Fifteen minutes. What can she do in fifteen minutes?
To get to the slums, she'll need to use a helicopter, and it's not like she'll be able to waltz right into the hangar to steal one.
She could take the train, but that would mean wasting precious time as it follows its corkscrew course all the way down the central pillar.
If she had taken the time to learn the layout of the sewers, she might even be able to sneak down that way, but that would take time, and if she got lost, she isn't sure how long it would take for someone to find her.
If she was able to get into HQ at all, she might even be able to sneak into the press room, to quickly broadcast evacuation orders, to urge everyone to vacate the Sector Seven area if they value their lives.
Whatever she plans on doing, she needs to come up with an idea quickly. The moment Tseng reaches her apartment, she knows he will refuse to let her out of his sight, instead choosing to lock her up somewhere to keep her safe, while hundreds of thousands of people die above the plate and below.
Charlie refuses to allow all those people to die for her mistakes. Whatever happened with both bombs, whether or not it truly was her fault, she can't bear to imagine the pain that will soon permeate Midgar, leaving the city in a constant state of despair and mourning.
She doesn't want to picture a city with mass graves dug for nameless grounders, homes completely lost to unnecessary cruelty, another collapsed section of the city for Reeve to eventually fix whenever her father decides to allocate money for such an ambitious project.
Ten minutes. She has to leave her apartment, and quickly. No doubt Tseng will show up five minutes early, just to make sure she isn't in the middle of doing something stupid, hoping to catch her at something he can use against her.
She flies around her apartment, unsure of what to do, torn between staying and going, afraid that her father might use Reeve to lure her back when he finds out she's gone. That thought frightens her, the picture of him with a gun placed to the back of his head still floating up in her mind's eye whenever it begins to fade. She had done that. He had been subjected to that because of her.
If forced to make the choice, she knows what choice she would make. She would choose Reeve a thousand times over, no matter how sick it makes her feel. He would hate her for it, to be sure, would resent her for choosing his life over the thousands and thousands and thousands of lives in Sector Seven, but Charlie doesn't think she has the courage to let her own father use Reeve in that twisted way.
Reeve.
He wouldn't let this happen. Certainly he wouldn't stand by while all those people were killed on her father's orders. Certainly he would do what he could, just like he had on the night of the first bombing, when he had stayed behind to help the survivors.
She tries to call him, but his phone goes directly to voicemail. That frightens her, too.
Pocketing her phone, Charlie makes her decision. She knows she won't be able to live with herself if she doesn't do something, something to allow her to say she tried, she did the best she could, she helped. Maybe it doesn't count for much, considering it's likely her fault that the plate is being dropped in the first place (Gods, this can't be happening), but she won't just allow Tseng to whisk her away.
She picks up the handgun hidden beneath all of her lingerie, the same handgun she had brought with her to Pia's house (oh Gods, Pia), the same gun Rufus had given her years ago. She's never even fired it before, but she tucks it into the back of her pants nonetheless.
Before she walks out the door, she calls Reeve one more time. It doesn't ring, only sending her straight to voicemail again, but this time, she leaves a message for him.
"Hey," she pants, sure that he'll recognize that as a red flag the moment he listens to her message, "I just wanted to give you a call to tell you I love you." Charlie stops before her apartment door, hesitating with her hand on the doorknob. "I love you so much, and I'm sorry."
Tucking her phone away, Charlie gives Cat some loving affection and makes for the lobby.
He continues his protests long after Heidegger has been dismissed from the president's office. He had meant to go home to Charlotte hours ago, but work had kept him, emergency after emergency after emergency, and then the news of the plate dropping from Tseng had reached his ears.
Tseng had promised Charlie would be safe, and Reeve hadn't doubted him for a second. Despite their apartment building being located in Sector Eight, near the edge of the section where Sector Seven begins, he hadn't wanted to take any risks, too afraid that he would return to his collapsed apartment building to find Charlie buried underneath the rubble.
He still remembers the look of pure shock and fear on her face the night of the first bombing. He remembers seeing her face covered in blood and sweat and soot, eyes opened wide as she took in the horrible sights and sounds, a million miles away from him, hardly able to hear him talking to her.
That's not a sight he'd like to relive, especially since he's forced to see it in his dreams every night.
"You can't do this," he rasps, his hands curling into fists at his sides. Part of him is afraid, especially after the president's display just last night, but if his arguing irritates President Shinra, Reeve likely would have been dragged out of the office long ago. "Please, Mr. President, you can't do this!"
President Shinra puts his cigar out and takes a few steps forward, close enough to reach out and place a meaty hand upon Reeve's shoulder, giving him a gentle shake and a cold smile.
All of those people below the plate, unaware that their lives are going to come to a crushing halt within . . . how long? . . . and all those above the plate who will soon fall the three-hundred or so meters to the ground below . . . it's a terrifyingly cruel thing, to care so little about the lives of the people of Midgar, to know that it's Charlie's father who cares so little about the lives of his people . . .
It's unthinkable. Surely he's bluffing, hoping to draw Avalanche out to destroy them directly. Surely he wouldn't drop an entire section of the plate onto the slums below just to wipe out a handful of people? The amount of lives lost, the amount of gil that will need to be amassed to rebuild, the lingering feelings of guilt that will certainly plague him for the rest of his days . . . he can't just let it happen, can't say he never tried.
"Reeve," President Shinra begins gruffly, giving him one last shake before releasing his shoulder. The president adjusts the lapels of his suit, much like Charlie enjoys doing, fixing his tie like a father might help a son. "Listen, my boy . . . progress requires sacrifice."
The doubt must be obvious in Reeve's expression.
President Shinra lowers his hands, looking up into Reeve's face curiously. It's hard to believe that, only last night, he had held Reeve hostage in order to force his daughter's hand. "You're just the same as Char," he says, almost sounding amused. "You care about those people down there, do you? They're dying off already, killing and robbing each other, but no protest has ever been raised before now."
Reeve's resolve lessens with President Shinra standing so close to him. "But to drop an entire section of the plate . . . to crush the slums below . . . and all the people who will go down with the plate . . ."
"You've been working too much, and too hard. I can tell." The president touches either side of Reeve's face, paternal, falsely kind. "You need a vacation, to take your mind off things. You need to take a few steps back and look at the bigger picture, the beauty of the future."
He doesn't really know what to say to that. President Shinra's voice has hardened, but there's still a certain kindness to his face, wanting to be heard, wanting to be respected. He doesn't want to frighten Reeve too badly, it seems.
"Here's what you're going to do, son."
Reeve hates himself for not continuing, for not raising more of a cry, for not doing more in general. Charlie would fight it until she was red in the face and sobbing, until President Shinra had her hunched over, bringing his belt down upon her back.
"I'm going to pay for a trip, a vacation, for you to get out of the city. You need a change of scenery. Midgar gets old after a while." He gives Reeve's cheek a light tap, making him flinch. "I want you to bring my daughter with you, as well, anywhere you want. I want you to leave tomorrow morning, before the sun rises, and I'll not hear a word against it. I want you to romance my daughter, make her happy again, let her have a good time. And when the two of you come back, everything will be just like it was."
He can only blink in surprise as the president gives his right cheek another light pat before pulling his hands away, already reaching for his smoking cigar again.
"And I don't want my son anywhere near Char, Reeve, is that clear?"
His throat feels very dry and constricted. "Yes, sir," he croaks.
She didn't want to steal the bike.
But it was sitting there all pretty, the key dangling from the ignition, and no one was outside to stop her. A bike is easier to take down to the slums than a car, whose tires wouldn't do well tracing the train tracks that spiral downwards.
But the bike . . . it works well, and it's fast, and she'll return it the moment she gets back if she's able to even remember where she got it from.
It's unnervingly dark in the tunnel, lit by colored lights that signal the trains and flickering lamps every half mile or so, as well as the red lights on the walls, casting the tunnel in a bloody shadow. No trains seem to be running, or at least, she hasn't seen or heard any trains yet.
That must have been Reeve's idea, if he even knows about what's going to happen. The last thing Midgar needs is for a train full of people to go down with the destruction of Sector Seven and the slums below.
Her heart is hammering the further she gets down the tunnel. The buzz of the bike she'd stolen hums in her ears and echoes off the walls, the wind blowing her hair back out of her face, causing little tears to prick at the corners of her eyes.
Faster, faster, faster—too fast. If she takes a turn like that again, she'll fall.
Her phone rings constantly in her back pocket. She knows it's Tseng, probably furious with her after showing up to her apartment to find it empty, dark, and deserted. No doubt he'll send a few helicopters out to search for her, to drag her kicking and screaming back to somewhere he thinks is safe.
If she knows Tseng, the helicopters will be waiting at the mouth of the tunnel, along with Reno and Rude. It's too easy for her to break Tseng, but Reno and Rude will do what it takes to bring her back top-side.
She thinks of trying Rufus once more, just to tell him what's going on. Maybe one of his Turks already told him. Maybe he's already on his way to Midgar to stop his father from destroying part of the city. Maybe he doesn't care at all, and will watch the destruction from the privacy of their beach house, unaware of the danger that Charlie is putting herself in.
What the hell could he be doing that's so important? It's unlike Rufus to ignore so many missed calls from her, especially missed calls accompanied by pleading voicemails begging for him to talk to her.
Charlie leans forward, speeding the bike up.
Reeve would hate it if he knew Tseng had a key to the apartment—only for emergencies, like now.
Charlotte had been upset about it for a few days, but that had been years ago now, and part of Rufus's deal with her: if he was going to pay for her to live there, then someone in Midgar was going to have a spare key to protect her.
It had made sense, when she lived alone, and Rufus had given him the key before asking anyone else, a responsibility that seemed too big for his shoulders, one that made him slightly nervous, even if he would never admit it. And besides, it's not like he's had to use it very often.
He remembers the first time, though. The first time had been to bug her apartment, at Rufus's request, but Charlotte had found out about it quickly and that had been the end of that. She had scolded him terribly, had gotten so angry that a shadow of her father was visible in her face, but Tseng had taken the scolding, accepted the blame, apologized for trespassing, and that had appeased her well enough.
"Charlotte?"
He checks the bedroom, her office, even Reeve's office.
"Charlotte!"
The apartment is dark, and her cat mewls at him from the sofa. He drags a hand down his face before slamming a fist into the solid wall. If she were here, he would know. There's hardly anywhere for her to hide.
"Goddammit!"
He pulls out his phone and quickly dials her numbers, peeking out through the curtain of her living room to look outside. Everything is calm. How can everything be so calm before the storm they're about to weather? Time feels frozen, as if he's trapped in some horrible purgatory, knowing what he must do despite the small voice that protests irritatingly in the back of his mind.
Funnily enough, he thinks his own conscience speaks with Charlotte's voice.
She doesn't answer the first time, nor does she answer the next eight times he calls her back to back.
How could he have let her slip through his fingers so easily?
Perhaps he let her. Tseng knows her better than anyone, save for maybe Rufus, and should have known she would refuse to stand by while an entire section of the city was dropped. He shouldn't have told her, should have just come to collect her with a vague description of the danger she might be in, so close to Sector Seven.
But if she has gone down to the slums, as he suspects she has, there's a very slim chance of her making it back alive without someone going to find her. And if she doesn't make it back alive . . .
What would he do if Charlotte was among those killed by the crashing plate? Rufus would have him killed, Reeve might even work with Rufus to have him killed, and Tseng doesn't think he could live with himself.
He had promised Veld, all those years ago, to keep her safe, had promised to care for her and be her friend, to protect her, not only from the horrors at Shinra, but from her brother, someone Veld knew (from experience) could be cold and callous and possessive, prone to bouts of anger and violence.
Personally, Tseng has never seen Rufus lay a finger on Charlotte, but he also wouldn't put it past the vice president, who has a mean streak when it comes to women.
"Stop calling me!"
Her voice is shrill on the other end of the phone, and he can hear the unmistakable buzzing of a motorbike in the background, echoing. She took the tunnel.
"You need to come back so I can—"
"Let me do this!"
"Do what?" he asks hastily.
"I'm not going to let them die! Someone needs to tell them the plate is going to kill them all!"
"I'm coming for you," he promises, his voice clipped and harsh. "I'll have someone else send a warning whose life matters le—"
"I don't need you to rescue me! Why can't you just let me do this!"
Tseng pinches the bridge of his nose. She's sixteen again, and he's just refused her a solo trip to the beach. Heaving a deep sigh, he tells her, "I'm coming for you."
"No! I'm not going anywhere with you!"
"I'll see you soon—"
"Tseng, why can't you just let me do this?" It sounds like she's crying. Why is it that she always seems to feel the need to cry around him? "Why can't you trust me just this once?"
"I did trust you, Charlotte. I trusted you to stay put at your apartment so I could keep you safe, and you left."
"Then that's your own damn fault! Leave me alone!"
It takes him a moment to realize—hardly registering the silence—that she's hung up on him.
"Damn," he hisses to himself, nudging her affectionate cat away from his ankles, and sprinting back out the front door.
Sometimes he can't help but think it's unfair. A petty and childish thought, but a warranted one.
Only he would be cursed with the responsibility of watching over two of the most stubborn young women in Midgar.
"I love you so much, and I'm sorry."
Panic floods him. His nerves feel as if they're going to combust on the spot, and his heart has either stopped or burst right out of his chest.
Several missed calls, all consecutive, and one voicemail. That's all it takes for Reeve to know exactly what she's done, and he silently curses the Turks for letting her slip through their fingers.
He quickly calls her, his palms growing sweaty. He fidgets with the tie around his neck, hardly able to breathe. He doesn't even want to think about Charlie being killed beneath the plate, her body found mangled and crushed in the morning.
What was she thinking? Does she really believe she'll be able to do anything alone? She's walking right into the lion's den. The moment the grounders find out what's going on, she'll become their prime target—angry bandits with grudges against Shinra, hungry slum-dwellers who would immediately cut a man's throat if it meant a few gil in their pocket, hundreds of thousands of people hiding her from plain view, allowing anything to happen so long as they're safe.
And yet he can't help but to admire her at the same time, her willingness to undertake such a fantastic evacuation mission at the possible cost of her own life. He loves it about her, but . . . Gods, is it frustrating.
When she doesn't answer her phone, he decides to call Tseng next, but he doesn't answer either. Reeve almost calls Rufus, just out of pure desperation, to tell him that his sister is in danger and needs a rescue. Rufus couldn't possibly ignore that, but Reeve doesn't think there's much her brother could do from Costa del Sol. By the time he arrived, it might be too late . . .
His feet take him almost instinctively to the president's office, bursting through the doors before even thinking to knock.
President Shinra looks up from his desk, anger flashing in his bright eyes. It makes Reeve's heart pang painfully at the thought of never seeing Charlie angry again.
"Reeve," the president begins in a low growl, his office reeking of cigar smoke, "I thought we had finished our—"
Reeve interrupts him, hardly fearful for whatever punishment might come. "I think Charlie is in trouble," he blurts out, watching President Shinra's eyes widen and his cheeks color.
"What do you mean, son?"
He hesitates, anxiety making his entire body tremble. "I think she went down to the Sector Seven slums."
The mouth of the corkscrew tunnel is already being flooded with fleeing refugees, some carrying their belongings and others carrying young children in their arms.
Charlie barely sees them in time, crashing to a halt on her bike so quickly that she launches from the seat, landing hard on her back, slamming against the hard ground so fast that it knocks the wind out of her. The bike tilts, scraping against the train tracks until it hits the wall with enough force to seemingly rattle the entire tunnel.
"Miss! Miss! Are you okay?"
She blinks up at the ceiling, seeing stars. Groaning loudly, Charlie allows the young man hovering over her to pull her up shakily to her feet. Her hand jumps to her back, the gun pressing hard against her bruised skin.
"I'm fine," she lies, feeling like she's been hit by a train. She can feel brush burn already stinging her arm and leg, her clothes slightly fraying.
"Holy shit!" the man breathes, taking a few steps back from her as others begin to flood the opening of the tunnel, stumbling over the tracks, hoping to wait out the storm. "You're Charlotte Shinra!"
She tries desperately to shush him before others hear, but heads are already being turned, some of their gazes almost accusatory.
"I'm here to help!" she announces, desperately hoping they believe her. "Please, just tell me what I can—"
"It's your fault they're dropping the plate!"
The voice comes from somewhere in the crowd, a man, but others voices immediately pick up the chant, angry and frightened.
Charlie's heart stutters as they all move closer. "No, I—"
"We're all gonna die down here 'cause of you!"
"No, please, I only want to help—"
"Let her die down here with the rest of us!"
She doesn't want to do it, but the people are advancing now, even the man who had helped her up. Charlie takes a few steps backwards, so close to the mouth of the tunnel, where she can see the entrance to the Sector Seven slums.
Taking the gun out from the back of her pants, she holds it up in front of her with a trembling hand. Everyone freezes, all of them unarmed, some with little children. It's not how she wants them to see her, but it gets her point across rather well.
Charlie doesn't even know if she has the courage to fire even a warning shot, but she knows Rufus wouldn't hesitate, confident and intimidating with a gun in his hand.
"Please, let me through," she calls out evenly, not quite a command, but certainly not a mild request. "I'm going to help you!"
"The gates to Sector Six are closed," comes a woman's voice, who steps forward while Charlie's gun is trained above the heads of everyone else. A small girl is latched to her hip. "The guards won't open them. If you tell them to let us through to Wall Market, we would be grateful."
Finally, she thinks. Something I can do! "Okay," she says, lowering her gun, but no one moves forward, and Charlie is glad they've at least taken the hint.
She tries to get the bike moving again, but one of the wheels has popped, and she makes a mental note to send a brand new, Shinra Inc. military grade bike to whoever she stole it from when she gets back.
If I get back.
The Sector Seven slums are like a warzone. The moment she steps out of the tunnel, she's assaulted by the smell of smoke, the air choked with smog and fire smoke, the sound of bullets ringing in her ears from up above. A small fire is spreading quickly down a narrow alleyway to her right, and several people are crowded around the gateway with the path that will, presumably, lead them to Wall Market.
It almost makes her laugh, thinking about how safety will be found within the epicenter of crime in the city. Reno had brought her there once, to consult with Don Corneo, and she still remembers the catcalls and propositions to this day, as well as the wrath Rufus had brought down upon Reno when he found out Charlie had gone with him.
A helicopter buzzes overhead, a searchlight shining down very near to her. Charlie ducks her head down, pushing herself against a chain link fence to avoid being spotted.
Charlie pushes her way through the throng, until she's at the very front, staring down the two guards. "What the hell are you doing?" she screeches over the sound of fighting. Glancing over her shoulder, judging by the sounds and bright lighting up above, the pillar is under attack, several Shinra helicopters flurrying around it. "Let these people through!"
"Miss Shinra!" One of the guards clicks his heels together, stiffening. "We have orders not to open the gate, ma'am!"
"Then I hope you're willing to die with these people," she snaps, seeing the guard's mouth twist into a doubtful frown. Turning to the other guard, shaking in his uniform, she tries again. "I'm giving you an order right now, and if you choose not to follow it, then I'll see to it that my father heard you disobeyed an order."
The guards look at each other for a moment, and Charlie has a hard time reading their expressions with their helmets covering most of their sweaty faces. The first guard remains quiet, but the second guard concedes, pushing open the gates and very nearly getting trampled by those seeking escape.
"Thank you, Miss Shinra!"
"Bless you, Miss Shinra!"
Charlie nods, forcing herself to smile at the relieved faces that pass her. When she's wasted enough time, she turns to the guards, who have stayed put, ushering others through the opening. "You, too," she tells them. "They'll need help getting to Wall Market. I'll take care of things here."
"But Miss Shinra!" says the second guard. "We can't leave you behind!"
"I'll be fine," she tells them, as another helicopter passes overhead. She tries to see who's inside, but it's impossible to tell through the fire-lit darkness. "Don't worry about me. I'm sure I'll have a Turk coming to my rescue soon enough. Get going!"
"But we can't . . ."
"I'll be fine," she repeats, only half-sure about it. "Now, go!"
She answers on the third try, the fifth call her father has placed over the course of a few minutes. Touching the button to put her on speaker, President Shinra places the phone on his desk and walks over to the wide, floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Sector Seven. From up here, all is quiet, but down below . . .
"Daddy, call it off!"
Reeve closes his eyes. She's panting, and in the background of the call, he can hear gunfire and screaming and shouting, the awkward rustling of her trying to get a firm grip on her phone. The image of her bleeding and broken rushes up in his mind's eye, but upon opening them again, the image doesn't go away like he hoped it would.
"Char, where are you?" President Shinra asks tersely, but Reeve recognizes a shred of concern, possibly even fear, behind the anger he projects. "You need to get back to Headquarters now."
"No, daddy, I'm not coming back! You can't kill all of these people! They're innocent!"
"No amount of begging from you will save them," her father retorts loudly now, turning his back on the window to stare down at the phone.
"You can't do this!"
"How could I expect you to understand the workings of governing the people?" he argues, and Reeve's heart sinks. He can't believe that her father is turning this into something personal, when his own daughter is down there, running the risk of being killed because she cares. "Get up here, goddamnit!"
"No!"
"Char, you do as I say—"
"No! I'm done!" she screams, her voice slightly muffled as she breathes heavily. Reeve feels his sinking heart beating painfully against his ribs. "Call it off or let the plate kill me!"
President Shinra grinds his teeth, lifting his eyes from the phone to meet Reeve's with a sort of vindictive sort of smile. "It's too late for that, Char."
Reeve's breath hitches. He's going to let her die. He's going to let his own daughter die, and there's nothing he can do about it except hope against hope that a Turk finds her before anyone else does.
"Then I'm not going to listen to you anymore! If you don't call it off, I won't ever stop fighting against you, daddy—"
President Shinra's face goes bright red as he hangs up the phone, pressing a blue button on his desk and leaning forward. "This is your president speaking," he begins, jaw clenched. "My daughter is down in the slums. I want every helicopter out looking for her now, and if she comes back with so much as a scratch on her . . ."
He meets Reeve's eyes again for a split second, his expression betraying nothing of his true feelings.
". . . then I'll have you all executed."
With the fire spreading, it's getting more dangerous. Most of the buildings are now burning and collapsing, and the firefight on the pillar is moving ever upward, and once, Charlie thinks she sees someone fall from halfway up.
With both guards having already evacuated a significant number of people, Charlie wanders around the maze of streets in the hopes of coercing everyone still hiding to come out of their homes, sending stragglers on their way.
She attempts to steer clear of the helicopters that are searching for her, but more and more are coming, lighting the streets for her as she huddles in the shadows. One has already been shot down, inciting an explosion that leaves several bodies motionless on the ground, but Charlie avoids it by the skin of her teeth, her flesh stinging and burning.
She's able to clear some debris, help others pick survivors from the rubble of buildings that hadn't survived the explosion, and once, a young woman dressed all in pink accidentally knocks her down after they both come sprinting around different corners.
"I'm sorry!" the girl squeaks, a few years younger than Charlie. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm all right." Charlie pushes herself to her feet and allows her eyes a moment to focus, taking in the bright green of her eyes, the mousy brown hair, the look of pure surprise on her face. "Wait a minute . . ." she breathes, the girl half-familiar to her. "I know you . . ."
The girl smiles sweetly before darting off, just before Charlie is able to place her. Giving her head a shake, Charlie continues on her quest to evacuate the slums, knowing there is precious little time left. She doesn't really expect her father to call off the plate dropping just because she threw a few angry words at him, but she was being honest, the most honest she's possibly ever been with her father.
It doesn't take much for Charlie to find herself lost, but so long as she continues to follow the crowd, she's certain that she'll be able to find her way out. The last thing she really wants to do is make for Wall Market without anyone trustworthy close by, but if it means escaping a horrible death, then she'll take it.
Or . . .
Charlie looks up at the pillar again, still under fire. She might be able to make it up there, so long as she doesn't encounter any Avalanche members who will try to kill her on sight. She has her gun, and if forced to, she'll use it to save her own life, but the idea of killing potential allies doesn't sit well with her.
And if she does get to the top of the pillar, it will still be too late, and she doesn't know how to even stop it. If there's a code or a key, she doesn't have it. And how would she get back down if she couldn't stop it? She'd be crushed beneath the plate with everyone else she couldn't save from her father's cruelty.
Charlie hesitates, pulling her phone from her back pocket. There are fifty missed calls total between Reeve, Tseng, and her father, the screen slightly cracked after her tumble off the bike. The thought of it makes her back ache suddenly, the days' old blisters on her skin all popped and painful.
Reeve, Tseng, and her father. Rufus hasn't called her once.
Are these my only friends? she thinks, frowning and looking back up at the top of the pillar again. A father that would let me die and a Turk I've known half my life.
This is all her fault. If she hasn't helped Jessie with the bomb . . .
She would have made one anyway. One that could have done more damage.
How could it all have gone so wrong? All this blood will be on her hands—doesn't she owe it to the people to try?
Charlie moves closer to the pillar, stopping abruptly when she catches sight of half a building on fire. It's her building, Reeve's building, and it's burning down to nothing. All the money and hard work put into it, now for nothing.
She watches it for a few seconds, heartbroken, and then she pulls her phone out of her pocket again, letting the heat of the flames wash over her, making her night blind to her surroundings.
She calls Reeve, hoping he'll pick up. It will be sweet to hear his voice. Thankfully, it doesn't take long.
"Charlie, what the hell are you doing! This is insane!"
At the very sound of his voice, fear grips her heart. She can't go up there—she can't climb the pillar—what if she doesn't make it back to him—
"Where are you? Stay there. I'm getting into a helicopter right now—"
"Reeve," she rasps, staring at the flames that burn their months of work to ashes. She's frightened, terribly afraid, afraid to walk away a coward and afraid to climb the pillar like a hero. "I—I—"
"It's all right, Charlie. Tell me where you are and we'll come get you. I'll take you home."
"I'm . . ." Charlie runs a hand through her hair. How could she just abandon these people? "Reeve, I—"
"Charlie, listen to me, where are you?"
Why did she call him? Hearing his voice has only sucked the courage out of her. All she wants now is to be home, in bed, his arms around her.
"Don't hang up, my love. We'll find you."
Hanging her head in defeat, she murmurs, "I'm in front of our—"
There's a loud crack that splits the night, and the explosion that follows knocks Charlie to the ground, unconscious.
"Please come to Midgar, Rufus. I need you. I need you here, please. Please come. I love you, and I need to talk to you."
Rufus lowers his phone slowly from his ear. He's listened to that voicemail nearly a dozen times. Knowing that Charlie is in trouble (what kind of trouble? why hasn't anyone called about Charlie at all, if she is in trouble?) makes his body hypersensitive, trembling, his heart pounding (what's this feeling?).
Leave it to him to busy himself with plans for a coup, a million miles away from Midgar, from Charlie, too busy to even notice what's going on in the world around him. She must be furious that he hadn't answered any of her calls, but he wishes he would have. Maybe then, he'd know what's going on beyond the horrible lengths his father is willing to go tonight, if Reeve had been telling the truth in his desperate message to Rufus.
He must have been telling the truth. There's no other reason that Reeve would text him, if not to beg for help, beg for him to do something. That had been surprising, to see Charlie's boyfriend's name crop up on his phone. It must be the first time in years. He knows that Reeve avoids contact unless necessary, the jealous bastard.
But if something had happened to her, then Reeve would have said something. Rufus is certain of it. Reeve would have told him that Charlie was in danger, or hurt, or in need of him . . . wouldn't he?
To drop the entire plate onto the slums . . . it even makes Rufus sick, and Charlie's supposed to be the soft-hearted one. He can't even begin to imagine what she might be thinking, and he can picture her flinging herself into his arms the moment he sets foot in Midgar. It will be good to hold her again, to know that she's safe. That would be enough for him right now.
But now, Charlie isn't answering his calls. Rufus paces before the sofa restlessly, Dark Nation's deep-set eyes following him back and forth from his place in the corner.
He can't think about it. If he thinks about it, his mind will automatically assume the worst. If he thinks about it, his mind will show him violent images of Charlie hurt, bleeding, skin cold to the touch. She always answers his calls, always.
Maybe she's still angry with him for ignoring her. It's not like he intended to, but he had bigger plans for today, bigger plans that are clearly going to be set in motion far sooner than he had expected. How could he let his father do something, only to let him get away with it?
And now . . . Charlie might help. There's no possible way that Charlie would accept her father's actions as sensible. Surely she would want to fight, want to see her brother seated in the president's chair, standing at his right side. His father hasn't been sensible for a long time, and the thought of finally taking over the company is too good to put off any longer.
Tseng doesn't answer, either. That's a bad sign. It's unlike Tseng not to answer calls, especially from the vice president.
President, he thinks. I'm going to be president soon.
He can't help but think of it—worst case scenarios that involve his sister dying before he's able to save her. Rufus runs his fingers through his hair, grabbing fistfuls of it, desperate for information, desperate for news, desperate for someone to tell him what the hell is going—
His phone dings loudly, and he fumbles with it for a moment, trying to open the text from Tseng that's just come through.
Sector 7 plate dropped. Charlotte with me.
Rufus's heart leaps in his throat. She's safe. So long as she's with Tseng, she's safe. He doesn't have to worry.
So why is this vague information still so worrying? He stares down at the message for what feels like a long time. Even Dark Nation is beginning to sense his anxiety, shifting restlessly upon the floor.
Filled with sudden rage, Rufus's nostrils flare, and he texts back with his heart dead set on returning to Midgar within the next twenty-four hours.
It happens tomorrow night. Make sure Charlie is far away from HQ when it does.
He has to pat himself on the back, truly.
Only he would be able to find an unconscious Charlotte lying amidst the wreckage of the director's most recent project, and also coordinate the Ancient's recapture within thirty minutes. If only somewhere were here to congratulate him for this incredible feat. He hadn't even been thinking of the Ancient, worried about ensuring Charlotte's safety so he could return to Headquarters without having his head off the moment he stepped in the building. And yet, there she had been, ripe for the picking, willingly jumping into the helicopter that would take her and the little girl to Sector Five before returning to HQ.
"You gonna introduce me to your girlfriend now?"
Tseng glances over his shoulder. There's a look of defiance on Aerith's face as she glances towards the sleeping figure of Charlotte, looking peaceful on the backseat of the helicopter, her face bright red with blood and her bright hair stained deep red, two seatbelts the only things keeping her from falling out. Thankfully, nothing looks broken, and her chest is still rising and falling slowly.
"She's not my girlfriend," Tseng replies coolly, returning his gaze to the looming figure of the Shinra Building. "That's the president's daughter."
"She was helping evacuate the slums, you know."
"I know." He looks out the side window. The Sector Seven plate is still intact, but going to fall any minute, so long as Reno and Rude are able to stomach the job.
"I could probably patch her up a little," Aerith suggests, turning to face Charlotte. She reaches out with her slender hands, as if to smother her, and Tseng nearly crashes into the top of a church while he isn't paying attention, not that either of the women notice.
"Don't touch her," he snaps, and Aerith's eyes widen a little. "The vice president will have your hands if he finds out you've touched her, even innocently."
"The vice president? Not the president?" she asks, always prodding, always talking, always questioning him. It had been endearing once, and now . . . perhaps it's just the stress of the current job that has him so high-strung. "Is it true that she did all those things she said in her speech?"
Tseng grits his teeth. The truth is, he's sure that at least some of it was true, but he has no concrete evidence to prove it. Charlotte would be able to access information regarding the reactors, she would be able to build a bomb capable of such destruction, she would take the opportunity to go against her father. It all makes sense, but Charlotte's pride would never let her admit it, especially if he just came out and asked. Asking nicely never gets anyone anywhere, he's learned.
"We're almost there," he notes, even though it's obvious. The Shinra Building is growing larger as they approach. Tseng gives Aerith a sideways glance, noting that, despite the softness of her features and expression, she hides her fear well. Then again, it's not really him she's frightened of, it's Shinra, it's Hojo. Any fear regarding Hojo is not misplaced, he thinks. "I'm going to have guards escort you to the sixty-fifth floor. I have to get Charlotte to the medical bay."
"Oh," Aerith says, raising her eyebrows and smiling tremulously. She's deflecting, refusing to talk about the cold reality he's about to subject her to. "It's Charlotte, is it? I didn't realize you were so friendly with everybody."
He exhales softly, chastising himself. There's too much going on, and it's fogging his brain. The plate is about to drop, the vice president is planning a coup for tomorrow night, Charlotte Shinra is unconscious in the back of his helicopter, and the last living Ancient is needling him about him calling Charlotte by her first name. "I've known her for a long time. Just as long as I've known you."
He almost tells her I'm sorry. He doesn't know why that particular phrase lingers on the tip of his tongue. Aerith would probably be pleased with an apology though, and it's for that reason, perhaps, that he remains quiet.