TURK Narcotics Division [FFVII, FFXII, gen-Reno, Larsa]
Title: TURK Narcotics Division
Fandoms: FFVII, FFXII
Characters: Reno, Larsa
Rating: PG
Warnings: swearing and Reno?
Word count: 1485
Prompt: Reno and Larsa - they fight crime!
Summary: Modern day AU. Sure, the NYPD's good and all, but TURKs get the job done with a helluva lot more style.
Heavy shadows cling to walls and dumpsters and fire escapes in the narrow alley, the faint light of the midday sun overhead doing little to brighten the gloom.
The dozen or so men skulking around in the alley don’t seem to mind much, hugging opposite walls with the grim look of people with something to hide, eyeing each other with hard, heavy distrust. Switchblades and pistols butts glint in the dim, never far from the hands of their owners.
The sound of cars on the street is very loud in the tense, fragile silence.
At length, one man stands forward out of the restless shuffle.
“Well?” he demands of the group on the opposite side, shoulders hunching until the brim of his hat nearly brushes his collar. “You got the stuff?”
Another man skulks towards him with decidedly unsettling grin. “Of course,” he says, patting his pocket affectionately. “You got my money?”
The first man snaps his fingers and one of his men pulls a leather bag out of the folds of his coat.
“Ten Gs,” the buyer declares, almost casually. A pull on the bag’s drawstring reveals a tantalizing glimpse of crisp, green bills before it slides shut again. He eyes the dealer coldly. “Now where’s my Neth?”
A shark’s smile answers him. “You think I’m going to hand it over without counting that first?”
“Only if you want a few extra holes in your head.”
They glare at each other. Men on both sides can’t seem to decide whether to act bored or edgy and settle for a twitchy combination of the two.
Finally, the dealer’s smile thins. “Together then,” he suggests, not really an offer. A hand dips into his pocket and emerges with a clear pouch nearly as wide as his fist. The high-grade Nethecite inside glimmers like powdered crystal.
“On three,” he instructs, and that’s when Reno moves, melting out of the shadows beside the fire escape without even an attempt at subtlety.
“Neth dealing in alleyways, huh?” he asks, grinning as heads snap around and eyes widen comically. He stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets and a deliberately obnoxious smirk on his face. “Works well enough I guess, but isn’t it a little unimaginative, yo?”
“Who’s this nosy little fucker?” the Neth dealer demands, flatly unamused.
The buyer eyes Reno with disinterested malice. “A dead man, it looks like. Boys,” he says and his men start forward, grins on their faces and guns in their hands.
Reno arches an innocent eyebrow. “What? You mean you don’t recognize this?” He shifts so the faint light highlights the black mark tattooed above his collarbone and has to rein in a smile at the sudden shocked chagrin etching on every face in the alley. He sighs heavily. “The guys back at HQ aren’t gonna be happy about that, yo.”
“Fuck,” the dealer swears, rounding on the buyer angrily. “This a set-up?”
“You think I’d still be here if I had? And what are you morons waiting for?” he snaps at his men, who are hanging back, uncertain. “Kill that bastard!”
“But boss,” one man manages uneasily. “He’s a TURK.”
The buyer looks furious. “I don’t care if he’s fucking Vayne Solidor himself! Kill him now!”
“You too!” the dealer barks at his own cronies. “There’s 5K in it for the man who brings me that asshole’s head!”
That changes things, and Reno allows himself a dark chuckle as the thugs start forward again, thin-lipped and meaning business.
“Well,” he remarks, brushing an imaginary spot of lint off his sleeve. “I guess money’s always been a good motivator for the moronic.” The closest man lunges, wicked-looking knife flashing past Reno’s ear as he dodges carelessly. “Though I’d have thought it’d be worth more than five grand to tackle with a TURK.” His foot snaps out in a low kick that sends the man sprawling into the dumpsters behind him, the corroded metal shuddering with the impact. Reno grins at them impishly. “I mean, we’re not exactly pushovers, y’know.”
“Shut up!” one of the dealer’s men snarls, inexpertly wielded handgun trained on Reno’s face. “You can’t take on all of us, you little shit!”
Reno arches a brow, just to be irritating. “Really?” he asks, then moves, darting into the front lines and taking down three guys in one shot. They hit the ground hard and don’t get up.
Reno throws a smug grin at the rest of them. “Looks like you shoulda brought a bigger team, sweethearts.”
Something looms behind him, dangerously close, and Reno whirls just in time to see the dumpster guy crumple limply to the floor not two feet away, knife clattering uselessly to the pavement beside him.
“Really, Reno,” Larsa says, stepping casually across the thug he just floored. He fixes Reno with a look. “Can’t you do anything without making it ten times more complicated than it has to be?”
“Nope,” Reno answers glibly, grinning when he sees that Larsa’s loosened his tie enough to let their afternoon’s entertainment see his tattoo as well. “But that’s the best part of being a TURK, yo.”
The corner of Larsa’s mouth curls slightly and Reno’s been working with the big boss’ baby brother long enough to know just how screwed their opponents are at this very minute.
Which is just the way he likes things. He jerks his head at the milling, hesitant thugs. “Shall we take care of ‘em?”
“It’s why we’re here,” Larsa agrees, polite and calm like he’s talking about where to go for afternoon tea. He slides back into a ready stance, the look in his eyes more than enough to convince everyone but the dumbest thug not to let his baby face fool them.
Reno shakes his head with a heavy sigh. “Always stuck taking out the trash,” he complains. “Your brother’s a fucking slave driver, yo.”
“You know you’d be bored any other way,” Larsa reminds him, then he’s flying across the ground, cutting a swath through the crowd of thugs before most of them have even realized he’s moved. His fighting style is compact and flawless, taking out men twice his size like it’s nothing.
Two men go after him from behind and Reno hauls them back by their collars and bashes their heads together with a resounding crack. “Hey,” he objects, letting them slump carelessly to the floor and stepping forward. “Leave some for me, yo.”
Larsa ducks coolly under a frantically wielded knife, snapping the guy’s wrist as he pivots. “Only if you hurry up.”
Reno grins. “You’re all heart, Lar.”
They make short work of the hired muscle, leaving groaning masses of bruises scattered all over the floor. The buyer folds like a deck of cards when Reno drives a fist into his gut, hat falling to the floor as he doubles over with a choked, disbelieving gasp.
It takes the dealer all of ten seconds to realize he’s really fucking outclassed - which means he makes it nearly three steps before Larsa drops him with a swift strike to the back of the neck, the sickening crack more than enough to convince anyone still moving to give up or play dead.
“Stupid bastard,” Reno smirks, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “No one gets away from the TURKs, yo.” He plants an absent foot against the chest of some guy who’s trying to be sneaky about crawling away, a quick fist to the face dropping him properly. He squints at the foamy-mouthed dealer. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
Larsa bends and lays two fingers against the dealer’s neck. “No,” he says. “Though he’ll have quite the headache when he wakes up.” He reaches further, plucking the bag of Neth free from slack fingers and sliding it neatly into his jacket pocket. Then he turns to Reno. “Lunch?” he offers.
Reno raises an eyebrow. “I thought Tuesti wanted us back at HQ ASAP, yo.”
Larsa says nothing, the innocent tilt to his smile not deceiving in the slightest, and Reno doesn’t even hesitate before grinning.
“The Rozarrian place round the corner’s pretty good,” he offers. The blare of sirens echo from several streets over - Elena and Drace coming to arrest this sorry bunch, he’d wager - but Reno doesn’t pay much attention. They’ll be long gone by the time they arrive.
“Only if you like being hit on by the owner,” Larsa remarks, almost primly enough to be believable. He tilts his head Reno’s way. “You in the mood for Wutaian?”
“Why not?” Reno acquiesces easily, falling in step with his partner. “We can go to the place by my apartment.”
“Halfway across town you mean?” Larsa asks, sounding amused. “We’ll need to be back for the afternoon meeting.”
“Sure,” Reno agrees, meaning anything but. They share a grin.
Being a TURK is the best fucking job in the world - especially with a partner who thinks so too.
~owari
Fandoms: FFVII, FFXII
Characters: Reno, Larsa
Rating: PG
Warnings: swearing and Reno?
Word count: 1485
Prompt: Reno and Larsa - they fight crime!
Summary: Modern day AU. Sure, the NYPD's good and all, but TURKs get the job done with a helluva lot more style.
Heavy shadows cling to walls and dumpsters and fire escapes in the narrow alley, the faint light of the midday sun overhead doing little to brighten the gloom.
The dozen or so men skulking around in the alley don’t seem to mind much, hugging opposite walls with the grim look of people with something to hide, eyeing each other with hard, heavy distrust. Switchblades and pistols butts glint in the dim, never far from the hands of their owners.
The sound of cars on the street is very loud in the tense, fragile silence.
At length, one man stands forward out of the restless shuffle.
“Well?” he demands of the group on the opposite side, shoulders hunching until the brim of his hat nearly brushes his collar. “You got the stuff?”
Another man skulks towards him with decidedly unsettling grin. “Of course,” he says, patting his pocket affectionately. “You got my money?”
The first man snaps his fingers and one of his men pulls a leather bag out of the folds of his coat.
“Ten Gs,” the buyer declares, almost casually. A pull on the bag’s drawstring reveals a tantalizing glimpse of crisp, green bills before it slides shut again. He eyes the dealer coldly. “Now where’s my Neth?”
A shark’s smile answers him. “You think I’m going to hand it over without counting that first?”
“Only if you want a few extra holes in your head.”
They glare at each other. Men on both sides can’t seem to decide whether to act bored or edgy and settle for a twitchy combination of the two.
Finally, the dealer’s smile thins. “Together then,” he suggests, not really an offer. A hand dips into his pocket and emerges with a clear pouch nearly as wide as his fist. The high-grade Nethecite inside glimmers like powdered crystal.
“On three,” he instructs, and that’s when Reno moves, melting out of the shadows beside the fire escape without even an attempt at subtlety.
“Neth dealing in alleyways, huh?” he asks, grinning as heads snap around and eyes widen comically. He stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets and a deliberately obnoxious smirk on his face. “Works well enough I guess, but isn’t it a little unimaginative, yo?”
“Who’s this nosy little fucker?” the Neth dealer demands, flatly unamused.
The buyer eyes Reno with disinterested malice. “A dead man, it looks like. Boys,” he says and his men start forward, grins on their faces and guns in their hands.
Reno arches an innocent eyebrow. “What? You mean you don’t recognize this?” He shifts so the faint light highlights the black mark tattooed above his collarbone and has to rein in a smile at the sudden shocked chagrin etching on every face in the alley. He sighs heavily. “The guys back at HQ aren’t gonna be happy about that, yo.”
“Fuck,” the dealer swears, rounding on the buyer angrily. “This a set-up?”
“You think I’d still be here if I had? And what are you morons waiting for?” he snaps at his men, who are hanging back, uncertain. “Kill that bastard!”
“But boss,” one man manages uneasily. “He’s a TURK.”
The buyer looks furious. “I don’t care if he’s fucking Vayne Solidor himself! Kill him now!”
“You too!” the dealer barks at his own cronies. “There’s 5K in it for the man who brings me that asshole’s head!”
That changes things, and Reno allows himself a dark chuckle as the thugs start forward again, thin-lipped and meaning business.
“Well,” he remarks, brushing an imaginary spot of lint off his sleeve. “I guess money’s always been a good motivator for the moronic.” The closest man lunges, wicked-looking knife flashing past Reno’s ear as he dodges carelessly. “Though I’d have thought it’d be worth more than five grand to tackle with a TURK.” His foot snaps out in a low kick that sends the man sprawling into the dumpsters behind him, the corroded metal shuddering with the impact. Reno grins at them impishly. “I mean, we’re not exactly pushovers, y’know.”
“Shut up!” one of the dealer’s men snarls, inexpertly wielded handgun trained on Reno’s face. “You can’t take on all of us, you little shit!”
Reno arches a brow, just to be irritating. “Really?” he asks, then moves, darting into the front lines and taking down three guys in one shot. They hit the ground hard and don’t get up.
Reno throws a smug grin at the rest of them. “Looks like you shoulda brought a bigger team, sweethearts.”
Something looms behind him, dangerously close, and Reno whirls just in time to see the dumpster guy crumple limply to the floor not two feet away, knife clattering uselessly to the pavement beside him.
“Really, Reno,” Larsa says, stepping casually across the thug he just floored. He fixes Reno with a look. “Can’t you do anything without making it ten times more complicated than it has to be?”
“Nope,” Reno answers glibly, grinning when he sees that Larsa’s loosened his tie enough to let their afternoon’s entertainment see his tattoo as well. “But that’s the best part of being a TURK, yo.”
The corner of Larsa’s mouth curls slightly and Reno’s been working with the big boss’ baby brother long enough to know just how screwed their opponents are at this very minute.
Which is just the way he likes things. He jerks his head at the milling, hesitant thugs. “Shall we take care of ‘em?”
“It’s why we’re here,” Larsa agrees, polite and calm like he’s talking about where to go for afternoon tea. He slides back into a ready stance, the look in his eyes more than enough to convince everyone but the dumbest thug not to let his baby face fool them.
Reno shakes his head with a heavy sigh. “Always stuck taking out the trash,” he complains. “Your brother’s a fucking slave driver, yo.”
“You know you’d be bored any other way,” Larsa reminds him, then he’s flying across the ground, cutting a swath through the crowd of thugs before most of them have even realized he’s moved. His fighting style is compact and flawless, taking out men twice his size like it’s nothing.
Two men go after him from behind and Reno hauls them back by their collars and bashes their heads together with a resounding crack. “Hey,” he objects, letting them slump carelessly to the floor and stepping forward. “Leave some for me, yo.”
Larsa ducks coolly under a frantically wielded knife, snapping the guy’s wrist as he pivots. “Only if you hurry up.”
Reno grins. “You’re all heart, Lar.”
They make short work of the hired muscle, leaving groaning masses of bruises scattered all over the floor. The buyer folds like a deck of cards when Reno drives a fist into his gut, hat falling to the floor as he doubles over with a choked, disbelieving gasp.
It takes the dealer all of ten seconds to realize he’s really fucking outclassed - which means he makes it nearly three steps before Larsa drops him with a swift strike to the back of the neck, the sickening crack more than enough to convince anyone still moving to give up or play dead.
“Stupid bastard,” Reno smirks, shaking his hair out of his eyes. “No one gets away from the TURKs, yo.” He plants an absent foot against the chest of some guy who’s trying to be sneaky about crawling away, a quick fist to the face dropping him properly. He squints at the foamy-mouthed dealer. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”
Larsa bends and lays two fingers against the dealer’s neck. “No,” he says. “Though he’ll have quite the headache when he wakes up.” He reaches further, plucking the bag of Neth free from slack fingers and sliding it neatly into his jacket pocket. Then he turns to Reno. “Lunch?” he offers.
Reno raises an eyebrow. “I thought Tuesti wanted us back at HQ ASAP, yo.”
Larsa says nothing, the innocent tilt to his smile not deceiving in the slightest, and Reno doesn’t even hesitate before grinning.
“The Rozarrian place round the corner’s pretty good,” he offers. The blare of sirens echo from several streets over - Elena and Drace coming to arrest this sorry bunch, he’d wager - but Reno doesn’t pay much attention. They’ll be long gone by the time they arrive.
“Only if you like being hit on by the owner,” Larsa remarks, almost primly enough to be believable. He tilts his head Reno’s way. “You in the mood for Wutaian?”
“Why not?” Reno acquiesces easily, falling in step with his partner. “We can go to the place by my apartment.”
“Halfway across town you mean?” Larsa asks, sounding amused. “We’ll need to be back for the afternoon meeting.”
“Sure,” Reno agrees, meaning anything but. They share a grin.
Being a TURK is the best fucking job in the world - especially with a partner who thinks so too.
~owari