Cutscene: stage one - In God Alone is Good...
In God Alone is Good...
NOTE: RATING WARNING for swearing and blah blah
Date: September 17th, 2012
Shoes smack stickily into alcohol-and-grime encrusted floors as Hideo Matsuda stares down the neck of his bottle of beer. The massive, green-eyed man does not even so much as look up as another man, overweight and significantly shorter with a face like an overly worried toad, settles in onto the bar stool next to him, leaning into a bar top he looks significantly out of place at.
"You... wanted to see me, Matsuda-san?" the man ventures, hesitantly.
"Get a drink."
Matsuda does not look up. Instead, he taps the side of his bottle instructively. "Jesus. Ain't that hard to put this shit together: buy somethin'. We ain't got shit to talk about til you do."
"You're kidding, rig--" But the cold, commanding stare Hideo finally levels the other man's way is answer enough that it stops him cold. He pauses, rubs the back of his head, and pointedly looks away. "... I'll take a... I don't know. Uh -- get me a whiskey, two fingers?" mumbles the man, sounding as if he were more reciting something from a movie. The barkeep nods, mutely, and gets to work as the man fumbles for his wallet.
"Your numbers are too low."
"Huh?" dumbly voices the toad-faced man as his money hits the table; his glass shoved his way, he awkwardly catches it in his hands. "Uh-- thanks." The barkeep, as if he wasn't even listening, is already walking away by the time the words leave the man's lips. He looks down at the drink, fingers pressing into the glass. "You... you're reading the reports? I thought Yoshida P--"
"Shut the fuck up," cuts in Hideo curtly, vibrant green eyes offering the overweight man another baleful glare. "When there's a problem, I'm the one you talk to. An' you don't do it stupid. God fuckin' damn, where did they get you cockwits?"
"I-- listen, it's not like I-- I'm not some sort of /criminal/--" Hideo interrupts with a snort that curdles the other man's lips. "--I don't know how this works, alright? I'm just here to help produce the... you know... to help produce."
"Then what good are you if you're doin' a shit-ass job of it?"
Despite himself, the toad-faced man takes a drink of his whiskey almost compulsively; far too fast, as it turns out, if his wide-eyed hacking afterwards is any indication. Hideo remains ambivalent as the smaller man smacks at his chest, and through burning eyes and hoarse throat, tries to continue.
"It--hhk, shit--it's not a shit job! It's all you can expect from an off-site like Hirasaka! Look -- even /I/ barely know how this works. It sure shouldn't make any sense from the instructions we've got to cook it. But when you give us a limited supply, how much of the -- product we can make is limited too. And because of how volatile that stuff is, we can't always convert the whole thing, and-- listen."
The shorter man clears his throat again, trying his best to stare level at Hideo; the large man does not so much as bother to look up from his bottle. Nonetheless, there is a spark in the overweight man's eyes now, as if seeking to press an opportunity.
"... If... If we could get our hands on the prima materia for just a little bit at Hirasaka -- if I could look at it, figure out how it works, maybe find a way to replicate it -- our production would sky rocket and--!"
"Prima don't move from the main site," comes Hideo's definitive answer. "You want to look at it, study it, work out whatever weird fuckin' boner you're nursin' over the thing, you work it out there. An' we don't let people we don't trust in there."
"Don't bitch at me more. It's fuckin' embarrassing," snarls Hideo. He lifts his beer, draining it irritably. "Didn't say it was impossible. You want to work at the main site, I can make it happen."
"The fuck did I just say? Yeah, 'really.'" Hideo pushes his empty bottle of beer away. His left hand slides into the pocket of his black pants as he mutters something irritably under his breath. "But you gotta do somethin' for me if you're expecting a favor like this. Ain't in the habit of givin' handouts."
"Eh? What do you mean--?"
The toady man's words come to a pause when a white, folded slip of paper slides into his field of vision. He unfolds it and stares at the contents, even as Hideo withdraws a carton of cigarettes and knocks one loose of the pack.
"When we bring in the shipment next week, need you to cook it to those instructions instead. All at the same time. No separate load outs." As Hideo speaks, his companion's eyes widen with a gradual spark of horrible realization.
"But this'll -- listen, the materials are volatile, if we-- if I cook it like this, in bulk, it'll e--" Hideo apathetically lights his cigarette and stares at his companion, as if to say 'so what?' The overweight man gulps. "... I don't think Yoshi--... I don't think he'd be happy with this..."
"It look like I give a fuck what he thinks?" retorts Hideo coldly. "Only way he knows is if you'll tell him. You want that main site spot? You wanna see the prima? You're gonna do this for me. An' you're not gonna go yappin' about it like some pants-pissin' fuckwit. Show me you can do that, an' I'll take care of the rest. All you gotta do is set it up before you change shifts, then let my guys on lookout know. That's it."
"... what about the other Hirasaka technician...?"
"You kiddin' me?" snorts Hideo Matsuda. He lights his cigarette, the glowing orange embers eating into tobacco and carcinogens angrily. "Less people around to talk, the better. I only look out for the people I trust, kid.
"The rest of 'em can burn."