A/N: Wow, I'm pathetic. It's 1:30 in the morning, I'm writing dumb fanfiction while chewing my way through the 10 hours of j-rock, soundtrack, and MCR that's currently on this computer.

This is a continuation of Tin Soldiers. It's the same man, and it's up to you to supply his name and appearance, because I'm going to go as far as I can without giving any details about him personally. He could be an original character, he could be a canon character. It doesn't really matter. This is the story of the war told through the cynical eyes of a boy endured by trials far too rough for his age. Which you'll have to think up too.

I'm only working off what I know about the Midgar-Wutai war, which isn't much because they really don't give much information, so I'm mostly winging it.

Concrit is gorgeous, guys and gals, and depending on feedback I'll see whether to continue. My little Reno story has unfortunately been frozen in the world's biggest block so let me try and get back to that... someday.

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They poke and prod me through the door of the bunker. It slams shut on me and I'm left staring at it, wondering how it is that cages can keep people out just as well as it can keep them in. Still pondering this rather feeble thought I step over to join four more men in my rank, facing forward towards a superior (or so he calls himself) officer. He's certainly superior in stature, a large man whose custom-cut uniform still manages to strain itself at the buttons. Pins cover the left side of his jacket - I'm personally surprised that he hasn't fallen over from the weight of the damn things yet.

He barks a command in a harsh grating tone that scrapes across my eardrums, causing me to wince inwardly, and I obey unconsciously, not even really immediately aware of what the order was - only that I responded correctly. It's not really until later I realize he said "Attention", but it doesn't matter, because listening to him is really the last thing on my mind.

He begins briefing us on the situation, his voice still the same sandpaper texture it was when he was giving us orders. I try not to listen - he's giving me a bloody headache. I stand perfectly still but my eyes still wander about, taking in the scenery - the countryside of the Wutaian continent, which I'm sure would be really nice if we weren't, say, trying to completely destroy it - the weather, hell, anything I can so as not to focus on the task at hand.

I guess he noticed though, because he stops his tirade mid-sentence and closes his mouth. His eyes narrow and he walks up to me, trying to tower over me but failing miserably, mainly because he's only about an inch taller than I am. He contents himself with staring at me as evilly as I can, and I'm almost completely unfazed, except for the fact that at this range I can easily see the acid rim eating away at the natural colour of his beady little eyes. God damn it. I can't stand that damn crazy tinge of green. I can't escape it. I can hardly look at myself in the mirror in the mornings for fear of finding one day that my eyes are no longer a blue-grey, but instead purely that unnatural and unnerving shade of green I despise so much. Though of course I get over that, because it's hard to shave without looking at a reflection.

"So," he growls at me. "You look a little dazed."

I say nothing.

"What's the matter, boy?" he asks, obviously losing patience even though he tries to disguise it. "Turk got your tongue?"

Still nothing.

"How about this, then, soldier?" He blinks for the first time. "Repeat to me what I just said."

I betray no emotion - because really, there aren't any to betray - and say simply, "I couldn't possibly, sir."

"And why is that? Mako on the brain?"

"I wasn't listening." Simple as that.

"Ah. I see. And why is that?"

"Didn't feel like it." Watching the vein bulge in his forehead is extremely satisfying.

Silence... then, "Drop and give me forty." I of course obey, because I'm done with my fun for right now. He knows just as well as I do that forty pushups aren't going to put a dent in the stamina of a SOLDIER, 1st class or otherwise, but I suppose he thinks it'll teach me a lesson. I get up, brush myself off, pick up my weapon, and fall back into ranks, but not without a glance at the soldier standing to my left, who is doing a very good job of concealing a slight smirk of appreciation.

"Now then," our superior says, "where was I..."