A/N:
Okay, I'm back! I don't know if I have any previous followers from my last story (Re: Requiem for the Lost and Forgotten) and I'm sorry for all who grew interested and invested in that one, but my voice has changed too much to continue. Like, I started it a long time ago, even before when I'd posted it. So yeah. can't continue (awkward). Anyway, I thought that I was ultimately finished with fan fiction but they announced a remake and I was like: ADASIUHIAUDSHSDU MUST WRITE MORE. So I started, and well, this is what I've created.
I need to warn anyone who proceeds that this will not only be a slow burn in story development, but it's also going to heavily feature a cast of OC's for the vast majority of the first few chapters. In fact, there will be no canon characters for awhile. If that doesn't interest you - I totally get it. Click on, I won't take it personally. To all of those who remain, think of this beginning as more of an exploration of the FF7 world. I have the utmost intention of weaving the canon characters into my story, and plan on them being central to the plot, but this is not their story.
If I have any old readers (hi guys!) think of this as a sort of reboot of Requiem of the Lost and Forgotten- it's completely different, but not? Ahh, whatever. Doesn't matter.
Year: 0007
There are a few who steep so low as to sift through the piles of trash pressed up against the side of the alleyway. Beyond the dangers that lie in wait under torn trash bags and broken furniture, to be seen by either a friend by an acquaintance leads to a complete ostracization from community members. While what you may see in that pile of trash is potential remedies and saving graces from a difficult life, they see a friend how has fallen too low; a friend who has now become the slum dwellers that the people above the plate see us all to be. The irony in these judgments is underneath harsh critiques, we all want desperately to be able to sneak around to scour and not be seen. Sometimes we trick ourselves into believing that there is truly too little light that comes down into the slums for us to be seen, and that there are so many of us that we can be lost, briefly, amongst the poverty for long enough for us to grab that half used potion bottle, peaking from beneath some dirty rags and rotting food. Because, god, we need that potion-it could be a matter of life and death for us-and if we were quick, who would notice? But no. We cannot. We may not live above the plate, but we are above that. And so we walk passed that half used bottle of potion with our chins held high with our ego's intact, all while our resources dwindle and our health plummets.
These are the unsaid rules of the slums.
I feel as though the potion calls to me as I strut passed it, and there is a desperation growing in me to turn around and pounce on the potion, but I restrain myself and continue my trek homeward bound. Men on the streets call "mami, mami, give me a kiss, mami," and make kissy noises as they pucker their lips at me. Their affections, If I were to call them that, are quickly turned sour the moment I step beyond them. They call me "bitch," along with more obscenities. "You not gonna say hi back?" one shouts after me, "You not all that. You not all that." But then they all laugh, mockingly at me, as if it were all one big joke to begin with.
I pass through the marketplace, which happens to be a place that people above the plate gather, taking their fill of the slum life. Visibly wealthy teens gather in circles, lounging across storefronts while taking puffs of cigarettes and laughing loudly. The type was not uncommon. I'd talked to a few of them when I found myself curious to who they were-and how confused they seemed to be. They'd say things like, "I feel more myself when I'm here," or, "this is real life-not the fake bullshit on the plate. Money isn't everything." I'd nod along in agreement, though in reality, I'd resent them, even hate them. Why would this be better than the sky? Why would they want hardship over the ease? What benefit came from grumbling stomachs and broken personalities? The air they carried was fresh and odorless, and they bore no scars and their clothing was vibrant, even when dirty. That was enough to make me hate them. They left when they grew uncomfortable or tired, and returned when they started to grow bored of the security in the plate. We, on the other hand, could not leave so easily. And in the nights when the tourists would leave and return to their warm beds in big rooms with dressers and bookshelves and decorations, we'd still be thinking about that potion, which we really could've used.
I stop to watch a group of teenagers as the anger bubbles inside of me. I want to walk up to them and shout at them to go back to their Pizza Slice, but there are many of them and only one of me. The group is uniform in their style. Black shirts, baggy pants with buffed metal chains dangling from belt loops. Their teeth gleam white, a stark contrast to their black accessories, and I hate how they look. But part of me wishes I could look how they look, too-or not quite, but I wish I could pick my clothes. I wish I could strip myself of the bland drab of Zig's used clothing-passed to him from his the mechanic that he works with.
As a gust of wind carries the scent of Mako down to the slums, one of the kids covers his nose with his sleeve, laughs and says, "Aw, what's that smell?" The rest of the kids laugh and cough dramatically, and they decide it's best if they find a different place to sit. A surge of excitement flows through me as the group moves deeper into the slums. They are fools to think the slums are a welcoming place, and I hope that I might be able to profit off of their ignorance. I follow close behind and carefully watch their movements. They stay, I note, in the wider roads. They poke their heads into the darkened alleyways, and give nervous chuckles and they decide, no, it's too dark to chill there. They weave through dense crowds of people, talking and playing around, much to the dismay of community members who are coming home from work. On more than one occasion people scream at them to shut up and go home and they respond, mostly out of stubbornness I think, with equal aggression. They begin to quiet only when the crowds thin, as we descend into an area of the slums where no light sheds itself from the spaces of the plate, and where even the wide streets begin to shrink, the tin roofs of shacks begin to draw in on each other like ragged puzzle pieces. The green glow of the streetlights is now the only light to our path, and finally, after a minute of silence, one of two girls in the group says, "I think we should turn back." A few mutter in agreement. But another one of them, a small stout boy with a round face and red lumpy cheeks taunts, "You scared?"
"No," the girl says, "No, but it's late and I need to get home before my parents."
"Pussy."
"Don't be a dick."
The kids are unknowingly walking straight into one of the most dangerous areas of the slums. I duck behind an old crate and continue my spying from a safe distance as they head towards the road that leads into the train graveyard. They look uneasy as they ascend into the dilapidated warehouse. I hope a monster will reveal itself, here and now, pouncing on one of the kids and knocking them out cold. I'd have a short period in which I could loot them, taking money-maybe even a full bottle of potion if I got lucky. Imagine the money they carried-I'd be able to buy food for Zig and I for a week, a week without starvation, without the knots in the stomach and that turned into bitterness towards each other. But, if the monster did not reveal itself and they passed into the train graveyard unharmed. I could no longer follow them, or else I would be lost as well.
The group disappears, and I am left to listen to the echoes of their voices.
Frustrated, I slump down to sit in the mud and set my head in my hands. I should've stopped them, demanded that they pay me money. I should've puffed my chest out and screamed at them that I would kill them, I would, I would, unless they gave me money. I should've, yes, but I wouldn't have. No matter how much I wanted to be able to manipulate fear and violence, I could not. There was nowhere inside of me that could do it myself. Zig told me that it was a good thing-that it was clear-cut evidence that I was better than the slums. I told him that it didn't matter if I was better than the slums-because I was trapped in it.
Besides, I said, we were all better than the slums.
I should've gotten that potion out of the trash.