The Killing Game

Warnings: Cursing, psychological content, repeated mentions of murder and some moderate scenes of torture and gore. Timeline - post Advent Children.

"I'm for anything that gets you through the night, be it prayer, tranquilisers, or a bottle of Jack Daniels." – Frank Sinatra.

I'll tell you one thing
If you were to leave, it would be a crying shame
In every breath and every word
I hear your name calling me out
- Santana, Smooth (edited)

Yeah, I'm the pain you tasted, fell intoxicated
I'm the self-inflicted, mind detonator
Yeah, I'm the one infected, twisted animator
I'm a fire starter, terrific fire starter
You're the fire starter, twisted fire starter
- The Prodigy, Firestarter

I used t' say that a good laugh could get me through anythin', yo. Any job, any situation. I remember tellin' myself that for years upon fuckin' years, n' well… yea', it ain't so good anymore. I've got a problem. One that's been cuttin' deep for the past few months, as fuckin' cheap as that sounds. There's an issue with laughin' t' keep y'self rational; one day, ya' forget how t' do just that: laugh. One day, it all crashes, leavin' ya' sinkin' int' an inevitability that ya' know you've been waitin' for. Never thought it'd happen t' me, yo. Elena always said I had this wit about me; a flare that made it easier for me t' toss out some remark or 'nother. Somethin' that cut them, not me. I've never cared, see. I've never cared what the fuck I was doin', or how the fuck I was doin' it. A job? S'all it is. A job. There's nothin' else t' it. Suit up, do the job, get paid, go home. S'all the same.

Well, it was.

Don't get me wrong.

I know I deserve t' forget how t' laugh everythin' off. I know I don't deserve t' overlook all the bad shit I've done. N' I say overlook for a reason, 'cause damn straight, there's no way in the Lifestream's heaven or hell I'm ever gonna forget all the crap I've done. Fuck knows I'm messed up, but hell, I ain't that messed up. Not just yet. I've committed more than my fair share o' murder, rape, torture, n' hell knows that I'll keep it up. S'my job. It's just words t' me, yo. Ya' name it, I've done it. May as well be keepin' a tally chart at this point – though, given second thought, I'd need a whole fuckin' roped off building with bare walls t' keep an anywhere near accurate score.

Oh - n' the torture? That's just a game these days, yo. Somethin' t' provide a lil' variety. Ya' don't think when ya' busy decidin' how t' cut someone up best - least not 'bout anythin' but the blood n' just how that poor fucker's gonna look when ya' finished puttin' their insides on the outside. That's usually when I end up laughin'. Rude told me t' take five after I'd finished hackin' some faceless fucker's hands off once; jus' needed t' calm the fuck down. Laughter, yo. It clamps down one hell of a grip on ya'. I'd know.

It wasn't even funny. The situation, 'ah mean. Never is.

Some chick or some guy screamin' at the top o' their lungs while bleedin' out from every strategically placed wound on their body? Nah, that shit ain't funny. Not even close. I don't laugh at that shit. I laugh 'cause I need t'. One minute, ya' mind s'all present n' correct, yo. The next, s'all a blur o' mixed shrieks n' screams, n' blood n' gore, n' ya' not really sure what the fuck t' look at anymore, but ya' damn straight keep on lookin' in any case.

The real hysterics don't seize 'til ya' sittin' down some backwater bar later on, tossin' back the alcohol (what's ya' poison, this time?) n' relivin' ya' last assignments dyin' screams while ya' sit there with the knowledge that likes always, ya' made a good job outta 'em. But it ain't doesn't all stick t' memory anymore.

When ya' get started on the job, that's the worst. That's when the screams n' the blood n' all the rest o' it really stick with ya'. S'when ya' can't sleep, n' ya' find y'self wonderin' what sorta person ya' are - fuckin' rookie, that's what.

But screw that. Ya' get over it. N' if ya' don't, ya' end up joinin' those fucks ya've been helpin' t' carve up, in any case. Other side o' the lookin' glass. But ya' get over it. Ya' do. N' ya' learn t' live with it somehow. Everyone's got their own lil' methods, see. There's one that we all gotta share at some point or other, though: laughin' the bad shit away.

Get it outta ya' mind n' ya' don't have t' worry 'bout anythin' imprintin' on ya' conscience.

O'course it always helps when - like me - ya' don't have a conscience in the first place.

I've worked m'self int' a routine over the years.

I was the cruel one, the one who got the job done, spared no pain or expense t' the target. 'Vicious', Tseng had called me. N' I tell ya', I didn't quite like it at first, either. I laughed it off, yea', but somethin' 'bout the tone o' voice he'd used irked me. In fact, it impressed on me so damn much that more than once, I had fuckin' nightmares 'bout it. Vicious shit, lemme tell ya'.

Reno: "Now-There-Was-A-Man-Who-Knew-What-Being-A-Turk-Wa s". S'funny, really. Wasn't long after Tseng had dropped that line on bein' vicious that I was made his Second in Command; promoted.

Well, fuck. How d'ya' take somethin' like that? With ShinRa, ya' get promoted for bein' a murderin' bastard. I knew, - even back then, still clingin' on t' rookie status - that I did a damn good job. Course, I do it better now, yo; experience owed n' all that shit. N' m' still Second in Command. Ain't nothin' gonna be happenin' t' Tseng, though. The man's invincible, seen it all b'fore, a man who's 'been there'... wherever the fuck there is. Lucky for me really; never been one for authority or responsibility n' I sure as hell wouldn't want t' step up in Tseng's absence, either.

But all said n' done over the years, I've noticed somethin' 'bout the Director that I didn't see b'fore. Never mentioned it t' the others, mind. Not even Rude, yo. Tseng; the man in charge o' our lil' show – n' believe me when I say that the bloke demands respect, even from a disrespectful shit like me – but he ain't quite the same as the rest o' us. He'll join our jaunts down the pub after hours rarely, n' when he does, he doesn't make it his mission t' get completely shit faced like we do, yo.

He doesn't laugh, either.

He's never laughed, in any case. He was always the silent sort; kinda like Rude - the types t' say the shit that needed t' be said n' that was all. But dammit, even Rude is looser than Tseng, f' fucks sake. Tseng though, he never loosened up any which way, n' I used t' brush it off n' leave it be, yo. I used t' think it was down t' him bein' the boss.

It ain't like that.

It never was. I know that now. Jus' couldn't quite see it back then. Tseng, yo... he's jus' seen it all b'fore. Ya' get t' a point in this business - a point where the fine lines start t' blur n' the soft edges o' what used t' be y'self end up turnin' t' stone. It's a slow sort'a process, but I can see it written int' Tseng as easily as I can see it slowly bein' written int' me. Since I forgot how t' laugh, s'made me look at things backward. I don't like it, by all means. S'changed the way I cope. N' what I mean by that is I don't cope.

Not anymore, yo.

It was fucked up, yo. One minute, everythin' was fine; I damn straight know that for a fact. Same old, same old. I had everythin' worked out.

'Nother fucker put t' rest, 'nother job done, 'nother round down the local bar with the aim o' takin' home some chick with sleazy morals. I'd have sliced her when I was done, just for good measure. But there was no chick this time. I'd staggered home drunk n' dropped the damn door keys twice b'fore managin' t' stumble in n' collapse on the bed. I'd slept the rest o' the night off easy 'nough n' spent the next day asleep 'til it had fallen dark outside. That wasn't the issue; I didn't have a shift t' clock in for that day, in any case. I'd spilt some blood - standard - threw out some cash - standard - got wasted - standard - n' was spendin' my day off in what Elena would've called 'usual Reno fashion': pissed up, tired n' lamentin' the fact that I was outta smokes. Always did light up one t' many when out on assignments. Ah, well. Still not the issue.

The dispute was when I got t' doin' the one thing I tended t' avoid at all damn costs: thinkin'. Dangerous shit. When thoughts get int' ya' head, s'fuckin' hard t' get 'em back out again.

I wasn't thinkin' 'bout anythin' ya' might imagine I was, either. Blood, screams n' all that other crap was protocol. I never thought 'bout any o' that in any case. What I did think 'bout was the chick I'd never managed t' pick up in the bar the night b'fore. I'd picked one out, sure 'nough. Young thing; blonde, petite. Couldn't've been over 5'3. Looked innocent 'nough but was clearly a workin' girl; short skirt, high heels, eyes on the talent. Not my usual dive, but jus' 'bout good 'nough. Would've paid her whatever the fuck she wanted, no problem – would've got the Gil back after slashin' her up, after all.

The problem was that this chick hadn't come home with me. I didn't even approach her, in the end; by closin' time, I was so fuckin' plastered that I couldn't even navigate the damn bar, never mind where this blonde was. Fuck it; s'happened b'fore. It didn't bother me 'til the memory o' that chick n' what she'd looked like came swimmin' back. Foggy, mind; no doubt distorted by an alcoholic memory. She'd definitely been a blonde; long hair, skimpy outfit, typical street corner type, ya' know. There were hundreds o' 'em all over town if ya' knew where t' go n' t' me, they all looked the same. Since Meteor, the red light district had called open house. There were t' many women n' not 'nough men t' pay, n' bottom line was that nobody missed 'em; so it was easy t' knock 'em off. The very bottom line was that I was reelin' over missin' out on an easy score n' an even easier kill.

It wasn't that chick I wanted t' kill, though. Not the girl at the bar. It was another blonde; an elusive one that I hadn't managed t' find in what seemed fuckin' years when I thought 'bout it. I'd fucked her, but never slashed her throat. Should've, but damn, never even tried to get one up on her. I wasn't 'bout t' kid m'self n' say that it would've been any kind o' easy, either. That chick would've put up one hell o' a fight, m' sure.

But it was a fight that had never happened, in any case.

It should've.

Just thinkin' 'bout takin' a knife t' that blonde's throat in the same way she'd once taken one t' mine instantly set me on edge. I remember upendin' ma' entire apartment over it.

See, I'm Reno; the fastest Turk, yo. I don't let people get away; ever.

Protocol.

But this one did.

Lillian ShinRa did.

After that night, I didn't drink again for a long time. Sure, I went along with Rude, Elena n' even Tseng once. Sure, I knocked a few back, but I only had 'nough t' make me uneasy.

Uneasy, yo. Alcohol had never made me uneasy, b'fore. Well, now it did. On edge, sorta. Like I was waitin' on somethin' t' happen. Well, I was waitin' on somethin' t' happen: I was waitin' on Lillian, I realised.

Lilli.

Lils.

Where the fuck does she get to, anyway? Far away; that much is fuckin' evident. The amount o' searches ShinRa has conducted for that kid over the years always drew up one final conclusion: the kid was elusive as fuck. No formal or informal search had ever turned up anythin' properly useful. Over the years, Rufus had stopped givin' a shit; she was his kid, right 'nough. That made her his successor if anythin' turned up happenin' t' him, but she also happened t' fuckin' hate him. S'funny how history repeats itself, yo. Rufus had hated his father, n' now, Rufus's kid can't stand him, neither. Fuckin' irony workin' at its best.

Still, Lils had never attempted assassination on her old man; not the way Rufus had on his own. That had been the concern at first, see: if nobody could keep up with Lils, how the fuck were we supposed t' know what her diplomacies were? She hated ShinRa, check. She hated her father, double check. She kept her distance n' danced around our defences like a fuckin' trained agent, fuckin' triple check.

All that didn't make anythin' remotely clear t' us, though, n' as Turks, we were supposed to have everythin' down as tight as possible, yo. In this instance, keepin' lock-down was pretty much beyond us. Sure 'nough, she'd made mistakes in the early years n' almost paid for 'em in blood, but it quickly became evident that lil' Miss ShinRa was a fuckin' fast learner, yo. In fact, her skills were so hot on that it had us convinced for a while that she was an inside job. All the ShinRa's had been trained up at one point or another as standard issue shit. Turks were protection, but that didn't n' doesn't take away the fact that a ShinRa is a lethal son o' a bitch. Nobody - not even a Turk - would crave a confrontation with a ShinRa.

The way we saw it, someone who could evade a company like ShinRa so well had t' have knowledge from someone on the inside of the corporation; or at least, someone who had previously worked there - someone who knew the intricacies of the Turks. That left us one likely option, as unlikely as it seemed: Vincent Valentine. He was the only other fucker as elusive as Lils. An ex-Turk - n' a fuckin' scary one at that, yo. N' don't get me wrong over this; we had no proof at all that the two even knew about one another's existences, never mind that they shared some kind'a acquaintance, but given how many years Valentine had managed t' stay off the radar n' considerin' that Lils was doin' pretty much the same, it seemed like a pretty stable conclusion t' draw. Still. Didn't make any difference t' us in the end. Vincent Valentine might not've been entirely human, but Lillian ShinRa sure as hell was. N' considerin' that she was the issue n' not Valentine, we weren't entirely as bothered by it all as we maybe should've been. Me, though… I had my own games t' play while all o' this was goin' down.

B'tween me, myself n' I, goin' out solo, I'd already managed t' track down the ShinRa kid a handful o' times. I'd never reported it to Tseng or Rufus, mind. There'd been no need at the time: Lils had not been a priority target, or even a target of any calibre, not back then. We'd just known of her as she, likewise, knew of us. No problem; no threat - no threat t' ShinRa, anyway. It was only when evidence turned up o' someone showin' a possibility o' becomin' an issue that orders were given and moves were made.

Sure as hell, the order came straight from Rufus eventually. There's poetic irony for ya'; first his old man, now his kid. Tseng had talked him down at first, relayin' the fact that while Lillian liked to play evasion games, she hadn't shown any possibility of interception to the company, n' besides that, who knew? Given time n' a good talkin' t', the kid might prove a valuable asset to the company. Usually, if Rufus could be talked down on some idea or other, Tseng was the one t' go 'bout it. But this time, the 'possibility' o' leavin' a could-be-threat out there alive however, seemed a non-negotiable aspect with the Pres'. Personally, I think he jus' wanted t' lay t' rest a mistake he'd made years ago, n' for me, it was always a possibility, yo. One out there on it's own n' designed specifically t' fuck me up good n' proper - n' there was only so long I was gonna put up with it. Nobody got away from me, yo, n' since Rufus was havin' none o' it o'course, the Turks had a new target.

I waited a few weeks more 'til I moved in on anythin'. Despite company searches, I was still out on my own solo hunts.

I'd called it intuition, b'fore – the way I'd found her at first. After that I'd learned her habits, few as they were, n' ended up crossin' her every few months at a time. The time I should've killed her had been the last. I don't even know why I didn't jus' haul the kid in the first time we crossed paths. Would've made sense, would've been followin' my old friend protocol.

Guess I liked t' play games jus' as much as Lillian did.

Maybe she knew that. Maybe that was why she'd never let me find her again. Either fuckin' way, regardless o' whether Miss ShinRa wanted a Turk on her back or not, I found her again.

It had taken the best part o' six months, by which time I was more than ready t' slice her t' fuckin' pieces as a result o' how much stress this bitch had caused me – n' I couldn't pin down why, even then - but at first, all I'd managed was a reel o' hilarity as soon as I'd lain eyes on her.

She didn't move; jus' sat where she was, watchin' stone faced n' allowin' me my lil' moment o' mirth. Fuck, it felt good t' laugh again after so long, yo. I appreciated it. I would've thanked her for it, but o'course, it wouldn't've made any damn sense if I had. I hadn't laughed or thought straight in months 'cause o' this chick's elusiveness, n' now, I'd fuckin' found her.

The one that got away. The one I needed t' kill. Fuck haulin' her in t' the Pres'. I was gonna have some fun at the expense o' my own fuckin' stress.

For the first time in all the times we'd met, she was the one t' speak first.

"That took you a lot longer than I imagined it would, Reno."

Reno.

Reno, yo.

The fuck? Now that was outta line. She wasn't supposed t' know me. She was the clarity t' my confusion; the clean slate that I'd searched for all those months ago, the detox programme that I'd never put m'self down for. She'd never let on once that she knew who the fuck I was through all o' that, but she knew my fuckin' name after all.

"Oh, Lils."

I didn't sound like me at all, but it didn't matter see, 'cause b'fore I'd made the decision t' move, I was already lungin' across, EMR raised n' ready t' shock that blonde int' givin' out some real nice screams.

Bad move.

I was on the floor, face pressed int' the dirt b'fore I knew what the fuck had happened. I'd had far fuckin' worse though, n' considerin' my reactions were fast, it didn't take a sec' t' get back on two feet.

Lils, though?

Well.

I didn't call her the one that got away for nothin'.

Almost four months passed b'fore I saw her again.

She must've taken t' movin' further a breadth after that last altercation, 'cause no matter what I did - on or off the clock - I had no damn luck while out lookin'. Meanwhile, my head had just gotten a whole lot worse. I'd put in for leave from work, somethin' Tseng had granted reluctantly, wantin' a valid reason for absence. I doubt "mental health" would've been the best thing t' put down, yo.

So I lied.

I told 'em all – Tseng, Rude n' Elena – that I was uppin' stakes n' movin' t' 'nother apartment, one closer t' Healen for convenience since it was our base for most operations these days. Elena had chirped in, 'course: "Why don't you live at Healen, instead? There are rooms available."

No, girl. Damn, imagine that. Work was the reason my head was so fucked. Movin' ont' company premises would've been askin' for all Hell t' break loose, no less. Rude was the only one t' pass a suspicious kind'a glance in my direction, mutterin' well outta earshot o' the others: "You haven't mentioned moving to me, Reno. Is something going on?"

Rude, yo. Best damn friend I've ever had, but s'far as this shit with both my fucked up head n' the ShinRa kid went, he didn't need t' be in on it. So I shook my head n' laughed him off - well, tried t', anyway. Laughin' still didn't come quite as easily t' me, anymore. He seemed t' buy it, albeit a tad reluctantly.

I needed t' get out like I had done last year; out in the clear air t' track down some clarity.

Instead, I tracked her.

She was waitin' for me, this time - on her feet, stance open n' ready for an attack. Well, that confused me - if she was ready for violence n' had heard my approach, why the fuck hadn't she jus' bolted again? This time, it was dark. Early mornin', the air jus' close 'nough t' be considered humid. She'd set up a campfire in the outskirts o' a local forest - bad idea. So easy to find. Kid still had some basic survival shit t' learn. I'd vaguely wondered what the fuck she was doin' outside in the first place. It wasn't as if the kid had no money, given what her mother had no doubt left to her, but the thought passed in a haze. I was t' focused on bein' satsified that I'd closed in on her.

"What do you want, Reno?"

Ah, she wanted an explanation. Good fuckin' question, yo. Blood – n' lots o' it – would've been the short answer. Instead o' sayin' that though, somethin' entirely different came outta my mouth – n' fuck, yo. Believe me when I say I have no fuckin' idea where it came from, neither.

"I want t' talk, yo."

Talk. I'd never been the type t' talk t' anyone - 'cept Rude. Even with him it was never the deep shit, though. N' just by lettin' those words out, lettin' 'em hover in the air between us both, in an instant I'd managed t' confuse m'self - n' her.

"Talk? …You're a Turk. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Oh, babe. So many things. As it was, I didn't think she had time t' hear the comprehensive fuckin' psychological list, so I went for the blunt option: "I need blood."

At that, she'd smiled, yo: a genuine smile, not one o' those reflexive ones neither, n' I know I was smilin' back, even if it was prob'ly for an entirely different reason.

This was it, yo. I had her. I could feel it already; the slick of warm blood across my hands, the rushin' pulse o' blood poundin' in my ears n' the adrenaline hit that would ultimately set things int' motion. I moved for her first, just like b'fore. Only difference this time was that she didn't sprawl me int' the dirt n' instead made fast retreats from my EMR. I might be fast, yo, but I'll give it t' the kid – she could keep up. She knew what she was doin' almost as well as I'd' have expected from a ShinRa – almost.

She was still a kid in what Rude n' I called 'the trade' - n' that was despite age - n' kids had a lot t' learn. She was good with a blade, but with my EMR, I sure as hell was better. Soon 'nough, with the rush of adrenaline, blood n' the speed o' a fight, it was all just movement, instinct n' the occasional gasp o' exertion or injury. The only interlude was when she ended up on the other side o' the camp fire that was b'tween us, n' just a beat t' late, I spied the fling o' metal she'd slung forwards, sendin' it hurlin' righ' through the fire with a metallic hiss, hittin' me right in the damn shoulder. Instinct told me she'd been aiming for somewhere far more lethal than my shoulder blade, but irregardless, the hit did it's job.

It was more the force o' the hit than anythin' that knocked me back, but fuck, yo. Talk 'bout a floorin' hit. The thought flashed through my mind as I watched her take off – again - int' the tress n' swallowed up in seconds - that the blade now buried int' my shoulder better not be fuckin' serrated.

Well, fuck yo. The blister of pain as I wrenched that fucker out gave me the answer, sure 'nough. My free hand, grasped 'round the handle o' the blade was shakin' damn near uncontrollably, so I let the weapon drop in favour o' applyin' pressure t' the wound, hissin' curses. I was on my knees n' then somehow, on my back, starin' up int' the sky much the same way I'd done after screwin' her all those years back. I'd had some nasty shit happen t' me in my time, yo – n' a bunch o' it was a hell'uva lot worse than a blade t' the shoulder, but fuck. She'd buried that fucker in deep, yo, - n' it had been serrated.

I knew from experience alone what kind'a state that would leave my shoulder in, but even then, lyin' there n' bleedin', I could've fuckin' laughed. In fact, s'what I ended up doin'. I laughed 'cause Lils had gotten away from me again, n' I laughed 'cause it was then that I realised then that I was bleedin' out like a mother fucker, nice n' fast.

I'd told her I wanted blood, yo. She'd given it t' me. N' lots o' it.

N' somehow, a midst it, the need t' kill her had evaporated. Lyin' there in fits o' hysterics for the first time in fuck only knew how long, I felt better despite the pain. Fact was, the pain prob'ly helped make it all the more real, yo. That was twice now, that a fuckin' ShinRa had managed t' bring me back from the edge o' a terrible precipice.

Eventually, still laughin' t' m'self, I'd managed t' gather 'nough control t' cast a reasonable healing spell on my shoulder. It wasn't much, but it stemmed the flow o' blood t' the point where the world stopped spinnin'.

Fuck. Tseng was gonna go spare. My fuckin' jacket was sliced up n' on top o' that, nothin' got blood stains out, yo. That was fuckin' hilarious, as well. It set me off int' a fresh bout o' laughter, stumblin' my way back t' Healen. I was on leave from work, sure, but I still had a room at the Lodge. I barely used it, but there was a Medi-Kit in the bathroom, I knew, so that was gonna be my first stop. As for the blade Lilli had thrown, I'd pocketed it - my Turk mind knowin' full well that the fingerprints would serve us good, along with analysis o' where the weapon might'a been made or purchased. It'd clue us in on a few things t' do with the evasive ShinRa, in any case.

Least, it would'a done – if it'd been my intention t' hand the thing in. Instead, I kept it. After sortin' my shoulder out, I shined the thing up nice, eliminatin' her prints from the handle in the process n' gave each individual serration a nice sharpen. For now, I was keepin' it. Call it a momentum. Whatever it was, one thing remained: all it took was one glance at that blade n' it sent a rumble o' laughter through my chest.

What a night, yo. Never had one quite like it.

After that, I went back t' all that bein' a Turk really meant.

There was fresh intent b'hind it, though. Somethin' a lil' more vicious than b'fore.

It was after I'd finished my brief vacation n' whilst in the middle o' my next job that I found m'self wonderin' over Lils again. The tied up waste o' life in front o' me was pitchin' screams for mercy t' Shiva n' whatever other fuckin' heavenly entities he could think up. I guess he'd already given up pleadin' t' me as a lost cause.

Me, on the other hand: I was runnin' a finger over the edge of the sharpened blade in my hand – the same one that had once belonged t' Lilli - lamentin' the fact that I'd have t' sharpen the edges up again once I was finished carvin' this fucker up.

It did a nice job, I'll give it that much. For all it was small and tricky t' wield, it did a damn good job on the screamin' fucker that was my latest target. It slashed through his vocal chords easy 'nough (that sorted the screamin'; tar very much, cause I sure as hell didn't need the headache), n' only really started t' protest once it had met bone. Well, that's what we had proper DIY saws for, in any case. Still, I liked it. Only issue I had now was the fact that my shoulder still hadn't full healed, which made it hard to wield a blade with proper intent, 'specially when goin' for the kill. Scarred tissue, I figured.

It was while I was runnin' the clean-up for that same job that I got t' some thinkin' - that dangerous fuckin' thing I usually avoided. It crept back every now n' then, but s'long as it was in small doses, I could tolerate it - n' I could more than tolerate the idea I'd thought up that night while my hands were slicked with blood n' fuck knows what else, yo.

She'd done me a favour, had Lils. Twice now, in fact.

I owed her - n' that righ' there had pretty much made my mind up for me. The next time I sought out Lillian ShinRa, it would be with a thank you n' the intent o' returnin' the things she'd been gracious 'nough t' provide me with:

A brief respite from my own mind, n' a whole lot o' blood.

A/N – First of all, let's face it; the Turks. They're a group of contract murderers who pose under the guise of an administration department at ShinRa: they rape, torture, murder, blackmail, you name it. They will do anything asked of them and they will probably laugh while they do it. Murder is a job to them, nothing else. They aren't the nicey-nice sort of people you'd invite around for tea and biscuits. Well, maybe you would. I don't know. Especially Reno though, who I refuse to sell off as the happy, go-lucky, joking pro-pilot who supplies sarcastic remarks regardless of circumstance. Bluntly, Reno is a seriously fucked up guy. What his work and antics means for his emotional, physical and psychological state is what I tried delving into here, albeit very mildly; so in other words, coping mechanisms, triggers... etc.

As far as the OC goes – Lillian - the minimalist information is just this: Lillian is the only child of Rufus ShinRa, but is not connected to ShinRa in any way at present (although she has been linked to the corporation in the past and will do so in the future). She is not a damn mary-sue teenager, because that would drive me insane. Lilli is of adult age, well into her 20's and capable of taking care of herself - as one would expect when one's background is with the ShinRa Corporation of all places. I did write her with the intention of creating a character that is not in any way a mary-sue. There are far too many floating around already and I hardly think I'm alone in the desire to line them all up and shoot them. If you're going to write a mary-sue, you're more or less committing fanfic-suicide. I don't see Lilli with any mary-sue like qualities and I certainly hope that I'm not writing through rose-tinted glasses, as it were.

This fic, as you'll have noticed, is written in Reno's dialect and therefore incorporates a lot of slang and contains lots of abbreviated words. Those who are familiar with Reno's trademark, "yo" will have found a fair few references of that in here, even though a lot of fans and haters alike still dispute his use of the word at all. Well, he does here, so suck it up. We all love our little slum Turk, after all.

Also, might be pointless to pitch what's obvious, but I have to. Clearly, you're not getting the whole picture of what happened in Reno's past. Or present. That is done with complete intent as I am planning to write a chain of fics based from his point of view and slowly, I want them to paint a picture more or less of his entire life, right up to present day – so, post Advent Children.

As ever, I'd be very much interested to hear your thoughts - and my apologies for the super-long author's note, but I did feel it was necessary to clear a few things up! ;)

Reviews are what feed us all, so please leave this starving author some. Until next time, best wishes and tar~!

Song lyrics used: 'Smooth' by Santana and 'Firestarter' by Prodigy.