'Pack Mentality'

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This is the second draft of this story, so I might be taking it down or uploading a revised version. I wrote this in an afternoon, not too long, just something that sprung into my mind during my classes. I don't know how much more thought I'm going to put into it so I figured I'd just post it as is.

Edit: Fixed a few spelling errors, and some grammar issues.

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Turks.

You ignorant muscle-heads actually take pride in that name, don't you? You think those suits you wear are a sign of your prestige, something you've earned through skill and hard work. Like the ability to beat someone's brains in is a difficult one to acquire, like we don't replace you effortlessly every time one of you idiots gets yourself killed. You strut around the building, enjoying how the smarter employees avoid your eyes and get out of the way, your very presence a silent threat. I've seen you come back from missions, flaunting the bloodstains on your clothes on your way to debriefing, how you like to see people squirm while you clean your guns.

'Elite', that's what you call yourselves. Shinra told you that you were the best at what you did, and all of you were stupid enough to take it as a compliment. Not that I could expect any of you to be intelligent enough to see what you really where, if you could, Shinra would have had you put down instead. Dogs. Everyone of you, a wild animal Shinra has whipped into submission. We found you scum wandering the streets and beat you into our mold to serve a greater purpose. Why get a man killed when an animal is more than willing? Every Turk is picked, a careful mixture of instinctual viciousness combined with a certain willingness to be tamed as the primary factors. All of you remember so proudly how you were promoted, or how you put up such a fight before joining, like being stubborn is a special trait as well. But you all give in, you all accepted the suits and guns and how you love them now. You do so love your collars, and all of you pander to the President like any dumb mutt looking for his master's approval.

And yet you pretend not to see it.

"Professionals", you say,

"Elite" you insist,

"Turk Pride" you smugly claim amongst yourselves, a lie you pour yourselves into. The pride you speak of, the exceptional nature you claim a Turk has, the binds of loyalty you boast of, just pretty names for the tricks we teach your little pack. You fetch for us, you get rid of those who would threaten the company's safety, and if we ask it, you lay your lives down in a second. What kind of men can you claim to be?

The big Turk, the one who pretends he's mute because he hasn't anything important to say, carries himself like a rottweiler. A barrel chested mass of muscle, he stands ready to tear apart whatever his Master snaps his fingers at. He doesn't care who or what, it's not in the nature of the beast to question man's command. He loves the attention, though he'll never admit it. The 'Turk Pride' that he keeps is nothing but a desperate cry for a pat on the head and a kind word. He'd do anything to be able to tell himself more lies, to boast of his skill, his irreplaceable fighting abilities. The President, Heidegger, even you, he obeys commands without question. Within your own pack, I see the loyalty from him. Like any rottweiler, he snaps at anyone who gets to close to his pack. For the time being, he's useful. But a rottweiler bites too easily, and one day he'll turn on the hand that guides him.

Then there's your mutt, the one who never shuts up to hide the fact that he hasn't anything important to say. He runs around like a rabid idiot, a stray that we keep on for his unpredictable bouts of cruelty. As long as you know how to push him, how to direct the aggression, he'll never realize he might be better off turning on those who hold his leash. He's more than happy to kill whatever we throw him at, and he does with a creative flair that would turn most peoples stomachs. Like any stray, he craves attention, but pretends not to. He brings home his kills with a hint of hope in his eyes, brandishing the presents as a sign of his loyalty. His carefully formed persona pretends to say he doesn't care for the company, but he still put on his collar every morning. He still jumps when we call.

Then there's your female, the girl who follows you around like a bitch in heat. Is that why you keep her? I wouldn't be surprised. She's like a disgusting crossbreed between and poodle and a wolf, able to rip someone apart with her teeth then turn to lick your hand in a desperate search for approval. The quintessential omega, she tries to please everyone and fails, skulking about the fringes like the beaten dog she is. Like any animal overdosed on hormones, she's violent, murderous at the slightest provocation in her attempts to gain your attention. In the stiff suit she still feels the weight of her new collar, but tries to bear up under it, thinking it a burden she should be proud to have. Stupid girl...she's so eager to be a Turk she doesn't realize what she's really becoming.

And that leaves you Tseng, their alpha, the most ignorant of them all.

You pretend you're still a man, you talk to the President as an equal, not realizing how easily replaceable you really are in his eyes. You play professional, never letting yourself see that you're a pet, an expendable, exceptionally trained pet. It's insulting how you wear that suit, flashing your collar with pride like show animal.

You keep your pack in control, I've seen it. They pretend to respect you, but I can see the fear in their eyes when you walk by. Nothing keeps animals in line like fear, like proving to all of them that you can defeat them. Men earn their subordinates fear through intellect, you earn it through violence, a primal and supremely simple language in which you are fluent. Not many people know exactly how sadistic you can be, but even if the dead can't speak, video cameras don't lie. There's no finesse to what you do. When you want something, you force it out of them. A man knows subtlety, a man knows that science can do in moments what your 'elite' interrogation skills can't do in hours. But you insist on them, because you like the blood, you like the chance to lash out.

Shinra keeps you on the shortest leash of them all, and you act like you don't notice. You teach your sick little family, the pack you collected, of your lies, justifying what you've let Shinra mold you in to. You've even fooled the pack into revering you as one of the men, but I've seen when Shinra lets you off your leash. You make the idiot mutt look like a kitten. Whenever Shinra thinks I've overstepped my bounds, they send you, because they know what kind of animal you really are, how much you like to hurt me for what I did to one of your pack. And you are an animal. A vicious beast at his master's beck and call, eager to spill real men's blood if given the chance.

And you turned that into your 'pride', your so called loyalty to the company. Shinra has you so beaten you think you like it, you think you enjoy doing their dirty work because you want them to value your pathetic life. You may be king of your pack, but you wag your tail harder than any of them for the President.

Shinra's Elite.

Hah, what are you behind the golden collars?

A rottweiler.

A stray.

A bitch.

And a lapdog.

At your Master's heel, you await command.

Easily replaced, and just as easily forgotten.

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I'm not really sure where this idea came from, but I like the thought of having the Turks as seen through the eyes of someone who highly detests them. Hojo seemed perfect for it, because of the Vincent incident, and because I like to use the dynamic of Tseng hating the scientists guts for aforementioned incident.