Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII does not belong to me, and it never will be.

Author's Notes: Lots of OCs in this one, what horror! Let's see if it gets off the ground. ;)

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It was a quiet time in Sector 7, under the looming shadow of Midgar's plate. Slum dwellers continued their daily lives, lacking a sense of time. For all they knew, without working clocks, it could have been way past their bedtime. Neither did they care.

The owner of the Seventh Heaven poked her head out of the bar entrance, propping an "Open" sign on the door; she gave the alcohol enthusiasts outside a quick smile before her crown of long brown hair disappeared back into the bar. The regulars followed shortly afterwards, chattering amongst themselves. A boy wearing a tattered chocobo T-shirt perched himself on the weapon shop balcony, lobbing small rocks at any unlucky passers. He giggled uncontrollably when they waved their fists at him in return; giggled and giggled until a tired mother dragged him indoors. A group of young adults shuffled packs of cards in the middle of the street whilst a small crowd huddled around them to watch. It was an ordinary moment in the slum's tattered history, or which there was not much history at all.

Corrugated steel and rusted junk formed a rudimentary house, hidden behind piles of unwanted rubbish. From its window a frail man watched, and with shaking hands he held a cracked teacup filled to the brim with muddied water. His grey, stubbled chin was covered in thin scars and his eyes showed deep weariness. He let out a heavy sigh, taking a quick sip from the water before turning. The man's house was not a spectacular sight to behold, as it consisted of nothing more than a sunken mattress upon the floor and a rickety table with its rickety chair. The only sign of decoration was a watercolour painting of the sea already fading from years of neglect, with a single palm tree offering the Planet its shade.

She's late, thought the old man. He sank into the rickety chair, resting the half-filled teacup on the table. She's always late. The train never arrived, she says. There was nothing she could do about it, she says. Too much hassle at work. He scoffed, brushing away a settlement of dust that had collected on his table – it tickled his nose and made him sneeze.

"Bless you." He grumbled.

Raymond had been in Midgar for a long time, mixing in with the slum folk without too much trouble. He was unmarried, he missed his younger life and if he still had the strength to do so, he'd be at the Wall Market faster than a man could blink. He breathed deeply. Life in the slums had always been difficult, and it got worse with his crippling age. Gil was hard to come by, and with it, food too. It was possible to live off bread, but it was hardly the nutritional diet people craved. Life was getting too difficult for old Raymond, and not even his own daughter was around to help. She visited on the rare occasion, but other than that: no help.

A tapping came to his window. He turned to face it, barely able to make out the small face on the other side of the murky pane. There was a smile on that face, but it was not the face he was expecting. Nevertheless, it was company; though brief company. "Mister Ray, Mi-iiiister Ray!" Called the figure with a cheerful tone. The tone Raymond could recognise it from anywhere.

"Marlene, my dear girl," Raymond croaked, with a grin from ear to ear. "Come on in. The door's open."

Marlene poked her head into the one-roomed house. Her pale complexion bore a wide smile. In her arms she carried a bottle. "Tifa wanted me to give this to you, Mister Ray." She pushed it onto the table. "The bar's got too many people. Busy, she says."

Raymond turned the bottle with curiosity. Alcohol. Perfect. He thanked Marlene, ruffling her hair as she blushed furiously. "You tell Tifa I said thanks to her too, alright?"

"Yes, Mister!" She chirped. She spun on her heels, gave a playful curtsy and then skipped to the door. "Bye, Mister!"

She'll make the slums proud. He thought as her head disappeared past the low window. Pushing the bottle into the center of the table, he frowned. Tifa and Marlene looked after him, and Raymond depended on this fact. Without them, he was convinced he wouldn't even last night. They were important for his survival.

Unlike a certain daughter of his.

A daughter who still hadn't arrived.

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"Wake and shine, O my lo—ooove!"

Linda groaned in her sleep. It was cold, the bed was unsatisfying, and it was still cold. There was something digging into her arm, like a bloody dagger. Sharp, insistent and cold. Despite it, she did not want to wake up. Work had been difficult, and the amount of paperwork she received from the folks in Urban Development had towered to the state that she just couldn't do no more. She needed a vacation desperately.

"You are my sunshi—iiine, so wake up and show me that sunri—iiise!"

The bed was uncomfortable, and to top it all off, that was some terrible singing. The jabbing accentuated, leaving Linda feeling irritable. Her eyes snapped open. "Will you cut that out?!"

"The sleeping beauty awakes!" The man beside her smirked. It was a good friend of Linda's. A cheerful, loving man with a rounded shape. He wasn't the most attractive of men, and many considered him to be a "chubby bastard", but he had a certain charm about him that lured Linda in. He worked in the same department as Linda.

"Whatever you say, Melton." she mumbled. What Linda also noticed was that she wasn't sleeping on a hard bed either. It was a train. A thin layer of cold mist had settled over the compartment windows, and she could see from the window a supportive pillar stretching out into the plate above, keeping it aloft. They were here. "When did I fall asleep?"

Melton rubbed his nose – a particular habit of his when he was clueless.

"Hm-hm." Linda picked herself up, brushing down her corporate suit and fixing the nametag upon her breast pocket. "Thanks for coming along."

The usual banter up on the plate about the harsh, dangerous reality of the slums worried Linda. It was a reality that was too risky for a pretty woman like herself, with short black hair that barely reached the neck. A tall figure she was, with curves gone to to slimness; there was simplicity, with a small nose, dimpled smile and – she frowned. Male slumdogs were not her type, and she had to be careful. That was why she brought Milton.

Stepping from the train with Milton following closely behind, she gave a curt nod to the guard standing by the train doors, who returned it in kind. Though Midgar was naturally a dark place, the obscurity of the slums was something Linda still had to get used to. There was no planned shape to it, leaving only a mishmash of junk-filled paths and shanty-houses put up in the most pointless of places. It was an easy place to get lost in.

Milton turned to the train guard as Linda made her way down the steps from the platform. He asked for the direction to the Seventh Heaven, which happened to be a popular bar in the slums, and their destination was close to it. Linda had been here before, yet it always seemed so different every time she came. "I'll lead the way, alright?" Milton suggested.

Linda nodded, giving him a nudge forward.