Rufus has shown interests in their operations before, of course. When he was younger, he loved the few stories Tseng would tell him, whispered in the quiet isolation of one hideaway or another. But those were spy tales, old war tales, tales that made it easy to overlook the truth of what they really were. As far as Tseng understands it, his job is to make sure that the president does not have to contemplate the evil and necessary things a corporation-turned-government needs to do to keep afloat in such a cut-throat world.

So he is not sure exactly what to say. What Rufus wants him to say. Of course, he expects perfect candor, Tseng is sure, but which takes precedence here: protecting Rufus, or giving him what he desires?

It really is a silly question to ask, isn't it? Tseng sighs, dropping his hands for now. He meets Rufus's eyes with his own, black and empty and severe as the bloody blades he died with.

"I took his flesh from him," he says, "until it was enough to pay for what he took from us."