#and I love Heidegger’s face….lovely nose

[demialwrites]

The Offer

You're the one who blocked the attempted assassination at Junon so Tseng and Rufus make a shocking offer. Smut under the cut

You blocked the assassination on a fluke. You really did. You happened to be distracted while the president was talking to the suspicious troopers, looking up at the adorably designed upper Junon buildings when you saw the small would-be assassin holding their large, round weapon. You only had time to raise your arm after dashing with all your might in front of the president. Your watch was smashed to pieces by the impact and you were knocked to the ground. It’s a miracle you didn’t break a bone or suffer a deep cut. Just a scratch and some bruising. What surprised you the most wasn’t the attempted assassination itself but the eye-bulging glare Heidegger gave you before he quickly stuffed it down. You ask yourself inwardly what the heck his problem was. The president was safe.

You’re nervously rubbing the bandage on said scratch, standing in front of the president’s Junon office desk. The president is saying something about a reward. But Turks don’t usually get rewards, except for excessive hazard pay. Reno got a vacation, yes, but it was to mitigate a future issue, not a reward. He had been getting antsy enough lately to risk a costly mistake. Tseng stands next to you. His expression gives nothing away because he is ever on standby for orders and now is no different. You idly wonder if Heidegger wishes he could be here in place of Tseng but you couldn’t picture the arrangement differently.

What’s strange about this reward is that you’re being given a choice. That’s not something you’re used to. Both of them are staring at you, waiting for your answer. You lick your lips, mind racing. You can’t think of anything and you’re very aware that you’re wasting the president’s time. Tseng speaks your name in a scolding manner, gesturing with his head towards the president. Hurry up.

The president raises his hand to quiet Tseng. He grins widely, his teeth peeking through. “I know what you want.”

You frown, examining his face for a clue to indicate what he’s talking about.

Instead of explaining, the president gestures Tseng forward. “Come.”

Tseng walks the path leading to the other side of the desk.

Rufus points at the desk. “Sit. Take it out.”

You’re more confused. Tseng sits to the side of Rufus, facing him diagonally. You’re still waiting for an explanation. Then Tseng starts undoing his black trousers. Your jaw hits the floor when you see his dick in hand. Your arousal is ignited but your stomach also twists in uncertainty.

It’s deliciously fat and a lovely shade of light brown, which the president covers with his mouth, robbing you of the view. With the way he moves, you can guess he’s licking the shaft. He has his eyes shut tight, clearly enjoying himself. Tseng turns his head away so instead of a side profile, you see nothing. You can still see his chest expanding with heavy breaths. The hand visible to you balls into a fist. Rufus catches Tseng looking away and pulls his mouth off his subordinate.

“You can look at me or look at them. It’s your choice,” he says, licking his lips.

Tseng looks like he wants to grumble. He turns an indignant gaze to you, nose lowered like he had been caught being rude and was angry at himself about it. You feel pinned in place by his hardened, dark eyes. Not that you could tear your eyes away, anyway. You want to walk over to Tseng and kiss him, deepening his pleasure.

Rufus smirks and gets back to work. He may be giving but it's obvious who is in control.

Rufus is pretty much swallowing Tseng’s length whole by this point, with his nose pressed to the other man’s black pubic hair. Tseng cups his head, gently rolling his hips into Rufus’s mouth on occasion. His breath is stuttering. You wonder if this means he’s about to cum.

You get your answer when Rufus pulls back completely, letting Tseng cum in a weak stream onto the floor. After a few moments of pulling himself together, he stands up to put away his softening cock. You wonder what it would take to make him cum harder and more loudly.

“Leave it,” Rufus says, lounging back in the chair.

You realize that he’s talking about the mess on the floor. And that he really did order Tseng like he would his giant dog. Tseng just nods. It’s a strange dynamic and you’re starting to wonder if it’s something you want to be involved in. You already do have to do things you don't want to during work hours. It’s obvious that Rufus is about to ask you to join their little affair and make it a threesome, even if briefly. Based on the fact that you’ve never even heard a rumour, they must work hard to keep it a secret. The thought of joining all that is exhausting. However, all the blood rushed to your nethers many minutes ago and it’s overriding your better judgment. You can’t let this opportunity pass you by. You would jump in front of the president to protect him and you would get involved in something messy if it meant you see under these two’s clothes again.

You blink. The perfect idea strikes you, giving you the courage to give a counteroffer.

Still lounging, Rufus rubs the front of his pants. He gestures you forward. “Come.”

This time it’s you who raises a hand. “No. But I had a different idea.”

Tseng sighs with his shoulders, then says to Rufus, “I told you.”

“It’s fine.” He waves the other man’s protests off. Then he leans forward in his chair to rest his chin in his palm. “Go on.”

You explain that while you’re very flattered by their offer to join this sexy little club, you don’t want to neglect your duties. R&D recently released the ability to send images via message on your Shinra-issued phones. You proposed they send photos of their “entanglements”, whenever and wherever they may happen. You thought this might appeal to Rufus’s ego and thrill-seeking tendencies but you’re not sure about Tseng. When you finish explaining, both pairs of eyes examine you. You’re heating up under their combined gazes but you feel a last rush of courage and stand firm. Finally, Rufus blinks and you think you see astonishment in his eyes. He leans back and crosses his legs.

“Alright. We can do that. But this doesn't go beyond the three of us. And I want proof that you’ve deleted everything after 24 hours. Or you’ll suffer the consequences.”

He smiles confidently like you wouldn’t dare betray him. You don’t trust yourself to speak with confidence right now so you just nod.

“You’re dismissed.”

As you turn, you catch a wicked smile growing on his face. You get several feet away and hear a faint “This could be fun,” from the president behind you. Tseng replies calmly but you can’t make out the words.

It’s late in the evening and you’re off-duty now. You head back to the hotel room to sleep off the day’s excitement. Maybe in your morning shower, you could have some fun thinking about what you got to watch today. You’ve turned off the bedside lamp and settled into the bed when your phone dings, announcing the arrival of a message. You’re not allowed to turn it to silent. You grab the phone immediately in case it’s Turk business.

It’s not. It’s a new number and the message comes with an image attached.

“Shit.”

The message reads: You forgot to leave your number. I got it from Tseng. I had to show you what you missed out on.

The image shows who you assume to be Rufus, judging by the white clothing in the background, holding his erection straight up. Maybe it's the closeness of the shot, but it's huge. After seeing his cock in all its glory, you know you made the right choice in the moment. You would have jumped on it too eagerly and probably hurt yourself. You snort in amusement. Leave it to Tseng to be practical in all things, including dick size.

Your phone dings again. You tap the notification that follows.

What, no comment? Don't you want him? He certainly wants you.

You tried to distance yourself but the president found a way to still make demands. You groan, smiling despite yourself. “What did I get myself into?” you mutter aloud.

*What do y'all think ? What kind of photo would Tseng send?? I'm betting on a fresh-out-of-the-shower naked pic

[cwarscars]

Ngl that trailer was, a lot to take in (Seeing a pattern here with these trailers lmao) i loved what i saw and seeing the gang was like my own reunion lmao

(( literally - everytime i watch one of the rebirth trailers, i have to then rewatch several times just to like - take - it all in ! but my god, i'm so excited !

( dont get me wrong, scared heidegger will only get 2 mins of screentime - something i understand but am GUTTED by )

but holy shit!

cid looks so amazing! i am concerned about his character and i'm hoping that his whole 'i'll help you uwu' spiel in the trailer is him either taking the piss or after aerith does something for him. after all, i love me a nasty cid. i think because of the kingdom hearts series etc, people think cid is the wholesome dad type character and seem to forget that the guy is a chain smoker who regularly verbally abuses his only friend lol.

vincent looks incredible - i keep seeing peeps say he looks like seph but bro, he looks like rufus! if you gave him blonde hair and blue eyes, he'd legit be rufus. not sure if that's a case of same face courtesy elena / tifa or they wanted him to look similar to rufus. but trust - compare their noses they look super similar!

dyne just...urgh, my heart. i used to write dyne a very long time ago because i love his story and im glad to see that they're largely keeping it the same. LOVE his look and am hoping he kills himself like in the original. we need more powerful punch storytelling like that in games again, i hope they don't wimp out on that.

biggs looks incredible and im interested in the idea of him surviving where the others died. i am a little so-so on the alt timeline stuff. not a fan, didn't care for the whispers etc but im sure i'll appreciate it.

seeing jessie made my heart skip a beat because she looked so lovely and i love @svnsworn's rendition of her and instantly thought of her writing and seeing jessie again and ahhhhhh

im very excited to see characters like cait sith and dio and such - nobody is talking about dio's body but i have taken note of this lol. im also hoping - by seeing this trailer - that aerith does die. i love her but her death is so important and i dont want them to chicken out of fear of fan backlash. i also really liked that the trailer included lines from the original (such as the bugenhagen bit and aerith's line at the end etc).

overall, i am SUPER excited and really looking forward to what they give us. like remake, i dont think it'll be perfect but i do think it'll be wonderful and im crazy hyped to see my childhood memories looking so fresh and beautiful in today's graphics

(also dios hairy chest) ))

[zimithrus]

I want another for the "How to Say I Love You Meme."

19. “Don’t worry, I knew what you meant.” for Genesis x Sephiroth

Send me a romantic or platonic ship and a number and I'll write a short fic for it

Oooh GenSeph 🤩 #19: Stated above 😉

Sephiroth sees it in his eyes from across the meeting table. That subtly risen brow and barely pursed lips tucked atop the face of Genesis, barely pulled away from his favorite epic.

A look he knows very well. He softly, faintly, smiles with his eyes.

The signal has been given and reciprocated. Now comes the next phase--

"With all due respect," Sephiroth clears his throat and folds his hands together across the polished oak desk. This effectively pulls the eyes of Director Lazard and Head of Public Safety, Heideggar onto him. Stopping their meeting in their tracks. "Commander Rhapsodos should not be partaking in this briefing, as this is 'a matter for 1st Class SOLDIERs only'."

He glances over at Genesis, and though his face seems stoic and firm, he keeps the soft, subtle smile in his eyes. Rising to the challenge, Genesis lowers his platinum-backed copy of LOVELESS and adopts a fiery glare in his eyes. The corners of his lips remained gently turned upward, which give hidden cue cards and sets the scene for their little display.

"Oh, my apologies," Genesis feigns mock grace with a hand to his chest. "I didn't realize I crashed the meeting for the freakishly overpowered posterboys."

Lazard rests his head in his hands and groans out something annoyed and tired. Step 1 is complete. Commence step 2:

"Ah, yes, you wouldn't have known that, since you can barely take your nose out of that nonsensical book and pay attention for longer than two minutes." Sephiroth turns up his eyes.

Judging by the glint in Genesis's own, he can read that he's trying with all his might not to break character and end their charade. But Genesis is good at acting and even when it seems like he can't, he always can keep his composure.

Genesis tosses his book down to the table, where it echoes with a loud bang. (Sephiroth knows he's going to be apologizing to that copy for treating it so roughly later.)

"Well, well, aren't you one to talk, Mr. I-zone-out-the-moment-the-President-starts-speaking? Don't even try to act like you're better than me." He leans forward in his chair and splays his hands across the fine oak wood, huffing his bangs out of his milky blue eyes.

"I don't need to act. I don't require an elaborate charade to draw the attention of the people to me."

"Alright knock it off you two." Heidegger harrumphs.

"Can we please get back to the matter at hand?" Lazard pulls his face from his hands. "The reactor malfunction in Sector 8 isn't going to fix itself."

"I wouldn't send the Demon of Wutai to fix some pipes, he'll just run them through." Genesis keeps up the banter.

"Well, at least I can refrain from setting them on fire when they aren't fixed with posturing and dramatics."

Genesis stands up quickly, effectively rocketing his chair out from behind him and it falls to the floor with a noisy clatter. Lazard buries his face behind his hands again, muttering something about 'here we go again' under his breath.

"Must you two act like this nearly every meeting we try to hold before a conjoined assignment?" Heidegger grumpily complains.

"Conjoined my ass. I'm out of here." Genesis growls. He swipes up his copy of LOVELESS and brushes some dust off the cover.

He's tall, proud, and haughty as he quickly breezes out of the room, rest leather duster trailing behind him.

"Commander Rhapsodos will you please wait a--"

But Lazard's plea is cut off abruptly as Genesis opens the doors of the meeting room, then slams them as loud as he can once he leaves.

"Please, if you would, assign this mission to Commander Hewley." Sephiroth coolly speaks as he stands up from his own chair in a much quieter and gentle fashion.

"Sephiroth please, you can't keep pawning your missions off on--"

But just as Genesis had done, Sephiroth walks out of the meeting room as well, but opts for opening and closing the doors in a cold, quiet fashion.

But, just down the hall near the elevator doors, Genesis stands near a fake plant with a leg propped up against the wall and his arms crossed over his chest, a smirk on his fair face as well. Sephiroth copies the smile and closes the distance between them.

"I hope my jeering at your elegance didn't offend." Sephiroth says once he stands right in front of him.

Genesis pushes himself off the wall before stretching up on his toes to plant a warm kiss to Sephiroth's cheek. "Don't worry, I knew what you meant. You like me for it."

Sephiroth hums a warm agreement. "Indeed I do. So... take out tonight?" his grin is gentle, barely there, but it's warm and soothing all the same.

"Absolutely. I was hoping we could grab something from that Wutaian place in Sector 6."

"Sounds lovely. I've got a bottle of Cosmo Spritz chilled and waiting for us at the flat."

"Ah, you know just what I like." Genesis muses as he takes a hold of Sephiroth's left hand, practically hugging it.

"And I bought that one movie you liked on demand as well, 'Good Intentions'."

"You really know how to make a guy feel special~" Genesis teases, but Sephiroth smiles at that.

And just like that, they managed to fake argument their way out of a mission and sub it for a date night instead.

Angeal was not happy about having yet another mission forced on him though...

Ahh this one was fun! Sorry it took me forever and a day to get this one done! I had a bit of trouble wrangling the idea in my head but I popped open my computer and this jumped out of my head! 😆 Thanks for the ask!! 💚

[youbetterhavemymoney]

💟 MAN PREFERENCE BASED ON HIS VENUE 💟

Aries venus : you think redheads are hot! the most beautiful women in your opinion have straight kinda long hair and short leather skirts. Also you don't mind if she had a slightly bigger nose, you think it adds character.

Venus in Taurus male: You like girls that are feminine, with a very sexy voice. The most beautiful girls in your opinion have curves. You're not likely to get annoyed if your woman gains a little weight. Jewelry is nice in your opinion, and you don't like women who don't wear some kind of scent or perfume.

Venus in Gemini men: Your girl must be smart! You're the kind of guy who will not stick around if a woman seems uneducated or thinks Heidegger is a beer. You like slightly tanned women with (again) straight hair. You want your women slim and athletic. You like them to wear jeans and a jacket, lots of denim. You're not a breast man, you don't mind if your lady has small breasts.

Cancer venus: Well......You like them to look like your mother, I know a guy who married a woman who looked exactly like his mom and guess what? he had Venus in cancer.You like women who are feminine and you don't care if she's a little dumb, you think it's cute. Curly hair is a turn on for you. And perly white skin. Freckles too! because they're also so cute. You do not like women who wear pants all the time, instead she should wear lots of lace.

Venus in Leo male: You don't have a certain "type" the main thing is that she must be the most beautiful girl in the room. Tanned, great hair, great smile the works. You like women who look stylish. Homely girls are not for you. Lipstick is great in your opinion. And you insist that your woman doesn't look too tacky.

Venus in Virgo: Skinny model type girls are your type, it's hard for you to get turned on if she's slightly overweight. You like long hair. Not too much makeup, and freshly scrubbed is your ideal.I know a guy who broke up with a girl after 5 years of being together because she gained a few pounds. Mind your figure if you want this guy.

Venus in Libra: This guy likes women to be pretty, not sexy, pretty. With long curly BLONDE hair. If your not blonde well,,,if you're very beaufiul and from Puerto Roco he'll forgive you, otherwise get some highlights. Also lipgloss not lipstick and maybe some nice bracelets. Looong eyelashes and a lovely hourglass figure.

Some guys get over their obsession with beauty when they get older, then it's more important that you're a career woman, someone who's independant. But even then, trim your eyebrows, they like a nice framed look.

Venus in Scorpio: These guys like blondes too, but they usually go for short hair. I've yet to see a guy with this position with a long-haired woman. Brown eyes is important, and short skirts. Smoke a lot and drink too, but never act like you're drunk. He gets impressed if you're still walking straight after a bottle of Jack Daniels. Wear lots of dark eye makeup, he especially likes "cateyes" so learn that trick. (Stare at him for an hour without saying anyhting then leave, he likes that).Leather boots is a must

Venus in Sag : Buff women, ahh yes, you like to go to the gym and check out the ladies, admit it! Your woman is tanned, hair doesn't matter. But she's usually brunette and she can arm wrestle, She's taller than you too. Muscle is nice in your opinion, but flexability is too. Your woman must work out atleast a little. You think that make-up is yucky and you don't like to kiss girls with lipstick. You like girls who speak several languages, an accent is sexy to you.

Big breasts implants or natural are accepted.

Venus in capricorn's : girlfriends looks like anorectic hangers. Usually with very pale skin and a tragic look on their face, like they've just seen their uncle get hit by a freigh train. High cheekbones is a must!

And skinny lips too. Don't show your legs, wear very long dresses and dye your hair black and bob it like they did in the 20ties.

Venus in Aquarius : well, she must be beautiful, and smart, you usually like girls who are modern. Your women always wear the latest trends. You like girls who wear rastadreads for some reason, and you like women who look like yourself. People always think your girlfriend is your sister cause you look a like. You kinda like blondes but it doesn't matter that much

Venus in pisces: lordy this guy's girl is a doll. She doesn't swear she's got huuuuge eyes and it takes her a few seconds before she answers a question. She's got great skin, you like girls who have flawless skin. And she has beautiful lips. You like brunettes. She's got long dangly earrings and curly hair. The most important thing is she's super feminine and she doesn't say much

[boreothegoldfinch]

chapter 10 paragraph xvi

Gyuri left us out in the Sixties, not far at all from the Barbours’. “This is the place?” I said, shaking the rain off Hobie’s umbrella. We were out in front of one of the big limestone townhouses off Fifth—black iron doors, massive lion’s-head knockers. “Yes—it’s his father’s place—his other family are trying to get him out legally but good luck with that, hah.” We were buzzed in, took a cage elevator up to the second floor. I could smell incense, weed, spaghetti sauce cooking. A lanky blonde woman—shortcropped hair and a serene small-eyed face like a camel’s—opened the door. She was dressed like a sort of old-fashioned street urchin or newsboy: houndstooth trousers, ankle boots, dirty thermal shirt, suspenders. Perched on the tip of her nose were a pair of wire-rimmed Ben Franklin glasses. Without saying a word she opened the door to us and walked off, leaving us alone in a dim, grimy, ballroom-sized salon which was like a derelict version of some high-society set from a Fred Astaire movie: high ceilings; crumbling plaster; grand piano; darkened chandelier with half the crystals broken or gone; sweeping Hollywood staircase littered with cigarette butts. Sufi chants droned low in the background: Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq. Allāhu Allāhu Allāhu Haqq. Someone had drawn on the wall, in charcoal, a series of life-sized nudes ascending the stairs like frames in a film; and there was very little furniture apart from a ratty futon and some chairs and tables that looked scavenged from the street. Empty picture frames on the wall, a ram’s skull. On the television, an animated film flickered and sputtered with epileptic vim, windmilling geometrics intercut with letters and live-action racecar images. Apart from that, and the door where the blonde had disappeared, the only light came from a lamp which threw a sharp white circle on melted candles, computer cables, empty beer bottles and butane cans, oil pastels boxed and loose, many catalogues raisonnés, books in German and English including Nabokov’s Despair and Heidegger’s Being and Time with the cover torn off, sketch books, art books, ashtrays and burnt tinfoil, and a grubby-looking pillow where drowsed a gray tabby cat. Over the door, like a trophy from some Schwarzwald hunting lodge, a rack of antlers cast distorted shadows that spread and branched across the ceiling with a Nordic, wicked, fairy-tale feel. Conversation in the next room. The windows were shrouded with tacked-up bedsheets just thin enough to let in a diffuse violet glow from the street. As I looked around, forms emerged from the dark and transformed with a dream strangeness: for one thing, the makeshift room divider—consisting of a carpet sagging tenement-style from the ceiling on fishing line—was on closer look a tapestry and a good one too, eighteenth century or older, the near twin of an Amiens I’d seen at auction with an estimate of forty thousand pounds. And not all the frames on the wall were empty. Some had paintings in them, and one of them—even in the poor light—looked like a Corot.

I was just about to step over for a look when a man who could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty appeared in the door: worn-looking, rangy, with straight sandy hair combed back from his face, in black punk jeans out at the knee and a grungy British commando sweater with an ill-fitting suit jacket over it. “Hello,” he said to me, quiet British voice with a faint German bite, “you must be Potter,” and then, to Boris: “Glad you turned up. You two should stay and hang out. Candy and Niall are making dinner with Ulrika.” Movement behind the tapestry, at my feet, that made me step back quickly: swaddled shapes on the floor, sleeping bags, a homeless smell. “Thanks, we can’t stay,” said Boris, who had picked up the cat and was scratching it behind the ears. “Have some of that wine though, thanks.” Without a word Horst passed his own glass over to Boris and then called into the next room in German. To me, he said: “You’re a dealer, right?” In the glow of the television his pale pinned gull’s eye shone hard and unblinking. “Right,” I said uneasily; and then: “Uh, thanks.” Another woman—bobhaired and brunette, high black boots, skirt just short enough to show the black cat tattooed on one milky thigh—had appeared with a bottle and two glasses: one for Horst, one for me. “Danke darling,” said Horst. To Boris he said: “You gentlemen want to do up?” “Not right now,” said Boris, who had leaned forward to steal a kiss from the dark-haired woman as she was leaving. “Was wondering though. What do you hear from Sascha?” “Sascha—” Horst sank down on the futon and lit a cigarette. With his ripped jeans and combat boots he was like a scuffed-up version of some below-the-title Hollywood character actor from the 1940s, some minor mitteleuropäischer known for playing tragic violinists and weary, cultivated refugees. “Ireland is where it seems to lead. Good news if you ask me.” “That doesn’t sound right.” “Nor to me, but I’ve talked to people and so far it checks out.” He spoke with all a junkie’s arrhythmic quiet, off-beat, but without the slur. “So—soon we should know more, I hope.” “Friends of Niall’s?” “No. Niall says he never heard of them. But it’s a start.”

The wine was bad: supermarket Syrah. Because I did not want to be anywhere near the bodies on the floor I drifted over to inspect a group of artists’ casts on a beat-up table: a male torso; a draped Venus leaning against a rock; a sandaled foot. In the poor light they looked like the ordinary plaster casts for sale at Pearl Paint—studio pieces for students to sketch from—but when I drew my finger across the top of the foot I felt the suppleness of marble, silky and grainless. “Why would they go to Ireland with it?” Boris was saying restlessly. “What kind of collectors’ market? I thought everyone tries to get pieces out of there, not in.” “Yes, but Sascha thinks he used the picture to clear a debt.” “So the guy has ties there?” “Evidently.” “I find this difficult to believe.” “What, about the ties?” “No, about the debt. This guy—he looks like he was stealing hubcaps off the street six months ago. “ Horst shrugged, faintly: sleepy eyes, seamed forehead. “Who knows. Not sure that’s correct but certainly I’m not willing to trust to luck. Would I let my hand be cut off for it?” he said, lazily tapping an ash on the floor. “No.” Boris frowned into his wine glass. “He was amateur. Believe me. If you saw him yourself you would know.” “Yes but he likes to gamble, Sascha says.” “You don’t think Sascha maybe knows more?” “I think not.” There was a remoteness in his manner, as if he was talking half to himself. “ ‘Wait and see.’ This is what I hear. An unsatisfactory answer. Stinking from the top if you ask me. But as I say, we are not to the bottom of this yet.” “And when does Sascha get back to the city?” The half-light in the room sent me straight back to childhood, Vegas, like the obscure mood of a dream lingering after sleep: haze of cigarette smoke, dirty clothes on the floor, Boris’s face white then blue in the flicker of the screen. “Next week. I’ll give you a ring. You can talk to him yourself then.” “Yes. But I think we should talk to him together.” “Yes. I think so too. We’ll both be smarter, in future… this need not have happened… but in any case,” said Horst, who was scratching his neck slowly, absent-mindedly, “you understand I’m wary of pushing him too hard.” “That is very convenient for Sascha.” “You have suspicions. Tell me.” “I think—” Boris cut his eyes at the doorway. “Yes?” “I think—” Boris lowered his voice—“you are being too easy on him. Yes yes—” putting up his hands—“I know. But—all very convenient for his guy to vanish, not a clue, he knows nothing!” “Well, maybe,” Horst said. He seemed disconnected and partly elsewhere, like an adult in the room with small children. “This is pressing on me—on all of us. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you. Though for all we know his guy was a cop.” “No,” said Boris resolutely. “He was not. He was not. I know it.” “Well—to be quite frank with you, I do not think so either, there is more to this than we yet know. Still, I’m hopeful.” He’d taken a wooden box from the drafting table and was poking around in it. “Sure you gentlemen wouldn’t like to get into a little something?” I looked away. I would have liked nothing better. I would also have liked to see the Corot except I didn’t want to walk around the bodies on the floor to do it. Across the room, I’d noticed several other paintings propped on the wainscoting: a still life, a couple of small landscapes. “Go look, if you want.” It was Horst. “The Lépine is fake. But the Claesz and the Berchem are for sale if you’re interested.” Boris laughed and reached for one of Horst’s cigarettes. “He’s not in the market.” “No?” said Horst genially. “I can give him a good price on the pair. The seller needs to get rid of them.”

I stepped in to look: still life, candle and half-empty wineglass. “Claesz-Heda?” “No—Pieter. Although—” Horst put the box aside, then stood beside me and lifted the desk lamp on the cord, washing both paintings in a harsh, formal glare—“this bit—” traced mid-air with the curve of a finger—“the reflection of the flame here? and the edge of the table, the drapery? Could almost be Heda on a bad day.” “Beautiful piece.” “Yes. Beautiful of its type.” Up close he smelled unwashed and raunchy, with a strong, dusty import-shop odor like the inside of a Chinese box. “A bit prosaic to the modern taste. The classicizing manner. Much too staged. Still, the Berchem is very good.” “Lot of fake Berchems out there,” I said neutrally. “Yes—” the light from the upheld lamp on the landscape painting was bluish, eerie—“but this is lovely… Italy, 1655‥… the ochres beautiful, no? The Claesz not so good I think, very early, though the provenance is impeccable on both. Would be nice to keep them together… they have never been apart, these two. Father and son. Came down together in an old Dutch family, ended up in Austria after the war. Pieter Claesz…” Horst held the light higher. “Claesz was so uneven, honestly. Wonderful technique, wonderful surface, but something a bit off with this one, don’t you agree? The composition doesn’t hold together. Incoherent somehow. Also—” indicating with the flat of his thumb the too-bright shine coming off the canvas: overly varnished. “I agree. And here—” tracing midair the ugly arc where an over-eager cleaning had scrubbed the paint down to the scumbling. “Yes.” His answering look was amiable and drowsy. “Quite correct. Acetone. Whoever did that should be shot. And yet a mid-level painting like this, in poor condition—even an anonymous work—is worth more than a masterpiece, that’s the irony of it, worth more to me, anyway. Landscapes particularly. Very very easy to sell. Not too much attention from the authorities… difficult to recognize from a description… and still worth maybe a couple hundred thousand. Now, the Fabritius—” long, relaxed pause—“a different calibre altogether. The most remarkable work that’s ever passed through my hands, and I can say that without question.” “Yes, and that is why we would like so much to get it back,” grumbled Boris from the shadows. “Completely extraordinary,” continued Horst serenely. “A still life like this one—” he indicated the Claesz, with a slow wave (black-rimmed fingernails, scarred venous network on the back of his hand)—“well, so insistently a trompe l’oeil. Great technical skill, but overly refined. Obsessive exactitude. There’s a deathlike quality. A very good reason they are called natures mortes, yes? But the Fabritius…”—loose-kneed back-step—“I know the theory of The Goldfinch, I’m well familiar with it, people call it trompe l’oeil and indeed it can strike the eye that way from afar. But I don’t care what the art historians say. True: there are passages worked like a trompe l’oeil… the wall and the perch, gleam of light on brass, and then… the feathered breast, most creaturely. Fluff and down. Soft, soft. Claesz would carry that finish and exactitude down to the death—a painter like van Hoogstraten would carry it even farther, to the last nail of the coffin. But Fabritius… he’s making a pun on the genre… a masterly riposte to the whole idea of trompe l’oeil… because in other passages of the work—the head? the wing?—not creaturely or literal in the slightest, he takes the image apart very deliberately to show us how he painted it. Daubs and patches, very shaped and hand-worked, the neckline especially, a solid piece of paint, very abstract. Which is what makes him a genius less of his time than our own. There’s a doubleness. You see the mark, you see the paint for the paint, and also the living bird.”

“Yes, well,” growled Boris, in the dark beyond the spotlight, snapping his cigarette lighter shut, “if no paint, would be nothing to see.” “Precisely.” Horst turned, his face cut by shadow. “It’s a joke, the Fabritius. It has a joke at its heart. And that’s what all the very greatest masters do. Rembrandt. Velázquez. Late Titian. They make jokes. They amuse themselves. They build up the illusion, the trick—but, step closer? it falls apart into brushstrokes. Abstract, unearthly. A different and much deeper sort of beauty altogether. The thing and yet not the thing. I should say that that one tiny painting puts Fabritius in the rank of the greatest painters who ever lived. And with The Goldfinch? He performs his miracle in such a bijou space. Although I admit, I was surprised—” turning to look at me—“when I held it in my hands the first time? The weight of it?” “Yes—” I couldn’t help feeling gratified, obscurely, that he’d noted this detail, oddly important to me, with its own network of childhood dreams and associations, an emotional chord—“the board is thicker than you’d think. There’s a heft to it.” “Heft. Quite. The very word. And the background—much less yellow than when I saw it as a boy. The painting underwent a cleaning—early nineties I believe. Post-conservation, there’s more light.” “Hard to say. I’ve got nothing to compare it to.” “Well,” said Horst. The smoke from Boris’s cigarette, threading in from the dark where he sat, gave the floodlit circle where we stood the midnight feel of a cabaret stage. “I may be wrong. I was a boy of twelve or so when I saw it for the first time.” “Yes, I was about that age when I first saw it too.” “Well,” said Horst, with resignation, scratching an eyebrow—dime-sized bruises on the backs of his hands—“that was the only time my father ever took me with him on a business trip, that time at The Hague. Ice cold boardrooms. Not a leaf stirring. On our afternoon I wanted to go to Drievliet, the fun park, but he took me to the Mauritshuis instead. And—great museum, many great paintings, but the only painting I remember seeing is your finch. A painting that appeals to a child, yes? Der Distelfink. That is how I knew it first, by its German name.”

“Yah, yah, yah,” said Boris from the darkness, in a bored voice. “This is like the education channel on the television.” “Do you deal any modern art at all?” I said, in the silence that followed. “Well—” Horst fixed me with his drained, wintry eye; deal wasn’t quite the correct verb, he seemed amused at my choice of words—“sometimes. Had a Kurt Schwitters not long ago—Stanton Macdonald-Wright—do you know him? Lovely painter. It depends a lot what comes my way. Quite honestly— do you ever deal in paintings at all?” “Very seldom. The art dealers get there before I do.” “That is unfortunate. Portable is what matters in my business. There are a lot of mid-level pieces I could sell on the clean if I had paper that looked good.” Spit of garlic; pans clashing in the kitchen; faint Moroccan-souk drift of urine and incense. On and on flatlining, the Sufi drone, wafting and spiraling around us in the dark, ceaseless chants to the Divine. “Or this Lépine. Quite a good forgery. There’s this fellow—Canadian, quite amusing, you’d like him—does them to order. Pollocks, Modiglianis— happy to introduce you, if you’d like. Not much money in them for me, although there’s a fortune to be made if one of them turned up in just the right estate.” Then, smoothly, in the silence that followed: “Of older works I see a lot of Italian, but my preferences—they incline to the North as you can see. Now—this Berchem is a very fine example for what it is but of course these Italianate landscapes with the broken columns and the simple milkmaids don’t so much suit the modern taste, do they? I much prefer the van Goyen there. Sadly not for sale.” “Van Goyen? I would have sworn that was a Corot.” “From here, yes, you might.” He was pleased at the comparison. “Very similar painters—Vincent himself remarked it—you know that letter? ‘The Corot of the Dutch’? Same tenderness of mist, that openness in fog, do you know what I mean?” “Where—” I’d been about to ask the typical dealer’s question, where did you get it, before catching myself. “Marvelous painter. Very prolific. And this is a particularly beautiful example,” he said, with all a collector’s pride. “Many amusing details up close—tiny hunter, barking dog. Also—quite typical—signed on the stern of the boat. Quite charming. If you don’t mind—” indicating, with a nod, the bodies behind the tapestry. “Go over. You won’t disturb them.” “No, but—” “No—” holding up a hand—“I understand perfectly. Shall I bring it to you?” “Yes, I’d love to see it.”

“I must say, I’ve grown so fond of it, I’ll hate to see it go. He dealt paintings himself, van Goyen. A lot of the Dutch masters did. Jan Steen. Vermeer. Rembrandt. But Jan van Goyen—” he smiled—“was like our friend Boris here. A hand in everything. Paintings, real estate, tulip futures.” Boris, in the dark, made a disgruntled noise at this and seemed about to say something when all of a sudden a scrawny wild-haired boy of maybe twenty-two, with an old fashioned mercury thermometer sticking out of his mouth, came lurching out of the kitchen, shielding his eyes with his hand against the upheld lamp. He was wearing a weird, womanish, chunky knit cardigan that came almost to his knees like a bathrobe; he looked ill and disoriented, his sleeve was up, he was rubbing the inside of his forearm with two fingers and then the next thing I knew his knees went sideways and he’d hit the floor, the thermometer skittering out with a glassy noise on the parquet, unbroken. “What…?” said Boris, stabbing out his cigarette, standing up, the cat darting from his lap into the shadows. Horst—frowning—set the lamp on the floor, light swinging crazily on walls and ceiling. “Ach,” he said fretfully, brushing the hair from his eyes, dropping to his knees to look the young man over. “Get back,” he said in an annoyed voice to the women who had appeared in the door, along with a cold, dark-haired, attentive-looking bruiser and a couple of glassy prep-school boys, no more than sixteen—and then, when they all still stood staring—flicked out a hand. “In the kitchen with you! Ulrika,” he said to the blonde, “halt sie zurück.” The tapestry was stirring; behind it, blanket-wrapped huddles, sleepy voices: eh? was ist los? “Ruhe, schlaft weiter,” called the blonde, before turning to Horst and beginning to speak urgently in rapid-fire German. Yawns; groans; farther back, a bundle sitting up, groggy American whine: “Huh? Klaus? What’d she say?” “Shut up baby and go back schlafen.” Boris had picked up his coat and was shouldering it on. “Potter,” he said and then again, when I did not answer, staring horrified at the floor, where the boy was breathing in gurgles: “Potter.” Catching my arm. “Come on, let’s go.” “Yes, sorry. We’ll have to talk later. Schiesse,” said Horst regretfully, shaking the boy’s limp shoulder, with the tone of a parent making a not-particularly-convincing show of scolding a child. “Dummer Wichser! Dummkopf! How much did he take, Niall?” he said to the bruiser who had reappeared in the door and was looking on with a critical eye. “Fuck if I know,” said the Irishman, with an ominous sideways pop of his head. “Come on, Potter,” said Boris, catching my arm. Horst had his ear to the boy’s chest and the blonde, who had returned, had dropped to her knees beside him and was checking his airway.

As they consulted urgently in German, more noise and movement behind the Amiens, which billowed out suddenly: faded blossoms, a fête champêtre, prodigal nymphs disporting themselves amidst fountain and vine. I was staring at a satyr peeping at them slyly from behind a tree when, unexpectedly —something against my leg—I started back violently as a hand swiped from underneath and clutched my trouser cuff. From the floor, one of the dirty bundles—swollen red face just visible from under the tapestry—inquired of me in a sleepy gallant voice: “He’s a margrave, my dear, did you know that?” I pulled my trouser leg free and stepped back. The boy on the floor was rolling his head a bit and making sounds like he was drowning. “Potter.” Boris had gathered up my coat and was practically stuffing it in my face. “Come on! Let’s go! Ciao,” he called into the kitchen with a lift of his chin (pretty dark head appearing in the doorway, a fluttering hand: bye, Boris! Bye!) as he pushed me ahead of him and ducked behind me out the door. “Ciao, Horst!” he said, making a call me later gesture, hand to ear. “Tschau Boris! Sorry about this! We’ll talk soon! Up,” said Horst, as the Irishman came up and grabbed the boy’s other arm from underneath; together they hoisted him up, feet limp and toes dragging and—amidst hurried activity in the doorway, the two young teenagers scrambling back in alarm—hauled him into the lighted doorway of the next room, where Boris’s brunette was drawing up a syringe of something from a tiny glass bottle.

[acedesigns]

Call [FF7: Reeve/Reader]

Word Count: 770

A/N: Guess who might have to have surgery on their spine! Me. -_- FML. I’ll find out whatever’s wrong with my spine on Monday. Possibilities are: herniated disc, spinal fluid leak, weird cyst, or a tumor.

--

Your fingers strummed an instrument that wasn’t there. Then, you’d go to play a drum solo with your ballpoint pen against the wood of your desk. The music was lit. Well, according to you it was. Probably not to others. Really, you were just jamming with your earbuds in while you waited for people to show up to the meeting.

It was virtual,  with all of the managers being at different places in the world it just made sense. Scarlet was near Gongaga at the ruined reactor with Tseng. Heidegger was based in Junon. Palmer and Rufus were near Rocket Town. Hojo turned in his resignation, you were secretly celebrating for that. And Reeve was of course running back and forth between Midgar and Kalm. He was currently in Kalm while you were in Midgar.

You glanced at the time on your computer and froze. You had three minutes before the meeting started. You paused the music and went to the tab where you were waiting for the others to join. The beating of your heart stilled and you felt your blood run cold.

“How long have you been there?” you squeaked out, seeing a pair of amused eyes watch you.

“Long enough to see you headbang to something I can’t hear,” he chuckled. Heat invaded your face. With a shuttered sigh, you buried your face in your hands. “Oh, come on. No need to be so embarrassed, [Y/N].”

“Reeve,” you whined. “There’s supposed to be a chime when you join the meeting.”

“Must have blended in with the music,” he replied. “Which, I must say, I’m glad you didn’t hear it.” You just groaned and shook your head. “Would you rather I be one of the others?”

“Oh, hell no,” you shot back and finally lifted your head from your hands. “They’re too pompous and full of—I’m going to not say anything in case they log in and I don’t hear the bell again.”

“Yeah, probably for the best,” Reeve agreed. “When they’re gone, we can talk about how annoying their laughs were.”

You snorted and a small laugh escaped your lips. “I hope mine’s not annoying.”

“Never. I actually like your laugh.” Reeve grinned at the webcam.

You were about to open your mouth to respond, but the chime sounded. Rufus’s face appeared on your screen. Palmer then appeared soon afterward.

“Nice to see that some of my managers are on time,” Rufus sounded, not at all sounding pleased. “Have any of you heard from Heidegger or Scarlet?”

“No sir,” you responded. Your eyes glanced to a sudden vibration from your phone. Carefully, you swiped on the screen seeing Reeve had texted you.

Hopefully he fires them. Like now.

A sharp exhaled exited your nose as you held in a laugh. You glanced towards where Reeve’s face was on your computer. The corners of his eyes were crinkled ever so slightly. Then, there were two chimes. Scarlet and Hedeiger appeared on your screen.

These assholes again. Goddammit

You fought the urge to text back, knowing that you would get too in-depth with a side conversation that you’d miss something Rufus would say.

I positioned some paper cutouts to give both of them stupid mustaches

You placed your hand over your mouth to hide a grin. You glanced at Reeve to see his screen go out. A second later, it was back. Then, your phone vibrated.

A picture of his laptop popped up. There were the stupid mustaches. Your fingers slammed the button to turn off your camera as you burst out laughing. Your roars of laughter drowned out the plan to find the promised land.

You’re going to get me in trouble! You texted the man back.

With a sigh, you turned your camera back on and refocused. You turned your phone over to ignore Reeve’s texts.

--

Once the meeting ended, your phone started to buzz. You picked it up and with a grin answered.

“I’m going to kill you,” you spoke into your phone.

“It was funny, right?” you heard Reeve chuckle.

“Yeah, it’s a good thing I was already on mute. If Rufus heard—”

“It would have been a slap on the wrist. If he fires you, I’ll quit in protest.”

“Awe, you’d do that for me?”

“Of course. Listen I--.” He cut himself off and sighed. “I have to go; Avalanche is about to do something.”

“Okay. Help them save the world,” you spoke quietly, not sure if it was alright to root for them.

“Will do. Love you.” Reeve hung up.

“Wait,” you paused and looked at your phone. “What?”

[100wendybirds]

FF7R ~ Translation Matters (12)　ーHOHEEEEEEEEE

I decided to start cross posting my translation blogs onto Hatena so I can get some feedback from Japanese fans (just can’t warm up to Twitter). I’ll do it weekly since it’ll take time to convert all my old blog posts into Japanese. If there are any fun comments, I’ll…translate the Japanese comments on my Japanese translated translation blog and post them on my English language translation blog, yeah?    

Anyway.

Japanese Don Corneo is always making this ridiculous “HO HEEE” sound. It means nothing, though it kind of sounds like the Japanese sound for neigh (like HEE HEEN). The HO HEE’s are officially part of the Japanese subtitles too so it seems to be a character quirk. But this is gone in English, translated differently every time with various filler conversation. I didn’t think much about it until they fought the monster in the sewers. When Cloud says it was Don Corneo’s pet, Japanese Aerith lets out her own HO HEE. The English version? Aerith makes a horse sound, which is so completely unexpected and unrelated to everything that it is even funnier, imo. Video comparison:

Let me see if this embedding works...EDIT: NOPE. BRB

In another scene, Heidegger mocks my boyfriend, Video-Game-Ben Barnes, saying

Jpn: 「また分別くさい顔で　青くさいことを」 Official Eng: “The stench of the director’s cowardice fills the room yet again.” Comment: I love that they incorporated the “stench” of being both 分別くさい (stank-face acting all wise/discerning) and 青くさい (stink of naivety; stench of inexperience). Is it cowardice though?  

The president poohpooh’s Reeve and says Jpn:「これも発展の潤滑油だ」 English trans: ”Progress requires sacrifice.” My trans: “This too is grease for the wheel of progress.” Comment: 潤滑油 is literally a lubricant/grease and like you’d see it in industrial labels etc. These lines are generally the same but keeping the language of “grease” better fits with the whole industrial wasteland vibe of Shinra.  

Jpn: 「腹をくくりたまえ」 English trans: “Learn to live with it.” Comment: I remember studying long lists of Japanese phrases that used the word 腹 or gut. �� is basically “belly” (mostly used by men) but culturally it was linked to one’s personality, mental condition, emotions, etc. A great equivalent in English is “gut” - like, “you’ve got guts! or “gut feeling.” The “gut” thing is more extensive in Japanese though. Examples: 

腹が立つ -> your gut is standing up -> angry 腹を決める -> you’ve decided on the gut —> you made up your mind を割る -> split open the gut -> be frank, drop pretense 太っ腹な -> yo fat gut -> to be big hearted and generous

My trans: 腹を括る -> lit. bind up your gut -> “Steel yourself.” “Set your teeth.” “Harden your heart.” Those feel more on the nose than the “learn to live with it.” 

[reno2ndgun]

1 “Not everything has to be a public affair, Reno. Besides,” he sneered, “Daddy Dearest has most of the press in his pocket now.” His derision was short-lived, however, as Reno’s demeanor took a coquettish turn. Taking a calculated gamble, Rufus leaned back in his chair and slowly swept his gaze over the red haired Turk from head to toe and back up. He let a smile slowly curl across his lips. “Very good looking.”

 He pulled open his laptop while Reno settled in, keenly aware of his proximity, the faint scent of ozone that always seemed to accompany him. He opened his calendar and began sorting through his agenda for tomorrow, listening to Reno as he did so. Fortunately, it was a pretty light day, where he was concerned. He only had two meetings scheduled—one of which was with Tseng. He sent him a short message that he was going to take it easy tomorrow. That should appease him for a little while.

 By the time he’d finished submitting a request to reschedule his other meeting, Reno was nudging a pile in his direction. He’d only just begun scanning the first page when his commentary distracted him. He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, chuckling deeply. “I should have you help me more often,” he commented dryly. “Paperwork is never this entertaining.” He returned his attention to the papers, working through them with relative quickness now that the duds were weeded out. 

 Finally closing his laptop and setting it to the side, Rufus placed an arm on the desk and leaned towards the Turk. “He gestured to Reno's shin with his free hand. "How's the leg? Don't think I didn't notice that grimace when you jumped up there."

Friendly flirting was honestly Reno’s bread and butter of the day. He was jovial, friendly and charming and now was no different.  When Rufus gave him a once over, he popped his collar, and bared his neck to be showy. “Love it when you smirk.” Flirting aside, Reno double checks his work and decides to underline ‘moron’ on each page he’s written it. He shouts so Tseng can hear him in the background on the voice message “I’m being good Boss I promise!!” When Rufus mentions his limp he squints. “You and that needle-vision need a vacation yo.” Needle vision had been Reno’s term of endearment for Rufus’s uncanny attention to detail that was so keen Reno was certain he could find a needle in a haystack if put to the test. He’d been using the term for years. Reno glared in mock irritation before sliding off the desk to land on his good leg. “S’ok yo-HNG! Ahm good. Just need a hot minute. ” He’d jostled it again and the Turk decided to take his booze in hand for a swig. Good old ‘Turk painkiller’ “Ha...ok . That’s a little better. Honestly, Tseng is making me take the month off. I could help you some more this week. Gives me something to do besides Drink and play darts in the Turks basement. He wants to put me in a cast but I don’t like the idea of immobility. Not even a little bit of it.”  Reno took up one of the ‘good forms’ that was going to be sent back to Reeve. “Let’s lighten up his day a little bit.” Reno did a quick fifteen minute sketch on the blank side of the paper forms of what could no less be described as  a fat little moogle. “Reeve is nice, Reeve gets moogles.”  He grabs a paper going back to Heideggar and sneers. “Ahhhhhhh....I wanna draw dicks but thats no good. Oh. I know.” He sketches a quick picture of Scarlet pole dancing. “Even better, the Lady he’ll never get yo! Whats even better is that these are coming from YOU, technically, so they can’t say shit. Childish, but I’ve been wanting to stick in in Heidegger’s nose for months.” Reno writes ‘Never gunna get it fatass’ next to the picture of Scarlet. “Aaaand outbox! I try to keep things fun. The investigative work gets monotonous otherwise!” “ OH OH OH!! I FORGOT TO TELL YOU YO!! Rude and I found the guy who’s been embezzling your money! He switched identities a grand total of FOUR times- “ Reno held four long fingers up, back of his hand facing Rufus for emphasis, “-  and was feeding off the money into adverts for fake businesses to cover his tracks! We booked’m this Morning in little Wutai!! So we recovered a grand total of about 3 million gil, Tseng said he should have it wired in by 3 pm tomorrow. So remember to factor that into the quarterly budget....what...a week from now? Two weeks yo?” 

[ttkusfic]

Chapter 1: Dasein Denied

Professor Bochs looked like Sartre as an old man. He was composed entirely of sharp angles except for a pair of frameless half-moon glasses that sat on his face like two fishbowls holding toad colored eyes. Professor Bochs was one of the few professors at Saint Sebastian’s who still conducted his classes entirely in lectures, and this was fine with most of his students who found him tough and intimidating and preferred to say nothing at all. Whenever anyone did speak in class, his eyes widened as if in fright that he might hear something stupid, making the top of his irises rise above his glasses, giving his eyes a fractured look from the right angle.  

My roommate, Meg was terrified of him, but (though I would have admitted it to no one) I liked Professor Bochs. I liked that he was tough, and I liked that he gave me the space to figure things out on my own. I liked that I was able to mull over the contents of his class in silence without breaking into groups to talk about it. I liked that it was enough for him that I turn in an occasional paper to prove that I was still alive.  

In senior year, on the day I was rejected by the only law school I applied to, Professor Bochs canceled the Existentialism class Meg and I were taking together. He was there in the classroom when I arrived, writing with a silver pen in a leather bound notebook, but he didn’t acknowledge us at all except to point to a note written on the board over his head without looking up or pausing in his writing.

Happy Good Friday!

Class is canceled. You will spend my lecture period in the library researching your final paper. The list of available topics is on the assignment sheet that you will find on my desk. Before leaving this room, please, write the name of the philosopher you have chosen on the board with your name.

One student per philosopher.

I took an assignment sheet from the stack of papers I found on his desk and sat in the nearest desk to read it. The assignment was to write a paper summarizing the major contributions of one philosopher we’d studied that term. It must have been an assignment he gave all his classes because there was no list to choose from. This was the first test, to collectively remember everyone we’d studied so far, but it didn’t matter to me. I knew immediately that I would do my project on Heidegger.

I stood up, ready to make my choice, but the board was already swarming with students. I stood in the back and waited like I always do, confident that Heidegger would be left for last, but when I got to the board all of the philosophers on the list were taken, and Heidegger’s name was next to the name of my roommate, Meg Bradley.

The room cleared, and I was left alone with Professor Bochs.  

“I’m looking forward to your paper,” he said as I stood there counting and recounting the philosophers in my head. There had to have been a mistake. Exactly one short? Should I say something? I wasn’t sure. What if he already knew?

“Most of my students start avoiding eye contact by the time we get to Heidegger,” he said, “but not you, Emily Stone. You will be writing about Heidegger, yes?”

“No,” I said, pointing at the board. “Meg Bradley took Heidegger.”

“Interesting,” he said and took off his glasses, as if they were just a prop, and removing them would help him see me better.

“You are not one of my students,” he said.

Since I was in his class, I hoped he meant that I wasn’t a philosophy major. I told him that I was a senior, an English major, and he asked me what I was doing in his class.

“Core requirement,” I said, and he sniffed, wrinkling his nose in disgust, “but I like it. I like philosophy.”

“You do.”

“Especially phenomenology,” I said, and this seemed to please him.

He asked why I like phenomenology, and that I like to think about things. Actual things, and that’s what phenomenology is, the object philosophy. I wasn’t sure I was right about this, so I started ramble about the thingy-ness of literature, repeating something I’d heard in a literature class about Homer’s delight in listing objects, as if he hoped that by listing all the things that were in the golden age of Greece they might come back again and the golden age with them.

“And, anyway,” I said. “I like the fact that philosophy gives me an excuse to think--”

“An excuse to think,” he said, and time stopped.

He was, as always, perfectly composed, but a steely intensity appeared in his eyes, and I understood for the first time why Meg was so terrified of him, but I said nothing. I just stood there doing my best to meet his gaze until my phone rang. I apologized, turned off the ringer without seeing who had called. When I looked up,  he was the impassive professor again.

“Which philosopher have you chosen for your paper?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “All of the philosophers on the list are taken. I was hoping to do my paper on Heidegger. What if Meg and I both do our papers on him?”

He shook his head and explained that the one philosopher per student rule was for our protection. “You don’t want me to be thinking about Meg Bradley’s paper while I grade yours, do you?” he asked, and I admitted that I didn’t, even though I was almost certain that against her’s my paper would almost certainly look better.

He considered me for a minute then turned to a blank page in his notebook, wrote a name on it, tore the page out, and handed it to me like a doctor handing out a prescription.

“You will write your paper on Hannah Arendt,” he said. “Heidegger’s favorite student.”

I started to argue that I knew nothing about Hannah Arendt, and it wasn’t fair since everyone else was allowed to do philosophers we’d studied already, but he interrupted me again.

“I know. You get the student when you wanted the teacher, but she was a great thinker in her own right. I think she will appeal even more than Heidegger to your love of the philosophy of things.” He trailed off, seemingly lost in thought. I took this as permission to go, but before I left I heard him mutter, more to himself than me, “Yes. Hannah Arendt is exactly what you need.”

Heidegger’s favorite student. I repeated the words to myself as I cut a path across the quad over the frozen ground. Until that moment, Heidegger had been a concept to me bound in abstractions and German vocabulary, but he had been a person. I knew that. Obviously. But something about thinking of him with students humanized him for me, a favorite student especially, and it made me want to write my paper on him more than ever.  

I skipped the library, planning to spend the afternoon in my dorm googling Hannah Arendt. Between Heidegger and law school, I wasn’t exactly in a social mood.

The fastest way from the classroom building to the dorms should have been around the quad, but I was forced to take the long way around. Directness seemed to have been one of the last considerations of the campus’s architect, who lived before the invention of airplanes and yet designed the place to look stunning from the air. The buildings were arranged in a perfect square around a courtyard and were connected by paths in the shape of a haloed cross. This arrangement would have been ideal if architect hadn’t dropped a tall-hedged labyrinth right in the middle of it. For a school made up mainly of Bostonians and women from the surrounding suburbs, the inefficiency of being forced to walk around the labyrinth was a constant annoyance. Despite the best efforts of the grounds keepers and their desperate pleas that we not walk on the grass, desire lines were permanently worn around the labyrinth’s evergreen walls.

When I got to my room I found the door open. Meg was her bed with a cup of tea, her philosophy textbooks open all around her and a stick of her frankincense and vanilla flavored incense burning on my desk.  Most college dorms are like storage cabinets for people, but Meg was a witch, and living with Meg was like living in a one hundred square foot metaphysical bookstore. Meg’s desk was the first thing you saw when you walked into the room. It sat under the twin windows opposite the door, I swear, just like an altar, and like an altar it was practically impossible to do anything in the room without referencing it in some way.

The TV lived on Meg’s desk on my side of the room which would have made it convenient for bedtime viewing except that she kept it continually looping a video of a thunderstorm she’d taken from her back porch during our last summer vacation. Having a bowl of cereal meant digging a box out of her desk drawer that she’d coated with sheets of stainless steel because she was afraid of mice and insisted that plastic containers did nothing but weed out stupid mice with BPA poisoning, and nothing short of a cereal box-sized fallout shelter would keep the smart ones away. Opening a window meant leaning carefully over her desk making sure to not knock over a candle or piece of burning incense or the electric fire bowl filled with the ashes of the sins of her enemies.

When I first moved in with her it was magical to me that she was allowed to light things on fire in our room, but when I told other people on our floor about it, I quickly discovered that I was the last to know. Apparently, she had challenged the rule against burning things in freshman year, arguing that it was a necessary part of her religious observance, and the nuns, who regularly burned things as part of their religious practices, understood completely.  

The fire bowl was at the very center of her desk and was also essential, she claimed, to her spiritual practice. I saw her burn all kinds of things in that bowl. Poverty. War. Traffic tickets. A woman who cut her in line at the mini-mart and argued with the cashier for twenty minutes about a coupon.

“How am I going to summarize Heidegger in five pages?” she asked.

“You could have chosen someone simpler,” I said, “Like Rilke. You’re always going on about realness and authenticity. You could have read Malte Laurids Brigge in less than a day, everything he ever wrote, probably.”

“I didn’t take a philosophy class to write my final paper on a poet,” Meg said. “I need to be well-rounded if I’m going to be a writer, and, anyway, you like him so much. I thought I’d see what all the fuss was about.”

“So, you knew that I wanted Heidegger,” I said, “And you took him, anyway.”

“I didn’t know you wanted Heidegger,” she said.

“How is that possible?” I asked. “Existentialism is pretty much the only thing we talk about anymore. You know how obsessed I am with Heidegger.”

“I knew you were obsessed with him, but I didn’t know you wanted to write your paper on him.”

“Generally those two things go together,” I pointed out.

“Honestly, I didn’t think about it,” she said. “And what’s the big deal, anyway? You just said you could put together a paper on Rilke in less than a day.”

“I didn’t get Rilke. He was taken already. Everyone was taken already.”

“You didn’t get out of it then, did you?” she asked.

“No. Unfortunately.”

My phone rang again. This time I swore but checked to see who it was before I ignored it and put my phone on vibrate.

“Who was that?” Meg asked.

“My mother,” I said. “She called me when I was talking to Professor Bochs, too.”

“If she called you twice, shouldn’t you answer it?”

“No.”

I’d given my mother a copy of my class schedule, so she’d stop interrupting my classes, but she’d ignored it. Even though I wasn’t in class today, I didn’t want her to get the idea that there might be even the slightest chance she might catch me this way.

I took the piece of paper Professor Bochs had given me out of my pocket and handed it to Meg. “He assigned me someone I’ve never heard of before. Hannah Arendt.”

“Hannah Arendt. She’s interesting,” Meg said.

“You’ve heard of her?”

“Oh, yeah. She was a Holocaust survivor, taught at the New School in the early days.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“I thought about transferring to the New School for awhile in Sophomore year.”

Emily was brilliant. She had a mind like a mouse trap. As far as I could tell, she forgot nothing.

“I didn’t know that,” I said. “I mean, I always wondered how you ended up at a Catholic school. Why didn’t you transfer?”

“It’s kind of awkward being here, but I don’t want to be one of those people who only ever knew her own kind. My academic advisor is a nun! I’m probably never going to be this close to a nun again.” She handed the paper back to me. “Do you know why he gave you Hannah Arendt?”

“I have no idea.”

“There is a bit of a mystery around her, you know. She died right before she was supposed to start her last book. It was part of a series, I think, but I know I remember that all we have of it is what was written on the page they found in her typewriter when she died, a couple of quotes and a title.”

“That’s creepy,” I said. “You don’t think that’s why Professor Bochs assigned her to me, do you?”

“No way,” Meg said. “I bet your love of Heidegger weirded him out. He probably just wants to make sure you’re not a Nazi.”

[cwarscars]

"Are you willing to share one of your war stories, sir?"

the general cocks a brow, a second of scepticism - a disbelief lingering that the other could be entertained by such a thing. so often had he told old stories, recounted them to his kids, to his men - in the media and on tv. war wounds had become press tours, newspaper clippings and gossip columns. propaganda. truths twisted in an attempt to encourage young men and women sign the lives away. would he have it any differently? of course not. but sometimes it was worth it to think about.

why tell a man like weiss of old exploits? would it inspire him? have him eager to claw his way from deepground and up toward the surface - to fight on shinra's behalf as any good soldier would?

heidegger has his doubts; but more-so, his pride. a pride that whispers old stories in the back of his mind, that remind him of his old self. a time before shinra, before all of this.

a half-smirk takes his lips, a fire spell summoned by the click of his fingers - a light of his cigarette and quick kiss pressed to its end. was it dangerous to smoke down here? ah, as if he cared.

"you're interested, hm?" he breathes smoke "well, i can't say that i blame you-" who wouldn't want to hear such stories. after all, there had been so many best sellers based on the general's old life. and there was that movie - a movie that the general public loved ! ( and heidegger had quietly despised ).

he parts his lips with the intention of telling about the old days in wutai; a temptation to twist the man's mind with more hatred of their rival nation but something instead stops him. an old nostalgia that creeps along the thick line of his lips.

"a man's team...can, at times, be just as good as him-" there's a sigh in the smoke of his cigarette, old memories drawn in grey - not entirely told "i once had a squad at my side. when i was young; maybe around your age." he can remember their names but barely their faces; of course, the twisted expressions of anguish each man left after death is not one that easily escapes him. but hell, it's better not to remember them that way.

he continues, body leant against protective glass. as if the other will interrupt his story with a swing of his blade.

"the comradery was brilliant. these men - the sort who would lay their lives down for what they believed. they were brave, tough. no strangers to battle" a time when soldiers weren't cowards, when men didn't shake in their boots at the sight of trouble (though that isn't entirely true, is it?) "together, we fought many battles. our rapport with one another was truly magnificent -"

after a pause and another puff of his cigarette, he speaks again.

"there was a time when we toppled a great malboro together" excitement teases his words, a man reliving his hay-day through old stories "a great malboro! should you ever have the displeasure of fighting one - you'd know they make for a rather disgusting adversary. one soldier, eric, was his name - got caught face-first in the creature's 'bad breath' attack." a scrunched up nose and a half smile see him almost laughing "i've never seen a man go green so fast; he wouldn't touch a vegetable for three weeks after that-" another chuckle "he'd say 'noo, it looks too much like one of 'those fuckin' things - keep your gysahl pickles to yourself'. we all had a good laugh over that one..."

he thinks of missing them, laments the loss of good soldiers ( decent men ) - friends. but then something stops him, a bitter toxin that rises like bile. that shuts off emotion and has his final words, dry.

"all of them eventually died on the wutai front."