A random collection of short( 1000 words) Reno-POV pieces that I'm spat out over the years. Reno, Tseng, and all others (c) SquareSoft.
confessions of a red-headed stepchild
title: closer now
written: 2001
context: written in the mindset of a Reno I was roleplaying on a generic 'anime/game characters are snatched out of their worlds and dropped in Tokyo' muck.
It's another cold morning...
Pretty early, really. Well before true dawn, though hints of the impending lightening are beginning to creep up into the horizon line. Tendrils of liquid fire and gold, dispersing like dye dripped into a glass of amber-hued water. It's stunning, honestly, but it's one sunrise of many. One of many past, and one of many future... fate willing.
There's a single figure sitting out on the bluffs, right out on the edge- thick hardy grass threaded through his fingers where hands lay splayed behind him, slumped back into the questionable support of seemingly tired arms.
Yes... Reno's tired.
Very, very tired, but it's a good sort, that weary-in-the-bones feel of living and working and playing too hard. This world presents all-new opportunities for all three... options that had been severely limited in the old. No one to work for... no time or motivation for 'play'... and out of time to live. They'd all rather soundly run out of time, hadn't they?
At least, the way he's heard the story. Which may not be worth a half-second's piss into a chocobo's water dish, but who cares anymore?
Time... exists in abundance here.
Life isn't running out, ticking down like an eggtimer.
This world isn't ending.
He regards the growing light in the east with eyes that have seen it a thousand times... but there's a glint of anticipation there borne of not thinking he'd ever see it again. Red and gold and the retreating fuzzy blue-grey reflect back from his eyes, dancing just beneath the surface. A steady western breeze catches up hair unfettered and untamed, streaming it out behind him in a banner of red so vivid only the coming sunrise can hope to best it. Fingers tighten marginally behind him, the autumn grass crunching in his grip. It loosens, goes slack.
No movement for a long moment.
Then, slowly, he allows his head to tip back, eyes widening involuntarily, searching out the last lingering stars still stark against the retreating darkness. Wordlessly, he watches them blink out... one by one...
It's a good morning. One of many past...
One of many future...
Fate willing.
(c) ricebol 2001.
