The first meeting didn't happen at all. Rufus left a voicemail—he didn't say his name, but Reeve would have had to have been stupid to not recognize both that voice and that attitude, and while Reeve was hard-working and good-natured and optimistic, contrary to popular belief that didn't make him stupid. And when he heard Rufus' voice, going on silky and self-satisfied about mutually beneficial agreements and potentially congruent interests, he only had to think about it for a moment before deleting the message.

Rufus did not call back, and he did not reply in any way for two solid weeks. When he did, it was in the form of a letter, crisp and unsigned—its tone a smidgen less smug, and more blatant about what he had to offer: money. Money, backed by a hint of the elegant sort of brutality. Money, and Turks.

It would have been an untruth to say that they didn't need the money. They always needed the money. Repairing a city—repairing a world—was an expensive task indeed. But the world even less needed the heavy breath of profit and violence—and if he truly had need of someone who could make an art of bloodshed, he would go to Strife or Lockheart, who at least would feel conflicted about it.

The third time, Rufus sent Tseng, who Reeve found waiting in his office, sitting quite politely in the darkness in one of the visitor's chairs across from Reeve's desk. He looked for all the world like a proper visitor—as he had been once upon a time, when they were on the same side and Tseng would arrive monthly or perhaps every six weeks with another requisition of Urban Development resources to clean up another mess. He had even made Tseng laugh, once, by going through a sheaf of papers and marking each request with a name: "Reno" next to the exploded gas line, "Rude" beside the tenement that needed structural repairs, "Reno" again next to both the stress fractures to the aqueduct and the damage to the highway's concrete barrier. But that had been an age ago.

He knew that Tseng expected some comment on the manner of his arrival, perhaps a dry note of the penalty of breaking-and-entering, so he obliged him: "I'm sure our security system is nothing compared to what your boss has set up." He almost said 'your master,' but decided he did not want quite that much confrontation.

Tseng made a small noise of acknowledgement.

"Of course," Reeve said, putting on the desk light and settling into his chair, "quite a lot fewer people want to kill me."

"True," Tseng said.

Reeve sighed. "Spare me, Tseng. We both know why you're here, and the answer is no."

"There are no strings attached to the offer. He isn't requesting a seat on the board of directors or a shareholder's vote or any other advantage of that nature."

"You will forgive me if I doubt Rufus' philanthropy."

"It isn't philanthropy. Financial success is difficult in a climate of economic collapse—and rebuilding leads to quality-of-life improvements for everyone."

"Let's say, for the sake of argument, that I believe that. I couldn't possibly accept money from a Shinra, not in the current climate. Not unless I want the WRO to be seen as a puppet set to dance to the tune played by the man who was responsible—" Tseng started forward at that, and Reeve put up his hand to forestall protest "—partially responsible, whether intentionally or not, for the disaster in the first place."

Tseng stood up, and for one second that was intimidating—for all that Reeve knew it would be stupid for Tseng to threaten him physically here, at this juncture. Reeve had never been a fighter, not truly. Fortunately, all Tseng said was, "I will convey that sentiment, then."

"Thank you," he said.

The fourth time, they contacted him by phone again—but this time it was a live call, not a voicemail, and the voice on the other end of the line was bright, sharp, female. He and Elena had only overlapped briefly in their times at Shinra HQ, and for most of that he'd been focused on controlling Cait Sith, with little attention left over for monitoring Turk recruits. What he remembered was a young woman, prickly and defensive, enthusiastic, talkative.

The call woke him in the middle of the night, and so he wasn't in the best mood for any kind of conversation, let alone, "Tuesti. We have some information for you."

He rubbed his forehead, pushed his hair out of his eyes. "I told your boss I wasn't interested in doing business with Shinra."

"This one's gratis. —I know you don't trust us, but listen," she said, sounding almost as frustrated as he felt, "we can't operate publicly, not yet, maybe not for decades, and you can't operate at all without funds. So here's a freebie for you, to prove we're going to play ball."

He listened until she was done, and then, when she had hung up, he called Cid and Barret and asked them to check the basement of the New Midgar Bank. They called him back two hours later to let him know that they had detained the would-be bombers.

The next day, when Rude called, Reeve said, "I want a phone number." Rude said nothing, as usual, and Reeve pushed on: "I'm not going to just be at your beck and call. Maybe we can make a deal and maybe we won't, but you aren't yanking me around." It was how Turks worked—it was what they were doing to him, being all smooth shiny exterior and no way of getting to the truth—and he was not going to play those games anymore.

Rude was silent a moment more, and then gave him a number. "That will route to whichever of us is on duty," he explained.

Reeve used it the next morning, when he arrived at work to find a check on his desk. The number on the check was so large it knocked the breath out of him, and he had to sit down for a moment. Then he picked up his phone and dialed.

Reno's voice met him on the other side. "Yo?"

"Put me through to Rufus," he said.

"The boss isn't—"

"I don't care. Tell Rufus I want to talk to him now, or I'll tear up his little present and that will be the end of it."

Reno didn't reply, but Reeve heard the click-beep of a transfer, then two rings, and then Rufus' infuriating smug voice. "Yes?"

"I told you, I'm not doing you any favors for cash."

"You need the money. I need the city infrastructure. It's a win-win proposition, Tuesti."

"Except for the part where I'm beholden to you."

"I don't believe that will be—"

Enough. Enough. "Why are you so insistent on this?"

Rufus was silent, and then he said, slowly, as though it cost him a great deal, "I need your help."

Reeve swallowed. "Do you."

"I'm completely hamstrung. I still have quite a lot of money in liquid funds and in investments both—some of which are even still worth something—but I can't do anything with it. I need your help. There, I've said it." He sounded suddenly like the young man he was: frustrated, a little spoiled. "Happy now?"

"More than I was."

"Don't make me say it again."

"I promise nothing," he said, and laughed. "All right. With the proper legal arrangements—and you know it would have to be recorded as an anonymous donation; the name Shinra still stinks to high heaven—"

On the other end of the line, Rufus sighed. "Yes."

"—and I'm going to keep an eye on you. I am a spy, if you'll remember. Quite a good one, even."

"As long as you don't send that damn cat . . . "

"I think I can compromise on that. I want to work with you through Tseng, or barring that Rude; I don't want Reno or Elena yanking my chain just because they can."

"I think I can compromise on that." Rufus sounded wry. "We have a deal?"

"I think so," Reeve said.

He couldn't quite pass up the satisfaction of being first to hang up, though.