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Tseng is furious.

Least of all that Veld is being taken from them.

Least of all that Veld announced his departure, without warning, in front of the entire department.

Most of all that he was not informed beforehand.

Most of all that he is helpless to change anything.

He tries to slow his pace to a deliberate walk into Veld's office, but there is part of a fire in him that burns only for the man he has worked under, and not for the political spider web woven by the executive superiors he is meant to sacrifice his life for. He does not knock when he enters, footsteps sharp and staccato on the tile, and Veld does not reprimand him when he all but storms into the privacy of Veld's wiretapped walls.

'Sir,' Tseng bites out, the honorific falling purposefully off his tongue. Veld looks up from where he stands behind the desk; the role reversal from two days ago has him turning his lips up in a sardonic smile that Tseng does not appreciate.

'Tseng,' Veld says evenly, not bothering to correct his student, not bothering to fall for bait so blatantly dangled. It makes Tseng's blood boil hotter. Can he change nothing? Has he spent all this time training to be nothing more than a puppet?

'You made that announcement on purpose,' he accuses, dark eyes sharp and fingers splaying themselves out on the soft wood of Veld's desk. He's so close and impulse infuriated, daring to do now what he's never done before as he stands - no longer shorter than Veld but instead equally tall - two feet away and glares his mentor down. If mentor no longer then who else is to take Veld's place? 'You gave me no warning. No choice in this matter other than to simply accept one boy's ludicrous suggestion --'

'It was the President,' Veld cuts Tseng off without so much as a blink or a reminder that, yes, he had given warning. His low baritone cuts smoothly across Tseng's self-righteous tirade as, even now, the younger Turk falls habitually silent. 'Who decided on my dismissal.'

'Is that the man we are meant to serve?' Tseng almost snaps, not caring for who may overhear. 'Have we not been his dedicated murderers?'

Veld raises an eyebrow at Tseng's unusual vehemence. The entire nonchalance of the situation, Tseng thinks, may drive him mad yet. 'It was also, actually,' Veld comments, tapping his table that has no cardboard packing box full of personal memorabilia, 'a certain Vice President who ventured the first inquiry. Targeting his own father, "What are you doing about this, President?"'

The words, pumped full of filial piety and Shinra's own brand of family sanctity, rip through the quiet room without Veld even having to raise his voice. Tseng's jaw is clenched shut, and on the table his fingers curl roughly against the wood, almost scoring marks as he brings them into a fist. The bastard, Tseng resists the urge to hiss under his breath.

Veld turns his face away, lips curled up, filled with something self-degrading and a sense of irony only a Turk would be able to appreciate. Fingers dance a swift stroke of keys and Tseng hears the lock of Veld's drawer give. Veld withdraws an official document and seems to consider it, taking a pen and seal from his collection of stationery and placing them deferentially over the papers. 'Your orders,' Veld murmurs, stepping out from behind the desk and leaving a space Tseng cannot and does not want to fill. 'Sir.'

Tseng opens his mouth to say /something/, but Veld claps him on the shoulder and, with the easy whim of a politician's temper, walks out of Turk headquarters, apparently not looking back.

-

Ring. Ri-

'Rufus.'

Tseng has not answered the Vice President's call in so brusque a manner before. A moment of silence passes as the two of them, one black and one white, regard each other, the distance between them both irrelevant.

'Tseng. I take you've heard the news?'

Tseng scoffs a laugh into the phone, something he must have learnt from Rufus himself.

Rufus' voice is so saccharine and smug that Tseng wishes, in a way he has not wished before, that he were close enough to introduce Rufus to a side of human nature that has no respect whatsoever for a meaningless title and a 16 year old's blind ambition. 'This is what you wanted, isn't it?'

More power? A position as head of Administrative Research? Leadership of other men? Tseng's grip on his PHS is startlingly tight, though few would have realised it. 'Perhaps, /sir/,' he says softly, almost vindictively, 'you have mistakenly confused the meanings of "loyalty" and "bribery".'

'It has put you in a far better position than you were last in.' Rufus' voice is clear with his own logic. 'Far better than a titleless existence as merely someone "under the director".'

Rufus Shinra, Tseng thinks, Rufus fucking Shinra, always so caught up against his father. Exiled to Junon, perhaps because he is dangerous, perhaps because his is stupid with plans, so many mighty plans that will lead him out from his father's long, long shadow. Tseng will not be a puppet for him.

'And so you believe, Vice President, that you can displace the leader of the Turks? That you will gain support from us - from me - because of it?' Tseng snorts, openly and derisively because Veld was right all along. Rufus Shinra is nothing more than a child, when it comes down to the fact, and to him, their lives are child's play. 'I am a Turk. My duty is to serve in the wake of others. Not everyone wants power of their own, Rufus Shinra. And I have never needed anything more. Sir.'

Tseng has never been the first to put down on the Vice President of the Shinra Company, but for the second and seemingly final time, the beep of the dial tone rings like a klaxon against Rufus' ear.

-

Tseng: member of the department of Administrative Research. On his file it has always been openly stated that it was he who was chosen to be hand-groomed by the previous Director, moulded so that should any contingency demand a changeover of leadership the Turks would never falter.

You cannot put Administrative Research in the hands of any other Shinra officer. Not under the Peace Preservation department with its blundering Army full of steroid and Mako-pumped buffoons, whose only merit and mode of operation is to overload and swarm an area until numerical superiority wins the day. Certainly not in the hands of upper level executives whose sole purpose in life is to make their own department names shine. The Turks need leadership close to the ground, to them. Nothing more. And certainly nothing less.

Veld gave him the office, and Tseng's first action is to walk behind the desk, look down with cold and contemplative eyes at the promotion notice in front of him, and then to rip the thick paper cleanly down the middle.

Tseng has begun his own machinations.

He spends the rest of the night researching the board of directors, selecting and eliminating all who seem competent until a single name remains, and steadfastly ignoring Veld's new title as head of surveillance.

When the Turks receive their next orders, it is not from the director's boy, as everyone thought it would be. Heidegger gya-ha-ha-s his way into their headquarters, spouting nonsense about the Army and the incompetence of the Turk's force, and all the while Tseng's eyes are fixed on the security cameras two points above the executive's head, eyes glittering and determined.

Veld is watching. And Tseng wants him to /see/.