A/N: Yeah... I just don't know about this one. I have no idea how accurate it is. I have no idea why I chose to write from this perspective. I have no idea why anyone would want to read it.
Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII. If I did, a certain character would've never had to put on a dress.
The conductor lifted his cap and scratched his balding scalp as he made his way to the back of the train. His feet felt heavier than usual. Lack of sleep was most likely the culprit. Lately, his empty house in Sector 7 had begun to feel more like a prison; he was in no hurry to return to it.
But he had nowhere else to go at this time of night, and his shift was over. At least, it would be, once he finished locking up.
This was, by far, the worst part of his job. Everything else was simple: stop for 5 minutes, go, stop again, go. Turn around and do it all over. Same stations, same times, every single day.
But this was the train's final stop, and that meant out with all passengers. Most understood this concept. But some needed a little more encouragement. And he hated giving it.
He wasn't a very intimidating man at the best of times, and typically avoided human interaction when given the option. But he knew that most of the people who tried to stay on the train after it finished running were just desperate, in need of a roof over their heads. And that just made it harder to kick them back onto the street.
"Three more doors to go," he thought, twisting a key in the lock and giving the handles a good tug.
Just then, he heard a low groan behind him. He spun around, his hand reaching instinctively for the baton at his hip. Hesitantly, he moved further down the car, eyes straining in the dim light for the source of the sound.
Before he could get very far, his foot snagged on something, and he stumbled forward, nearly losing his balance. He turned to find out what had tripped him.
Or, rather, who.
In the space between two rows of seats, was a young man in a SOLDIER uniform. His legs were stretched out in front of him and into the walkway; his blond head slumped onto his chest. Though his chest rose and fell, he looked almost dead.
The conductor let out a pent-up breath and approached the stranger.
"Hey," he said, kicking his boot, "wake up. Last stop."
There was no response. Sighing, he stowed the baton in its holster and knelt down beside the unconscious stranger. Up close, he could see just how pale and sickly he was. His cheeks were sunken in, and his eyes had dark rings under them. Was he trembling, too?
"Hey," he repeated, shaking his shoulder.
After a moment, the young man's eyes fluttered open, and the conductor watched him lift his head slowly.
His eyes were the usual shade of Mako, but glazed over. Like he was not fully alive.
"Are you alright, son?" the conductor asked, unsure whether the boy could even hear him.
Instead of answering, the young man's eyes filled with tears.
"Woah, what's wro- Why-?" the conductor stuttered, startled and confused. "Can- can I help you? What's your name?"
The boy stared at nothing as tears left wet trails down his face. "I'm..." he muttered in a voice that was barely a whisper, "I'm... who... I'm... Cl-" Suddenly, he gripped the side of his head, groaning loudly in pain. He doubled over and his voice rose till he was howling like some sort of dying monster.
The conductor fell backwards, terrified. But then, just as got to his feet, the screaming stopped, and the young man went limp.
Shaking, heart racing, the conductor stood trying to catch his breath. He'd never dealt with anything like this before. He had no idea what to do.
The boy needed help. Badly. From a doctor, if possible.
"But first, he needs to get off the train," he thought at last.
Steeling himself for more frightening behavior, he again knelt next to the young man. Wrapping an arm around his waist, and hooking the boy's left arm over his shoulders, he lifted him off the floor. He was surprisingly heavy for such a skinny guy.
Once again, the boy stirred. The conductor eyed him warily, but to his astonishment, he straightened up slightly, supporting most of his own weight.
"Okay..." the conductor said, nervously. "I'm gonna get you out of here, alright, son?"
He could've sworn he saw the kid barely nod back.
"Right, then."
Their progress was slow, but eventually, they made it to the street below the station's platform.
Unwinding the young man's arm from his aching neck, he propped him up against a concrete wall beside some benches. Sitting down beside him, he sighed and ran a hand over his face.
"What now?" he wondered. There was no way he could carry the boy all the way to a hospital. And even if he could, who would pay for whatever treatment he needed? Sector 7 was a poor place, and the conductor was not a rich man.
Part of him wanted to walk away. He wasn't responsible for this stranger.
But he couldn't. Not when he had this odd, nagging feeling that if he stayed for just a little longer, the right person would come along and offer a helping hand.
The conductor never forgot the look on her face when she did.
Thanks for reading!