Rude, a power outage, and the dangers of drunken tattooing.
When the power was cut off, and the slums were lit only by the dim glow of emergency lights, people went a little bit crazy. They vandalized buildings, broke into houses and stole whatever they could carry. Some people would start impromptu orgies, pulling passers-by into the action without a qualm, because no one could see a damn thing anyway.
Some of the seedier tattoo artists in the slums had an odd tradition that they indulged in whenever the power died. They would head out into the streets when the power died, carrying a few six-packs and battery-powered flashlights and tattoo guns. They'd offer anyone brave enough a drink or three and a free tattoo, which could sometimes get rather interesting, since they would've usually indulded in a few drinks of their own already.
It was during one of these power outages in Sector Four that Rude had decided that he was thirsty enough to give their offer a shot. He hadn't been a Turk then, although he'd been Reno's partner and trainee of sorts; if the crazy redhead hadn't been so damn lazy, he probably would've gotten Rude into the organization long before that night. Still, Rude had known from the start that he was big enough, strong enough and intimidating enough to convince the other trainees not to get in his damn way if they wanted to keep breathing. He had known he would get in; it would just be a matter of time.
At any rate, Rude had already been half-drunk that night - he'd been at a bar when the lights had gone out - and he'd thought he had something to prove about both his ability to hold his booze and his high threshold for pain. The tattoo had sounded like a wonderful idea.
He didn't remember much about it - thanks to too much beer, not enough sleep the night before, or maybe a little something else slipped into the booze - except that it had hurt like a bitch in all the wrong places. Ultimately he'd woken up on his stomach in some seedy tattoo parlor, wincing at the bright lights that were shining into the corners of his eyes - the lights had been turned back on sometime during the night, as usual. He'd tried to stand up without any real success. Unfortunately, a preliminary attempt at sitting down had been even worse. He probably would've really hurt himself if an apologetic and badly hung-over artist hadn't ran in and stopped him, gotten him back on his stomach on the dirty cot and offered him a milkshake and some materia.
Even with constant healing, courtesy of a weak, underdeveloped bit of Cure materia provided by his reluctant host, it still took four days for him to get up on his feet, and a week to be able to sit down without something down there protesting. He supposed he ought to be grateful that he'd been given that materia; he'd heard horror stories about those things. Some of them took weeks to heal unaided, especially if they got infected. He'd been lucky.
Still, even after the worst of it had healed, he still had a permanent reminder of his indiscretion. The tattoo curved like a drunkard's roadmap from the small of his back to his lower thighs, ending in shaky curlicues just above the backs of his knees. It screamed for attention whenever he was in the showers at the Shinra building, just daring anyone and everyone to laugh at him.
Reno had laughed at it once. But just once; Rude had made sure of that.
A/N: A one-hundred-word drabble that grew up somehow. The idea amuses me so much that I can't help but share.