FicWad

It is not often that Tseng is called in to speak with his director face-to-face. As much time as they need to spend in each other's physical company, it is time they have already spent together in the past: in his training, Veld's guiding hand on his shoulder, Veld's discipline on his back, runs through Sector 8 districts and lessons which have imbued in the younger Turk a respect and dedication not easily matched.

But as a Turk he also as intellect; Veld sharpened Tseng's wit himself.

Often, thinking, moving pawns create trouble for checkmated kings.

'A whelp can become more than what it is meant to be,' Veld states, flipping through and removing a series of data screens. Tseng stands a point and three steps back, mute and almost chastised. Veld's well-trained shadow, he has his gloveless hands tucked square at the small of his back. Veld turns, sharp on his heels as his eyes sweep past his subordinate's, no acknowledgement in the brief exchange of glances. 'But,' he adds, 'even champion purebreds can produce a mutt, a bitch, a bastard.'

Veld moves out of the filing room, Tseng heeling obediently. Walking into his office, he places the files down, the glowing screen left open for inspection as he resumes a standing position behind his desk. Tseng does not presume to do anything more than wait before him.

Veld does not acknowledge him; this now a second time. He looks down instead, fingernail tracing switches and the data refresh.

ELFE (AVALANCHE, anti-Shinra terrorist group, /see Fuhito, Sears/).

His brows draw close for an interminable moment before a brisk, abbreviated flick of his wrist snaps the power off. His hand when he closes the file are calm, motions solid and smooth. Face: unreadable. His eyes: a burning lance through Tseng's own.

They are trained to say nothing, but Veld's words ring clear. A mutt, a bitch, a bastard. Tseng is almost jolted out of a trance he did not know he was under when Veld speaks again, voice hard. 'And Shinra has never placed great emphasis on the sanctity of family, anyway.'

'Sir -' Tseng begins, eyes glittering. Veld cuts him off by raising his hand. Tseng falls silent by habit to let the older man speak. When he does his voice is cold, as the Director of the Turks must be.

'Your calls to Rufus Shinra will cease. And I will hear no more about him outside of your professional capacity, nor about Junon, nor about inquiries relevant to the powers imbued to the Vice President - the figurehead - of this company. I hope I am understood.'

These words out of his mentor's mouth make Tseng burn; with what, he does not know.

Veld looks directly at him, one hand braced on the desktop as he leans forward, one eyebrow raised. Tseng did not know it was possible to feel this trapped with nothing but the Windsor-shaped noose his has around his neck binding him. He blinks, once, and inclines his head. 'Sir.'

He will either burn willingly in the heat of Veld's observation or be consumed and abandoned. Tseng does not shift to break the electric gaze.

'Good,' Veld says, his expression the first to change, but he does not look away. 'Now go.'

Tseng lets the door click audibly shut behind him.

Veld's PHS rings. Snapping it out, eyes returning to the documents on his desk, he answers. 'Veld.'

'Veld,' President Shinra's voice echoes over minute static. 'Have you found our traitor?'

Veld's fingers tap the screen he's reading, dark eyes focused and intent. 'No, sir,' he murmurs. (/Rufus Shinra; birthdate/bloodtype/h.../) 'Not yet.'

How far the fruit falls from the tree, sometimes.

TBC