Chapter 37: Perverse Consequences
The headlines screamed at Veld the instant Cissnei dropped the latest copy of The Midgar Mirror on his desk that morning.
ANGEAL FAKED HIS OWN CENTERFOLD!
* Power Ploy to Gain Sympathy and Support
* Seeks Leverage To Unseat Sephiroth And Take Top Spot!
* Sephiroth Claims He's Brought Dishonor To SOLDIER, Demands Court-Martial!
Cissnei twisted up her face in displeasure, shrugged at him, and exited his office while he gaped at the scandal sheet's chocobo shit.
Before he could do more than utter a single oath, his PHS rang. Hewley's image consultant, Brooke Hamilton, had also already seen the paper. The conversation that followed wasn't the most pleasant in his long and storied career.
An hour later, Veld gritted his teeth as he hung up at the end of the call, snapping the flip phone closed almost hard enough to crack its case. Hamilton had not been happy with how events had progressed. Well, neither was he.
At least they both had decided on an interim course of action for Hewley. That worthy, both agreed, needed to keep his head down and stay the fuck out of public until this latest shitstorm blew over, or at least settled down to manageable levels.
The worst part, Veld reflected, was that he'd known the Mirror was quite capable of taking the lowest, dirtiest road in its quest for profits. He recalled some of their grotesque ideas for further headlines and articles, ideas that had been on the Mirror's own private servers. The disgusting tabloid had intended to run a long smear campaign anyway, to milk the original exposé for maximal profit. It seemed that they'd reworked their plans to account for the discrediting of their original centerfold story, instead of dropping the whole thing and moving on to less libelous topics.
Then again, this probably was the Mirror's idea of "moving on." The discredited centerfold had merely provided them with a springboard to even worse stories, it seemed.
Perverse consequences. Turks were well aware that sometimes (too often) an intended solution made a problem worse. Such as, say, discrediting a dirty photograph. But who could have foreseen this particular consequence?
Well, he supposed he should have guessed that the Mirror's reporter and editor might be a wee bit spiteful about being exposed—hah! What appropriate description, all things considered—to the entire world as liars. Especially since, in reality, they weren't. That must have burned, since for once in their predatory lives they'd been telling the truth.
But their counterattack on Hewley was so absurd. Who in their right mind would ruin their own reputation to try to gain power? Who'd believe it? They were talking about Angeal fucking Hewley, for Odin's sake! Mister Bland, Benign, and Boring himself. "The nice one," Veld huffed, thinking of Hewley's old, and now thoroughly tarnished, PR profile.
He missed those delusional days.
Hewley simply didn't have the kind of imagination required to concoct such a crazy, convoluted plan to get rid of one of his best friends to take over a job he'd never expressed any interest in obtaining. Somehow, the Turks and PR ought to be able to use that. Veld should suggest it. He knew Hampton and her team were already brainstorming ideas.
Maybe Hewley was, too. Maybe Sephiroth and Rhapsodos were, as well. Could get...troublesome...if all three decided to put their heads together.
Hewley was a gardening hobbyist. Maybe, Veld pondered, just maybe, if Hewley really wanted to defame someone, he'd grow weed or narcotic coca-noki plants, slip the illicit leaves into a desk drawer, and then call Security. Made a smidge more sense than the insanity the Mirror had printed. Veld had always wondered about his "fresh kitchen herbs." Given the dangerous temperaments of Hewley's two closest friends, neither of whom could ever be called "nice," he must have a little extra "help" when it came to maintaining his reputation as "Mister Nice Guy."
A smidge more of zero sense was still zero sense. The entire situation bordered on farcical.
Veld snickered a little at the idea, though. Planting false evidence was a Turk's job. It required skill and refinement—not to mention the ability to disregard any personal sense of morality or justice in favor of supporting the Shinra company's goals. He was sure Hewley would be terrible at it.
Veld shook his head at his own ridiculous thoughts. The tabloid's new narrative made no sense, but Hampton claimed that a hastily conducted morning survey indicated that a small percentage of the public entertained the idea. Probably for its sheer amusement value. The online forums were buzzing, with virtual fights between pro- and anti-Angeal factions already breaking out. She and the rest of PR were of necessity revamping their own plans and working out their next moves.
In the meantime, Hewley was to be kept out of the public eye. Hamilton had also recommended that Sephiroth and even Rhapsodos stay out of sight as well. Any plans by PR to allow interviews with the men, which had been recently floated, were summarily canceled.
At least keeping them away from the public shouldn't be hard. Hewley hated publicity and official public appearances, and Sephiroth merely tolerated them. Neither actually needed to venture out into the main streets of Midgar. They could both order groceries and meals to be delivered for a while, and only go out to more isolated areas as needed. They could also eat in any of the building's several cafeterias. Though both might get cabin fever if their isolation went on too long.
Rhapsodos might be a problem, but he wasn't the star of the tabloid smear campaign. He was only being portrayed as the peacemaker of the group. Veld allowed himself a snort at that bizarre notion, but at least someone wasn't getting his reputation dragged through the mud. Of the three, Rhapsodos was the only one who looked reasonable and sane in the tabloid narrative.
Veld and Hamilton were also in perfect agreement that Shinra (which they all knew meant the Turks) needed to do something about the Mirror's brazen libel. Maybe Reno was right, Veld mused. Perhaps a few heads needed to be broken, or some pointed vandalism should be committed. At least a few quiet threats could be issued.
Or maybe they could plant some of the aforementioned weed or coca-noki in the editor's office, he thought with amusement. It was an interesting idea. Hewley might even help.
At the very least, he could provide the Turks with some plant growing supplies.
Veld chuckled. Normally, Hewley would be appalled, but revenge was revenge, and the man was probably more than ready to dish out some payback.
In the meantime, Veld needed to bring Deusericus up to speed. SOLDIER's Director would certainly agree that the situation called for more control, and issue the appropriate orders to his affected personnel.
Veld tapped his fingers on his desk and idly wondered if Hewley or Sephiroth had seen the paper yet.
He sighed. It was going to be a long day.
Then his computer pinged, announcing the arrival of new email. It was addressed to both him and Director Deusericus. The President's special email address glared in the Sender field, the address he only used for private, sensitive, and sometimes horrific matters. Veld opened the missive up with alacrity. This couldn't be good, he thought. Not with the latest developments in the world of tabloids and disinformation.
He was right about it not being good. He just wasn't right in the way he'd expected.
"Fuckity fuck fuck fuck!" He slammed his prosthetic fist down hard enough to make his computer shimmy a few centimeters across the desk. "That mother fucking fucker and his fucking idiotic fuckery!"
After uttering a few more such heartfelt exclamations, he reread the contents of President Shinra's email—just to make certain he hadn't overlooked some qualifiers or completely misunderstood his new orders in his rage—then he really cut loose and cursed fluently in three different languages for the next fifteen minutes.
Next time: Angeal blows a gasket, and almost blows up Sephiroth's office. Genesis missed his true calling in musical theater.