InsaneJournal

ff50 - two more prompts
These two prompts are totally unrelated, plot-wise, but they both have a lot to do with Wutai--not surprising, since pretty much 90% of these are going to end up having a lot to do with Wutai.

The first one is the end of the Wutai war, and the second is somewhere more like Year 2 of Wutai--Sephiroth is about fifteen, maybe sixteen, in that one.

The first one also makes Rufus look horrible, but hey. He is horrible, probably especially as a teenager.


017. Jaded [~2,170]


“Godo wants to sign the treaty of surrender to Sephiroth,” the President said, chewing slowly on an unlit cigar. “Some Wutanese honor thing.”

“I’ll arrange it immediately,” Lazard said, already wondering how Sephiroth would take the gesture and how to coax him if needed, as obdurate as he had been recently.

“Not just Sephiroth, though,” the President continued. “Someone on the Board needs to go, too. Wutai is surrendering to Shin-Ra, not Sephiroth. Godo needs to understand that.”

Lazard nodded, cringing inwardly at the thought of ever returning to gods-damned Wutai. “I’ll—”

“No,” the President said, sharply, prompting a lazing Palmer to blink like a startled Fly Eye. “Not you, Deusericus.” He popped the cigar out of his mouth, pointing down the long table with it. “Rufus. You’re going.”

The Vice President brushed his hair out of his face, his blue eyes briefly meeting Lazard’s before he turned his attention to his father, who continued to talk. “Now, Godo knows the terms of surrender, but to reiterate, we take all rights to mako exploitation within Wutai and its surrounding waters, as well as possession of all Wutanese materia…”

Lazard tasked himself with trying to look acceptably disinterested while taking mindless notes. He could feel eyes on him—Heidegger or Tuesti—but he didn’t favor it with a returning glance; eventually whoever it was decided to mind their own business. The meeting dragged on almost intolerably, Lazard forcing himself to ask useful questions regarding information the Board wished to be conveyed to Sephiroth and to not grind his teeth every time Rufus spoke. It was a relief when the President finally lit his cigar and half the table abruptly excused itself, signaling the essential end of the Board meeting proper. Lazard pretended to look at his PHS as he left the room in case Rufus attempted to harass him, but the teenager seemed to be actually intent on something on his own handset.

Sephiroth was haunting the Director’s office, as was his habit when there was a Board meeting in session, in case some urgent matter requiring an administrative touch were required in Lazard’s absence. In the past it had been a kindly gesture, too, on Sephiroth’s part, being there to offer Lazard a small smile and a sympathetic ear after having been trapped in a room with the likes of Hojo and Scarlet for hours on end. Now, though, Sephiroth’s expression was careworn, his effect absent, even when Lazard told him that it was now official; the war with Wutai would be over as soon as Sephiroth’s pen touched the paper of the treaty.

“So it’s over,” he said, rising from his seat at Lazard’s desk with a creak of leather and the clipped tread of booted steps. “When do I leave?”

“They haven’t decided yet,” Lazard said, filing his notes away and preparing to close down his office for the weekend. “The schedule is being complicated by the delegate the President chose to co-sign the treaty. He’s decided that sending the Vice President along should be sufficiently humiliating to the Wutanese.”

Sephiroth made an unidentifiable noise.

“You’ll have to be on call until they settle on a date. Consider it vacation time.” He headed for the elevator and Sephiroth followed him.

“What about you?” Sephiroth asked, standing politely on the opposite side of the elevator carriage, though he had a hungry look in his eyes. “Are you going to be busy?”

“Probably,” Lazard said, trying to ignore the sudden charge in the close air of the elevator, the smell of ginger and leather and the way Sephiroth’s gaze touched on him like a brazen hand. “The entire layout of the troop deployments will have to be reconsidered. Again.”

“Lazard,” Sephiroth said, in that tone of voice, but then the elevator stopped, the doors opening to the entrance hall, and the two exited the building in lockstep and silence.

* * *

He showed up at Lazard’s door two days later, uninvited, under the premise of needing to discuss Wutanese court manners. Lazard looked tired and unhappy, and his PHS kept going off on the coffee table, though he never answered it, and eventually got irritated enough to turn it off, something Sephiroth had never seen him do before. His kisses were violent, careless and toothy; when Sephiroth knelt to suck his cock he reeled him in by his bangs and didn’t let go the whole time, wrapping the silver around his hand and pulling tight. Even after he came he refused to let go at first, going soft in Sephiroth’s mouth before he finally unwound his fist from his hair. He swallowed anyway, and even rested his cheek on Lazard’s thigh, breathing in the muggy scent of semen, sweat, and his own saliva.

“I’m sorry,” Lazard said, breathing raggedly, looking genuinely startled. “I don’t know why I…”

“It’s fine,” Sephiroth said. He was uncomfortably hard in his tight uniform pants, and slipped them off enough to free himself before curling next to Lazard on the couch, licking the sweat from his throat as he pulled roughly on his own erection. Lazard sighed and kissed him, gently, tasting himself in Sephiroth’s mouth, sliding a hand into the SOLDIER’s duster to rub and pinch his nipples. When Sephiroth came, Lazard drank in his groans, and kissed the leather-tasting skin over his slowing heartbeat.

“I wish I could go with you, to Wutai,” Lazard said, quietly. “Sending Rufus is a pointlessly spiteful move. It may even qualify as a war crime.” He laughed, a dark, vindictive thing.

Sephiroth said nothing.

* * *

The perfunctory Wutanese royal guard consisted of two old men, weaponless, shrunken-seeming in the ceremonial robes of the younger men they had outlived. They followed Godo with shuffling steps like elderly cranes. Godo himself was swollen, sick-looking, and stank powerfully of rice wine. When he bowed to Sephiroth, a child squalled and broke free of her nursemaid’s grip, flinging herself at Sephiroth and drawing the aim of every Turk in the room.

“No! Go away, go away!” It barely came up to Sephiroth’s thigh, but it had a fierce shine in its eyes and determined, if ineffectual, bare fists. “You’re a bad man! I hate you, I hate you!”

He caught its thin wrists as carefully as he could in one hand, but it only started kicking and tried to bite him through the leather of his glove. Not entirely sure what to do with such a persistent opponent, Sephiroth tried to keep it at arm’s length while he looked around for the child’s caretaker, or perhaps a sympathetic Turk, to remove it from the scene. Rufus, standing to his right, started bawling with laughter.

Godo finally stepped forward and scooped up the violent little thing, shushing it in Wutanese and attempting to smooth its hair and wipe its snotty nose. “Yufei,” he said, but it wriggled free of his arms and ran in tears from the room.

“Oh gods,” Rufus wheezed, clapping the tall Wutanese Turk beside him on the shoulder. “Tseng, did you see the look on his face?” He giggled obscenely, and it wasn’t until the Turk gave Sephiroth a vaguely disapproving look that Sephiroth realized Rufus was talking about him.

He returned his attention to Godo, whose jaw was clenched tight and eyes brimming and red. “I apologize for the manners of my daughter,” he said, stiffly, as if any excess of movement might cause him to spill. “Her mother is dead.”

“There is no need to apologize,” Sephiroth said, in Wutanese. “Her courage is commendable.”

Godo flinched and looked away, into the empty air of the hall. The treaty papers were produced, read aloud in both languages, and hastily signed. When it came time for Godo to ink the characters of his name and warlord title, his hands trembled and tears leaked down his face. “You murdered my wife and shamed my nation. May all the gods damn you and the earth curse your steps,” he said, quietly, in Wutanese.

Sephiroth only rose from the table, bowing to Godo, and turned to exit the hall. Infantrymen snapped to attention as he passed, and a few Turks followed him like supernumerary shadows, but he paid them no attention.

Back in the Shin-Ra encampment—though the whole country was Shin-Ra’s playground, now, he supposed—his ill ease was only slightly lessened. It was chilly here, on the northern peninsula, and the winds from both seas fought against each other, rattling the dry season bamboo and whistling over Da Chao. The infantrymen in their anonymous helmets and SOLDIERs with whom he had never served saluted him as he made for the barracks. They’d given him a room to himself and a private lavatory, things he had never been afforded in the war. When he sat on the bed, the Masamune stretched across his lap, he thought of Angeal and Genesis, of sharing one crowded, damp tent, of sleeping in shifts on a broken cot and mixing his piss together with that of every other SOLDIER in the same makeshift latrine. The war had been a hellhole, but it had been a communal one. Here, on the day of victory, he was alone.

* * *

He hadn’t truly slept, only leaned against the cinderblock wall and closed his eyes for awhile. A modulation of the outside noise, an increase in the number of feet tramping past the barracks, finally bothered him enough to stand up and check outside. The first floodlights were starting to flicker on, the generators on the edge of camp putting a faint tang of ozone and mako into the crisp evening wind. Alcohol, too, he could smell, from the officers’ tents. That smell always put him on edge; how was he supposed to rout any possible attacks with nothing but a dozen Thirds and half-drunk MPs? The fact that it was now peacetime, and there would be no more attacks, took a moment to sink in.

He had relaxed only fractionally when two rapid gunshots echoed off the wall behind him, coming from the far corner of the encampment. A woman screamed, and another shot, and then a general alarum—Sephiroth wasted no time in zeroing in on the source of the noise, Masamune bright in his hand.

There were no pleat-armored Wutanese soldiers in sight, though, or black-garbed ninja—only a swarm of Turks, and Rufus Shin-Ra half-naked in the doorway of his tent, looking pale and bruised around the neck. Sephiroth frowned, resheathing his sword, and rounded on the Wutanese Turk standing closest to Rufus, ready to demand an explanation.

Instead Rufus pushed the Turk out of the way and started screaming at him. “Took you fucking long enough! That bitch almost killed me!” He gestured violently towards his tent, where Sephiroth could see blood pooling and the naked legs of a woman. With Rufus out of their way, two Turks slipped into the tent and quickly began bagging everything. “My father should have your fucking balls on a platter! I could have died!”

He turned away from Sephiroth and started in on the Turks, who had already shrouded the body—a Wutanese prostitute, from the looks of it, with a considerably less intact skull than she had presumably entered the tent with—in black plastic. “No, leave the blood. Leave the fucking blood! He’s going to sit in it.” Rufus flipped back to Sephiroth. Handprints around his neck, certainly; he could see the indents of the prostitute’s fingers and thumbs starting to turn red and purple, and Rufus had a burst vessel in the overexposed white of his right eye. “You,” he snapped, flipping his sweaty bangs out of his face. “You’re my fucking bodyguard now. You sleep on my floor, you go everywhere I go. That is a fucking order, understood?”

Sephiroth blinked. “I’m not a Turk—”

“I know you’re not a fucking Turk!” Rufus yelled. “That’s the point! These useless shits, if Tseng had been a second slower I’d have died—”

“Maybe you should have refrained from bringing security risks into your tent with you,” Sephiroth said, crossly.

“Security is your problem,” Rufus said, glaring not only at Sephiroth but at the whole crowd that had accumulated, as accusingly as if they were the ones shirtless, goose-fleshed, and recently imperiled. The Turks made off with the body and a thoroughly bloodstained rug, and Rufus ducked back into his tent, only to reemerge seconds later to stare imperiously at Sephiroth. “Well? I said, you go everywhere I go. Everywhere. It’s called an order, you dumb fuck, you should be used to them by now!”

He cringed inwardly. This was not what he’d come back to Wutai for. But if he didn’t obey, he’d only have both Shin-Ras screaming at him later, instead of just the one. With great reluctance, he ducked into the tent, the Turk named Tseng following close behind him, and started in on what looked to be a much more irritating final tour of duty than he’d ever wanted.





047. Scramble [1,550]


It was Tuesday, so instead of lunch Lazard spent a half-hour on one of the treadmills in the executive gym. Nothing was greater motivation than Monday afternoon Board meetings spent confronted by a looming possible future of ever-expanding waistlines and beet-red complexions. He’d already gotten bad eyesight from his mother, he thought as he squinted at the clock; he wasn’t about to give in to paternal genetic ill fate as well. A gaggle of Scarlet’s secretaries hustled their way into the room to use the other machines, giggling behind their hands. Five more minutes. He turned up his music player, breathed deeply, and ran faster.

The executive locker room, however, was usually his favorite part of the Tuesday routine, because it meant he was finally finished running. He’d grown up taking baths in tubfuls of rusty, lukewarm water, rinsing out his hair with a pitcher; Lazard would never be one to take a decent shower for granted. He washed and toweled off in blissful, secretary-free privacy. At least Palmer hadn’t been in the sauna today. After that, it had been awhile before he could even think about having sex again. Not like he had the free time, but the possibility was always comforting.

He pinched his stomach and stood sideways in front of the mirror for a moment, before being plagued by the thought of hidden cameras. After that he dressed in his suit again quickly, and was thankful that—for now—any peeping Turks were at least getting a slender, well-kempt sight.

Sephiroth was lurking in his office, flipping through something that looked like a headache waiting to happen, something that Sephiroth presented, rather accusingly, as soon as he sat down.

“This won’t work,” Sephiroth insisted, dropping the heavy binder Peace Preservation had delivered to the SOLDIER offices onto Lazard’s desk.

“That is the plan agreed upon by the Board,” Lazard said, lamely, as if the General cared; Sephiroth rolled his eyes, damn him, like an impetuous child. “Now, I do give you that certain accommodations will inevitably have to be made for changing battlefield conditions—”

“Not enough,” Sephiroth interrupted. “The entire premise of the invasion is flawed. Moving the 47th Infantry at this time would mean ceding the entire central plateau. Which the Board would understand, if any of them had ever actually been to Wutai.”

“I’m going in two weeks.”

That news seemed to startle Sephiroth, to smooth his annoyance into disquiet. He thinned his lips and put the askew papers that had slipped from the binder back into order, his long-fingered hands delicately folding together on the desk before he finally looked up at Lazard. “Why?”

“You said it yourself. Nearly two years into this conflict, it’s inexcusable that no member of the Board has even set foot in Wutai. I’ve been trying to get permission to do a field review for months; it was only very recently that my persistence paid off. They stalled me for ages, claiming it was too dangerous to send Executive personnel—but I can’t think of a much safer place to be than ensconced with my SOLDIERs, honestly.”

“It is too dangerous,” Sephiroth protested. “We’re being shelled continuously. Two Third Classes were abducted and mutilated. The Engetsu Circle has been specifically targeting SOLDIER. If they were to find out you were there—”

“I’m aware of the situation,” Lazard said, adjusting his glasses habitually. The two Thirds had been a particularly grim incident—taken in the night off of a routine patrol and held for ransom. When Shin-Ra had refused to concede to demands, the SOLDIERs had been returned—eyeless, handless. He shuddered inwardly. “All the more reason I should go. I’m not satisfied in the least that Heidegger is taking adequate care of his own men, much less mine; how am I going to direct any kind of response to these intolerable conditions without having seen them myself?”

“Then Heidegger should go.”

Lazard snorted. “Even if he could be persuaded to, what good would that do SOLDIER? You know he thinks you’re invincible; he treats you more like Summons than people. He’s consistently tried to assign you the bare minimum of support and supplies—I’ve had to fight him even to secure adequate potable water for you.”

“SOLDIERs Second Class and above are able to process any contaminants in the native water supply without ill effect,” Sephiroth said, blankly.

“That’s not the point,” Lazard said, a bit frustrated. “My job is to ensure that each SOLDIER receives the maximum benefit this Company can possibly extend. At this point in time, I simply cannot do my job from Midgar alone.”

Sephiroth scowled, a downturn of his lips and a narrowing of his eyes. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Don’t you think you can protect me?” Lazard grinned. “Or would having old suit-and-glasses around cramp your style?”

Sephiroth gave him the sideways sort of look that meant he was completely baffled by Lazard’s words, but seemed to sit up straighter at the idea that he would be guarding Lazard in Wutai. “If you think that traveling to Wutai is for the best, then I cannot dissuade you,” he allowed. “But there is nothing you can say that will prevent me from being at your side for the entirety of your visit.”

The look on his face was so serious that Lazard felt a bit guilty for smiling so broadly at that. Sephiroth pinked charmingly in the cheeks, scuffling coltishly to his booted feet, bowing slightly, and murmuring an adieu. He was halfway out the door when Lazard called out to him. “Sephiroth!”

Perhaps only a SOLDIER could execute such a sudden and perfect heel-turn, back-length hair spinning out around him like a woman’s skirt. “Yes, sir?”

“What about the 47th Infantry?”

Sephiroth actually blinked, loudly, taking a beat before remembering what the hell Lazard was talking about. “Oh. I’m not assigned to the 47th; you should ask Angeal, in a minute.” With that he scattered, quick as a Jumping, leaving Lazard alone to shake his head, bemused.

Sure enough, Angeal Hewley appeared, betrayed to Lazard’s unenhanced ears by his heavy footfalls only a few moments before entering his office with a brisk salute. “Sir.”

“At ease. I was, in fact, just advised to ask you…” He flipped through a few pages of the binder. “Actually, I need you to come back here in…” A few more pages. Yes, there would be a headache today. “Oh Gods. Give me three hours.”

* * *

When he got home, five hours later, there was a package waiting for him. He kicked it solidly, and when it didn’t explode, smoke, or scream, he juggled it and his attaché case inside and cut the tape with a letter opener. Tucked inside was a dark blue poncho, a packet of waterproof matches, a three-slot bracer with a mastered Esuna, a can of citrus oil that pledged protection against a variety of blood-sucking insects, and a travel guide to Wutai.

* * *

Wednesday was the day he took the stairs instead of the elevator. It was a literal pain, and he could not for the life of him understand why Shin-Ra didn’t bother numbering the floors on each landing. A bit overenthusiastic, he ended up on Floor 53, surprising a hapless accountant. It was only five, between shifts, and the SOLDIER lockers were empty, so he washed his hair and changed into his business suit in peace. The shampoo was better on this floor, too, for some reason.

Sephiroth was in his office again, sitting at the side desk, making vigorous emendations to the binder that had stymied Angeal and him so thoroughly the day before. “I thought about it overnight,” the SOLDIER explained, his pupils visibly adjusting when Lazard flicked on the overhead lights. “I think you’ll find it’s much improved, now.”

Lazard nodded, settling his things down at his desk before accepting the amended binder. “Have you been here all night?”

“Mostly, yes.” He stood, stretching subtly before leaning against the side desk, pulling his gloves back on. His hands were long and white, the fingers on his left hand smudged with ink. There was a blue-black smudge, on the back of that hand, but Lazard didn’t get a good look at it before it disappeared under well-worn leather. In retaliation, Sephiroth peered curiously at Lazard’s damp hair. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not,” Lazard said, sitting to take account of Sephiroth’s handiwork. Penmanship, he grudged privately, was the one thing so far he’d found that the younger man was absolutely miserable at. The amended maps, at least, were perfectly clear, and seemed so far to be an undeniable improvement on Heidegger’s heavy-handed stratagems. Shin-Ra often forgot, Lazard thought, and to their loss, that they had raised in Sephiroth a brilliant tactician as well as a brutal fighter. It was not lost on him either that Sephiroth’s version of the battle timeline was far more conservative, and did not require any major offensives until after Lazard was scheduled to leave Wutai.

“For someone who seemed so initially opposed to my field excursion, you certainly are being helpful,” Lazard noted. “Thank you for the bug spray, by the way.”

The faint blush reappeared. It was on an impure impulse, certainly, but Lazard simply couldn’t help but smile indulgently.