[ It's really happening, then. This would be the moment, once again, where if Reno were going to run away, now would be the best time. Before this can really kick off. And make no mistake: as with most things, it crosses his mind. Run, now, before every last one of the illusions you built for yourself comes crashing down. Tseng knows too fucking much. Getting involved in this is going to make him privy to so much more. They've as good as said their goodbyes—he could just disappear. When he doesn't show, Tseng would surely quit the job, so he'd be safe. Then all he'd have to do is pull out every last stop in the book to hide from him, and everyone else he knows, forever.
Just like every other time he thinks it, though, that's where he hits his roadblock. There's nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. This is all he knows. And it's all he wants, and without it, he'd never survive. Life without the Turks is no life. So there's only going forward.
Time to go make himself pretty, then. For the "job."
A few quick trips to various stores and soon Reno's got a complete arsenal to transform himself with. It's just like the good ol' days. Better, even, because quite honestly he'd say he's hotter now than he was back then, all Veld's bullshit opinions be damned. When he was a literal child with nothing but innocence to use as his appeal, it didn't really matter what he wore; it was all a sick fucking fetish. When he was a teenager, god, those were the days. Yeah, so what if he was softer and more ambiguous-looking, it was still just raw teenage hormones and that jailbait energy that made him desirable. He thought he knew everything there was to know back then. Seems like a joke now. And by the time he's finished dolling himself up, he knows for a fact that it was. Eat your fucking heart out, Veld.
Impressively, two hours is more than enough time. You learn how to do this shit quick, even if it's been a long, long time. Toss up a couple how-to tutorials and fire up the flat iron and go to town, easy peasy. Any asshole can slap makeup and a dress on, but if you want to convincingly take yourself from "a guy" to "definitely not a guy," it's a bit more than rosy cheeks and mascara. The contours of his face, neck and chest are smoothed over and redrawn, brows softened, hair straightened and silky and soft. Make no mistake—when Reno leaves his apartment, there's almost a fair bet not even Rude would recognize him right away. Nobody can say he doesn't commit to his role.
And commit to it he does. The dress is a lovely thing to look at all on its own, belted tight with a pretty white obi knot in the back, the ribboned ends hanging down not quite as far as the (hardly considerable, mid-thigh at best) length of the thing itself. His shoulders and waist are already small, so it's really only a matter of adding a pad to the hip area, adhered to the inside to keep it grasped tight to his body. He tucks the gun inside the sash, pulled so snug it doesn't have a prayer of a chance at budging. To fill out the chest, he improvised, padded the cups and contoured himself some better cleavage (and just for Tseng's benefit, Reno made sure to buy the matching set). His hair he wears partly up, the bun wrapped cleverly around a sock to make it bigger and fuller, decorated with a pair of red jade pins. There wasn't any time to change the color, but it's fine. The auburn suits him. And the shoes? You walk in 'em by being very careful and not going too fast. For the most part, the makeup outside of what he's disguised himself in, covered his tattoos with, and essentially reformed the entire shape of his face with is relatively subtle—longer lashes, simple colors to make the blue in his eyes pop ever so brightly, pink cheeks, a dewy red tint for his lips. (He might have phoned a friend for advice on that part, or he would've just gone straight for hooker red lip lacquer otherwise. We want the eyes and the body to be the money makers here, this time.)
It's for the job, naturally.
That smile he wears as he makes his way along the thoroughfare to the den in a careful, measured gait (still the same old saunter, but slower, with more hips) says he knows better than to play at innocence. It fits right in with the setting, the paper lanterns and wafting wisps of incense and other heady, less romantic smells down here in the depths of Midgar's depraved undercity. Reno—Renate—doesn't say a word, just offers his hand out once he's close enough. He could be just another local girl who Knows What She's Doing but doesn't really have a clue, actually. Just the sort of thing the son of a bitch they're after will be into. ]
no subject
Just like every other time he thinks it, though, that's where he hits his roadblock. There's nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. This is all he knows. And it's all he wants, and without it, he'd never survive. Life without the Turks is no life. So there's only going forward.
Time to go make himself pretty, then. For the "job."
A few quick trips to various stores and soon Reno's got a complete arsenal to transform himself with. It's just like the good ol' days. Better, even, because quite honestly he'd say he's hotter now than he was back then, all Veld's bullshit opinions be damned. When he was a literal child with nothing but innocence to use as his appeal, it didn't really matter what he wore; it was all a sick fucking fetish. When he was a teenager, god, those were the days. Yeah, so what if he was softer and more ambiguous-looking, it was still just raw teenage hormones and that jailbait energy that made him desirable. He thought he knew everything there was to know back then. Seems like a joke now. And by the time he's finished dolling himself up, he knows for a fact that it was. Eat your fucking heart out, Veld.
Impressively, two hours is more than enough time. You learn how to do this shit quick, even if it's been a long, long time. Toss up a couple how-to tutorials and fire up the flat iron and go to town, easy peasy. Any asshole can slap makeup and a dress on, but if you want to convincingly take yourself from "a guy" to "definitely not a guy," it's a bit more than rosy cheeks and mascara. The contours of his face, neck and chest are smoothed over and redrawn, brows softened, hair straightened and silky and soft. Make no mistake—when Reno leaves his apartment, there's almost a fair bet not even Rude would recognize him right away. Nobody can say he doesn't commit to his role.
And commit to it he does. The dress is a lovely thing to look at all on its own, belted tight with a pretty white obi knot in the back, the ribboned ends hanging down not quite as far as the (hardly considerable, mid-thigh at best) length of the thing itself. His shoulders and waist are already small, so it's really only a matter of adding a pad to the hip area, adhered to the inside to keep it grasped tight to his body. He tucks the gun inside the sash, pulled so snug it doesn't have a prayer of a chance at budging. To fill out the chest, he improvised, padded the cups and contoured himself some better cleavage (and just for Tseng's benefit, Reno made sure to buy the matching set). His hair he wears partly up, the bun wrapped cleverly around a sock to make it bigger and fuller, decorated with a pair of red jade pins. There wasn't any time to change the color, but it's fine. The auburn suits him. And the shoes? You walk in 'em by being very careful and not going too fast. For the most part, the makeup outside of what he's disguised himself in, covered his tattoos with, and essentially reformed the entire shape of his face with is relatively subtle—longer lashes, simple colors to make the blue in his eyes pop ever so brightly, pink cheeks, a dewy red tint for his lips. (He might have phoned a friend for advice on that part, or he would've just gone straight for hooker red lip lacquer otherwise. We want the eyes and the body to be the money makers here, this time.)
It's for the job, naturally.
That smile he wears as he makes his way along the thoroughfare to the den in a careful, measured gait (still the same old saunter, but slower, with more hips) says he knows better than to play at innocence. It fits right in with the setting, the paper lanterns and wafting wisps of incense and other heady, less romantic smells down here in the depths of Midgar's depraved undercity. Reno—Renate—doesn't say a word, just offers his hand out once he's close enough. He could be just another local girl who Knows What She's Doing but doesn't really have a clue, actually. Just the sort of thing the son of a bitch they're after will be into. ]