over all of creation

“Absolutely not.” Tseng licks the crumbs from the corners of his mouth. If Rufus picks up the bill, that makes Tseng obligated to do whatever his awful mind can piece together. Rufus doesn’t dream big. He makes his fantasies real. The textbook definition of a psychopath.

But…maybe he’s a sociopath. Sociopaths have feelings. Rufus has a lot of those.

“So you can call this a date? Pfft…” Tseng looks at his watch and squints yet with nowhere important to be. There is no one important in his life to cater to but Rufus. Then he realizes how pitiful he is.

He scrunches his lips into a frown—disgusted with himself. 

“I can pay for myself. It’s just a fucking basket of fries. I might be a cheap slut, but I can definitely buy myself a basket of fries…and a burger if I wanted.”

He chews on the inside of his bottom lip while looking down his nose, wrestling with a shred of exasperated disappointment. Rufus idly wonders how his curiosity toward Tseng skipped over the disgust for all mankind’s baser actions he holds for everyone else, wonders how despite the absolute mess he’s making of himself, Rufus can’t bring himself to care overmuch the image it makes because it is just them. The two of them together. Here in this place, grease-stained or not.

“I believe you,” he says in a low tone. Most of his interactions toward Tseng are of him smoothing over imagined hurts. Or at least, to Rufus they’re imagined. Tseng is a cat with its hackles up and its fur ruffled the wrong way. (Always so tempting to touch.)

Tseng would have to be delirious and half-way to the edge of insanity before he’d let himself be unguarded anywhere near Rufus; he knows this. The man is so contrary, and all the more interesting for it. He forces himself to look elsewhere, at a slowly turning metal fan overhead, at a tear in a booth’s lining a few tables away, at the flashing neon in the storefront’s window. 

Emotional incompetency keeps Tseng from pulling back the layers of this multifaceted shitsuation. There are only two people in the world who understand Rufus—Rufus himself and Tseng. At least, Tseng hopes he understands Rufus better than the woman who birthed him.

Rufus knows how to say a lot without saying much anything at all. Tseng chooses to never say anything ever. He’s just not intelligent in that way. He’s never had time for feelings. 

If Tseng were a different person, he’d be able to articulate why his mouth fills with spit. He reaches for his cold glass of cola, picks out the straw and drinks it straight from the metallic tasting glass. The temperature suddenly rises and the creased fabric of his shirt sticks to his armpits.

“I’m still hungry.” Tseng taps the glass back down on the table, burping against the back of his right hand. It still smells like ketchup.

His lips press together just to keep a traitorous laugh (elation, delight, satisfaction) from bubbling out and catching on foreign fishhook ears. ShinRa is a name that draws bright eyes and brown noses wherever he may be, and he’s not willing to cater to anyone when his attention and focus have zeroed in on Tseng, backlit by affection and an imaginary spotlight, drowning out most all else. 

Instead, he compresses his feelings into a smile, slightly salacious, of the type fit for back alleyways and backroom gambling, and flicks out a clove cigarette snatched from Elena’s desk stash. Rufus leans back, fitting their ankles together as his arms spread along the back of the booth, and traces the contours of Tseng’s face, admires the put-upon indifference and learned ignorance. He has little social grace, but makes up for it with perfect aim and good hands. 

Tseng sucks the ketchup from his finger, licks the space between his index and middle. Not once does he stop to look at Rufus. He bites at the grains of salt from under his nails, then drags his tongue across his teeth and says, “You’re just not used to having lunch with people who actually like to eat.”

He doesn’t use a napkin to wipe the grease from his hands—unfastens his necktie and tugs at the first two buttons of his shirt.

“And if I do choke, you’re not going to let me die.” Tseng gives him a perfunctory nod, but holds eyes down on the grease sodden paper. Where he had dragged a fry through a pool of ketchup, the paper had torn. 

“You need me.” He’s not exactly sure how he means it. The statement just happens like a spasm. Instead of allowing himself to feel shame for feeling this way, he busies himself with finishing off the basket of fries.

He’s halfway into the daydream of Tseng’s ink blotch hair splayed out over the cloud white of his coat, halfway into spitting a half-tended to retort concerning consumption of edibles in a more timely manner, halfway into twisting his tongue to say there are much better things (people, himself) to eat so quickly, that the dive had a coat closet, or maybe it was a supplies closet.  

Halfway to the stars. Halfway to absolution, a clean conscience, a clean bill of health. Halfway, hanging in the balance, in between states, waiting for change. Water and steam and ice; Rufus is all three. 

--Fullstop. Like the end of a telegram, and Rufus hangs paralyzed in the summer day heatstroke stillness for longer than he would with anyone else stating the same. Something so factual, applicable to many, but none so meaningful as Tseng himself. 

Tseng hardly ever meets Rufus halfway, like this, for this. Is he reading too much into it? He’s not ever had anyone by his side for longer than Tseng has been with him; there’s a trust there they’ve never really spoken about, and poking it like this has him thinking of hornet’s nests and honeybees. 

He’s stripped of words, heartbeat pounding in his ears, and he breathes an exhale. A breeze that moves the world along, a steady release like a train moving out of the station. 

@calculatedfear

Normally, Tseng is never in a hurry. He creates deadlines, sternly proposes them in meetings, but doesn’t break a sweat until the last fives minutes. Doesn’t anxiously wiggle when he travels. Will listen before he speaks.

But when it comes to food, he has no patience. Tseng shovels a handful of hot fries into his mouth and burns his tongue, scorching his gums in the process. He only grimaces because he’s felt worst inflictions of pain. The means to rectifying this kind of discomfort? He takes three fries and swirls them in the ketchup.

And again, burns his mouth but it’s not as bad as the first time.

His feelings toward food are overlaid like power grid lines on top of building blueprints with early memories of dinner, fish, and salad forks, knives, new plates for each course, and a thousand other minute rules and extra china. Rufus could recite each mandate of etiquette for breakfast, brunch, lunch and dinner, formal or informal, in the very same sharp monotone used on him in his formative years by various tutors, but only if he cared enough to. And he doesn’t. Hasn’t ever.

He keeps such dull things buried, but looking on Tseng now, and the splatters of artificial cherry red ketchup dotting his hands, dripping sloppy down an index finger, he finds in himself the tiniest bit of burning appreciation for a greyed out recollection from twenty-plus years ago of white linens and candlelight and four long hours of straight-backed forced politeness. (He had hated the soup--some kind of chowder. He hasn’t eaten corn since then.) 

He tears his curious focus from Tseng to the white linen of his outer suit jacket, twisting his wrist around to feign looking at his watch, picking out the pattern of weave in the fabric instead. He looks good in white, and that’s all he’s willing to concede to, when connecting thought to thought. 

seph, being evil and havin an evil tantrum

rufus, turning away from everyone while having an existential crisis, mussin up his hair coz Worry(tm)

“i’ve never seen a bitchfit so big it made me question all my decisions in life”

1. How does your character think of their father? What do they hate and love about him? What influence - literal or imagined - did the father have?

Rufus tries not to think of his father in any capacity except for how he relates to positions of power in their business, which is to say––ShinRa Snr. will be completely out of mind until Rufus is reminded of his existence through something work-related, and he’s then subsequently overcome with angry, murderous ambitions. Rufus hates absolutely everything about him, to the point that I haven’t bothered coming up with a name for ShinRa Snr. cos Rufus doesn’t care. :shrug: (Hopefully the remake will remedy this so I don’t have to~)

They’re so disconnected as father-son that Rufus doesn’t bother thinking about him as a person when he doesn’t have to, only as a position/title to take. When in the public eye, he’ll act as one would expect, but away from it, it’s better off to pretend with Rufus that ShinRa Snr. doesn’t exist. He has…. many issues. There’s nothing there that he loves, or even appreciates. He could be nice and say he admires the man’s tenacity in business, but he’s not nice and it wouldn’t be true, anyway.

Rufus would definitely like to say he’s an entirely self-made man, but that also wouldn’t be true. He owes a lot, practically everything, of what kind of man he is to his father’s influence, both intentional and unintentional affectations. He’s narcissistic because he was brought up with zero personable encouragements, only demands to live up to the family name. His business ventures & intellectual acuity are because of his father’s pushing & moulding. He waited for his father’s approval before becoming VP & TURK DH, even though he probably could have forced the Council’s hand for both positions. His various addictions and personality shortcomings are the result of him lashing out for attention from his father. He has the power he does all because of who he was born to and not because of his own abilities. Etc., etc..

Even as he practically decries the ShinRa reputation through any kind of outburst, he does still want his father’s affection/approval/admiration––which is, you know, partly why even though he fervently despises the divine quest for unlimited energy via finding the Promised Land (a load of mystical rubbish) and privately hates all of his portly guts, ShinRa Snr. is still alive even though Rufus could have offed him at any point once he also killed his mother. (Also the reason why he publicly supports The Promised Land…‘hey dad, look at me doing these things you want !’)

He’s not nice because he wasn’t raised to be nice. He’s not respectful toward anyone beneath him because he wasn’t raised to be. He’s rich because of his family name, and he’s bratty because he doesn’t care about much outside of himself. Like his father~

All that said, Rufus does have some good points….. maybe…..

6. Did they feel rejection or affection as a child?

Rufus was born about two years before the JENOVA project started, and he lived a quaint and cushy life in the Nibelheim manor being doted on by mother, father, and townspeople, until Hojo and Hollander split the project into two and created Specimens S, G, & A. ShinRa Snr. became too enthralled with producing results, and Lady ShinRa decided to move herself and tiny tot Rufus to Junon to oversee the military development there while her husband did whatever he wanted elsewhere.

Lady ShinRa passed off everything related to child-rearing to various nannies and tutors, and when he was old enough, met with Rufus about twice a week to make sure he was learning what she wanted him to––proper table manners, his times tables, Gaian history, that sort of thing. (Privately, she might have said things like, “I’m certainly not mother material, you know? Oh, but my husband really wanted an heir, so I thought I’d oblige him. It was hell on my hips, but look at my bank account~”) That she didn’t care enough about him to even touch him during his formative years caused enough of a rift early on that his hurts festered like a terrible infection. Around the time the Wutai War officially started (he was abt 13) & she began neglecting her ShinRa duties (you know, those things that Rufus was brought up to think of above all else) in favor of relaxing via prostitutes and drug dens (hello, future habits,) the childhood wound turned to a murderous rage~.

He was emotionally neglected by both father and mother from tot to teen years, and with the anger that produced, he joined the military academy in spite, only returning to executive ShinRa function when he was ‘legally’ able to show face at 16. His mother dead two years previous, he worked his way into becoming VP & TURK head and spent those four years of work in between making life hard for his father by sticking his nosy self into homegrown terrorist cells & anti-ShinRa Wutaian refugee rebellions. :)

44. How badly do they want to obtain their life objectives? How do they pursue them?

His life objective is to establish himself in power as his own person. He does a lot of hard work! He does a lot of ShinRa Inc.’s background work as V/President, and more than half of what ShinRa Inc. is through OG & post-canon can be attributed to Rufus’ hand. (Tho tbf, he only established the one department; the rest have only just flourished under his hand, whereas before they were floundering a bit in ShinRa Snr.’s neglect.)

He is especially devoted post-canon in rebuilding the world, but by then, his “See me, Rufus ShinRa, as I am!” schtick has sorta disappeared, coz he’s like… broken in a few ways.

@calculatedfear liked for a starter ;;

Reno hated not being able to do his job, especially when the reasoning behind his inability to undertake any field missions presently was his own fucking negligence. the last mission had proven to be a hard-earned success but with the reward came the concequences          the target was a lot more prepared for his timely arrival than the Turk had previously anticipated ( despite a prescient warning from Tseng who implored the redhead not to underestimate his target ), resulting in a scuffle that, ultimately, put the Turk out of commission for a week. as punishment, Tseng had decided to put his second in command on office duty, in spite of the other’s unrepentantly brazen display of indiscipline in form of unsightly, vocal demurring. 

when forced into an office setting, Reno was an unadulterated menace but with an annoying injury added to the equation, well, things quickly escalated from bad to much, much worse. the Turk himself chalked up the sudden dip in own mood to the wounded leg. Rude, on the other hand, was happy to bet his bottom gil on wounded pride being the cause of this recent bout of sour mood rather than the injury itself. at that, the redhead rolled his eyes ( all of a sudden becoming uncharacteristically indignant ) but refused to actually comment, much to the other’s ( entirely inward ) amusement. 

❝ damn it, what a drag, yo. ❞ though spoken barely above a whisper his voice is carried further still, past the confinements of his desk and into the unwilling ears of those around him who actually enjoyed spending their days shuffling through the never ending myriad of documents. with a quiet exhale, the Turk proceeds to lean against the back of his chair in silent display of utter exasperation, the action making the leather rasp beneath his frame, visage hidden within the palms of his hands to conceal the disgruntlement that took to his features with unashamed enthusiasm. while the redhead indulges in playing the role of a kicked puppy, the screen of his ShinRa issued PHS lights up to signify an arrival of a text message. 

[ text: Elena ] : boss wants to see you.

                                    perhaps not all was lost after all? 

without thinking twice about the unexpected summon, Reno is already up and on his feet, though ( admittedly ) a little less steady than usual. it doesn’t take long for him to end up outside ShinRa’s office and it takes even less time for the redhead to barge into the room unannounced. well, he did knock ( once ) and it wasn’t his fault that Rufus was simply too slow to respond ( not like he gave the other any time to even open his mouth though, but that’s the kinda nitty gritty details that no one cared about, right? ). ❝ mornin’ boss. ❞ and with that, a mock salute is given to the current president as the Turk proceeded to settle into one of Rufus’ ridiculously comfortable office chairs, mako stained eyes fixating onto the big bad boss man before him. for now the redhead is silent, not very patiently awaiting for the other man to finally state his intentions. soon enough Reno began to quietly tap his foot against the pristine carpet, physically unable to sit still. ❝ y’got somethin’ for me t’do? ❞ the silence was deafening; he hated it too,

Rufus ShinRa knows what it is to be human, riddled with emotional baggage, prone to upsets and misery, and capable of the sorts of things found in degenerate nightmares and daydreams. He hates, with as much passion and fervor as he cares to allow himself, and can certainly see the allure of Scarlet’s machines, can relate to the satisfaction of seeing the expected always becoming reality. They are clean lines and clean protocols; they make her happy, inasmuch as she can feel without kyahaha–ing, because by that point it’s gone from elation to a manic obsession––and relating to that is too far from sanity that even he feels discomfort. Though, however sleek and perfect she can strive for, the machines are still by human design and eventually fall into whirring, sparking, faulty death contraptions.  As such, even as he hates, Rufus prefers people, in all manners and in all circumstances.

He lets Scarlet have her fun despite her failures, just like he lets a lot of corruption fester under his nose, precisely because he enjoys the perpetuity of humanity’s ambition toward chaos. He would rather have neat lines of soldiers marching to his tunes and parades of happy, fearful citizens bowing at his feet in respect or adulation––he’s not picky there––but Rufus knows humanity, and the things he dreams about are better off staying there. Can he really pride himself on making the ends suit his means and the means suiting his ends? Of course. He’s flexible. He’s learned from his own mistakes, of trying too hard for rigidity and perfection and subsequently having to watch everything he built crumble to pieces around him. AVALANCHE is a prime example. He still shudders to think of Fuhito.

Every person he’s ever come across wants security because within security, answers can be found. Rufus has never met a single person who didn’t have a question on their tongue and desperation pulling at their heartstrings. Isn’t he just the most generous, then, to provide everyone with all the answers they need? All the security they want, to feel and explore the extent of their pithy, pitiable lives? He can’t fault anyone for their mistakes, but sometimes the mistakes of those under his own guiding hand are especially hurtful, stinging in such a way that he’d rather have his eyes poked out, or all his fingers broken with a sledgehammer. 

He leaves Reno in an oppressive, itchy silence for as long as it takes him to finish up the department’s finances report and for as long as it takes for the bitter taste of disappointment to flavor his words in just the right amount of his illustriously famous sour temper. He can count on Tseng to handle the proper punishments; he’s a judicious man when the occasion calls for it. Rufus, to his core, is simply too vindictive and slightly too petty––everything is personal, and with years upon years into their working relationship, Reno should expect it at this point. 

❝ Reno, ❞ he says, with fluttering eyelashes and sucked in cheeks. Sour lemons and an overpowering stench of blood and all manners of uncomfortable things, like butchered bits ending up in your morning shower or a bright stain on your crisp lapel. All in mind. Reno, at the top of the list––just because he’s in Rufus’ attention. 

She’s clingy like spiderwebs in dark corners, but he doesn’t mind that sort of thing for those of his own. In fact, it’s rather delightful. He’s never thought the absence of him would cause anything but forgetfulness until she came along, and Oh, Rem.. if only he could claim that her entire existence was meant to please him. She does it so often. 

“Do you really think I would ever?” he pouts like a preschooler and brushes hair from his face, curling his hand about his chin and staring staring staring at her with bright, saddened eyes. He’s never had fickle be any part of his various faces. 

“Hm. Perhaps you don’t know me as well as I thought you did~.” 

A long stretch of silence allows for him to sew together an articulate thought. Reno isn’t the most lucid when his thoughts seep from him, like sweat stains in a dingy T-shirt. Armpit sweat stains to be effectively precise.

“You’ve got this bold persona, yeah? Got all this power…it only makes sense to me.” Reno doesn’t flinch. It’s too early in the morning for him care about posturing.

“Ya follow?”

“Certainly.”

This is the part where a slow smile like creeping ivy might bloom across Rufus’ face, but it doesn’t. He simply nods, like analyzing oneself within the correlation of hairstyle to bedroom preference is just the thing to do on a Sunday morning. He’s wondering how far this train is really going to go, how far Reno is willing to drive off the cliffs and into the abyss below.

“Nah nah don’t change it…you got that dictator-ish look.” 

The cigarette wobbles between his lips.

“Makes me people take ya seriously and listen.”

“Of course.”

All his work set aside and the pen put down––he laces his hands under his chin and directs all his iced attention onto Reno, his chewed cigarette, and whatever dirty thoughts are in his ginger head. 

He lights his second cigarette for the day, gives a perfunctory nod.

“W i l d.” His voice cracks as he inhales a mouthful of smoke.

“I can see it now. That hair cut screams submissive bottom.”

He touches a lock hanging near his temple with the tip of his pen. 

~Roofus

“So that’s your big secret? You like kiss’n boys?”

He gives Reno a very flat, very removed look. 

8. How does your character feel about religion?

He doesn’t. To him, it’s all load of hogwash. He doesn’t follow his father’s (fanatical) beliefs about the Promised Land, though when pressed he’ll say he does, if only to keep up the ShinRa “Doing Good For the People” Image. He has few thoughts on the Cetra as a mystical race and even fewer thoughts on Summons as Old Gods. He recognizes the ability of belief to inspire or ensnare, but personally doesn’t participate in anything. People are people, and in the end, they all act the same. 

9. What about political beliefs?

Ahh~ The world of FFVII (as told by yours truly) operates under a corporatist political system with the ShinRa at the top, so naturally Rufus is a corporatist. In this type of government, society is viewed as a corporation that is both united and hierarchical and the government itself rules over all the sectors of society, making society an effective state, rather than sectioned land-masses. Everyone in this type of government is required to work for the public interest as defined by the needs of the government. Those who have the most money make the laws, and the economy is managed by officials through mechanisms at the national level (re: department heads). 

Because the world is one of monsters, ShinRa capitalizes on the security and prosperity of society through military efforts across the nation; this strengthens the ShinRa hold on the government & economy. Speaking of…

Social democratic corporatism is the term for economic corporatism which marries the government, society, and capital interests into a tripartite system that regulates conflicts in the labor force to stimulate the economy. Think the traditional trade system and then add in the national government mandating the unions and establishing/upholding quid pro quo. It completely abandons/ignores class struggle and is, essentially, just a form of regulated capitalism. Sounds right for FFVII, yes?

He also believes in pluralist theory which is a model that supposes that social groups distribute power amongst themselves and different coalitions each hold power of their own resulting in countervailing influence; the people as a whole do not govern, but organizations, lobbies, and unions influence law and policy without group competition because of power equilibrium. 

ShinRa has a lot of reach into practically every facet of society––agriculture, military, entertainment, etc., etc.––and thus Rufus has a large scope of power due to his control over various resources. He doesn’t meddle with the ‘free government’ re: the aforementioned lobbies and unions (such like the mayoral figureheads in the game), but he is always seeking public support from them because controlling the few is owning the flock. 

26. What does your character’s home look like? Personal taste? Clothing? Hair? Appearance?

His family home in Midgar is rarely if ever visited by him. When he’s at the home office, he stays in the home office and either sleeps on his couch, pops into his Midgar apartment for a kip, or invites himself somewhere with someone. His family home is eerily vacant in spirit, but excessively lavish in decor and design. He hates it. 

His Midgar apartment is little better. Vacant and empty. He has necessities there, but it’s not where he lives so the only part that looks lived-in is the bed where there’s a somewhat discernible dip from sleeping in it over the years. It’s cleaned every week by a service.

Junon, however, is absolutely all his! It’s a penthouse apartment facing the coast and it’s decorated in white, black, and silver. His floors are polished dark hardwood and his favorite thing in it is the electric fireplace, followed by his giant steam shower. It’s large enough to comfortably hold about forty people, but he’s only ever had about five people inside and they were all TURKs, so it doesn’t count. He cleans this place himself. It’s neat and well-lived in with enough accents and personal touches that it does actually seem relatively human and not just a proclamation of wealth. 

Rufus likes slim and sleek designs, so the clunky Junon canon really hurts his feelings.

His clothing is always fitted to tailor to him exactly, but he prefers to wear looser outer clothing. His jackets are always a half size too big. He wears dark colors and white. He absolutely does not own a single pair of ‘lounge sweatpants’ and he never will. 

He used to wax his hair when he was young so it was stiff, proper, and never out of place, but when he reached his mid-twenties he stopped because he realized it made him look too stern, especially with all the baby-fat off his cheeks. His face is all angles. Having loosely falling hair helps soften his looks. He keeps it short, but with enough length that he can run his hands through it. 

He doesn’t mind looking ruffled when the occasion calls for it, but he takes pride in being a neat person. His appearance is a carefully cultivated thing. He has skin routines and hair care rituals… Dry skin might actually comprise 5% of his nightmares… Rufus is well put together. He walks it, he talks it, and he acts it.