"I want to know how some filthy, slum-dwelling terrorists are getting their hands on inside information, boy, and I want to know now!" President Shinra slams down a newspaper atop his desk.
He cranes his neck to read the headline that has infuriated his father so.
M.I.A. VICE PRESIDENT FUNDS URBAN DEVELOPMENT DEPARTMENT'S CONTROVERSIAL SLUM HOUSING PROJECT
Rufus's lips twitch.
"Is this true?" his father hisses, red in the face. "You funded your sister's ridiculous, wishful little project?"
"To be fair," he answers, raising his eyebrows, a smug smile on his fair face, "the project is technically Reeve's, and he's to be my brother-in-law soon. Consider it my wedding gift to them."
Rufus's mocking words are answered by a hard blow to his cheek, gold rings connecting with his sharp cheekbones and making him stumble briefly to his knees (though he doesn't shout), clutching the throbbing skin of his face. With as much dignity as he can muster, with a rage burning in his chest, he straightens up in front of a fuming President Shinra.
"Their little project was supposed to fail, not be bolstered out of the spite you carry for me," President Shinra replies, uncaring about the bright pink handprint on his son's face. Rufus breathes rather heavily, nostrils flared and his lips pressed tight together to keep him from speaking. "You wanted to make yourself look like some little hero, I'm sure? As soon as you promised Char the money, you just had to write the truth about it to some anti-Shinra newspaper? Is that it, boy?"
"I didn't send any information to any newspaper," Rufus says through gritted teeth. He smooths out the jacket of his suit, ignoring the stinging of his cheek. "You greatly underestimate Charlie, Father. If you knew her at all, you would have known that their project would be successful from the very beginning."
"And you think you know my own daughter better than I do?" President Shinra asks testily, considering Rufus with beady eyes.
"Of course I do," Rufus scoffs. "If you really knew her at all, you would know she prefers to be called Charlie."
"I didn't call you here to listen to your cheek," the president snaps, a muscle twitching in his cheek. It makes Rufus want to laugh in his father's face. After a moment, President Shinra stops pacing, lowering his voice as if letting Rufus in on a little secret. "You think I don't know Char . . . I know Char better than anyone. She's just like your mother was, no matter what I've done to stamp it out of her."
Rufus is silent. It's laughable to listen to his father claim to know Charlie, when he had done everything in his power to distance himself (and Rufus) from her.
"I know those ignorant people down below the plate have a great respect for Char," his father continues, "even some of them above the plate. You should see what they write in these newspapers . . . 'the only Shinra with a heart', they write . . ." He scowls at the newspaper, crumpling it up again and throwing it violently into a waste bin. "If I knew it wouldn't start a rebellion in the slums, I would have disowned that girl four years ago, after she failed to send that pilot into space.
"As it happens, your sister has proven very good at projecting a positive image of the company to the people. But she's defiant, and I know I am not blameless. I've let her get away with too much."
"A shame," Rufus notes coldly.
"Yes, a shame," his father echoes, looking terribly cruel as he smiles twistedly. "No doubt your sister knows very little about your feelings towards her old department. I do wonder at times if anyone has told her the truth about it. She may not love you so much if she knew you were the first to suggest it's cancellation."
Rufus doesn't falter.
"It's Char that's passing information, isn't it?" It's not an accusation, not quite, but he says it with such resignation that it's almost as if he doesn't want to believe it of his own spawn.
"If she is, I have no knowledge of it."
President Shinra makes his way back to his chair, but doesn't sit down, instead grasping the back of it with a meaty hand until his knuckles turn white. "This engagement of hers makes me nervous," he tells his son plainly. "That boy has access to far too much information. I want to know what he's saying to her. I understand he's a bit more faint-of-heart than our other department heads."
"Save Palmer, perhaps."
His father snorts. "Yes . . . save Palmer . . . it pains me to see someone so incapable running a department, even one that has been stripped of funding . . . but he does as he's told, unlike your sister, so I'll keep him close for now. But don't keep me talking, Rufus. If Char is passing information, I want proof, now."
"What do you propose, Father?"
"I want a Turk dogging her every move, do you understand?" President Shinra asks quickly, stroking his mustache. "She goes nowhere I don't know about. Anything out of the ordinary, I want them reporting straight back, do you understand?"
"Yes, Father."
As Rufus turns to leave his father's office, he stops at the sound of his name.
"Yes?" he asks, looking over his shoulder.
"Char will marry that boy. It's a far better match for her than I could have hoped for, and he loves her well enough." President Shinra looks more flustered than angry, as if he shouldn't have to make this statement. "I won't have you meddling. Understood?"
Rufus hums, turning back around. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"I don't have time to argue with you about it, Nero. Sixty thousand, you told me, and I haven't seen one gil from you," Charlie breathes quickly into the phone cradled between her shoulder and her cheek, directing her assistant silently as she holds up a framed magazine cover to the wall, a cover that features Charlie's own smiling face. "All the money is being funneled into weapons development. "You promised me sixty thousand at the auction, and it's five days until construction starts. I told you I had a deadline."
"And what's this I hear about your brother funding the project?"
"You know Rufus wouldn't dare put money towards anything that would reach the slums," she lies baldly, gesturing for Pia to raise the cover higher on the wall to line up with the other magazine covers that blanket the white wall. The young girl stretches her arms as high as they can go and Charlie nods.
"If I give you even one gil, I'll never see it again. You know there's no profit to be made off your building," Nero replies, but his words go in one ear and out the other. Someone knocks on Charlie's office door and opens it, but it's only Reeve, who instantly smiles at the sight of the magazines and nods in greeting to Pia.
"You heard Reeve," she says, widening her eyes at him and grinning as Reeve sits in one of the chairs tucked into the corner of her office. "We're offering employment with Shinra Inc. to those who choose to move into a unit. You'll get your money back, Nero."
"Yeah yeah . . . haven't seen your brother in a long time. How is he doing?"
"He's fine. He's on business overseas. Listen, Nero, I have to go, but I need to know I can count on you," Charlie says, smiling again at Reeve's soft laughter. "I want my sixty thousand and I'll get you that meeting with Reeve you've been asking about."
"Damn you. All right, I'll have thirty thousand—"
"Sixty."
"Fine. I'll have sixty thousand set aside for your project, and I want a meeting with Reeve beginning of next week."
"That's no good, Nero."
"Why not?"
"Because Reeve and I are going out of town at the beginning of next week. Shinra is hosting a fundraiser at the Gold Saucer. Did you hear we're getting married?" Charlie asks, urging Reeve to look through the magazine while he waits. He picks one up from a box of seventy-five, flipping through it with interest.
"Yeah, I heard. Your father called me to tell me. Is he a good man, child?"
She glances up sheepishly at the man standing across from her. "He's not Father, if that's what you're asking, and he treats me very well."
Nero hesitates on the other end of the line, an old man that she's known since birth, but has grown further and further apart from her father with the way he's been taking the direction of Shinra Inc. "If your father finds out that I've contributed to your—"
"He won't find out. I have a very good accountant."
This gives him pause again, but after a moment he says, "We'll talk about that meeting, Charlie. Have your accountant give me a call. And congratulations. Tell your brother I said hello."
"Excellent, I will. I'll send you an invitation to the fundraiser at the Gold Saucer. Rufus will be there, and I'll introduce you to Reeve." Charlie hangs up the phone and sighs happily. "Pia, go have the accountant call Nero, and tell him I expect sixty thousand—don't let Nero cheat him."
"Yes, ma'am."
Once her assistant has left the room, Charlie leans back against her desk and crosses her arms over her chest. "What do you think about the magazine?" She picks up another one out of the box, reading the cover (Woman of the Year: Charlotte Shinra—Heiress, Aeronautical Engineer, Midgar's Golden Child).
"We'll frame it, and put it on the wall at home with the others," Reeve remarks, standing up from his chair to kiss her on the cheek. "I hope you don't mind if I steal a copy for my own office?"
"No, of course not," she says, biting down on her lower lip and flipping through the pages. She had given the interview months ago, long before Reeve had finally asked her to marry him, so none of the pictures they had taken feature her engagement ring, unfortunately. Closing the magazine to look at the cover again, she brushes the pad of her thumb over the words they've used to describe her. "Aeronautical engineer," she sighs. "I'm not really one anymore, am I?"
"If it's any consolation, I'm not really an architect anymore, either."
Charlie laughs half-heartedly at his attempt to cheer her. "I worked so hard to earn that title, doubly so in a field dominated by men, and now . . ." Her lips tighten. "I was the Head of the Space Exploration Department at twenty-two. I was a genius, and now . . ."
"Well, I don't think your genius just quite goes away," Reeve jokes, and if it were anyone else making jokes right now, Charlie doesn't think she would be able to stay so calm. "You're still a genius, even if you're too modest to admit it."
Charlie scoffs, rolling her eyes at him. "Communications' Director. Not quite as exciting a title, I think."
"On the contrary, I think it sounds rather powerful," Reeve confesses, raising his eyebrows and wrapping an arm around her waist to hold her close. They both look down at the magazine in his hand, at her smiling face, at her flushed cheeks and perfect hair. "And you are terribly, terribly good at your job."
"I was terribly, terribly good at my last job, too," she says sadly as he presses a kiss to her temple. "I've been doing this for four years now, and I've done everything my father has asked of me. I can't go on like this, Reeve. I can't keep . . . lying to everyone."
A crease appears between Reeve's eyebrows. "What do you suppose you're lying to everyone about?"
"I don't know," she admits, shrugging her shoulders and resting her cheek on his shoulder. "I can't prove it, but I know that I'm lying. Sometimes things . . . don't add up, do you know what I mean?"
"Let's not speak of this here, at least," he urges, not unkindly. "Why don't we have dinner tonight, to celebrate the cover?"
Charlie clears her throat, blinking back the tears that have suddenly threatened to fall. She doesn't know what's brought them on so suddenly, and it doesn't seem as if Reeve has noticed, or if he has, he's just tactful. "I've got a lot of work to do, actually," she says, hoping he doesn't question it. "I've been putting off a lot of my own things to help you, you know. I was planning on staying late tonight."
"You know I appreciate all that you've done," Reeve assures her, looking down into her face and kissing the very tip of her nose. "You may not know this, but I am a horrible fundraiser."
"Oh, no, I definitely know that," she teases, accepting one more kiss from him, feeling his mouth curve into a smile against her lips. "You don't have to wait up for me, all right?"
"You're going to work yourself to death." He rolls up the magazine in his hand and steps backwards towards the door. "Hey—" he says again when Charlie looks away—"I love you."
She smiles sweetly. "I know. I love you, too."
Charlie sits back down in her chair after he leaves, tapping the glass desktop with her fingernails and thinking hard. While her current job is rewarding and pays well and offers her a chance to travel about three times a month for work-related purposes, it's not the job she would have chosen for herself after being dismissed from the Space Exploration Department.
Turning back towards her computer, she opens her e-mail. The first and newest e-mail is from someone she's never heard of before, but the subject line reads: ROCKET SCRAP METAL - URGENT. Charlie clicks on it, hoping against hope that it's not her rocket the e-mail is referencing.
Miss Shinra,
I am sending this e-mail from Rocket Town, where we have had several inquiries into whether or not we could break down Shinra No. 26 for scrap metal, given that construction on several new developments to the east has begun, and could use the scrap metal for roofing and aircraft for supplies. One such request has been submitted by none other than your current Head of Space Exploration Department, Palmer, who intends to bring the metal back to Midgar to, presumably, sell it for himself or use it in the production of a new reactor.
You must understand that we are loath to remove the rocket that has given our town its namesake, and Captain Cid has made it plain that the rocket is not to be touched by anyone other than himself, and he has also led us to believe you would have the same view. However, we are essentially powerless against the company, and fear that we are fighting a losing battle.
If there is anything that you are able to do to preserve Shinra No. 26, Rocket Town would be very grateful to you. The rocket is not only a tourist attraction now, but our legacy, and the majority of our town would hate to see it reduced to nothing but scraps.
Sincerely,
Oster Gapaul
Charlie sits back in her chair after reading the entirety of the e-mail. When she reads it for a second time, only one word sticks out in the whole of it: Cid. It's hard to believe that Oster is referring to the same Cid she once worked on the rocket with, four years ago, for surely Cid wouldn't stay in Rocket Town with nothing but bitter memories and the reminder of his failure looming over his head. She wonders when he ever left Midgar, if it was in the aftermath of the launch, or recently.
Even she hasn't gone back since the day of the launch. She's flown over it, admired it from a distance, but never deigned to set foot again in the place where her life had been ruined, her reputation and future tainted.
She checks the time. The sun has gone down, and it's far too late to make a surprise visit to a Rocket Town. Eager, she replies to Oster with a solid promise that she will fly to Rocket Town in the morning to speak with him and to look at her rocket.
Charlie has to read the next e-mail through three times to even understand what's been said, her mind half a world away with Cid, in Rocket Town.
Charlie,
Hope you like the article. LOVELESS is playing Thursday at 9. Should we meet up?
Jessie
Glancing down at the newspaper sitting by her feet, the newly reformed Shinra Truths that angered her father to the point of silence, Charlie quickly confirms the time and date Jessie has suggested, running a hand through her hair and turning off her computer to prevent nosy employees from snooping through her mail and finding out President Shinra's own daughter has been meeting with a trusted member of AVALANCHE.
As Charlie locks up her office, Pia is just getting ready to leave, turning off the floor lamps that are much warmer than the glaring fluorescent ones overhead and watering some plants. "Heading home so soon, ma'am?" she asks in her breathy and high-pitched voice, mousy brown hair pinned back at the nape of her neck.
"No, down to the hangar," Charlie answers, adjusting the bag full of clothes on her shoulder. "Did Rufus call at all today?"
"No, ma'am."
Not bothering to hide her disappointment in front of the trusted assistant she's had for three years now (a record, truthfully, as no assistant has successfully managed to assist her for longer than a few months at a time), Charlie nods. "Tomorrow morning, I need you to send Nero an invitation to the fundraiser coming up, at the Gold Saucer."
"Of course," Pia replies.
"And if you could do one more thing," she continues, hesitating for reasons unknown to herself. "See if you can find out why Palmer wants to scrap the rocket at Rocket Town."
"Yes, ma'am. And there's one more thing . . . President Shinra dropped these off for you earlier. Mr. Tuesti made me promise not to bother you with it tonight, but . . . I'm more afraid of your father's wrath, honestly, ma'am."
Charlie frowns, setting her bag down and taking a few sheets of paper from Pia. It's a list of names, a guest list for her wedding, but all the names are not people she would want to invite. It's all the department heads and their wives, husbands, brothers, mistresses, families that are well-connected to her father and uninterested in her own personal affairs. She folds it up and tucks it away in the pocket of her blouse.
"Thanks, Pia. I'll take care of it."
She's glad the hangar is empty when she reaches it, and the first thing she does is change into clothes a little less expensive, clothes she doesn't mind dirtying, and immediately sets to work on the plane she's been rebuilding, one that had been shot down years ago and left to its fate in the shadowy hangar at Shinra Headquarters.
The idea of visiting Rocket Town tomorrow fills her with a horrible sense of dread. Seeing her rocket again from the base of it, just as she had all those years ago, makes her nervous, anxious, and her hands shake, making work a little more difficult.
But it would be sweet to see Cid again, if he isn't still harboring a years' old grudge against her for only doing her job. She wonders how much he's changed since the last time she saw him, if he's aged much in the past four years, if he's still working on his Tiny Bronco, if he's still working on Shinra No. 26.
There's no doubt in her mind that Cid knows far more about her than she knows about him. There's no doubt that he's read the papers and magazines, watched her sometime on television or heard her randomly on the radio, and she knows that it's very likely Cid knows about her engagement to Reeve . . .
Not that it matters to her. It's not like she thought she and Cid were ever going to get married. He had told her he loved her on a whim, just before he thought he was going to be launched space for an indefinite amount of time, probably lonely and infatuated with the idea of her, just like the other boys in the city who see her smiling face all over the town, on billboards and advertisements.
Besides, it's not like he's going to want to spend any time with her. She doesn't really think Cid will be interested in catching up. He probably still hates her.
Charlie doesn't really blame him. She hates herself, too.
For a moment, he can't even speak, but once he does find his voice, it's only to blurt out: "What the fuck is this supposed to be?"
The bartender colors, his forehead covered with sweat. He's in the middle of hanging a framed magazine cover on the wall of his bar, half of which is currently covered in newspaper clippings and other magazine articles that aren't normally there. "W—what do you mean, Captain?"
"I mean," Cid begins again, slowly, disbelieving, furious and bitter and incredibly inadequate and holding his drink so tightly that the glass threatens to shatter, "why the fuck is Charlotte Shinra's face plastered all over your fuckin' wall?"
The bartender finishes his work, stepping off the stool to admire it. Charlotte's face smiles down at him from fifty different photographs, articles, and covers. "She's coming tomorrow morning to take a look at the rocket," he explains cautiously, looking, if possible, even sweatier. "She told Ostar as much after he sent an e-mail—"
Cid feels the blood leave his face, every muscle in his body tensing. "She what?"
The man nods, frazzled. "She's gonna protect it from her father's company—Oster said that she said she won't let anyone scrap it, just like you said she would." When Cid doesn't answer, the bartender gestures to his nearly empty glass. "Another drink, Captain?"
He hardly hears, his mind half a world away in Midgar, with Lottie.
Charlotte Shinra, coming here, to Rocket Town? The idea is equal parts attractive and repulsive to him. It would be nice to share with an equal the world he's done on the interior of the cockpit and the few bits of rust he fought off and the parts he had to replace.
Don't get ahead of yourself, he thinks. It's not like Charlotte Shinra is going to show up at Rocket Town alone, and it's not like she'll have the time to entertain him by 'ooh'ing and 'ah'ing every minor improvement he's made, and it's not like she'll be pleased to find Shera living in his goddamn house, and it's not like he even fucking wants her to go off alone with him because he knows what she is, despite the magazine labeling her as 'Midgar's Golden Child'.
Ruthless, ambitious, standing on the shoulders of the less fortunate, the heiress of a fortune that comprises almost solely of blood money.
But that doesn't quite line up with his other memories of her. Memories that involve shared laughter and shy smiles, an open generosity on her end, clear respect and love for her crew, a wide-eyed girl with big dreams, a girl that was raging jealous when she'd caught him coming back to camp with that Turk . . . if Lottie only knew that he'd forgotten her name now . . .
"Captain, are you all right?" the bartender asks, concern etched in the lines of his face. "You look like you're gonna throw up."
Cid, brought back violently to reality again, scowls at the bartender, finishing his drink and getting to his feet, throwing some gil at the man, who scurries to pick it up off the ground. "I'm fine," he snaps, pushing out of the bar and feeling the eyes of the other occupants on the back of his neck.
The moment he feels the cool, night air rush against his face, he lights a cigarette, ignoring the calls of other people taking advantage of what may be the last nice night until spring again. With the cigarette pressed between his lips, Cid climbs the ladders that will lead him to the very top of the rocket, where the platform is littered with empty and crushed beer cans, an empty fifth of whiskey, and two empty packs of cigarettes.
As he makes to sit down, already a little drunk, his foot knocks a few cans off the platform, and they fall slowly to the ground, clattering off the metal ladders and platforms, echoing throughout the night.
He leans against the cool metal of the rocket, looking up at the full moon and the stars peeking out from behind the clouds. From up here, he's able to see the field he once brought Lottie to—it's not so much a field anymore, having been leveled for some houses and shops to be put in, but Cid still recognizes the place exactly and remembers how it had been that night.
The smartest thing he could possibly do would be to either leave Rocket Town completely or hide away in his house until Lottie left, but he's no coward. He isn't afraid of her, but maybe he should be, knowing who her father is, and knowing how seriously unhinged her meddling brother is.
Besides, he doesn't want to leave. The townspeople may be under the impression that he hates Lottie and anything to do with Shinra Inc., and for the most part, he's lived up to that assumption. He despises Shinra Inc., despises President Shinra and his fucking fool son, the Vice President, despises that goddamn tool Reeve Tuesti, but Lottie . . .
Not Lottie. Never Lottie.