Disclaimer: Not my character. Props to SE.
There were things that weren't meant to define him, but to the casual observer, or the next bullet on the boss's shitlist, these were the things that you saw first. These were the things you'd never forget, if you lived to remember.
The goggles. The red hair. The red marks on his face, and you'd never know him long enough to know if they were scars, or tats, or scars that had been tattooed over. The suit.
The goggles were not a fashion statement. They were old, and conforming, and looked like he'd just walked out of the hell that was a metalworker's 9 to 5. They'd belonged to someone close to him.
That person died a long time ago. No one got close anymore.
They served a purpose, don't get me wrong, He wasn't the sentimental type, and he wasn't a pack-rat. He could strip the right car in under 4 minutes. Doors were meant to be opened, not necessarily to keep things out, hinges or no. He was skilled with arc, laser, oxy-fuel, and gas. Shinra hadn't figured out how mako might forge two somethings together, but he wasn't above giving it a go. He loved the after image against his retina, flashing white and blue and green and yellow, long after the juice was cut.
He was really fucking good with his hands. No instructions needed. This is information you might not have gathered with a quick glance to those askew accessories hanging on his brow.
The hair was a herring. A fucking pain in the ass, in his line of work. The targets saw you coming from a fucking mile away. In the same vein, it was a testament. PR for the masses. See that red flag? Fucking watch your ass. Shinra is sniffing at your door.
And no, you lame-ass, cock-sucking, starry-eyed tart, he doesn't dye it. He's got connections, but fuck if he'd have a stylist. Seriously? It's in the genes. The goggles serve a secondary purpose: a headband for hair that hasn't seen shears in over a year. He'll cut it when he's bothered.
A bonus? Chicks like it. Rooster's in the hen house.
As for the marks on his face, fuck if you'll ever know, fuck if he'll ever say. You think you've got a chance of weaselin' your way in, slippin' under his skin, strokin' him the right way 'til he spills? There are no secrets, there are no hidden treasures. What you see is what you get. Ask the cunt on the corner why she's got a pair of hearts on her hip. Ask the punk on the train platform about the dice on his neck and the web on his elbow. Ask the junkie in the Sector 5 slums about the letters on his knuckles and the smiley face on his bald head. Maybe he thought he needed something that sharped the edges and hardened the eyes. Maybe he thought the face pleaded for a sign: this dog bites.
The clothes were his collar, the tag that read: property of Shinra Electric Power Co. Kept him dry in the rain, warm in the cold. Granted him an all-access pass to places most people never even knew existed. Didn't matter if the top button was done, or if his shirttails hung out, or if the fabric was wrinkled and stained. 'Cause if you hadn't figured it out by now, what the fuck rock did you live under? That shirt, those pants, that coat, however haphazardly worn, spoke loud and clear: Turk.
And that, you poor, pathetic piss-ant, is the only thing you need to know.
