brat, and Reno's frankly surprised that he has his own apartment and doesn't live anywhere near his father, and he's also boring and too focused on work, but he also shows the occasional flashes of a wry sense of humor. And an all you can eat pizza buffet? Sweet.
Reno congratulates himself on his positive influence on the kid.
"Besides," Rufus says, with a brief grin that looks positively mischievous, "This is yuppie upper class pizza anyway. Genuine wood-fired traditional flat pizzas from the Icicle Area."
"Pizza is pizza," Reno reflects, ditching his jacket over the back of the chair and heading for the buffet table with a grin of anticipation. Rufus joins him a brief second later, jacket not even unbuttoned, and Reno gives a mental headshake. It looks like the kid can be saved from the boring executive syndrome, but only if Reno-sama acts now to save him. At least he doesn't wear a tie. That's a good start.
He almost reaches out to tug on the lapels of that white jacket, but Rufus casually moves aside as if by complete accident, and Reno finds his eyes narrowing. Rufus is not a dumb kid, he recalls Tseng telling him earlier. Don't underestimate him.
And Rufus is eyeballing him out of the very corner of his eyes, as he has been all day, the sneaky little brat. Studying him. Measuring him. Testing him.
Reno doesn't really have a sense for the politics that Company's so bloody tied up with. Not in the same way that Tseng and Veld do at least, and he's willing to bet his next year's paychecks that Rufus lives and breathes the stuff. He's also willing to bet more paychecks that Rufus is making some subtle statement by bringing him here, maybe something about playing on his field but under his own rules. Pizza, but expensive snotty as hell pizza with weird foreign names. Whatever. It's easier not to worry about all this nonsense. At some point they'll have to come out and say everything, and he'll deal with it when that happens. That's always been a good policy.
You're too young for this shit, kiddo, Reno thinks ruefully, shaking his head and stacking his plate.
-
"Don't suppose they serve beer here," he says, when they've made their way back to the table. He makes a special effort to speak with his mouth full. Rufus doesn't even wince. Point to the kid.
"Wine, actually. I called for a bottle."
"Don't they card you?" Reno says, shaking his head in some disbelief and ditching the knife and the fork to use his hands. Pizza was never meant to be poked at. It was meant to be freaking quaffed, as fast as possible, with booze to smooth its way.
The corner of Rufus' mouth twitches in a smile. "And then what? Refuse to serve me? Has any one ever refused to serve you alcohol, Reno?"
"Nevah." These slices are so thin that he can cram an entire slice into his mouth at one shot. "But then again, I don't look like a kid."
Rufus leans very slightly forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I daresay you do, actually. Especially when you're stuffing your face like that."
Oh, the kid wants to fight, right? Reno readies some return jibe, something about not being the one looking like a little preschooler, when he catches sight of Rufus' eyes, sky blue with a spark of amusement dancing in them…
…and something much, much darker lurking behind them.
The retort dies, and Reno finds himself making some other lame ass remark about other people clearly not thinking so, especially the chicks. Privately, he's sitting back and wondering at himself. Surely he's not afraid of the little punk, who has turned his attention to his own plate, and is delicately slicing away a sliver of pizza.
No, it's not that, he decides, as the wine arrives, and Rufus goes through the whole tasting regime. It's definitely not fear, he reflects, as he shoves back the chair and heads to the buffet table for seconds.
Reno is many things – careless, laid back, irresponsible – but he's not a fool. And he knows a real threat when he sees it. This is no pansy executive to poke fun at. If he wants to play, he'd better be ready to get bitten.
Of course, he thinks, grinning to himself, that just makes him want to play more.
-
He kicks up a fuss about the wine. Truth to be told, he can't be assed if it's wine or beer, but clearly, Ruffie expects him to throw a hissy fit, so he does. Never let it said that Reno lets anyone down. He snags the nearest waiter and orders a pitcher.
"A glass, you mean," Rufus says.
"A pitcher."
Games like this, you can't afford to lose the smallest point.
"A glass," Rufus says, with a wave to indicate that the discussion is over. The waiter looks harassed.
"A pitcher. And a glass for my young friend here," Reno insists, firmly. "Pizza needs beer, kiddo. They go together like a guy and a hot chick."
"A pitcher of beer on a separate check, then," Rufus says, swirling his wine. Some expensive shit, Reno has noticed. All he can tell from the fancy stuff on the label is that it's a Bordeaux, which means dry as fuck and definitely not for the inexperienced wine drinker.
Whole damn point to the kid. That was smooth. But even though he isn't as rich as the brat, he still has enough gil in his pocket to cover that. "Fine."
"Will that be all, sirs?" the waiter asks, nervously. Rufus waves him off before Reno thinks of the possibility of picking up the menu and ordering all the appetizers on it. It's probably for the best. He doesn't want to aggravate the kid too much after all.
"Why do you do that?" Rufus asks, as the waiter moves away and Reno resumes stuffing his face. This stuff is good. Pizza is always good.
"Beer? Gotta have it. It's practically a tradition."
Rufus finishes his first slice and starts on the second, as Reno polishes off his sixth. "Be contrary for the sake of being contrary," Rufus says.
"Don't know what you mean," Reno replies. Same reason you do, kid. Because it's practically expected of us, yeah? We're supposed to hate each other on sight. That's why your dad gave you this assignment, which could easily have been fobbed off to Tseng or Veld or someone in Urban Development.
"I don't suppose you want some, then?" Rufus asks, hefting the bottle and indicating his near empty glass.
"You know me. Can't say no to alcohol."
Clink as he shoves the glass across the table, and Rufus graciously pours.
-
And Reno is suddenly very tired of the game.
That's always the problem. He plays politics, sure, but he's not all serious about them. It's much more fun to scandalize the brass and flirt with Scarlet (and sometimes Palmer) to make everyone scream, but this boy refuses to be scandalized. Refuses to react. Too boring, and too serious. Would probably take real work on Reno's part to get him scandalized, and even then, it probably wouldn't be easy. And even if a moment ago he was all ready to bait the viper, he really doesn't have the patience required to snare this particular one.
Bah. It's too much damn work to shake him up. Reno gets the feeling that if he ever dragged the kid to the Honey Bee and set the girls on him, he'd just take notes. In fact, if he ever dragged him to that Wall Market gym to meet the brothers, the kid probably wouldn't even bat an eyelid.
Damn boring.
The promised beer finally arrives, and Reno pours a glass, shoves it across the table, and claims the rest of the pitcher for himself. Damn kid is still watching him like a vulture.
I'll get you another time, he thinks, yawning and stretching. You get let off on good conduct because you fed me properly.
"Surely you're not tired already," Rufus says. "We still have some things to attend to."
"Forget it," Reno replies. "Don't need to know that shit, and you know it."
"Perhaps not. Doubtless you'll be able to fight your way out of any trouble you encounter."
He wonders if there are barbs in that remark. He decides that it's easier to take another long drink from the pitcher.
Kid's tired too, Reno notes, seeing him trying to hide a yawn behind his napkin. Or maybe it's all the beer. Baby Shinra probably doesn't drink anywhere near this much on a regular day. Speaking of which... "So. You know any good bars around here? All you can drink specials, maybe?"
"Getting sloshed before a mission?"
"Whoever said I was getting sloshed? It's Sunday night. You can cut loose and hang for a while."
"Not interested."
"Who said you had a choice? Come on. Name a place, or I'm going to drag you to the nearest one."
"You may have fake IDs. I don't."
"You were the one who said it. Who's going to stop you?"
"Bars are not the same as restaurants. Neither are clubs."
"I'll just say that you're with me. You're pretty enough that we could pass you off as a girl—"
Rufus has evidently decided that he's too much of a waste of time to bother with any more. He's started ignoring him, signaling the waiter for the check instead.
"You and I," Rufus says, turning back, "Are going to go back to my apartment and finish going over the schematics of that reactor. Then you're free to go bar-hopping as you please."
Reno wonders what the price of ignoring that order could be. Honestly? He's sick to death of work, and going over reactor schematics is bullshit, because he won't remember all of this tomorrow. He picks this sort of thing up by first hand experience, not staring at a stupid map. He gives an irritated wave. "You've done your job, kiddo. Give it a rest."
Kid really is tired. He can see it from the shadows around his eyes. Didn't he just jet in from another of his business trips this morning? Several months into his Vice Presidency and he's already working himself to death. Well, maybe it's newbie enthusiasm. It'll die off soon enough.
"Besides, all of this is bullshit and you know it." Yeah, hit him on the bottom line. Rufus Shinra is one who never does anything without a definite return, they say…
"I'll give you the file," Rufus concedes, sighing. "You can go over it at your leisure."
"Sounds like a plan to me."
They both know that he won't do it. They both think it won't matter.
It turns out, the next day, that they are both, very, very wrong.