At least he's hot

Chapter 13 - father and son


Rufus opened his eyes to find himself staring up at a rectangle of fluttering fluorescent light, framed by an unremarkable background of off-white tile. So, he was in the hospital… again. This ceiling was growing far too familiar.

A couple of mercifully ignorant seconds passed him by – a blissful moment of pure, innocent amnesia – but it wasn’t long before reality hit him like a hard slap in the face. All at once he remembered that Sephiroth was dead, his house was demolished, and everyone in Midgar was going to see that fucking tape, if they hadn’t already seen it. Flashbacks of the robbery immediately assaulted his senses – the alien gasmask faces, the solid, deadly crowbars clenched in gloved fists, the baffled expression on Sephiroth’s face when the bullet pierced his chest. That shocked expression hung over him more than anything else – the way those green eyes had widened in utter disbelief, as if he simply couldn’t accept the fact that he was dying. Tears welled in his eyes, slid down his face, and he didn't even bother to wipe them away. Sephiroth was dead. A lump the size of a baseball formed in his throat and a wave of utter grief washed over him - grief so intense that the ceiling above him slowly began to spin. He felt that same weightless sensation that had taken over his senses during the robbery – like the pull of gravity was simply letting him go, like he was falling away from the earth. The harsh reality around him slowly dropped away, faded to a mute buzz in the distance.

* * *

“Rufus, wake up. Come on, you’ve been asleep for two days. Wake up.”

The words pulled him out of his blackout haze like a life raft flung into the ocean. Slowly, very slowly, he became conscious of the bed under him, the sheets over him, and the cool, processed air on his skin. A slender yet strong hand was firmly shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and blinked away the blurriness to find Tseng at his side, a hint of concern barely visible on his stoic, angular face.

“Tseng…” he croaked, but only a choked-up sob came out.

“Rufus, we don’t have much time… so you have to listen carefully to me and pay attention,” Tseng said briskly. “I have some important news to tell you. Are you listening?”

He nodded weakly, unsure of whether or not he wanted to hear what was to come.

“First of all, we still don’t know who broke into your house. Your neighbor called in a noise complaint when the robbery was apparently taking place, but by the time police arrived the intruders were long gone. The only robber still at the scene was dead, sprawled out on your bed… and we haven’t been able to positively identify him. There’s no evidence… no fingerprints, no camera footage, nothing. And the security guards deny ever seeing anyone suspicious enter the building. We have a feeling they may even be in on it. Rufus, do you remember anything that can help us catch them?”

Rufus took in a deep breath and held it. Reno. He almost said it; he wanted to say it… but he had nothing to back it up. He wasn’t even sure himself. The possibility that he was wrong forced him to shake his head. He let out his breath. “No…” he sighed. “No, I didn’t see anyone’s face.”

“Damn,” Tseng huffed. “I have a shitty feeling we’re not going to find them. To think, the Vice President of ShinRa can get robbed just as easily as someone under the plate.” He shook his head. “Well, the next message I have for you is from your father. He wants to talk to you immediately, but he didn’t tell me why. All I know is that he’s pretty riled up. So I’m supposed to escort you to his office right away.” Despite the practiced neutral expression on the Turk’s face, a barely detectable glint in his eyes suggested that Rufus was in deep shit.

The weightless feeling descended on Rufus again, accompanied by a fluttering bout of nausea. His father associated homosexuality with devil-worship, and the sole fact that Sephiroth had been in his house, in his boxers no less, gave plenty of room for suspicion. What excuse was possibly going to get him out of this one?

“Last but not least,” Tseng continued, “Sephiroth’s alive.”

Rufus’ heart skipped a beat. “What?” he whispered, afraid that he had simply misheard the Turk.

“Sephiroth is alive,” Tseng repeated slowly. “I don’t understand how… but for some inexplicable reason he survived. He’s not conscious yet… but I saw it for myself. He’s alive.”

Rufus sat up quickly, ignoring the sharp pain that jolted through his brain. “I have to see him,” he blurted weakly. “Where is he? Take me to him! NOW”

Tseng shook his head sternly. “He’s not here, he’s in Hojo’s lab,” he explained, meeting the incredulous glare in the VP’s eyes with a calm, level gaze. "Look," he added, "I don’t know why he’s there. All I know is that as soon as Hojo got wind of the news, he ordered that Sephiroth be moved from the hospital straight to his lab. For reasons beyond me, the guy has complete authority over the General’s medical care. Perhaps it has something to do with the Mako treatments… but either way, Sephiroth is locked away behind so many levels of security that even I had a hard time getting access.”

Rufus’ mouth was dry and his head was spinning. Suddenly drained of what little energy he had, he collapsed back onto the bed, numb with disbelief. Was all of Sephiroth’s ranting true? Was the General property of Hojo? “Then take me to the lab…” he hoarsely pleaded. “I’m the goddamned Vice President. They’ll have to let me in.”

Tseng patiently shook his head again, his face a mask of cool detachment. “I have orders to take you to the President’s office, nowhere else,” he said. “I’m sorry, but your father’s orders take precedence. There’s nothing I can do about it.” His eyes softened slightly and he sighed. “Rufus, I know you… uh… care for Sephiroth," he continued, "and I know you’re probably worried shitless about him, but I have to follow orders. Try to understand, I’m just doing my job.”

“Try to understand?!” Rufus spat. “Goddamnit, I had to watch him take a bullet! I heard the gunshot, saw the blood coming out of his chest, watched helplessly as the fucking life faded out of his eyes! Tseng, I have to see him, and that’s all there is to it!” He paused to catch his breath, wincing at the urgent jolts of pain singing through his skull. “I’ll take all the blame,” he sighed, “Just take me there… please.”

A vague sign of inner struggle showed from under Tseng’s mask of calm detachment, just a slight furrow of his brow, nothing more. Rufus knew that when the man betrayed even the slightest emotion on his stoic face, it meant he was seething with turmoil. An eternity seemed to pass. Finally, in a voice that was nothing but defeated, he said, “Okay. But I’m holding you to your promise… if we get in trouble, which I know we will, you’re taking all the blame.”

Rufus grinned broadly, despite the grim circumstances. “So there is an ounce of compassion in you somewhere,” he mused. He raised himself to his elbows and struggled valiantly to a sitting position, causing his brain to throb murderously from the exertion. “Now I just have to get there…” he groaned. His head felt as big as a pumpkin.

“Here,” Tseng said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small vial. “I brought this to get you on your feet. Elixir… bad for your liver, but there’s no time for you to lay around and heal naturally.” He handed Rufus the vial. “Drink up.”

Rufus unscrewed the cap and tossed back the vial’s contents without a second thought. The liquid was thick and tasted like something dredged up from the bowels of a toxic waste dump, but as soon as it hit the back of his throat he felt a hot, tingling sensation spread through his body, coursing through his limbs like a million pinpricks. It almost felt euphoric. The throbbing in his head waned to a dull ache, then disappeared completely. “Hey, that shit really works,” he marveled.

“I know,” Tseng dryly replied. “Now put on these clothes I grabbed from your house. We'll have to hurry… your father’s waiting for you and believe me, you don’t want to piss him off anymore than he already is by showing up late.”

* * *

Sephiroth was only aware of a few things in his detached state of consciousness. The pain was the biggest thing, a constant dull throb in his chest, and if it wasn’t for the pain, he’d be more certain that he was dead. He was also aware of floating, of drifting weightlessly… there was no ground under his feet, no sense of up and down. He frequently dreamed that he was lost in the vast depths of the ocean, suspended in an infinite blue-green void. There was nothing solid in this aquatic dream, nothing tangible that he could grasp or comprehend… there was only pain and a hollow kind of loneliness. He vaguely wondered if this was going to last forever… if maybe all his bad deeds had finally caught up with him and he was banished to purgatory. Too damn evil for heaven or hell.

He was also aware of voices… fragments of words, fractions of conversations, like scattered pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Distorted through the water, the voices were so distant and surreal that he sometimes wondered if they were simply coming from his own head… although sometimes he was almost certain that he heard the eerie lilt of Hojo’s distinctive speech. However, in his dream-state, hearing Hojo’s voice just wasn’t enough for him to put two and two together.

He was completely oblivious to the fact that his dream world was, in reality, the interior of a tank.

* * *

Rufus hadn’t completely understood Sephiroth’s loathing of Hojo until now. As the misshapen scientist proudly explained the details of his ‘experiment’, all Rufus could think was what kind of monster could do this to a person? Sephiroth was encased in a large, cylindrical tank that sat smack in the middle of the room as if on display. He was floating in an iridescent, aquamarine liquid that Hojo smugly described as “Mako-infused solution,” which cast an alien, green hue on his pale skin. A ridiculous amount of tubes and wires were hooked up to his naked body, so many that Rufus cringed to imagine the crazy concoction of drugs Hojo was pumping into him. The General’s long, snow-white hair floated amidst the tangled web of IVs – there was so much of it that it practically filled the tank, obscuring his features like a veil. Rufus cautiously stepped closer, to see if he could catch a better glimpse of his face, or the bullet wound on his chest. He glanced over at Hojo, who was busy screwing around with one of his monitors, then advanced to the base of the tank.

“Why is Hojo doing this to you?” he whispered. He pressed his hands against the glass and peered up at Sephiroth. The mass of tubes hooked into his flesh looked even more disconcerting up close, like they were sucking the life out of him. Through the greenish water and the fine layers of white hair, the General’s face was barely visible. A mask was fastened over his nose and mouth, connected to a hose that ran up into the conglomeration of machinery above the tank, so only his eyes and forehead were uncovered. His eyes were closed and his delicate eyebrows were slightly scrunched, as if he was having a bad dream… or maybe he was just in pain. The bullet hole in his chest was still there, but it had remarkably shrunk to less than the size of a dime. Although the wound was undoubtedly red in color, the green tint of the water made it appear to be a sickly shade of black.

“Looks like we’re both pretty screwed…” he mumbled. He wondered if Sephiroth could hear him through the glass. “I wish I could get you out of there…” he added quietly. “Then we could both run away from this wretched city.” He had a brief, stupid vision of the two of them living on a chocobo farm out in the boonies, sitting on a rickety porch and drinking moonshine. In the current state of things, he would have given anything to make that vision a reality. Anything was better than dealing with this reality – his father was about to disown him, his reputation was teetering on the brink of annihilation, and his lover was floating in a fucking tank.

The brisk tap of boots snapped him out of his musings. He turned to find Tseng approaching, glowering impatiently.

“We have to go. Now!” he snapped. “I just got a call from your father’s secretary, and apparently the old man’s so pissed he’s about to send guards out to look for you.”

“Okay, okay,” Rufus sighed. He reluctantly pulled away from the glass, stealing one last glance at the ominous tank before turning and heading for the exit. On his way out, he noticed Hojo was grinning maniacally at him, as if he was proud of being a heartless prick. Rufus narrowed his eyes. “You’re a fucking monster,” he hissed.

“No, I just create monsters,” Hojo replied lightly, tilting his head in the tank’s direction. “If you have a problem with my methods, why don’t you take it up with your father? He’s the one who funds my projects… I just carry out the orders.”

“What orders? Driving Sephiroth insane?” Rufus spat.

“No, my orders are to create the perfect soldier,” Hojo replied in a voice that suggested he was talking to a complete idiot. “Sephiroth is my prototype… the first subject in the experiment. Did you really think his inhuman strength and speed came from training?” The scientist’s eyes were feverishly bright behind his huge glasses… Rufus had a feeling the man was far more obsessed with his work than the average loony professor.

“No… I’m well aware of your stupid Mako treatments,” Rufus growled, “But I don’t understand how this-” he gestured toward the tank, “-is necessary!”

“Mako treatments?” Hojo sneered. “There’s something far more potent than Mako infused in Sephiroth’s genetic makeup.” He grinned and let out a cackling burst of laughter, then added, “You’re incredibly naïve, considering you’re the president’s son.”

“Watch your mouth,” Rufus snarled, rage heating his cheeks. “When I’m president I’m going to—”

“Enough is enough!” Tseng burst, who had been patiently standing by the doorway during the dispute. “Rufus, let’s go, before we’re both tackled by a fucking platoon of guards!” He sighed impatiently, then swung his gaze over to Hojo. “And you,” he sternly added, “I think you should be a little more concerned about the repercussions of using a man like Sephiroth for your twisted experiments.” He tilted his head. “I wonder… just what are you going to do when he wakes up?”

Hojo opened his mouth, then closed it.

“I thought so,” Tseng dryly mused. “Come on Rufus, let’s go.”

As the two filed out of the lab, Hojo mumbled a curse in their direction, then turned his attention back to his experiment. What did Tseng know about science anyway? He walked over to his monitors and checked all the stats, trying to clear his mind of the annoying Turk and the president’s stupid son. What are you going to do when he wakes up? What a ridiculous question!

So why did it raise gooseflesh on his arms?

* * *

President ShinRa’s office had always invoked a gut-twisting feeling of dread in Rufus, but never had the fear been so strong as it was when he stepped inside this time. As soon as he passed through the sliding metal door and into the large, significantly cooler space of the room, his heart seemed to freeze in his chest and his feet became as heavy as cement blocks. The gap between the door and his father’s desk felt infinite, and every halting step he took brought him a little closer to the red-with-rage face that glowered from behind the desk. He suddenly felt a primal, childish urge to hold Tseng’s hand, as if the Turk could make it all better somehow, but grimly knew that no one – not even god – could help him now. He was fucked.

By the time he finally reached his father’s enormous desk, his mouth was so dry he was afraid he wouldn’t even be able to speak. The president’s face looked bloated, massive and surreal up close, like an infected internal organ sitting on top of a double breasted, burgundy mountain. Rufus felt hot and cold, flushed and pale all at the same time, and he briefly wondered if he was going to look just as hideous in his old age, if his body was going to slowly mutate into a sagging, pot-bellied monstrosity.

“Sorry I’m late,” he managed to croak. “It’s my fault, not Tseng’s…”

The President snorted, as if the apology was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. Then he directed his sharp blue gaze to Tseng. “You may leave,” he said curtly. “Rufus and I need to talk in private.” Tseng nodded, and cast one last concerned glance in Rufus’ direction before turning on his heels and quietly walking out. As the Turk left his company, Rufus’ feeling of anxiety grew exponentially. Now there was no one here to mediate. He was all alone.

The President’s eyes now locked on Rufus’, burning with intensity. “As much as I’d like to idly chat, let’s get down to business,” he stated. “I received a package this morning.” He opened a drawer and pulled something out, hiding it from Rufus’ view. “Now, I have no idea who sent it to me… but the contents of this package are cause for concern.” He finally placed the object on the desk, watching Rufus with his cold hawk eyes. The object was black and rectangular. Something was written on the side… it read… hell yeah.

Rufus staggered as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Shock hit him like a punch in the gut - a wave of horrible, nauseating dread - and suddenly he felt like he was going to faint. That fucking tape. His father saw the tape.

“You seem to be familiar with this tape,” his father said. “I’m guessing you’ve seen it? Perhaps you and Sephiroth watched it together?” The rage was creeping dangerously into the President’s voice with every clipped word.

Any excuses Rufus had planned for this interaction were instantly rendered useless. His father had proof – hard proof – that he and Sephiroth were lovers. He had managed to hide his homosexuality from his father ever since he had grown his first pubic hair… and all that painstaking discretion for this? There was no doubt in his mind that Reno was behind it – who else had both the means and the motivation to so thoroughly ruin his life? Yet his hatred for the Turk was a small thing compared to the heavy burden of dread that weighted down his shoulders. There was nothing he could possibly say or do at this point to redeem himself – he was doomed. He bit his lip and focused on the wall behind his father’s head, fighting the dizziness that washed over him.

“Well, since it seems you have nothing to say about it, I’ll tell you what’s on my mind,” the President snarled. He leaned forward, both hands balled into fists on the desk. “From this point on, you are not my fucking son,” he hissed. “You never were my son, you never will be my son, and if I ever, ever see your faggot face again, I swear I’ll smash it to a pulp! Get the hell out of Headquarters, and don’t even think about coming back until I’m dead!”

Rufus swallowed hard, feeling a mixture of numb shock and anger. He looked at his father – at the man who used to be his father, anyway – and saw nothing but a narrow-minded, fat old man. The anxiety waned, replaced by a dry, desperate rage… what else could the old fart possibly say to make his life any worse? “What makes you think you ever were my father?” he retorted, his face burning. “You never spent a day of your life with me, and the only times you’ve ever spoken to me it was to put me down!” He paused, swaying on his feet, then added, “Maybe if I had a father to look up to, I wouldn’t have become a faggot in the first place.”

“You little prick!” the president gasped, hands shaking, face darkening to an unhealthy shade of purple. A rueful smile tugged the corners of Rufus’ lips.

“And who are you to lecture me on morals in the first place?” he spat, no longer able to stop the words from slipping out of his mouth. “You probably can’t even remember my mother’s name, can you? Could you even pick her out from the mob of high class whores who work the plate?”

At this, the president’s clenched fists flattened out on the desk and he slowly rose from his seat, towering above Rufus. He was shaking badly now, like a volcano about to erupt. “Shut your cock sucking mouth!” he bellowed, loud enough to shake the foundations of the building. “How dare you speak to me in such a tone?!”

The cold smile refused to slide off Rufus’ face; in fact, a dark amusement was growing in the recesses of his mind. How far can I push him? he wondered dryly. “Oh, what are you going to do?” he mused. “Beat me up? Go ahead, see if I give a shit!” He lifted his bangs to reveal the half-healed gash on his head from the thug’s crowbar. “Maybe you can even send me to the hospital for a third time this month! You obviously didn’t care about the last two times I was beaten within an inch of my life! Hell, your fucking secretary had more sympathy for me than you did!”

His father’s lips drew back into a bloodless sneer, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. For a man his size, he closed the gap between himself and Rufus with uncanny speed, then grabbed the lapels of the VP’s coat and effortlessly lifted him off the ground. “You don’t think I’ll do it?” he hissed, blowing a gust of rancid breath into his face.

Rufus snorted, evenly returning the president’s glare. “Go ahead,” he vehemently snarled. “You think I’m afraid?” In reality, his heart was pounding in his chest, but it felt more like a sick anticipation than fear. What better way to mark a falling out between father and son? He was so used to getting the shit kicked out of him at this point that he felt strangely apathetic about pain. It was almost an eerie form of Zen. “Come on, don’t you want to smash the grin off my cock sucking face?” he hissed.

The point where restraint and reason left the president had long since passed. As he raised his huge, bloated fist and drew it back for the punch, Rufus could see the glazed over frenzy in those sharp blue eyes. In his heightened state of awareness, the VP noticed every detail of the moment – the low hum of the air vents, the sheen of sickly sweat on his father’s forehead, the deep folds of wrinkles engraved in his porous flesh, and the hateful, almost desperate snarl frozen on those cigar-stained lips. Which made the pain even more exquisite when that massive fist connected with his face; the crack of knuckle on bone was a deafening explosion, and he could feel the cartilage in his nose snap like a brittle twig. The hand holding him up roughly released him and he let himself fall to the floor, too apathetic to fight back or cry out. The pain made him feel drunk; his vision blurred dreamily and stars floated over his eyes like snowflakes. He forced a grin, acutely aware of the blood filling his mouth.

“Is that all you got?” he heaved deliriously, sneering like a madman at the blurry red figure towering over him. Apparently it wasn’t, because seconds later the president’s expensive leather shoe dropped like an anvil onto his face, stomping him like he was no more than an unwanted insect that had crawled its way onto his immaculate tiled floor. Like he wasn’t even worthy of marring his fist. The sneer finally melted off Rufus’ lips, and darkness crept into his brain like a noxious fog.

* * *

Tseng had been waiting anxiously outside the president’s door during the entire dispute. He hadn’t heard much of the argument, but the volume of their screams alone had told him it was bad. Like Rufus had really been in the state of mind for an interaction with his father anyway… in the past few days the poor kid had been robbed, beaten up with a crowbar, and exposed to Hojo’s monstrous lack of humanity. The screaming had gone on for a little while – he had heard Rufus’ hoarse shouts and the president’s enraged bellowing – but then it had abruptly stopped. Now the room was deathly silent. Something bad had happened.

He wasn’t at all surprised when his cell phone rang. He quickly pulled it out his pocket, flipped it open, and lifted it to his ear. Predictably, the president’s rumbling voice crackled from the receiver.

“Tseng, get in here and escort Rufus out,” he growled. “Actually… you might need some help. Call one of your Turks over here first.”

“Yes, sir.”

The call ended with no goodbyes or see-you-soon’s. The president had sounded shaken. Pissed off and extremely shaken. Well, he had been right on the money. Something bad had happened, all right, and he had a feeling Rufus might be taking yet another trip to the hospital. For the fourth time in the past few weeks? he marveled. A dry smile curved his lips but he quickly wiped it away. Bad luck aside, the VP could be seriously hurt.

An apocalypse of bright red hair swung his vision to the left. He found Reno frozen uncertainly in his tracks, as if he was about to turn on his heels and split before being seen. Scowling and slouched, he looked like a kid who had gotten busted skipping school.

“Get over here,” Tseng said. Eyes rolling dramatically, the skinny Turk slowly approached. Despite his façade of lazy delinquency, Tseng could tell he was nervous as hell. He had an idea why… despite his failure to identify the dead thug in Rufus’ apartment, Tseng could have sworn he had seen that same thug years back in Reno’s gang.

“What’s up?” the redhead mumbled.

“I need your help,” Tseng stated. “Rufus got in an argument with his father… and I think the old man laid him out.”

The mock surprise on Reno’s face was sickening.

“So you’re going to help me carry him out. Got it?”

“Whatever…”

He opened the door to the president’s office and stepped inside, Reno reluctantly lagging behind him. It was just as he had predicted… if not a little worse. Rufus was sprawled out on the floor, snoring in a pool of his own blood. The president was seated behind his desk, puffing furiously on a cigar and nursing a swollen fist. On his desk lay a heap of broken plastic and tangled tape. The scenario was so obvious it didn’t need words.

Tseng walked up to the unconscious VP and observed the damage. The blonde’s nose was bleeding profusely and the entire left side of his face was already swelling up. The Turk could have sworn he even saw a scuffed shoeprint on his skin. Nice touch, he mused dryly. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and dabbed up as much of the blood as he could, then slung a limp arm around his shoulder. It took a menacing glare in Reno’s direction to get the Turk to skittishly approach and take Rufus’ other arm. They lifted him together and proceeded to haul him out of the room. Tseng shot one backwards glance toward the president and was met with a pair of iced over, furious eyes. Since it was apparent the man was in no mood for talking, he left the room in silence. Even Reno held his tongue.

Once outside the office they lowered Rufus to floor, propping him into a sitting position against the wall. “Go grab some water and a few towels,” Tseng said to Reno. “I don’t want too many heads to turn when we escort him out of here…”

The redhead complied with surprising obedience, quickly disappearing around the hallway corner. Probably just eager to get away from Rufus for a few minutes… Tseng grimly concluded. He then focused his attention on Rufus again, examining his smashed face a little closer. The blood steadily leaking from his nose led him to believe it was broken, and the flesh around his left eye was comically swollen. It was going to be a nasty, black shiner by morning. He carefully felt around the blonde’s jaw, searching for any broken bones, and was relieved to find everything still intact. The president had laid him out alright, but nothing was too serious - Rufus would probably just be nursing some ugly bruises and a sore nose for a few weeks. He had a feeling the worst damage done was emotional.

Rufus was still deep in KO’d sleep when Reno returned with the water and towels. The redhead placed the makeshift first-aid kit on the floor by Tseng and grudgingly helped him wash away the rest of the blood on the VP’s face. A few dark red flecks clung defiantly to his immaculate white suit, but they were able to mop up most of the mess. When they were done, Tseng checked the time on his cell phone and frowned. He turned to Reno, who wore a distracted, slightly agonized expression on his gaunt face.

“Look…” he said, “I have a lot of shit to do this afternoon… so… I want you to get him a hotel room and watch over him until he wakes up.” Meeting the incredulous glare in Reno’s eyes with a sardonic smile, he added, “And if I hear anything, anything that suggests you slacked off on your duty, I swear I’ll find a reason to put you behind bars again.”

Reno opened his mouth to spit out an objection, then quickly closed it.

“I’ll help you carry him out of here,” Tseng lightly continued, “Then you’re going to call a cab and get him a room at ShinRa Suites. You’re not going to drink, you’re not going to leave him on his own, and you’re not going to be a prick. Understand?”

Reno sighed heavily. “Yeah, I get it…” he mumbled.

You’d better get it, Tseng mused, Because I’ll be monitoring every fucking move you make.

Without further discussion, the two lifted Rufus to his feet again and proceeded to haul him out of Headquarters. All eyes in the building were planted on the blonde’s swollen face every step of the way… Tseng could already feel the rumors forming, infesting the building like a plague.