[OOC: Started up a new log because the other thread disappeared off my f-list]The need for air was getting overwhelming.Rufus staggered away from Scarlet's very drunken attempts to get one arm around his shoulders and another down his pants, banged his leg painfully against the table, split punch down his jacket, and figured that a strategic retreat was called for. Perhaps he would even return to his room for reinforcements. No one, however drunk, messed with one large panther, black, fully equiped with enough jaw strength to crush bone. And tentacles. Two tentacles.Abandoning the now empty glass, he staggered towards the doors of the ballroom, wondering why the world seemed to insist on listing slightly to the right. Surely it wasn't because the room had been built on a slope. He'd have been... notified if it was. He'd have to take the Head of Building Administration to task very seriously about allowed sinkage to this extent. No wait.He paused just outside the doors, shaking his head violently as his senses caught up rather belatedly with him. How many glasses of punch had he drunk? It had been one. Then another when he'd talked to Reeve's secretary. And another when Heidegger had started telling his... jokes. And... oh gods.He groaned as he dimly recalled several more in between that one and the one he had split. Well, maybe he simply wouldn't be back. After all, it wasn't as if anyone would miss him----the world listed again, and sharply, and he stumbled, lost his balance and staggered into the wall. Except that there was a Turk in the way.[Tags: doublegunshot]
Bouncing up and down on -- what's his name? -- someone's shoulder is the last straw that breaks the camel's back. His stomach spasms horribly, and Rufus finds himself on his knees throwing up on the carpet. And once started, this isn't an activity that's particularly keen on stopping. Fortunately, the lack of food means that most of it is still liquid and thus easy to expel......"Stop standing there like a goon," he hisses in-between retches. "Get me a bin! Or something!"
Rafe blinks. From Turk to janitor in 5 minutes flat. This must be some kind of record in the establishment. No time to worry about that though.Turning, he grabs for the nearest receptacle available - this time, some kind of glass plant vase - dumps its contents onto the nearby table, and pitches it in front of the now utterly sick, utterly bedraggled, yet still somehow utterly snarly 15-year-old VP. "...I'll ring up a maid to get rid of this mess." Rafe hurriedly excuses himself toward the kitchen area.
He was never, never, never EVER going to drink so much again. EVER.And he was also going to kill Reno.Once he could stop retching.At least, he reflects sardonically, the Turk -- okay, the man is probably genuine -- hadn't taken the opportunity to kill him. Oh please, he thinks fervently at any deities who might actually still be listening, Don't let him be one of the political ones. The capacity for blackmail and scandal is endless.He flops bonelessly against the wall of the corridor, fighting the urge to fall asleep there and then. The best solution, possibly, would be to get up and leave and pretend that this never happened. And blackmail the Turk into never revealing it. Which he will do. The moment he can get his legs to respond again. Right.Will do.Just get to your feet, and walk off. No sweat----he leans back against the wall, and his consciousness gets swallowed for a long moment.
Rafe trots through the crowded kitchen, scanning left and right for available personnel that looked both a) competent, and b) sober, until he finally manages to collar a harried maid who looked less than pleased with having been tagged with clean-up duty. Women these days. He gives her a steely gaze, finds the combination of slum rep and Turk badge can do wonders for people's cooperation, and points the way back down the hall.Clean-up goes without much incident.After the maid had left, Rafe turns his attentions with some irritation and not a little disgust back to the situation at hand. Rufus Shinra. Drunk. Dishevelled. Passed out in the middle of a lavish dinner with tons of politicos and journalists crawling the place.Decisions, decisions.1) Leave him here for the good Samaritan conniving blackmailer and claim innocence. Except half the room had already seen them together.2) Find a lackey to take him back. Except those who weren't already occupied in the dining room had already gone home, and Rafe'd still get pinned for any trouble that might occur.3) Drag him to the suites himself. Except Rafe hadn't a clue where the boy was staying and wasn't about to go rifling through the VP's pockets for keys.Which only left...Actually trying to wake up a drunken 15-year-old and extracting viable directions from him through the maze of Shinra corporate headquarters....This was going to be a long night.
Rufus unwittingly saves Rafe a little bit of trouble as he claws awake on the edge of some nightmare: "Not the chocobos!"The shriek bounces off the walls of the corridor as he furiously blinks blurry eyes, realising that he has latched onto the lapels of a Turk jacket. And comes face to face with that Turk from before.He hastily releasees said jacket lapels and attempts -- if it's even possible -- to pick up the shreds of his dignity. "That was well done," he says, indicating the vase and the clean up job that must have occured. "I don't suppose you're actually an assassin."The moment he says the words, he realises how utterly stupid that sounds, and the embarrassment of the entire evening comes crashing down on his head to manifest in a slight blush. He looks hastily away and engages in an attempt to get to his feet. At least, he reflects sardonically, he didn't actually throw up on himself. Or anyone. Or in public view... he hopes.
Rafe winces visibly at the echoed shriek, forces back a reflex to catch the other's arms and twist them in a lock hold after getting dragged unceremoniously to his knees. Breaking the wrists of the Vice President of Shinra, inc was not his idea of a satisfactory end to this already bording on catastrophic evening."No, sir," Rafe responds tightly. "As I said before, I'm one of the new Turks recruited by Veld to deal with AVALANCHE." He reaches for the ID in his pocket, hoping to dispel any further forays into this assassin business (not to mention quell the trigger happy kid). What was the VP doing with a shotgun anyway? A double-barrelled one, even, in the middle of a company party? Weren't there enough security risks as is without mixing firearms and alcohol and a drunken 15-year-old? Rafe sighs inwardly and pushes the questions out of his mind. Orders were orders, no matter how inane. The brass's eccentricities were none of his business. Reaching out, he grabs hold of Rufus's arm and pulls the other up into a semi-balanced position against the wall.
"People lie. ID cards can be forged. Badges can be forged. Bloody assassins get everywhere," Rufus babbles, unhappiness seeping into his voice as he retrieves his gun and reholsters it. He blinks, studying the corridor, his face a mask of intense concentration. Carpet. Long corridor. Table. He thinks he knows this place, but at the moment it keeps slipping away from his mind. You, a mental voice hisses at him, Are so drunk."I'm not drunk," he retorts at it, unaware that he has spoken out loud. "I'm just lost." He turns to the Turk. "Where are we?"
Rafe chuckles inwardly at the obviously false statement. Of course. Just a spontaneous case of stomach flu. Nothing to do with booze at all.However, his mirth dies quickly at the second question. Location. Directions. Place. "Ah..." Where were they indeed? That was a good question. In his hurry to get out of the party and clean up the mess and find an excuse to make a speedy exit, Rafe had managed to steer them down several twists and turns he now had very little recollection of taking. Not that it was a reflection on his recall ability - oh no, he had excellent memory when it came to navigating the maze of alleyways in the slums. But even alleyways had their identifying markings, unlike the cookie cutter corridors around here.And besides. He had been banking on the Vice President at least knowing his way around his own company."Somewhere near the north entrance, I believe," he conjectures.
The old man seems to change the internal decor of this place every time I go away, Rufus thinks sourly, glancing sidelong at the Turk. New recruit. Probably not even from the upper plate. Of course he would be totally lost in this rats' nest.Shaking off the Turk -- Rave, was it? Or Raze? -- he turns and considers the corridor. There doesn't appear to be any choice other than The Way They Came From and The Way They Didn't Come From, and the last thing he wants to do is to do is to go back The Way They Came. "You should return," he says, setting off down the corridor. Sooner or later he'll run into a landmark he recognises. Hopefully it'll be the elevator. "Thank you for the assistance. I'll see myself home."
Rafe watches with some unease at the Vice President's unsteady steps down the corridor hall. Not that the steps alone were his sole reason for concern. He'd seen enough drunks stagger their merry way way home without too much injury. No, it was the fact that the hallway ended in the press room (he'd been stationed there earlier to ward off the sharks) that had him worried."Perhaps I can call you a cab..." He hints, trying to think of a diplomatic way to steer the VP away from what was most likely certain disaster.
Rufus pauses, glancing wearily back. "Aren't we at Shinra HQ? I thought we started the evening there, at least. I have a room on the 40th floor." He sighs, reaching up to flick a stray lock of hair away in what will become a habitual gesture (even if he doesn't know it yet).The ground lurches abruptly, and he has a split second to wonder about earthquakes before he finds the carpet up against his nose. Argh.Cue trying to pick himself up. Cue the weight of the shotgun abruptly dragging him down on one side. Cue falling over again. He groans under his breath, finally unholsters the shotgun and uses it as a prop to push himself to his feet. And stands there, swaying, torn between asking for help or attempting to navigate his own way back and running into the risk of making an even greater fool of himself.Pride vs pride. How utterly... stupid."Perhaps you could give me a little assistance here," he murmurs at last.