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Character Information
Name: Veld (Verdot)
Age: Cranky Old Man
Series: Final Fantasy VII Before Crisis
Timeline: before the confrontation with Elfe
History:
Canon: (mostly from Gunshot Romance)
The overall leader of the Turks. Veld gets his orders directly from President Shinra and passes them on to Tseng, who then delegates orders to the subordinate Turks. It was Veld who made the Turks into the professional, elite group they are today. He can come off as intimidating, and even cold - his standard of what constitutes a well-executed mission is markedly more stringent than the evaluation criteria Tseng uses, and he will not hesitate to deal out appropriate consequences when the occasion calls for it. It was he that instituted the mission evaluation system - all Turks are evaluated based on every mission they undertake, with consequences for Turks that don't get their act together.
Veld's devotion to his Turks is absolute. In Episode 9, when the Turks are placed under the leadership of Heidegger, Veld makes a deal with President Shinra in order to save them from annihilation at the hands of AVALANCHE. A large condition of this deal stipulates that if Veld displeases President Shinra again, his life is forfeit. When the Turks are ordered to carry the victims of the Nibelheim accident to the Shin-Ra mansion so Hojo can perform experiments on them, he takes the entire duty upon himself, so that his subordinates needn't get tangled up in such a dirty operation.
The reason for Veld's protective attitude toward the Turks is revealed in Episode 13. He was indirectly responsible for his family's death in Kalm. After the loss of his wife and daughter, he buried himself in his work and fell back on the Turks, who became the family he no longer had.
His daughter Felicia is later discovered to be alive under a different name: Elfe, the leader of AVALANCHE and antagonist of the Turks. Veld defects upon learning her identity.
Veld goes missing for a while after the final battle with Zirconiaide. Officially he is presumed dead - apparently assassinated by Tseng - although it is later discovered that he is alive and continuing his work with the Turks.
Uncanon:
Lulz. Not many people remember Veld's early career as a Turk, mostly because it's not exactly a shining example of professional behavior and he's done what he can to see it suppressed and the reminder of it annoys the hell out of him. Veld comes from an aristocratic military background, most of the male members of his family having been in the service (and exemplary at that), and he was sent to the Academy in the assumption that he would follow in the tradition and win some medals and make a name for himself and eventually turn into his father and grandfather and great-grandfather.
Veld had other ideas. His record of brawls and demerits for insubordination kind of nixed his fast track to success and officer-dom, even though his actual training scores were topnotch. Fortunately, the Turks were looking for these kind of loose cannon washouts as highly trained killers who were sometimes too smart to follow orders or just needed better incentives. The old Director picked Veld up without much fuss. There were rumors about a boy being put in the hospital around the time Veld left the Academy, but rumors were rumors and lots of trainees got themselves injured under dubious circumstances.
Joining the Turks didn't settle Veld down any. He continued his reputation as a hellcat, barreling recklessly through training missions and apparently uncaring of his own safety, disdaining all possible uses of the word 'subtlety,' brash and loudmouthed and getting into arguments and fights with peers and seniors and basically anyone who looked at him funny. Because of his wealthy background and his dismal Academy record there were a lot of insinuations that he was only a rich boy here to play games, that he had somehow bought his way into the Turks after washing out of the Academy, that he had killed someone, that he had nearly killed someone, that Some Kind Of Scandal had been the reason for his dismissal, etc etc, and Veld couldn't seem to stop himself from reacting to each nasty little whisper.
There might have been a little truth in some of these, especially the rumors that The Mysterious Scandal was not concerning Veld at all, but rather his older brother, whose early incredibly successful military career was cut short for unknown reasons and ended up being removed from the spotlight in Midgar. But again, rumors were only rumors.
After the umpteenth complaint about Veld and his temper the old Director threw up his hands and partnered Veld permanently with the very next person he got into a fight with, who happened to be a quiet, luckless Turk trainee named Vincent Valentine. Remarkably they didn't kill each other, and maybe Veld calmed down a little after figuring out that Vincent didn't give a damn about the Academy, and against all odds the two of them stumbled haphazardly out of trainee rank and into actual professional service without screwing it up too badly. Veld was never considered a particularly responsible or discreet agent during this period, but he was no longer the absolute last pick.
And then, of course, just as things were going smoothly, Vincent disappeared under mysterious circumstances.
Veld took this very badly. Horrifically badly, refusing to believe the official declaration that Vincent had been killed in action and nearly getting himself fired (or worse, considering the persons involved) trying to investigate the case. He backslid to being unfocused and irresponsible on the missions that he was given, in his opinion, only to distract him, and ended up in the hospital with severe injuries not a few times before one of his fellow Turks, sick of his crap, pointed out furiously that dying now would mean he'd never find out what really happened. Veld conceded, privately vowing to do whatever he had to in order to discover the truth.
That 'whatever' involved not getting dismissed from the Turks or assassinated for poking around Shinra's dark underbelly, so Veld set his jaw and got his act together. In the years following the irresponsible and loudmouth Turk all but vanished, replaced by someone who spoke a little less and hit a lot harder, was capable and efficient and conscientious about the well-being of his fellow and junior Turks, and so coolly executed his missions that he was eventually chosen as the Director's unofficial protege. And then his official one. Doubts were raised about Veld's capacity to serve as Assistant Director when the nominations came up, but Veld seemed to have come a long, long way from his hellraising days, settling into the life of a Turk and even getting married, and the Director's wishes were carried out. He was seen as an obvious choice for the Directorship itself when the old man finally stepped down.
Veld never abandoned his investigation into Nibelheim. Using Turk resources he dug as deeply as he dared, but as he got older and had to step more carefully around the Science Department's growing influence, the more it seemed like Vincent truly was dead and he was only chasing an impossible hope because of his own guilt. It had been pointed out to him by old comrades that he had a wife and a daughter now and a life to live, and even the admittedly significant death of a partner when they'd both been in their twenties was still something he would have to shelve eventually. There were new Turks to look after and new idiotic policies of Shinra to dance around and clean up after, as well as growing tensions with developing anti-Shinra groups and other political powers that resented Shinra's ambitions and energy monopoly.
Eventually Kalm happened, a SOLDIER team accidentally razing the town as the result of mishearing one of Veld's commands. Veld lost his wife, daughter and his arm from the elbow down, and watched all hard won stability in his life be swept aside in an instant. Older and calmer, this time he didn't immediately go off to get himself shot up through carelessness in a mission, but shut down all emotion and dealt with the tragedy by... not dealing with it. He threw himself into work instead, cracking down on the Department and firmly establishing himself as one of those terrifying authority figures that demands 150% and gets it, because everyone is too petrified about getting their head snapped off to do otherwise. Anyone else would probably have been dismissed from their post or at least temporarily suspended to have time to recover. Veld, being Veld, adamantly refused any suggestion of such, took full responsibility for the incident and proved so zealously capable about it that President Shinra chose not to press the issue.
If he was protective about his Turks before, after Kalm he got a lot worse, weeding out not only their bullshit but the bullshit that they'd been getting from other Departments. His new artificial hand was put to good use snapping pens and sometimes dragging people over desks by their collars in order to make his point, and under his bout of hyper-discipline the Turks made quite the name for themselves, leading to their contribution to the eventual war in Wutai and the President relying on them for tasks that had once been Heidegger's jurisdiction.
At the time of Before Crisis, it's been quite a few years since Kalm, Veld still presents himself as a cold unfeeling bastard and hasn't gotten over anything. Between Wutai and AVALANCHE terrorist activity the Turks' ranks have been whittled down by heavy use, so there's now a new generation of rookies, promising and independent and each with their own hang ups, and some of them aren't much more than children.
He's sure they're going to be the death of him eventually.
Personality:
Stone-faced, cold-blooded bastard would be an appropriate term. Veld's early impetuousness has long since given way to cool stoicism and occasional biting sarcasm though he's never been able to do away with his temper entirely. Guilt over his lost family and his partner still haunt him. He is a demanding perfectionist and a workaholic, is pragmatic, calculating, and sometimes brutally honest, never asking anything of his Turks that he wouldn't be willing to do himself and oftentimes preferring to do certain things himself in order to protect his rookies from the backlash. This is probably his last nod to former ideals like decency and honor, old staples from his family traditions and the practices of the old Director, although he's of course well aware of Shinra's corruption and his own bitter cynicism. He will never think of himself as a decent man again, even though he triest his damndest to uphold some sort of standard of behavior and stands out as a moral cut above the rest of the Shinra Executives. It's fairly obvious to anyone who knows his history that the incident at Kalm scarred him badly, and was the catalyst for his extreme devotion to his Turks as they are the only family he has left. This might have been a major flaw in the dog eat dog corporate structure, but the Turks are exclusive enough to both appreciate that kind of loyalty and reciprocate. The close knit unity that Veld has tried to foster is both the Turks' best asset and greatest weakness, calling as it does their loyalties to the Company versus Veld into question.
Veld has always personally handled black envelope cases, where the Company decides for one reason or another that an individual Turk needs to be eliminated. He demands a lot from himself and from his subordinates, considering anyone who can't keep up a liability to the Turks. He may be devoted to them but he's not always nice either. After shoveling their shit for so many years he doesn't particularly like Shinra, but appreciates the results of legalism and believes that a cure, aka revolution, would be worse than the disease. Shinra could not possibly be toppled without widespread anarchy and suffering, and it's been his small defiance to at least handle his own Department as he pleases and run what damage control he can as the head of espionage.
This justification for taking Shinra's crap holds up a little thin against such incidents as the atrocities during the Wutai war and certain experiments done in the Science Department, but Veld's lived with it so far and is not about to let Tseng, his protege, be the next one that gets handed a black envelope.
At least not without a very, very good reason. Named Felicia.
Veld's primary weapons are firearms but he can and will lay out barefisted, especially since his artificial hand is useful for putting nice solid dents in things. Or firing materia spells you aren't expecting.
Shinra policies and tradition are pretty much all that keeps Veld from being one of those insanely cheerful frontline commanders with no use for an office or desk. He does miss being a field agent and would rather leave the double-talking to people who were trained for it, but he's perfectly capable of politicking with the smarmiest of Shinra's corporate ladder. While cordially despising the lot of them. Or not so cordially. Veld's opinions on petty bureaucrats are pretty legendary. He does take a great deal of satisfaction in knowing that his subordinates don't stoop to the kind of petty squabbling over promotions that goes on in other Departments. Or that if they did, no one would question his right to use lethal force to suggest that they knock it the hell off.
He hates Hojo. You have no idea. There's no solid evidence about a link between Vincent's disappearance and Hojo, but proof means nothing to gut suspicions.
There are very few people Veld is honest with anymore. He has a complicated history with the Legendary Turk, but other than that most of Veld's contemporaries are long dead or retired, he never remarried or really felt himself capable of trying to rebuild any type of normal relationship with another civilian, and would either scowl or laugh or possibly break your face for even hinting about taking up with one of the younger Turks.
Although stranger things have happened. Veld is no saint and knows it, drinks too much when he's alone and makes bad decisions that he'll hate himself for later and does them anyway. The recklessness of his youth hasn't disappeared entirely.
Anyone who is surprised by his choice of protege in an ostracized rookie with Wutai heritage, who was quiet and reserved and had the same dark hair and the same bit of elegance about him, is a moron.
Sample Log
It was two hours past midnight and the light in Veld's office was still on. In the green velvet of Midgar's evening it was probably hard to see from the street, just one more prick of light from the Shinra building, lost behind the floodlights that traced the sky that were never shut off and the slow blinking markers for air traffic.
No one would have remarked anyway. The light in Veld's office was always on.
He sat at his desk, mug of coffee long since cold, out of the blue pills for headaches and the red pills for the ulcer the doctors were sure he was due for and not touching the demure, neat packages of prescribed green pills that were supposed to make him sleep. He didn't need sleep. He had a stack of paperwork so thick it could have held up the Plate and no subordinates to foist it on that he could trust not to just scribble recipes for cocktails in the margins and a Board meeting in the morning and a lot of things to shout at Heidegger and Scarlet and Hojo for, except he would not shout, because shouting was sinking to their petty level, so he would very calmly and reasonably explain why they were inexcusable idiots who shouldn't be trusted with janitorial duty much less involvement in the delicate situation that was Wutai.
And the President would hardly hear him anyway, would ask about his General instead, would want to revel in the numbers of slaughtered troops and captured strongholds like a child playing war with plastic soldiers. And Lazard would look down as he always did, trying not to watch the old man too closely.
As if anyone who had a brain didn't know.
The lines of printed text chose that moment to blur together, doubling and then tripling the number of casualties from the latest terrorist attack, and Veld irritably flicked bangs out of his eyes and pressed hard against the hollow of his temple. The President would, no doubt, ask at the meeting why the Turks had not yet rid him of this petty menace that tarnished his public image and undermined confidence in Shinra, and Veld would have to grit his teeth and remind himself very sternly that his skillset would not be particularly applicable as a chocobo rancher on the edge of the continent if he gave up and resigned in disgust.
The Turks could not arrest the entire population of Midgar for treason and/or terrorist sympathies because that would be everyone with anti-war sympathies, and wars were very difficult to keep popular even with complete media control, which Shinra was only deluding himself if he thought he was keeping the truth completely contained. Stories filtered back and they were not glorious and the Turks couldn't break enough kneecaps to keep up with merciless wartime policies that condoned massacres. The Turks couldn't break enough kneecaps to keep up with Shinra's every day policies. It felt like he was trying to balance a house of cards these days, the smallest spark capable of giving rise to riots and the Turks responsible for knowing who and when and where and how in the hell they were going to prevent it, stop it, or somehow turn it to the Company's favor.
He stopped writing and looked down in vague surprise, discovering that his other hand had not, as he'd thought, been groping for his stone cold coffee, but had crept down of its own accord to one of the drawer handles. The bottom drawer.
There was an unopened bottle of whiskey in that drawer of his desk. He might have justified its presence as a test of willpower, or maybe something to break out when there was anything worth celebrating in his life, or maybe just an emergency weapon to break over the head of an incompetent. It lurked behind the files there like a succubus, promising oblivion in exchange for his pride and self-respect.
It was whispering Drink me at him from inside the drawer, which probably proved that it was four a.m. and that he should not mix medication. Or trust Reno's word about 'what absolutely worked on migraines, I swear to Shiva.'
Drink me.
"I don't drink talking whiskey," he muttered at it, signing his name to something he hadn't bothered to read all the way through because he was too annoyed. Or crazy. That was a possibility too.
Drink me. I'm nice.
"They all say that." Whores, executives, rookies. Nothing was nice. He was tired and his head hurt. He wanted to go home but home was empty and cold and necessitated a train ride and someone would probably try to mug him and he would have to shoot the punk bastard. There was a couch in the lounge that had been there longer than Veld had been a Turk, but he couldn't even look at it without thinking of shirtsleeves and red eyes and the spilled antiseptic that had taken the color out where it spattered, and Vincent batting his hands away irritably and claiming he was fine, that monster scratches weren't serious, that he didn't need someone to clean him up like a kid who'd fallen off his bike while Veld snarled at him to shut the hell up and say thank you like a normal person.
That couch. The faded places were still there.
He realized the whiskey bottle had gotten out of the drawer somehow and was sitting on his desk like a cat, staring him down. He eyeballed it with some worry. He didn't remember letting it out. He told it so.
When it answered in a voice he hadn't heard in thirty years he recognized this as a losing battle and retreated. Paperwork could wait until his office stopped being so full of ghosts and succubi. He took the stairs instead of the elevator, the echoes of his own footsteps chasing him, and fled out into the safe anonymity of the city.
First Person Sample
...impossible. This isn't Midgar. How can this not be Midgar.
...
Employees of the Department of Administrative Research. If you can see this, report in. Now.