#v. thread

[fredthedriver]

@devilreno . starter

His first appointment for the day appeared to be pretty straightforward: to take one of the Turks to an address which appeared to be a… Pet shop? Frowning at the app on his phone showing their destination, Fred shrugged and decided that it was not his business whether or not a Turk wanted a new cat or some fish for their living room.

Although fish were nice – and birds. The driver really missed the singing birds outside his home in Kalm. Ever since he had relocated to Midgar, there had been no music outside, just the sounds of the city that never slept. But it just wouldn’t do to have a bird caged at home, either. No, he liked them free – and it was precisely for that sort of daydreaming that Fred failed to notice one of the doors connecting the building to the garage opening, and the soft whistles that accompanied the rapid steps of something that was very clearly inhuman.

It was only when Dark Nation almost growled up to his face that the driver raised his head to meet Reno, who was currently pulling the leash around the dog a bit further to the back and giving Fred just enough space to step to the side and escape the range of the animal’s very… Sharp-looking teeth.

“G-Good morning, sir,” he said, his voice surprisingly even despite the shades of panic coloring his eyes, “Are we, uh, taking… The vice-president’s dog… To the pet shop?”

Oh fuck – the place was in sector 4, there was some road work in their way. He would be inside the car… With that beast… For a long while.

[firstinline]

      :// 5 years previous.

      bright eyes traced up the side of the honey bee inn, calculating where the best footholds were to scurry up the brickwork and to his prize. the lone window, dim light dancing silhouettes into the night and well beyond where priest could measure with a gaze. he was getting too old for these shenanigans, but weren’t the mid-thirties meant to be the prime of one’s life? or was that the twenties ...? he’d lost too much time in the war with dirt and blood smeared into his cheeks and beard to count what normal was meant to be. and now he’d been served a steaming pile of it, shoveled directly into his mouth and down his throat. he needed a fucking drink.

      hand secured the strap of his bag where it crossed his chest. priest sucked in a large breath and sprinted toward the wall, tracing the line he’d found moments before with hands and feet, forcing himself upward until he reached the sill of the window and prayed it wasn’t locked. bingo. it swung out with the gentle coaxing of his fingertips just as the bathroom door sealed, the mistress of the honey bee inn safe on the other side. his visit would be a surprise.

      and that was the way it was with melissa. a face he’d known for so long he no longer bothered to count the years that passed between their friendship. his mother finding quick familiarity with the woman when the inn turned hands, and priest’s own visits becoming fewer and fewer as the war picked up. for a while he stopped coming by all together, but when time permitted with his schedule he stopped down. and when cora had passed away he continued the trend, visiting to check in with the familiar faces and touch base: is everything going well, and how’s business going among the platitudes to slip from his tongue.

      fingers worked at the buckle of his bag, eyes shifting among the darkened objects within until he procured the proper item in question. he always came with a gift. formerly two: one for his mother and one for his friend, but reduced to just the latter. and tonight ... tonight he needed an ear to vent to, so perhaps buttering the mistress up with a gift wasn’t so misplaced. he set the box on her desk and took to perching on the edge of her bed, bag deposited against the foot of it and beside his legs, hands folded in his lap.

      tonight he needed to forget about the papers he’d signed but a day ago. the big, ugly word and all of the weight behind it: divorce.

a briefly chatted about starter for @stingslikeabee​ !~

[fredthedriver]

@loqis . starter

It was Wednesday – which was also lasagna day for lunch at the Shinra cafeteria and it meant a more crowded and noisy room than it was otherwise. A good number of the employees complained about the food they had for free, but Fred was not one of them: nothing could beat his mom’s cooking, of course, but it was decent enough to get him through the day and helped save his own money for fancy dinners with Sam.

But anyone looking to grab a portion of the lasagna had to arrive for lunch at least fifteen minutes earlier than the usual (it used to be just ten minutes a couple of years ago – apparently, more people were now reading the internal e-mails on the cafeteria menus and elaborating attack plans just as he did). The line had been long enough, but Fred managed to secure his food and then took the tray away, eyes scanning the available seats for a place where he could have a moment to eat and perhaps read some of the daily news on his cellphone.

But the driver found himself standing still after a few steps only, his gaze falling on a young man (perhaps still a boy?) who was using the common tables for something else but lunch – a myriad of small components and tools were scattered right in front of him and his hands were deftly manipulating something that looked like a petite bird but made entirely of metal.

It was such a precious creation – Fred had never quite seen anything like it. He wasn’t aware he had probably stared at him (and the little creature) for too long until the man in question raised his head and found him there, the coveted lasagna portion going cold on his tray while he just observed the other man at work – or was it a past-time? They were in the cafeteria, after all.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, realizing he might have acted a bit creepy by standing there without saying anything, “I just had never seen these machines before. They’re so beautiful.”

[answerofshame]

𝒕𝒂𝒈 𝒅𝒓𝒐𝒑

[firstinline]

@bellenquisiteur​, continued from here (x).

      another fucking blonde. he’d promised himself he wouldn’t fall into their charms again, not after amy. perhaps it was wrong to associate a hair color with pure evil, but it couldn’t be helped. not after all of the time and emotion he’d wasted on that sham of a marriage. but this wasn’t marriage, and dinah was not amy. no ---she had all of the venom of his ex wife with the added bonus of all of the charm that amelia focused into her work instead of having any semblance of a personality. of course ... priest found the rough edges of the investigator appealing; that and she could knock him flat on his ass.

      “ you wouldn’t have made it a day in the military. ” priest conceded, huffing a rush of air from his lungs and holding her icy gaze with his own. if she wanted to stare, then she could suit herself. he was unblinking when he pulled the tie from his vest and jacket, thumbed the knot down and tugged it away from his neck with one hand. he needed to change. he probably needed a shower but that would come before bed ---he wouldn’t trust her to his apartment where he couldn’t keep his eye on her. not that he had anything of pertinence that she could nose into ... it was the principle of the matter.

      he shucked his jacket off of his shoulders, tossed it aside to the hamper in the corner of the room before he plucked the buttons of his vest open. if she insisted on staring. “ yeah? i disappointed you already? you’ve got low fucking expectations. ” he made quick work of the vest, tossing it into the same abyss as his jacket and moved for the dress shirt next. always three pieces. the slight variations in each turk’s uniform were so indicative of each of their personalities, priest noticed. the little chains and nuances on rude’s insisted the edge to his person where reno’s flirtatious and carefree nature came in the reveal of his chest - like a tease. tseng was the image of perfection, and priest was charisma. three piece suit, little details in the color of the vest and tie and how it matched what he was meant to do for the day. pr? have a splash of something dark. wet work? all black, maybe a filigree here or there. always a sleeveless shirt beneath and when he had no more layers to shuck off of his torso his fingers made for the belt of his pants. last chance.

      fresh bruises kissed at his chest, a healing gash across his stomach and if dinah were to catch sight of his back she’d find a few peppered punctures with butterfly stitches there. work. he didn’t mind it, much. it just meant he was still alive. regrettably. “ gonna expect a tip from you when i’m done. i don’t do free shows. ”

[firstinline]

tag dump.