wei_jiangling (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} wei_jiangling) wrote,@ 2008-12-05 21:12:00 |
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Because You're Turks [FFVII}
Title: Because You're Turks
Canon: AC
Characters: Rufus, Turks
Rating: T
Wordcount: 1159
Prompt: Rufus has amnesia -- does Rude try to help, or take shameless advantage of the situation?
Summary: Rufus is confused, and the Turks are concerned.
Note: Of course he tries to help. He's Rude. XP I wrote this largely because I was feeling like writing something stream-of-consciousnessy, and a bit odd psychologically. Amnesia!Rufus suited that end rather nicely. ...Poor guy. For once, I actually really feel sorry for him.
I awaken in an unfamiliar room, and the light in the ceiling borders on burning my eyes. Eyelids slide shut again in defense against the brightness.
“Turn the lights down,” I request. I don’t know why I assume someone is there, but it seems like someone will be. The light gets less blinding, so I was right. I open my eyes again to see a man in a suit, dark skin, no hair. Sitting in a chair a few feet away from where I’m laying in a bed.
“It wasn’t that bright,” he points out, sounding vaguely concerned. I frown at the comment. Yes it was, you idiot. It was blinding. It... you’re wearing sunglasses. What do you know?
...who are you, anyway? Where is this place? Why am I here?
...who am I?
And why are you looking at me so quizzically? I guess that’s quizzical, anyway. I can’t tell through the damn shades. Sitting up seems like a good idea, so I do. And I’m dizzy and my head throbs. I bring a hand to my head, but I refuse to lie back down.
“Are you alright?” No. I have no idea what the fuck is going on here. Do I look alright?
Given that you can’t read my mind, probably, actually. I’m not sure how to answer that question, so I just look at you.
“Rufus?” Prompting. You’re looking for a response.
Rufus. Is that me? That’s my name. Yes.
You don’t normally use it. Why do I know that?
Do I know you? Should I know you?
“Yes?” I give as an answer because I don’t know what else to say. “What happened?’ I add tentatively, and for whatever reason, you seem relieved. Because I said something?
“You fell, and hit your head. You’ve been out for a while.” I nod slightly, but don’t say anything. You sigh. “You really should use that wheelchair. The Geostigma...” Your voice trails off, as if the meaning of the words is inherently obvious.
Geostigma?
The pain, some part of me replies, and I can remember that much now. The pain. All over. In patches. Patches that keep getting bigger. Pain that made me collapse. I remember that. I don’t remember hitting my head.
I lift up my arm and examine it briefly before pulling the sleeve back to its place. I don’t need to look at the ugly black patches anymore. I remember.
I wish I didn’t.
You’re looking at me with that quizzical look again. I’m sure I look confused. I am confused. I look back at you, inventorying what I know. My name is Rufus. I have Geostigma. It hurts. You... I do know you. You’re a Turk.
...a what?
You hold up one of your hands and look pointedly at me.
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three,” I say confidently. Trust me, my vision is fine. And actually, you were right. The light hadn’t been all that bright, it was a byproduct of me waking up. You nod and lower your hand.
“What day of the week is it?” I don’t know. How long have I been out? I wouldn’t know that, anyway.
“Unfair question.” You look like you might argue that point, but then you understand what I mean, and change the line of questioning.
“What’s your name?” I smile; I can do that one. You said it earlier.
“Rufus,” I reply confidently.
“Your last name.”
...well, damn. For some reason I really don’t want you to know just how confused I am right now, but I don’t think I’m going to wriggle out of that one.
“You don’t know, do you?” Alright, you got me. I admit it.
“No,” I mutter with great frustration. I didn’t want you to figure this out.
I’m not sure why actually. I trust you, but it makes me too vulnerable. Vulnerable isn’t a good thing.
Wait. I trust you. Why?
You’re a Turk.
...a what? I still don’t know, but I know it makes you trustworthy.
“So what’s my last name?” I ask, and it’s more of a demand than a question.
“Shinra,” you say. Yes, that rings a bell. A big bell. It’s more than just a name. But... what? It’s almost there, but I can’t quite grasp it. You stand up.
“I’ll be right back,” you say, and walk away from me.
“Don--”
...I was going to say ‘Don’t leave me alone,’ but you’re already through the door.
---
A few minutes later, I’m surrounded by people. The man who was here before. A man with long black hair. A blonde woman. A redheaded man that looks strangely like a bomb just went off next to him. He always looks like that, though.
Again, why do I know that?
In any case, he’s the first one to speak, cocking his head to one side curiously.
“You really don’t remember us, Boss Man?” I glare back at him, wanting desperately to say something cutting, but I don’t have enough of a memory to figure out what that would be. I go with what I have.
“I remember enough to know that the fact that your shirt isn’t completely buttoned is normal.” He chuckles, and glances at the others with a smirk I am sure is characteristic.
“Not bad right there.” The others seem notably less amused.
“Things seem to be coming back in bits and pieces,” the dark-skinned man observes, and I nod. I know I recognize all of you people. I know you’re all wearing matching suits for a reason. I know you’re all Turks.
...somebody tell me what the fuck that means. I only have a word. I don’t want to ask, though, because I know the answer is complicated. I’ll figure it out eventually.
The black-haired man bends down to look me directly in the eye, as if he’s trying to see something inside my head. I stare back at him, and doubt that he’ll have any insight I don’t. Except he can probably see that I don’t quite know who he is. I shift my eyes away; they betray me too much.
“Is there anything we can do?” the young woman asks. The redhead and the bald man both shrug. I can’t tell if the black-haired man even heard her. He’s too focused on whatever it is he’s thinking about.
“Tseng,” he says simply, and I look at him again, confused and then with just a little bit of recognition.
“That’s your name.” He nods, and gives me the slightest hint of a smile.
“Good.”
You all... I know you, but I don’t know you. I know you’re Turks. I don’t know what that means, but I know it means I can trust you.
I don’t know quite what’s going on, but I know I’ll figure it out, and you’re going to help me. You’re Turks, and that means you’re the people on my side.
...doesn’t it?
Title: Because You're Turks
Canon: AC
Characters: Rufus, Turks
Rating: T
Wordcount: 1159
Prompt: Rufus has amnesia -- does Rude try to help, or take shameless advantage of the situation?
Summary: Rufus is confused, and the Turks are concerned.
Note: Of course he tries to help. He's Rude. XP I wrote this largely because I was feeling like writing something stream-of-consciousnessy, and a bit odd psychologically. Amnesia!Rufus suited that end rather nicely. ...Poor guy. For once, I actually really feel sorry for him.
I awaken in an unfamiliar room, and the light in the ceiling borders on burning my eyes. Eyelids slide shut again in defense against the brightness.
“Turn the lights down,” I request. I don’t know why I assume someone is there, but it seems like someone will be. The light gets less blinding, so I was right. I open my eyes again to see a man in a suit, dark skin, no hair. Sitting in a chair a few feet away from where I’m laying in a bed.
“It wasn’t that bright,” he points out, sounding vaguely concerned. I frown at the comment. Yes it was, you idiot. It was blinding. It... you’re wearing sunglasses. What do you know?
...who are you, anyway? Where is this place? Why am I here?
...who am I?
And why are you looking at me so quizzically? I guess that’s quizzical, anyway. I can’t tell through the damn shades. Sitting up seems like a good idea, so I do. And I’m dizzy and my head throbs. I bring a hand to my head, but I refuse to lie back down.
“Are you alright?” No. I have no idea what the fuck is going on here. Do I look alright?
Given that you can’t read my mind, probably, actually. I’m not sure how to answer that question, so I just look at you.
“Rufus?” Prompting. You’re looking for a response.
Rufus. Is that me? That’s my name. Yes.
You don’t normally use it. Why do I know that?
Do I know you? Should I know you?
“Yes?” I give as an answer because I don’t know what else to say. “What happened?’ I add tentatively, and for whatever reason, you seem relieved. Because I said something?
“You fell, and hit your head. You’ve been out for a while.” I nod slightly, but don’t say anything. You sigh. “You really should use that wheelchair. The Geostigma...” Your voice trails off, as if the meaning of the words is inherently obvious.
Geostigma?
The pain, some part of me replies, and I can remember that much now. The pain. All over. In patches. Patches that keep getting bigger. Pain that made me collapse. I remember that. I don’t remember hitting my head.
I lift up my arm and examine it briefly before pulling the sleeve back to its place. I don’t need to look at the ugly black patches anymore. I remember.
I wish I didn’t.
You’re looking at me with that quizzical look again. I’m sure I look confused. I am confused. I look back at you, inventorying what I know. My name is Rufus. I have Geostigma. It hurts. You... I do know you. You’re a Turk.
...a what?
You hold up one of your hands and look pointedly at me.
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three,” I say confidently. Trust me, my vision is fine. And actually, you were right. The light hadn’t been all that bright, it was a byproduct of me waking up. You nod and lower your hand.
“What day of the week is it?” I don’t know. How long have I been out? I wouldn’t know that, anyway.
“Unfair question.” You look like you might argue that point, but then you understand what I mean, and change the line of questioning.
“What’s your name?” I smile; I can do that one. You said it earlier.
“Rufus,” I reply confidently.
“Your last name.”
...well, damn. For some reason I really don’t want you to know just how confused I am right now, but I don’t think I’m going to wriggle out of that one.
“You don’t know, do you?” Alright, you got me. I admit it.
“No,” I mutter with great frustration. I didn’t want you to figure this out.
I’m not sure why actually. I trust you, but it makes me too vulnerable. Vulnerable isn’t a good thing.
Wait. I trust you. Why?
You’re a Turk.
...a what? I still don’t know, but I know it makes you trustworthy.
“So what’s my last name?” I ask, and it’s more of a demand than a question.
“Shinra,” you say. Yes, that rings a bell. A big bell. It’s more than just a name. But... what? It’s almost there, but I can’t quite grasp it. You stand up.
“I’ll be right back,” you say, and walk away from me.
“Don--”
...I was going to say ‘Don’t leave me alone,’ but you’re already through the door.
---
A few minutes later, I’m surrounded by people. The man who was here before. A man with long black hair. A blonde woman. A redheaded man that looks strangely like a bomb just went off next to him. He always looks like that, though.
Again, why do I know that?
In any case, he’s the first one to speak, cocking his head to one side curiously.
“You really don’t remember us, Boss Man?” I glare back at him, wanting desperately to say something cutting, but I don’t have enough of a memory to figure out what that would be. I go with what I have.
“I remember enough to know that the fact that your shirt isn’t completely buttoned is normal.” He chuckles, and glances at the others with a smirk I am sure is characteristic.
“Not bad right there.” The others seem notably less amused.
“Things seem to be coming back in bits and pieces,” the dark-skinned man observes, and I nod. I know I recognize all of you people. I know you’re all wearing matching suits for a reason. I know you’re all Turks.
...somebody tell me what the fuck that means. I only have a word. I don’t want to ask, though, because I know the answer is complicated. I’ll figure it out eventually.
The black-haired man bends down to look me directly in the eye, as if he’s trying to see something inside my head. I stare back at him, and doubt that he’ll have any insight I don’t. Except he can probably see that I don’t quite know who he is. I shift my eyes away; they betray me too much.
“Is there anything we can do?” the young woman asks. The redhead and the bald man both shrug. I can’t tell if the black-haired man even heard her. He’s too focused on whatever it is he’s thinking about.
“Tseng,” he says simply, and I look at him again, confused and then with just a little bit of recognition.
“That’s your name.” He nods, and gives me the slightest hint of a smile.
“Good.”
You all... I know you, but I don’t know you. I know you’re Turks. I don’t know what that means, but I know it means I can trust you.
I don’t know quite what’s going on, but I know I’ll figure it out, and you’re going to help me. You’re Turks, and that means you’re the people on my side.
...doesn’t it?
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