Fandom High Dormitories

"Good afternoon, reservists," Arthur said, his voice loud enough to sound across the field. "Today, we've got a bit of a surprise for you. As some of you might still recall, Reno used to be one of the leaders of this reserve. He has chosen to stay with us after the weekend to see you through a meeting once again. For those of you who haven't met him, I suggest you open your ears and listen. Reno?"

"Yo!" Look, it was not a greeting from Reno unless there was an exuberant 'yo' involved, here. "I see none of you chumps managed to kill one another or get your asses completely kicked or anything equally stupid in my absence, so good on you." He shot Arthur a crooked grin before turning his attention back to the group, his stun baton resting lightly on his shoulder, one hand in his pocket. "I'm thinkin' you guys've probably been through all kinds of fun and excitin' shit involvin' weapons you ain't familiar with, but I hear you ain't got to play with my personal favorite yet, the baton. Nightsticks, for lack of a better word, 'cause I ain't stupid enough to hand you rookies a bunch'a live friggin' electrical weapons like mine, here."

See, Reno totally practised forethought, occasionally.

It was very impressive. Sort of. "We covered staffs last week," Arthur added, "But obviously, the baton works on a shorter range. I'm sure you'll be able to show us how to work it, though, Reno." Yeah. Forethought. Letting Reno lead the reserves.

"There's plenty you gotta remember when playin' with your rod," Reno mused, a deliberate little smirk toying over his lips. "First, like Arthur said, it's short-range. You're goin' up against someone with better reach, like staffs or swords, then you're gonna have to be faster, or damn good at takin' hits, yo." He gave the baton a swing, then, moving forward with a speed... that wasn't quite human. He hadn't done this around here in a while. He felt like showing off. "There's your drawback, slowpokes. The upside is, this puppy's a one-handed weapon, which frees up your other hand for anything you might need it for, from grabbin' your opponent by the throat to flippin' them the bird if they're pissin' you off." Shut up. That was totally important. "Bein' for closer range, you might wanna rely more on other things at your disposal, too. What your baton can't reach, your feet sure as hell should, yo. So while they're watchin' the stick in your hand, bust their jaw with a good kick. You ain't workin' with a bladed weapon, here. Speed's your best friend, because the faster you swing, the harder the hit. Blunt-force trauma, kiddies. It does wonders, zoto."

Reno was a terrible influence.

A terrible influence who had brought enough lead pipes batons for everybody here to play with. Please, don't kill one another.

[Open!]

Sometimes, being a TA rocked.

Other times, Reno ended up standing at a campfire in a black tutu, cute ribbons, and mime make-up, absolutely certain that he hadn't had nearly enough alcohol to be able to do this without crawling under something to die, afterward.

Perhaps surprisingly, getting the tutu had been the easy part. Being a Turk meant that he had connections... well. Everywhere. Ones that tended not to ask questions.

Look! He was in a box! An invisible box! And he could not get out! And he hated you all!

The timer on his phone went off, and he broke into a loud, rousing chorus of I'm a Little Teapot, complete with hand-actions, before he went back into shock-silent mime mode again. Still in that box. Still hating you all.

Marcel Marceau would be rolling over in his grave, right about then.

[So, so open.]

Reno was in a pretty good mood tonight, really. And so he decided that tonight was going to be the night that he named his ferret.

He just... still had no clue how to go about doing so.

That was why Reno and ferret were both plopped down on the couch in the fourth floor common room, flipping through channels on the television set. While Reno doubted that there was a program on the TV that was specifically geared toward ferret-naming, perhaps inspiration could strike at any moment.

In the meantime, there was a murder mystery on the TV. And a baby ferret trying to bury the remote under the couch cushions.

[Open, as common rooms tend to be!]

It was Sunday morning. And Reno the awesomely-detailed-action-figure-dammit was sitting outside, by the Lupus firepit. Grumpily.

There was no fire, as plastic and fire didn't tend to get along with one another very well.

There was no booze, as most of Reno's stash of bottles happened to be larger than him.

There was just a firepit. And a very grumpy piece of eight-inch-tall molded plastic.

[Open! As fireless firepits tend to be!]

The afternoon had seemed as good a time as any for Reno to wander out to the campfire after making sure all his crap was still in place in his alcove. Paranoia meant that he was going to be taking extra measures this summer to make certain that his things didn't walk off on him. Not that there was anyone in particular who he had his eye on, really, but when you grow up in a 'take what you can get' atmosphere, sometimes it's tough to get your head around it. He missed having a single room with a lock on the door already.

Which was why, when he finally wandered out of his alcove and to the campfire, it was with an armload of bottles. Tequila, scotch, rum, and Everclear. The important things in life. The stuff he'd be choked over if anyone happened to snatch them. Sharing, he was good by. Sure, he'd share. Light up a fire and hoard his booze, but share, sure.

Ah, first day of classes, a campfire lit, a stash of booze by his side, and not a class for Reno to worry about.

He could live with that.

[Open for all you afternoon drinkers. Or whoever. <3]

The order of the evening was bacon, mushroom, and class-assignment eggbaby omelets.

Reno was making them in the third-floor common room. He figured, the farther down the floors he went, the better a chance he had of letting the smell waft up to floors higher up to make eggbaby parents regret not eating their assignments, too.

There was really only one eggbaby going into the omelet, of course, because letting everyone else run around like idiots taking care of chicken eggs was too damn amusing to interrupt, but he had brought along another couple dozen actual eggs, and there was plenty of late-night omelet to go around.

All things considered, children happened to taste pretty good.