All That Never Was - Part 5/6 - Rufus, Lazard
Title: All That Never Was
Chapter: 5 / 6
Characters: Rufus, Lazard
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama, Family
Summary: In the wake of Midgar’s destruction, Rufus remembers a brother who was never truly his.
Previous chapter
A/N: I’ll attempt to get out the final chapter within a week.
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core, Advent’s Children, Before Crisis or Dirge of Cerberus, nor do I make any profits due to them.
---
He keeps on reaching for things that will never be his.
He keeps on hoping for things that can never be.
The man is a fool. He always has been and always will be one.
Only in his dreams has he ever been anything else.
And gulls won’t let him sleep, and the smell and sound of the surf won’t let him pretend.
So even his delusions are stolen from him.
Failure.
---
He was twenty-three and Junon was really… what exactly? How did one even describe it?
The room he stood in boasted enormous windows, spanning from wall to wall, floor to ceiling. There was a screen door that led to a balcony and beyond that the coast.
Most people saw Rufus’ living in Junon as a gift from his father, a paternal gesture of trust and love and probably a slew of other sickly sweet things. He’d heard them babbling about it, sometimes directly to him, or among themselves, or even by great orators on the radio. How lucky Rufus is that his father gave him a city.
He almost wished he could believe them, but his father had taught him too well.
Money got you raw resources: people, materials, tools and land. But they were nothing without words. The right words could make a powerful kingdom or bring one crashing down. They could cause people to rise up or fall down, quaking at your feet. They could hide things in plain sight or make a person see something that wasn’t there. Humans might claim the titles, but words were the true builders and healers, and twisters and destroyers.
Officially speaking, he was here on an extended business trip-the young heir of ShinRa Incorporated taking a personal interest in the economic dealings and the general well-being of the largest port city of the Eastern Continent.
How wonderful! How caring! How moronic!
If one simply looked past the company line and saw the truth beneath, the reality was that it was an exile wrapped in a shiny red ribbon. His past plans had collapsed in on themselves. His actions revealed. His fate sealed.
The few tasks he had were pointless, fancy little things. Theoretically, he had the meagre task of overseeing the supplies being set back and forth by the cargo ships, but for most part the other executives did it without him. His only real duty was attending parties and openings.
Dance and bare a grin while the world spun out of reach.
He opened the screen door. The setting sun, out of sight, cast its last lazy beams unto the water. Logically he knew there were places beyond the sea despite that, the sea seemed to stretch on and on, endless and eternal and barren.
Rufus opened the screen door, closed his eyes and waited.
He opened them again to the sound of wings.
A figure stood on the balcony. His face was lined with wrinkles and his hair uniform grey, a visage that befit a man twice his age. His features had changed too, nose and chin broader, his glasses missing. On the right side of his back, he sported two wings, both white--but while one was large and majestic, the other was small and stunted.
So very different from what he remember, but Rufus would know this man anywhere. “Lazard, I was wondering if you’d come.”
“I have to admit, I’m a bit surprised to be here,” Lazard said dryly. “Though I suppose some things are easier to do in twilight.”
“So your visit here, was that your choice or his influence?” he asked, gesturing to the wings.
“His entirely,” was the wry answer. “I have never been prone to sentiment.”
The older man’s voice hadn’t changed at least, Rufus noted, as smooth and as in control as always. It was nice to see some things didn’t change.
“So, you were expecting me?” Lazard asked, raising an eyebrow at the still open door.
“I suspected you were in the area. Junon is a busy place. You have lots of people coming in from the outskirts on a regular basis. Rumours of an ‘angel’ tend to draw attention in the right quarters,” Rufus replied. “You ought to be more careful.”
Recently, he’d managed to scrape up a small information network. Not that there was much pride in it; it was nothing compared to the Turks or his old network which the Turks had systematically destroyed. Even so, it gave him little scraps of data, little glimpses of the world he was no longer a part of.
Some days, he thought it was the only thing keeping him sane.
Other days, he wondered if it made things worse.
“I’ll do that. But honestly, Rufus? If I had been Genesis, would standing around the window and leaving the door open be the most sensible course of action?” Lazard stopped at this and then sighed at his own mistake.
“A door would hardly stop him, should he want to enter,” Rufus pointed out.
It was a bit strange seeing Lazard off kilter. The older man rarely made errors however minor… well, other than the obvious one. Six years ago, Rufus might have even rubbed Lazard’s nose in it-to borrow the idiom-but there seemed little point to such antics now. There had long since stopped being any room for childishness in his life. If they ever had been.
“Besides, I’m not entirely unprepared,” he said, walking deeper into the room, pausing only to beckon to the other man. Lazard hesitated for a moment then followed. Rufus walked over to a free-standing bar tucked into a corner, he reached behind it, pulling up his shotgun, letting Lazard see it before putting it back.
“Why did no one think of that before?” Lazard didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm. “Clearly no one has tried to shoot Genesis.”
“Actually it’s just a distraction to give time for these.” He pointed downward.
“Combat boots?” Lazard said, sceptically examining the brown leather, thick-gripped shoes that adorned Rufus’s feet.
“Legs. To run away. I’m not entirely suicidal.”
Lazard brought one gloved hand up to his mouth, using the back of it to stifle something that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
---
A little while later, Rufus had liberated a few other denizens of the bar, the distinctly non-firepowered variety, a wine bottle and two glasses.
He had situated himself on a coach whereas Lazard, due to the awkwardness of his extra appendages, was forced to sit on a foot stool. It was a rather unusual perch, and Rufus supposed if he were a better host, he should’ve done something similar-the coffee table, perhaps.
But the coffee tabletop was glass and there was only the one foot rest. The only other option was the floor and Rufus was incapable of being that good a person.
Anyhow, Lazard, in his rather infuriating way, somehow managed to make it look like the most natural and dignified seat in the world. At the moment, he was reading the label of the wine bottle. “Banora White Apple Wine. Rufus?”
“It’s ’74. I gather that’s a good year,” Rufus said, attempting to sound innocent. “I thought you might’ve developed a taste.”
Lazard apparently didn’t buy it, shooting an annoyed look at the younger man, but it didn’t last long, his eyes moving back to the bottle, seemingly of their own accord. “Perhaps…” He gently traced the letters of the label. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”
Rufus passed him the glasses and watched as Lazard gripped the top of the cork between two fingers, and then effortlessly pulled it out. There was a strength there that, while not readily apparent, was definitely present. He seriously doubted it had been there before. Fascinating.
After the glasses had been filled up and the bottle placed on the coffee table, Rufus found himself at a loss for words. Rufus knew a million ways to make conversation, but none of them seemed appropriate. He couldn’t exactly ask about the other man’s stock options, could he now? Still, he wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Lazard somehow managed to keep up on such matters, it would be just like him.
Lazard finally rescued him. “You have a... unique place here,” he said eyeing the room.
The suite was for the President’s occasional visit to Junon. It wasn’t as large as one might imagine-the kitchen, dinning room and living rooms all combined into one-but the ceiling was high and the decorations ornate. Plush, royal purple rugs lay on alabaster marble floor, and the walls were red stone with spaces for books and vases carved in. There was a chandelier of all things over the dinning table.
“It’s not mine. It’s Father’s.” So much money aimed at impressing. His father wasn’t there, but in this place, he was everywhere. Rufus had never been given the option to stay anywhere else.
At least he wasn’t forced to sleep in his father’s bed; there was a separate room that he had used when he was young and the President brought him along. Back when Father couldn’t bear to be parted from his personal show dog.
“It shows.”
“Does it now?”
“Yes,” Lazard affirmed. “Given your privileged childhood, it’s normal you’d never appreciate the fancier things in life. Oh, you can handle them better than most people. Even find purpose in them.” He took a sip of his drink. “But like them? Like that suit of yours...”
“What about it?”
“Black and white, rather uncreative don’t you think?”
“But it goes with everything,” Rufus said sardonically. “Besides, I think I cut a rather dramatic figure.”
“I never said it was a bad thing, just an observation.”
Yes, because calling someone ‘uncreative’ was the peak of manners. But Rufus ignored the barb and instead focused on the scenery out the window.
“You may have a point. Perhaps I prefer to get to heart of a situation and not circle around it.” Flair he understood, but this endless politicking of his father’s…
He caught sight of his reflection in the window’s surface, the image of himself unrecognizable, melting into the Junon Cannon behind it. It’s huge barrel reached out of its proud steel throne and dwarfing all beneath it. Still, when held up to the sea, it was tiny in comparison.
“Do you know how many times that thing has been fired?” Rufus asked, indicating to the cannon.
“Why do you ask?”
“It was designed to protect our inter-continental supply lines from the Wutaian Navy… Utter nonsense. It takes forever to charge between shots.-Gods forbid that they attack us with more than one ship. Never mind that Wutai’s ‘navy’ consisted mainly of fishing boats.
“It’s been fired only a few times-three exactly. Each time with a great deal media buzz and ceremony while the teeming masses fawning over it. Any real power it possesses so completely buried that no one sees it. Understand?”
“I think I do,” Lazard said.
“You do, don’t you?”
“It was designed to be a giant penis. I think the President’s a touch insecure.”
Rufus stared at him. “Pardon me?”
Lazard noticed the younger man’s expression, then said: “What? I did grow up in the Slums. Vulgar humour is hardly something I’m unfamiliar with.”
It took a minute, but eventually Rufus recovered and spared him a faint smile. “Perhaps if things had been different, you’d have been stuck here as well.”
“I would never have let that happen,” Lazard said simply.
“And why is that?”
The older man gave a considering that lasted a long time before he finally said: “What do you know of your mother?”
The question caught Rufus off guard, the glass nearly falling from between his fingers. It wasn’t the first time that someone had asked about her, but from this quarter...
“I’ve read the articles concerning her, but when taking the source into account, I wasn’t sure if they were accurate,” Lazard continued.
Rufus gazed into the amber-filled confines of his glass. He’s never been one for drinking, having watched too many liquor-sodden men and women at celebrations his father threw. They fell all over themselves with manic grins and jolly dispositions, as if everything around them was as bright and cheerful as they were. Then they’d wake up the next morning and realise that they’d signed their lives and livelihood to ShinRa.
“Actually, they’re surprisingly so,” he said, taking a deep draught of wine. “She divorced my father when I was three.” The only thing not mentioned is the reason, but he didn’t mention that. Lazard was an intelligent man; there was no reason for Rufus to bring up an uncomfortable subject which the man was already intimately familiar with. “She got a million gil, my father got me.” Bought and paid for. “I haven’t seen her in years, though I gather she’s remarried recently if that’s of interest.”
Lazard cocked his head slightly to the side. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” And he was at that. Prior to the Veld incident, Rufus had privately looked into it, trying to find any hint of foul play, of his mother being pressured or threatened. He’d come out empty-handed.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not necessary.” He didn’t want or need sympathy. Why mourn the absence of a woman who hadn’t wanted him? At least his father had wanted him even if it was for dubious reasons.
For a moment he thought of the Turks. Not Veld or Reno or Rude.
Miyuki who had always hated being seen as maternal, but nonetheless who had always been there. Veld had sent her on assignment and soon after, she was gone. Her features slowly fading in the confines of his memory.
Tseng who had been more of a teacher than a bodyguard. Still alive but completely out of reach. After Veld had been forced to flee and Rufus’ plans had been revealed, he had lost Tseng as surely as Miyuki. His last memories of the Turk were of a calm voice explaining the terms of his exile. He’d wanted to explain, but then he had looked into the black pits of Tseng’s eyes, the words turning to ash on his tongue.
“So,” he said, “what does my mother have to do with anything?”
Lazard eyed him, his gaze faintly glowing, and then he sighed. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Why not? I told you what you wanted to know.”
“Double standards. I’m certainly used to them. Maybe it’s time for a reversal.”
Rufus didn’t react to the unfairness of the statement. This was an old game that he was all too familiar with. If he wanted a proper response he should’ve first got a guarantee before offering the information freely. Those were the rules; it was foolish to think it could be any other way.
“So should things change, if you got a second chance, what would you do?” Another demand for information. By all that Rufus knew, he should have used it to his advantage, find a way to grasp some tiny piece of information about the other man.
He didn’t though. Frankly, he was sick of the damn game, and oddly enough he was enjoying the company. Perhaps it was cruel of him, but Rufus felt oddly comforted by the fact that he hadn’t been the only one whose plans had fallen apart so completely.
“I thought I might take your advice,” he said. “Stop trying to be my father.”
“Is that so?”
“Less of this ‘buying the world’ as Father calls it.” Rufus would keep some. A healthy dose of propaganda could be used to grease the wheels per say, but the complete excess that his father indulged in would be a thing of the past.
Lazard leaned forward, his small wing brushing against the foot stool’s upholstery. “Then how would you get things done?”
“Bluntness. Less politics and bribery, begging people to respect me.” If anything it allowed them to tie leashes around his neck. “If they won’t do as I say, I’ll make them.”
Up until now, Lazard’s gaze was curious, but all at once it evaporated. “Oh, so that’s how it is.”
“Yes.”
“I should have known.”
Rufus had answered honestly. He wasn’t about to apologize for it.
Deep cracks pushed into the features of Lazard’s face, his expression darkening. “You’re just another good, little executive. Out only for yourself.”
“Would you preferred if I had lied?” Rufus asked.
Lazard ignored him. “Another selfish ShinRa. I should have known… I should’ve known… ” he muttered.
He pushed himself to his feet, his wings sending a torrent of wind through the air. “I should’ve known better than to think there was any hope for one of your family.”
Your family. Your family. Rufus’ family. That small, seemingly insignificant emphasis.
“My family,” Rufus said. “So think you can hold yourself apart?”
“Yes.”
“You think you’re better?”
“Yes.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.”
Rufus had done his best to be accommodating. He had been polite. He had been honest. And this was all he got. He should’ve known… “So I’m scum, wallowing in filth, and you’re some sort of saint. Don’t delude yourself, Lazard. You’re as disgusting as the rest of us.”
Relaxing into the leather of his couch, Rufus looked up into the other man’s eyes. They were two pools of liquid fire.
Rufus didn’t even flinch.
“Do you know what the SOLDIERs used to call you?” Rufus asked calmly. He didn’t bother to wait for an answer. “‘The ideal boss.’ Not only did they think you were a superb paper pusher, but they truly thought you were their friend. They thought you genuinely cared about them. Even years after your treachery was revealed, many of them refused to believe it. They couldn’t accept that you were capable of betraying them.
“I wonder… how many of your loyal admirers died because of your little exploits? How many were cut down by Genesis or his Copies, all the while still trusting that you had their best interests at heart.”
“They were ShinRa. They deserved it,” Lazard growled.
Rufus watched impassively as Lazard’s large wing convulsed, slamming into the wine bottle and shattering it against the wall. The soft tinkle of broken glass was so different from the brutal movement. Then he continued. “Perhaps, but let’s not stop there. They were hardly the only victims.-While you were happily funding Genesis, he went on to destroy much more than a few dozen ShinRa workers. Does Banora ring a bell… or how about Modeoheim? Or how about the war machines and Genesis Copies that ravaged Midgar? Above and below Plate. I’m sure all those poor people in the Slums that you claim to care about absolutely loved that.”
“Things got out of control. I did my best to contain them,” Lazard said, his gloved hands tightly grasped the fabric of his pants.
“I don’t doubt that,” Rufus stated. “But you claim to be better than ShinRa, but you came and joined us in the filth. If you wanted, you could've walked. You had the choice.
“Then there’s your choice of allies. I find that especially pathetic. I make no claims of being a good man, but Genesis and Hollander? They’re a special sort of monster and you picked them over me.”
Lazard let out a rasping, unsettling sort of sound. It took Rufus a moment to realise that it was laughter.
“Is that what this is about, Rufus?” Lazard growled. “You talk about all the horrible things I had a hand in and then you drag it back to yourself. It’s all about you, isn’t it Rufus? So, do you want to know why I wouldn’t work with you? Do you?”
Despite himself, Rufus couldn’t stop himself from asking: “Why?”
“I just wanted you out of the way,” Lazard hissed.
Rufus felt a chill descend upon him. “So you could become vice president?”
Lazard’s lips ripped back to reveal white, white teeth. “You think that was the reason? The President offered me the job multiple times, long before he even considered you. I could’ve had it whenever I wanted… You really don’t get it, do you? You’re the deluded one. You think you were an issue? A threat? You never were and you never will be.”
And then in a low voice, Lazard whispered: “You don’t matter, Rufus.”
Rufus’ hand hurt.
It hurt. Why did it hurt?
Rufus found him standing in the middle of the floor.
His hand. The hurting hand. It was balled into a fist, the skin of his first and second knuckle split, and there was a spray of (so very) red leading up from it and onto the (once pure, but never again) white of his jacket.
He mechanically looked upward. There was a man looking back at him. He had (pretty) wings on his back. The man’s bottom lip was getting blood all over the floor.
“I would like you to leave, Mr. Deusericus,” Rufus said quietly.
Lazard stood there, completely frozen.
“Leave.”
After a long moment, Lazard finally started to regain himself. His mouth moving silently for a few minutes before anything emerged. “I… I…”
“Leave!” Rufus screamed. He stumbled towards the bar, grasping at the shotgun hidden there, but his fingers refused to work. Numbly they slipped and slid across the surface of the gun, refusing to find purchase.
At long last, he grasped it, and he whirled around only to find-
He had gotten his wish.
He was alone.
---
Lazard died a month later.
To be continued...
Chapter: 5 / 6
Characters: Rufus, Lazard
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama, Family
Summary: In the wake of Midgar’s destruction, Rufus remembers a brother who was never truly his.
Previous chapter
A/N: I’ll attempt to get out the final chapter within a week.
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core, Advent’s Children, Before Crisis or Dirge of Cerberus, nor do I make any profits due to them.
---
He keeps on reaching for things that will never be his.
He keeps on hoping for things that can never be.
The man is a fool. He always has been and always will be one.
Only in his dreams has he ever been anything else.
And gulls won’t let him sleep, and the smell and sound of the surf won’t let him pretend.
So even his delusions are stolen from him.
Failure.
---
He was twenty-three and Junon was really… what exactly? How did one even describe it?
The room he stood in boasted enormous windows, spanning from wall to wall, floor to ceiling. There was a screen door that led to a balcony and beyond that the coast.
Most people saw Rufus’ living in Junon as a gift from his father, a paternal gesture of trust and love and probably a slew of other sickly sweet things. He’d heard them babbling about it, sometimes directly to him, or among themselves, or even by great orators on the radio. How lucky Rufus is that his father gave him a city.
He almost wished he could believe them, but his father had taught him too well.
Money got you raw resources: people, materials, tools and land. But they were nothing without words. The right words could make a powerful kingdom or bring one crashing down. They could cause people to rise up or fall down, quaking at your feet. They could hide things in plain sight or make a person see something that wasn’t there. Humans might claim the titles, but words were the true builders and healers, and twisters and destroyers.
Officially speaking, he was here on an extended business trip-the young heir of ShinRa Incorporated taking a personal interest in the economic dealings and the general well-being of the largest port city of the Eastern Continent.
How wonderful! How caring! How moronic!
If one simply looked past the company line and saw the truth beneath, the reality was that it was an exile wrapped in a shiny red ribbon. His past plans had collapsed in on themselves. His actions revealed. His fate sealed.
The few tasks he had were pointless, fancy little things. Theoretically, he had the meagre task of overseeing the supplies being set back and forth by the cargo ships, but for most part the other executives did it without him. His only real duty was attending parties and openings.
Dance and bare a grin while the world spun out of reach.
He opened the screen door. The setting sun, out of sight, cast its last lazy beams unto the water. Logically he knew there were places beyond the sea despite that, the sea seemed to stretch on and on, endless and eternal and barren.
Rufus opened the screen door, closed his eyes and waited.
He opened them again to the sound of wings.
A figure stood on the balcony. His face was lined with wrinkles and his hair uniform grey, a visage that befit a man twice his age. His features had changed too, nose and chin broader, his glasses missing. On the right side of his back, he sported two wings, both white--but while one was large and majestic, the other was small and stunted.
So very different from what he remember, but Rufus would know this man anywhere. “Lazard, I was wondering if you’d come.”
“I have to admit, I’m a bit surprised to be here,” Lazard said dryly. “Though I suppose some things are easier to do in twilight.”
“So your visit here, was that your choice or his influence?” he asked, gesturing to the wings.
“His entirely,” was the wry answer. “I have never been prone to sentiment.”
The older man’s voice hadn’t changed at least, Rufus noted, as smooth and as in control as always. It was nice to see some things didn’t change.
“So, you were expecting me?” Lazard asked, raising an eyebrow at the still open door.
“I suspected you were in the area. Junon is a busy place. You have lots of people coming in from the outskirts on a regular basis. Rumours of an ‘angel’ tend to draw attention in the right quarters,” Rufus replied. “You ought to be more careful.”
Recently, he’d managed to scrape up a small information network. Not that there was much pride in it; it was nothing compared to the Turks or his old network which the Turks had systematically destroyed. Even so, it gave him little scraps of data, little glimpses of the world he was no longer a part of.
Some days, he thought it was the only thing keeping him sane.
Other days, he wondered if it made things worse.
“I’ll do that. But honestly, Rufus? If I had been Genesis, would standing around the window and leaving the door open be the most sensible course of action?” Lazard stopped at this and then sighed at his own mistake.
“A door would hardly stop him, should he want to enter,” Rufus pointed out.
It was a bit strange seeing Lazard off kilter. The older man rarely made errors however minor… well, other than the obvious one. Six years ago, Rufus might have even rubbed Lazard’s nose in it-to borrow the idiom-but there seemed little point to such antics now. There had long since stopped being any room for childishness in his life. If they ever had been.
“Besides, I’m not entirely unprepared,” he said, walking deeper into the room, pausing only to beckon to the other man. Lazard hesitated for a moment then followed. Rufus walked over to a free-standing bar tucked into a corner, he reached behind it, pulling up his shotgun, letting Lazard see it before putting it back.
“Why did no one think of that before?” Lazard didn’t bother to hide the sarcasm. “Clearly no one has tried to shoot Genesis.”
“Actually it’s just a distraction to give time for these.” He pointed downward.
“Combat boots?” Lazard said, sceptically examining the brown leather, thick-gripped shoes that adorned Rufus’s feet.
“Legs. To run away. I’m not entirely suicidal.”
Lazard brought one gloved hand up to his mouth, using the back of it to stifle something that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
---
A little while later, Rufus had liberated a few other denizens of the bar, the distinctly non-firepowered variety, a wine bottle and two glasses.
He had situated himself on a coach whereas Lazard, due to the awkwardness of his extra appendages, was forced to sit on a foot stool. It was a rather unusual perch, and Rufus supposed if he were a better host, he should’ve done something similar-the coffee table, perhaps.
But the coffee tabletop was glass and there was only the one foot rest. The only other option was the floor and Rufus was incapable of being that good a person.
Anyhow, Lazard, in his rather infuriating way, somehow managed to make it look like the most natural and dignified seat in the world. At the moment, he was reading the label of the wine bottle. “Banora White Apple Wine. Rufus?”
“It’s ’74. I gather that’s a good year,” Rufus said, attempting to sound innocent. “I thought you might’ve developed a taste.”
Lazard apparently didn’t buy it, shooting an annoyed look at the younger man, but it didn’t last long, his eyes moving back to the bottle, seemingly of their own accord. “Perhaps…” He gently traced the letters of the label. “I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”
Rufus passed him the glasses and watched as Lazard gripped the top of the cork between two fingers, and then effortlessly pulled it out. There was a strength there that, while not readily apparent, was definitely present. He seriously doubted it had been there before. Fascinating.
After the glasses had been filled up and the bottle placed on the coffee table, Rufus found himself at a loss for words. Rufus knew a million ways to make conversation, but none of them seemed appropriate. He couldn’t exactly ask about the other man’s stock options, could he now? Still, he wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Lazard somehow managed to keep up on such matters, it would be just like him.
Lazard finally rescued him. “You have a... unique place here,” he said eyeing the room.
The suite was for the President’s occasional visit to Junon. It wasn’t as large as one might imagine-the kitchen, dinning room and living rooms all combined into one-but the ceiling was high and the decorations ornate. Plush, royal purple rugs lay on alabaster marble floor, and the walls were red stone with spaces for books and vases carved in. There was a chandelier of all things over the dinning table.
“It’s not mine. It’s Father’s.” So much money aimed at impressing. His father wasn’t there, but in this place, he was everywhere. Rufus had never been given the option to stay anywhere else.
At least he wasn’t forced to sleep in his father’s bed; there was a separate room that he had used when he was young and the President brought him along. Back when Father couldn’t bear to be parted from his personal show dog.
“It shows.”
“Does it now?”
“Yes,” Lazard affirmed. “Given your privileged childhood, it’s normal you’d never appreciate the fancier things in life. Oh, you can handle them better than most people. Even find purpose in them.” He took a sip of his drink. “But like them? Like that suit of yours...”
“What about it?”
“Black and white, rather uncreative don’t you think?”
“But it goes with everything,” Rufus said sardonically. “Besides, I think I cut a rather dramatic figure.”
“I never said it was a bad thing, just an observation.”
Yes, because calling someone ‘uncreative’ was the peak of manners. But Rufus ignored the barb and instead focused on the scenery out the window.
“You may have a point. Perhaps I prefer to get to heart of a situation and not circle around it.” Flair he understood, but this endless politicking of his father’s…
He caught sight of his reflection in the window’s surface, the image of himself unrecognizable, melting into the Junon Cannon behind it. It’s huge barrel reached out of its proud steel throne and dwarfing all beneath it. Still, when held up to the sea, it was tiny in comparison.
“Do you know how many times that thing has been fired?” Rufus asked, indicating to the cannon.
“Why do you ask?”
“It was designed to protect our inter-continental supply lines from the Wutaian Navy… Utter nonsense. It takes forever to charge between shots.-Gods forbid that they attack us with more than one ship. Never mind that Wutai’s ‘navy’ consisted mainly of fishing boats.
“It’s been fired only a few times-three exactly. Each time with a great deal media buzz and ceremony while the teeming masses fawning over it. Any real power it possesses so completely buried that no one sees it. Understand?”
“I think I do,” Lazard said.
“You do, don’t you?”
“It was designed to be a giant penis. I think the President’s a touch insecure.”
Rufus stared at him. “Pardon me?”
Lazard noticed the younger man’s expression, then said: “What? I did grow up in the Slums. Vulgar humour is hardly something I’m unfamiliar with.”
It took a minute, but eventually Rufus recovered and spared him a faint smile. “Perhaps if things had been different, you’d have been stuck here as well.”
“I would never have let that happen,” Lazard said simply.
“And why is that?”
The older man gave a considering that lasted a long time before he finally said: “What do you know of your mother?”
The question caught Rufus off guard, the glass nearly falling from between his fingers. It wasn’t the first time that someone had asked about her, but from this quarter...
“I’ve read the articles concerning her, but when taking the source into account, I wasn’t sure if they were accurate,” Lazard continued.
Rufus gazed into the amber-filled confines of his glass. He’s never been one for drinking, having watched too many liquor-sodden men and women at celebrations his father threw. They fell all over themselves with manic grins and jolly dispositions, as if everything around them was as bright and cheerful as they were. Then they’d wake up the next morning and realise that they’d signed their lives and livelihood to ShinRa.
“Actually, they’re surprisingly so,” he said, taking a deep draught of wine. “She divorced my father when I was three.” The only thing not mentioned is the reason, but he didn’t mention that. Lazard was an intelligent man; there was no reason for Rufus to bring up an uncomfortable subject which the man was already intimately familiar with. “She got a million gil, my father got me.” Bought and paid for. “I haven’t seen her in years, though I gather she’s remarried recently if that’s of interest.”
Lazard cocked his head slightly to the side. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” And he was at that. Prior to the Veld incident, Rufus had privately looked into it, trying to find any hint of foul play, of his mother being pressured or threatened. He’d come out empty-handed.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not necessary.” He didn’t want or need sympathy. Why mourn the absence of a woman who hadn’t wanted him? At least his father had wanted him even if it was for dubious reasons.
For a moment he thought of the Turks. Not Veld or Reno or Rude.
Miyuki who had always hated being seen as maternal, but nonetheless who had always been there. Veld had sent her on assignment and soon after, she was gone. Her features slowly fading in the confines of his memory.
Tseng who had been more of a teacher than a bodyguard. Still alive but completely out of reach. After Veld had been forced to flee and Rufus’ plans had been revealed, he had lost Tseng as surely as Miyuki. His last memories of the Turk were of a calm voice explaining the terms of his exile. He’d wanted to explain, but then he had looked into the black pits of Tseng’s eyes, the words turning to ash on his tongue.
“So,” he said, “what does my mother have to do with anything?”
Lazard eyed him, his gaze faintly glowing, and then he sighed. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Why not? I told you what you wanted to know.”
“Double standards. I’m certainly used to them. Maybe it’s time for a reversal.”
Rufus didn’t react to the unfairness of the statement. This was an old game that he was all too familiar with. If he wanted a proper response he should’ve first got a guarantee before offering the information freely. Those were the rules; it was foolish to think it could be any other way.
“So should things change, if you got a second chance, what would you do?” Another demand for information. By all that Rufus knew, he should have used it to his advantage, find a way to grasp some tiny piece of information about the other man.
He didn’t though. Frankly, he was sick of the damn game, and oddly enough he was enjoying the company. Perhaps it was cruel of him, but Rufus felt oddly comforted by the fact that he hadn’t been the only one whose plans had fallen apart so completely.
“I thought I might take your advice,” he said. “Stop trying to be my father.”
“Is that so?”
“Less of this ‘buying the world’ as Father calls it.” Rufus would keep some. A healthy dose of propaganda could be used to grease the wheels per say, but the complete excess that his father indulged in would be a thing of the past.
Lazard leaned forward, his small wing brushing against the foot stool’s upholstery. “Then how would you get things done?”
“Bluntness. Less politics and bribery, begging people to respect me.” If anything it allowed them to tie leashes around his neck. “If they won’t do as I say, I’ll make them.”
Up until now, Lazard’s gaze was curious, but all at once it evaporated. “Oh, so that’s how it is.”
“Yes.”
“I should have known.”
Rufus had answered honestly. He wasn’t about to apologize for it.
Deep cracks pushed into the features of Lazard’s face, his expression darkening. “You’re just another good, little executive. Out only for yourself.”
“Would you preferred if I had lied?” Rufus asked.
Lazard ignored him. “Another selfish ShinRa. I should have known… I should’ve known… ” he muttered.
He pushed himself to his feet, his wings sending a torrent of wind through the air. “I should’ve known better than to think there was any hope for one of your family.”
Your family. Your family. Rufus’ family. That small, seemingly insignificant emphasis.
“My family,” Rufus said. “So think you can hold yourself apart?”
“Yes.”
“You think you’re better?”
“Yes.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.”
Rufus had done his best to be accommodating. He had been polite. He had been honest. And this was all he got. He should’ve known… “So I’m scum, wallowing in filth, and you’re some sort of saint. Don’t delude yourself, Lazard. You’re as disgusting as the rest of us.”
Relaxing into the leather of his couch, Rufus looked up into the other man’s eyes. They were two pools of liquid fire.
Rufus didn’t even flinch.
“Do you know what the SOLDIERs used to call you?” Rufus asked calmly. He didn’t bother to wait for an answer. “‘The ideal boss.’ Not only did they think you were a superb paper pusher, but they truly thought you were their friend. They thought you genuinely cared about them. Even years after your treachery was revealed, many of them refused to believe it. They couldn’t accept that you were capable of betraying them.
“I wonder… how many of your loyal admirers died because of your little exploits? How many were cut down by Genesis or his Copies, all the while still trusting that you had their best interests at heart.”
“They were ShinRa. They deserved it,” Lazard growled.
Rufus watched impassively as Lazard’s large wing convulsed, slamming into the wine bottle and shattering it against the wall. The soft tinkle of broken glass was so different from the brutal movement. Then he continued. “Perhaps, but let’s not stop there. They were hardly the only victims.-While you were happily funding Genesis, he went on to destroy much more than a few dozen ShinRa workers. Does Banora ring a bell… or how about Modeoheim? Or how about the war machines and Genesis Copies that ravaged Midgar? Above and below Plate. I’m sure all those poor people in the Slums that you claim to care about absolutely loved that.”
“Things got out of control. I did my best to contain them,” Lazard said, his gloved hands tightly grasped the fabric of his pants.
“I don’t doubt that,” Rufus stated. “But you claim to be better than ShinRa, but you came and joined us in the filth. If you wanted, you could've walked. You had the choice.
“Then there’s your choice of allies. I find that especially pathetic. I make no claims of being a good man, but Genesis and Hollander? They’re a special sort of monster and you picked them over me.”
Lazard let out a rasping, unsettling sort of sound. It took Rufus a moment to realise that it was laughter.
“Is that what this is about, Rufus?” Lazard growled. “You talk about all the horrible things I had a hand in and then you drag it back to yourself. It’s all about you, isn’t it Rufus? So, do you want to know why I wouldn’t work with you? Do you?”
Despite himself, Rufus couldn’t stop himself from asking: “Why?”
“I just wanted you out of the way,” Lazard hissed.
Rufus felt a chill descend upon him. “So you could become vice president?”
Lazard’s lips ripped back to reveal white, white teeth. “You think that was the reason? The President offered me the job multiple times, long before he even considered you. I could’ve had it whenever I wanted… You really don’t get it, do you? You’re the deluded one. You think you were an issue? A threat? You never were and you never will be.”
And then in a low voice, Lazard whispered: “You don’t matter, Rufus.”
Rufus’ hand hurt.
It hurt. Why did it hurt?
Rufus found him standing in the middle of the floor.
His hand. The hurting hand. It was balled into a fist, the skin of his first and second knuckle split, and there was a spray of (so very) red leading up from it and onto the (once pure, but never again) white of his jacket.
He mechanically looked upward. There was a man looking back at him. He had (pretty) wings on his back. The man’s bottom lip was getting blood all over the floor.
“I would like you to leave, Mr. Deusericus,” Rufus said quietly.
Lazard stood there, completely frozen.
“Leave.”
After a long moment, Lazard finally started to regain himself. His mouth moving silently for a few minutes before anything emerged. “I… I…”
“Leave!” Rufus screamed. He stumbled towards the bar, grasping at the shotgun hidden there, but his fingers refused to work. Numbly they slipped and slid across the surface of the gun, refusing to find purchase.
At long last, he grasped it, and he whirled around only to find-
He had gotten his wish.
He was alone.
---
Lazard died a month later.
To be continued...