[ you either have it or you don't, and reno's definitely got it. and that's good, because that's all he's got. and he wants to damn well and sure everyone knows it.
where'd he come from? who knows. reno's file is as sparse as his propensity for staying appropriately clothed. it isn't even full of redactions and edits, TOP SECRET stamps and references—it's just a paper-thin folder with a few leafs of unhelpful information in. a first name? the one he gave them. last name? none. true identity? unknown. birthdate? unknown. birthplace? only what he told them (junon—city of). height, weight, all too small numbers. blood type: common as they come, but not universal. known contacts: none. absolutely none.
so how'd he get here? same way anyone else gets here: he took the train. and there wasn't any getting off.
he made his impression by being too dangerous to overlook. a child whose ribs nearly meet his spine managing not only to get inside the shinra building undetected but to pick-pocket multiple staff members, shoplift from the item store, steal a pass up to the skylobby, ransack the library, and make an attempt on the life of the first person he saw with a keycard of a high enough number to get to the top floor, is not one to be trifled with. especially not when the person he successfully ambushes, using nothing more than a broken bottle and a stolen taser, is a turk. not someone you're supposed to be able to sneak up on, or threaten.
they take him to the president, like he demands. and what does this skinny, fiery street rat ask for? money. for what? for mind your own fucking business, old man! and when making demands doesn't work, his leverage is his trump card: a home-made explosive he made in a garage and planted in the parking structure. pay up, or he collapses the support and crushes anyone who might happen to be in there. (a bluff; his bomb isn't nearly that sophisticated, but he didn't come this far to give up now.)
enchanted, the president does him one better. oh, he gives him his money, alright. and a job. and an apartment, and a mentor, and a uniform.
and that's the story of reno the turk.
now, at this tender age of who-knows-but-probably-fresh-into-his-twenties, reno is ruthless about climbing the ranks. he's already surpassed many of his longer-standing turk brothers and sisters, and yet somehow he leaves respect in his wake, not ire. that's the thing about him—he's a smooth talker. he's likeable. he's friendly, even downright charming so long as you don't test your luck. and he's good at what he does. he's one of the few never to have been paired up with anyone else outside of training, and he's proud of that.
imagine his surprise when he gets the news, straight from the big man himself: you got yourself a partner.
at first, he's furious. you can't do that to me! that's only gonna hold me back! i don't need some rookie hanging onto my coat-tails, let him make his own way! he's allowed to throw his tantrum strictly because he's tenure and his skills give him leeway for all the acting out he's known for. but then he gets a look at the file. reads it top to bottom, back to front. studies the picture. pretty blond, blue eyes, pale as the moon. a total freak with no special handouts that nobody likes or cares for.
and he's fascinated.
a fan of the theatrical, reno positions himself accordingly to show up at the best possible moment. when tseng and cloud exit the elevator, he poises around a corner, waiting for his chance. when he hears his name, he strolls in ever so conveniently, looking cool. casual. pleasantly surprised. he acknowledges tseng, but his eyes fix on the tagalong. ]
no subject
where'd he come from? who knows. reno's file is as sparse as his propensity for staying appropriately clothed. it isn't even full of redactions and edits, TOP SECRET stamps and references—it's just a paper-thin folder with a few leafs of unhelpful information in. a first name? the one he gave them. last name? none. true identity? unknown. birthdate? unknown. birthplace? only what he told them (junon—city of). height, weight, all too small numbers. blood type: common as they come, but not universal. known contacts: none. absolutely none.
so how'd he get here? same way anyone else gets here: he took the train. and there wasn't any getting off.
he made his impression by being too dangerous to overlook. a child whose ribs nearly meet his spine managing not only to get inside the shinra building undetected but to pick-pocket multiple staff members, shoplift from the item store, steal a pass up to the skylobby, ransack the library, and make an attempt on the life of the first person he saw with a keycard of a high enough number to get to the top floor, is not one to be trifled with. especially not when the person he successfully ambushes, using nothing more than a broken bottle and a stolen taser, is a turk. not someone you're supposed to be able to sneak up on, or threaten.
they take him to the president, like he demands. and what does this skinny, fiery street rat ask for? money. for what? for mind your own fucking business, old man! and when making demands doesn't work, his leverage is his trump card: a home-made explosive he made in a garage and planted in the parking structure. pay up, or he collapses the support and crushes anyone who might happen to be in there. (a bluff; his bomb isn't nearly that sophisticated, but he didn't come this far to give up now.)
enchanted, the president does him one better. oh, he gives him his money, alright. and a job. and an apartment, and a mentor, and a uniform.
and that's the story of reno the turk.
now, at this tender age of who-knows-but-probably-fresh-into-his-twenties, reno is ruthless about climbing the ranks. he's already surpassed many of his longer-standing turk brothers and sisters, and yet somehow he leaves respect in his wake, not ire. that's the thing about him—he's a smooth talker. he's likeable. he's friendly, even downright charming so long as you don't test your luck. and he's good at what he does. he's one of the few never to have been paired up with anyone else outside of training, and he's proud of that.
imagine his surprise when he gets the news, straight from the big man himself: you got yourself a partner.
at first, he's furious. you can't do that to me! that's only gonna hold me back! i don't need some rookie hanging onto my coat-tails, let him make his own way! he's allowed to throw his tantrum strictly because he's tenure and his skills give him leeway for all the acting out he's known for. but then he gets a look at the file. reads it top to bottom, back to front. studies the picture. pretty blond, blue eyes, pale as the moon. a total freak with no special handouts that nobody likes or cares for.
and he's fascinated.
a fan of the theatrical, reno positions himself accordingly to show up at the best possible moment. when tseng and cloud exit the elevator, he poises around a corner, waiting for his chance. when he hears his name, he strolls in ever so conveniently, looking cool. casual. pleasantly surprised. he acknowledges tseng, but his eyes fix on the tagalong. ]
You called?