Adapted from the poll earlier this week because K:
- Doesn't have the brains to write a full fic yet
- But wants to write bits and pieces
- And is totally unashamed of subjecting 2 totally unrelated fandoms to a knockout poll to see which one gets written first
8D THE WORD COUNT IS NOT AN INDICATION OF MY BIAS. Not at all. Note: everything is written as-is: no grammar/logic/fun checks for me at 234am!HP: Marauders fic! In which Peter is not stupid, and neither is James, and neither is Sirius uncouth, oh and Remus is a badass
2 past midnight, and they're in their rooms. As a whole they're quieter than other Gryffindors expect them to be, but you can't live with crashes and bangs all the time, and crashing and banging should really only take place at timed, precise intervals. Noise without laughter is just panic and mayhem and an overall lack of professionalism. It's not on. It's irritating.
'Prongs -' Sirius says, leaning over the edge of his bed.
James can barely see him through the darkness of the room with his glasses are off. 'What?' he replies, voice low. Remus is either asleep or thinking. Peter's out foraging. The rest of the tower is still.
'Schedules,' Sirius hisses back. 'D'you have them?'
Jame feels about his bedside table until his fingers touch his wand. 'Not for this month,' he says. 'Lumos.
' A twist of his wrist and a low light fills the room. James gropes for his glasses and waits for Sirius' face to resolve itself into clarity. 'Why?'
Sirius shrugs one shoulder, a half-smile on his lips. He taps a finger against his temple. James laughs, quietly. 'All right,' he says. 'Peter's on it this month.'
Sirius grins, propping his back up against his bedframe. 'Maybe he won't mess it up the way you did.'
'Nothing ventured nothing gained,' James retorts with great dignity.
'Except detention,' Sirius snorts, wriggling under his covers. 'Night.'
'Night,' James says, and then he flicks his wand about and the curtains whisk shut around him. The room falls into contemplative stillness. Nothing for sleeping now: the expression on Sirius' face was a challenge and a tease. James ducks out long enough to reach under his bed, then crawls back in and settles down to read.FFVII: Tseng under Creepymanpedo Veld!
It never really used to rain in Midgar. It never really used to rain where Midgar is now
- Reeve once read the reports from the founding days in a curious day that was full of malaise and boredom. They're technically out in the middle of plain territory: everything in moderation, especially precipitation. The sky used to be too open thereabouts for anything more than showers, passing and preliminary but never serious until storm season rolled in over the low pressure zones, growling and charging the air.
The city brought with it an oddball assortment of phenomena: trinket-sellers, bankers, immigrant settlers. When people couldn't spill into the city, they loitered around. Lazy, capitalist demand brought in chocobo farmers, who suddenly had patrons willing to pay hundreds of thousands of gil for stabling and rearing a Mideel Black that they had no interest whatsoever in actually ever riding. Farmland came up everywhere, sprouting from imported soil and Science-department initiative. People planted trees for the sake of neighbourhooding and aesthetics. Kalm became an attractive weekend spot, and speak of the devil --
'Rough night to be wandering out.' Veld draws up next to him, dark and quiet like the falling night. Reeve throws a glance behind them - there's no one else tagging along this time. The wind whistles down the empty sector corridor, dragging with it garbage and a vague smell of motoroil, tar and a whiff of spice and heat from the curry shop two streets down. The sky overhead is deeper than just twilight black.
Reeve tucks his hands into the pockets of his billowing coat and hums. 'Same could be said of you,' he tells Veld, raising his voice a little to be heard. 'It's going to come down hard.'
Veld looks up. 'The rain?'
'Odd how nature compensates for human expansion,' Reeve points out. He's used to Veld's unassuming appearances, and how their conversations are fated to go byzantine. 'Forty years ago and you wouldn't hear of off-monsoon storms coming down like this.'
'Well.' Veld chuckles like a practised cynic. 'If nature didn't keep up Shinra'd have it by the throat piping in water all across this half of the continent.'
Reeve nods. 'Touche, touche.'
Veld tosses him a look. 'Engineering would enjoy that, wouldn't it?'
'Which part?' Reeve asks, dry as bone. 'The prospect of economic monopoly, or the idea of being given millions of gil and free reign to design specific and new frontier technology that'd help improve the lives of thousands?'
'Your charm is in your humour, Tuesti,' Veld tells him just as the first fat raindrops hit the ground. He drags his collar up, but doesn't move to head off. As Reeve tugs his own coat closer to his body, he observes how very much like Veld
that is. Rain or shine or fucking meteorfall and he's always going to be the same. Asking questions like: 'Not just here to sing in the rain, I presume?'
Reeve scuffs a boot on the floor and watches the storm creep closer to them. The rain's starting to come down hard now, clattering off the corrugated iron roofs that make up the spill of temporary sites up and down the Sector's construction areas. 'Came down to see how this is all shaping up,' Reeve shouts over the noise. 'If I stare at one more blueprint I think my migraine will turn permanent. You?'
'It's a good night for hide and seek,' Veld replies, his voice watery and destroyed.
'What?' Reeve yells. 'I'm not sure I heard you right the first time!'
Veld turns to him. 'Hide and seek,' he repeats, louder. Reeve's expression must have been sceptical enough, because Veld's eyes go as bright as they ever do just before he turns back away to face the empty death-zone of buildings in front of them. 'I'd have loved a playground like this, twenty years ago,' Veld says, gesturing widely. 'Dark and wet and full of ways to fall. It's good -'
'If you say "training",' Reeve says, huddling into his coat as the cold and wet really start to seep in. 'If you say "training"
, I'm docking points off the score of your humanity, Veld.'
'The President doesn't employ me to be humane.' Veld's eyes are concentrated somewhere in the northern sector, where work on a new tower is going up over 20 stories now.
'The boy's going to slip and kill himself if you're not careful,' Reeve warns. 'We don't build scaffolding and safety lines for jaunts through stormy weather. For god's sake, Veld, call him off - you can torture him with something else. Kalmic history, maybe. "How To Be A Good Chocobo Farmer And Other Tales For Growing Boys."'
Veld's laughter resounds with the rain. Reeve barely manages to catch himself from rolling his eyes. 'All right then, have it your way.'
'You know the point about Shinra is that we're not very good people,' Veld tells Reeve, reaching over to pat him on the shoulder. 'You do a passable job hiding that conscience of yours -'
'Thank you!' Reeve yells.
'- but at the end of the day you're even better at tucking your hands into your sleeves and letting the rest of us deal with the human aspect of the company. Which is strategic -'
'Thank you!' Reeve yells again.
'- but it doesn't make you any less involved or responsible, Tuesti.'
'Thank you,' Reeve yells, slightly louder this time. 'I was afraid you'd give me your lecture on relative morality and the company's mission statement.'
'Frown at me any more and I might,' Veld retorts.
Reeve shrugs. 'I'm only good at creating infrastructure,' he points out. 'I leave the economic robbery to the President and you. You're both better prepared, and I'll be damned if the two of you aren't better hands at raising children.'
Veld takes that as a compliment, Reeve suspects, because he says, 'When the day comes that Rufus puts a bullet through my head and sticks my body in a coffin, he'll thank his father for enabling to do so, and Tseng'll know why I taught him how to run well and hide better.'
'Optimistic view of the future!' The rain's so hard now Reeve can just barely make out the silhouette of the first building. He has no idea how Veld or Tseng are conducting their little training session in this.
'I'm only trying to be as practical as you are,' Reeve hears Veld say, and he feels more than sees the man start to move away. 'Call a car. Go back.'
'Don't want any witnesses around?' Reeve can't resist saying.
'If you catch your death in my presence, no one will believe that you died stupidly of pneumonia,' Veld says. 'Go.'DECISION TIME: