It continues to feel strange. Things have changed so drastically from when I first began RPing Tseng. It’s been almost… seven, eight years now? I’m still not used to this.
What lures the crowds? What instigates the prodding, insistent fingers? Is it a body? Is it perhaps a face? Is it the verbose and poignant subtleties in a chance emotion let loose from its confines? Do you see my face only, and conjure by my words an image other than what I am?
I do not trust the crowds. I am baffled by the masses.
Is it my eyes? I will stab them out. Is it my face? I will enclose it in a coffin of gruesomeness and disgusting mars. Is it my body? I will destroy it— off a cliff brink or by the fangs of beasts still less savage than you. I will become cripple. I will become harsh. I will be cold. I will show you no kindness. I will give not an inch.
I will betray you. I will curse your name and spit on your loves. I will rend you from me like the sun tears darkness from the sky at its rise.
I want none of this. None of you! I want no glory. I want no praise! What I will have is not in your power to grant, nor will it ever be so! It is not yours to give!
…why do people “love” Tseng?
I came into him during a time when his name was a curse. He was known solely by the act of slapping Aeris as Avalanche watched, as she attempted to reassure them that Marlene was safe. He commanded her silence. He was unaffected by the falling of the Plate. He did nothing to stay the actions of Rufus Shinra, for all his supposed “influence” over the man. He stopped no injury; never took a bullet for someone else. He was cruel, bitter, and cold.
People spoke of him with disdain; with hatred and curled lips; teeth and mouths set in a natural snarl of aggression.
He was not a man to be admired, understood, or cared for. He is a monster. In every right, he is the lowest piece of filth. No one needed to think it over a second time. This was reality; this was fact. No one questioned what was established; the truth was obvious.
In those early years, before he was “attractive,” I heard only one shockingly passive comment about him. The speaker was hesitant—their very words were slow, cautious—as they said that Tseng wasn’t “that bad”. That was all. All the kindness and benefit-of-the-doubt given him in a lifetime was this: “Tseng isn’t that bad. There are people who are still worse than him.” And yes, there were people who were worse.
That doesn’t mean Tseng should be let off the hook.
He let lives slip through his hands countless times. His personality has been rigid, unchanging, icy. The cold will never leave his heart entirely. Nothing can convince it to leave his mind or his body. He is a statue. What goes on inside will never change his actions.
He will always hurt those around him. It is inevitable. He cannot commit. He cannot aspire. He cannot fulfill.
Shinra is dead. The Turks are meant to make a living by whatever means, and eventually they will die their own deaths—by whatever means or times they choose. He will do the same.
The world should have no place for him. People will not forget so easily. That suit killed hundreds of thousands. That suit waded in sewers and blood, then dared to walk amongst them, careless of what its presence meant for those tortured by the filth—the lives—carried on its cloth. He is an atrocity. He is not even from the two main continents, but a foreign man from foreign soils; a desecration of both his homeland and the new one he chose to defile.
He is a murderer and traitor, arrogant and unfeeling.
Why do you love him? What petty reasons will you give me for “caring” for him? Are they real? Or if I cut up his face and destroyed his bones so that he was stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, scarred so no hair grew, mutilated so his features were unrecognizable—
Would you still care for him then?
I dare you to tell me yes. You know yourself to be a liar. No one would care for him.
Come talk to me twenty years from now, when I’m still writing him, and tell me THEN that you love him, and not the latest fad that’s gripped your fickle hearts and flattered minds.
I believe no one who does not stand the test of time. And you will be tested. Life ensures it.
So when you all come to me, wish to speak with me, it is hard for me to take it at face value. I have grown up in another time. It is not a matter of “getting used to it.” It’s a matter of facts and realities. I am a bad guy. It is my role in life.  I have chosen to walk this path, and I am fine in walking it. Do not ignore what I have done. Do not forget the blood shed by my actions.
Remember the hatred. Remember the anger. Remember that I am a monster worse than fiends that roam the wild. I walk in your skin, yet I have hunted you before, and have had a part in your near and direct ends. I am not someone to be trusted. I am not someone to be approached. It is better if you leave me alone, and count me a shadow to be hated. I’d rather that. I’d rather you leave me alone. But if you do choose to come to me: come to me with weapons and accusations; come to me with the intent to wound and kill. Do not come with kind words. Come with venom and blade. Commit to your hatred of me. Then, when you act upon it, do so without faltering. If you choose to come, come in this way. It’s better as such; for everyone.

It continues to feel strange. Things have changed so drastically from when I first began RPing Tseng. It’s been almost… seven, eight years now? I’m still not used to this.

What lures the crowds? What instigates the prodding, insistent fingers? Is it a body? Is it perhaps a face? Is it the verbose and poignant subtleties in a chance emotion let loose from its confines? Do you see my face only, and conjure by my words an image other than what I am?

I do not trust the crowds. I am baffled by the masses.

Is it my eyes? I will stab them out. Is it my face? I will enclose it in a coffin of gruesomeness and disgusting mars. Is it my body? I will destroy it— off a cliff brink or by the fangs of beasts still less savage than you. I will become cripple. I will become harsh. I will be cold. I will show you no kindness. I will give not an inch.

I will betray you. I will curse your name and spit on your loves. I will rend you from me like the sun tears darkness from the sky at its rise.

I want none of this. None of you! I want no glory. I want no praise! What I will have is not in your power to grant, nor will it ever be so! It is not yours to give!

…why do people “love” Tseng?

I came into him during a time when his name was a curse. He was known solely by the act of slapping Aeris as Avalanche watched, as she attempted to reassure them that Marlene was safe. He commanded her silence. He was unaffected by the falling of the Plate. He did nothing to stay the actions of Rufus Shinra, for all his supposed “influence” over the man. He stopped no injury; never took a bullet for someone else. He was cruel, bitter, and cold.

People spoke of him with disdain; with hatred and curled lips; teeth and mouths set in a natural snarl of aggression.

He was not a man to be admired, understood, or cared for. He is a monster. In every right, he is the lowest piece of filth. No one needed to think it over a second time. This was reality; this was fact. No one questioned what was established; the truth was obvious.

In those early years, before he was “attractive,” I heard only one shockingly passive comment about him. The speaker was hesitant—their very words were slow, cautious—as they said that Tseng wasn’t “that bad”. That was all. All the kindness and benefit-of-the-doubt given him in a lifetime was this: “Tseng isn’t that bad. There are people who are still worse than him.” And yes, there were people who were worse.

That doesn’t mean Tseng should be let off the hook.

He let lives slip through his hands countless times. His personality has been rigid, unchanging, icy. The cold will never leave his heart entirely. Nothing can convince it to leave his mind or his body. He is a statue. What goes on inside will never change his actions.

He will always hurt those around him. It is inevitable. He cannot commit. He cannot aspire. He cannot fulfill.

Shinra is dead. The Turks are meant to make a living by whatever means, and eventually they will die their own deaths—by whatever means or times they choose. He will do the same.

The world should have no place for him. People will not forget so easily. That suit killed hundreds of thousands. That suit waded in sewers and blood, then dared to walk amongst them, careless of what its presence meant for those tortured by the filth—the lives—carried on its cloth. He is an atrocity. He is not even from the two main continents, but a foreign man from foreign soils; a desecration of both his homeland and the new one he chose to defile.

He is a murderer and traitor, arrogant and unfeeling.

Why do you love him? What petty reasons will you give me for “caring” for him? Are they real? Or if I cut up his face and destroyed his bones so that he was stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, scarred so no hair grew, mutilated so his features were unrecognizable—

Would you still care for him then?

I dare you to tell me yes. You know yourself to be a liar. No one would care for him.

Come talk to me twenty years from now, when I’m still writing him, and tell me THEN that you love him, and not the latest fad that’s gripped your fickle hearts and flattered minds.

I believe no one who does not stand the test of time. And you will be tested. Life ensures it.

So when you all come to me, wish to speak with me, it is hard for me to take it at face value. I have grown up in another time. It is not a matter of “getting used to it.” It’s a matter of facts and realities. I am a bad guy. It is my role in life.  I have chosen to walk this path, and I am fine in walking it. Do not ignore what I have done. Do not forget the blood shed by my actions.

Remember the hatred. Remember the anger. Remember that I am a monster worse than fiends that roam the wild. I walk in your skin, yet I have hunted you before, and have had a part in your near and direct ends. I am not someone to be trusted. I am not someone to be approached. It is better if you leave me alone, and count me a shadow to be hated. I’d rather that. I’d rather you leave me alone. But if you do choose to come to me: come to me with weapons and accusations; come to me with the intent to wound and kill. Do not come with kind words. Come with venom and blade. Commit to your hatred of me. Then, when you act upon it, do so without faltering. If you choose to come, come in this way. It’s better as such; for everyone.



Text Messages to Hojo [Crimson-Sun] 

∞ — Altered State of Mind Text

[text] f I wake up with gilllsa nd glowing eyes tomorrow, Professor, i swear to Shiva I’ll punch you wheter not you have glasses.Then erase your entire database. [/text]

[text] And the back-ups [/text]

[ooc: I could see this type of talk turning into habit. Even when off the pain meds.]

# — Angry Text

[text] The Ancient has been acquired. Take care what you do to her, Professor. She is more precious than your experiments. If you ruin her, the President will not be the only one seeking retribution. [/text]

♦ — Rushed Text

[text] There’s been an outbreak of chimeric monsters within the basement levels of Headquarters. One of the beasts has been subdued. A Turk is on their way to your labs right now to escort you to where we have the monster held. The President would like your analysis of the species. Bring what you need. It’s not an easy beast to move and the President is demanding answers asap. [/text]

x — Secret Text

[text] Is there no way to reverse this? Is there no way to return him to himself? You are his tender and his father. IS THERE A WAY? Or is he… truly lost. Tell me, Hojo. [/text]

[ooc: I thought there might be many ways this could go. And though it’s a hopeless pursuit, it’d ultimately be an interesting exchange to find Tseng driven to.]

♥ — Regular Text

[text] The specimens you requested have been obtained. They are en route to be delivered early this afternoon. [/text]

* — Early Morning Text

[text] How is he? [/text]

[ooc: Asking after Sephiroth, I imagine.]

XD — “I wish you just saw that!” Text

[text] I’m assuming the reason you were not present for the board meeting has something to do with the group of Cripshay the executives found underneath the conference table. They were discovered when one attempted to take a bite out of Palmer. I’m sure you would have enjoyed the spectacle. Regardless, as you aren’t answering your phone, this message is to inform you that the meeting has been rescheduled to later in the afternoon. You are expected to attend. [/text]




 crimson-sun asked: "How do you draw symbols anyway? But I see you're doing a text meme, director. I'd love to see the whole set, for the Professor. ;)"

[ooc] Honestly, I haven’t the slightest clue. And this one shall be made rebloggable, like you asked. I’ll post it separately in a moment.




 apathetic-ruler asked: "✉-- one of each Text if you pleas Tseng. I am a demanding Boss."

∞ — Altered State of Mind Text

[text] Rfus fire me if you want, but I amnot attendng the meeting tomorrw morning. Get Rude tn do t. [/text]

# — Angry Text

[text] The next time you threaten the position of my men, Rufus, you’ll find yourself the one strung up in the choke-hold of the puppeteer. Attempt to manipulate them one more time, and no number of SOLDIER will protect you. [/text]

[ooc: I assume this was inspired by Before Crisis events, though it didn’t necessarily have to happen during them.]

♦ — Rushed Text

[text] Threats confirmed active. Remain with Durman and Rafe upon landing. Do NOT exit the craft. Sending chopper to remove you from the area. Return to Junon immediately. Reno will meet you there. [/text]

x — Secret Text

[text] Elena and I are on the way. [/text]

[ooc: Thought this would be a nice surprise for an Advent Children Complete setting.]

♥ — Regular Text

[text] We are tracking Avalanche. Enjoy the promotion. [/text]

[ooc: Ah… the coldness and bitterness in that text.]

* — Early Morning Text

[text] I’ll be there in five minutes. I hope you’re awake. [/text]

XD — “I wish you just saw that!” Text

[text] Dark Nation just stole my lunch. I assume I have you to blame. Please refrain from encouraging him to leap onto tables, Rufus, for Leviathan’s sake. [/text]





What Won’t Happen || Chapter One 

Theme of Desertion

Set one year after the events of Advent Children Complete

I started writing this because I was thinking back on some of the events that had happened in my FFVII RP… the downfall of the Shinra Company, specifically. And looking back over all the heartache and despair that event had left us all with, I was suddenly angry at myself—because I play Tseng, and it was my fault for destroying what we all so dearly loved. So I basically was carried away on my wild, desperate emotions and began to just write. In a way then, this is a fic dedicated to what I now think I maybe should have done… instead of… letting him… letting all of them go like I did.

- - - - - - -

A single footstep could shake the very earth apart.

- - - - - - -

Silvered irises were momentarily lost behind shuttered lashes and in a thoughtful silence—perturbed though it might be. Then—sharp, piercing—they returned to the hesitant figure donned in a hastily thrown together Turk uniform, red hair askance as usual, and clearly uncomfortable being the bearer of bad news to such a figure. The redhead could feel the fire in Tseng’s gaze far clearer than he could see it. That storm-cloud grey was ever so carefully masked, as always it had been, but Reno could sense the thunder raging behind so cleverly controlled a visage.

“B—boss,” the Turk choked, stumbling over his words he couldn’t get them out fast enough. “Hey, dun throw that look at me. Come on, ’s not like I’m his keeper. Or any ‘a us for that matter!” Reno threw up his arms in exasperation, grasping onto any fickle strings that could prove he was innocent in the matter at hand, however desperate an attempt it was. But the other Turk’s impassive gaze made something in the redhead snap and he stepped forward, fists clenched, angry at the accusation in those unyielding eyes.

“Listen, it’s not like I told da bastard ta leave in the first place!” he shouted, only encouraged when the gaze steadily drilling into him narrowed venomously. Reno took another step forward, lifting an accusatory finger at Tseng, sitting casually behind the desk. “You were the careless, apathetic dipshits that didn’ give a damn ‘bout how we would feel ‘bout this, this, this whatever it is!—fucked up piece ‘a shit decision ya made on a God-damned whim!

He was way out of line. As a matter of fact—he had totally hopped over it and kept running—treating it as exactly what it was: a stupid regulation that had once dictated the way things were run in the Turks. But things weren’t the same anymore. Nothing was the same anymore. Midgar was left a ruinous pile of rubble, Shinra was despised by everyone from the elderly to little children who couldn’t damn well know better, and what last vestige of the Turks Reno and the others had desperately clung to was just another side note in the annals of history.

Every part of Reno wanted to leap over that desk and strangle the living daylights out of the calm, collected, pansy-ass of a leader Tseng was for the Turks, screaming at the top of his lungs about ‘why he had let it all fall apart’ without even a moment’s grace of notice! There was no warning. None. Sure, there was nothing left of Headquarters but rubble. Sure, with the passing of the years the people were frantically flopping around, trying to rebuild their world after the demise of the Shinra Corporation had thrown them for a loop. But even a year ago—after the incident with Sephiroth’s momentary return, and the three remnants of whatever Jenova experiments had still been going on in the shadows—there had still been enough left of the company to keep the Turks alive. No, they didn’t try to rebuild Shinra—not all of it, anyway. But they had stayed alive, were putting things together, were pulling through it all and in sight of better days ahead!

And then…

The Shinra Electric Power Company has died then, fallen into a final ruin.

Those very words had proceeded from the mouth of the man he stood before at this very moment. And thinking back to that hour, remembering the death knell that had sounded in all their hearts, cast them into the abyss with such finality that it had surely been the end of the world, Reno was furious again. How this man could sit before him and glare at him for messing up a simple task was beyond his comprehension! Had the man no shame? No guilt in what he had done to them?!

“Reno,” came the raven-haired Turk’s voice, cool and steady, splashing him in the face like a bucket of ice water and quenching the angry fire that had risen at the memories Tseng had instilled without effort. Reno gathered himself and stiffened visibly, sure he was not going to like the way this conversation would soon be going. “What?” the redhead bit off bitterly, shoving his hands in his pockets and fighting back the urge to seriously hurt the man before him.

But Tseng stood, causing Reno to flinch and step back a bit before he could turn his eyes back to his leader’s gaze. The dark haired Turk seemed to have lost a bit of his edge, however. Reno couldn’t feel the anger in his boss’s eyes anymore. That encouraged him to open up a bit more cautiously, and he answered again with mild wariness. “Yeah?”

Whatever had just passed seemed to be nothing like what would come of this. A strange light glanced across those quicksilver irises. It was unusual and suspiciously unreadable, almost as much so as the man himself. And the quiet, normal way in which he next said his words sent ungainly chills and shivers throughout Reno’s bones, and he had a sudden overwhelming desire to hug his arms and try to rub away the goosebumps that were running up and down them.

“Get Rude in here. Then I want you both to tell me everything.”




sanguinesaint:

image

“Because…”

image

“It is …” Slowly, a smile curl upon lips, as dryly, words are finished.

image

“…fun.”

Because he has the power to do so.

What flashed forward were the images of those that perished and suffered under such tortures, and the Turk could not meet the gaze of the elder, turning away in quiet fury, and deeper agony.

"One man stole the worlds of so many for fun alone, and turned his hand to watch them fall and shatter, because he did not care for the contents, only the results," and this last part was voiced the quietest of each strand of thought.

His gaze returned to Vincent’s and his eyes were hard, searching, and then they eased. Anger he did not have for this man, nor even for the one who had ‘created’ him, birthed him into the crossbreed he now lived as. This anger… could only be directed inwards.

(Source: turkleader)




What is the point
if you save a man
and kill his essence?




crimson-sun:

“Sephiroth will never die.

As long as I live, so will he!

At least in our minds—but fret not.

Because I have a plan.

I shall let you know when it comes to fruition.

You can look forward to that day.”

- Chairwoman H.(Founder of the Silver Elite)

This tiny snippet is one of my favourite things about Crisis Core. You never find out who this ‘chairwoman H.’ is, and you only ever receive one bit of correspondence from her directly. But how she wrote, what she wrote, and the fact she set up the club twenty years ago with all this insightful info into the General’s life…… well, it’s plenty obvious, isn’t it? The facade is so out of character yet so in character at the same time… it makes me laugh and breaks my heart…!

(via sanguinesaint)




 magic-mageghostie asked: "Caffeine free, please. *she let out a few low clicks so she could see what was in front of her.*and sat in the seat that offered before and listened to him*shake her head* No, I'm not. But I'm not evil or anything, and I'm not magic. You could say I'm combined with technology. *she was tempted to ask if he wanted a go, with the dimension device.* as I don't want two of those are I'll have it plain, thank you. *Picks up the cup.*"

“It is as good plain,” he assured as she took up the cup, “though most have their preferences.”

His gaze rested on her, watching her motions, the tracked slip of the eyes in intuitive motion, observing the minute traits unique to each individual. She was a query, he admitted, returning around the back of her seated form to his place behind the desk. “Your technology is far beyond our own then,” he replied as he took his seat once more.

His eyes moved to her own. “Will you be staying with us, in our time and world, for long?” he inquired politely.