Author's Note: I apologize in advance for the sheer lack of quality of this fanfiction. I finally removed all my rather old fanfiction, and decided to start over. This is the first of my new strings of fanfiction, so enjoy. Just a note on the...ramble. The first paragraph is relating to Reno, almost like Reno's perspective. The rest of the fic is about him, possibly from Rude's point of view, but take it however you wish.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Turks, or anyone from Final Fantasy VII...they all belong to Square Enix. )

He was a Turk. None of that 'I'm-so-innocent' bullshit, no warnings of the inevitable conversion into death itself, not even a 'Welcome-to-the-Turks'. Nothing. He had passed all the entrance requirements, and that was that. Eventually he got a partner, and more often than not he was sent to do the dirty work of one of the, if not the most powerful company the planet had ever seen. ShinRa. Here he was, finally, ShinRa's janitor. Tying up loose ends and cleaning up spilled paint. What did it matter that bloodshed was part of the deal? He was here wasn't he? He was here and he was fine, he was all that mattered.

His eyes almost glowed in the dark, reflecting the faint glimmer of light from the streetlamp a few yards away. Concentration sparkled in those eyes, fixing their intense gaze on a single wizened door. Within the blink of an eye, those eyes were at that door, powerful yet slim legs kicking it open with a cry of reckless abandonment. And there he went. Inside to play his role as Death. Every actor is given his part, and he played his perfectly.

What was another nameless face? What was another dead father, brother, sister, mother, son or daughter? They were all the same. Paychecks without a face or a name. Would they be remembered after tonight? After this moment, as his cries compete with laughter. Laughter that could lead anyone to believe that he was insane. Yet, weren't they all? They were killers with toys and no conscience. No better than machines that could think. And, if that machine broke, they would be thrown out, and new machines would replace them. Like old Christmas toys that went unwanted, only to be replaced with something newer and shinier, that would end up in the trash before next Christmas, and the Christmas after that, and after that, and so on.

That was why they never spoke of the future. They had no future. They had no lives now. They would die a loved toy, or die a broken one. Either way that was their fate. They embraced death as much as they dealt it.

And there were those screams. Screams as bullets tear through his body, piercing through his heart. Soulless eyes that were eventually blown out as well, the laughter now an insane shouting. They were right to think that was insanity. They had always been right.

At least the worst was over. The smile set firmly on his lips, blood staining his clothes. Taught long ago not to care. Save cleanliness for the office. Not for killing people.

But, people weren't important. People weren't important. All that was important was ShinRa. Listen to ShinRa, work for ShinRa, and when it came to it, die for ShinRa. That was his fate, and that was the fate of those glowing eyes, that powerful body, and that insane fire.

What difference would it make now? To question the life he had chosen. Life was dictated by fate, and he was the harbinger of death. Him and his partner. His partner who walked like fire beside him, who spoke with such life. Would it be any harder to accept their own deaths, than the deaths of the others? The thousands upon thousands of others those two had killed in cold blood. And, what of those before them? And before them?

But this was their job. This would always be their job. They were death. The ones before them, the ones after them, and them as they were now. This was the role they had been born to play.