Scars are a roadmap of your life
The earliest one he had memory of was the one on his forehead, just below the hairline. The first time he remembered his mom hitting him. He knew she'd done it before, of course, but he must've been too young to remember the earlier ones. He definitely remembered that one, though; backhanded him so hard his head connected with the dresser. Motherfucker bled like a stuck Chocobo, his mom crouched down next to him with a wet washcloth, blubbering that she was sorry (because she was always sorry after the fact), trying to get it to stop.
Head wounds bleed like nobody's business.
The knife scar on his left forearm (so faint it was almost invisible) was the product of wandering into the wrong neighborhood. He'd been lucky he was smaller and quicker than any of the bastards chasing him; otherwise he likely wouldn't have been around to explain where it came from.
The major ones; the scars on either side of his face, were the price he paid to get away from hustling, his pimp and Sector Seven. Did they hurt? Of course they did! You have someone do unlicensed cosmetic surgery on your cheekbones with a straight razor and see how much it tickles!
He actually thought they'd healed pretty good. Couldn't go to a doctor, so he'd held the edges together with industrial tape. Later, after he joined the Turks, he'd gotten them tattooed because it attracted attention.
The weird one on his upper back? The one that looked like writing? A drunken attempt by a knife-wielding Tseng to welcome him to the Turks by carving RENO in Wutain kanji. He suspected it hadn't worked, because it was a long time before Tseng could look at him in the locker room and not start snorting.
He'd asked Rude once what it said, and he'd just shrugged. Some things, he supposed, he were better off not knowing.
The ones on his chest were from his first mission as a Turk. He's dropped the plate on Sector Seven without a second's hesitation, but damned if those bastards from AVALANCHE hadn't made it twice as hard as it should've been. Four broken ribs, a punctured lung, and numerous shrapnel scars, though he actually got medical help for these ones. One of the perks of his position-you had unlimited access to the best medical care available in Midgar. Still fucking hated doctors, though.
Gunshot scars? Five at last count. The most serious one? The one that damn near shattered his collarbone. He came within half a millimeter of being invalided out of the Turks. As it was, it had taken six months of rehab before he could go back to work.
That'd been when he and Rude finally got together. So it's not like it was a total loss.
One in his left upper thigh; so shallow he'd dug the bullet out himself and hadn't bothered to go to the ER. A matching one on his right leg, though with that one, the bullet had passed through.
One on his chest. Fucker missed his heart by a hair and hit his lung instead. Another stint in the hospital, and the damn thing left him permanently short-winded. Not so much he couldn't do his job, but enough to make it a bitch.
That one? The one in his lower abdomen on the right side? That had been when he'd saved Rude's life.
Or tried to. A couple more inches towards the middle, and it would've worked.