IN MIDGAR.
On Tuesday, Rufus Shinra called Heidegger into his conference room. The man was taller and wider than Rufus than he had any right to be. He waddled in, his arms making long cuts through the air at his sides, and sat down heavily at a seat near the president. Rufus was going over a series of open folders, their contacts spread across the mahogany in front of him. He said nothing when Heidegger entered, and the head of Public Safety Maintenance shifted impatiently in his seat for a full three minutes before he gave into curiosity and peered across the table at the papers.
News reports; military dispatches; labwork from Hojo. He recognized, instantly, the shock of red hair that was Rosso the Crimson's identification photo. Hesitantly, he reached out one large hand, and when Rufus didn't respond, shifted one of the papers ever so slightly towards him. Weiss the Immaculate. Below him, Nero the Sable. The Tsviets. Rufus was going over the Deepground reports.
Heidegger swallowed a lump in his throat the size of the Plate.
When Rufus spoke, his voice was cool and calm, as if he were remarking on little more than Heidegger's choice in ties. "You incompetent shit," he said, eyes still on the papers. Heidegger couldn't bring himself to speak. Rufus finally lifted his eyes, full of disgust and disdain, and folded his hands on the tabletop, waiting for a reply.
Air seemed to slide out of the room, or thicken, Heidegger wasn't sure. He felt himself begin to wheeze. The president hated him. He knew that. Everyone knew that. And now here he was with his admittedly less than brilliant plan of releasing the Tsviets onto Balamb laid bare at Rufus Shinra's feet. And Rufus was looking at him like he'd pissed in his morning coffee.
Heidegger stuttered and leaned forward in his chair, as if were going to latch onto Rufus' wrist, but he knew better than to try. "Sir, this was--this was all at your orders!"
"My orders?"
"You gave me full discretion of the Deepground project, you--"
"You forged my signature, you sniveling worm," Rufus said, crossing his arms. Heidegger visibly deflated, and then bristled, panicked. "Thought I wouldn't catch that, hm?"
"That is--gyaha--it isn't quite--"
"Stop talking," the president snapped. Heidegger felt his mouth snap shut automatically, a fish gasping for air. "I'm recalling Deepground and we're scrapping the project immediately. Hojo's little pets are loose cannons I can't afford to have running around in the new regime. Command of the Investigative Division will be transferred to direct Presidential purview. And you're fired. Am I quite clear, Heidegger?"
The head of Public Safety Maintenance looked up at the President like a child waiting for a blow, though Rufus' hands remained stationary, folded against his chest. A moment passed, and then two. Heidegger swallowed glass in his throat, his jowls trembling. Rufus looked down at him, his gaze almost bored. "Yes, sir," Heidegger said finally, numbly. "Quite clear."
"Good. Now get out." On Thursday, Rufus received an encrypted email.
TO: rshinra@shinra.co.mg FROM: [UNKNOWN SENDER] SUBJECT: (no subject)
Mr. President:
Sephiroth is on his way to Balamb Garden. Weiss believes we will become allies, but all research on Sephiroth indicates he does not make alliances. I have tapped into the secure files at Shin-Ra maintained by Professor Hojo. I'm sure you are aware of the results of his Mako testing and the JENOVA project. There is little scientific or psychological evidence to support forming an alliance with a psyche that is so broken. Sephiroth is likely to murder the Tsviets. I no longer wish to be involved in any grand schemes that put my life in such risk. It is foolish and illogical.
I am communicating with the Turks present at Balamb. Please ensure your cooperation with their efforts. We will require your aid.
- S.
Ten minutes later he rushed down to the labs, where he knew Hojo was--as always--working late. The scientist was recalcitrant as always, but he soon confirmed: that was where the Cetra was, and there was nothing Sephiroth wanted more than the Cetra.
"For the Promised Land," Rufus said, tapping his fingers on Hojo's desk. "I never liked Sephiroth. Always getting into places he didn't belong. A shame he wasn't actually killed at Nibelheim."
"SOLDIERs have a nasty habit of that," Hojo mused, examining a slide on his microscope, but did not elaborate.
Rufus paced, briefly. His hound, an elegant black creature, Mako-enhanced, padded lazily around its pen across the lab. He strode over and reached in to scratch behind its too-long ears. The hound growled appreciatively. "Your fucking Tsviets are pumped with enough Jenova cells to make this a real problem, Hojo," he said. "I told you--"
Hojo waved at him dismissively. "The risk of a bond forming was minimal. The benefits of the DNA outweighed the possible side effects."
"Possible?" Rufus repeated, and then sighed heavily. "Nothing for it now. They'll need to be extracted."
"I don't disagree."
"If they hand over the Cetra, we're going to have problems, Hojo."
Hojo shrugged, and gently placed a new slide. "Pull them out and bring them to me. I can harvest their adjusted chromosomes for a new crop of SOLDIERs. I'm concerned the previous formula may be...problematic."
"Considering we've lost nearly the entire force to that sorceress, yes, it's been problematic."
Hojo said nothing, and after a moment, Rufus stalked out of the lab. On Friday, he made a call. Vinzer Deling picked up, his voice lazy and confident as ever.
"Vinzer," he said shortly.
Rufus smiled. "Mr. President," he said. "How's the view in Deling? Still looking at the crippled wreckage of your Garden?"
He heard Vinzer's voice go cold and flat, the charm gone. "Construction is going along swimmingly," Vinzer said. "How's your dead father?"
"Trite."
"But true."
It was an effort not to bite back with something more cutting--but Rufus was not his father. He would not be baited into a foolish bickering match, not even with someone like Vinzer Deling. "I'm not calling to chat, Vinzer. I have business for you."
"We don't need Shin-Ra's funding for the Garden," Vinzer said. "How's that going at Balamb, by the bye?"
"I wasn't offering, you insipid moron. I'm calling about your military. Our installation at Wutai is reporting significant movement south from your Timber base. You aren't planning anything clever, are you?"
He heard Vinzer shift uncomfortably in his chair, the leather squeaking faintly into the mouthpiece.
"Where is Edea, Vinzer?"
Vinzer hesitated, but his voice was steady. "We support the sorceress, Rufus. At this point, it's foolish to do anything else." A beat. "Perhaps your friends at Balamb would be wise to do the same before too long."
The line disconnected. Rufus stared at it for a long moment. Sephiroth was coming to Balamb--he knew the pedantic, logical tone of Shelke the Transparent. The Galbadian army was moving south. Initially he'd thought it was to invade Midgar while SOLDIER was compromised, but Vinzer had hinted at something else. If he was right, (and Rufus had to admit, he usually was), Edea had her sights set on the Garden as well. She had already proven she could infiltrate its defenses as easily as parting water. Galbadia, Edea, and Sephiroth, all at Balamb.
He needed to regain control of this situation. He pulled up the reports from the Wutai base and went over the estimated trajectory and time of arrival. It would take a week to get to Midgar, but only three days to reach Balamb.
For several minutes he pored over the logs, the reports, the files. His mind moved quickly, darting between possibilities and potential outcomes.