It takes most of his resolve not to wince at Rufus's touch. The scar tissue there is newly-sealed, Curaga-fresh, and still livid with open nerves. The slightest brush of Rufus's fingers invokes a throb of pain that extends far too deeply into his gut to be comfortable. But Tseng remains solid and unaffected, at least on a visual level, his eyes as clear and focused as ever.

"I am a Turk and one of my men fell." However Rufus attempts to conceal his anger, he knows it's there, has anticipated its presence in the wake of his brief absence. It wouldn't be enough for one of him to remain; Rufus would demand them all if he'd demand any. His hand slips over Rufus's knuckles, pressing in, no matter how strange and sickening it feels.