BACKstory IV
[[Recovery!Rufus backstory drabble, because if I wrote any more consequetively-19 drabbles I might just have made him really shoot himself. And then follow. XD Anyhow, Rufus (20) picks his sorry ass back up.]]
A chevron at his throat and everyone in the office knows not to fuck with him. Rufus wears a certain look on his face when he has a bone to pick with anyone outside of ShinRa, and those within it are terrified of him when it happens.
There is a stack of papers dedicated to documenting the companies his father had favoured (black markets and black operations, men killing men for money).
It is considerably thinner than the stack of papers which has been dedicated to documenting how many samesuch companies have either been destroyed, assimilated or broken apart.
Rufus only pulls a Windsor to his throat when he absolutely needs to, and traditionally this has become one of those times. His white shirt is stiffly starched. Metal cufflinks. The tie is perfectly formed. Blazer pressed. Rufus snaps at the edges of his existence and as he walks (strides) down the office row to the boardroom he draws looks. His own blue eyes hold no sympathy for sloppiness. The air shifts to accomodate him, and there is no question of his ability.
It's a board meeting for the department heads. They hate it but they love him, because Rufus always goes in with frank phrases and a neutral face. He may be twenty years old but he has the mind of a well oiled corporate machine, which is ageless and unending. There are two secretaries taking meeting minutes and they don't titter or chat when Rufus speaks. Content. Intent. Rufus is screaming through the gotterdammerung now, and his drive is ferocious.
Two jugs of water down the straight boardroom conference table. Rufus' father used to like marble tops and parquet flooring; Rufus ripped the entire bloody administrative block to the ground and refitted. The room is now minimalistic glass and metal, the conference table the only installation of deep mahogany. Nonsense isn't tolerated between these four walls, and anyone who cannot take the sixty-ninth floor is put in an elevator and placed elsewhere. The jugs aren't there for no reason. People talk during his board meetings. They discuss and they plan and they don't sleep, or ignore what's being said.
One year has seen Rufus grow into his role, and he has the mental maturity combined with the youthful energy that it takes to work 120 hours over six days. Sundays he collapses into bed and sleeps, because he has to and because there will be hell to pay if he doesn't.
One by one the department heads trickle in, but they don't shuffle. Rufus has stigmatised laziness, stigmatised incompetence, stigmatised fear. They walk into the boardroom and they all ensure that they know what they're doing, because it's common knowledge now that Rufus is nothing like his father.
Shinra Senior barely read reports, barely knew what was happening under his own nose. Rufus knows the budget sheet down to the cent, and sends personal notes downwards fifteen levels. It scares the living hell out of everyone, but it's a fear which he abuses benevolently.
'Yearly review,' Rufus opens promptly once all sixteen of them are gathered. Sixty two people are culled downwards into this committee; the economic core of Shinra. Reeve is watching him with amused but respectful eyes; he once saw Rufus as a gangly eighteen year old still stunned by office protocol. It's different, now. Rufus is seated but he might as well be standing. 'Confirm the previous minutes.' It takes less than a moment because everyone present has reread the last batch of minutes at least once before. Rufus voice rings clear in the room. 'Today's agenda.'
'Outstanding issues from last meeting. Objectives for ShinRa in the new year. Budget. Operational protocol. AOB.'
Rufus nods, and turns his chair so that he can just regard the eight-eight on each side (they're all white pieces, pawns straight through to the king).
'We've come a long way in cornering our market, but there are several companies still trying to hack away at our base.'
'Rithefield,' someone contributes. 'Osmand.' 'Agrotek.' They all know the names and are familiar with them. The board doesn't move in different directions. Rufus demands consolidation. From the base of the table (unoccupied because there can only be one head) straight to where it ends with Rufus, there are lines of filled glasses (some more filled than others but the glass is always half full), uncapped pens (fountain, biro, ballpoint), loose leaf papers (latest briefings, reports, notes), paper files (older budgets, reference sheets, personnel), plastic folios (ShinRa letterheads on every sheet, correspondence from their sister-companies and competitiors), leather binders (personal dates, because Shinra can and will be more than just a job if Rufus demands it).
'We are a market giant,' Rufus said with cold determination. 'There is no reason for us to be afraid of Rithefield. They do not specialise in energy. Neither should we be concerned about Osmand, which is financially strong but a newcomer into what should be our market. Agrotek is an entrepreneurial firm - which has the potential to be assimilated.'
'We may not need to be active at all,' someone says. 'As oil prices rise we become the natural alternative.'
'Complacency,' Rufus answers, and his voice cuts like his gaze and he seems to contained and sharp that lesser men would not have dared to criticise.
'But we need to maintain our own affairs,' Reeve interjects. They know what to expect from Rufus, and what is expected of them. Temper to temper.
'Which, at the moment, would be fluctuating income. Am I wrong?' Rufus asks. Budget says yes. 'We've lost shareholders. Market credibility. We cannot rely on public funding just yet.'
They hate to admit it but it is true. Rufus a year ago was a wreck and a liability. It is only because of his strength now that he stays where he stays, and that he holds on. Rufus knows it as well as they do, and it makes him flare only brighter.
'So we act on our own, and we prove our credibility once more, and we drive the market to us so that they realise that we are not weak. We are not weak,' Rufus emphasises. 'We are dormant. Rising oil prices give us opportunity to crash our financial value against the lesser workings of those who think they can short the market.'
'Agrotek has been dealing with oil a lot of late,' an executive adds. They do market research before meetings instead of playing mini golf in their offices now. 'Buying a lot more than they have the capacity to. Prices are rising, which is good for them, so they pose a threat as they sell to a hungry market.'
'How much oil do we own?' Rufus asks. That deadly rhetoric. They are almost afraid to tell him "a whole bloody frigging lot", because load Rufus with power and he does something with it. 'Precisely,' he confirms. 'Too much. We don't need oil.'
'The rest of the world does,' someone realises. Damn.
'If Argotek tries oil we can slam them as the rest of our more aggressive competitiors will. Sell oil. Make the prices drop so steeply that Argotek will be forced to turn tail and retreat.'
They allow that plan to absorb. The secretaries are typing furiously. 'But,' Reeve ventures, the cautious pundit. 'We lose a lot of our grip that way. Oil is a commodity we should own. Energy is energy whatever the form, and we aren't able to shift to new forms just yet. Three more years, maybe, but not now.'
But Rufus has a clear answer, and the board drinks their water to stop themselves from fidgeting in the presence of a man who can change strategies as and when he likes, juggle billions of dollars and figure out corporate shenanigans without tripping over his own feet. 'We sell oil at 36. Prices drop and Argotek goes to hell. Their market value drops. We buy them with the money we make from oil. And there's surplus enough,' Rufus finishes, 'to buy back oil, because we won't be the only market player to slash prices with the same concept in mind. We simply profit more.'
Silence. Reeve leans back in his leather chair and smiles from behind a hand. This is the Rufus he never had the chance to see. Everyone else takes notes and thinks of how to apply the new directive to their own departments, but Reeve pauses a little while and catches Rufus' eye.
The president smirks briefly. It fits him. Reeve nods once, and then he is an executive and he works.
The meeting ends on time (2.25 hours, Rufus will allow no more) and everyone shuffles back out, new plans in mind.
The boardroom is empty and it is only then that Rufus emerges from Shinra. The wrap-around personality of razorblade black and white begins to unfurl into the man behind it all.
He sorts his notes for a moment and then pulls the blazer off, draping it across the back of his chair. The flat panel of his shoulders loosens a little as he reaches up and pulls the tie down from his throat in two sharp jerks, leaving it hanging loose against his collarbone as the top two buttons of a starched shirt are undone. Reaching over the table, he pulls an almost-empty jug over and pours himself some water, the sound of glass clinking against glass a rich noise in the silence. He picks it up, tapping a finger on the side as he drinks, swallowing thickly as he refreshes a dry throat. The glass is set down on the table as Rufus turns dexterous fingers to his cold cufflinks. It takes him two seconds and he tosses them down next to his papers.
He leans against the conference table and exhales, a faint smirk still on his face as he looks out of the windows panelled at the side and the city that spawns below. He is Rufus then, with the lazily untucked dress shirt, flared collar and easy pose. Strict formality packaged into nonchalance and unthinking, sprawling felinity. The city trembles beneath his feet, sixty-nine floors below.
His domain. And he rules it well.
A chevron at his throat and everyone in the office knows not to fuck with him. Rufus wears a certain look on his face when he has a bone to pick with anyone outside of ShinRa, and those within it are terrified of him when it happens.
There is a stack of papers dedicated to documenting the companies his father had favoured (black markets and black operations, men killing men for money).
It is considerably thinner than the stack of papers which has been dedicated to documenting how many samesuch companies have either been destroyed, assimilated or broken apart.
Rufus only pulls a Windsor to his throat when he absolutely needs to, and traditionally this has become one of those times. His white shirt is stiffly starched. Metal cufflinks. The tie is perfectly formed. Blazer pressed. Rufus snaps at the edges of his existence and as he walks (strides) down the office row to the boardroom he draws looks. His own blue eyes hold no sympathy for sloppiness. The air shifts to accomodate him, and there is no question of his ability.
It's a board meeting for the department heads. They hate it but they love him, because Rufus always goes in with frank phrases and a neutral face. He may be twenty years old but he has the mind of a well oiled corporate machine, which is ageless and unending. There are two secretaries taking meeting minutes and they don't titter or chat when Rufus speaks. Content. Intent. Rufus is screaming through the gotterdammerung now, and his drive is ferocious.
Two jugs of water down the straight boardroom conference table. Rufus' father used to like marble tops and parquet flooring; Rufus ripped the entire bloody administrative block to the ground and refitted. The room is now minimalistic glass and metal, the conference table the only installation of deep mahogany. Nonsense isn't tolerated between these four walls, and anyone who cannot take the sixty-ninth floor is put in an elevator and placed elsewhere. The jugs aren't there for no reason. People talk during his board meetings. They discuss and they plan and they don't sleep, or ignore what's being said.
One year has seen Rufus grow into his role, and he has the mental maturity combined with the youthful energy that it takes to work 120 hours over six days. Sundays he collapses into bed and sleeps, because he has to and because there will be hell to pay if he doesn't.
One by one the department heads trickle in, but they don't shuffle. Rufus has stigmatised laziness, stigmatised incompetence, stigmatised fear. They walk into the boardroom and they all ensure that they know what they're doing, because it's common knowledge now that Rufus is nothing like his father.
Shinra Senior barely read reports, barely knew what was happening under his own nose. Rufus knows the budget sheet down to the cent, and sends personal notes downwards fifteen levels. It scares the living hell out of everyone, but it's a fear which he abuses benevolently.
'Yearly review,' Rufus opens promptly once all sixteen of them are gathered. Sixty two people are culled downwards into this committee; the economic core of Shinra. Reeve is watching him with amused but respectful eyes; he once saw Rufus as a gangly eighteen year old still stunned by office protocol. It's different, now. Rufus is seated but he might as well be standing. 'Confirm the previous minutes.' It takes less than a moment because everyone present has reread the last batch of minutes at least once before. Rufus voice rings clear in the room. 'Today's agenda.'
'Outstanding issues from last meeting. Objectives for ShinRa in the new year. Budget. Operational protocol. AOB.'
Rufus nods, and turns his chair so that he can just regard the eight-eight on each side (they're all white pieces, pawns straight through to the king).
'We've come a long way in cornering our market, but there are several companies still trying to hack away at our base.'
'Rithefield,' someone contributes. 'Osmand.' 'Agrotek.' They all know the names and are familiar with them. The board doesn't move in different directions. Rufus demands consolidation. From the base of the table (unoccupied because there can only be one head) straight to where it ends with Rufus, there are lines of filled glasses (some more filled than others but the glass is always half full), uncapped pens (fountain, biro, ballpoint), loose leaf papers (latest briefings, reports, notes), paper files (older budgets, reference sheets, personnel), plastic folios (ShinRa letterheads on every sheet, correspondence from their sister-companies and competitiors), leather binders (personal dates, because Shinra can and will be more than just a job if Rufus demands it).
'We are a market giant,' Rufus said with cold determination. 'There is no reason for us to be afraid of Rithefield. They do not specialise in energy. Neither should we be concerned about Osmand, which is financially strong but a newcomer into what should be our market. Agrotek is an entrepreneurial firm - which has the potential to be assimilated.'
'We may not need to be active at all,' someone says. 'As oil prices rise we become the natural alternative.'
'Complacency,' Rufus answers, and his voice cuts like his gaze and he seems to contained and sharp that lesser men would not have dared to criticise.
'But we need to maintain our own affairs,' Reeve interjects. They know what to expect from Rufus, and what is expected of them. Temper to temper.
'Which, at the moment, would be fluctuating income. Am I wrong?' Rufus asks. Budget says yes. 'We've lost shareholders. Market credibility. We cannot rely on public funding just yet.'
They hate to admit it but it is true. Rufus a year ago was a wreck and a liability. It is only because of his strength now that he stays where he stays, and that he holds on. Rufus knows it as well as they do, and it makes him flare only brighter.
'So we act on our own, and we prove our credibility once more, and we drive the market to us so that they realise that we are not weak. We are not weak,' Rufus emphasises. 'We are dormant. Rising oil prices give us opportunity to crash our financial value against the lesser workings of those who think they can short the market.'
'Agrotek has been dealing with oil a lot of late,' an executive adds. They do market research before meetings instead of playing mini golf in their offices now. 'Buying a lot more than they have the capacity to. Prices are rising, which is good for them, so they pose a threat as they sell to a hungry market.'
'How much oil do we own?' Rufus asks. That deadly rhetoric. They are almost afraid to tell him "a whole bloody frigging lot", because load Rufus with power and he does something with it. 'Precisely,' he confirms. 'Too much. We don't need oil.'
'The rest of the world does,' someone realises. Damn.
'If Argotek tries oil we can slam them as the rest of our more aggressive competitiors will. Sell oil. Make the prices drop so steeply that Argotek will be forced to turn tail and retreat.'
They allow that plan to absorb. The secretaries are typing furiously. 'But,' Reeve ventures, the cautious pundit. 'We lose a lot of our grip that way. Oil is a commodity we should own. Energy is energy whatever the form, and we aren't able to shift to new forms just yet. Three more years, maybe, but not now.'
But Rufus has a clear answer, and the board drinks their water to stop themselves from fidgeting in the presence of a man who can change strategies as and when he likes, juggle billions of dollars and figure out corporate shenanigans without tripping over his own feet. 'We sell oil at 36. Prices drop and Argotek goes to hell. Their market value drops. We buy them with the money we make from oil. And there's surplus enough,' Rufus finishes, 'to buy back oil, because we won't be the only market player to slash prices with the same concept in mind. We simply profit more.'
Silence. Reeve leans back in his leather chair and smiles from behind a hand. This is the Rufus he never had the chance to see. Everyone else takes notes and thinks of how to apply the new directive to their own departments, but Reeve pauses a little while and catches Rufus' eye.
The president smirks briefly. It fits him. Reeve nods once, and then he is an executive and he works.
The meeting ends on time (2.25 hours, Rufus will allow no more) and everyone shuffles back out, new plans in mind.
The boardroom is empty and it is only then that Rufus emerges from Shinra. The wrap-around personality of razorblade black and white begins to unfurl into the man behind it all.
He sorts his notes for a moment and then pulls the blazer off, draping it across the back of his chair. The flat panel of his shoulders loosens a little as he reaches up and pulls the tie down from his throat in two sharp jerks, leaving it hanging loose against his collarbone as the top two buttons of a starched shirt are undone. Reaching over the table, he pulls an almost-empty jug over and pours himself some water, the sound of glass clinking against glass a rich noise in the silence. He picks it up, tapping a finger on the side as he drinks, swallowing thickly as he refreshes a dry throat. The glass is set down on the table as Rufus turns dexterous fingers to his cold cufflinks. It takes him two seconds and he tosses them down next to his papers.
He leans against the conference table and exhales, a faint smirk still on his face as he looks out of the windows panelled at the side and the city that spawns below. He is Rufus then, with the lazily untucked dress shirt, flared collar and easy pose. Strict formality packaged into nonchalance and unthinking, sprawling felinity. The city trembles beneath his feet, sixty-nine floors below.
His domain. And he rules it well.