Shinra Vignettes: Reeve
Its easy to be lost.
I should know, Ive been lost my whole life. Ive had my feet on the ground, my head in the clouds. Im a dreamer, the kind that lets his thoughts run away, the kind that longs to follow them.
Its easy to want to be lost.
If I were lost, the Slums couldnt find me, their voices couldnt scream at my soul.
My job is lies. The title, the pretty gold-embossed words on my business card say Head of Urban Development and Design. In short, I keep the slums folks happy.
My job is deception, making Shin-Ra look good. Shin-Ra gives the people hell, Im the SOB who has to make em like it.
I stand here on my balcony, the rain pelting a devils face with angels tears, looking down over Shin-Ras precious empire.
It makes me sick.
Theyve taken fools, promised them paradise, and instead given them the seven sectors of Midgar, the seven circles of Hell. I pity them, and yet I lack the true power to change their lives. I cant cease the flames of hell, I can merely turn down the heat.
I let myself be manipulated. I was a puppet, to a puppet, against a puppet. I still dont know which. I took a child captive, hid behind a toy, and very possibly caused the death of one of the greatest Turks ever known.
But I betrayed no one. Though I assisted those with radical ideas, my true loyalty lay with my paycheck. Thats right, Scarlets a whore, Heideggers a psychopath, and Palmers a fat ass, but they make powerful allies when the shit hits the fan.
Besides, eight wide eyed innocents with their eyes on the prize dont stand a chance against cold steel in blue suits. Ive fought a Turk, it isnt a pleasant experience. They fight raw.
Contrary to popular belief, the death of a young, rash, immature president is little more than a minor setback in the scheme of things.
So while I am a corporate puppet, with little power of my own, the power I pull from my puppeteer gives me the ability to destroy buildings, cities, lives.
And I do destroy lives.
Every fuckin day.
While being part of the problem comes naturally, being part of the solution is an impossibility. My strings dont pull well that way, Im not that type of marionette.
People dont understand my lack of devotion sometimes, and I try to tell them: Im merely a shell of a man, a mold to be filled with whatever niche needs filling, be it an angel, a demon, or a little black cat.
And the rain soaks me straight through to my empty bones, but I dont complain, because right now I need to be filled, and right now its doing the trick.
And here I stand, wondering if my middle name is Hypocrisy and my last name is Deceit, because thats what they say about me, and I cant help but want them to be right.
Things are so much easier that way.