Chapter Text
Ada Strife entered on a whim. She first took notice of the poster in the tiny post office located in the only grocer in town a few weeks ago. Register Today!, it exclaimed brightly, win a farm of your own! A Gift from ShinRa to YOU! – ShinRa’s Yule Holiday Relief Fund. At first she dismissed it; Ada had never had any luck. The napping three-year-old on her shoulder was proof of that; Ada had been warned about ShinRa long before she ever went to work at the mansion all those years ago. She’d been told her whole life not to trust outsiders, that anyone who hadn’t been born in Nibelheim was Außenseiter; other, unreliable, shifty. They weren’t to be trusted, ShinRa were dishonest and fiends at their core.
But the Strife’s had always been desperately poor and Ada perhaps the poorest of them all, and she’d gone to work for ShinRa out of desperation. And nine months later her son was born outside of wedlock with no Nachname outside of his Muttername to call his own. It was perhaps the greatest shame a woman of Nibelheim could ever have and the dishonor it cast on Ada was great, but it’s shadow was even greater for her son.
No one would hire her; what Ada survived on came from what she could grow from the earth with her own hands – and whoever took pity on her in the town and traded with her for her modest harvests. She had breast fed her son, Cloud, for as long as she could, but after three years her breast milk was finally starting dry up. If she wanted her son to live through the winter, Ada had to find something. Just…something.
So, a week later, despite her misgivings and feeling like a fool, Ada entered the contest. She painstakingly filled out the paperwork (and if elderly Mrs. Frida, who had always had a soft spot for her, had helped filled out because her reading was – eh – so what?) and enclosed a photo of herself and Cloud. The prize was a dream; two cows, two sheep, four rabbits, eight chickens, and a rooster; all breeding pairs. There were to be fifty winners from across the continent, all from towns or villages that had a reactor nearby. It was undoubtedly a public relations move, something devised to encourage good will towards ShinRa, complete with a visit from President Shinra’s wife or son. It was called ‘The Ark,’ and it might seem simple to some, but the presence of such animals could change Ada Strife’s life completely.
So she entered.
But honestly, no part of her thought she’d ever win.
Rufus sat, bored, staring blankly out the window that overlooked their great city. He’d been in the salon that served as his mother’s office for what felt like hours. In reality it was probably closer to a half hour, just enough time for his mother to sort through the pictures of the contestants and pick out winners. It was supposed to be based on merit or need, but he was pretty sure his mother was choosing based on how pretty she thought the families were.
His father, always capable of being absent while still in the room, was agreeing half-heartedly while going through his e-mail.
“Oh my goodness,” Cora Shinra said, her voice practically a coo, “look how cute these two are. Oh my, and no father! It must be so hard for her! A single mother – I can’t even imagine! Look, darling, doesn’t she look inviting?”
Rufus looked up at his mother’s excited voice, watching as she waved the picture around. He was just about to go back to staring at the neon cityscape when something in his father’s face – a remote twitch of the lips – caught his attention. For someone as surly and taciturn as his father, that single emotion spoke of much.
Thomas Shinra, better known as the President, reached out and caught the picture. He examined it, brows furrowing slightly. “Where are they from, pumpkin?”
“Ni-Nibel-hen-him?” His mother’s lips pursed, squinting at the town’s name.
“Nibelheim, ma’am.” One of their Turks escorts offered.
“Nibelheim!” Cora repeated with childish excitement, looking proud and pleased with herself. It took everything Rufus had not to show the distaste he felt on his face. His parents disgusted him; everything about them made him recoil. From his father’s brutishness to his mother’s stupidity and heavy handed attempts at coyness. Rufus loathed being near them. He had loved them once; when he’d been younger, he’d been desperate for his mother’s attention, craved his father’s approval. But at twelve and with the certification of a genius from several different universities, he was far beyond that. He knew now that there was nothing he could possibly do to earn either, so why belittle himself even trying?
“Nibelheim.” His father said, voice distant. He clicked his fingers at the Turk. “Names? Ages?”
“Ada Strife, twenty-three, and her son, Cloud Strife, three. A point of note, sir, Ada Strife used to work for us when ShinRa was active in Nibelheim.”
“Three.” And something in his father’s voice, something almost peacocky and proud caught Rufus’ attention. “A single mother with a three-year-old. A son.”
“Oh yes,” his mother gave Rufus what she most likely thought was a cute and attractive wink, “sons are wonderful things. And a former employee – why, darling, I can’t think of anyone more worthy of such a gift.”
His father tossed the picture back onto the pile. “Well, yes then cupcake, they seem a good choice.”
His mother squealed, but Rufus’ attention was caught. He gestured to the Turk. “Let me see the picture.”
The Turk obeyed without question. As he gazed down at the brunette woman and her very blond son, something inside of Rufus grew bitter. Three years old. Four years ago, his father had been supposedly vacationing at one of their mansions in Nibelheim. In reality, he had been there to see if Hojo’s creation, Sephiroth, was ready for deployment. Relations with Wutai had been growing even more strained and war (as it continued to be) a threat on the horizon. He stared down at the little blond boy, taking in his patrician features, the distinctive set of his nose and chin, the blue of his eyes, and the differences between the toddler and his mother – and scowled.
Another brother.
Rufus flung the picture away.
Of course.
Of course.