"Why doesn't anyone respect me?" As the man spoke, Jiao-long spared him a passing glance, before returning to his work. In his opinion, the young, obnoxious Kunsel talked too much. Then again, by his perception, the entire world was filled with people who talked too much. "Really. What's up with that?" There was a short pause, during which the rest of the room seemed to sigh in indignation. It seemed they'd heard enough from the young man, too. Evander, however, must have found him more interesting than whatever the newest happenings were, as he abandoned his newspaper and sat back in his chair, lazily munching his sandwich as he listened to the man rant. Kunsel clicked his tongue, his suit rustling noisily as he crossed his arms. "I mean, I'm a good guy. I come from a respectable background, which is more than most of the Turks can say. I got in here initially because of my skills, and in case that isn't enough I've proven myself time and time again. I just don't get it," he finished, sitting forward again with a sigh. Nobody said anything for a moment, as Evander sat masicating his sandwich, Tseng reviewing papers, and the other occupants of the room fairly well ignoring him. After a long moment, Evander spoke up.

"Y'eva think it might be y'all high 'n' mighty 'n' shit?" Kunsel stared at him as if he'd just told him his father was dead. Evander just watched him. The younger man cleared his throat.

"Well, I never really thought -"

"I's jes' you're a privileged peice o' scum," Evander said, sitting forward again and gesturing down to illustarete the finality of his statement. "Tha's all. Jes scum wi' money, an' a false name, an' a pretty face. We all scum 'ere," he provided with an all-encompassing sweeping of his hand. " 'S jes' Tseng's got slanty eyes, I talk like a Junon, the twins know Judo, Marie's a bitch. We're all scum 'ere, all equals. So stop thinkin' y'aint, and maybe people start showin' ya some respec'." He sat back, then, watching the younger man, a look on his face as if he'd just explained the simplest part of life to a child. Finality.

It was this sort of finality Jiao-long recalled with painful clarity as he watched Kunsel fall to the ground and not get back up. The men surrounding him stepped back as one, and Jiao-long fought the urge to do so himself. Though he stood behind the glass, in proper stance next to the tall man with the tired eyes, who he had only recently begun to call by his name in his mind, he felt still as if he were in that room. The atmosphere of pain, of anger, of pure adrenaline, was the same. Jiao-long started as Kunsel twitched, and coughed, and spat up blood. Not one of the men came to his aid, however, no one seemed to care as they watched him shiver on the ground. They couldn't, as much as some of them wanted to, their distress plain across the shadow of their eyes. This was it, this was the moment they'd been waiting for. If he stood, he would be a true Turk. If not...

When the elite few that were chosen for their sadistic tendencies, or cunning minds, or overall meanness and braun were first brought in, they were beaten mercilessly. Without warning, those selected would attack the newcomer, an unfair fight that many did not survive. They were subjected to torture of the worst degree they would ever experience - and Turks experienced a incredible amount of torture in their time of service. If they lived, they were brought in, given their suit, and trained to deadly perfection. If not, they had aready been brought in on criminal charges, and so it was written off as an execution for their crimes, and never again thought of again. These men and women would endure anything from quiet days at the office, to on-site backup at missions, to gruelling physical exercise regimes. Many would even suffer through a massive amount of abuse on the part of those around them, if only to toughen their hides. Once these peoples' time of training had reached its peak, they were then fought once more by all the present Turks. This time, they were given the chance to fight back, to prove themselves against all the others, who fought with all the deadly precision of their profession. It was the Turk way. If you couldn't make it against your family, you would never make it against your enemies.

Jiao-long remembered Evander explaining all of this to him, his young spawn sprawled over the back of the couch listening in rapt interest for his own future, just as clearly as he remembered the man's chastisement. He remembered him rattling off the details like a veteran as they walked single-file down the stairs to the Turks' simulation and training rooms. That Kunsel would have to prove himself as a man and as a Turk, or he would die. The qualifications were simple, and appeared unimportant to those outside the professional circle. A basic literacy test. A timed dressing, being able to put on one's suit in less than sixty seconds (rumour had it they were going to increase it to sixty for both putting it on and taking it off). Timed disassembly, cleaning, and assembly of a handgun and a rifle. A basic run through the simulation room. Recitation of the Turk Code of Conduct. And lastly, the proper initiation. The fair fight, and the final decision.

As Kunsel lay there, helpless, broken, his glasses long gone, face broken and bruised, suit hiding the rest of the damage that had been done to him (spare a few dark spots to indicate blood), Jiao-long felt more helpless than he had during his entire service. He'd been beaten, demeaned, tortured, frightened, cornered, threatened, endured the very first tastes of the demanding daily regimen of his new position, but nothing, nothing could have prepared him for this.

"Are you ready?" he heard the man next to him speak, distantly, as if calling through the fog of a dream. There was a clarity in it, however, like a bright light among the mist that Jiao-long clung to desperately. He couldn't stand to see someone who had treated him so well were so few of those in the world, and even though the quiet, spoiled man had for the most part kept his eyes down around him, there was still too much familiarity. He didn't want to lose him, knew he too would break if he were forced to watch. Slowly, he forced his eyes up to the other man, who was watching the scene before them unfalteringly, and blinked his head clear. What did he mean? Was he ready?

"No...no, Sir, I'm not," he answered slowly, catching himself and adding the 'Sir'. That was something he'd really been working on this week, among the many tasks he was assigned to perfect each day. Veld nodded after a long moment, gaze unwavering, and said nothing. Hesitantly, feeling as if he had no choise, Jiao-long moved to look back as well. As ill as it made him, he knew he had to gain a stomach for it...somehow. How things had changed so much in a year that he could barely see gore without trembling he couldn't conceive. At this rate, there was no chance of him surviving his own initiation. Was it different because it was someone he knew? It shouldn't matter. It couldn't. People died in the field all the time. He would just have to get used to it.

Kunsel coughed again, a rough sound, and rolled onto his back. The release of tension in the room was so dramatic it felt like a lead hammer had dropped, as those nearest to him looked as if they were about to cry out in disappointment, the expressions of fear and sorrow plain on their faces. But quickly, before anyone could speak, he held up one hand, made a small gesture. They held their breaths. How would he get up now? Had he given up, and was merely too afraid to admit it?

Jiao-long felt a sudden pang in his chest. He'd never liked the man, but it still hurt so much. Distantly, he found himself praying, something he'd never done in his life. Please, Gaia, please let him get up. Please let him live. I couldn't stand to lose another one...

Time stopped. Jiao-long could swear he felt the shifting of the earth, as the entire room stilled, life itself coming down to the pinprick of the young man's heartbeat. The same hand that had gestured for patience moved down to press against the ground, one last struggle for life, as tears streaked the blood on Kunsel's face. He spasmed, and cringed, fighting to hold his breath in one last painful gulp, knowing just as well if not more keenly than the others what it meant if he failed in this movement. With one swift arch of his back, he threw himself forward on the ground, barely managing to catch himself on an arm that cracked as he landed. He cried out, but bit his tongue, eyes clenched shut in pure agony as that arm buckled, and he forced himself up onto his knees. Jiao-long felt his body move without his permission, flying to the force glass that separated them, and as Kunsel slipped one leg back and stood shakily, he heard his own cry rise against that of the new Turk. Evander and Marko came instantly to either side of him, taking his arms gently and hoisting him up. He had stood. He was alive.

Jiao-long's heart seemed to beat again, and helplessly he let his head fall against the glass before him. Quiet footsteps approached from behind, and the hand he was becoming so familiar with placed itself upon his shoulder. A year felt like eternity to him, and he was already becoming a thing of ShinRa, as if he had never known anything other than this life, this building, these men and women. His family. He sobbed softly, a wretched sound, and cursed himself.

"Do not weep for your fallen fellows," Veld said from behind him, his voice strong and unwavering as he watched the other Turks help Kunsel onto the stretcher that would take him to the medical wing, no questions asked. The doctors and nurses who treated them knew better. "They are each of them wretched men, and as humans will someday die." Jiao-long gasped a little, forcing himself to stand, and wiped at the tears. There was no trace of expression on his face, then, in that split second, his eyes glancing off the bloodstains on the floor, the reflection of his small form against that of his statuesque mentor, breathtaking, untouchable, unbreakable. His voice cracked as he spoke, and he forced it to match the steadiness of the other's.

"I'm not...familiar with that book, Sir. Or is it a play?" In the reflection, Jiao-long watched the man's lips upturn just a hair. He may not be very eloquent yet, but he was still damned good at reading people.

"No," Veld said evenly, just a trace of amusement in his voice. "Not a play, or a book for that matter. It's been paraphrased just slightly." Jiao-long turned his head sharply, obsidian eyes resting curious upon those of dark oak. Aged, ageless, and smiling.

"No, Sir? What is it?" He couldn't help himself. It was among his duties to be well versed, after all. That smile turned less humourous, and instantly more honest, a comforting softness coming over Veld's face as he watched the cleaning crew move in to dissolve all evidence of their brutal techniques. There was a certain reverent wonder in his voice when he spoke, as if he were displaying the utmost piece of irony, that even he was fascinated by. Like the perfect end to a story, in such an imperfect name.

"Evander."