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Drabble: FFVII: Honorifics (Tseng/Veld)
Um. This is a "drabble", because Veld says it's so. *BEAMS* There may be "fic" later tonight. God damn Turks.
Title: Honorifics
Rating: PG
Characters: Tseng, Veld. You can turn that comma into a slash, if you want.
Summary: Tseng tries to disinherit himself; Veld thinks he should be doing otherwise. He teaches Tseng to fence with words - in this language and that - because it will be a better blade than any Tseng will ever learn to wield.
Warnings: I don't think I will ever be comfortable counting this in any canon, because it rapes the Japanese language in an attempt to Make Stuff Up About Wutai. Sort of follows after Growing Pains. More wooby Tseng!
1115 words is a drabble; Tseng still has a lot of growing to do. \o\
'There are too many ways of getting around the deferential in this language,' Veld points out. 'How many ways would you tier the company if you spoke the right one instead? Spoke the one you're supposed to speak, in any case.'
'I am not,' Tseng says, very carefully, very clearly, 'from that country anymore.'
'You can try to erase it all you want,' Veld replies, placid. He leans back in his chair. 'You can try to forget the language, forget the history, forget the geography and forget the culture. It's only going to cripple you.'
'I am a Turk,' Tseng qualifies, voice now gone flat. 'For Shinra. In Midgar. Sir.'
'Yes, a Turk,' Veld nods, ignoring Tseng's pointed reference. 'A glorified assassin in a man made company, living off the fat of an artificial city in the middle of what would otherwise be a desert. Sum it up, Tseng. You're from a generation that inherits nothing.'
Tseng wants to say, I am young, not stupid, but there are ties that bind, and lines that you do not overstep. Veld taps his fingers on the edge of his desk, as easy in his silences as he is in his speeches. Tseng supposes that that must be the mark of a good mentor; he, himself, will teach no one.
When Veld speaks again, it is to say, 'Do you think the name Shinra is a common one? Where do you suppose they're from? Midgar?' There's a smile twisting Veld's face. Midgar is a city less than a decade old. Its sewage system stinks because it is so clean the chemical scrubs sometimes work on the metal instead of the waste.
'I am not going to speculate, sir,' Tseng replies, evenly.
'They've got migrant blood in their veins as much as the next man in this city,' Veld tells him, uncaring of whether Tseng wants to know or not. 'The Shinra company is about as native to this place as you are. The presidency is made up of intelligent men; copycats and politicians. They've seen the world, and everyone the world's brought to them. Stolen ideas and regulations and policies. In the middle of a continent where the greatest divide in social status used to be between the chocobo farmer and the coal miner, Shinra came in and introduced class.'
Tseng nods. Some lessons are passive; Veld has interspersed his life with gunshot wounds and the knife edge of historical rhetoric. Tseng is familiar with the wounds dealt to his pride. Within the walls of the office he suffers whatever Veld sets on him; without, Tseng turns it upon the men around him, and wears his training like armour.
'How many ways can you differentiate rank in Wutainese, Tseng?' Veld asks, and Tseng wishes that he did not. There's no point in history; no point in looking back on the culture he was born into but not brought up with. Tseng's knowledge of his heritage is academic, pained, tense. Some of it is natural. Most of it is forced. When Veld asks, half of Tseng responds instinctively - the other casts backwards for dictionary definitions and old practice.
'Many,' is Tseng's eventual, curt reply.
Veld seems amused more than frustrated by Tseng's attempts at semantic reasoning. 'Name them.'
'In which context,' Tseng replies, raising one eyebrow.
'Call it within the company,' Veld returns, unruffled. 'Start from the top.'
'Shachou for the president,' Tseng says. 'Fuku-shachou for the vice-president.' He pauses then, hesitant.
'Go on,' Veld says, mildly.
'Torishimariyaku, technically, for the department heads. Though depending on their function one might separate them. demote them. promote them. Buchou, kachou -' Tseng shoots Veld a look. 'Shunin.'
'Shunin,' Veld nods. 'Chief. Admittedly far lower in the triangulation than any of the honorific titles you've presented me with thus far. You paused.'
'It's what would be used,' Tseng says, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. 'For the Turks.'
'Administrative Research being deceptively low in the rankings,' Veld agrees, unsmiling. 'You'd call Hojo and I Director either way.'
'In the right language,' Tseng agrees.
'But Hojo has vastly more power than I do,' Veld highlights. 'So you modulate, in the right language.'
'Hojo is not my director,' Tseng says.
'Possessiveness enters the game,' Veld pronounces. 'Now you're colouring us in different lights. We are both Shinra. Senior. Administrative.'
'A department is a department.' Tseng does not look at Veld; he cannot look at Veld.
'You could wield politeness like a knife if you knew how.' Veld allows Tseng's escape. 'And if you had the right words to put it to front. You can take up a gun and put it to the temple of the next man, but your enemies are not the next men you find on the street.'
'Sir,' Tseng says.
'And now you have seniority. How many terms are there for that? How many ways could you address me alone?'
'I would call you by your title,' Tseng says.
'No,' Veld shakes his head, 'You wouldn't. Not always.'
'Sir,' Tseng says, voice going strained.
'When would you put an honorific behind my name?' Veld pushes. 'Which one would it be? -san?' he asks, almost mocking. 'Senpai?' he asks, belying a closeness Tseng does not want to think about.
'I would call you neither, Veld, sir, Director,' Tseng says, finally bringing his eyes up to meet Veld's.
Veld nods. 'There,' he says. 'You're thinking about it. You have the words swimming in the back of your head. Veld-san, Veld-senpai, shunin, kachou,' Veld recites. 'It stops there with me, but it can go that much farther: Hojo-san, -shi, -ishi, -kachou, or just Hojo, sir? And then there will be Rufus, Rufus-kun, -san, -sama, -fuku-shachou, or will you use his last name, irritate him, wrangle him and force him into remembering who he is, or will you use both, and try to discover if his father has left anything human in him at all?'
Veld tosses Tseng's Junon assignation onto the table. When Tseng opens it, he will see his own name scraped onto the paper, a single-character zeng instead of what he signs himself off as. 'Don't try to disinherit yourself. Better to know your own enemies than pretend they don't exist. Use it. You can hate what you are or fight to find a place in the world, but if you exist in Shinra it will be a long time coming before you have the sort of power to dictate any of that.' Veld jerks his head at the door, and time and practice alone serve to prevent him from shuttering his eyes. 'You're dismissed.' Best not to come back for a while, since you are chafing at the leash. 'When you land in Junon, send a report directly. And when you meet with Shinra, watch your words. He'll certainly know them better than you.'
Title: Honorifics
Rating: PG
Characters: Tseng, Veld. You can turn that comma into a slash, if you want.
Summary: Tseng tries to disinherit himself; Veld thinks he should be doing otherwise. He teaches Tseng to fence with words - in this language and that - because it will be a better blade than any Tseng will ever learn to wield.
Warnings: I don't think I will ever be comfortable counting this in any canon, because it rapes the Japanese language in an attempt to Make Stuff Up About Wutai. Sort of follows after Growing Pains. More wooby Tseng!
1115 words is a drabble; Tseng still has a lot of growing to do. \o\
'There are too many ways of getting around the deferential in this language,' Veld points out. 'How many ways would you tier the company if you spoke the right one instead? Spoke the one you're supposed to speak, in any case.'
'I am not,' Tseng says, very carefully, very clearly, 'from that country anymore.'
'You can try to erase it all you want,' Veld replies, placid. He leans back in his chair. 'You can try to forget the language, forget the history, forget the geography and forget the culture. It's only going to cripple you.'
'I am a Turk,' Tseng qualifies, voice now gone flat. 'For Shinra. In Midgar. Sir.'
'Yes, a Turk,' Veld nods, ignoring Tseng's pointed reference. 'A glorified assassin in a man made company, living off the fat of an artificial city in the middle of what would otherwise be a desert. Sum it up, Tseng. You're from a generation that inherits nothing.'
Tseng wants to say, I am young, not stupid, but there are ties that bind, and lines that you do not overstep. Veld taps his fingers on the edge of his desk, as easy in his silences as he is in his speeches. Tseng supposes that that must be the mark of a good mentor; he, himself, will teach no one.
When Veld speaks again, it is to say, 'Do you think the name Shinra is a common one? Where do you suppose they're from? Midgar?' There's a smile twisting Veld's face. Midgar is a city less than a decade old. Its sewage system stinks because it is so clean the chemical scrubs sometimes work on the metal instead of the waste.
'I am not going to speculate, sir,' Tseng replies, evenly.
'They've got migrant blood in their veins as much as the next man in this city,' Veld tells him, uncaring of whether Tseng wants to know or not. 'The Shinra company is about as native to this place as you are. The presidency is made up of intelligent men; copycats and politicians. They've seen the world, and everyone the world's brought to them. Stolen ideas and regulations and policies. In the middle of a continent where the greatest divide in social status used to be between the chocobo farmer and the coal miner, Shinra came in and introduced class.'
Tseng nods. Some lessons are passive; Veld has interspersed his life with gunshot wounds and the knife edge of historical rhetoric. Tseng is familiar with the wounds dealt to his pride. Within the walls of the office he suffers whatever Veld sets on him; without, Tseng turns it upon the men around him, and wears his training like armour.
'How many ways can you differentiate rank in Wutainese, Tseng?' Veld asks, and Tseng wishes that he did not. There's no point in history; no point in looking back on the culture he was born into but not brought up with. Tseng's knowledge of his heritage is academic, pained, tense. Some of it is natural. Most of it is forced. When Veld asks, half of Tseng responds instinctively - the other casts backwards for dictionary definitions and old practice.
'Many,' is Tseng's eventual, curt reply.
Veld seems amused more than frustrated by Tseng's attempts at semantic reasoning. 'Name them.'
'In which context,' Tseng replies, raising one eyebrow.
'Call it within the company,' Veld returns, unruffled. 'Start from the top.'
'Shachou for the president,' Tseng says. 'Fuku-shachou for the vice-president.' He pauses then, hesitant.
'Go on,' Veld says, mildly.
'Torishimariyaku, technically, for the department heads. Though depending on their function one might separate them. demote them. promote them. Buchou, kachou -' Tseng shoots Veld a look. 'Shunin.'
'Shunin,' Veld nods. 'Chief. Admittedly far lower in the triangulation than any of the honorific titles you've presented me with thus far. You paused.'
'It's what would be used,' Tseng says, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. 'For the Turks.'
'Administrative Research being deceptively low in the rankings,' Veld agrees, unsmiling. 'You'd call Hojo and I Director either way.'
'In the right language,' Tseng agrees.
'But Hojo has vastly more power than I do,' Veld highlights. 'So you modulate, in the right language.'
'Hojo is not my director,' Tseng says.
'Possessiveness enters the game,' Veld pronounces. 'Now you're colouring us in different lights. We are both Shinra. Senior. Administrative.'
'A department is a department.' Tseng does not look at Veld; he cannot look at Veld.
'You could wield politeness like a knife if you knew how.' Veld allows Tseng's escape. 'And if you had the right words to put it to front. You can take up a gun and put it to the temple of the next man, but your enemies are not the next men you find on the street.'
'Sir,' Tseng says.
'And now you have seniority. How many terms are there for that? How many ways could you address me alone?'
'I would call you by your title,' Tseng says.
'No,' Veld shakes his head, 'You wouldn't. Not always.'
'Sir,' Tseng says, voice going strained.
'When would you put an honorific behind my name?' Veld pushes. 'Which one would it be? -san?' he asks, almost mocking. 'Senpai?' he asks, belying a closeness Tseng does not want to think about.
'I would call you neither, Veld, sir, Director,' Tseng says, finally bringing his eyes up to meet Veld's.
Veld nods. 'There,' he says. 'You're thinking about it. You have the words swimming in the back of your head. Veld-san, Veld-senpai, shunin, kachou,' Veld recites. 'It stops there with me, but it can go that much farther: Hojo-san, -shi, -ishi, -kachou, or just Hojo, sir? And then there will be Rufus, Rufus-kun, -san, -sama, -fuku-shachou, or will you use his last name, irritate him, wrangle him and force him into remembering who he is, or will you use both, and try to discover if his father has left anything human in him at all?'
Veld tosses Tseng's Junon assignation onto the table. When Tseng opens it, he will see his own name scraped onto the paper, a single-character zeng instead of what he signs himself off as. 'Don't try to disinherit yourself. Better to know your own enemies than pretend they don't exist. Use it. You can hate what you are or fight to find a place in the world, but if you exist in Shinra it will be a long time coming before you have the sort of power to dictate any of that.' Veld jerks his head at the door, and time and practice alone serve to prevent him from shuttering his eyes. 'You're dismissed.' Best not to come back for a while, since you are chafing at the leash. 'When you land in Junon, send a report directly. And when you meet with Shinra, watch your words. He'll certainly know them better than you.'
no subject
although I'm a little bit scarred - remember the German ficlet I posted a few days ago (Happiness is a a warm gun) - I abused the Bushido-Codex for exactly the same thing you do with language. Describing the position of the Turks.
And once more I wish my English would be better.
no subject
And I wish I were multilingual!
no subject
no subject