Peter, risk of sounding like your mum, time for school.

president shinra (dead)

scarlet (one sided)

       ❀ IT  WAS  NOTHING  SHORT  OF  A  SURPRISE,  one  that  perplexed  her  as  the  usual  days  were  spent  in  paperwork.  Writing  off  assignments,  filing  reports,  the  typical  business  that  caused  her  to  feel  a  dread  within  the  little  crevice  Shinra  carved  out  calling  it  their  office.  The  mind  numbing  droll  of  the  news  continues  to  spew  whatever  propaganda  mouthpiece  decides  for  the  day,  she  isn’t  listening,  paying  attention.  It’s  only  when  summoned  does  her  blood  thaw,  enough  that  her  movements  are  feather  light,  hardly  detectable  as  they  had  been  for  years  until  she  was  unable  to  throw  off  the  shadows  from  approaching  closer. 

    Cheerful,  overly  sweet  in  a  saccharine  nature  that  was  rigidly  tight  like  plastic  that  would  not  yield,  a  smile  in  pure  crimson  as  she  waves  girlishly,  coquettishly.  Her  posture  remains  rigid  as  she  sits,  long  legs  crossing  over  each  ankle,  hands  perfectly  composed  resting  on  her  lap  -  neutral,  all  while  presenting,  see!  She  wasn’t  a  threat,  just  the  administrative  role  while  everyone  else  was  on  the  field.  “I  wouldn’t  take  you  as  someone  who  likes  subtly”  there,  in  her  pale  image  she  is  unsettling  even  when  playful,  a  tongue  that  jabs  like  a  knife  as  she  chuckles. 

     Scotch?  It  must  be  expensive,  the  color,  smell,  it’s  an  indicator.  For  a  brief  second,  a  pang  of  nostalgia  fills  her  stomach,  she  often  misses  the  days  of  drinking  whatever  cheap  liquor  burned  the  stomach  to  keep  her  mind  at  rest  while  neon  danced  in  her  line  of  vision;  Wall  Market  had  its  charm  after  all.  “I  don’t  know  their  backgrounds,  I  don’t  care  to  know,  who  we  once  were  ceases  to  be  once  we  put  on  our  shiny  suits.  Though,  I  can  attest  the  past  variation  of  who  I  was  understands  the  politics,  nature,  and  intricate  workings  -  name  a  sector,  I  can  tell  you  who  runs  it  &  how  to  blend  in”  her  head  cants,  observing  him  with  an  intensity,  where  is  this  heading?  “Oh,  a  favor!  You  know  how  this  works”  playfully,  each  word  bounces  with  a  sing-song  nature. 

the smile, that little wave. he lets it happen, lets the room swell with sweetness until it has him feel sick. bitter scotch clinks against glass, slow and deliberate; he doesn’t look up at first, just listens, the little sing song that lingers so sweet yet leaves him so sour. his response to her initial jibe is a small scoff and a flare of his nostrils, he slides one glass across the desk, not quite offering it like a gift, more like placing a paperweight where he wants it.

if she takes it, fine. if she doesn’t, also fine.

“you know how this works,” he repeats back at her, tasting sickly sweet words as if he's checking for poison. “good. then we skip the theatre.”

the folder he’d been dawdling over becomes suddenly relevant; he taps it once, then turns it toward her. not the contents yet. just the label, clean and boring, the kind that gets stamped and forgotten. ( the kind that hides teeth. ) its grasp sealed with a stamp that reads 'top secret' in a crimson ink.

“sector 6 - wall market.” words are spoken as if they're a diagnosis, an answer to her earlier display of knowledge. “don corneo.” he pauses, long enough for her to show him what she does with the silence.

“he has influence down there. hardly respectable, but he's enough cronies to have the place under his heel.” his features etch into something close to disgust. “he could be useful. he hears everything - has his grubby little paws on everyone; he owns people who don’t even know that they’re owned.”

finally, the director stretches in his seat, hot leather creaking, fingers steepled as if to conduct some grand spectacle. “i want him on a leash" his eyes intense, he leans forth, scowl twisting features almost handsome were they not ragged and scarred. "-i hear he has a weakness - pretty little things." a smirk almost comes with his words - the devilish sort - the sort that could have a person cringing.

“i need not your colleagues for this" reno and the bald one? after all what could they do besides scare off a potential connection? no; heidegger would hold them in reserve for another time; enjoy carrying cards while tseng has no hand to play. "only you - and i don’t care how you do it,” he adds, tone dragging over gravel. “whether you drink with him, dance with him, fuck him, or put a gun between his teeth—what matters is that when shinra calls, he answers.”

his gaze cuts back to the window, that iron horizon outside that twists the skies surrounding midgar; a sore sight something heidegger had always considered glorious. militirastic. mother nature, conquered. “you get him talking. you make him think he’s the one pulling the strings...and then you tighten them.”

' mmm. '

again, it was just a sound; measured. dismissive in a way that wasn’t overt, but designed to sting if you're paying attention.

' you'd make a fine intelligence officer, ' veld murmured, his voice silk-wrapped steel, a brow arching just a fraction as he considered his next words, ' if not for your need of affirmation and gratification. '

the turk shifted back, spine straight in his chair, arms crossing, a careful mirroring of heidegger's stance but looser. this time it was both brows that bobbed upwards, the tone of his voice hiking and a tickle of incredulous amusement colouring his words.

' wutai spies? a convenient spin story, even i have to admit that much. ' veld let the silence hang on the air of his office then, like the thick smoke of a pipe billowing and clinging, refusing to dissipate. the mention of corneo earned a soft breath, the barest hint of a laugh the turk would allow to cross his lips.

was it a dig at one of his turks? ruluf, perhaps? the young man had earned a formidable reputation as one of corneo's personal bodyguards. but he had grown tired of the dirty work he did on the don's behalf and veld had offered him new employment, acknowledging the younger man's skills and abilities, both with weapons and with the intel and knowledge he had gathered during his years at corneo's side.

' i have no doubt that you have had dealings with him, ' veld replied, smooth and easy, ' both profession and personal. ' a tilt of his head, almost a smile on his lips and it was gone before heidegger could fully register it.

' my ranks are healthy at the moment, i have no urgent need for new recruits - though i fear you can't say the same for your security troops? awful rumours of them frequenting corneo's lately - and owing him a hefty chunk of their salary. '

tugging the file he'd abandoned back to him, veld touched his pen to the covering report, ink flowing as he darted his signature across the line.

the director shifts in his seat, casual where it counts, deliberate where it hurts; keeps his eyes on veld the entire time - whether the man is pencil pushing or snapping back.

“wutai is always a convenient story.” heidegger tilts his head, expression almost thoughtful. “the difference is i don’t need you to believe it. i only need you to move when i say move.”

then veld swings back with his own blade, smooth and polite, and heidegger’s eyes narrow with something pleased at the challenge. the rumours, the troops, the salary. a neat little counter-attack.

“my security troops are loud,” he says, shrugging like it’s a known fact. “they drink, they gamble, they make stupid decisions with their wallets. it’s why i don’t let them think.” his gaze sharpens. "only follow orders."

the temperature would sure rise as heidegger edges himself a little closer to the desk - grin replaced in favour of a frown.

“as for corneo,” he murmurs, and the name sounds uglier in his mouth than it did a moment ago. “ever heard the term - useful idiot?” he pauses, takes a gander around the room, shoots a look back to veld. "of course you have." words extend into a small laugh, oddly quent for a man with usually such a bellow.

"now - how rude of me -" he smirks a knowing smirk; a 'gentle tease'. were someone to waste heidegger's time, he would be enraged but to waste another's - veld specifically - well, a man must keep himself occupied on a slow day. "wasting your-" he clears his throat "'valuable time'." he steps out of the seat, bares down at the turk with a grin "i only wanted to offer you my sincerest - that the president doesn't trust you...it's...truly-" honey-coloured eyes appear sickly sweet, tone false - yet revealing. the sly speech of a man stirring the shit. he takes a breath, holds it and shakes his head. "truly sad..." and before he'd leave, another word.