December, εγλ 0007.  

As the days climbed toward their current year's hibernal solstice, the tropics of Costa del Sol never saw much variety, experiencing much more rain than they ever did snowfall.  Despite its short proximity to an ocean, Rufus Shinra distinguished the only difference between her warmer and colder seasons: her aridity.  It was no minor problem; he was haughty enough even as a man of three decades to take issue with how winter chapped his lips and dried out his skin, despite all of the best preparations he made to circumvent those problems.

Costa del Sol's municipal tavern was an extremely downtrodden place, and it was really outside of his character to be caught dead in any bar -- but heavens, had Heidegger weathered his patience that afternoon.  With some affectation of annoyance, he ruminated over their earlier exchange while seated right at the lacquered, redwood bartop, his jaw positioned indolently against his knuckles, his vision squared on a white russian he had ordered with no actual intention to drink.  Frankly, he felt reviled just being present in a dirty place like this, accustomed to the clinically sanitary complexes of Junon and more distantly Midgar, but there was nowhere else he'd stomach being.  Idly, he wove elegant fingers through his flaxen fringe of hair, guiding it away from his face, but it fell back to its original placement as if it were really just memetic.

It was the least of his worries.  

Rufus was a man of propriety, through and through, and he was nowhere to be seen were he not clad in his ivory regalia -- but he was really sweating something fierce beneath it all.  Oh, had he so many complaints that twilight.  His ere focused, icy pair of eyes flickered up to the male bartender who had made his drink, and he spied the guy already having peered at him.  Suspicion crept naturally into his fair visage, but he leaned backward to level his manners.  "Have you a conference room, sir?"

Something quirked in the middle-aged man's face, as he realized he had been staring.  It wasn't every day that the Vice President of Shin-Ra sat in your bar, after all, even if he were woefully incorrect about Rufus' newly acquired station.  "O-oh.  Yes!  Yessir.  It's up the stairwell, to the left --"

No longer able to tolerate being there, he silently removed a gilpurse from one of his overcoat's many cached pockets and cast too many coins before him.  "No idea how long I'll be, but I'm renting it indefinitely tonight.  If that doesn't cover the cost, bill Shin-Ra Headquarters."  Tersely, he rose and brought his cocktail with him to the precise spot described, cracked open the door, and sat in the biggest chair around an oval-shaped table, made of the same urethaned stuff as the bartop.  Perhaps it was a local resource.

With a few taps on his PHS screen, he summoned the Director of Weapons Development to his coordinates; he had always admired her distantly, but he thought to make her grovel for funding tonight.  Something, anything, to distract him from the multitudinous aggravations that incited fire in him that day.

starter for @makeupandmateria​

City streets flew by in hues of bleak brown and grey. Towering skyscrapers loomed over the pedestrians on the cracked sidewalks. At the intersection of night and day the shadows the vast buildings cast blackened the curbs. The stoplights, when the black car cruised to a standstill, Xion glimpsed into the shadows. Strip away the street names and the veneer of geography, and Junon looked liked Midgar. The people had the same eyes and the soldiers wore the same uniforms. Xion leaned back into the leather car seat, settling away from the tinted window.  In the driver seat, waiting for the light to turn, the SOLDIER 3rd Class driving the car taped his finger against the wheel in a mindless rhythm.

Despite Xion’s growing disillusionment with Junon she could not contain her building excitement. For months she had traced the paths between cities and Midgar on the map. With her fingers it was but a few strides. In reality, it was a long flight on an airship and a boring car drive through concrete traps. Xion had looked out the airship windows too and seen brown, brown, brown for days. It stirred in her a sense of malcontent. Like something was wrong but she couldn’t say what or why. She always thought there was something spectacular beyond the mountains. There was not, just more brown. It was like seeing a wound seep blood or the exact sensation of a broken bone she couldn’t feel for adrenaline. Not Midgar was not Midgar however, and anything not Midgar was brand new. Even if it wasn’t pretty or polished. 

Elena furrowed her brows at the note, for only a moment. The slight tightening of her gut that suggested that perhaps she was swimming in deeper waters than intended passed away as soon as it came, replaced by the burgeoning glow of intrigue. That Scarlet was so taken with her homage was a good thing, it meant all of the authorial intent was hitting the intended marks. Or, they were dead-center for the woman that mattered the most, at least. There was no looming threat of a lawsuit, the executive seems genuinely taken with the tribute. But that she was looking into Turgidson was...concerning? Maybe a bit. That she had uncovered that there was no Dick was unsurprising, the original author had gone on to other things years ago. There were a lot of pseudonyms in publishing, maybe even as many as in the Turks. Elena waited an entire week before responding, although she'd drafted the reply within the hour. Best not to look too suspicious.

"Sorry, it took me so long to get back to you. You were right, things really are busy as ever! That being said, I did some digging into the matter of Turgidson. The Mayor wouldn't have been able to get you any files on him because apparently the books aren't written by a single novelist. The first three were written on a contract, but after the publisher refused to rework a royalty agreement the originator of the series left. Since then they've all been ghostwritten. I'm still following up on a lead regarding one of the more recent authors and will let you know when something turns up. Until then, Elena"

There was a strict "no-moonlighting" policy in the Turks. But Elena wasn't a Turk. More of an attache at this point, Scarlet's little lady on the floor, handling logistics relating to arming the men in black. So, several weeks earlier during a routine mid-day meeting, when Elena had spied a familiar paperback cover in her Scarlet's well-manicured hands, she'd felt pride instead of panic. At least until she realized that it probably wouldn't be good if Scarlet realized that the new female character was a blatant reference. Or that Elena had written the aforementioned character specifically to be so. So while the fact that "Violet" had been well received was a relief, this shared interest in pulp fiction was still a potential minefield. Maybe she should just come clean about the fact she'd been ghostwriting for the lurid thrillers but...where would the fun in that be?

"Mme Scarlet, I'll admit I wasn't sure about the royalty plot he started throwing at us in 'Egg', but it managed to work well enough! Probably on account of Violet's charisma, I am an absolute sucker for women who know what they want, even if everybody else had no idea what it is they are after. I wonder if she'll become a regular? If the reader reviews have anything to say about it, he'd be crazy to not bring her back again. Unless of course...it was a very intentional homage to you and he wants to avoid getting tangled up in potential legal issues... Maybe you should give him a little push? I saw you have an interview with 'C-Sense' scheduled for later this week, and they'll no doubt be asking for some soundbites related to tastemaker opinions, it's a glossy magazine after all. Good opportunity to subtly let Ol' Dick know you wouldn't be opposed to seeing more of Mademoiselle Encanchessa. Always a pleasure, Elena"

Another day, another memo. Scarlet's fierce tenacity was obviously a force to be reckoned with, that admirable modicum of viciousness which had helped make her into an executive. Well, it was more than a modicum, but the sharpness was seemingly blunted in regards to Elena. For...reasons that still hadn't yet become clear, but the younger blonde was doing her best to not look a gift chocobo in the mouth.

"Madam Director, Business attire is mandatory, but a fairly wide variation is allowed in styling. At one point I heard they tried to force a strict uniform but the dress code involved polyester and zippers that caused a minor departmental revolt. Female operatives are allowed to eschew the slacks, and if I were to be inducted into their ranks I'd probably choose to adhere to a more masculine silhouette only for fieldwork. Sticking to a more traditionally gendered skirt and heels in the office would likely net me better access to information from other internal corporate departments. The idea of the leader of the Turks in similar attire...I'm sure a lot of the company would find that appealing. Thank you for that mental image. Appreciatively, Elena"

The Director of Weapons Development left Elena memos, and they always smelled vaguely of the older woman's perfume. The scent was iconic, a calling card that the modern woman flocked to. It represented the power of femininity, the ability to grow and change, to bend but never break. At least, if Elena had been writing an OP/ED, that is what she would say about Scarlet's choice of scent. The reality was far less blush tinted and far more confusing.

She had no idea what she had done to catch the director's eye, and frankly? It unnerved her. Elena was not used to the attention of authority figures, at least not the positive praise that Scarlet seemed so intent on lavishing on her. Not to mention the fact that Scarlet, in her blooming womanhood, retained the thorns associated with a well-manicured rose.

Penning her answer carefully, Elena set about her response to Scarlet's mysterious correspondence.