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Shinra is a kingdom of clones: numbered, marked, ranked and classed, and the city of Midgar is anything but orderly, its physiology one of broken pieces heaped up under the perfection of consistent circles and parts.
And very much like the city that the Shinra Electric Company has risen, it forever rides in smooth circles, the same number of degrees, the same cast of characters, always winding around to meet itself again.
Midgar is a city made for no particular person; that is its draw. And in its cruelty, it is often magical.
----
"Subterranean Transit In Midgar: a proposal for implementation"
Submitted to the Faculty of the Department of Urban Planning of Midgar City University for the Degree of Doctor, © Reeve Tuetsi, 1988
"Review this, for your own information," Veld says as he hands Tseng a thick sheaf of papers. "This is the history of the city that we police for the benefit of the Company."
Tseng has always been good at mathematics, so understanding the schematics and more technical language in the thesis doesn't pose a serious problem.
It's more the ideas that fascinate him: a train like a worm that travels through an apple. They have nothing like this where he comes from.
Everything in Midgar is green, and it reminds Tseng at first of trees that have been cast with light, garish neon plant life that never dies, living day and night and everywhere in between. The light fills every space that is dark in the slums, and even the upper plate at night.
It becomes a disease, but he finds that he's immune to it. He finds that he doesn't notice this eerie light after a few years.
The light on the train is yellow; it is the only other color that lights industrial interiors never meant to be beautiful.
Tseng rides the trains at night, after he gets off his first few shifts of being a Turk. They make the same paths, but the outside view changes. More graffiti at the first Sector 3 platform; Mako junkies panhandling that appear for a week and then disappear; posters for the new play, Loveless, plastered over columns.
In this position, Tseng realizes, he sees the city from a position of strange omniscience. Nothing ever changes inside the train car and its forever arcing tracks; the one merit of the Midgar transit system is that the trains never run late. Credit that to one, Reeve Tuetsi, who Tseng will meet later in his first year in Midgar, only a few years out of school and already running the department. They're the same age, but it will never seem like it.
And then there is the night, very similar to all his other nights, when Tseng first meets Rufus Shinra.
He's heard a bit about him, but he's more aware of Veld's caution regarding the heir apparent. It's rumored that the mere age of 14, Rufus has already has a number of unfortunate incidents that have needed to be "dealt with." Recently, he'd adopted a beast, tamed it and called it a pet.
This went from being a rumor to reality, since it mauled someone in the first week. The victim threatened legal action, and in order to avoid a lawsuit and bad publicity, Veld had been asked to "take care of it."
It had been a rookie job, and so it was given to the rookie.
Small childlike errors and sins, but it is the rumor (and the fact confirmed), that Rufus has never become angry or thrown a tantrum. Children throw tantrums, and unlike his society counterparts, the most Rufus has been known to do is politely agree to what is asked of him, calmly acknowledge his misdeeds, and then calmly do it all over again.
And tonight, Rufus has committed a major misdeed.
Riding the train has become a form of entertainment for Tseng. It's far preferable to sitting in his quarters, staring at the floor and counting the number of seams in the walls, staring up into the vent and thinking about nothing. The other Shinra employees on the floor consistently ask if he'd like "company" because they "know the best place;" and he politely declines.
He attributes this activity to simply following directives, since it was his direct commander who gave him the instructions to study the plan for Midgar's trains. One of Tseng's many talents is the ability to follow directives without question, without expression, without complaint. The other Turks call him a snake as a compliment. Later, however, Tseng will be called a snake for basking in the sun, too comfortable to notice the rock about to smash down on his head.
This doesn't concern Tseng currently. He has been circling the upper plate lines for at least an hour, and he's almost to the other side of Midgar from where he originated, near the Shinra building.
He decides to disembark and go into the slums; that's where the real action is, the real heart of the city. He would never admit this to anyone, but he knows it to be true; there's a reason that the Turks conduct so much of their business there.
It's when he's still on the elevated train, descending into the dark pit, that he gets the call on his clunky PHS.
Rufus Shinra has gone missing, official orders to find him and bring him in, and bring the wrong doers to justice.
The official translation: Rufus Shinra has gone MIA and no one knows where he is.
"Damn kid and his antics. Dangerous."
Tseng agrees with his superior.
He decides to follow through with his plan and board the next train departing for the slums; whenever children run away, they always go to the places they're told not to.
Tseng finds himself wondering, almost planning, for the consequences if Rufus's body turns up dead in a ditch somewhere. He is calm considering it.
Tseng draws little attention to himself when he makes his nightly train rides; he removes his jacket and slings it over his arm like a tired corporate drone before boarding, and without its sharply tailored lines and neat, squared shoulders, no one pays him much mind.
The most dangerous person is the one you don't notice: espionage 101.
Blending in is also certainly better when you're looking for someone that probably is trying not to be found.
He just makes the train to the lower plate of Sector 7 as it pulls up, and the doors ding shut behind him. It's not very late yet, but the train has few passengers.
Tseng takes a seat and watches the landscape of the upper plate go by; the familiar stack of the Sector 7 reactor, and then it descends into the core of the apple as it makes its way down into the dark.
It's the second stop into Sector 7 that Tseng watches Rufus Shinra board the car, looking rather wary of the entire ordeal regardless of his cool, teenage exterior.
He's dressed too nicely; he's wearing plain black dress pants, an innocuous white collared shirt and shined shoes.
Where Rufus has failed his class is espionage 101 can be found in the pearl buttons on his shirt, his professionally pressed pants, the exotic leather of his shoes.
A poor little rich facing an ugly underground world.
He's in Tseng's view, and for a moment, Tseng just watches.
Rufus tries to muffle the sharp click of his shoes, doing at least somewhat of a decent job at trying not to draw attention to himself. He walks the row directly ahead of Tseng, examines the seat with a slight furrow of his brow, before sitting down gingerly.
He shifts to the empty seat next to him and watches intently out the window as they pass steel girders in the train line lit up by the occasional flashes of steel striking steel, dark passages that no human ever walks.
Tseng also moves over one seat and looks out the window, and their eyes meet.
Tseng is expecting a fight, or panic; instead, Rufus coolly meets his eyes in the glass, and smiles.
"That was rather swift," is all he says. "I suppose you should get a pay increase, Turk."
There is another passenger nearby; the moment she hears the word "Turk," she gets off hurriedly at the next stop with her head down, and they are left alone.
Tseng rises and moves to sit down in the seat next to Rufus as the train jolts into motion again.
"I have my orders," is all he replies, before shrugging his jacket back on and straightening it, "sir."
"Is it really so terrible to want to see my city in person?" Rufus asks, tolerating Tseng's presence next to him in the seat and looking back out the window.
Tseng doesn't answer, just meets Rufus's eyes in the glass again.
His face is young and attractive (he'll cause even more trouble in later years undoubtedly), and his eyes are cold.
"Is it not impractical?" he asks suddenly, turning away from the window to look at Tseng.
"I don't understand, sir," Tseng says, and just faces Rufus stare for stare.
"That hair of yours, Turk," Rufus says, eying Tseng's long dark hair. "Veld lets you keep it that way?"
"Until it no longer suits him or interrupts my service to you, sir," Tseng replies. His hair is also tied back, and he's surprised Rufus has noticed its presence at all.
"I've only seen hair that dark shade once before," Rufus says, smoothing his own hair down with his hand, even though it's already perfectly slicked into place. "Have you met my guard hound?"
"I have only seen its work," Tseng says, sitting up even straighter than he was before.
"Firsthand, I suspect?" Rufus questions, raising a single eyebrow.
"Yes," is all Tseng replies.
"Dark Nation has hair the same shade as yours," Rufus remarks idly, and then turns back to the window. He presses his fingers against the glass curiously as the train pulls into the next station; it almost appears as though he's trying to grasp at its smooth, cold surface without flexing his fingers, as if solely his will can keep him on this train car, traveling to the depths of "his city."
But Tseng doesn't remove him; he doesn't usher them out at the stop. He simply sits and waits.
The doors ding shut again, and the train begins to slowly move.
"They're quite timely," Rufus says, once they're rushing through the dark again.
"I believe your newly hired Director of Urban Planning is responsible for that feat, sir," Tseng says, thinking about the thesis he's read a few times.
Rufus doesn't acknowledge Tseng's answer immediately, instead resting his chin in a hand like a petulant teenager and looking back out the window.
"A Guard Hound is not a pet," Rufus says suddenly, but he doesn't turn. "That's what my father told me. But I disagree."
Now he turns back to Tseng and meets his eyes, a small, cold smile on his face. "Quite to the contrary, a Guard Hound makes the best pet. Tamed, collared and loyal. Don't you agree, Tseng?"
"I've never trained a beast," Tseng comments flatly, though there is no inflection in his voice.
"I have," Rufus says simply, and the smile widens. "Are you aware that there are hoards of them running around outside the city limits, beyond the fence? Wild creatures that control magic and wait to storm the gates. But they can be tamed, and collared."
"And what advice would you give me, sir?" Tseng asks.
"I couldn't offer you much, Turk," Rufus says. "Just that although I tame my beasts, I also don't offer them scraps under the table. Only feasts."
"I see," Tseng replies. "I'll bear that in mind. Now sir..."
Rufus stands without being asked, smooths out his pants, and waits for Tseng to stand as well.
Years later, Rufus will insist on wearing white solely to ensure that Tseng keeps it clean for him; blood is rather unsightly on fine fabrics, after all.
"She's listing, sir."
Rufus positions the shot gun, wounded though he is.
"I see," he replies simply.
Dark Nation whines and puts her head in his lap, her tails laid out limply behind her. Rufus lets her bleed, pats her head, and moves away as he puts a bullet through it.
"And just when they're storming the gates," he says, and stands as Tseng hands him a handkerchief to wipe the light spatter of blood away from his face.
Tseng isn't sure anymore which blood is Rufus's, and which blood is Dark Nation's however.
---
"Midgar Times: Employment Ads"
December 1987
WANTED: Entry Level Position Reception Position. Must have pleasant phone manner and be well-spoken--
No.
SEEKING ATTRACTIVE YOUNG MALE TOUR GUIDES. INQUIRE IN WALL MARKET AT--
No.
OVERNIGHT SHIFT WORKERS. DECENT PAY. MUST BE ABLE TO LIFT 200 LBS. IMMEDIATE START.
Hmm...
People come to Midgar with big dreams. They come to seek their fortune, a better life, a more exciting existence, to join the military or SOLDIER if they can cut it, or just for the bright lights.
And some people come to Midgar because there's nothing left for them, because nothing ever really started, unless you count uncanny quietude that leads to loneliness. Perhaps it's that bit of distant green glow on the horizon that attracts those lost in the dark like an insect, swooping in to buzz and examine.
Philosophy aside, Rude's feet are really fucking cold, and it's pissing him off.
He's stuffed them with newspapers but it's not helping much, and trudging around in the snow carrying boxes of first-rate cuts of meat into the freezer from a truck in the back.
Rude doesn't have a driver's license, but the butcher who employs him doesn't know that. So he's struck up a deal with another employee no one particularly likes to drive the truck--he gives him a cut of his paycheck and no conversation. The other guy finds this amiable and takes the opportunity to ramble when they're driving about skyrocketing stock options and how one day he's gonna get out of this garbage heap.
He's a strange one, but Rude has never been one to judge or be too picky about who he has to work with, as long as he gets where he's going.
Although he'd never admit it, he's a bit impressed by the upper plate. It's not the money, or the glamor, but the food.
Rude likes to eat. It was the one thing in his hometown that he misses--fresh meat, bountiful heaps of fresh vegetables grown in the fields.
He works for a butcher that he makes the deliveries for, and every now and again, some devious employee will steal a rack of ribs or a particularly succulent cut.
When offered, he declines; this has made the other employees who feast on the rewards of bottom feeding dislike him immensely. But Rude figures, there's a reason he's been here the longest, and the rest of those other poor fucks come and go.
Steady work in Midgar is hard to come by, and Rude will be damned if he finds himself out of a job because he took a bite out of a particularly mouth watering cut of meat.
Of course, thinking about that now isn't helping his mood, since it always makes him nervous when they have to do deliveries. He's hungry, cold, and anxious over the idea that one day his lie will be revealed and he'll have to own up to the fact that he can't drive a truck.
Rude will lie if necessary; but necessity is the code he really lives by. It's served him relatively well--at least better than most of the starving, freezing residents of Midgar who didn't know how to play the game well enough to stay alive.
Of course, being alive is defined solely by a heartbeat. In this, Rude excels; survival is exciting enough for him.
"Hey!" says his truck driver accomplice. "You almost done?! I got a Yuletide date tonight. Pretty little piece of ass I met at the Bee!"
Paying for it--another thing Rude doesn't like to do. But there's also something about "the Bee" that makes him feel wrong.
He went once and has never gone back; he'd rather just not.
"Yeah," is all he grunts, carrying the last box of meat into the freezer.
"Hey!" says a voice, hissing into the cellar. "Get up here!"
Rude puts down the frozen box and looks up the stairway with a confused expression.
"What?" he asks.
"I said get up here! We need more of the good stuff. The President is here!"
Rude shrugs, and hefts up the box again he knows has the best meat in it.
"Try not to be seen in that...attire," the maître d' says with a disgusted expression. "You're covered in blood."
He doesn't offer any response other than to climb the stairs and lift the box over his shoulder and follow the maître d' to the kitchen.
People are scurrying around crazily, throwing things into pans, searing meat and boiling vegetables and whipping cakes.
Rude's mouth waters at the smells, but he shows no outward reaction. He just puts the box down where the maître d' instructs, next to the master chef, and turns to exit.
"Go back the way you came," the maître d' says, not looking at him and shooing him away with a few impatient fingers. "Exit down the stairs through the back, the way we came, please. Or else I'll have your job."
Rude is relatively immune to insults at this point, and simply turns back the way he came.
But he finds himself confused now; he was distracted by the smells wafting from the kitchen when they passed through it, and as he tries to re-trace his steps, the scent of roasting lamb and spices goes to his head.
He trudges through the messy kitchen, leaving a trail of water from the melting snow dripping from his boots (much to the chagrin and dirty looks of the other chefs and waiters), and pushes the door open back to the cellar with a feeling of relief.
It's not the right door; and the only thing that makes him freeze is the thought that he's about to lose his job.
In front of him is a restaurant full of people in their best dress: grand silk dresses clinging just so to the female figures, suits of all kinds (Rude couldn't really tell the difference if you asked him about the difference between a tux and a double-breasted jacket), and generally shocked looks as the violin screeches to a stop.
He knows it's not the overalls, but the stench of blood that stop them.
And suddenly, he realizes that no one is looking at him at all.
They're staring at the man who has stood up to point lividly as a particularly table, shouting, "Death to Shinra! Death to the Planet killers!"
There's screams, a gun being brandished, and Rude thinks: "this is bad for my business," before taking two easy steps and grabbing the gun right out of the man's hands.
But to really root out a problem, like a weed, you have to get to the source.
The source of this fucker's rage is his voice, and it's really not too much trouble for Rude to rip his windpipe right out of his throat.
He gags and screams without sound and flails around, before collapsing to the floor twitching.
There's even more blood on Rude's overalls than before, and he just drops the gun on the table.
Everyone is screaming now, trying to flee, until a calm voice cuts through the chaos.
"Everyone sit down."
Even Rude has to raise his eyebrows as a rather slight boy of no more than 14 stands up (a member of the table the would-be assassin was pointing at) and raises his glass.
"To the spirit of Midgar's noble citizens," he says, smiling in a way that reminds Rude of a rather self-satisfied snake. "And their loyalty. Please do note, anyone absent from this celebration shall be remembered."
The people still present stop where the have stood and slowly retake their seats. Half of them are trembling, and the majority take a very long gulp from their glasses to join the boy in their toast.
"My good man!" says an older man at the same table. "You do realize you've just saved the lives of the President and Vice President!"
Rude just drops the windpipe he's still holding on top of the corpse and says, "Yes."
"Of course! That's why you intervened!"
Rude has really intervened because he sees his livelihood threatened by a stupid fuck with a political agenda (this restaurant is his employer's biggest customer), but he has enough sense to nod again.
"You'll have your picture in the paper, my boy! Good work!"
So this is the President. And his son, apparently, since they look like clones of each other--the blond hair, the glacial blue eyes.
Glacial is a word that enters Rude's mind unbidden, but he notes its accuracy.
And the Vice President, to his credit, has a few spatters of blood on his face that he simply wipes away with a napkin.
The Shinra family buys the entire restaurant alcohol this night, and almost no one remembers Rude's valiant act. The next day, his picture is in a tiny corner of the paper, labeled in black and white text with the caption: "HERO OF THE UPPER PLATE THWARTS TERRORIST."
It's when a man in a blue suit shows up at his door, asking for only his first name, that he realizes what's really happened.
"Rude."
"We don't ask for last names."
"Good," he replies, "I don't have one."
Rude doesn't join the Turks for the prestige; he does it for the shoes.
He and Reno find themselves to be momentary renegades left out in a desert. Reno screams after Tseng as the truck screeches away, the acrid taste of betrayal invading every sense and stinging at both their eyes.
Rude finds out later that Rufus cut them a deal as quick as Reno will slash someone's throat, and Rude's gotta give the kid credit for some deft maneuvering. The vacuum of power is subsequently sealed.
Still, he watches Rufus closely. After all, it can't be expected that a sniper will ever walk away from the scope.
---
"Your Mom Sucks Corneos Dick!"
"Midgers a Mother Fuckar!"
"Chocobill Wuz Here: 1988"
The world looks different from this perspective, letters scrawled in black ink and spray paint across a gray metal surface.
The floor is grimy, the light is flourescent, and Reno is so drunk he's not sure if he's lying down or sitting up.
He hears the door open; someone has come in to take a leak, and there he is, leaning against the wall, sitting on his ass, trying to remember how the fuck he ended up here.
"Hey," he slurs to whoever it is that's come into the john. "Y'know how hard it is for a guy to get work 'round here?!"
Sector 3 lower plate has never been known to be very hospitable, after all.
"I said--"
"Shut up, ya drunk," says the man peeing in the urinal.
Reno curses him once but then keeps talking; he's in a good mood today.
"I got an interview tomorrow, you know," he says. "Good job, up on the plate. You ever seen the sun man?"
"Once," says the guy who's zipping up his pants now. "And it was shinin' outta your ass, you drunk fuck."
He doesn't wash his hands and leaves. The slam of the door leaves Reno seeing stars, and he re-reads the graffiti on the stall door.
"Y'know," he says, pointing to no one in particular, "I bet whoever's mom that is did suck Corneo's dick."
The light starts to flicker and Reno lets out a startled sound. He shoves himself to his feet, runs a hand through his hair, checks for his switchblade, and leaves the bar bathroom.
"You hear that, you scummy motherfuckers?!" he shouts over the din of conversations. "I got a goddamn job interview up at Shinra!"
No one pays him any attention.
Reno has lived underneath the Sector 3 plate his entire life, and has developed a fondness for booze and conversation with people that don't exist. That, and fixing things.
Reno likes to fix things, particularly engines or non-working machinery. He has a knack for it, as his more sober, older counterparts say, that are probably the only people in the world, over in the junk yards, that he wouldn't shank for a meal.
Shockingly, even though he shows up in stale clothes, they give him the job after he fixes something no one has been able to get started in years.
"You ever seen somebody electrocuted, man?" he asks one of his interviewers as he twists something here, and pulls out a cable there. "It's magic. It's pure fuckin' magic, electricity. Plug shit in and it comes to life."
They assign people like Reno to the bowels of the reactors, but skilled workman who will work for nothing are few and far in between.
Reno's job is not highly technical; he actually doesn't fix anything. Those were parlor tricks he was using to try and get a job he could actually live off. No, his job is to clean the catwalks, wipe down the handrails, take out the lab garbage that the scientists leave outside the door--shredded paper, dead plants, nothing exciting.
And although Reno now mostly spends his time alone, he's actually a rather social person. One perk is that he can come to work drunk and no one notices.
There's one guy that works with him though, and Reno is relatively sure the fucker is working for some anti-Shinra gig.
Reno likes his job. He isn't concerned too much with longevity, but for the time being, if he's not dead, he'd rather live a comfortable life where he can get drunk and still get paid (to get more drunk), than not.
So when he finds his co-worker one night messing with one of the reactor thermostats, he puts a screwdriver right through his eye socket.
There's no pretense, no talking, not a thing. Pure and simple.
The guy drops, and Reno takes back the screw driver; those things are expensive.
He does his job, leaves the body on the catwalk, and leaves after midnight when his shift ends.
He gets the call in the next day, and he knows he fucked up. When his mother was around, she often told him what a true fuck up he was, but now that he's living the dream, he's pissed off at himself.
He hears the fucker he killed has a family or something; that he was a junkie given a job as a favor from the President himself. Shit.
Reno doesn't say anything about the thermostat though. He figures it's not worth it, and he's not going to whine like a bitch; he knows they won't listen anyway.
So when an older man in a blue suit arrives a few nights later during Reno's regular shift, he just stops to face the music.
"Yeah?" he asks.
"I'm Veld," the man says stoically, "and I've been sent to deal with you."
"Deal with me?" Reno laughs, tightening his grip on the mop he's holding.
"In a way," Veld says.
"So what'd I do?" Reno asks, straightening up to face Veld.
Off to the side is one of the Mako pools; Reno's been mopping the upper deck. Reno has learned how slippery soap makes metal; he finds this amusing, and mops twice, just to see if some lab coat falls off the side.
Entertainment is scarce, after all.
After a moment, Veld shifts his stance and asks, "Why did you kill that man?"
"He was fucking up my shit," Reno says, spitting on the ground and then pulling out a cigarette regardless of the sign right next to him that shouts in large letters, "NO SMOKING - FLAMMABLE MATERIALS."
He lights it up, inhales, and then shrugs. "I don't like it when people fuck up my shit."
"Do you enjoy killing people?" Veld asks calmly.
"Naw, don't mind either way," Reno says, exhaling a trail of hazy smoke. "Besides, not that you care so much, but that fucker was twirling your pretty dials down here so fast I didn't know whether I should just leg it or keep on moppin'."
Reno can see by the look on Veld's face that this revelation doesn't come as a surprise. His curiosity is piqued.
"So whatchya gonna do to me, General? Off me? Throw me in that Mako pool?" he asks, gesturing with a flick of his head toward the drop off the walkway they're standing on.
Veld raises an eyebrow. "You have no fear of death?"
"Hell no," Reno snorts. "Besides, I might as well die when I'm still young and hot, huh?" He winks and grins in what he knows is a supremely ghastly expression with his scars. "What do you think, Sergeant? Am I your type?"
Reno is impressed when Veld doesn't even blink, just waits.
"Guess not," Reno laughs under his breath. "So c'mon, Captain, let's go. You're a fuckin' Turk. I know what you fuckers do."
He takes a bold step toward Veld as his fingers begin to twitch reflexively, as if searching for a weapon he's missing, and he gets close.
"Or," he says, inhaling the rest of his cigarette and blowing the smoke in Veld's face, "maybe I should just blow this whole fuckin' place up. Take this fucker sky high--you, me, this whole goddamn shit show of a reactor and all the rest of it."
Reno knows his face is pale and serious, and his eyes are shadowed where he's bowed his head slightly. He's looked at his own reflection many a time, watching the ghoulish expression that he thinks suits him very well.
And then he's comedic again, sarcastic, taking a step back and laughing. "Oh man, you're not easy to scare, are ya? Guess that's why you're a Turk."
"It's Commander," Veld says finally, and now Reno raises an eyebrow.
Reno shrugs, grins until his scars are bunched up around his eyes like a madman laughing at nothing, and then without ceremony, flicks his cigarette down into the Mako pool.
There's a small pop, some smoke, and not much else.
Reno snorts, points at the sign, and informs Veld: "Whoever made that sign is a pussy that never actually tried it out to see what actually happens."
Veld suddenly laughs. It's a loud, clear sound that echoes around the cavernous reactor.
"I have use for a man of your talents," he says bluntly. "You willing to work with a partner?"
"You're asking me to be a Turk," Reno says, looking at Veld skeptically.
"No," Veld says, "I'm offering you an opportunity for an interview. The result is either be hired, or I kill you."
Reno nods and then grins. "Sounds good, Commander. What are the perks?"
"Perk is," Veld says, folding his hands neatly behind his back, "you can kill anyone you want that, as you put it, 'fucks up your shit.' In fact, your job will often be to kill people that fuck up the Shinra family's shit."
"If my partner is a dumb fuck, can I kill him too?"
"With my written approval," Veld acknowledges. "Bear in mind, the Turks do not fuck up."
Reno is thrilled when he stays alive and is given a weapon that can both maim and electrocute.
He also decides not to kill his new partner when the large, quiet man shows him how to turn on the electro-mag rod's electricity flow after he can't figure it out. Rude, as he's called, doesn't say anything, just flips the switch as Reno fumbles with it and shrugs.
Reno offers up a grin, and brandishes it with a flourish.
"Bad ass, man," he says, swinging it.
Rude flexes his knuckles in agreement.
"Rufus Shinra has instructed me to inform you that you are needed in the field as soon as possible."
"So the little bastard wants me out of this fuckin' bed as fast as he can have me," Reno says from his hospital cot. "Figures."
Tseng clears his throat and tries not to look at the tubes going into Reno's arms.
"Yes, that is correct."
Reno laughs quietly. "Well, fuck yeah," he says, "what the hell else would I want to do?"
----
"Midgar! Sights and Sounds for the Refined Traveler"
© Department of Urban Planning, Shinra General Electric Co., 1994
Preface
Endorsed and edited by Mayor Domino
Midgar, the Planet's most populated sprawling metropolis, is a city of wonders with something for everyone! Home to the most important invention of the century, the Mako reactor now supplies the world with 100% of its energy. (Be sure to schedule an afternoon walking tour!). But don't stop there--the city is an architectural masterpiece, comprised of several sections, or "sectors," carefully planned and curated for its citizens with sprawling green parks and sitting areas. Take a stroll on the Shinra Company Greenway (sponsored in part by a grant from the Shinra Family Foundation), located just inside the perimeter of Sector 7 Upper Plate. For those a bit more daring, take a guided tour through the Lower Sectors. Notoriously known for their violent crime and poverty, these sprawling, urban neighborhoods also house some of the earliest structures in Midgar, as well as diverse cuisine, spirited entertainment and unique souvenirs.*
We welcome you to our fair city, and wish you all the best on your adventures during your visit!
*This Guide in no way encourages or advises visitors to travel the Lower Sectors unaccompanied.
Elena has been the general's daughter since the day she was born, and her sister became a Turk when Elena was a teenager. She has been surrounded by brass, tradition and Company pride since the moment she stepped foot in the world. Her first word was "Shinra."
"All in the family" is what the Shinra brass says when she first goes in for basic military training, and they say the same when she later earns a position within the Turks, the faction she once despised due to their elitism.
People like her are called naive; most of the Turks are not formally trained, not products of the Shinra machine. For all the knowledge of the rules and regulations she has in spades, she stumbles when in action.
She knows nothing about the streets of Midgar, the slums, the city.
So she does what any self-respecting, disciplined student would do; she picks out the right book and does field study.
The guide book is perfect it seems. Not only is it endorsed by a friend of the family, but it lists all of the most notable parts of Midgar. Elena is more familiar with the inside of a compound than she is with civilian activities; she doesn't go to parks, doesn't visit bars or restaurants very often and she certainly hasn't been into the lower sectors, save the occasional assignment or training exercise.
She begins her education with one of the "world famous tours" of a Mako reactor.
Elena knows how Mako reactors work as much as the next Shinra employee, and even though she's ascending the food chain quickly, she still knows relatively little. There have been rumors and whispers floating around the upper brass though, about things no one really wants to believe, things that happened during the war with Wutai. She doesn't listen because she doesn't doubt.
She hasn't worn her suit today, trying to appear like a civilian, though she knows every time she squares her shoulders and stands up too straight she gives herself away.
The tour is benign, just a lot of talk about the architects of the reactors, the origins of Shinra General Electric (she already knows it by heart, and realizes she could probably give the tour herself. They don't actually see the reactor, but just a lot of pipes; the few tourists with her "ooh" and "ahh" over the green Mako pool though. When she stares down into, she sees her own wobbly reflection, and thinks she should cut her hair.
The next stop is one the pedestrian Greenway that is raved about for several paragraphs in the guidebook. She finds that it's not grass so much as strange urban shrubs clumped together along a rather long sidewalk that curves around the side of the sector plate.
As she walks along, she observes the people milling about. A solitary person here or there, sitting on a bench reading a book, or a couple talking and holding hands under the shade of one the young trees that have been planted. They barely spare her a glance, thinking that perhaps she's a secretary on her lunch hour, or even a military recruit in civilian dress.
Elena has to admit though, it still feels strange calling herself a Turk. To have the word applied to her.
And Turks don't stroll in parks, nor do they go on Mako reactor tours. Elena knows "unofficially" that the parks are merely a cover-up for illegal money laundering activities and that those green Mako pools are corrosive, efficient graves for the "problems" they're sent to take care of.
Elena has always been a problem solver though, and it's not all thuggery and intimidation tactics. But the Turks conduct most of their business in the lower sectors, so that's where she decides to go, regardless of the guidebook's footnote. She had spent a period of time there herself when her sister defected temporarily before her "untimely death."
She takes the train down into the guts of the city and watches the chaos as it streams past her, and decides to get off at Wall Market. She's at least familiar with it, or was years ago.
Even that this has changed though, built up into a garish, neon hovel of sex, booze and illegal weapons. There's no text book here, no "unique souvenirs" or exotic cuisine.
Elena isn't frightened of her surroundings; she's frightened as she realizes she's been a polished stone all this time, incapable of fitting into any shape that isn't perfect.
Wall Market is Midgar: this is what Elena realizes as she smells the stench of refuse and food, of gunpowder and booze.
She does something then that has been a rare occurrence in her life; she walks into a bar. It's smoky and more of a patchwork metal heap than an actual drinking establishment, but it's exactly what she wants.
"I'll have what he's having, please," she says, pointing at a nearly passed out man beside her.
"You sure?" says the bartender. He's sitting on a barrel behind the bar, one hand on a bottle he's drinking from himself, and the other resting on his lap.
When she nods, he takes a sip out of the bottle, and then pours her a shot from the same. And in that heat and stench, in the bowels and guts of an ugly, patchwork city full of opportunity and hidden pleasures, Elena takes her shot as it comes.
She moonlights as a bartender in Wall Market to continue her education; she goes home with strange men to see what people say behind closed doors (surprising sometimes), and she purchases illegal weapons and materia (and even tries it out).
When she makes it to being a full Turk, Rufus Shinra is at the ceremony. He holds out his hand to her, says, "You look like your sister."
She just gives a small smile and nods. "The hair."
"I suppose," Rufus says, and his cold eyes evaluate her from top to bottom. "Then again, I have no siblings. For all I know you and I could be related."
Elena has never enjoyed rumors; she thanks fate she never entered the SOLDIER division.
"Yes, sir," she says, straightening her tie. Rufus nods, apparently satisfied with her simple answer and lack of commentary.
"Welcome," he says, and walks away.
When they arrive at Healen, amidst his bloodied face and burned arms, Rufus Shinra asks for a drink.
"Allow me, sir," Elena says, scrounging up anything she can find, the stores of liquor undoubtedly kept in any high-ranking Shinra facility. "This one is called the Midgar Slam, the strongest I know how to make."
Rufus thanks her and drinks as he begins to clean and dress his own wounds.
-----
TM Shinra General Electric Co. - Made in Midgar!
Rufus reads the small, translucent label on the corner of his office window over and over as he watches WEAPON's slow progress from the sea.
Sprawled beneath him is Midgar as it is now: a broken circle, a missing number, a series of slain clones, a sty of motherless whores all desperately scrambling up to reach the sun, kicking and maiming and killing, and then finding nothing at the end of the journey but a wrathful stone made of heat and fire.
"This is my city," Rufus says quietly to himself.
The glass cracks at the corner and the building trembles as the Sister Ray fires its first shot, and then something begins to gather right in the center of the WEAPON's chest, something bright and hot.
"My city," he repeats, squinting his eyes as he sees the end finally coming for him, "just as I am."
----
"Edge: A Citizen's Guide to Local Roads and Pedestrian Pathways"
© World Regenesis Organization, 2000 (For Beta Purposes Only)
Midgar is a skeleton lying in the middle of a desert. Birds sail over its twisted remains, though its sheer mass is something that might strike fear into the heart of someone that doesn't know its story.
They still call him "boss" or "sir," even though the only city he rules now is that of his bedroom and a broken down complex.
He can't help but wonder why they stay with him. Him: a ruined wreck, a scrap heap riddled with disease, a fallen king, a ghost.
Rufus refuses to think of himself in such terms, but he understands the logic in doing so. He realizes now the value of weakness, and the foolishness of expecting loyalty by default. Favors only hold sway for so long and expire.
The Turks owe him nothing, yet they are here.
Edge is a city watched over by stone angels, unfinished and incomplete, with a giant circular monument at its center. Rufus decides at the beginning of their residency at Healen (which he thinks is temporary at the time), to take a tour of the new city and check on the construction of his monument.
Tseng accompanies him, and it is the first time that they are both pelted with dirt and rocks, jeered at, almost shot at until Tseng takes one of guns from the holster and fires it into the air.
It is in that moment that Rufus realizes the only power they have now is that of weapons and residual fear; more things, like favors, that expire.
They go back during the night when the street is quiet, and Rufus reads the inscription at the base of the monument, something Reeve had drafted, something that would appeal to the people of this new, ramshackle city.
He and Tseng walk around the half-finished structure, examining it from every angle. They go around the circle once, twice, and then almost a third time, until Tseng stops and critically points out that the workmanship on one of the supports is faulty and not to scale.
By the time the monument to a dead city is finished, Rufus is dying.
They all have their own individual ways of dealing with his illness. People's odd idiosyncrasies often emerge when faced with desperation and death, and the Turks are no exception, since the city they ruled is dead and their President can no longer walk.
When Reno thinks he's asleep, he'll sit outside the door and speak softly in unintelligible sounds. Rufus isn't sure whether the words are addressed to him, to Reno himself, or whether they're words at all. It's almost meditative, the way Reno keeps his voice at one decibel and doesn't pause often, a rambling stream of consciousness as he sits against Rufus's door and compulsively assembles and disassembles his gun over and over. Then Tseng will come by and shoo him away like a wayward stray cat, but he always returns.
Rude has always intimidated Rufus, because he's the only man Rufus has ever met who can instill enough fear into people with a single look and a flex of his knuckles to render them useless in attempting to withhold information. They are correct to be afraid too, because Rude is not a gambling man; he is a calm killer.
One surprising thing about Rude that Rufus finds out, however, is that he knows a substantial amount about plants. He's no botanist, but one day when Rufus asks Tseng what kind of trees surround them (renewable energy? thinking, always thinking), Rude answers unexpectedly from he's standing a few feet away under the cover of his sunglasses and a neutral expression.
He proceeds to name every plant around them, and most importantly, which are edible. Later, Rufus finds a pile of carefully chosen greens without an explanation, and he doesn't need to ask Tseng where they're from.
Elena is the one who volunteers to keep vigil over Rufus most frequently, always willing to cover an overnight shift or a slow day. Sometimes she'll talk to him about Shinra and more pleasant memories that he has.
One evening, he asks about her father; Rufus knows the family name well, its association with achievement and legacy. Her father and her grandfather both worked for Shinra, though in different capacities, and her sister who was a Turk with an excellent reputation. If Veld spoke of his individual employees at all, he spoke highly of Elena's sister.
Elena replies that her father died in in the collapse of Midgar, and that she hasn't seen her sister since Rufus signed her false death certificate. There's no sentimentality in the answer.
"It was and is our choice is to serve you, sir."
Rufus just meets her eyes with his single working one from where he's lying on the bed, the bandage removed for now, and she doesn't flinch.
"Besides," she adds, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, "I don't go back on my decisions, sir."
Elena is the only one who ever smiles, and Rufus finds he looks forward to her easy conversation and straight forward way of thinking. It's often black and white, just like the inside and outside of his suit, without the secrets that hide and lurk underneath his own skin and in the depths of him. The confusion, the illness, the doubt--things that none of them can ever know.
When Elena smiles though, he sees clarity in the slight curve of her mouth.
Tseng's response is simple: he ensures that Rufus never stains his suit.
One day, after Tseng has helped Rufus into his suit and he's sitting in his motorized chair, a thin pamphlet is presented to him.
"Reeve sent over this draft of the city guide for Edge."
"Pedestian pathways," Rufus says as he accepts the thin pamphlet. "Roads, though not many to speak of."
"No," Tseng agrees. "Though they all extend out from the monument."
"A great series of circles," Rufus says, flipping through the sheaf of bound paper. "Going back to where they started."
Tseng just nods and doesn't reply.
"I will say, Tseng," Rufus says, looking up to meet the Director of the Turk's dark, calm eyes, "I do not intend to re-trace the steps from where I have come."
Tseng's gaze changes suddenly, and there's something there that almost looks like pride, like hope even.
"Circles swallow themselves, Tseng," Rufus says, closing the booklet and settling it in his lap. "And cities perish."
"I'm afraid I am unleashed," Tseng finally says.
"I'm afraid I have no feast," Rufus replies.
They both smile very subtlety, and in the distance, there is the sound of a glass hitting a counter; the crackle of electricity and a sudden yelp; and a silence so heavy it blankets the entire compound.
"I am aware, sir," Tseng says. He walks and takes the map prototype from Rufus.
"Tell Reno, Rude and Elena to walk these pathways," he says, "so I can at least say I helped. See if they're accurate."
Tseng nods.
"I believe, sir," he says without opening the booklet, "that they all lead back to the same place."
"I rest assured, Tseng, that they do."