A/N: This story is almost PWP, however I tried to add a semblance of a plot and a little bit of background information. It should be noted that it does get fairly violent/graphic. There isn't a whole lot of reference to the Nazis; it's mostly in passing. I did use a few German terms, which should be understandable in the context of the story. Some of it is purposefully incorrect, and some of the uniforms described are from different years/sects. Any other ignorance is entirely my own. And, despite this story being pre-CC, Sephiroth is more or less post-insanity. Kadaj's age during that time period is also ignored. Dea Noctis asked for SephirothxKadaj with some sort of WWII background involving the Hitler Youth. I absolutely would not have been able to do this story without her kind encouragement and ideas. I hope it's everything you wanted!


It was first light. The barracks smelled of sweat and dirty clothes. An ugly light from an old bulb glared down on their heads as they quickly began to dress in the coolness of early morning. It was the first day of what they had been told would be nothing short of hell. They seemed to hold a collective breath, barely speaking except in harsh whispers from dry, gritty throats. Kadaj did not speak at all, perfectly content to ignore his fellows. Their nervous chatter made him grind his teeth irritably as he quickly did up his bed with a precision that was the consequence of daily practice. He was not concerned for what was to come. He knew he would fare well regardless of what tests they were put to, mental or physical. The only aspect of his training he lacked confidence in was his ability to please the great General. For that very reason, he had lost sleep.

The night had been drafty and he had found himself shifting in the scratchy cotton sheets, playing in his mind over and over their disastrous first meeting. He would have done anything to change the outcome of that encounter; the humiliation almost made him lose his calm. He could feel the prickles of humiliation creep up the back of his neck, accompanied by a misplaced fear. He shook his head, defiant against the thoughts that were crumbling his once very solid resolve. He had a lot to do, and dwelling on what could have happened was both futile and harmful. Kadaj knew he needed to have his mind clear of any alien thoughts of failure or uncertainty. He had never been weak before, and he wasn't going to start. He checked one of the filthy, scratched mirrors, raising an eyebrow at his own reflection.

They bore a resemblance to one another that could not be denied. His silver hair was slightly past his shoulders, having grown out during the past summer. It fell in soft layers, uneven due to lack of maintenance. His eyes were the same sea-green as the General's, the iris flecked with yellow, making them appear more animal than human. His pupils were mere slits, gone wide in the low light. He adjusted his uniform, smoothing out imagined wrinkles. A single Sig Rune marked his sleeve. He eyed it with a frown, fingers lightly tracing over the design, then up to the blue Oberbann sewn into the shoulder of his jacket. They had been instructed to dress their best, even wearing the small, billed caps decorated with silken ropes that were generally only used for special occasions. He yanked his lapels, taking a breath, his eyes losing focus.

"Never seem to get tired of staring at your reflection, do you?"

Kadaj's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

"At least I have something worth looking at," he responded icily, turning to face his antagonist. "I wouldn't want to have to stare at your face every morning."

"You've got a mouth on you. That's alright, I'm sure you won't last the week," the older boy smirked, rows of uneven, yellowed teeth making Kadaj grimace inwardly in distaste.

They had been thrown together like cattle to be herded, with no concern over age or social status. The older boys were expected to be tougher on the younger ones. The weak were not allowed in a den of wolves, that much Kadaj knew. He expected to be bullied and mistreated, if the night previous been any indication. They had nothing to do but survive, and that often meant tearing at those with perceived weaknesses. Kadaj's thin frame and androgynous looks might have gone over well in a more civilized setting, however when he was in a group of riled teenage boys it became nothing more than a troublesome burden. He let the insult slide over his shoulders effortlessly, using his hardened personality to his advantage. He wasn't going to be bothered by schoolboy taunts. He brushed past the older boy, eyes flicking to the name badge inconspicuously.

He'd remember the name.


"Line up, let's go."

Their instructor watched them with a look that bordered on disgust, even as they managed to arrange themselves in alphabetical order. He wore a dark, hunter green uniform, a stark contrast to the tan that Kadaj wore. A thin patch on the left arm of the coat beneath the traditional Swastika band declared his title, "Ordensburgen", along with several other patches showing his ascent through the ranks. He too wore a hat like the boys did-the same officer's cap with gold accents and a proud iron eagle with a small Swastika in its clutches-though his was more ornate. The man's eyes were like blue chunks of ice, cold and uncompromising and depthless. A long, jagged scar lined his jaw all the way to his temple where it disappeared into his somewhat receded hairline. He had a cropped haircut that made his blond hair seem darker than it was, and his uniform was perfectly pressed, as though he'd been made on an assembly line. His boots shone brilliantly, even in the soft light of morning.

"I'm your new drill sergeant. Name's Echols, and I don't give a shit who you are."

He grinned broadly, to emphasize his point. He had small, jagged teeth, and when his thin lips crinkled and pulled back, he looked even more sinister than ever.

"You're here because you think you're good enough. Well, I have news for you: you aren't. I want you to look first to your left, then to your right. That's right, take a good look."

Echol's seemed pleased with himself, enjoying his private joke. His grin was wetter than ever, saliva gleaming on his pointed, fang-like teeth.

The boys did as they were told, warily taking in those beside them. Kadaj did not bother to look, instead he blankly stared ahead, ignoring the curious glances being shot in his direction. They most definitely remembered him from yesterday, he noted in annoyance. His nostrils flared slightly as he clenched his hand in one of his long sleeves. One thing he couldn't stand was being stared at like he was a specimen rather than a human being. He had made an impression because of his actions, whether he had meant to or not. Kadaj had never been one to hold back his opinion or even his fist.

"Out of all of you, only one of the pricks you're looking at-or you, if you're lucky-is gonna be good enough to stay. Two out of three fail this course. There's a trench on the edge of the property if you'd like to look at your fellow failures. Let's get fucking started." He spit on the ground with relish, icy eyes glinting madly.


Kadaj ran much better than most, though he wouldn't let them know it, not just yet, anyway. He kept pace with the leader, always a mere two steps behind. It was good to keep your enemies close-that had been proven-and he only smiled secretively as he dogged the steps of the older boy from earlier. His name was Evan Black, and as far as Kadaj was concerned, that boy was never going make it through the week-long course, even if it took sabotage. Black would end up in the trench Echol's spoke of, and if Kadaj was smart enough, it wouldn't even be by his own hands.

"Come on you pieces of shit, move! Fucking Wutai whores!"

Echols was pounding into the dirt like a lion on the heels of a gazelle, barking orders and taunts at them as he trailed the slower boys of the group. Though they had all passed many fitness tests before attending the camp, some of the boys had already begun to lag behind, not used to the endurance required of anything over a few miles. They were nearing the fifteen mile mark and it was beginning to rain. They had five more miles to go, and though it did not take much effort for Kadaj because of his physical aptitude, even his enemy was having trouble keeping the breakneck pace. Echols seemed to be herding them from behind, going faster and faster, making their legs burn and their lungs struggle to endure.

One of the boys had finally succumbed to his exhaustion, slowing to a walk. It didn't take Echols long to turn around to pursue his newfound victim. The boy was breathing in short gasps, his cheeks ruddy from exertion. He was half bent over himself, sweaty hands on his thighs as he walked. His chest rose and fell erratically, and he bowed his head in shame as his instructor approached him. Some of the boys who were still forging ahead looked over their shoulders at the spectacle, running into one another in their bid to see how their classmate would be punished. Kadaj paid none of it any mind, listening only to his footfalls, ignoring the cruel words whispered breathily by his companions, who were sneering at the boy's expense.

He could clearly hear the sound of metal striking flesh. There was an agonized shriek that tore through the air, heard even above the rain which had begun to fall thickly. Another echoing 'ping' as a baton found its mark. He could hear Echols curse, and the boy who had been unwise enough to fall behind, scream with the abandon of someone badly wounded. Even then, he did not look back, though the sound was so familiar it took nearly all his willpower not to flinch in remembrance. How many times had he himself made that sound? How many times had he heard others do the same?

He quickened his pace even more, finally closing in on Black with purpose. Echols was far back; he toyed with the idea of doing something unsavory to the older boy in front of him. Images, both gruesome and violent, flashed in his mind's eye, like a film reel spliced with random bursts of murder. He'd see the dirt, then he'd picture Black all bloody and bruised, curled in a fetal position. He knew it wasn't normal, the thoughts he had, even amongst people who fought others for a living. He felt his pulse begin to race at the thrill of his internal disobedience. The air and rain suddenly felt cold on his face as a chilled sweat descended on him. It was the result of both fear and desire. Fear because he knew he had gone too far already; he was lucky he had not been discharged from the camp his very first day, and desire because somehow murder and brutality were in his very nature.

He shook his head, flinging his wet hair out of his eyes, willing himself to be controlled. It wasn't as though he needed anymore trouble, no matter how tempting the thought was. His impulsiveness had always caused him problems. He found it hard to deny himself the things he wanted. He wondered at times, why anyone thought there was a point to doing such a thing. He took a deep breath, then with a steely resolve borne of his shredded self-control, he forced his pace to quicken. The ground was wet, causing mud to cling to his shined patent boots and onto his once-clean beige slacks, and onto Black who was suddenly beside him. The rain was already soaking through his clothes, and had he not been running with such abandon, he might have shivered in the coolness of the morning. They had left their hats behind, and he was grateful, for it would have been nothing but a soggy mess, and possibly lost to the muddy ground.

His senses told him that Black was several paces behind, and his breathing was too heavy for him to be able to produce another surge of energy to compromise Kadaj's postion at the front of the pack. Kadaj had not finished, but he knew he had already won.

By the time the entire group was finished, five of the original twenty-five had fallen prey to the rage of their willful drill instructor. When Echols finally approached the halted group, his dark uniform was stained with what Kadaj easily deduced was blood, though it was hard to see the extent of how much in the rain. The five boys were missing too, he noted, and Echols had a strange gleam in his eyes that made Kadaj stiffen defensively like an animal cornered. Kadaj had a good idea of what had become of them, though he would not voice his opinion. He merely watched the instructor with suspicion, making sure to stay at arm's length.

"Who finished first?" Echols growled, eyeing the exhausted boys, most of which were doubled over or clutching at their sides, futilely attempting to catch their breath.

There was no response for a moment, just the sound of the rain pattering on the ground and uneven breaths.

Black looked as though he was about to respond, but Kadaj beat him to it, smiling slightly at his newfound enemy, while directing his words at the instructor. "Me, sir."

"Oh?" Echols seemed to take the young man in for the first time, stopping when his eyes wandered to the tangled silver hair. "You don't look like much of a runner."

Echols's gaze was heavy with withheld judgment. His eyes were sharp and intelligent, watchful and secretive, as though he knew something the boy didn't and he'd find it just by looking.

"Nothing is what it seems," Kadaj responded, not once avoiding the stern man's gaze. Authority had never frightened him, and he didn't like the way Echols's was blatantly sizing him up.

"Did I ask for a fucking reply, boy?" Echols spat angrily, approaching quickly.

Kadaj bristled, but stood his ground. Suddenly the man's sun-damaged face was inches from his own, breathing a sick, animalistic breath that stunk of something long ago rotted into his face, offending his sensitive nose. Much to his credit, Kadaj refused to acknowledge his discomfort, feet firmly panted in the squashy, uneven ground. He even dared to bring his face closer to the older man's, plainly displaying his contempt and lack of fear.

"No, but I thought I'd give one," he answered with a smirk.

Kadaj was backhanded so hard he staggered, but did not fall to the ground. His eyes burned and his cheek and jaw stung, reddening almost instantly. He could not seem to resist the urge to speak out; he had never been very good at keeping himself in check, even when he made an effort of it. He had no weapon but his own confidence, but even that could not sway him to see what others called reason. To Kadaj, a fight was a fight and there was no reasoning about it.

"For a drill sergeant, you don't hit very hard," Kadaj intoned darkly, popping his jaw audibly.

Kadaj's arrogant smile matched his tone, and his pupils had narrowed to little more than black slashes over green irises.

The other boys had already backed away from the escalating scene, though most looked more than a little amused, and snickered like a pack of hyenas descending on a downed animal. None, however, had the gall to say or do anything that might implicate them. They were first and foremost survivors, and survivors had no reason to become involved in something that would likely get them killed.

The first swing of the baton missed. Echols was predictable, throwing far too much effort into the motion and overextending himself. Kadaj was not yet as physically strong as some of the others, but he was more than twice as fast. He watched each of the actions, studying the way the sergeant moved, and the angle of his swings and the power behind them. Kadaj backed easily away from him, ducking and dodging each of the practiced blows. It seemed to only increase the instructor's frustration and rage.

It didn't take long before the swings became more frantic, and Echols practically snarled in his fury. Just as Kadaj was beginning to think he had been foolish to mind the imbecile, he slipped in the slick mud, causing him to lean more to the right as he staggered, putting him directly in the path of the raging instructor. The blow was enough to make his head erupt in a fiery agony instantaneously. He could feel the crunch of his skull as the metal baton made contact-could hear it in his ears-which rang to the point of deafness.

His fall was hard and uncalculated. He landed on his side, just in time for Echols to land another strike to his abdomen. Kadaj had the foresight to roll away from the next blow, though the move left him sprawled out in the mud and vulnerable. He didn't know if he could stand. His vision was blurring around the edges and the pain was excruciating. He could hardly think. His head felt strangely light and unattached, but he had spent his young, short life being beat on and nearly killed, and no matter what the pain, an insane sense of self-preservation allowed him to move into a crouch.

Everything in him was screaming he'd made a mistake, that he'd calculated wrong. Echols was much more than he seemed-the irony, Kadaj thought humorlessly-and there was little chance of escaping his wrath without a proper weapon to defend himself from the bone-shattering blows. Kadaj's fingers dug deep into the mud, the grit getting under his fingernails. It felt like minutes had passed, but it had only been seconds when the drill sergeant made to hit him again. This time, however, Kadaj was ready for him, even as his vision darkened considerably. With some preserved reservoir of anger, Kadaj swung at the older man, a jagged, porous lava rock in his hand. He hit the blond man in the temple, with enough force to send the man tumbling to the ground in pain and confusion.

Kadaj willed himself to stand. He felt weak and light-headed. His vision was almost useless and he felt his consciousness closing in on him. But he didn't have long; Echols was likely made of tough stock and would get up. His mind raced for a solution, but only one came to mind. He knew he was in no condition to fight, and though he was loathe to run, he feared death if he did not. If he could only get hold of a sword or gun…

The young man forced himself upright, groaning in pain. The scenery spun around his head, making his stomach lurch, while the rain cascading down his face felt both soothing and painful. The others had been smart enough to continue to stay back, wishing no part in the matter. Kadaj cursed himself for being so rash, but he knew he would never have behaved differently. It was not in him to obey those he had little or no respect for. Echols appeared to be nothing more than a full-grown bully, which didn't sit well with him. There was only one man he would blindly obey, and because of his actions he was unlikely to get a warm welcome anytime in the future. The thought pained him.

His instincts told him to flee, and for a moment he deeply considered it. Blood was running down his cheek, catching on the corner of his mouth. It was cold from the air, and copperish as he inadvertently licked at his dry lips. He held a hand to the gash on his head, making his vision swim dangerously. With a snarl, he rose fully to his feet, swaying in disorientation. He'd been hit hard, hard enough that there was definitely extensive damage. He still didn't know how he hadn't passed out from such a harsh hit to the head. But he had always been different, and it was one of the rare moments where it came as an advantage. People might hate him and look down on him, but he took pride in the fact that they would never be on the same level physically. He could live through things they could scarcely imagine; he had proven that to himself already. He looked small and weak, but that belied the spirit inside that never seemed to just lay down and die like people so often wanted.

He stood immobile, against all the warnings in his mind. He would not run. He may have been cruel and a liar, but the one thing he was not was a coward. The thought of being dragged off the campus as a sniveling, craven troublemaker in front of the very man he had sworn to impress, hurt him greatly. It was hardly any better to do what he was considering doing, but at least it wasn't the weaker choice.

He cared not about Echols's physical condition; the man could die for all he cared. But when he thought of the General, his mind began to fill with a sudden panic.

All of his life he had wanted more than anything to be under the General Sephiroth's command. He had fought tooth and nail to prove himself better than his comrades. He knew he was exceptional in some ways, and that if he worked at it hard enough, he would one day meet his idol directly. He had seen the man many times in passing, heard of his great feats and had been admittedly curious about the strange resemblance they shared. It had taken four years, but finally Kadaj had been chosen for the Jugendbund on scholarship. He had no means to pay his way, instead having to earn it. The camp was part of their initiation, were they able to survive it. Only the most physically fit and the most intelligent would be officiated into the group. He had nearly been refused because of his constant disobedience, and had only been allowed to come to the camp on the condition that he would be on his best behavior. Just hours after arriving he had gotten into a fight with one of the other boys.

The dispute ended with Kadaj stuffing a half-eaten bread roll into his opponent's mouth as he pinned him to the cold stone floor. The rowdy group of boys cheered him on, though they had not become involved in the confrontation. He had been disgusted by their lack of courage; they had come across as nothing more than a group of squabbling omegas. They deserved pain more than anyone, he had decided then. Kadaj himself had never had a problem with conflict, as he was rarely one to run. It was not in him to back down, of that he was certain. To do so would be against everything he believed.

He watched as Echols attempted to right himself on all fours, the baton awkward in his short-fingered hands, and sloppy in the mud. Kadaj once again stood his ground, calmed by the sudden clarity of his mind. He was already going to be let go from the camp, but he would make sure that he went away with the General Sephiroth's full attention, regardless.

Each movement made his head pound, but just as Echols was about to rise, the boy landed a brutal kick to the man's stomach. The drill sergeant let out a ragged huff of pain, but swiftly grabbed for one of Kadaj's boots, catching the boy unawares. He was on his ass before he had a chance to yank himself away. Kadaj cursed, tearing off his boot in a bid to get out of the older man's iron-like grasp. The fight was slippery in the mud, and even Echols, who seemed to be less bad off than his charge, was having trouble finding traction.

There was whooping and hollering from the other boys as Kadaj managed to barely escape another punishing strike from the mud-slicked weapon. He had already made a grab for it, only to be knocked back easily. Echols, though short, was burly in comparison to Kadaj's lithe build. Kadaj had lost most of his speed due to his injury; any quick movement might put him out. He was fighting to stay upright and his vision was worsening to the point where he felt as though he was looking through a tunnel.

It was through sheer luck that he was able to land a hit on Echols. It was not as hard of punch as he would have liked, though it was good enough to disorient the instructor momentarily. Kadaj again made a move to snatch away the baton, not realizing the stupidity of his assumption through his haze. It was too late when he recognized he had come too close to the man. As his hand grazed the weapon, Echols lashed out, not half as incapacitated as he seemed, all too ready to strike at a prey that had wandered too near.

Kadaj was on the ground in seconds. Everything was fading, and even in his head-splitting agony, he fought to keep his eyes open. The fight in him was strong, but not strong enough to hold off the inevitable. His mind screamed protest, even as all the light filtered out and the sound of the relentless rain drifted away.