Ficmeme II : Reality [Reno]
Title: Reality
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13 for some blood, perhaps.
Disclaimer: I'd love to own Reno. Alas, I don't. ;A;
Summary: Reno reflects over a mission.
A/N: A part of a meme
The bar was almost empty. It was no surprise - it was too early to drink, or to even consider drinking. Yet, at the bar sat a lone figure, hunched over the counter with an empty glass in front of him. His eyes were closed, his face shadowed by the loose strands of vibrantly red hair that never stayed in his pathetic excuse of a ponytail. His goggles lay on the wooden surface next to him along with his cell phone - he needed to get away from them for a while.
Reno had become a Turk for the money. He hadn’t had much of a life - a gang member with a colourful background of stealing, abuse and drug use. When Rufus ShinRa himself had suggested he join his forces to become an elite of his men, he hadn’t had much of a choice. A life on the street or a career as a feared, well-known ShinRa dog. The latter just came with pay checks.
He’d been a good fighter and had become an even better one. When he finally got to put on the dark suit and call himself a real Turk, he also got the benefits. He learned how to fly a helicopter and damn if that wasn’t what he was meant to do. It was the best of feelings, soaring through the sky, free like never before. Those moments had become the real treat in his job, the reason to continue even if the missions sometimes were shitty.
“Bartender.” Reno called, his voice low and flat. He lifted his glass. “Fill me up.”
Working for ShinRa meant killing for ShinRa. Reno had never had a problem with it - sure, it was the downside of the job, but it paid his rent. Sitting in a helicopter and aiming missiles at whatever ships or buildings he was told to destroy was a piece of cake. People died, but it was unavoidable. A necessary evil, as Rufus expressed it - this was a dog-eat-dog world. No one cared if a single building was blown to bits, but when a few victims went with it, suddenly everyone started listening to what ShinRa had to say. Reno hadn’t thought much about it. He never read the next day’s paper and that was enough for him; ignorance was bliss.
It had been a strike of bad luck that he’d ran out of fuel during his latest mission. In the early morning, he’d just managed to finish taking down some company’s headquarters in a close-by town when his chopper had given a rough cough and refused to fly. In a second, he’d been on his way down towards the ground and for the first time, Reno had appreciated the parachutes that were mandatory.
The helicopter had crashed into the woods and he’d been forced to make his way to the closest town by foot. It hadn’t bothered him much - his pay ran by the hour, so a little stroll meant that much more money. But what he hadn’t counted on was meeting the demolition and destruction he’d caused.
Downing the drink the bartender had poured for him, Reno sighed at the burn of alcohol in his throat. He was already drunk, but not drunk enough. Not drunk enough to forget.
He’d spotted her on the street, a block or so from the spot he’d brought down. She’d managed to get all the way there with a huge gash on her chest, staining her pale blue dress a deep, filthy red. Maybe she’d been hit by a fragment of the bomb or a chunk of metal from the exploding building. He’d never know. The wound was only as wide as his palm, but her chest was too narrow to fit both of his hands.
She might’ve been seven.
She had been leaning against the wall, her legs pulled up against her. Her beautiful, golden hair had been braided and tied with blue ribbons, matching the colour of her dress. White socks and black shoes and the most adorable little bag in her small hands. Mom’s little angel, dad’s little princess.
He hadn’t seen the colour of her eyes, because they’d been closed and that Reno was grateful for. She’d already been gone, blood slowly dripping from the corner of her mouth and down onto her shoulder. Her tiny hands had been closed around her bag as if it could’ve saved her life.
Reno had fled.
The shrill sound of his phone ringing startled Reno. His eyes were dull and tired as they examined the vibrating device before he slowly reached for it, flipping it open.
“Reno.”
He’d walked all the way back. Smoked a whole pack of cigarettes and vomited. Then he’d headed for the bar.
“I understand.”
He didn’t know how many drinks he’d had, but he didn’t care. He didn’t know what else to do than to down one after another, but even the drunken buzz in his head hadn’t made the memory disappear.
“Yes, Sir.”
Reno shut his phone and stuffed it into his pocket. He dug out a bill and left it on the counter, grabbing his goggles and placing them back where they belonged. He straightened his black suit and wiped his face, sure that he'd imagined the dampness on his cheeks.
It was time to get back to work.
Pairing: None
Rating: PG-13 for some blood, perhaps.
Disclaimer: I'd love to own Reno. Alas, I don't. ;A;
Summary: Reno reflects over a mission.
A/N: A part of a meme
The bar was almost empty. It was no surprise - it was too early to drink, or to even consider drinking. Yet, at the bar sat a lone figure, hunched over the counter with an empty glass in front of him. His eyes were closed, his face shadowed by the loose strands of vibrantly red hair that never stayed in his pathetic excuse of a ponytail. His goggles lay on the wooden surface next to him along with his cell phone - he needed to get away from them for a while.
Reno had become a Turk for the money. He hadn’t had much of a life - a gang member with a colourful background of stealing, abuse and drug use. When Rufus ShinRa himself had suggested he join his forces to become an elite of his men, he hadn’t had much of a choice. A life on the street or a career as a feared, well-known ShinRa dog. The latter just came with pay checks.
He’d been a good fighter and had become an even better one. When he finally got to put on the dark suit and call himself a real Turk, he also got the benefits. He learned how to fly a helicopter and damn if that wasn’t what he was meant to do. It was the best of feelings, soaring through the sky, free like never before. Those moments had become the real treat in his job, the reason to continue even if the missions sometimes were shitty.
“Bartender.” Reno called, his voice low and flat. He lifted his glass. “Fill me up.”
Working for ShinRa meant killing for ShinRa. Reno had never had a problem with it - sure, it was the downside of the job, but it paid his rent. Sitting in a helicopter and aiming missiles at whatever ships or buildings he was told to destroy was a piece of cake. People died, but it was unavoidable. A necessary evil, as Rufus expressed it - this was a dog-eat-dog world. No one cared if a single building was blown to bits, but when a few victims went with it, suddenly everyone started listening to what ShinRa had to say. Reno hadn’t thought much about it. He never read the next day’s paper and that was enough for him; ignorance was bliss.
It had been a strike of bad luck that he’d ran out of fuel during his latest mission. In the early morning, he’d just managed to finish taking down some company’s headquarters in a close-by town when his chopper had given a rough cough and refused to fly. In a second, he’d been on his way down towards the ground and for the first time, Reno had appreciated the parachutes that were mandatory.
The helicopter had crashed into the woods and he’d been forced to make his way to the closest town by foot. It hadn’t bothered him much - his pay ran by the hour, so a little stroll meant that much more money. But what he hadn’t counted on was meeting the demolition and destruction he’d caused.
Downing the drink the bartender had poured for him, Reno sighed at the burn of alcohol in his throat. He was already drunk, but not drunk enough. Not drunk enough to forget.
He’d spotted her on the street, a block or so from the spot he’d brought down. She’d managed to get all the way there with a huge gash on her chest, staining her pale blue dress a deep, filthy red. Maybe she’d been hit by a fragment of the bomb or a chunk of metal from the exploding building. He’d never know. The wound was only as wide as his palm, but her chest was too narrow to fit both of his hands.
She might’ve been seven.
She had been leaning against the wall, her legs pulled up against her. Her beautiful, golden hair had been braided and tied with blue ribbons, matching the colour of her dress. White socks and black shoes and the most adorable little bag in her small hands. Mom’s little angel, dad’s little princess.
He hadn’t seen the colour of her eyes, because they’d been closed and that Reno was grateful for. She’d already been gone, blood slowly dripping from the corner of her mouth and down onto her shoulder. Her tiny hands had been closed around her bag as if it could’ve saved her life.
Reno had fled.
The shrill sound of his phone ringing startled Reno. His eyes were dull and tired as they examined the vibrating device before he slowly reached for it, flipping it open.
“Reno.”
He’d walked all the way back. Smoked a whole pack of cigarettes and vomited. Then he’d headed for the bar.
“I understand.”
He didn’t know how many drinks he’d had, but he didn’t care. He didn’t know what else to do than to down one after another, but even the drunken buzz in his head hadn’t made the memory disappear.
“Yes, Sir.”
Reno shut his phone and stuffed it into his pocket. He dug out a bill and left it on the counter, grabbing his goggles and placing them back where they belonged. He straightened his black suit and wiped his face, sure that he'd imagined the dampness on his cheeks.
It was time to get back to work.