Work. Working. Work. A job. Reno. Reno of the Turks, who had been sadly and sorely deprived of said Turks since the whole fiasco in Edge back in October. He had a job.

And not just any job. He was working for the slightly manic canine and lapine duo that had opened a Freelance Police HQ in town.

Reno, of all people, was working for the cops. He'd actually shown up for work a little on the early side. Got himself acquainted with the office. The dead plant. The noose on the coat-rack. The roadkill calendar. The tied-up guy in the closet who he was apparently supposed to feed now and then. Reno had taken a pickle off the sandwich he'd grabbed on his way to work, and amused himself by playing keep-away with it for a while before actually giving it to the guy.

Okay. So, the fish in the water cooler kinda had Reno a little paranoid, but Reno brushed that one off as the basic survival instinct of every Turk which led them to mistrust every Vice-President they came across.

Once his rounds of the office were complete, he made himself comfortable in the wheelie-chair and put his feet up on the desk, his stun baton at his hip. Kinda like back in Midgar. Back when there was a Midgar.

The Freelance Police HQ was open for business.