Rufus locked his eyes on Grimmjow, watching the cat closely as his growling laugh rumbled so low the President felt it hum through his own chest. What if they don't, indeed.
"Then we adapt, and move on," he answered immediately, with a quiet, wry laugh of his own. It might be nice to know exactly what he was adapting to, after all. And what about when the disease progressed? Because it would. What then? How does one "adapt" to that? Hope his "teammates" didn't fall upon and devour their weakest link? Or perhaps he'd bargain with Lucifer— hah!
He was still watching Grimmjow, surreptitiously. Observing his companion's eerie silence, the simple dignity of his self-assurance— an unconscious side-effect of topping the food chain and a confidence Rufus knew well; a confidence he had once possessed, as the most powerful man in the world. The President thought, with a grim smirk, Maybe I'll die and become a predator again. Or, maybe I'll die, and Grimmjow will eat my slimy little black soul.
Laughing darkly, Rufus shook his head. Time to stop feeling sorry for yourself, ShinRa.
"Well," he began, then paused to maneuver carefully over a row of jutting gray rocks that split the path like poorly shuffled cards, with his arms outstretched for balance and his eyes watching the ground. Once through, he looked at Grimmjow again and grinned sharply. "For one thing, I remember a cure," he told the big cat candidly.