1600

18/11/90

Junon SOLDIER Barracks

2nd Praetorians Bunkroom

Somewhere, in a quiet corner of the Junon SOLDIER barracks, everything burnt. Flames whirled across the room, cutting swathes of destruction through bunks, cupboards, foot lockers, even bulkheads. With crackles of laughter they drew ever closer to one tiny, insignificant speck of flesh and blood. Their descent was outpaced only by the rate of the speck's breathing, but not for long. All breath stopped with a gasp as the fire found him, caressing him with scorching fingers, leaving trails of charred flesh in their wake. A scream formed in his throat, but smoke and ash blocked its path. He reached and flailed, grasping only empty air.

Swathed in the inferno, his flesh dried, cracked and blackened. Eyeballs shrivelled in their sockets, leaving him with only the whisper of flames, taste of smoke, scent of ash and ceaseless pain of the scorch-marks that tore through his body. Every nerve and sinew cried out for water, for release, for an end, until the fire snuffed them out – then they could only shriek. He scrabbled wildly, though his scorched and useless hands told him nothing. Fear coursed through his veins as he realised he knew nothing of where he was or what was happening. He knew only the flames that danced across him.

Then the sky fell. Ten thousand tonnes of rubble crashed down upon his chest, once again stealing the breath from his lungs. Not even the impact, however, could dislodge the scream so firmly stuck in his throat, nor could it choke away the firestorm. Beyond the cage of debris the flames crackled, calling, ever calling. With hushed voices they offered freedom, quietus, death. How he longed to go to it, to have it sear away the terror and stone that locked him in place, to cauterise the wounds and to reduce him to nothingness where such fear could never reach him again.

Another voice joined the murmurs – a voice vaguely familiar in tone and pitch, but unintelligible above the fire and the screams in his mind. The sounds mingled into one as the voice grew louder and battled the hum of the fire. At last, a single word penetrated –

"Sir!"

Just as quickly as it emerged, however, was it swallowed by the blaze. Nonetheless, it continued, undaunted by its task of reaching one small fragment of humanity. More and more splintered words broke through, then splintered sentences, then a name.

"Sephiroth!"

He writhed beneath the wreckage in an attempt to see whoever was calling, ignoring the conspicuous absence of his eyes. No use; what was once the roof held him fast. Even so, the voice had sparked a tiny flare of hope. He struggled and wriggled in an almost convulsive manner, desperate to free himself of his confines. The voice of the fire faded and the weight of the rubble seemed to lift away, raised by some benevolent god. As it did so blessed air rushed into his lungs – fresh, clean air, untainted by smoke or embers. His flesh knitted back together, and eyes returned to their sockets.

He opened his newborn eyes.

Staring back at him were a dozen faces he didn't quite recognise, lit from behind by the glowing strip-lights of a bunkroom. Beneath him was a soft but lumpy and unmade bed, belonging to someone other than him. The smell of the sheets registered somewhere in his brain as familiar, but the whirl of thoughts in his mind kept him from identifying it.

Glowing, cat-like eyes darted between them as they tried to take in what was happening. One spoke with the voice that had called to him – a small, thickset young man, not quite an adult but definitely not a child. "Can you see me, boss?"

Words refused to come. His tongue wouldn't move, so a nod sufficed as a response. Only as he tried to speak did he realise that his breath was racing out of control. Within the same second he had inhaled several times, so working out what was happening could wait. Count your breaths. Slow down. In, out. Chest up, chest down. Slow the breathing, slow the heart, slow the release of adrenaline, clear the mind.

Little by little, each breath took ever so slightly longer than the last. The adrenaline high was replaced by the adrenaline low, and pure exhaustion washed over him. Too tired now to breathe so quickly or to maintain the race of his heartbeat, his body slowed almost to a halt.

Even without the adrenaline coursing through his system, he was fearful. None of the faces had names or recognisable intentions, and the light behind them took his mind back to an earlier time, when people without faces or names would stare down at him from in front of those searing, terrible lights…

No. Focus. Don't think about that. Concentrate. What happened?

Before he could move his mind to working out exactly what was going on, the slam of a door and the descent of a man whose chevrons declared that he was a staff sergeant ripped his thoughts away. "I leave the building for ten minutes and… All right. What the fuck just happened?"

The entire congregation hesitated as it collectively turned to face the newcomer. To the sergeant's augmented sense of smell, their nervousness was clear as running water. The scuffle of sheets brought his eyes briefly to the bed, where the young man lying there burrowed to try and hide his face. None of the others noticed it, or if they did they didn't turn to look.

Of those who had seen the incident, only one dared to speak. The not-yet-a-man who had spoken earlier seemed to have the least trouble finding his voice, and began to explain what had happened. "We… were just talking and then, Sephiroth – Lieutenant Faremis – just started screaming. He fell to the floor and thrashed about like he were being attacked or summat. We guessed he were hallucinating, so we got him onto Merrick's bed and pinned him there."

The sergeant's voice fell sharply in pitch. "You pinned him."

Pale, almost white eyes widened and their tell-tale SOLDIER glow heightened. "Y-yes sergeant."

The sergeant dropped his head to his chest and clasped his hands behind his neck. "Right. Kedner, I want a word with you later. The rest of you, piss off and give the man some space. Merrick, go find someone else to bug, we need your bunk for a bit." He brought his arms back down and folded them about his chest as the congregation scuttled back to their business. A few paused to see what would happen, but a glare would quickly send them on their way.

With careful, padding steps, he approached the bed on which his lieutenant lay curled up and shaking. "Sephiroth?" The shuddering ball didn't respond at first, but a tiny turn of the head told him that he had been heard.

After a moment, the lieutenant found his tongue at last. "Who's… who's there?"

"It's me. Muldoon." At last, a familiar name. The floodgates of Sephiroth's mind burst open, releasing a tide of memory and understanding. Confusion fled to the dark corners of his psyche again, and the fear gave way to shame. He bit back a curse, then began to speak.

"I'm sorry… I didn't… One minute I was in the bunkroom, and then I…" Even with his newfound voice, Sephiroth struggled to get the words past his lips. He kneaded the sheets beneath him, clenching then releasing his hands without fully realising that he was doing so.

"Don't apologise, kid. Don't you dare apologise for what you are. Shinra made you a SOLDIER, and they have no right to complain when the side effects show up." Muldoon perched on the edge of the bed and moved his eyes to the floor, perhaps worrying that the lieutenant was uncomfortable under his gaze.

The young man swallowed a lump in his throat. "I should've… kept my head… I'm supposed to be in charge here."

"For crying out loud, that bunch of misfits are perfectly capable of looking after themselves for a bit." Muldoon rolled his eyes, unfolded his arms and clutched the side of the bed. He decided to try a different angle. "You've been hallucinating a lot lately, haven't you?"

"…No more than usual, sergeant."

"I'd like to call bullshit on that one." The younger man's head perked up, now looking Muldoon straight in the face.

"Excuse me?" Sephiroth said, with the slightest edge of 'I-don't-want-to-have-this-conversation'. Muldoon either didn't notice it or ignored it, as he continued.

"You've had six episodes in half as many weeks. That's got to mean something."

The silver-haired man started chewing his lip, an action his comrade had seen many times before. "It's… it's probably just the increased mako dosage I've been on since I was promoted."

For a moment, Muldoon had thought he'd been onto something. His shoulders fell – he wasn't convinced by a word Sephiroth said, but now wasn't the time to push it. "Yeah, I guess you're right. You going to be okay?"

Sephiroth nodded.

"You want me to send Banner over?"

"I'm fine, sergeant."

"Good. I want you in one piece for tomorrow. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a bollocking to administer." With a smile that seemed entirely inappropriate, Muldoon stood up and walked away. As he did so, Sephiroth racked his brain for what was happening tomorrow. His mind was still muzzy – he recalled the sergeant mentioning something about it, but he couldn't quite remember what.

Then it hit him.

"Oh, no."

Rostis stood at parade rest while simultaneously trying to look very small and inoffensive. Staff Sergeant Muldoon stared at him for a few moments, waiting for the gravity of the situation to settle. "Name and rank." Rostis hesitated for a second, partly in bewilderment and partly in fear.

"…SOLDIER Second Class Corporal Rostis Kedner, sergeant."

"Precisely. Corporal. Just because you impressed my superiors enough to be named a Second doesn't mean you can ignore protocol."

"Sergeant, I – "

"You blatantly disregarded safety procedure, that's what! Dammit, Kedner, Faremis is a First, and rightly so. If he'd been scared enough, which might I add you were well on your way to making him, he'd have killed you." Muldoon paused, waiting to see if Rostis would try and justify himself.

"Sergeant… the way he were thrashing, I… I genuinely thought he were gonna hurt himself. Or someone else. His hallucinations have been getting out of control, sergeant." Rostis said. Behind his back, he fiddled with the base of his shirt in an attempt to divert his attention from the impending chew-out.

"You're lucky he didn't. If you were so worried, why the hell didn't you come and get me? You know the drill. Any cause for concern, fetch a senior officer. And you most certainly do not attempt to restrain someone who's freaking out unless they're actually trying to kill someone." As Muldoon growled at him, Rostis' eyes wandered to his feet. "Look at me, dammit!" Rostis' head snapped back up, his back stiffened and his eyes widened. The sergeant didn't need to look at Rostis to know he was afraid. The smell of it hung in the air thick enough to choke.

"Sergeant, I couldn't leave him – "

"Then you should have sent one of the bloody audience! Half the damn platoon was there, doing an awful lot of fuck all." Rostis remained silent. His eyes flickered away from his superior's, only occasionally returning out of fear. "Well?" Muldoon's eyes bore into the corporal, and he folded his arms and waited. Rostis breathed in heavily as he tried to put his erratic thoughts into words.

"I… I were scared, sergeant. Scared of what he'd do. I didn't want to take my eye off him, even for a moment."

"Maybe if you had, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Fear is no excuse, Kedner. Fear is how you're meant to live. Basic should've taught you that."

Again, Rostis was silent.

Three hours later, the corporal was finally done raking the dirt outside Muldoon's office. Free at last, he was determined to spend the next half-hour with only himself and the page-three girls. He shuffled down the corridor towards the bunkroom and gazed down at his feet.

"Rostis."

With a slightly too-feminine yelp, he whirled around and found himself staring into the green, cat-like eyes of Lieutenant Sephiroth Faremis. Oh dear.

"Shit, sir, I – I'm really – " Rostis stumbled over the words. His feet had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the corridor.

"Later. Right now, we have a problem." His voice held no resentment or anger, but that still did nothing to assuage Rostis' worry.

The corporal narrowed his eyes, trying to appear more confident than he actually was. "What sort of problem?"

"A large one. Get the platoon together as soon as you can make it inconspicuous."

"Inconspicuous as in, don't tell Muldoon? What the hell are you planning?" The nervousness had left Rostis' voice now, replaced by mild amusement. A slight smile worked its way onto his face which he didn't bother to conceal.

"I'll explain later. Just organise the meeting – they'll listen to your word more than mine right now."

With a chuckle, Rostis nodded his agreement, and Sephiroth turned to leave. "And Kedner," Sephiroth said, "this doesn't reach Muldoon. If he realises that we've forgotten about this…"

"Wait, what? Forgotten about what?" Rostis received no answer. Sephiroth was already at the far end of the corridor, scooping up a pile of papers that lay on a table. The corporal simply stared in confusion and disbelief. "What… the… fuck?"

Still, orders are orders, regardless of whether they're explained or, as Rostis suspected wasn't the case, entirely legitimate. As he stared at his watch, staring back at him was the entirety of the 2nd Praetorians, a platoon with a reputation for little patience. Nobody knew why they'd been called together, and with such urgency, but rumours had materialised almost as soon as word got out that there was to be a meeting. Some said that there were promotions involved, others that somebody was being transferred, and one particular nutter was convinced that Sephiroth was resigning.

A creak shifted all eyes to the door, and a rather flustered lieutenant hurried in with even more papers in his arms than Rostis had last seen him with. He dropped them on a table that had been dragged to the centre of the bunkroom as was customary for emergency meetings, and took a moment to collect himself before he began. "Gentlemen. Thank you all for getting here promptly.

"You may recall that HQ has decided that we don't have enough maniacs here already and has sent us six rookies, arriving tomorrow." All background murmurs stopped dead. "Did anybody here actually remember?" A few whispers confirmed that at least some of them had, but the vast majority remained silent. "Brilliant."

The silence erupted into chatter as people tried to ascertain precisely how they had managed to forget about a group of incoming rookies. The prevailing argument was mako-induced mass amnesia, a phenomenon not entirely unknown to the force but far less frequent than was popularly believed. More likely was the idea that nobody had actually been paying any attention when they were told about it.

An uncomfortable feeling settled over the group. Slowly, the chatter gave why to quiet again as people turned to face the lieutenant, who simply glared back with folded arms. Once everyone was silent, he began again. "We have all of about three hours before lights out. This place needs to be squared away by morning. That means no nude calendars, no stills and definitely no inflatable sheep."

"Oh come on, sir, it was one time! Let it go!" piped Rostis from the back of the crowd.

Sephiroth ignored him. "They arrive at 0900 sharp. If this place isn't spotless by then, the owner of the offending bunk will be on night watch for a week. Understand?"

A chorus of 'yes, sir!'s answered him. Sephiroth nodded, scooped up his papers and watched through bleary eyes as the bunkroom descended into the chaos of tidying up. Only now, as the old, quiet ache crept into his bones, did it occur to him just how tired he was.

No matter how much Sephiroth wanted to curl up and fall asleep, there was work to be done. Slumped in a chair in the office he shared with Muldoon and several other officers and NCOs, he looked over the paperwork he had been accumulating. Apparently, he had remembered the rookies when sorting out the supply requisition forms, which just raised further questions as to how he'd later completely forgotten about them. Probably the exhaustion, he supposed. He hadn't slept well since his promotion to First Class two months ago and sported permanent dark rings under his eyes.

Sephiroth looked over at the clock on the wall. 1940. Still hours before he could justify going to bed. He forced his attention back to the neglected files in front of him. Six rookies, fresh out of Basic. Two had passed out with distinction, and the covering letter assured him that the other four were top of their game as well. He stifled a yawn as his eyes flickered over the first of the distinguished grunts' records.

"Fancy a brew, Faremis?" Muldoon's voice pulled Sephiroth from his reading.

"Yes. Yes I do." Sephiroth rarely turned down the offer of coffee, and right now he needed it. He skimmed over the file in front of him as Muldoon headed out to the kitchenette attached to the office, and his eyes widened as they stopped over a certain passage. "Sergeant,"

Muldoon poked his head around the partition. "Hm?"

"Why is one of the rookies on antipsychotics? If he's going to endanger the men –"

The sergeant walked in and plucked the file from Sephiroth's hands. "Oh, Rhapsodos? I contacted his lieutenant; apparently they're prescribed off-label. Anxiety, insomnia, that sort of thing. I was assured he's not going to go nuts any time soon. He's more doped up on drugs than you are, so he's pretty placid."

Sephiroth harrumphed and took the file back from his sergeant. While his SOLDIER nose told him Muldoon was being honest, or at least lying very, very well, he wasn't convinced. Sephiroth went back to his reading, finding little else of note apart from a conspicuous section of text which had been redacted. The next file, the other distinguished recruit, also lacked what was presumably the same section. A quick look through the rest of the papers showed that none of the other recruits were missing this data, just the two with distinctions. He pondered this for a moment before Muldoon pulled him out of his thoughts. "Kid?"

Sephiroth looked up, eyes narrowed at both the nickname and the interruption. He made a show of putting down the papers and waited for Muldoon to continue.

"I've had a word with the medical department. They want to check you over, make sure there's nothing wrong up here," Muldoon tapped his head "or anywhere else. They're getting worried about your episodes."

Sephiroth's shoulders fell. "I'm fine, sergeant. Honestly, I'm fine." He picked up the papers again and focused his attention on them. Of course, Muldoon would keep talking. It just made him feel like he was ending the conversation.

The older man gave him a half-hearted smile. "Look, just let them give you a once-over. It won't hurt."

"It's not going to be a once-over, Muldoon. Any concern about my health and I go straight back to Midgar. Straight back to…" The lieutenant trailed off, still refusing to look up. Shaking hands clutched the papers harder, and Muldoon was reminded that he was addressing a fifteen-year-old.

Muldoon pulled his chair over and sat down in front of Sephiroth. "Maybe they can do it under the radar. Nobody else has to know." He moved his head to try and look the young man in the eye, but Sephiroth turned his head away.

"He'll know. He always knows."

Extracted From SOLDIER Medical Archives

The senses of a SOLDIER are some of the most remarkable known to man. Every sense is heightened almost beyond imagining – a SOLDIER can hear sounds far above and below the normal range of human hearing and can see objects in far more detail than most – a select few can even see into the ultraviolet spectrum, although colour vision is more frequently lost than gained (particularly in the red spectrum – few SOLDIERs are able to see the colour red, and those that are generally have poorer eyesight than their comrades). Most fascinating, however, is the SOLDIER's extraordinary sense of smell. The SOLDIER sense of smell can be roughly compared to that of a dog; they are able to identify emotional scent cues, and can note the anxiety scents that usually accompany dishonesty. Furthermore, with practice, a SOLDIER can learn to track by his nose just as well, if not better, than he can with his eyes. Indeed, many rely on their noses for direction and orientation, a fact that can make urban combat difficult.

For the curious, I've been through at least five openings for this story. I apologise for the brevity of the chapter but I'd rather be concise than get a mahoosive word count. I further apologise for my writing style – it's not terribly engaging, but this story is being written for practice. Critique is very welcome, but flames are not.

The next chapter will be a bit more interesting – Genesis and Angeal turn up, for one thing, and the other background OCs get properly introduced as well, including the elusive Banner. Oh, and a cookie to whoever knows where Sephiroth's surname comes from.