That's something to consider. Tseng thinks back to the legends, to scripture, those ancient tableaus excavated from the earth and pored over and debated by archaeologists for as long as he's been alive. He has always had faith in their most literal interpretations, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was no metaphor inherent in their creation, no smokescreen beyond the warnings the Ancients left behind for the simple, verminous species known as humankind.
Which means that if he tries Sephiroth, the entire world may be at risk. He could set this whole planet ablaze simply to prove a point. Tseng needs to ask himself if Rufus's life is worth the lives of many—perhaps life as he knows it.
It's not much of a question. Of course it is. He'd kill them all with his bare hands if that was the only option left to him.
He smooths a palm over Rufus's bare chest, considering the question. The two things that he is have not yet merged in his mind: Rufus and president, his lover and the single most powerful man in the world. It was different, when they would steal away to the shadows and whisper treasonous things. Now, there is nothing stopping them at all—nothing stopping Rufus from rebuking him harshly if he does not like what he hears.
This is why it's always been important for presidents to stay mostly ignorant of Turk operations, to let the results speak for themselves. But Rufus has made it more than clear that that will not be an option here.
"A Class A narcotic blend," he says, working his fingers into the divots between Rufus's muscles, his gaze trailing to some far away place deep within again. "I mixed it myself. The results were instantaneous. I was able to subdue Sephiroth for hours." That wasn't exactly Rufus's question, but he needs to learn to be mindful of who he's asking. Tseng is no advisor or diplomat—his job is to kill men, or worse. "That is the only way to approach him now."
no subject
Which means that if he tries Sephiroth, the entire world may be at risk. He could set this whole planet ablaze simply to prove a point. Tseng needs to ask himself if Rufus's life is worth the lives of many—perhaps life as he knows it.
It's not much of a question. Of course it is. He'd kill them all with his bare hands if that was the only option left to him.
He smooths a palm over Rufus's bare chest, considering the question. The two things that he is have not yet merged in his mind: Rufus and president, his lover and the single most powerful man in the world. It was different, when they would steal away to the shadows and whisper treasonous things. Now, there is nothing stopping them at all—nothing stopping Rufus from rebuking him harshly if he does not like what he hears.
This is why it's always been important for presidents to stay mostly ignorant of Turk operations, to let the results speak for themselves. But Rufus has made it more than clear that that will not be an option here.
"A Class A narcotic blend," he says, working his fingers into the divots between Rufus's muscles, his gaze trailing to some far away place deep within again. "I mixed it myself. The results were instantaneous. I was able to subdue Sephiroth for hours." That wasn't exactly Rufus's question, but he needs to learn to be mindful of who he's asking. Tseng is no advisor or diplomat—his job is to kill men, or worse. "That is the only way to approach him now."