Rufus wakes when the rising sun first kisses the steel and glass of his bedroom windows. His apartment -- hard-won from Daddy Dearest, the reward for being top of his class last year, and Daddy had expected him to ask for something else and the fact he hadn't had disconcerted the man for weeks -- faces due east. It's one of four on the sixty-fourth floor of Residential Three, the executive wing and the penthouse floor, and he knows the eastern exposure was supposed to be an insult. Shinra's offices open at sunrise and stay open late into the night, but the movers and shakers, the ones who make the decisions those morning workers need to implement, are rarely in their offices before nine or ten AM. He was supposed to have been forced to choose between being woken too early every morning by the unrelenting glare of unfiltered light through the floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting off Midgar-Above's steel and chrome, or hanging curtains to block away the view. (Insult, so subtle one would have to have been raised to Shinra's manipulations to comprehend it. His father knows what the sight of Midgar means to him.)
His father had never realized he doesn't need the sun to wake him each morning; he wakes before dawn without fail. It isn't his favorite time of day, nor his favorite view of Midgar, but it only escapes being such by the fact that Midgar by starlight and moonlight, the jewels of glowing neon unfolding beneath him sixty-four floors down, transcends beauty and reaches the realm of the sublime. Midgar in the mornings is a different lady: an actress without her stage paint, faintly ashamed to be seen without her protective camouflage but still willing to strip herself naked for the right lover and offer up her secrets. It's one of the earliest things he remembers: his nanny (that year's nanny, and he can't remember her name now, but she had been yet another anonymous and interchangeable thing in a life full of them) coming into his room and opening the curtains, letting the early-morning Midgar sun shine in, and he can't remember a time when he didn't know the city would be his someday. (He can't remember a time when his father hadn't rejoiced in that knowledge and despised it in equally-balanced measure.)
His bedroom has no curtains. It's fitting, he thinks, to sleep every night with his skin bathed in the light of Midgar's glory and wake each morning to the soft glow of the sun peeking almost shyly over the horizon. The twenty minutes between the time the sky first begins to paint the sky grey and violet and the time the first rays of gold reach out their questing fingers to reflect against the metal below is his time to roll over onto his stomach, cradle his pillow in his arms, and watch his city through the bulletproof floor-to-ceiling glass the wall his bed is pushed up against is entirely composed of.
(There are those who say that Midgar is his father's city. That his father built her, that his father made her, that his father owns her. He knows better. He has never seen his father have to pause halfway through a sentence because he turned his head past a window and caught a glimpse of Midgar stretched out below him, waiting for his hand. His father thinks he owns Midgar, but his father thinks he owns many things, and most of those things won't even give him the time of day.)
Those twenty minutes are his gift to himself, every morning. He takes them no matter where he is: in the dorm room of the expensive boarding school his father calls an investment in his future and he calls prison, or here in the city of his birth, his first and truest love. They are his time to wake slowly, to review the upcoming day, to plan his strategies. To build his worst-case-scenarios and guard against them. Sometimes he looks at the children he goes to school with, those who are technically his peers, and has to laugh at their naïveté. None of them have to spend every morning reviewing their schedules to find openings an assassin could exploit and making plans for how to close those security gaps. None of them have ever had to review every word spoken to them the day before to tease out the undercurrents of what the manipulation attempt is for this time; none of them have ever had to carefully plan each conversation they expect to have that day so they will not be caught off guard.
(None of them have ever killed a man. He remembers his first: the second day of Festival two years ago, and he'd ducked his security detail and melted into the crowd that was gathered for his father's speech and enjoyed forty-five minutes of anonymity, exploring the street crowds and holiday merriment, before a group of anti-Shinra rebels that had somehow gotten through the security cordon had spotted him and closed in. Tseng had found him after he'd dispatched the first two, and stepped back to watch instead of interceding. Afterwards, with his hands sticky and the skin of his cheeks itching from the arterial spray he'd been unable to duck, Rufus had expected to be sick, but all he felt was a bubbling, effervescent exultation that his training had held up under pressure. He'd asked Tseng why Tseng hadn't intervened, and Tseng had met his eyes and inclined his head and said, because you had it under control, and you needed to know that you could do it, before adding, and if you slip your detail again, it won't matter, because I'll kill you myself.
Rufus had gone home that night and brought himself off over and over again, thinking of the curve of Tseng's neck as Tseng bowed it to him, thinking of the look of quiet pride in Tseng's eyes. Thinking of how, when Tseng said next time, go for the femoral first, not the carotid -- it's easier to reach and fewer people think to defend it, Tseng really meant excellent work. Thinking of how he wouldn't be a child in Tseng's eyes forever, and how he'd seen the first stirrings of the respect Tseng would -- someday, hopefully -- hold for his adult self, and thinking of how much he'd like to see Tseng bend his head to him again.
But it had been too soon then, and if he'd tried he would have ruined everything, and -- despite what so many people think, despite the carefully-cultivated image he's been building for as far back as he can remember, because above all else it's useful when people underestimate you -- he's capable of patience when the end goal is something he wants so fiercely.)
The hushed cathedral of pre-dawn can't last forever. As always, the first rays of true light flare into being, forcing him to squint against them; as always, he slides out of bed and rises to stand, naked, at his bedside. The windows are treated with too many things to fog up from the temperature differential beneath his hand when he lifts it to press against the glass. It's going to be a scorching day out there once the sun rises a little more, the metal of the plate reflecting radiant heat upwards and concentrating it, but inside the Shinra complex it is perpetually sixty-eight degrees. Sometimes he wishes he could open a window, long enough to at least feel the breeze, but he's too far up. The windows carry too much of this building's load to be anything other than stationary. It's a trade-off he's more than willing to accept. (There are balconies elsewhere in the building for him to step out upon if he truly wants to.)
"Good morning," he says. They are the first words he speaks every morning, when he is here. Even when there is someone else in this bed with him, the words are always for Midgar herself. Sometimes he gets the faintest of feelings that he can feel her smile in response.
His morning routine never varies: first into the bathroom to brush his teeth and use the toilet, then to the kitchen, where his coffee maker obligingly has his first cup of the day waiting for him. (Black, one sugar.) Ten minutes to flick through his email, standing still-naked at the breakfast bar in his kitchen, mug of coffee in one hand and his laptop's mouse in the other, triaging things into what he needs to read before reporting for work and what he can save for later. When he's finished, he rinses out the mug and sets it in the dishwasher -- he refuses to allow the cleaning staff in his space while he is in residence, and keeping his place tidy isn't much of a chore when he is not by nature inclined to material possessions -- and returns to his bedroom. There, he sinks down to the plush and luxurious carpet, stretches his legs out, and begins the series of warmup exercises designed to wake his muscles the same way the coffee wakes his mind.
When he's beginning to feel limber enough, he pulls out a pair of sweatpants and the next ragged t-shirt on the pile of clothing he's stolen from others over the last few years, then begins the laborious process of actually dressing himself. (Clothing has no bearing on whether or not he feels naked; Tseng's had enough of the teaching of him that the center of his shoulderblades itch whenever he steps through the door of his apartment unarmed, for all he has to conceal his weaponry incredibly carefully. Particularly at school.)
The shoulder harness for the Shinra P-225 goes over his undershirt (too hot out there for an undershirt to be truly comfortable, but he learned the hard way that if he doesn't wear one, the straps of the harness chafe in places he doesn't want to think about) and under his t-shirt; the ankle holster for the .22 goes under the sweatpants, on his right; the holsters for the brace of ceramic knives (balanced for both throwing and close-quarters fighting) that were Tseng's birthday gift to him last year, when the school started sending students and visitors alike through metal detectors at random intervals, are strapped on both thighs. (The pockets of all his sweatpants have no bottoms. It means he has to keep anything he wants with him in his shoe, but he's willing to sacrifice convenience for a quick draw.)
Thus fortified, he hangs the lanyard of his keycard-holder around his neck and goes to meet Tseng for their morning run.
The battle of the morning run has been hard-fought over the years. Tseng maintains that five miles starting in Upper Central and crossing through three upper sectors before returning might be perfectly safe for him -- no one messes with a Turk -- but it's an unnecessary security risk for Rufus in a world where business rivals, slum rebels, and sovereign nations all want to see Shinra's empire tumbled. Rufus maintains that treadmills give him shinsplints, running on them bores him to tears, and he goes out running at school all the time. He won a temporary concession after that afternoon in the alleyway, after he'd proven to Tseng that he could defend himself when attacked and would not quail at killing when killing was called for; the temporary agreement turned permanent the next summer purely by dint of Rufus showing up at Tseng's door at six-thirty AM the first full day of his break. They've compromised on at least varying the route every day, alternating choosing turns at random and by whim. The fact they begin every morning at the same time is a security risk in and of itself, but it's one that can't be mitigated; they both live regimented lives.
Sometimes he has to wait for Tseng -- never more than a few minutes, but it's usually even odds that Tseng has been called out of bed even earlier than Rufus rises on some bit of Turks business or another -- but this morning Tseng is in the lobby when Rufus gets there, in sweatpants and t-shirt with probably twice as much weaponry as Rufus is carrying concealed underneath them. He's leaning casually with one leg up against the pillar that gives him a perfect view of everything in the room, sipping from (as always) a large-sized caramel and white chocolate macchiato whose cup bears the logo of the coffee franchise that pays through the nose for a space in every Shinra building's lobby. (Tseng's hopeless sweet tooth is one of the better-kept secrets of Shinra's upper echelons; Rufus and the Turks are the only ones who know he puts four additional sugars in the coffee each morning, and could probably be bought completely -- or at least temporarily -- for a box of the good chocolates that little chocolaterie in Upper Four imports from Mideel.)
Today, Tseng is just finishing his macchiato as Rufus arrives; he salutes Rufus with the cup before drinking the last of it and pitching the cup into the trash can next to him. "Morning, kiddo," he says, the way he does every morning, and like every morning Rufus grits his teeth against protesting the name. He isn't a kid. He hasn't been a kid for at least as long as Tseng has known him, not even for quite a bit before, and Rufus knows full well that at his age Tseng himself had long since been considered a man in his home culture. (Midgar isn't Wutai, Tseng had said, the one time Rufus had made that point, and added -- so softly Rufus thought he might not have known he was speaking -- thank fuck.) But raising the issue again not only wouldn't get him anywhere, it would cement his position in Tseng's thinking as someone immature enough to protest more than once in the first place, out of nothing more than misplaced pride.
Rufus has plenty of pride, but none of it is misplaced.
So he nods to Tseng and flashes him the smile he knows Tseng loves to see from him, the one subtly swearing he's nowhere near as fucked up as Tseng sometimes fears he is. "Morning," he says, coming to a stop at Tseng's side. He gives into impulse and laces his fingers together, pushing his arms up over his head and coming up onto his toes, arching his back so the t-shirt's ripped and frayed hem rides up to show the flat of his belly, the jut of his hip. He carefully hides the smile when Tseng's eyes come to rest on the skin thus made visible. (Tseng would only claim that he was checking to make sure Rufus's weaponry was concealed well enough, anyway.) Finding ways to make Tseng look at him -- to make Tseng touch him -- without it being obvious has been one of his hobbies for a while.
Tseng unwraps the strip of leather from his wrist and ties back his hair back at his nape with a quick, practiced motion. "Happy birthday, by the way," he adds, offhandedly, as they start the process of keycarding themselves out through the building's security stations. (Rufus makes sure to wave to the security guard as they pass the one manned checkpoint. He hadn't needed Tseng to tell him that making friends with the hired help can make the difference between success and failure in the future, but Tseng had been quite emphatic, and so Rufus always makes sure to demonstrate that he paid attention to those lessons. He pays attention to all Tseng's lessons, far more than Tseng will ever realize.)
"Thanks," Rufus says. Tries to ignore the way the fact Tseng remembered makes him feel. (Tseng probably has a reminder programmed into his phone, anyway.) He squints against the sunlight as they pass through the last set of doors, fishes the pair of sunglasses out from the hem of his shirt where he'd tucked them at his throat. (Present from Rude, last year. The Turks and Sephiroth are the only ones who ever mark his birthday with gifts; sometimes, Rufus even likes to pretend it's not because they want to ingratiate themselves to the man who will be signing their orders in the future.)
Tseng waits for him to get the sunglasses settled, then gives him the small smile that always indicates Tseng is truly amused by something. "Stop by the Turks' lounge after your day ends," he says. "Reno was planning to bake you a cake."
Rufus laughs. "Oh, Ramuh. If it's edible, it'll probably use ingredients that aren't legal in half the jurisdictions out there." (Still. It's more, far more, than his father will have for him today. Sometimes he thinks he should be worried the closest thing he has to friends are the men his father sends out to do all the dirty work, men a decade and more older than he is, men who do violence for a living. The rest of the time he's just glad to have them, no matter what their true motives are. He might not be able to trust them completely, but he doesn't trust anybody completely -- not even Tseng -- and at least the Turks have never outright betrayed him.)
"Probably," Tseng agrees. "We'll make him try it first." He gives Rufus the same once-over he gives Rufus every morning, his teacher's eye evaluating whether Rufus is prepared enough to begin. Rufus must pass muster -- he always does -- since Tseng adds, "Think you can do an extra mile and a half today?"
Anything you can do, I can keep up with you. He knows better than to say it. "Sure thing," he says, and -- just to twist Tseng's tail a bit -- adds, "Old man."
It gets him a whap upside the head, but it's worth it. And then they're running, and Rufus can feel the morning wind in his hair, feel the firmness of Midgar's sidewalks beneath his sneakers, feel the hum and ebb of his city stretching and yawning her good-mornings as she begins to wake. The sun has already begun to warm the plate; he loves the smell of it, the hot iron-steel tang of sun-kissed metal with just the faintest hint of last night's rain layered atop it. Sometimes he imagines he can feel the Mako surging beneath his feet, drawn up into the reactors, there to be transformed into the energy necessary to keep the city alive.
When they finish their run, Rufus will go to shower and dress for the next day in the series of menial jobs his father has assigned him for summer's duration, thinking it another insult. Thinking it will humiliate him -- the man who will someday own the world -- to sort mail and dispose of garbage and arrange chairs for the petty demands of middle managers who enjoy lording that small power over the heir to the throne.
Sometimes he wonders how his father could have built so much while being so stupid. Sometimes he wishes he'd had the chance to know his mother, to be able to say if his own intelligence and foresight had come from her, or if they had been a fortuitous gift of the gods he still isn't sure he believes in.
He is Rufus Shinra, and today he is sixteen years old, and the whole world knows his name. To more than half of them, it's a curse. It's all right. It isn't that he doesn't mind -- he does -- but he has the rest of his life to repair that.
Everybody starts somewhere.