Reno Alastare (pass_the_vodka) wrote,
Reno Alastare

oderint dum metuant

The lanky Turk nudged the briefcase--across the damp alley's concrete--over to the other man with a scuffed dress shoe. The Junon gang lord-turned-blackmailer bent down quickly and snatched it up. A sea of gun muzzles appeared within the ranks of the ragged troops arrayed behind him as he did so, to ensure a lack of funny business from the three dangerous Turks.

"It had better all be in here," he warned as he propped the case up on his forearms and went to flip up the clasps.

The man with a tattooed red slash under each eye simply smiled fiendishly in a way that could have meant any number of things. The green eyes glinted. An intelligent observer would probably have thought that the wrong man was doing the threatening.

The one-eyed man pulled open the lid. A good-sized gun sat upon the cushioned red lining. Other than that, the briefcase was empty.

"What the f--" He began to protest in outrage--then had the good sense to glance up when a ripple of sound made its way through his soldiers standing behind him.

He looked right up into the unwavering barrel of a black 9mm Beretta 92FS Elite handgun. "What, you don't like it?" asked the wielder, inhuman smirk still in place. "It's exactly like mine."

"Where's my gil, Turk?" the man gritted, staring past the cool length of metal. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

"ShinRa Incorporated doesn't take blackmail lying down, dumbshit," he told him matter-of-factly, and he squeezed the trigger.

Everything went to hell from there.

The one-eyed man thudded to the wet concrete with a neat hole drilled between his eyes, and the air was suddenly filled with bullets. Bullets that were too late for the ragtag Junon vandals. All three Turks had already begun to move by the time the first one was fired.

The Turks' speaker dove into the hoodlums' ranks gleefully, brandishing his gun in one hand and his rapidly-drawn nightstick in the other, the latter crackling with barely contained electricity. Oceans of blood formed in his wake; gaping holes ripped through lucky men, while the less fortunate screamed as 60.000 volts of pure electricity coursed through them and left them twitching, blackened messes on the floor. If the redheaded blur's smile had been fiendish before, now it was outright demonic.

The spy and intrigue shit was fine and all, but this was where he found his fun.

If that made Reno a psychopath, so fucking be it.

Write a drabble/ficlet on the word "fun".
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