faicinn_rocais (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} faicinn_rocais) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} areyougame,@ 2010-02-12 00:28:00 |
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| Current location: | snowed in |
| Current mood: |  cheerful |
| Current music: | AFI - The Killing Lights |
| Entry tags: | *final fantasy vii, author: faicinn_rocais |
[FFVII: Reno] The Product of an Overactive Imagination (2/2)
Title: The Product of an Overactive Imagination (2/2)
Author: faicinn_rocais
Rating: T
Warnings: Reno, some language
Word count: 1,898
Prompt: 10- Final Fantasy VII, Reno: antics - It didn't make sense not to live for fun/your brain gets smart, but your head gets dumb
Summary: Reno being Reno.
A/N: I think I'm having too much fun with this. The conclusion. Snow report: got 6" yesterday night and we're scheduled for another 8-12". Woo~!
Rufus got an odd look from his secretary when he came into work the next morning. He figured it was because his attire was a bit different than usual; the cleaners had messed up on his usual purple vests forcing him to wear his green one that was reserved for the holidays.
“Any calls I should know about, Sharon?” the young president inquired.
“No, Sir,” Sharon dutifully replied. “I placed some files on your desk and cleaned your office.”
A bit perplexed about the cleaning part, Rufus thanked the woman and entered his office….
…where he was immediately tackled by a whining, barking, licking creature that could only be a puppy. For only puppies were this enthusiastic about anything in life. He was shocked into stillness long enough for the puppy to crawl onto his chest and sit, making himself quite comfortable. Rufus, swore loudly, before grabbing the puppy and returning to the outer office.
“Sharon, what is this?” Rufus asked, pointing to the energetic black ball of fur that was squirming under his arm.
“I think it’s a puppy, sir,” Sharon carefully replied.
“What is it doing in my office?”
Sharon looked confused. “I thought you put him there, Sir; there was a note on your desk about it.”
Rufus looked at her for a moment before returning to his office; door slamming behind him. Making his way to his desk, puppy now bounding about on the floor after him, there was the note that Sharon mentioned.
Sharon, don’t mind the puppy. RS
Rufus would have assumed he’d written the note if he knew for certain he hadn’t. The forgery was very good, however, and only the Turks knew how he held his writing utensils to be able to forge something this good. Knowing that the Turks valued their lives and his, and that there really was only one dumb—or suicidal—enough to try something of this magnitude, he picked up his phone to dial Tseng to find out where Reno was today.
“You’ve reached the voice mail of Tseng; Commander of the Turks. I’m out of the office for reasons you don’t need to know of. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.”
Rufus scowled, hanging up before the beep. Frosty blue eyes stared down at the puppy who was sitting diligently at his feet, gazing up at him with purple eyes. When he was younger, there had been that Soldier recruit, what’s his name—some emotion—that had had eyes that same colour. Fair; Zack Fair. Curious, the blond man pulled up the Soldier’s file and, sure enough, the beaming, purple eyed face of Zack Fair looked out at him from his computer; the puppy’s coat rather reminiscent of the youth’s ridiculous hair. Reading the comments his teachers had made about him, the President wasn’t sure if he wanted his dog to emulate his tentative namesake as things tended to do around him. Dark Nation had been rather foreboding and broody when he wanted to be.
Looking the puppy over more closely, noting the rather large feet, the wild, almost feral look in its eyes, before deciding he rather liked the puppy, firmly denying that its overall adorable factor had nothing to do with it.
“Your name is Anselm,” Rufus informed the puppy. “If you loo on my floor, I will shoot you. Speak if you need to go, and I’ll take you to a plant, understand?”
The puppy barked and wriggled happily.
This looked like it would work out.
Now Reno wasn’t all heartless and bloodthirsty and stupid as most in the new ShinRa believed him to be. Pondering over that thought, he realized that that only applied something like twenty percent of the time. Shrugging, the man hacked through various files and bank accounts until he found the particular one he was looking for.
Rubeus Timberland was a native of Corel that had been hit pretty hard by the Crisis and Meteor, and from what he had overheard from others, barely making ends meet which transferred over to tension between him and his girl. With their wedding on hold, and good ol’ Tim taking extra hours, speculation was doubtful that there’d be a wedding at all. Taking funds out of several accounts that shall not be named, the Turk forged a letter from his higher ups and gave the lad a vacation to get with his girl proper, and the money to do so.
Besides, he had been pretty heartless and mean to the man over the years; sneaking in and out of the door he guarded at all hours of the night. Whistling something from the Golden Saucer, the redhead made his way to his final destination of the night.
Guard Timberland, called Tim by all his friends, trudged into work after a particularly bad night. The evening had started out so well, too, with dinner and music and ambiance. Then they somehow got into an argument over something and the night had gone to shit after that. Rubbing his face, he went to clock in when Jennings spluttered and choked on his coffee.
“What are you doing here, Tim?” the other guard asked.
“Working?” Tim inquired. He needed all the money he could get. Then he realized that Jennings usually worked the weekends, taking the opposite of his shift. “What are you doing here?”
“Working,” Jennings replied. “You’re on vacation.”
“I can’t afford vacation,” Tim replied.
Jennings just gave the man a sealed manila envelope. Curious, Tim opened it to find a missive from his CO saying in not so many words that he didn’t want to be seen in 4 months and that his wedding better be good and there better be pictures and cake when he came back.
What the hell?
“When did this happen? My girl and I don’t have enough money for a wedding!” Tim exclaimed.
Jennigs shrugged. “I hear you, man; but the CO said to walk.”
Worried and confused, Tim bid his friend farewell as he left the compound. As he trudged through post-Meteor Midgar, he got to thinking; his CO knew that he needed the money the mundane shifts no one wanted paid. Meandering over to an ATM, Tim checked his balance and nearly freaked. He’d never in his entire life had that much money at his disposal. What was that, six significant values? Paling, he teetered over to a bench and sat down, the receipt of his transaction clutched in his hand.
He didn’t know how long he sat on that bench, but he figured someone upstairs was looking out for him after dealing with that hellspawn of a Turk all hours of the day. Coming back to himself, Rubeus Timberland couldn’t help the stupid grin that grew on his face before running home to his girl to give her the good news. If they planned right, they could have a good wedding and have some left over for a nest egg.
But first, he had to buy a good camera to capture the look on her face when she saw their bank account.
Cloud had always been an asshole since he got away from Hojo, Reno mused. Then again, ShinRa really hadn’t done much good for the kid, and Hojo really turned most people off of life and other living people in general. Sephiroth was a prime example; the scientist made the poor guy think he was a monster and then he went off to destroy the world.
Didn’t think that’s what Hojo had in mind.
Anyway, the redheaded Turk had to be extra stealthy as he approached Seventh Heaven; the bar was closed for the night—it was around 03:00 hours, maybe 04:00 if he bothered to look at his watch, but either way, Cloud would be high strung from a night of bouncing, not that the exExperiment-exSoldier-exFailed-Sephirot
Come to think of it, most people had though the guy needed to be on some kind of upper before the Remnant catastrophe.
Anyway, listening and staking the establishment out, Reno decided that everyone had gone to bed and he made his move. Carefully going around the front of the bar, Reno slipped around the side and made his way to the back where he let out a low whistle. There, in the low light, perfection gleamed. Fenrir truly was a sight to behold; all dark and chrome and shiny. He wondered how many chocobo’s the engine revved at, seeing as it was a custom job. Word on the street was the blond had built the thing from scratch after his Hardy Daytona had been damaged beyond repair during his trekking about Gaia in the Crisis. And that beast had been tinkered with had—at production line quality—put out 1200 choc’ power.
He almost felt bad about what he was going to do.
The little asshole should have thought twice about throwing him out of the bar into the pile of garbage the week before. He could have just as easily tossed him on the equally grubby curb.
Cracking his knuckles, the Turk—who was in a very Turk-like mood—whipped out some tools from his pocket before going to work.
Tifa watched Cloud reenter the bar almost as soon as he had left it to go on a delivery. Now, he did this every so often, so Tifa wasn’t concerned. What had her worried, however, was the lost look on the blond’s face and his watery eyes. “Cloud?” she inquired.
He looked at her proper and, indeed, his beautiful glowing blue eyes were full of tears he refused to let fall. She hadn’t seen him cry since back in Nibelheim when he got bullied, since she didn’t count severe physical trauma and injuries—those hurt like a bitch. Setting the glass she was cleaning on the bar as Cloud teetered over to a chair, Tifa quickly made her way to her fellow Nibelheimer.
“Cloud, what’s wrong?” the brunette inquired.
Cloud made a distressed noise and waved his hand in the air in the general direction he had come from. Worried, Tifa gave him a look before he gazed pathetically at her and motioned again to the backdoor. Glancing at him once more to make sure that that was what he wanted her to do, the bar owner made her way over to the door and peered out where Cloud kept his motorcycle.
Or rather, what was left of his motorcycle.
The pretty beast that was dubbed Fenrir at its completion was in disarray; professionally disassembled and the pieces assembled by type and size on a tarp next to the piping and frame work of the motorcycle.
“Oh dear,” Tifa murmured as a sob came from inside the bar. She had an idea of who probably did it, but Cloud had been having crap deliveries recently and been attempting to get drunk every night this week and mildly succeeding. Sighing, knowing that the blond would be inconsolable until he accepted reality—which with him could take anywhere from a day to a few months—Tifa went behind the bar to mix up what Vincent usually ordered.
Hey, if it got him and his demons shitfaced in three drinks, it would work for Cloud.