<sub>Tell Me What You've Done.

By: UshiUshi - aka Rina
Summary: Reno had done nothing with his life but commit a slow, impending suicide. He thought -- no, he knew -- his mother would be ashamed.
Genre: Family/Angst
Character: Reno
Setting: Before any of the games, bro.
Rating: For a very mature teen?
Type: One-shot
Disclaimer: NOPE, TRIED TO BUY IT AND THEY WOULDN'T LET ME.
Also, make note this fanfiction contains attempted drug abuse. If it makes you as uncomfortable as I was writing it, please turn away.</sub>


It had been three days. Three days since Reno had last slept. In those pathetic three days and nights, he had done enough things alone to land him in the seventh level of hell. He wasn't sure what time it was or where exactly in Midgar he was. It was night, and he was surrounded by crates and junk that no one on the top plate had wanted.. He wasn't exactly hiding, but the fact he had spent his day lying to a few of the more well-known drug dealers and police, meant it would be best for him to lie low.

So there he was, wedged between a few crates, his head ducked between his legs. It had been hell the past few days. The woman who had been supplying him with his hits and juices had gotten her head blown off, and Reno had spent his time twitching and scurrying around trying to find a cheap dealer who would help a poor guy out.

Instead, he found a fist to his face and a pawn shop. Which in the end, had been good enough.

His eyes were closed, his Adam's apple bobbing weakly as he swallowed. The drugs always wanted to make him vomit, but at this point, there was nothing to vomit. The man hadn't eaten in days. He was so hungry ... so exhausted ... but the need for just one more hit kept him awake. Reno let out a shuddering breath and pulled a small plastic bag out from the soles of his well-worn boots. Inside was enough to get him through the night. The small rock was placed in the underside of an old pop can, and Reno, with numb fingers, began to fiddle with a dying lighter.

One spark, and it died. Another spark, followed by another sad flickering out. A third ... another body settled down next to him. Reno didn't look over at them, and continued fighting with the lighter. Another junkie trying to hide away and get a fix. No big deal.

"Tell me, what have you done?"

Sure as hell didn't sound like a junkie. Another flick of the lighter. "I've done fuckin' everything. I've done women, I've done drugs ... so many fuckin' drugs. Where do ya want me to start?"

The person didn't seem to recoil, and no noise of disgust was made. The lighter was flicked again. "Start with this week."

Reno snorted and gave up flicking the lighter. Instead, he began tapping it against the empty pop cap in small spasms. "My dealer ... MeeMee we called her ..." Reno sniffed, shaking his head. "Ya know, that's the second time I've seen brain hit the wall. When I was a kid, I always thought they were like ... pink or somethin'. Pink and noodly and hella comical. But it's not like that at all, yo. All it is, is this dull fuckin' grey. Grey and specks of red. And you look at it, and you see it sink down the wall, and you realize that that's all there is to you. That's all that makes you work. Grey matter."

The body beside him shifted slightly, their knees moving as Reno's spasms grew worse, causing the pop can to tumble over. "Fuckin'-A..." His hands darted out and clawed for the small stone, panic in his eyes at the thought that he may have lost in it in the dark.

"Tell me about the scars on your arms ... the ones you did to yourself."

They weren't scars. They were marks and welts. Needle marks that had been scratched at with dirty finger nails, swelling with pus and turning red like raging zits, but far, far worse.

"And your lips ... and fingers."

More marks of how much of an idiot he was, how much he had fucked up his life. He always bit at his lips now, whenever he was craving. His fingers were constantly numb, his hands themselves riddled with scrapes and scars from slipped needles and fights.

He didn't have to bother answering any of the questions the person prompted him with, because it seemed they already knew the answers. But with each question they asked, they moved a little closer to the redhead, a hand going to his grime-covered back.

"Did you do something today you regret now?"

Besides the whore behind the dumpster and a few pills he had found ... yes, there was something he regretted horribly. There was a satchel around his neck, made of twine and coarse mesh material that had been in place for over nine years. Up until noon today there had been two bands of metal in that satchel.

He had been seven. His mother had died not two weeks prior, and already his father had returned to his home on the couch, surrounded by an army of broken booze bottles and bags of chips. Reno, his face cut up and bleeding with what would later become his trademark, had had enough. His father had never loved him, and his mother, the person who had always protected him, was gone. She used to tell him about her rings, Reno remembered. She had two – an engagement ring and a wedding ring. Only the latter had come from Reno's father. The other had once belonged to his mama's best friend, who had died when she was fifteen. Those rings, Reno's mama would tell him, were her most treasured things in the world. The only time, in fact, Reno had seen his mother without the rings on, was when they buried her.

He didn't leave them behind. He hid the rings inside of the satchel and never, not once, had he taken them off.

Until now. Until today. Until all had gone to shit and he had stopped caring for one moment.

"I didn't want to," Reno said suddenly, swallowing a bit of blood. "Not at first, I swear ..." His eyes were wide as he searched the darkness, his shaking body trying to piece together the story again. "I tried to fuckin' steal from this rich bitch ... She had this necklace. I don't even know if it was real. But I wanted it." He nodded, sure that this was a good excuse.

"So I followed her home. Broke her window. I still got glass in my hands, yo. And I took this switch knife ... and I snuck up behind her ..." He held out his hands, acting out the action, the dead lighter acting as his knife. "I knew the knife was sharp ... wouldn't take much. Done it before. But fuck ..." His shaking hands fell down and the lighter skid across the alleyway.  "The scream she made ... and she had children sleepin' in the next room. I couldn't hurt 'em. So instead, I hurt the only woman I knew." The tired voice finally broke, and Reno found himself spitting up bile and acid. The person's arm around him only got tighter. "I hurt my ma. I pawned off her rings ... The rings that she loved. One tiny rock for two rings ... What a fuck up I am."

Reno's head turned, and he saw his own eyes looking back at him. No ... not his eyes. There was no mirror in front of him. He hadn't seen himself properly in years. They were his mother's eyes. So full of sadness and love and every emotion. Something was pressed into his hand, and for a brief moment he could smell her – the scent of something spicy and molasses ... and cherries. She had always loved cherries. But the scent was gone as soon as it had come, and those eyes had disappeared. And like Reno had been for years, he was alone again.

He looked down, and found a handkerchief pressed into his hand. It was a pale baby blue, with hand-sewn flowers decorating the edges. This had been his mothers as well … Reno folded it up into a small square, doing his best to keep it from getting dirty. It looked at the small check of blue, and then pulled the satchel from around his neck and stuffed it in.  

"Tell me, what have you done?"

… How was he supposed to answer that without sex or drugs as a point of topic? He couldn't, that was the thing. He couldn't answer that simple question. Reno had done nothing with himself but commit a very slow, impending suicide.

And he hated that, he really did. "You're gonna grow up and become somethin' successful on the top plate, baby. You're gonna get some clean air into your lungs, and it's gonna clear out everything bad ..."

He was a horrible son.

He used to promise his mother so many things. That he'd get a job and take care of her when she got older. That he'd buy her a really big bottle of that perfume she loved so much. That he'd become really successful and get her a proper grave up high, where the air was fresh and clean. That way she could look up at the sky.

Reno was going to change this. And it was going to start by getting those rings back. But pawn shops were pretty untrustworthy places. They gave two hundred gil and then turned around and made two thousand more. Those rings had been silver and gold. He would never get them back legally. Granted, the pawn shop itself wasn't legal.

He stared at the small rock as it waited patiently for him to heat it ... to inject it ... to lose himself completely. There was a painful moment where Reno fought with himself. Trying to decide whether to continue fumbling with the dead lighter, or to maybe ... maybe make his mama proud.

Reno stood and looked around, searching for the lighter. This wouldn't change much ... but ... The plastic casing was picked up, and Reno stared at it, shaking it slightly to examine how much of the fluid was really left. It was dry. A noiseless chuckle escaped him, and he dropped the lighter. It hit the ground with a dull clunk and was followed quickly by a crunch, as Reno's loose boot came down on the plastic, crushing it into shards and powder. Maybe tomorrow things would change again, but tonight he thought his mama deserved this much.

It didn't take long to find the man he wanted. It never took too long in the slums, not really. He wasn't even sure if it was the same man. Not like it mattered, he supposed. The guy had exactly what he wanted, and when that small rock appeared in the palm of his hand, he was more than happy to hand it over.

His body was attacking himself, and for a moment, he regretted trading the rock for a hand of metal. But he remembered those eyes ... and that voice. And he realized that maybe this was his last chance.

When had his hand gotten so weak? Why was it shaking so much? Reno stared down at it, palms sweaty. It was only a few buildings down. He could do this … he could do this …  Reno chanted it to himself like a mantra, passing by sleazy-looking women and junk piled against the sides. The building itself wasn't all that impressive, the roof curved down slightly, and the windows were filled with grime, almost completely hiding the sample necklaces and watches that remained behind the bars that were behind the glass.

Reno pushed the door open – because no one really knew the meaning of time in the slums – and tightened his grip. He wasn't going to hurt anyone. Not tonight. He just wanted the rings, and he'd be okay.

The stooped-over man was still sitting at the counter, still weighing those bags of whatever the hell they were. He barely seemed to have moved from the spot, and Reno drew closer, swallowing invisible saliva.

"Back again, are yeh, boy?" The man's eyes lifted to meet his own, a toothless grin on his face.

"I want the rings back," Reno said, coming to a halt right in front of the dusty desk the man was pouring over.

"Oh? I dunno if I can do that for yeh, boy." The man's eyes went back to the scales.

"Ya can, and ya will. Or I will blow your fuckin' head off." Reno stated, trying to stay calm. He knew the sweat on his forehead was now from nerves.

"Boy, yeh think yer the first ta try and do this?" The man smirked. "I got a loaded one underneath this here desk. What makes yeh think yeh can just waltz right in here an' try an' take 'em back?"

Reno realized that maybe he hadn't been thinking quite right. It was a pawn shop in the slums, for hell's sake, of course guns were going to be hidden somewhere. But he managed to soothe his shaking hand, and he raised the gun, aiming it just a little off of the man's head. He saw the rings. They were still in the exact same place he had left them – in front of the scales, ready to be weighed whenever the stooped man saw fit. And he pulled the trigger.

He was just glad he had considered how much of a bad shot he would be. The bullet missed the old man – as planned, and hit a rather large jar of what appeared to be an obscene collection of brooches. The glass shattered, and Reno was sure some of the brooches did too, as a cascade of glass and metal and rocks came flowing down.

It grabbed the man's attention, and with a quick swipe those two bands of metal were in his hand again, where they should be. He felt like a badass. To add to the feeling, he attempted to shoot another glass jar and failed, instead hitting a mirror which shattered completely into thousands of dangerous splinters. It was then Reno decided that he really should just get the hell out. And he did, stuffing those two rings back into his satchel where they belonged. He knew things weren't going to change right away. Maybe they wouldn't at all. But everything seemed a little more right with that small weight against his chest.