Reno Alastare (pass_the_vodka) wrote,
Reno Alastare
pass_the_vodka

What would a description of your *exact opposite* be like?
Huh. Seems like the great question askers're losin' their touch; this one's pretty easy.

Some sweet, naive, oblivious, happy "I couldn't hurt a fly" kid from the middle of fuckin' nowhere; some tiny little town where the worst thing that ever happened was a row of corn dying out before it could be harvested. Good with animals, bad with technology, good luck, all elegance an' calmness an' kindness. Never says anything worse'n "darn" or "shucks". Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, wide-eyed, dedicated, hard-working, a morning person, straight edge. Brown noser, not a risk taker, cautious, quiet, easily scandalized and frightened. Meticulous and neat in their dress, behavior, an' surroundings; afraid of getting into trouble. Never killed anybody. The very idea of torture'd make the kid blow chunks, the very word "sex"'d make the kid uncomfortable. Squeamish. Never been hurt.

The opposite of
fierce, opinionated, loyal, determined,
detached, murderer, blasphemer, borderline alcoholic, crack addict, thief, whore,
sly, manipulative, quick-witted,
lewd, crude, mouth like a sailor, mouth occasionally
on a sailor,
loud music, loudmouth, fast vehicles, faster women, leather jackets, earrings, ponytails, dyed hair, scars, guns,
killing, dying, death, disease, poverty, slumrat, insane

fiery, blood, red, hot-blooded, blood-lust, ordinary lust,
messy, rumpled, hungover, drunk,
cigarettes, vodka, anger, avoidance, anonymous sex, denial,
laughter, bitter, sharp,
electricity, caffeine, liquor, clubs, parking garages, unfamiliar beds
kidnapper, torturer, blackmailer, terrorizor, fighter,
flawed beauty, rough around and inside the edges, aching, hurting, angsting like nobody'd believe
fear, anger, false bravado, disgust, hatred,
violated, filthy, guilt, snapped, raw grief, bleeding, broken, shattered, still looking at the pieces on the floor and not bothering to try and pick them up.

His sisters called earlier and left subdued messages on his answerphone; they know damn well what today is. But he doesn't want their cautious voices and the hidden, angry blame that he hears in every word. He just wants to get blind drunk and try and forget what happened four years ago.


He simply sits at the screen for a long time, seemingly forgotten where he is. Then he shakes himself and finds it in himself to write three more stupid, forced lines.

Aww fuck, y'know who I just described, besides the elegance an' shit technology skills? Radar O'Reilly. 'Cept my opposite'd hafta be a bit more optimistic, cheerful, an' annoyingly goody-two-shoes smiley than he was.

He hits 'post', grabs a jacket and a set of keys, and blows out his door.

Those he runs into tonight will see the tenseness in his jaw and the haunted look in his green eyes and all but the most oblivious will give him a wide berth. Tonight, he needs to lose himself.


OOC - i think of the odd part as sort of a weird, stream-of-consciousness kind of look into what goes on in reno's head in a second or two during a particularly bad day. to him, each word has a connection to the next, so it's not the random barf-age of words that it probably appears to be. please disregard any weird links that turn up in my posts; am currently battling a stupid trojan that puts spam links in all've my e-mails and things. comments/rp welcome on the parts not in italics. </i>
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  • 114 comments
The questions are getting more and more like bollocks, if you ask me.
Take pity on my complete ignorance've British slang; bollocks would be...? If it's a bad thing, I'll sure as shit agree with you.
Balls, Reno. They would be balls. Also a term for something bad, yes. It makes me wonder how little they must have in their sad lives to continually question everyone else's.
Right, that's what I thought it meant; I just didn't really get how the word 'balls' went with what you were saying. Then again, s'not really like the word 'fuck' makes any sense at all in most've the ways it's used. "What the sex are you doing here?" Yeah, not so much.

I'm prob'ly sort've biased, considering I really didn't wanna be answering them in the first place, but I hate most of the questions. Some of 'em aren't so bad and can be interesting, but this one was just particularly lame. Who's the sad sack that makes 'em up, anyway? I get 'em forwarded to me through the company shrink, but she swears up an' down that she doesn't write 'em.

ooc - saw "vice-ridden mercenaries" in poppy's description of the weird things she's seen lately (in her conversation with her friend) and had a good chuckle. :)
*laughs* Good point. Words like that seem to defy context. They're more of an expression of something than anything else. Let's not get into a discussion about the meaning of swear words. I've had enough of theories and debates lately.

Probably some middle aged megolomaniac with far too much time on their hands. The sort of social misfit that gets pleasure from trying to extract the innermost workings of someone's pysche from some questions that often seem shallow and daft.

How's the therapy going, by the way?

[[Couldn't fail to include that ;) Worryingly enough, I think it's regarded as a good thing, lol]]
Sure; anything that involves avoiding a lot've abstract thought is fine with me.

I dunno 'bout you, but I just picture some fat, balding, pimply-faced 40-year-old fuck sitting in his parents' basement, surrounded by his action figures an' his Magic cards an' his complete inability to get laid, fiendishly typing out ways to make other people's lives a living hell.

...Maybe that's just me.

*laughs heartily* Nowhere. She asks a shitload've questions an' I answer them an' then she asks more questions 'bout those questions an' about things that happened years ago. Not like I think that when she does it'll be of any real value, but she hasn't actually gotten around to the "therapy" yet. I think she just got hired 'cause of her legs and her liking for suit short skirts, personally. Wouldn't be surprised if her psych degree's a fake.

*pauses* Fuck, I talk so much that sometimes I manage to stun even myself. Just tell me to shut up when it gets annoying, Poppy.

*g*

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Reno had been taking one of the worst beatings of his life for a little while now; if he had been sober or even fairly drunk, there was no doubt that he could have taken the four men swinging at him in the rancid, dark alley behind the bar, but he had set out to get incredibly drunk, and he was a man of his word. He had fought back initially, when they had first escorted him out of the bar after he had said something that--in as much retrospect as his muddled brain could take--had been pretty stupid, but after a while, he had come to embrace the loud ringing in his ears and the utter sense of detachment as to what was going on. So he had simply curled up in a ball on the cracking concrete and waited for them to stop kicking and picking him up and hitting him. He had been yelling something completely incoherant in protest every couple of minutes.

He had been waiting for a while when he heard the first grunt of pain.
It had taken Rude a moment or two to recognize the crumpled figure under the dim light of the buzzing streetlamp; the mop of red hair had appeared orange and the body had looked far too frail. Then he had heard a slurred, completely indecipherable yelp in a familiar voice as one of the four men (who had all had their backs to him) had kicked it in the ribs, and he had known that it was indeed, somehow, Reno.

So he had taken several long, quick strides forward, grabbed the nearest dark-clothed man, and easily knocked his head against the brick wall of the bar. The man had grunted and collapsed, if not unconscious then doing a passable impression of it. A second one had spun around, and been immediately met by a large fist delivered with impressive force to his jaw. He had staggered back and tripped over over his own feet to hit the ground.

By the time the other two had turned around, there had been a large handgun pointed at them. Its owner had said coldly, "Take your friends and leave. Now." He had slipped off the safety of the gun with a loud click for emphasis.

The four men had been out of the alley in ten seconds flat.

Rude had crouched down beside Reno and rolled him onto his back. "How do you manage to get yourself into this shit?" he had muttered, mainly to himself as Reno's eyes had been tightly shut and he hadn't appeared to be conscious.
He had heard the voice, and even his fucked up at the moment brain had recognized it. "I'unno," he had slurred, opening his eyes to find Rude leaning over him, implacable as always in a dark coat and dark sunglasses. "All I said wuz that guy--that guy looked like a girl I yooshedtaknow." He had made a sound that was quite unmistakably a giggle, then had winced as the movement send a spark of pain through him. "Owfuck."
Apparently, Rude had underestimated Reno's ability to take blows to the head and retain consciousness.

He hadn't been able to hold back the faint snort of amusement at the redhead's revelation of what he had said. "You're an idiot," he had told the very drunk younger man. "Can you stand up?"
"Yeahsee, funny!" Reno had gleed over the fact that his crack had made someone else laugh. Or as close to laugh as Rude got, anyway. Then he had remembered that the bald man had said something else. "C'n I...shtn...uhhh, y'c'n st-stand me up but I probly won't stay there," he had said honestly.

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Rude had slipped the sunglasses off of his nose and leveled him with a sharp, brown-eyed glare. "You're my friend and you're going to kill yourself doing this, you prick."
The other man's rare anger--and the rarer action of taking off the sunglasses--had calmed Reno a little bit. When he had spoken again, his voice had been softer. "I really don't wanna go up there, Rude." The green eyes had been honest and haunted, and the pale, bruised face tense.
Rude had been silent for a moment, eyes shifting to one side for a moment as he thought. He hadn't been 100% sure of what was going on with Reno, but he had remembered the screaming, wrestling argument/knock-down-drag-out fight that he had seen in October.

"Yeah, you fuckhead, that's what makes the whole thing worse; I trusted you! You were my best fucking friend! I let you into my home, let you meet my family, gave you a place to stay, spent every minute of every day with you, and you fucking sold me out!"

"It was never meant to go as far as it did, Reno; the Reys were supposed to just take you out quickly and painlessly! I couldn't take any more bein' afraid that you were gonna turn those crazy green eyes on me next!"

"What the
fuck?! I never would have turned on you; I loved you like a brother, you shithead!"

"Yeah, well, you scared the shit out've everybody, including me!"

"So you gave the Reys my address?! No! I could believe that if you had betrayed only me, but it wasn't just me livin' in that apartment. An' maybe I could have even believed it if you'd only hurt me; if you'd only marked me an' only helped torture me an' only nearly killed me, but you did
him, too, you sick fuck, and he died!"

Most likely, whatever the hell Reno had been going on about at that moment as he sat on the sidewalk in front of his apartment complex, had been related to that.

As if an omen, a yellow and black checkered cab had turned the corner onto the deserted street right at that moment, and Rude had made up his mind. He had pushed the sunglasses back onto the bridge of his nose, and stood and hailed the taxi.
Reno had whacked him in the leg to get his attention. "Th' fuck're ya doin'?"
"Getting a cab," Rude had answered simply, hauling him to his feet and shoving him into the backseat of yet another idling taxi.
"Why?" Reno had asked, brow furrowed in thought as he obediently scooted across the seat to allow the other man to get in and shut the door.
Rude had leaned forward and said, "2068 Lexington, Sector 3," to the cab driver before answering Reno. He had shrugged as the taxi pulled away from the sidewalk. "You didn't want to go home."

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"Doyerworst," Reno had slurred. Things had been starting to run together more, then; what he had been drinking for the past several moments had been beginning to really affect him, and all sensible thoughts were quickly being obscured in his head. He had shut his eyes again, and had heard Rude stand up and move around.
Rude had quickly and efficiently sat Reno up straight--ignoring the redhead's protests--and cleaned his face and hands of grime and blood with a wet towel that he had retrieved from his bathroom. He hadn't been terribly gentle, but he hadn't been rough, either, and Reno had not made a fuss about it, remaining silent. Then he had poured a little bit of the alcohol into Reno's empty glass and had dunked a cottonball in it, and had used that to disinfect the numerous deep cuts on the other man's face and hands, which the unyielding gravel and brick had clearly made.
Reno had yelped and jerked away from him at the first touch of the stinging, burning sensation to his face.

"Th'fu-th'fuck're y'tryin'tado,killme?!" he'd demanded.
"No, I'd say you were doing a pretty good job of that yourself before I came along," Rude had deadpanned from his seat beside him, pushing his head against the back of the sofa so that he had no escape and mercilessly cleaning the slashes on his face before giving his hands the same treatment.
Reno had sworn and squirmed, but there really had been no escaping Rude; he had been utterly ruthless and oblivious to drunken pleas and threats.
Rude had scowled at him. "Quit being such a girl." He had set the cottonballs aside as he finished. "Think your head's bleeding anywhere?"

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