July 23rd, 2005
What is your favorite time of day? Why?
Rude prefers twilight, when the sun has just dropped below the horizon and its light is still fading from the sky. Back in Junon, that time of day was gorgeous; you could watch the reds, oranges, and yellows fading into a deepening purple over the ocean. In Midgar, of course, it isn't breathtaking; you can hardly see the sky through the haze, much less the remnants of a sunset. Sometimes he goes to the roof of his building and looks over Midgar, and there is no dusk. The sky moves from fading light to steely black with nothing in between. Still, though, Rude has always been a pragmatist, but there is a magic about dusk; a mystery that the other 23 and a half hours of the day lack. You know how the day has been, but have yet to find out what the night will bring.
Of course, the night never actually brings much, but that half hour of beauty and hope means the world.
June 30th, 2005
When in your life did you feel the most alone?
Rude stood in the pouring rain, his hands clasped before him. At his side, Tseng held an umbrella over both of them, his head bowed. The old man wearing the clerical collar and old black raincoat finished his low prayers, and he walked over to Tseng, his young helper rushing to keep up with their shared umbrella. The old priest shook Tseng's hand and offered his condolences, and Tseng nodded and thanked him over the thunder of the raindrops hitting the ground. Ushered along by the kind-faced woman with the umbrella, the priest walked away across the sodden ground, and Rude heard the dull slams of car doors closing. The engine started, and gravel churned as the old station wagon drove out the cemetery gates.
Tseng glanced at him. "I'm leaving. Do you want to come?"
Rude shook his head wordlessly. The Wutain man held the umbrella out to him, and he immediately shook his head again.
Tseng let out a low breath, watched the smoke it caused float away. "Don't stay out too long."
Rude heard his footsteps squelch away through the mud, and the rain began its drumming on his head and its slow, insidious process of creeping inside his trench coat and drenching his clothes. The heavens opened up.
And then it was just him, the cold water pouring down his face, and the silent gravestone.
bad mun! will be fully catching rude up within the next two days!
Current Mood: quiet
June 16th, 2005
May 28th, 2005
|12:59 pm - really, really meta|
( personality testCollapse )
OOC - Mun is super amused that he got the exact opposite result of pass_the_vodka.
May 3rd, 2005
|09:37 pm - Trust|
Action novels and stupid books always said that bullets 'sang through the air'. But Rude knew the truth. Bullets didn't sing. They made sharp cracks when they were fired and fleshy thunks or splintery wooden thuds when they hit. There was no sound in between. Even if there was one, it sure as hell wouldn't be singing. Howling, maybe. Screaming, not as likely. But singing? No, definitely not.
None of the bullets fired by the anti-ShinRa terrorists sang. Fortunately enough, though, they didn't make the fleshy thunks, either. Not yet, anyway. They were just thudding harmlessly into walls and concrete and parked cars. While Rude slipped into the smoky apartment building where the terrorist cell had been hiding.
This wasn't your friendly gray, coming-out-of-a-chimney kind of smoke. This was black and greasy and vile. His eyes smarted and lungs burned immediately after taking several steps into the stairwell. The "freedom fighters", as they liked to call themselves, were already putting up a hell of a fight. Rude didn't know how they could possibly have gotten their hands on top-of-the-line smoke bombs, but obviously, they had.
There weren't supposed to be this many of them, and they weren't supposed to be this well armed. Rude and Reno had been supposed to be able to take the small cell out on their own. But, as it turned out, there were fifty of them and they were threatening to blow up half the sector. The slum sector that happened to be beneath the section of Plate where the ShinRa Building sat. So General Heidigger had, in his infinite wisdom, deigned to--over a cell phone--order Rude and Reno to continue on with the mission despite the ridiculous odds until the Special Forces team arrived.
Which was how Rude found himself in his current position, slowly creeping his way up an entirely dark staircase, feeling along blindly with one hand. The other held his gun ready. He was alone, though he could hear the muffled pop of gunshots and faint shouts from outside, which Reno was causing.
Luckily enough, Rude only got to the second floor of the building, and it wasn't an incredibly high structure. Also luckily, the terrorists had apparently been exaggerating the size and power of their bomb. Because when it blew up, he wasn't vaporized and he didn't have nearly as much distance to fall. And there wasn't nearly as much building to fall on him as there would have been had the building been taller.
Still, though, it sucked.
There was an indescribable sound that was far too loud and mechanical to be called a roar, but that was the closest that Rude could come later to explaining it. Something hit him like a flaming brick wall moving at a hundred miles per hour. Goddamn, but he was glad that he was only conscious for about half a second, because it hurt. Afterward, he had only a vague memory of a half a second of feeling the solid staircase crumple around him.
So when he opened his eyes next, it was pretty understandable that he was utterly dazed and had no idea what was going on. There was a roaring in his ears and sharp snaps of pain rocketed through one side of his body. Something was cool against his cheek. Everything else was really hot, though. Burning. And then some foreign object wrapped around his bicep and yanked him upright so that he sat propped up. It really hurt. He would discover later that that was because his arm was broken.
Disoriented, he instinctively lashed out at the foreign object with his other hand. A face appeared in front of his. It was blackened by smoke but recognizable. The green eyes stood out even more against the darkness of the skin and the hair was, well, still really red. Reno. His mouth was moving, and the hand now on Rude's shoulder shook him.
At that point, Rude had no fucking idea what was going on. He just wanted to fall down again and curl up against the cool something and go back into blackness. To be honest, he wasn't entirely himself. He was scared shitless. And he did not want to move for anybody.
But Reno wasn't anybody.
It took Rude a moment to realize that there was a skinny hand on either side of his face, holding his head up, and Reno was calmly talking to him. His eyes were barely six inches from Rude's, and Rude could not hear a goddamn word that his mouth was forming.
Rude didn't want to move, but Reno seemed quite insistent on the point. So Rude put his faith and himself in the other man's hands and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet.
Afterward, he wouldn't remember much of the trek through the twisted remains of the building. It was torturous; every step--leaning most of his weight on Reno as he was--brought new pain, some new broken bone to light. He teetered on the line between consciousness and utter nothingness. Only the constant contact with Reno kept him from going over. Somewhere along the way, he became aware of a dim, far-off voice, saying things like, "Fuck, Rude, fuck it! Stay awake! I can't fuckin' carry you, man!" He couldn't be bothered to answer it. All of his energy was going toward the swaying steps that he was barely making, even with--a considerably lighter, staggering--Reno fighting to hold him up. Every breath burned and stabbed. He choked and coughed.
He blocked most of it from his memory. But he did remember being allowed to collapse onto something soft. Then lots of overlapping shouts and hands touching him and things poking him. And a hoarse, exhausted voice.
"Told you it'd all be okay if you'd just fuckin' trust me."
OOC - This takes place after all RP that Rude's currently involved in. He may be laid up for a while, depending on how busy the mun is. Or maybe he'll just pop up with his arm in a sling; who knows!
April 24th, 2005
( OOC: some explanationsCollapse )
What is so important to you that without it, life would not be worth living? Why?
His mental capacity. Rude doesn't think that that's really what the question-asker was going for, but that's the only thing he can think of. If he ever lost it somehow, he knows right now that he wouldn't want to live. It's probably more of a possibility for him than for other people, given the fact that he spent years taking blows to the head, more years addicted to a seriously nasty narcotic, and his current job is one that often involves people trying to kill him.
Even Midgar's newsstations had been interested in the recent otherworld's fiasco in the form of an American woman in a vegetative state. After weeks of fairly intensive coverage, it was hard not to think about her situation and hope that nothing similar ever happened to oneself. The woman's parents had argued otherwise, as Rude understood, but he knows that he wouldn't want to live like that. It isn't living. It's just breathing and heart-beating, that's all. If he somehow got into a coma or a position where he couldn't think, he would want to die. He can't think of anything besides his mental capacity, where if he lost it, he wouldn't want to live.
Mostly because he has already lost the thing that was the most important to him, and he's still living his life.
If you could do one totally irresponsible or even bad thing with absolutely no consequences, what would it be and why?
Quit his job. If that counted as irresponsible.
The consequences are what are keeping him from quitting now. You can't quit a position in the Turks. You die in the line of duty, or you're killed, or you kill yourself, or you are mangled beyond use and are put out of your misery. Or, as was the case once, once in fifty years of Turks, you've been such a good, smart employee who obviously knows how to keep his mouth shut, that you're allowed to retire. There is no firing. No quitting. There's just killing. No matter how far you run or how well you hide, they will find you and they will kill you, both for what you know and for the audacity of trying to leave ShinRa. Nobody leaves ShinRa unless ShinRa wants them to.
He doesn't like what he does. He doesn't ache for blood the way Reno sometimes seems to. Rude is simply a man who made some bad decisions and can't get out of them. He's fucking stuck. So if he had a chance to do anything with no consequences? He'd quit his job. Move to a little house in the country somewhere, throw away all of his guns, live peacefully til the end of his days. God. A pacifist Turk. Reno would laugh at him.
But there are consequences. He doesn't really want to die.
So Rude stays.
What is your most treasured possession and why?
The ever-present sunglasses. They belonged to a friend once. A great friend. The man who Reno had replaced when the redhead had filled his job. Rude's old partner. The man had never taken the shades off; there had been a bad explosion several years into their working together, and he had lost some sight. Not all of it, but enough to make his eyes sensitive to light. The sunglasses were absolutely necessary. He was able to survive an explosion, but not a knife wielded by a terrified kid years later.
Rather than burying him with the sunglasses, Rude took them. From the day he died, Rude wore the sunglasses constantly. When he slid them off or raised them up, it was never done lightly. Even Reno could probably count on one hand the number of times that he had seen Rude's eyes. His only response when asked why he wore them was silence. Mostly because he wasn't sure. Was it a memorial of sorts? Was it to hide his increasingly disillusioned eyes? He didn't know. All he knew was that he wore them, and he didn't forget.
If you could trade lives with one person for a day, who would it be, and what would you do?
Rude would trade places with a man named Lance Davis. He writes and plays the most trite, idealized, bubbly songs for piano, and he somehow manages to make a living at it. Middle-aged woman everywhere buy his CDs. Rude doesn't want anything to do with that music. He just wants the chance to see--for a day--what it's like to be living a life that he could have chosen, years ago. Not that of a composer, no--he was always terrible at making up all but the most simply, plinky of melodies--but that of a concert pianist. Rude is good, and he knows it; he's not egotistical, but he's also not one for false modesty. With more training, he could have gone professional.
Plus, Davis would be in his life. And Rude would be perversely amused to see what kind of music would be composed after a day in the life of Rude Hearst. Nothing inspidly cheerful, he was willing to bet. Bloody and utterly freaked out and terrified, probably.
What is your worst character flaw?
Too many to choose a worst.
There are several ways to take that. But if you think of character as a moral or ethical type of deal--as Rude does--the answer is simple. His cowardice.
It's not meant in the traditional sense of cowardice. After all, Rude puts his life on the line at least a couple of times a week, and feels barely a twinge of fear anymore. And when he does feel the fear, it's usually not for himself. He's grown kind of immune to fearing for his own life; on a bad day, he might classify it less as 'immune' and more as 'numb'. But this isn't a particularly bad day.
No, it's that he sees bad things happening every day. Hell, he causes bad things to happen some days. And he does nothing about it. When you live in Midgar, you don't stick your nose in other people's business, he tells himself on the best days. You let everyone look out for his or her own. So when he sees something, well, he just continues on his way.
He sees incredibly fucked-up shit when he occasionally descends into the slums, that he doesn't even want to think about. He doesn't want to know. He sure as hell doesn't know how Reno grew up down there. But he sees it, and he leaves it alone. "It's not my business" becomes a constant silent mantra.
It's the unwritten law that you just can't do it. You can't save everyone. Most of the time, even if you try, you can't save even one person. Midgar just sucks them in and suffocates them, and you've just got to walk on past as if you can't hear the choking or see the pleading eyes.
Worse, though, is when he causes the bad things. He causes them and he doesn't stop himself. That's when he really hates himself and his paralyzing cowardice.
Current Music: Passacaglia - comp. Ned Rorem, cond. José Serebrier
March 4th, 2005
If you could change one person's mind about something, who and what would it be?
Shallow people often see only a scrawny, crude, lowborn punk when they look at pass_the_vodka, and they mistake him for ininformed and stupid. Reno rarely corrects them, and as a matter of fact, he seems to revel in it. Rude wonders sometimes how much of that slur and that slum accent are natural and how much is artifice; whether or not the younger man is consciously acting like an uncouth dunce. And if it is on purpose, why he does it. Reno loudly proclaims to dislike reading, culture, and everything along similar lines, though Rude has known him to read--admittedly, very little--in the past. He is equally noisy in professing his love for cars, motorcycles, alcohol, violence, sports, and sex (a wonderful combination, Rude's brain provides drily).
Whether on purpose or not, Reno is closed-minded about many different subjects. If any word with -ism on the end comes up in conversation, he decries it. If Rude slips an orchestral CD into the car's player when he isn't looking, Reno fights even harder than he does when Rude wants to listen to hip hop. At the merest hint of anything concerning the word 'art', he immediately heads for the conversational hills. Rude knows that Reno's extremely intelligent. It's not a secret to a discerning observer, and it is certainly no secret to Rude, who knows him best out of anyone. He knows how sharp the other man is; he sees evidence of his quickness every day. So sometimes, when he sees an edgy book or a jagged piece of art or some interesting music that doesn't involve a guitarist, he wishes that he could change Reno's mind about culture, if only long enough for him to take a glance at something and see that it isn't going to bite his head off.
What is truly yours?
Memories, yes, thoughts, yes, emotions, yes. Almost anything intangible, yes. But more than all of that, absolutely and unequivocally, knowledge. Rude was a fairly dorky kid, despite outward popularity; he always had a book nearby, usually non-fiction, and he soaked up knowledge eagerly. His parents learned very early on that he had extremely good hearing and an ability to recite nearly word for word things that he had overheard. Languages and history in particular have always fascinated him; if asked, he can speak with reasonable accuracy on a lot of different historical things, particularly wars. He knows bits and pieces of a wide array of languages, and is fairly fluent in Solian and the language of the Northern Continent peoples. Facts and words are not the only knowledge; understandings--about people, the world, himself, life--are knowledge, too, and his are, well, uniquely his. They truly belong to him, to an extent that nothing else does.
Current Mood: calm
Current Music: Sonata in A Minor, Op.11: Elegie Herbique - Howard Hanson
February 26th, 2005
Have you ever regretted a wish you made? Why/what happened?
Once upon a time, when Rude was at his very lowest and having some drug issues (to put it very mildly), he made a wish. He wanted to sober up. And just like magic, three months later, he did. Of course, it was with the help of a local mob boss who saw potential in him. And then Rude owed the man. And then Rude started his long and storied professional career as an enforcer. Not law enforcer, of course, just enforcer. That career, in turn, lead to most regrets that he has today. So that is a wish that he most certainly thinks he shouldn't have made. There are times when he thinks it would have been better if he had just died on the streets, to be honest.
How would you react if you were placed into 'Alice in Wonderland'?
The question makes him smile; he had never had the occasion to read Alice's Adventures in Wonderland or Through the Looking Glass, but now he wishes he had as a kid. He has an idea that, though all of the symbolism and wit that Carroll's writing is supposed to have would amuse him, if he read the books now, it just wouldn't work. When you're a kid, it's so easy to immerse yourself in fantasy; to just give up everything you know temporarily and live for the moment. Now that he's been living in the moment for years, now that he's given up everything he knew permanently, well, kids' books just don't hold the appeal they once did (back when, you know, he was a kid). When adults read kids' books, the entertainment is still possibly there, but the magic? Inescapably gone.
Drabble on beauty.
Beauty is onyx-colored skin. It's long dreads that are perfect to twist hands in. It's tiny crow's feet, a blinding smile. Beauty is unseeing, milky grey eyes, once a deep brown. Beauty is a favorite, well-loved pair of Ray Bans.
Beauty is a black suit.
It is a lanky body, the smell of Lucky Strikes; long, white hands wrapping carefully around a cigarette to keep the flame from going out. It is a mop of red hair, piercing green eyes, a quick laugh. Beauty is a sharp intelligence, an obnoxiously loud voice.
Beauty is dead, and beauty is utterly unrequited.
Current Mood: restless
February 10th, 2005
What does the word 'love' mean to you?
A zero score in tennis.
Describe what your "happily ever after" would be like.
Retiring to a small village where I'm not known, alive and in one piece.
What's the furthest away you've ever been from the place you were born? How did you get there? Why did you go? Did you return or even want to come back to where you came from?
The furthest away I've been from Junon is probably Icicle Inn and some of the towns on the Northern Continent. I got there by helicopter and boat, and I went to get information from a contact on Wutain troop movements. I haven't been back to Junon in several years, and I don't think that I will return.
What would a description of your *exact opposite* be like?
…Have you ever met pass_the_vodka?
That's not an entirely accurate--or fair--statement for him to make; Reno isn't what he'd call an exact opposite. His opposite would be loud, brash, cocky, fiery, fairly uncultured, scrawny, obnoxious, emotive, loquacious, and would have a large amount of hair. But his opposite would also be unintelligent, disloyal, constantly cruel, unthinking, slow in thought and in movement, undignified, weak physically and mentally, unable to hold their liquor, easily frightened. They would have no willpower, no determination, and no ghosts haunting them.
Describe your funniest childhood memory.
Two friends decided that they wanted to get me drunk on my sixteenth birthday. Most of it's really blurry, but I have a fairly clear memory of one standing on a table, wearing the other's sister's bra over his T-shirt, squeaking out the lyrics to "Like a Virgin" in an ear-piercing falsetto while the other tried to sing the background music.
OOC: Trying to do some catch up; I haven't been paying Rude nearly enough attention. If it seems like he doesn't say much, that's 'cause, well, he doesn't. He's not really a huge fan of talking, though I try to make him do more.
Current Mood: tired
Current Music: Follow the Light - Dungeon Family
January 12th, 2005
|06:46 pm - breakdown|
Sometimes, Rude really doesn't understand Reno (pass_the_vodka).
He had been running some errands around 8:00 on Sunday night at the shopping plaza a block over from Reno's apartment complex, and had decided to give Reno a call to see if he wanted to grab a quick beer or something, since he was already in the area. Things had been pretty bad between them for a while, but ever since Rude had come to his rescue on Christmas Eve, Reno had been noticably warmer to the big man, and vice versa. However, on Sunday night, the other man hadn't picked up his cell phone or his home phone, and since Rude had seen the other man's distinctive bike parked in its usual--highly illegal--spot (up on the curb in front of the building) on his way over, he had decided to drop by to see what the redhead was doing that he couldn't be assed to answer the phone.
When he had stepped out of the stairwell and onto the third floor of the building, he had been mildly surprised to see--at the end of the hall--two women sitting in front of Reno's door. One was a lanky, strangely graceful brunette with an angular face in her early 20's who was unmistakably related to Reno, and the other was a shorter, meticulously dressed teenager with curly brown hair. He had spoken to them, and they had told him that they were Reno's sisters Laetia and Kina (whom, incidentally, Rude had had no idea existed). Apparently, every year on January 9th, Reno freaked out about something (the two women grew silent and rather frosty when asked about what that something was) and went off into the bowels of the city on a killer binge. They had gone to the apartment to try to head him off, since every year, he managed to come closer and closer to dying in the process of getting spectacularly, suicidally drunk. They had been too late to catch him, and now they had decided to sit and wait for him. When asked why they didn't look for him, the younger of the pair, Kina, had simply told him, "When Reno doesn't want to be found, there's no way in hell you're going to find him. All you can do is sit and wait for someone to bring the pieces back to you."
Frowning in thought, Rude had bid the women goodnight and left them to their vigil at the door. It had only taken him as long as it took to get to the street again to decide to be the someone. As he passed the gleaming black motorbike, he had at least felt good about the fact that Reno hadn't decided to ride it while on his quest to get wasted.
He had spent several hours trolling slum bars on hid quest to find his idiot friend, but he had known he would find him eventually; Reno may have known the city well, but Rude knew Reno. He had known the kind of place that he would seek out, right down to where he would sit. He should; he spent enough time with him in those bars. Rude just hadn't been sure which of the options Reno would have sought out. So he checked bar after bar, asking after Reno to the bartenders and calling the other man's cell phone once in a while.
His efforts had finally paid off in the wee hours of the morning.