Tseng keeps his desk immaculate. Bare, even. The wood is almost black, and it gleams, thanks to the few extra gil that he slips the custodial crew every week. The surface of the desk has an embedded leather panel, and the dark red leather is almost silky to the touch. The drawers in the desk are also almost empty, except for the two largest drawers on the bottom. That’s where Tseng stores all of the files that he can’t be bothered to put back, and every so many weeks, he eventually has to spend a few hours filing, unless, of course, one of the Turks has done something to land them on desk work.
Reno uses one of the standard metal desks in the bullpen of the Turks’ floor, and old files litter the surface. What most people don’t notice is that there’s nothing personal about Reno’s desk. The only things there are the scattered shiny things that the other Turks put there, the ridiculously gaudy model of the Gold Saucer that Rude gave him, and the files he keeps there are not on his own jobs. Only “research, yo.” He works on his reports when he’s alone in the office, so that no one can watch him cross-reference his written grammar with the textbook he’s been studying. The drawers of his desk, however, are filled with all kinds of things, from a change of clothes to snacks.
Rude’s desk is easily the messiest desk in the office. There’s always at least two coffee cups on it and a half-consumed energy drink (Furied Bull is an office favorite), and in addition to the regular files, there’s additional paperwork regarding the management of the explosives the department uses. Plus, it doesn’t help that every little thing that Reno has picked up and handed him throughout the course of their partnership seems to end up on his desk. He stays about a week behind on his reports, thanks to the fact that he just hates doing his paperwork.
Elena has the worst desk in the bullpen, courtesy of being the Rookie. One leg is shorter than the other three, and the desk is under the vent so that she’s too cold or too hot, depending on whether the air or heat is on. But it’s also the desk that gives her a clear view of the Director’s door, and she learns a lot from watching as subtly as possible, so she doesn’t complain about it. She decorates her desk with a standard issue set of supplies from storage: a pen holder (which is mysteriously filled with pens that have huge bright flowers on the end) and calendar (which ends up with every birthday and important date marked on it after a few days) and wire mesh file holder. Her second day in the office, a frame appears on her desk, her Elite Emblems already pinned in place in it, and she leaves it where she can see it. Where she can remind herself of everything that she’s sacrificed for this.
Reeve has no idea who picked out his desk. It appeared in his office years ago, sometime shortly after he made Head of Urban Development, from the plain heavy wooden desk that had been in the office, to a sleek metal-framed one. The desk has a pale blonde wood surface, and while normally it might be a bit plain, this particular one has a trick. The entire top comes up and readjusts to double as a drafting table, and Reeve hates to admit it, but whoever picked out the desk for him knew what he needed. He has set up a second, matching desk beside it to create a corner space, and printed reports with their handwritten notes often cover the surface. There’s a potted plant in the corner, and whenever he gets a new one, he takes the old one to his mother in Five. In the bottom desk drawer, Reeve keeps an expensive bottle of whiskey for when there’s a Turk in his office.
Rufus takes a page each from both Tseng and Reeve’s respective books: his desk is almost entirely bare of any personal effects, but there is always a tidy pile of reports with extensive handwritten notes. His computer terminal is more front-and-center than the others because he spends more time handling emails and digital work. He has a fancy docking system for his PHS and PDA that he rarely remembers to use. Unlike the others, his desk drawers are always empty, and he makes certain that he keeps all of his essentials in his briefcase instead of in his desk.
Sephiroth can rarely see the surface of his desk. There’s simply too many files that he’s always supposed to sign, too many things demanding his attention. It doesn’t help that when he does get time to sit at his desk, he often spends that time skimming the pages of whatever novel Rufus has convinced him to read instead. Once a month, when orders come down with that couched, delicate phrasing, asking him if he needs more time with those reports, he will break down and spend the whole night signing everything so it can finally leave his desk, but only if Rufus will come by and read to him. He claims that it’s to let Rufus practice for the speeches he’ll one day deliver, but the truth is, Sephiroth simply likes hearing him talk.