A/N: Okay, so here is a slightly-longer style fic that has five chapters done. It takes place post-Advent Children, and looks into Rude's life before the events of FF7. I took a lot of liberties with his character, so consider this an AU story. And try to enjoy it!

Disclaimer:The locations, characters, and names in this story are copyright Square Enix, AKA "Awesome LTD". The events, blood, tears, and sweat contained within these digital pages, however, is all mine.

Shot

"I don't need soldiers that run away from battle, maggots. I need killers. Men and women who aren't afraid to go toe to toe with the planet herself, and win with a smile on their dirty little faces." Sergeant Woodstock paced in front of the recruits, helmet in the crook of his arm. He didn't hold much hope for the new Shinra guard recruits. Not a promising one among them. He scanned for targets, someone to set an example.

"You!" He shouted, approaching a pockmarked youth who couldn't have been older than sixteen. "Do you believe in the planet's ability to save you, soldier?" The sergeant was right close to the teenagers face, and he shook.

"Y-Yes, sir."

Woodstock backhanded the youth across the face, making him crumble to the ground. "On your feet, scumbag!" He scrambled to his feet.

"Now, I'm going to ask that question again, because clearly you didn't hear me correctly the first time. Do you believe in the planet?"

The youth didn't say a word. Woodstock inched closer, until their noses were almost touching. He could feel the kid shaking. "Do you, son? Do you believe that the almighty planet cannot be stopped? She can save us all from a life of despair? That she can nurture you back to full health on just her fruits?"

"N-No, sir?"

Woodstock's knee came up and hit the youth in the groin. He doubled over. Woodstock turned to the two guards flanking the doorway. "Get this little worm out of my training grounds. I want him out of my building, out of my core, and out of my sight!"

The two guards jumped forwards, trying to avoid any unnecessary damage that the ornery Woodstock was famous for dishing out. Woodstock was already pacing, searching for his next victim. He stopped in front of a thin young man, seventeen, by the looks of it. His stance was off compared to the others, a subtle slouch to his posture. His hair was jet black, a stark contrast to his pale skin, and his eyes were a dark, clear green.

"You! Do you believe in our mother, the planet?" Grey eyes stormed against green. Woodstock was used to having teenagers flinch when he glared at them. The recruit didn't so much as blink.

"No, Sir." He answered confidently.

He was rewarded with a backhand from the older man, but unlike the recruit before him, he didn't fall, just turned his head with the slap, another first for the old sergeant. Woodstock glowered for a moment, and asked again.

"Do you believe in our mother, the planet!?"

"No, Sir." The youth said again, his gaze straight ahead.

The sergeants blow should've broke the kid's nose, but when the older man lunged, the youth bent to the side, dodging the blow. Woodstock's boot, however, hit home, the full force of his kick hitting the young man straight in the stomach. It threw the recruit back, landing on his back. His head cracked off the wall. Woodstock stood over him, glaring.

"On your feet." The youth obeyed, showing no signs of pain or fear. Just a sheer determination was in his eyes. Woodstock got close to this one, too, eye to eye. Again, the boy didn't flinch. Woodstock sneered. He'd learn to flinch. They'd all learn to flinch.

Grabbing a fistful of the kid's hair, Woodstock hammered the palm of his hand into the kid's jaw. The teen, obviously used to being pounded on, didn't clench it, but slackened it, preventing a break. Woodstock was in a ready rage now. He threw the thin teen to the ground.

"Seems like we needs us lesson in manners, don't we, boy?" He said, looking down at the kid's name, starting when his name badge was blank. He kept a boot on the boy's chest. "From now on, you will answer to Rude. Got that, Soldier?"

Rude nodded, still staring straight ahead. Woodstock slapped him again. "You will ANSWER when I ask you a question! Got that!?" No response.

Woodstock knew when to move on, but he also knew that this wasn't the last round with the recruit. He'd be back for him. He'd make him pay.

The dream startled Rude into moving, gripping his wound with renewed energy. A mantra was continuing in his head, an almost incessant chanting. Keep moving, keep the blood flowing, stay alive.

He gritted his teeth, the rain coming down in sheets as he leaned heavily against a wall for support. Where was he? Midgar. He remembered Midgar vaguely. He was wounded? Had he been shot? Why had he been shot?

Images flashed in his mind, images of fighting for his life after his partner had been killed. The shock of being shot in the shoulder and stomach, followed by a dull ache. An ache that had morphed into a full-blown shrieking pain, causing spasms. He controlled the pain, regulated it to the back of his mind. He needed to keep moving. Find help. Who was in Midgar? What was in midgar?

A name came to him, through the muddled and jumbled mess that was his state of mind at the moment.

Avalanche.

His brain didn't connect the dots. It was raining, not snowing. Why would an avalanche save him? What exactly was an Avalanche? He looked up at the sky, as if it could decipher his train of thought. Clouds formed, rolling through the dark air as if angry at the world.

Clouds. Cloud. Cloud Strife.

Avalanche.

With a jerk, he turned his body, leveraging himself off the wall with his shoulder. He staggered and managed to walk in a straight line for a few steps, before falling against the wall again. He gritted his teeth harder, reaching to push his sunglasses further up his nose, an instinctive motion.

When his gloved hands made contact with the skin of his nose, he realised that he didn't have any sunglasses on. Where did they go? Sunglasses don't just fly off faces. That wasn't possible. His mind muddled again, fogging up. Why didn't he have his sunglasses on? He never left the house without sunglasses. Maybe they were at home. Maybe they broke. Where was he going again?

Cloud Strife. The 7th heaven. That seemed to be his only safe hope. While he didn't have a chummy relationship with Cloud and Tifa, they certainly weren't enemies anymore. He'd head for the 7th heaven.

Rude continued his mantra, heading in the direction of the fabled bar. The rain around him pounded, splashing into puddles as he stepped through them. Rude didn't shiver. His body was used to rain. Rain was soothing, helpful, and he felt like, if he stood still long enough, he could let it wash all his fears away.

Keep moving, keep the blood flowing, stay alive. Keep moving, keep the blood flowing, stay alive. Keep moving…

He would survive this. Even through the rain.

A/N: If you give me a review, I'll give you leprechauns gold.