Palmer
Palmer always did his best thinking in like-minded company.
With a grunt, Palmer sinks into his chair. From his throne at the head of the room, he surveys his kingdom. Empty desks, gathering dust. Long-forgotten equations scribbled onto yellowed paper pads, still propped up on their easels.
A deep, stifling silence.
There had been a time when the office filled with chatter and laughter and debate. It had been a place of learning and intellectual exchange, of wild ideas and conquering the impossible, and Palmer had thrived. He had brainstormed with the best minds Midgar had to offer, until the very air had buzzed with boundless creative energy. He had encouraged them, guided them, sparred with them – and had come out on top, more often than not.
The effects of it hadn't been confined to this room, or even to HQ as a whole. Palmer's space program had captured the imagination of every adult and child in Midgar – on the continent – even across the ocean. The invitations had flooded in to talk about the Shinra space program, his program, on TV and radio. He had been a star, more brilliant than any of the ones that twinkled above their heads, the beacon of Shinra's radiant future in the great unknown. A household name, one they uttered with excited optimism.
Wutai changed it all. One by one, his brightest minds were siphoned off to the Weapons and Science Departments. For the greater good, they said. Palmer scoffs. What good has ever come out of weapons and war? What good could be greater than exploring the stars?
But his old friend had not listened to him. After the fiasco in Rocket Town, even Palmer's own people stopped listening to him. He had sat in this room, at this very desk, smiling and wishing them well as they left him for brighter futures. With his eviscerated budget, there was nothing else he could offer them.
And here he still sits, like a dim, withered ghost pining for its lost life. All Palmer can do now is to grow fat and gray on the company's dime, before what little remains of the good old days is pried away from him. His old friend won't do that to him, oh no – but his son might. After all, Palmer isn't the only one growing fat and gray.
He swivels his chair, turning his back on the crippling silence. Two windows gape like black holes onto the night, on either side of the strip of wall that shields his desk from the sun. By the right window sits a telescope pointed skyward, waiting in vain for a curious eye to peek through its dust-covered lens.
Palmer coaxes his bulk out of the chair, joints creaking in protest. He waddles over to the window on the left and turns his face up to the sky. A persistent layer of sickly-gray clouds smothers it as far as his eye can see. It's the norm, these days. He hasn't seen the night sky in weeks.
Maybe it won't be all bad, to be driven out of this wretched place.
He has a comfortable sum tucked away for his retirement. He could buy a cottage up north, where the nights are long and the lights are sparse, and enjoy the company of the stars twinkling down at him. Meager comfort, compared to the lofty goals of his youth, but it would be infinitely better than the scavengers he has to put up with here.
But then his old friend will have to endure them alone.
One day, Palmer promises silently to the hidden sky. Until then, as long as he still has a department to his name, he will keep trying.