Daddy's dead

There had been rumours that Sephiroth had been seen up in the far North.

Rufus stared out the window at his pristine reflection, darkness all around him, only the light of the lingering fires in Sector 7 twitched over him. The over-long masamune in his hand weighed heavily. It looked silly in the reflection and the grasp around it felt unfamiliar. The blade was glittering with the fire, the steel singing with the sirens that still wailed.

It was said that only Sephiroth was able to wield it.

But Sephiroth was dead, closed up in a crystal in the Northern Crater.

There were strange creatures, numbered, all of them looking like Sephiroth, shuffling through the land, murmuring things about reunion. And that headless dead creature – Jenova – in his father's labs moved. Nobody had believed him when he had said so. Hojo had smirked and his father had remarked that for someone who acted so tough, it was quite pathetic that Hojo's labs scared him enough to see shadows moving.

They were mistaking. He was fascinated with dead bodies. It was they who were too scared to look closely. It did move. Pulse. Urged to get out. It made him uneasy. And if only because dead bodies – and most of all headless dead bodies – were not supposed to move.

As the energy-output increased, the mako flamed high from the reactors below him, tainted everything in that pale green that was his blood.

There was a rustle of clothes behind him. He turned, just a little, to his shadows, standing behind him, their three faces tainted sickeningly green in that flaring light.

"Ready?"

Tseng's hair flowed like silk when he gave his nod. Rufus could see his own image in Rude's glasses, white, flaring green, with that long blade in his hand, the broad smirk on Reno's face.

They all held the same blades.

"When you are, Sir."

Rufus slipped the card into the slit. It was pitch black around them, deepest night, only broken by the green geysers of the reactors. 15 % more energy output. The dropping of the plate. His old man had completely lost it at last. And Tseng had finally agreed.

The Turks were standing with their back to him, shielding him. The digits threw red shadows on his pristine suit, mingled with the green. The door demanded the code. With pale fingers, moving as if stroking through his animal's fur, he let the tiny computer shuffle through the door's memory. It was a matter of moments before the green confirmation above the door flamed up and it purred open.

He slipped the card out and through when the camera turned, into the pale night light. Like things of dark imaginings, the Turks skulked in behind him.

The door hummed close, green changed to red as he sealed it tight. The Turks were one with the deep shadows, the dark pale light danced briskly over his white suit. He set the hand back onto the keyboard, let the pale fingers run away once again, felt the Turks breathing. The red light on the cameras went dead.

"I'm in." The smooth teeming noise of the cameras had died away. The air-conditioner was still humming, the tubing ticking. There were steps far away. He felt like a stranger in this breathing world.

He flicked his hair, felt it tweak as a few hairs caught in the leather of his fingerless gloves, loosened the masamune from his back, looked at his Turks in the dark, their motionless faces. "Remember to make it look like it broke out. Spread a little blood. Leave a trace. Make it look messy."

Reno and Rude nodded shortly and assiduously.

"Remember to be thorough. I don't want surprises."

Reno grinned. His teeth flickered bluish white in the faint light. He made a lax salute and jerked his head at Rude to follow him, the almost cheerful "let's go, Aibo, yo!" as they left like eerie spirits.

They set into motion, into the other direction, through the darkness to where the night light turned into bright neon that turned his suit into that beloved brilliant white and the Turk's almost into black.

"How many people do you expect?"

"Not more than fifteen."

The Turk gave another nod. His calculation must have reached a similar number.

A secretary turned around the corner, suddenly coming towards them in that bright neon light. When she saw them, she starred, surprised, needed a moment to recollect herself.

"Oh! Mr Vice President! I wasn't expecting to see you tonight! Has President Shinra called in a meeting?" It was his presence that had surprised her, he noted. Not their swords. Maybe, she thought it was a new fashion. Something Turk-ish.

"Something very much the like," he replied and accelerated the blade. It was too long for the narrow corridor, caught slightly in the walls which left enough air in her lungs to still scream. He did not care. He wanted to renovate, anyway.

It was that scream that was so very unnerving.

It summoned the few guards that were still on duty, who stormed around the corner. Made the mistake to regard them as threatened, not as threat.

"No worries, Sir, I have your back," Tseng stated when his mobile gave a ring, had him covered when he picked up, just as two other guards could not quite decided whether to run or to fight.

It was Reno.

"There's still them Avalanche people in them cells!" the Turk drawled, his heavy breath in his boss' ear. "Put them out, too, yo, Shachou?"

Rufus smirked, felt the sticky blood on his fingers, in the glove. "Not quite yet, Reno. Leave them alive. If this goes south, we'll still have someone to blame." Tseng had taken care of the guards. There were ugly red stains on his suit. "We'll open the doors when we leave." He hung up just as Tseng lowered his blade again.

"And?" Tseng asked.

He shrugged. "Avalanche."

"Of course," Tseng nodded. "I almost forgot." The way Tseng's face did not move told him that Tseng had not exactly forgotten.

They proceeded and the silence they left behind was even more unnerving than the screams.

It was when they had almost reached the president's office that they hunted down Palmer. The man had hidden behind a door and tried to make a run for the president's office when they entered the 69th floor. Tseng threw a guard's rod between his legs, brought him to a fall directly in front of the sound proofed doors. He was screaming, begging for mercy when Rufus reached him, tottering on all fours to the door.

"Cut that scream," Rufus snapped at the man, disgusted, Tseng readily at his side.

"Shall I kill him, Sir?"

"No, I don't think so." He pushed the man against the door, smelled the blood and the fear, held a demanding hand towards the Turk. "My mako, please."

Tseng frowned, but still reached into his jacket and got out the green-glowing syringe. "What about Dark Nation, then?"

"I'm sure we'll get some new mako before it gets restless. Me being president then." He bared Palmer's fleshy arm. "And you know that it would be very advantageous to have a survivor who has actually seen Sephiroth."

He emptied the syringe into the vein of that wide-eyed, disgusting man. "And you've seen Sephiroth, haven't you? 'Cause, I would never do such a thing, now, would I? You've hidden and you've seen all the horrible things Sephiroth did, don't you remember?"

The man's eyes rolled into his head as the mako flooded them. When he hit the floor, Rufus stepped back, looking around him. Perhaps, it had not been entirely smart to give a man the mako-dose intended for a wild animal.

Tseng studied the limb body. "Are you sure he won't talk?"

Rufus shrugged. "Who knows what the mako does to his brain? And I think he's smart. He'll know what to believe. And if not… look at that needle imprint in his arm. He's clearly a mako-addict." His gloved hand, sticky with blood, found the handle to the door and he leaned against it to push it open, careful not to make any noise. It was dead quiet in the office. The carpet on the stairs muffled their steps until they were heading straight for the desk.

The president was still bent over his work in that isle of warm light when they entered. He looked up and Rufus saw him jump when he recognized them. When he saw the blood on them and on their swords.

"Good evening, father," Rufus said, flicking his hair as he advanced.

His father's hand was shaking when he put the pen down. His eyes were fixed on the blood and the blades. "So this is it, then?"

Rufus surrounded the desk, pointed the sword at the man's chest. "This is it. I promise I'll make it rather painless. You see, if I push slightly upwards, it'll go straight through your heart. Your body will be nice to look at. Please don't feel obliged to assume an expression. Muscles relax a while after death, so it'll be wasted."

There was a forced smile on his father's face as he studied him like an eerie spirit from a nightmarish dark. "I overestimated you, Rufus. I never thought you'd be low enough bloody your own hands."

Rufus smirked as he put the tip of the sword down, shrugged. "You had me educated."

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