workaholic.

         “——no.” he wasn’t pouting, exactly — but he was definitely clinging. of that, he couldn’t deny, not when he was wrapped around the taller turk as he was, uncaring about the absurd amount of wrinkles their suits were bound to have once he actually let go. “hellos’re borin’.”

   The heelbox of his shoes shuffled, not so much as a misstep even with the addition of an entire person’s body-weight. He reached up, as if to console Reno, but only tapped a gloved finger to the corner lens. And up his sunglasses went, fixing a microfraction that they had slipped onto the bridge of his nose. “I can’t argue with that,” drawled Rude. 

     The Turks’ budget for dry cleaning and pressing was not enough to match the amount of wrinkling Rude’s clothes would need to endure at the hands of one koala-like climbing. Sitting, also wrinkled, above the frames of his sunglasses, his eyebrows expressed his exasperation. And yet, he did not retaliate with anything but words.

@killermanners liked for a starter.

when Rude first replaced his now damaged-beyond-repair sunglasses with a brand new pair, Reno hadn’t said a word, figuring that it wasn’t odd to carry an extra pair of shades, especially considering their line of work and just how fragile those things actually were. however, when the other Turk casually replaced his fourth pair of glasses within a span of three hours, well, Reno had questions. 

❝ oi, Rude, ❞ he started, cerulean gaze firmly pinned onto his rather unlucky confrère with poorly concealed ( or, to be more precise, not at all concealed ) bewilderment. ❝ jus’ how many of those d’you have? ❞ was he an unaffiliated, alleyway shades dealer or something now? ❝ an’ where do they all fit, ‘cause from where I’m standin’ it sure as hell don’t look like you got the room to store ‘em. ❞

It was a day of poor luck, but, as was customary to their extensive training, Rude was overprepared. An unsaid fret, the force at Reno’s side that somehow always had that extra clip of ammunition or a spare orb of precious materia when the situation turned sour. 

He had been glove deep into his breast pocket when Reno stalled him, the barest shift of light on his newest shades signifying that he was being acknowledged by the taciturn Turk. But before he wasted his breath, he plucked a square of fabric out, a delicate swatch of silky cloth that he brought to the corner of his lenses, massaging out a smudge. Deliberately taking his time.

The winds were howling as a massive Blizzard swept through the city of Midgar, the futuristic structures quickly covering with ice. A shadowy figure barely visible was fighting frostbite, his brown hair becoming frosty and white from the snow, his clothes were damped with ice that they were soaked.

His brown eyes dulled and his vision becoming blurred that he had no idea where he was in world, he slumped against a rather tall building as he struggled to keep him conscious.

The building was labeled “ShinRa Headquarters”.

His eyes could travel forever and still only see the black ceiling above Sector 0-- endure the view of this perpetual psuedo-nighttime. The winter whipped in from the nearest segment of Midgar, blowing flurries that would remind old wounds why they so loathed this season. 

Over a game of rock-paper-scissors, the squadron on duty overseeing the Headquarter’s video surveillance left Rude as the unlucky one to check out the loitering disturbance. If he had to brave the cold, he was hoping it would warrant a little action, but he was doubtful that the slumped silhouette he was approaching would suffice. He sighed inwardly and with three cutting syllables, demanded an explanation of such a grievous trespassing-- but allowing him to plead his case (graciously.) nevertheless.

                 Lifted chin lowered with the Turk’s inquiry, a single brow quirking momentarily with the slight change of intonation as smug expression all but dissipated. Posed a question he truly had no answer to, Loz visibly faltered– the soft clink of metal resonating from holstered sidearm as muscular figure shifted his weight the only noise the remnant offered. Was there a purpose for his return beyond what he had already abandoned? The siren call that moved his younger siblings, and thus himself in turn, forward into a ceaseless search was never really his own and without the drive of Kadaj pushing him further his actions were for once his own. It was an odd realization, the childish remnant’s mind barely able to understand the connotation in and of itself.            「    … Maybe.    」                  Deep voice mustered, Loz barely sure of the answer himself. Playful destruction and acts of malice could be conciliated with the right tactics, with the right leadership– his prior exposure to wanton mayhem at the hand of his siblings convoluted the issue, yes, but…

Leather gloves clenched with a creak, nostrils flaring to intake a steadying breath. (Noncommittal, huh?) Still too early to count his blessings, he evaluated the situation as the minute stretched on. The remnant looked lost to him, he doubted a more profound second-thought would appear quickly. If equivocation is as genuine as Rude believes then there is innocence about it-- about this. Still... seeing Loz up this close reminds him when they were on not so neutral terms. Times of war. He’s trained to keep his composure, so it is little more than an internal worry.