Disclaimer: All charactors in this fic belong to Squaresoft, and in using them, I recieve no compensation or profit. Nor should you :P.

Summary: The lives and thoughts of several of my favorite FF7 charactors while based on the lyrics from Kid Rock's "Only God Knows Why." If you're one of those Kid Rock haters, please don't flame me, I thought the lyrics worked madly well. I know it's a bit long, and kinda hard to follow sometimes, but be nice to me. If you liked it, please review it, hellfires, even if you didn't like it, please review it. Thanks.

May you never be haunted by flying pomegranates or grocery stores,

~JaiWong~

Only God Knows Why

by JaiWong

((I've been sittin' here, tryin' to find myself))

Who the hell was he, anyway? He let his fist slam into the wall, then rested his head beside it. He knew what he had been at one time, and what he could have been. But what about now? Had the past years of working for ShinRa changed him? How could then not? Too many damn questions. He didn't care. He was what he was. But what if he didn't have to be...?

((I get behind myself, I need to rewind myself))

Where had the years gone? He closed his eyes, gripping his gun as if it could keep him tied to his life. His sanity. By now, he had lost count of the years. He wasn't even sure of his own age. He didn't need to be. He was ageless. But he wasn't eternal. He wasn't forever. At any time, any moment, the Fates could decide that his time here on this world was through. He knew, but he wasn't afraid. No fear, only regrets. Regrets that he had let so much time slip past him unnoticed, unlived. He wished he could go back, reclaim those forgotten years knowing what he knew now. He would fix his mistakes, undo his actions. He would not just endure life, he would live it.

((Lookin' for the payback, listen for the playback))

Money. It was what made the world go round. For all these years, he had built up his empire, strengthened his fortress. And it all paid off. He was rich. He had everything. The world was his to buy. So why did he feel so empty? He sat at his desk, looking around his office. That's when it struck him. It was all worthless. He had spent his whole life with one single purpose: making money. And now that he had it, he realized how little it mattered. He believed in the afterlife, believed in final judgment. And he knew that when it came, no amount of money could save him. No amount of wealth could erase all the evils he had committed on his way to glory. He knew that it was only a matter of time before it happened. He knew.

((They say that every man bleeds, just like me))

He spat the blood from his mouth and wiped his lips with the cloth he was holding. He felt the familiar hate bubble up inside of him, hate that was quickly squelched by fear. A tear leaked from one eye, then another. He wiped them away impatiently. He had learned early on not to ever let anyone see him cry. His father had taught him that, amongst other things. So while his father covered the marks of his abuse with materia, he covered the tracks of his tears with cold indifference. He had heard what other people had said about him, how no one had ever seen him bleed, heard him cry. He wouldn't let them. He thanked his father for that, the man who had unknowingly taught him that any display of emotion gave others the advantage, let them hurt him. So he never let anyone know. But if only they could see him now...

((I feel like number one, and yet I'm last in line))

Yeah. He was the top man. He tossed back another shot, trying to shut out his troubled mind. He wasn't a slum dweller anymore. Not just some street punk out causing trouble. Now he was working for the city's biggest corporation. Hell, the world's. He had a gun now, and his own personal weapon. He had money, food, a place where he could sleep unafraid. All the things he had lacked on the streets. All the things he couldn't have given his sister- And yet nothing had changed. He still roamed the streets, stealing, hurting, killing. Now though, he did it with the backing of the world's most powerful corporate empire in the world. But his actions were still the same, only instead of doing them to survive, he did them at the whim of his superiors. Sometimes, he wondered why he seemed unable to break away from the violence, the cruelty. But deep down, he knew why. Because he was, and always would be, scum.

((I watch my youngest son, and it helps to pass the time))

He was leaving. After all this time, he was finaly leaving. He stood dispassionately at the huge picture window in his office, watching the helicopter rise and take his son away. Across the ocean, to another continent, away. He had done what he could, raising the boy the only way he knew how. He couldn't give him love, so he taught him to be independent. He couldn't give him support, so he taught him to be strong. He taught him cruelty, indifference, self-control, stoicism. Most of all, he taught him hate. Yes, he had made his son what he needed to be, cold, harsh, ruthless, everything he would have to become in order to survive in the world. But the cost was dear. He no longer had a son. Instead he had a young man who claimed his blood, but to him was a perfect stranger. Sometimes, when he was washing the blood off his hands, he felt a twinge of regret. Regret that the boy who should have looked at him with love and trust instead glared at him in fear and hate. But now he was gone. He was gone and he was never coming back. Not until the day that he died.

((I take too many pills, it helps to ease the pain))

Drunk. That's what he was, what people knew him best as. Addicted to the poison that burned his throat and numbed his soul. He could feel it killing him everyday, but he didn't care. It would be the death of him, he knew, but until then he would kill the pain inside of him like nothing else could, except the drugs. But he couldn't handle the drugs anymore. They showed him light, showed him pictures. Pictures he tried so hard to forget. They reminded him of everything he burned and buried, everything that ate into his heart, soul and mind. Not that he had the former two. The streets had torn those out from the core of his being, leaving wounds that would never heal. Wounds that burned with a fire that went deeper than bones. The only time they didn't burn was when he was slumped over the bar in his drunken oblivion. So to hell with the people who condemned him, the people who looked down at him. To hell with all of them. After all, what did they know?

((I made a couple dollar bills, but still I feel the same))

Maybe they were right. Maybe that's all he was, some nark, an automaton dressed up to look important, but programmed only to say "Yes, sir," "No, sir," and "Right away, sir." What had he done with the majority of his life? Technically, he was Manager of the Social and Economic Department. In reality, he was ShinRa's puppet, and he knew it. Worthless to the rest of the world, his efforts only briefly acknowledged by ShinRa, he lined the company's pockets with gold by exploiting the rights of the common people. But ShinRa was all that mattered, right? That's what he tried to tell himself, every day, every time he was hit by a sudden twinge of guilt-? conscience-? Or was it- shame? That was it. He was ashamed. Ashamed of himself, ashamed of what he had become, and ashamed of his cowardice. For that's what he was, a coward. Why did he work for ShinRa? Because he had never known anything else, and he was afraid. He was so desperately afraid.

((Everybody knows my name, they say it way out loud))

They hated him. He knew it and they knew it. Every single one of those people out there, in the slums, in the streets, in the towns, the cities, the villages. They all hated him. Even when the Soldiers lined up in the streets, calling out his name in praise. Even when the rich and elite gathered in his office to kiss up to the biggest corporate figure in history. They pasted on their phony smiles and laughed obediently at bon mont he uttered, but in

reality, they hated him. He knew it, they knew it, and they knew he knew it. And he hated it.

((A lot of folk bump into me, it's hard to hang out in a crowd))

Strange. He didn't know who he was. Every day, as he combed through his long, black hair and stared at his reflection in the mirror, he wondered who he was. Stranger still was that the rest of the world had no trouble figuring it out. It never failed. The moment he walked out of ShinRa, he was beset upon all sides by the poor, the weak, the troubled and the unhappy. They knew him. Knew what he did. Knew where he was from, what he could do for them if he chose. But what about him? What was there for him to turn to, who could do anything for him? Wasn't he weary? Wasn't he troubled as well, mind, body and soul? Who gave to the one that gives?

((I guess that's the price you pay, to be some big shot, like I am))

So this is where it got him. A lifetime building himself a tower from where he could preside, where he could make it his palace, his citadel, his triumph. But not his fortress. He wasn't surprised, thought. No, even as twice a man's length of steel slid out of his back, he wasn't surprised. Laying face down on his desk, feeling his life slowly ebbing from his veins, he realized that he had always known this would happen. Yes, he had gotten his empire, his glory and his fame. But at the expense of hundreds. Thousands. Each and every step he took towards his golden glory created a new enemy, formed a new way to die. And now it came. But not as he had thought. Not a blow for revenge, or payback, or even gain, for the only one to gain had been sent away years ago. No, his death was more than that, almost political. A sign of things to come. The first movement in a series of events that would shape and change the course of the world. He didn't know how he knew, he just did. And, as he felt the world darken and his eyes grow heavy, he grasped the truth. This was how he wanted it to be.

((With outstretched hands))

Gods, what did they want from him? Didn't they understand that he had given them all he could, and more? Didn't they realize that he was dying from it? He had nothing left. Not even final reserves, nothing. Nothing to keep him going except from day to day. He traced the edge of his gun with his slim fingers, letting the impassivity melt slowly from his face. Not that he had any reason to hold back. There was nothing but him, no one who depended on him, who needed him. Not anymore. Not since the smoke, the heat and the flames. But even as the thought was formed, he knew it was untrue. They needed him. His family, as odd and unconventional as they were, they needed him to keep them together, tempers, rages, emotions and despair, they needed him as their leader, their uniting force, to help them through. So no matter what they wanted from him, how much they took, he would always save something more. Something for his family.

((And one night stands))

Yeah, right. He was a womanizer. So what. He was a jerk, a bastard. Hell, for all he knew, the last one was true. He knew his mother, never his father, and his mother would never let him talk of the subject. For all he knew, he could be the product of a similar tête a tête as the ones he had almost every night. He smiled bitterly as he stepped out of the hot, smoky room, out of the tiny, unclean establishment and into the cool night of the streets. How fitting that would be. Not that it mattered. He didn't care one way or another. So long as love was denied him, so long as he was still bitter, twisted inside, incapable of true feeling, he would continue with his nightly outings, continue with his distortions of love. Let them call him what they would, Let them slander him with their vile tongues and barbed words all they wanted. It wouldn't change a thing.

((But still I can't find love))

Poor little rich boy. He saw their hostile faces, heard their gruff words. Son of a rich man, for all that mattered. His young highness, for all that he was exiled, sent from his father's sight with little more that a word and a shove. And so he had, for once, done what his father bade him do. He left- left and never looked back. Except once. On the helicopter ride that took him to his new life across the ocean; he had let his mind wander too far, into thoughts too wild, to uncontrollable. Inadverantly, he called back memories of his old life, when he had been a child, when his mother had been alive, when he had been wanted- no. No, he had never been wanted, he could see that now. Never been wanted, needed, cared for or about. He had thought his mother had at least loved him, he remembered smiles, touches, caresses. But now he saw her as she truly was, a weak willed woman worn out by her husband, his father. Tired of life, she had turned to her son for support, wanting him only for her own well being, not caring how he turned out in the end. And then she as gone. As for his father- that was clear enough. No; mother, father, friends, if they could even be called such. They meant nothing, and he meant nothing to them. Any of them. He had never known love.

((And when it all comes tumbling down, I will always be around))

((People don't know 'bout the things I say and do, they don't understand, about the shit that I been through))

He lay back against the wall, resting his head in his hand. It was true. He didn't have a soul. That was what the rumors said about him, and that was what fact stated. That was what his job said about him, the trail of bloodshed and tears that followed in his wake. That was what the bystanders said when he started talking trash or passed out on the bar. He had no soul. How could he? How in Hell and Heaven could he still have a soul after what he had seen, what he had been through? Twenty seven years, two hundred and seventy, it wouldn't make a difference. No amount of time would ever temper the pain he had seen, the suffering he had witnessed, the grief he had known. Nothing would quench the fires in his very bones, flames fueled by the unfairness of life, burning with a vengeance at the knowledge that much of this cruelty and unjustness he himself had caused. They burned with a heat that turned his very soul into ashes, igniting the beginnings of his eternal damnation. And so he never prayed.

((It's been too long since I been home. I been gone...I've been gone for way too long))

Sixteen years. It had been sixteen years since he had been sent away, more than half his lifetime since he had set foot inside his home. Not that ShinRa was home to him anymore. He had spent so long in so many different places that he wasn't sure where he should call home. Of course, Midgar had hardly been a home to him in the first place. Nothing there but blood and bad memories. But now he had to go back. Now he had been away too long, for too much time. Things had changed, changed in a way that could never be reset. His father, a man whom he had known for only ten years of his life, was gone. Gone and was never coming back. There was no final reckoning now, no more chances for their relationship to be changed. The cards had never hit the table. And now he wondered, if he had known, would it have changed things? Did he ever feel- regret? Remorse? No. Not now, not after all the years of abuse and exile. But if it had only worked out differently from the outset. Maybe then.

((Maybe I forgot all the things I miss))

He was so cold. Even to himself, he was more frozen inside than the peak of Great Glacier. After all the years of working on the streets, carrying out other people's immoral actions, he felt nothing. Once, long ago, he remembered love, remembered warmth, remembered caring. And more recently, he thought he remembered compunction, feeling sorry that he had lost something dear to him. But not anymore. Now, he was just cold, empty, hollow. He had constructed this shell around him himself, no outs from liquor or drugs. Only cold stoicism and ridged self control. But there had been something, something before the shell, the emptiness. He simply could not fix it in his mind, so he stopped trying. But it was there.

((Oh, somehow I know there's more to life than this))

What if he wasn't just someone's flunkey? What if his purpose was more than just to be a pawn played out in someone else's game? What if he didn't want to be someone's tool, to be used and thrown away without a second thought? He knew he was more than that, could be more. He knew that his fear was real, but not what he had thought it was. He wasn't afraid of being something- anything- else. He wasn't afraid of breaking away from ShinRa. He was afraid that if he did, he would find that he was a failure, that he couldn't be anything but a controllable playing piece on a board who's magnitude he couldn't even imagine. His fear was that he would free himself from ShinRa only to prove that he could never be anything else. And so he staid.

((I said it too many times, and I still stand firm: you get what you put in, and people get what they deserve))

What goes around comes around. He thought about it as he sat in silence, gazing across the scintillating ocean, made dark by the setting sun. The steady whir of the rotor blades helped solidify his thoughts. His father had powered through life without care or compassion, intent only on furthering himself and his empire. He trampled over countless others, not even pausing to look down. Now, deservedly or not, he had no right to judge, his father was dead, and that was all that mattered. He hadn't even asked the particulars. He would find out soon enough, when he arrived. He was going home.

((Still I ain't seen mine))

((No, I ain't seen mine))

((I've been giving, just ain't been getting))

All these years. How much time had passed? No one knew, not even him, he had been there too long, that was all he knew. Over the years, he had done what had been expected of him, done what he had been told. Through hard times, rough times, and times he never wanted to remember, he had been loyal, faithful. Never asking recompense, wanting nothing in return. He gave without question, with blind, utter devotion, not caring, not noticing what his actions did. And now, it was too late. Nothing he could do would change the course he was on, he had been walking it too long, for too many years. It would simply never change.

((I've been walking that thin line))

Some days, it was just too much. The control, the emotion, the lack of an out, it all added together and he realized that he could no longer handle it. Or he never could. It had been necessary, he could let not one trace of his emotions show, lest it prove him to be weak, and the leader of the Turks could not be weak. But now, he had been hiding himself for so long that he had forgotten how to be human. He drew his gun, running his fingers over the cool metal. Through all the years, it had been his friend, his companion, completely loyal, never judging, never questioning. But it was so cold.

((But I guess I'll keep on walking, with my head held high))

Regardless of what they said, what they whispered behind his back or said openly to his face, regardless, he would never give in. He couldn't change the past, no one could. He was who he was, an it wasn't all his fault. They could blame who they would, come up with any reasons they cared to, but it wouldn't make a whit of difference to him. He wasn't the greatest, he knew it. He was a drunk, so what. But if that was who he was, then so be it. He would never change.

((I'll keep moving on, and only God knows why))

Tseng stared at his gun for a moment longer, knowing that there was one last bullet in the clip. There would always be one left. For him, for someone else, who knew, but it would always be there. For now, though, it would stay there. Placing his gun back in it's holster, Tseng turned and walked away, his long black hair flowing freely over his shoulders, replacing his mask. He didn't know why he had always been a survivor, or how he had remained as such, but he did, and until the day he died, he always would.

Always.

((Only God- only God knows why))

President Shinra watched his son as his spirit drifted up and over his desk. Cold, just as he taught him to be. Not a whisper of emotion showed on his face, no outward sign of his innermost feelings. Or maybe there just weren't any. Maybe after so many years of hard lessons, of harsh conditioning, maybe there wasn't anything left to show. Shinra sighed as everything slowly dissolved into spirit energy, a dazzling array of light and color. He never really knew why he had treated his son as he had, but it was too late to change anything now. Never again would he have the chance.

Never.

((Only God knows why))

Reeve lifted his head from his arms, staring at his desk. He knew, now, what he had always known, but never realized. He would never get out. ShinRa was where he was, and where he belonged. It hadn't always been that way, but now, it was irrefutable. If things had gone differently, maybe he would have ended up somewhere else, found another place where he belonged. But not now. Now, even if he wanted to, he could never leave. ShinRa was all he knew, all he had ever known. And so Reeve leaned back in his chair, resigned, knowing he would stay, living with the acknowledgement that he was no longer fit for anything else in life.

Anything.

((Only God...knows...why-why-why))

Reno watched the lights outside his window, barely able to see the slums beneath the Plate. His slums. The streets that had been his home, his school, his family. The streets where he had spent the first years of his life and, if it hadn't been for that one fateful night, what would have been his last. Sometimes he thought about the little kid, the nine year old boy who had seen too much, known to little, and lived too fast. That kid was dead now, and he was another person, living the good life, working for ShinRa. Still stalking the slums. Sometimes he wondered why he had been the one who got to go up, the one the Turks had seen fit. He wondered why he was the one who got taken out of the streets. Then he realized he was wrong. They had taken his physically up, but his very being was still tied up in the filth and macabre beauty of the slums, and it would be that way forever.

Forever.

((Only God- knows why))

Rufus Shinra stared at his father's body, slouched over his desk in front of the picture window. That window had been the last thing he had seen before he was taken away from everything he had known, everything he hated. Now, the thing he hated the most, his father, was dead, gone and never coming back. His face was blank, cold, distant. He would shed no tear for this man, say no prayer for his soul. Why should he, when he had gone through life awaiting this very moment with the barest trace of hope in his heart? His father had ceased to be his father the day the first blow had been struck. Since then, he was a competitor, someone who must be defeated so another could rise. Now it had happened. It was time for a new era, no more lust for money, no more greed. Now was a time of fear, of ridged control. He would raise the world as he had been, no quarter asked, none given. It was a new time, now. It was his time.

His.

~fin~