Almost Karma
By StarSongVII
Chapter 2
Disclaimer: I own nothing and make no money from this work. Final Fantasy VII and its characters and settings belong to Square Enix.
Warnings: Swearing, mature themes, and yaoi. Don't like, don't read. Enough said.
A/N (1): My bag was stolen from outside the exam hall. The USB drives containing all my stories – drafts, plots, notes, etc – are gone. My stories are gonna be coming slower now since I lost the drafts of all my chapters.
A/N (2): Thank you to all the wonderful reviewers! Hopefully this chapter clears up some of the past-future quandary.
##
Vincent wheeled Fenrir into the shed Cloud had built expressly for it. His keen eyes didn't miss how ridiculously well-made it was – all smooth, shiny steel: reinforced and waterproofed and bulletproofed and climate-controlled. Fenrir even had its own throw rug and cushioned stands.
Good grief.
He slid the bolt back into its place along the door, noting how it would take at least three non-genetically-enhanced men to move it. That is, if said non-genetically-enhanced men could even handle Fenrir. The Beast on Wheels was notorious for giving anyone but Cloud a hard time.
Even Mecha-thumb Cid had had to concede defeat.
As he turned to go, he spotted the little hut that seemed to be a part of the rock-wall behind it. Vincent wasn't a fool – he knew Cloud had designed it specifically to blend in with the environment. And he knew that this was definitely where Cloud lived – had caught enough glimpses of his friend coming to this area and disappearing into thin air to figure it out.
He hesitated, not wanting to pry even though the blond man was long gone. Cloud was an insanely private man, guarding his thoughts and emotions like a jealous lover. And Vincent understood that – what it was like to have only memories to call your own. Not that Cloud was even sure which of his memories were his and his alone.
You can take the man out of the Turks, but you'll never take the Turk out of the man.
His mind made up, he picked the lock and walked in.
And stopped, and stared.
It was tiny.
There was barely enough space for what little the place did have – and Vincent had nearly walked right into the rock-face that served as the back of Cloud's home.
Not his home. His prison.
Because that was exactly what it looked like. There was no window, no electricity, no pictures, not even a bed. Just that ugly green bedroll that Vincent had seen one too many times, and a small chest where he assumed Cloud kept the Materia he stole from Yuffie. There was no light or oil-lamp; not that Cloud needed it – Mako and finely honed senses would have helped him navigate a bigger, less Spartan place than this.
There wasn't even a fireplace or any manner of cooking appliance – and Vincent wondered if Cloud ate anything that wasn't packed by Tifa or packaged by WRO. He turned to leave, and just as he was locking the door behind him he noticed the little well hidden in the shadow of the hut. Then he realized why the whole set-up was so depressing.
It was all far too military to be comfortable.
Cloud couldn't allow himself to relax or grow complacent – couldn't allow himself to get used to warm food and soft, fluffy beds. Because one day he might wake up and the world would need him to ride to the rescue like a bloody knight in shining armor again and he'd do it because it was all he knew how to do.
Then after he'd dispatched yet another threat to humanity, he'd come back to this tiny cell and sit in the dark and think. There wasn't even a book or radio in the place to distract him.
Someone needs a hobby.
Vincent wondered if he could have made a difference, if he could've somehow helped Cloud with his burden. They were similar enough that Vincent had come to regard Cloud as more than a friend, almost a soul-mate, because they both knew what it was like to carry a beast within. Maybe if he hadn't been so afraid of broaching a sore topic and offending a friend; maybe if he hadn't been so wrapped up in his own damn problems and come over to spend some time with Cloud and talk…
Don't kid yourself, Valentine.
All the pep-talks and friends in the world wouldn't have helped. Cloud hadn't just lost his dreams; he'd had to destroy them himself to save the rest of the world. But somehow Vincent knew that if it came to it, Cloud would willingly sacrifice everything if only to protect everyone else.
Quit being such a damned martyr and get a life.
Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Vincent wondered how Cloud would react to that. Probably give him that sad little smile of his and avoid him for the rest of his life.
##
Cloud couldn't decide if he wanted to wake up. On the one hand, if the whole second-chance thing turned out to be just a very vivid dream, then at least he'd wake up in familiar surroundings. On the other hand, if he really WAS fifteen again, there was a chance here for him to take what he wanted and live the dream.
That was just it: he didn't know if he wanted to live a dream, or dream of living. One was familiar and comfortable; the other was so filled with hope and promise that it was at once exhilarating and terrifying.
As he was procrastinating and attempting to postpone the inevitable, his body decided to go ahead without him and take the plunge. He could hear snoring, could smell the sweat.
Yippee-ka-yay.
He opened his eyes.
It was dark, very dark. Cloud couldn't even see the clock on the wall, and he almost wished he had Hojo's tinkering to back him. But he didn't, so he looked around the room instead, eyes landing on a faint glow two bunks away.
Glow-in-the-dark alarm clock.
He rolled to his feet, wincing as the bed creaked a little. No one stirred though, and he made his way stealthily over to the sleeping cadet with the very handy time-piece.
Four-fucking-thirty.
He'd gotten so used to sleeping only four hours a day, six at the very most, that it appeared his mental awareness had carried over to this useless teenage body. He supposed that was a good thing – he couldn't honestly be expected to save the world with the mentality of a fifteen year old hillbilly.
Sighing, he turned and headed for the bathrooms. He knew better than to try to go back to sleep – if he succeeded, it would mess up his sleeping habits and he refused to be anything less than the man he was. Washing his face and brushing his teeth were done on auto-pilot as he pondered the situation. It was Monday, and from what he could remember of cadet training they had PT every morning for two hours, before a whole host of classes.
PT started at seven-thirty though, after breakfast. Which meant that Cloud had about two hours before the wake-up call sounded at six-thirty.
He spat into the sink, rinsed his mouth, and couldn't help glancing in the mirror. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, hoping for – maybe for some of the bulk and height he'd finally gained, but he knew that if his eyes started glowing he'd be in big trouble. Cadets absolutely did NOT have Mako-glows, and Cloud vaguely remembered that their Mako-testing would take place only towards the end of the cadet program. He wasn't looking forward to it, but at the same time, he knew he would welcome the effects of Mako. It helped to be genetically-enhanced when you had to save the world.
His face was as stupidly childish as ever. If Cloud had been a different man, he'd have made a face or smashed the mirror. But he'd learned to control himself, to keep a chokingly tight rein on his emotions, so he just turned to leave before an idea hit him.
Chin-ups.
The bathroom stalls were metal (God only knew why), and they looked pretty stable. Cloud could use them to his advantage – he knew he needed to work on his abysmal fitness and strength, it was one of the reasons why he'd failed the SOLDIER exams before.
He walked over slowly, stretching his arms lightly on the way. When he came to a stop directly under one of the beams that held the doors to the stalls, he couldn't help scowling when he realized how very high up it was.
Shorty.
He leapt up, catching hold of the metal shaft with some of his old grace. But already his arms were burning with the effort of trying to remain holding on.
Pathetic.
Gritting his teeth, he shifted his hands into position, took a deep breath, and pulled.
It burned. And he hadn't even gotten his chin near the beam yet. This was ridiculous. As an adult, he'd been able to do hundreds of one-handed chin-ups easily, and now he couldn't even do a normal chin-up without his arms whining like one of those new-fangled emo-rock groups.
Tough luck.
Heedless of his body's cries, he pulled harder until his chin touched the beam, then very slowly he lowered himself while exhaling, not wanting to get into the habit of a jarring release. The biggest problem with cadets was that they liked taking the easy way out, liked to just drop back quickly from a chin-up position because they wanted to give their muscles some relief. It was only in SOLDIER that they would realize that the best way to build up strength and therefore reduce the pain was to move slowly and breathe correctly – that way the proper muscles would be used, and it lessened the probability of injury.
Cloud kept up his exercise, but he was sweating profusely by the second successful chin-up. He persevered though, liking how when his body was shaking so hard from the effort his mind couldn't really think about the consequences of failure.
He managed twelve before his strength gave out, and he fell to the floor in an ungraceful, sweaty heap. He forced himself to stand shakily, and he brushed sticky hair away from his face with a hand that quivered like Yuffie's bottom lip whenever she tried to emotionally blackmail him. He never thought he'd miss her brattiness, but he was surprised to find that he'd willingly put up with a thousand of her shrieks right now if only to have a familiar face at his side.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
If that was true then a certain silver-haired man should be very fond of Cloud right now.
Shaking his head, he stretched his arms again, before looking back up at the smug metal beam. He leapt up, catching it with sweaty palms, and quickly brought his knees up and tucked his legs over and around it. It was time for crunches, and these were particularly effective. Cloud would hang himself upside down and use only his abdominal muscles to pull his chin to his knees while his lower back muscles kept his body firm. He knew that he needed to strengthen his core muscles, knew that when it came to throwing punches or swinging a massive broadsword around the majority of his strength would come from his abs and lower back – Tifa had confirmed that the techniques involved in making blows more powerful required very strong internal muscles and proper breathing habits.
He inhaled, then clenched his stomach and pulled himself up on the exhale. And very nearly fell off the beam as his entire body jerked and practically fizzled with the effort.
Friggin' ridiculous!
Had Hojo really made THAT much of an impact? Did Cloud really owe so much to the mad scientist with the stereotypical Dr Frankenstein look?
No way in hell.
This time, he would do it HIS way. There was absolutely no chance of him allowing Hojo to experiment on him again, no way he would give someone the opportunity to take him apart and prod him and humiliate him and manipulate him. Cloud knew that he was on the small side, knew that he was slightly effeminate (there was a reason why he'd managed to fool Corneo after all), but he wasn't going to let that stop him. Failure was not an option. It wasn't everyday that anyone got the chance to go back to the past armed with years of experience and hindsight, and Cloud was going to make the best of it.
Good luck with that.
Now if only his traitorous mind would just shut up, everything would be just peachy.
Grunting and panting with the effort, he managed twenty such crunches, practically flopping towards the end, and then changed his position on the beam and dropped to the ground. He would have back-flipped off the bar but he'd probably have rubbed noses with the floor that way – his body was still far too underdeveloped for that sort of exertion. Mako had really made a difference, and not just physically. It was a helluva confidence booster; and confidence, Cloud knew, was the key to successfully pulling off any sort of stunt.
He wondered how he'd succeeded in saving the world twice, when he'd never really had any confidence in his abilities.
Didn't know saving lives was a goddamned stunt.
He didn't have very long to work out until the others woke, and he didn't have much time until the exams or Nibelheim. He needed to make the most of every second, and he really didn't need to keep thinking about how weak he was or about how much he wanted to see a certain Angel of Death.
Goddammit.
He knew just the thing to clear his head, and he headed out of the barracks, accidentally catching a glimpse of himself in the mirrors as he left the bathroom. His hair was limp and sticking to his head like an upturned bowl of banana mush, and his face was ruddier than Red XIII's backside.
Lovely.
He walked quickly towards the track, and once there he started stretching. His flexibility was almost laughable here, and he knew he'd need to work on it. Speed and leonine reflexes could only do so much, and more than once it had been only Cloud's almost stripper-like suppleness that had enabled him to dodge a fatal blow.
Well, if SOLDIER doesn't work out…
Stretching done, he took off at a jog, making sure to keep his breathing deep and even. He'd found that focusing on simple things like inhaling and exhaling helped keep the inevitable muscle burn at bay, and he needed to build up his endurance and stamina. There was no point in being super-strong and super-fast if he dropped boneless to the ground within five minutes of a fight.
He didn't know what time it was, or how long he had, but he was determined to keep at his almost-run until the wake-up call sounded. He didn't want to think about what he was going to say if the other cadets asked why he was already up and sweaty - if they even noticed him at all. He supposed they might even chalk it up to masturbation, being male and teenaged. But somehow he didn't want them to think that he was the kind of guy who wanked, let alone the kind of moron who woke up earlier than everyone else just to shag himself silly.
He managed two rounds around the field before the stitch in his side became a serious hindrance, but he refused to double over or slouch. Posture was important, and if he could just break the pain barrier he'd be in better shape for the exams. So Cloud kept himself upright, his obliques and core muscles practically trembling with the effort required to maintain a proper carriage after so much exertion.
He kept going, just focusing on his breathing and the rhythmic beating of his heart as it thumped along in time with his booted feet on the worn track. Running always gave him a certain peace of mind and clarity of thought – it always helped him feel like he was somehow free of doubt, free of care or worry or concern. The light morning breeze carried a scent of metal and Mako, but for once Cloud welcomed this reminder of Shinra's presence. It helped remind him of how much he stood to lose – and not just his life or the lives of his friends or the rest of the world; but more importantly his self-respect and his peace of mind. While Cloud had never really come to terms with himself, he'd at least managed to achieve a certain ease with his body and his environment that, although far from being contentment or happiness, had at least given him a sort of calmness of spirit. It might have just been familiarity, after years of going through almost the same motions, but Cloud liked to think that he had actually managed to adjust to being who he was – broken and almost-insane and all.
This time though, he could erase his mistakes as though they'd never happened. Aeris and he would be the only ones to know that things could have happened differently, had actually happened differently. And Cloud was fine with that – it was his burden to bear. If no one else knew how much he'd suffered, it was alright with him, because then they wouldn't have to know about how blood-thirsty Sephiroth would become, and how close the world would actually come to being completely obliterated when Cloud almost hadn't been strong enough.
When he'd been younger, an actual fifteen year old, he'd longed for glory and gold, for fame and name. And then he'd gotten it and wished he'd never left Nibelheim for cadet training. He wondered what would have happened if he'd never come to Midgar, never gotten to know Zack, never become Hojo's science homework. Would someone else have stepped up to the plate and stopped the end of the world? Or would Jenova have won? Maybe some other nameless infantryman would have become the hero – it was probably just fate that had resulted in Cloud being picked to go along with Sephiroth and Zack to Nibelheim anyway. Shinra wouldn't actually have been thoughtful enough to send someone on a mission back to their hometown on purpose.
He'd hit the nail on the head. Cloud had never felt worthy of the mantle that had been shoved upon him, had always wondered why he'd been practically hand-picked by Destiny to become a bloody Hero. It was all a bit too much to be just a coincidence – first the Nibelheim mission, then meeting Tifa in AVALANCHE, then falling into the church and opening his eyes to Aeris. Had he really been intended for this role all along? Aeris seemed to think so – she'd said that he would be the one to save the world. But if that was true, then why hadn't he been born stronger, better, smarter? Why had he been brought into the world as Cloud Strife, illegitimate weakling in a backwater mountain town? He'd practically had a bull's-eye painted on himself – he was a prime target for bullies and a total trouble magnet. If he'd really been born to save the world, shouldn't he have been at least blessed with some form of strength or unique ability? The only thing special about him was how absurdly pathetic he was.
Fall seven times, stand up eight.
Yuffie had mentioned it before – an old proverb in Wutaian literature.
So Cloud had been born useless and pathetic just so he could get beaten and broken and crushed. The Planet wanted to see if he could pick himself up again? What would have happened if he hadn't found the strength to do so? Was the Planet really willing to take such a gamble? This wasn't some stupid video game. What was the bloody point? If he was destined to be Mr Save-the-World, why not just give him strength and speed and smarts from the get-go? Why make him suffer and bleed every step of the way?
Why make sadness the price to pay?
Ancients.
His head was aching from the philosophical marathon, so he decided to stop thinking about it. If there was one thing he liked about who he'd become, it was that he could, most of the time, control his thoughts and emotions so well that he could walk through fire and feel as though he was in a bed of water. Pain and heat and cold were just states of mind to him – he had that strong a command over his body and psyche.
At last, something I'm good at.
He'd lost count of how many rounds he'd made, but his shirt was stuck to his body, and he was a waterfall of sweat. He probably stank too – he lifted up his right arm to take a sniff and nearly recoiled at the stench.
Eau de cadet.
Suddenly the silence of the morning was broken by a cheesy trumpet call that reminded Cloud of the cheap Westerns Cid liked to watch. Shinra Company was the richest, most formidable empire in the world, and they couldn't even record a better alarm – had probably just stolen it off one of Cid's favorite gun-slinging shows.
Goddamned penny-pinchers.
He slowed to a stop, making sure to walk evenly for awhile before he moved to stretch again. It wouldn't do to get a cramp – the instructors would show no mercy, and the cadets would just beat him to the ground for being such an embarrassment.
When he'd finally managed to get his breathing under control, he headed to the nearby faucet to wash some of the sweat off. Then he walked back to the now-empty bunks to change his shirt and towel off before going to the mess hall. Some of the others were already there, sleepily trying to eat their coffee, but the others were, for the most part, still in the bathroom trying to wake up.
Nothing woke Cloud up like the smell of Shinra garbage. And that was exactly what was sitting on his plate. The chalkboard claimed it was oatmeal and eggs – it looked more like the fur balls Red XIII sometimes hacked up.
Cloud took a seat at the far end of the cafeteria, keeping his back against the wall. He was pretty sure this had been his token place in the past, and he hoped he was right so that no one would accuse him of being in their seat and draw attention to him. He swallowed his gag reflex, and forced himself to take a nice, big spoonful of the Unidentified Food-ish Object.
He supposed he should be grateful that he'd never allowed himself to get used to proper home-made meals. Sometimes he'd had to hunt for his own fare, when provisions ran out. And then he'd have to make a fire and cook it if he didn't want to eat raw meat like an animal. Not that he didn't feel like an animal sometimes.
Stop it. Just stop it.
He made it through half the plate before throwing in the towel, and gulped down his tasteless coffee before rising to dump his tray and grab his water bottle for class. The others in his bunk were already in the hall, some of them, like Cloud, had already finished and were just taking the time before classes to daydream about how they would be Big, Bad SOLDIERS.
Cloud already knew which of them would make it and which wouldn't.
He was almost out the door when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye that made him turn slightly. A bright red head was attempting to drown itself in coffee.
Reno?
Cloud couldn't remember ever seeing Reno before the AVALANCHE gig with the reactors, but he was pretty sure that if Reno had somehow been sent back into the past with him then Aeris would have mentioned it. Which meant that Reno had been a cadet with Cloud, and Reno had known the details of Cloud's sordid past.
Why didn't he say anything?
Why had Reno allowed Cloud to believe that he was an ex-SOLDIER? Why hadn't Reno mentioned ever being in the same training group as Cloud, when everyone knew that Cloud was desperately trying to piece together the memories of his life before AVALANCHE?
Bastard.
If Cloud ever woke up back in the future, he'd make sure to give the Turk a piece of his mind, and a nice big piece of First Tsurugi.
##
Barret remembered the first time he'd hugged Cloud. It had been a spur of the moment thing - he hadn't been thinking; had been so overjoyed and ecstatic and so ridiculously happy that he'd just grabbed the person nearest to him and crushed.
Cloud had tensed and gone stiff as a board, but he hadn't lashed out. When Barret finally pulled back grinning, the pale, pinched look on Cloud's face instantly flattened his buoyant mood like a WEAPON landing on a chocobo.
Thinking he'd offended his friend, Barret had been about to apologize in his own gruff way when Cloud had offered him a sad half-smile. And then Barret realized that it wasn't that Cloud didn't like being hugged, it was just that it wasn't Barret he wanted hugging him.
Barret hadn't hugged Cloud again. He didn't need to see that heartbroken expression on the blond's face every time Cloud wished it was someone else's arms around him.
Now Cloud was gone to make sure Nibelheim never burned. When Tifa and Vincent had first told them about the time-traveling thing, Barret had wondered what they'd been smoking. Then he'd wondered what it meant for all of them. Reeve had puzzled about quantum physics and Relatives and Butterflies and Somebody's Cat until he realized they weren't listening.
The President of WRO had tried to explain, saying that their reality would change as Cloud changed the past, but that they wouldn't know any better because their memories and their lives and their surroundings would reflect the effects of Cloud's actions accordingly. Barret had walked off and punched a hole in a wall – with his gun-arm, of course. He wasn't as freaky strong as Cloud.
He wondered what it'd mean for him – how different things would be. Barret was happy with his life, comfortable now with the way things were. He'd fought hard for it – from actual gun-fights and guerilla tactics to intimidation techniques in the boardroom and on the oil-fields. Barret Wallace was a self-made man, even though he realized that he wouldn't have made it this far if it wasn't for Cloud's help. But it was his blood and hissweat and his tears that had taken the opportunity Cloud had presented him with and turned it into the enormous trust fund for Marlene and Denzel. Barret could give them everything and anything they wanted now – a far cry from a terrorist in a secret hideout bargaining with a mercenary about school fees and clandestine operations.
Barret knew that Cloud would ensure he was taken care of though – Cloud always did watch out for everyone else; would cut off his own arm if it meant making a friend happy.
But what would it be like to never have been friends with Cloud Strife, to never have fought by his side to free the world from fear?
He knew Cloud had it rough, rougher than the rest of them. And he suspected he knew why. So if Cloud now had a chance at happiness, Barret wasn't going to begrudge him that. Not after everything Cloud had done for him, not after everything Cloud had sacrificed for him. True, he didn't really like the object of Cloud's affections; but Cloud was his friend and friends supported each other. Or at the very least they didn't pull a Shinra on the people they owed their lives to. Barret might have been a rough and coarse man – AVALANCHE had had to be rough – but he was a softy at heart and everyone knew it. Barret would fight to get to where he was again if it meant that Cloud could have a shot at happiness.
Yuffie called him a teddy bear, and Barret had been secretly pleased.
He was getting old.
So Barret would cheer Cloud on – though if Reeve was right, he wouldn't know why he was cheering anyway. But one thing Barret did know – Cloud would succeed. Cloud would defeat Shinra and Jenova and DeepGround and anyone else that needed defeating, because he was Cloud Strife.
And Barret would be there with him somehow – he knew that.
He wondered what things would be like, and then he decided not to think about it because there was really nothing he could do except take each day as it came.
Maybe we can hug tomorrow.
##
"PICK it UP, ladies! You think this is a game? Is THIS how you sorry asses are gonna run when the enemy's bearing down on your worthless hides? PICK it UP!"
Gunnery Sergeant Payne was exactly that – a pain. Every morning he had the cadets for PT, and every morning he would scream the same lines at them until his face, already perpetually red from his alcoholism, would become mottled and purple. His blustering had worked before, when the cadets had been new, but by now they'd all become quite accomplished at tuning him out.
Cloud simply reminded himself that the Gunny would eventually die of cirrhosis. He supposed he was being rather spiteful, but Gunnery Sergeant Payne had ridden him harder than anyone else – although it had probably been because Cloud was the weakest of the bunch, but that wasn't the point. Did the man have to be so stereotypically army?
The cadets were halfway through their rounds around the field, and already most of them were doubled over from the exertion – or from appendicitis. Cloud himself really wanted to just flop onto the ground – his private training earlier in the morning combined with the Gunny's yowling making passing out sound very tempting. But he knew that he needed to not only survive this, but excel. So he gritted his teeth and called upon every single ounce of willpower and self-respect in his exhausted, shaking body, and increased his pace. He could tell some of his group were wondering what was wrong with him – Cloud was usually the last of the bunch, and he'd rarely managed to make it this far at this speed without collapsing at least once. But Cloud ignored them and just focused on zoning out.
Around and around they went, until at last the Gunny gave a shrill whistle, and they stopped – most of the cadets throwing themselves to the ground in an attempt to rest a bit before the next set of drills.
Cloud kept walking on the spot. He knew he looked like crap now – his face was most definitely redder than Reno's sweat-drenched mane, his hair was sticky and everywhere, and his shirt had practically melded itself to his body. Not to mention that the dust that the cadets had kicked up from the tracks and the pollution coming into the training grounds from the rest of Midgar was most probably streaked all over his face – add that to the rest of his stinking, soaking, shaking body and he was stylin'.
The whistle sounded again, and there was a collective groan as the cadets pulled themselves towards the cones that had been set up by their sadistic instructor. It was time for suicide drills.
Yippee-ka-yay.
Honestly, Cloud didn't know how he'd managed to get through PT when he was feeling more exhausted than he'd ever had in his life. Not even taking on the Triplets and Sephiroth had worn him out this much. He supposed he should be proud of himself, but right now he just wanted to wake up on his old bedroll in his little hut. At least in that world, he'd been The Man.
The cadets moved as a collective slug, and they trudged along the hallways to their next class, not bothering to clean themselves off. It was hand-to-hand time. For some of them, it meant that they could take out all their hormone-induced aggression on others in the name of SOLDIER; but for the rest of them it was just another reason why Mondays sucked. Cloud remembered being beaten to a pulp more times than he could count in this class, and he thought that he could probably remember every crack and tear and bump on the blue mat that covered most of the hall. Once upon a time, the ugly blue thing had probably been meant to cushion the impact of falls, but now it just gave cause for uneven footing and more than one twisted ankle.
They were bellowed at by Staff Sergeant Jeffries, and they sorted themselves into some semblance of two lines, assuming their respective offensive or defensive positions. Then the katas began – mind-numbingly boring repetitions that were absolutely useless in a real fight. As if an opponent would actually use these cadet-level moves. Not only that, but the katas themselves were full of holes, so easily side-stepped that Cloud wanted to laugh. As it was, he concentrated on the steps, not wanting to get howled at by another sadistic instructor and risk drawing attention to himself. He was managing pretty well against his opponent for the day, a big burly boy from Costa del Sol who had bleached blond hair and a very dark tan and who was so stereotypically surfer-boy he even ended every sentence with the word "dude". His name was Matt, if Cloud remembered correctly, and he hung out with another del Sol kid: another tanned, tall boy who had dread-locks and who called himself a 'Rasta' or something like that. Fifteen year old Cloud had thought that they were kinda cool; this older Cloud thought they were kinda annoying.
He could tell Matt was surprised that he was managing to hold his own, especially so soon after PT. Usually Cloud would have been flat on the floor by now, but today Cloud refused to be anything less than the best. It was boring though, these senseless acts of martial garbage, and soon enough Cloud found himself zoning out and thinking about how First Tsurugi was doing.
He wondered if anyone would care enough to give Fenrir a rub-down before bed-time.
As it was, Cloud didn't notice the look Matt gave his Rasta-friend. If he had, he would've recognized the signal – it was Crush Strife Time.
Matt was supposed to guard with his left arm, but instead he shot his right fist out, straight at Cloud's nose. And Cloud reacted.
It was instinct that screamed through him, racing through his body with all the force and brutality of a train wreck. He shifted his feet, twisted, clenching his stomach muscles, using his left hand to grab Matt's fist, his right arm coming in between them and latching onto Matt's bicep as he pulled; then using his right shoulder Cloud flipped the surfer over and onto the mat, jerking his arm back at the last minute.
The resounding snap brought Cloud out of his battle-haze, and he stared in horror at the other boy's protruding radial bone. Matt was on the ground, crying out in agony, and Cloud hastily released his arm and stepped back. He hadn't meant to do it, had just instinctively used a move he'd seen Tifa pull enough times to figure out for himself.
"WHAT the FUCK is going on here?!"
Staff Sergeant Jeffries was suddenly right there, in Cloud's face. He didn't even spare the howling Matt a glance.
Oh sure, go for the natural blond.
Cloud just looked back at him impassively. Did Jeffries really think he could intimidate Cloud with that clichéd routine?
Give me SOME credit.
"Strife! I asked you a question! What the FUCK is going on? Is there any part of the kata that says that you're supposed to throw your opponent to the ground? What kind of DUMB SHIT are you?!"
Cloud just looked at him. Matt was still wailing.
"It wasn't Cloud's fault, sir."
Cloud spun around and stared. Reno was standing next to him, and actually defending him.
Jeffries was advancing on the red-head now, but to Reno's credit he just stood his ground and attempted to school his face into one of deference. Cloud could see the Turk in him even now.
"Explain."
Reno didn't even glance at Cloud. "Matt deviated from the kata and aimed a punch at Cloud's face, sir."
Jeffries turned his beady eyes towards Cloud, and the blond tried to mask his shock. What was Reno up to? Why was he defending him? They hadn't been friends, or Cloud would've remembered it. Reno was a street-rat, the kind of person who only looked out for Number One and who didn't do something for nothing. Was Reno from the future, then? Was that why he was being, well, supportive of Cloud? Or did he have something up his sleeve? Defending Cloud like this was going to get him into trouble with some of the other boys, because Matt was quite a popular guy, and Cloud most definitely wasn't.
"That true, Strife?" Jeffries really didn't seem to notice that Matt had passed out. None of the other boys were helping him though – they didn't want to incur the wrath of their instructor for the dude.
Cloud nodded once. "Yes, sir."
Jeffries attempted to stare him down, but Cloud just stared right back at him. He tried to put on a mask of deference, but he knew it was just plain indifference on his face when Jeffries sneered and looked madder.
"Drop down and give me 200."
Cloud debated grunting an "oo-rah" back at the Sergeant, and thought the better of it, dropping to the ground with nothing more than a "Sir, yes sir".
Jeffries turned back to the other boys and ordered two of them to drag Matt to the infirmary. Reno was still standing there, not looking at Cloud, but somehow the blond knew that Reno was watching him intently. He didn't react though, didn't even glance at the future Turk. He didn't know what to think. Why was Reno helping him out? What did he want? Was he from the future too?
Then Cloud just cursed himself. He hadn't wanted to draw any attention to himself, hadn't wanted anyone to notice anything different about him. And then he'd gone and pulled a Zangan-special on a boy twice his size.
The thought of the move he'd used reminded him of Tifa. He wondered how she was doing.
Was she calling him a selfish bastard now? Or maybe a useless coward?
He doubted it though. Tifa had always understood him. When he'd been younger, he'd loved her as one would love a dream, a lady-love for an errant knight. But later, after everything, he had loved her simply as the kind-hearted sister she had come to be. After Meteor, he'd debated settling down with her, maybe attempting some form of a relationship. But that would've been an insult to her – so he hadn't tried, had simply let her know in his own way that she would always be his almost-home.
Settling down with her would've been an insult to him.
His muscles were aching, and Cloud thought with some amusement that this was an easy way of getting extra training in without making it look like he wanted any. But he really didn't want to have to get into anymore trouble than was absolutely necessary. He'd been lucky this time – had Reno not stepped in, Cloud would've been either severely punished or kicked out of the program. And that wouldn't have been good.
The red-head had turned to look at him now that Jeffries was screeching at some other unfortunate soul on the other side of the hall. Cloud refused to look up at him though.
What the hell is Reno up to?
##
Reno sauntered through Edge, heading for Seventh Heaven. He liked being a Turk, liked how people gave his suit a wide berth. Even if he was just out for a stroll, people always assumed he was on some top-secret mission, and he liked how the children looked at him in awe, the women with lust, and the men with envy.
Reno was a bastard and proud of it.
He didn't hesitate at the 'Closed' sign. He and AVALANCHE had the kind of special relationship that came from saving Cloud Strife's ass. And Reno was a regular enough customer at Seventh Heaven that Tifa even knew his favorite drink.
Beautiful and smart.
He sashayed in, swinging his hips and whistling some show-tune that Elena had recently downloaded onto her phone. Really, what was she thinking? A Turk with such a ra-ra ring-tone was just asking to be disrespected.
Tifa was just standing there, looking utterly miserable and staring at nothing in particular. It didn't take a genius to figure out who had upset her this much.
Fucking emo blondie.
Reno slid jauntily onto a stool across from where she was standing, and habit made her move to mix his drink without looking at him or acknowledging him. He was a little crushed – he'd only bought this suit yesterday.
He supposed he should ask, but he really didn't want to know.
"He's gone."
Reno didn't react to Vincent's sudden appearance and breaking of the silence: he forced himself to remain slouching casually over the bar. Then suddenly Valentine was at his elbow and Reno was very proud of himself for not even tensing.
This is why I'm hot.
He took a long drink from the glass Tifa slid across to him – and contemplated asking why they were acting like Strife was gone from the world. Had Blondie died or something?
"He's gone back in time."
Reno couldn't control himself this time. He choked and sputtered on his mojito and struggled not to bellow with laughter. Tifa might have been out of it, but the woman had a temper. And Vincent was half-monster, half-Turk.
They aren't the same thing.
Tifa's fists clenched, and Vincent settled onto the stool to Reno's left – the Turk didn't miss how Valentine angled himself so that he could plug Reno full of Cerberus' bullets before the red-head could cry "uncle".
You can take the man out of the Turks, but you'll never take the Turk out of the man.
Reno knew that Valentine had been a Turk – had done his own research about Golden-Claw. Apparently the man had been a damned fine agent too, before Hojo had gotten his hands on him.
Now he was just freaky.
Tifa had started mopping mechanically at the mess Reno had made, and he stared through her as he pondered this latest development. Strife tended to get tangled up in the most bizarre plots and occurrences – the man had some serious issues, and only a fool wouldn't have figured out why. And Reno was not a fool, had made a name for himself as a smart man, a cunning and ruthless agent who always knew things he shouldn't. But even with all his carefully acquired knowledge he had never quite figured out how Cloud Strife had managed to save the world twice when he was so weak and un-hero-like.
"Why?" Reno voiced at last. He didn't think the Planet did refunds.
"To stop Nibelheim."
Reno was still trying to get his head around the whole time-travel thing, and the fact that Beauty and the Beast believed in it. And now apparently Strife was gone to prevent the entire Sephiroth fiasco from ever happening.
He looked at Valentine. True, the man had his issues too – anyone who locked themselves in a coffin for more than twenty years had to be seriously whacked in the head. But the dark-haired man was an ex-Turk, and that counted for something. If he seriously believed in this quantum babble then Reno would have to believe in it too.
"Good luck with that." Reno snorted, turning back to his drink. Tifa spun around to glare at him, and secretly he felt pleased with himself for shaking that glum look off her face. Not that that had been his intention at all: Reno just enjoyed nettling people, relished provoking them into revealing things about themselves that they didn't want anyone to know. He liked having options.
Vincent hadn't reacted at all, and Reno wasn't really surprised.
Once a Turk, always a Turk.
He had their attention now though, and he took a moment to preen aggravatingly.
"We were cadets together."
At that even Vincent's eyebrows shot up.
Score one for the new generation.
This is how we do it.
Tifa was looking at him eagerly now, and under ordinary circumstances Reno would've denied her just because he liked annoying people. But this was far from ordinary – and really, she was far too beautiful to deny.
Pity she only had eyes for Strife the Sad.
He hesitated though – he really didn't want to be the one to tell them the truth, although he had a feeling they already knew it. But he honestly didn't want to be the idiot who said that Cloud Strife was a wimpy little nobody who'd been the laughing stock of the cadets.
Reno had never had a death wish.
Unlike some people.
"Cloud wasn't the biggest of guys back then." There – as subtly and snidely as only a Turk could.
I'm so fly.
##
Cadet Reno stared at the spiky blond head in front of him and wondered if he was still suffering from the after-effects of Saturday night's alcohol-poisoning race.
Because he was pretty sure that Cloud Strife had never been this…well, cool.
As he watched Cloud move through his push-ups, he tried to figure out what was different about the blond, and it wasn't just this surprising jump in ability or the overflow of confidence – he'd noticed the way the little blond had practically stared down Staff Sergeant Jeffries.
He wondered when Cloud had changed from moving like he wanted everyone to treat him as a tough guy and leave him alone, to moving like he knew everyone would leave him alone because he was dangerous and they knew it.
The Cloud from Saturday night was a shorty with a chip on his shoulder the size of the Plate.
This Cloud had a burden on his shoulders the weight of the Plate.
The red-head hadn't really paid attention to the blond before – he hadn't been worth it. Sure, he'd picked on him for awhile, until he'd found out that Cloud was a bastard.
While Reno had never been outside of Midgar, he knew enough about the world to know that illegitimate children were treated the same everywhere. It wasn't so bad in the slums – half the children didn't know which of their mother's customers was their dad.
Must be worse in the Boondocks.
So he'd backed off, and watched as the others picked on and made fun of the kid for his height, his build, his hair, his accent, his paternity, his name, his hillbilly background, everything. Reno supposed he could have helped the blond out – they did after all have two things in common: utter ignorance about their paternity, and a strong dislike for all those kids with daddies to take them to ball-games and shit like that.
If Reno had been a different person, if he hadn't had to fend for himself and look out for Number One all the time, he probably would have been a little nicer to the kid who was in way over his spiky blond head. But although Reno disliked those other boys with a Mom and a Dad and a nice little roof over their heads, he disliked weakness even more.
And the little blond was weak.
Or at least he had been Saturday night. Now though, there was only steel in his baby blue eyes – steel and a cold fire that did not bode well for those that didn't watch themselves. And Reno was wondering what exactly had happened to the retard who had glared and sulked and flunked his way through most of the cadet program.
This Cloud's weaknesses weren't the type to be exploited or mocked, Reno knew. And he wondered how he knew that when he didn't even know what had happened to turn Strife into an old man with a boy's face.
Reno would bide his time though – patience was a virtue and all that jazz. Time would reveal more than interrogations and mind games and espionage ever could. Sooner or later, Cloud would show his hand. And Reno would be there to share in the winnings.
I'm so fly.
##
Zack Fair strolled along the corridor towards the General's office at exactly 12PM. He was late – as usual – rules and regulations required him to report to work by 9AM six days a week. But Zack had his privileges as The Man's Right-Hand Man, and really, only the General was ever at work before 10AM.
Sephiroth was in his office by 6AM, most days.
But the silver-haired man tended to overlook Zack's transgressions – and sometimes Zack wondered if it was because of the whole Angeal affair.
He scowled momentarily. He really didn't want to spoil his day by thinking about it.
Think happy thoughts.
Invariably his mind moved to his favorite subject: his self-proclaimed position as Sephiroth's "Let's Be More Human" Mentor. It was one of the reasons why he was always cheerful around the older man – Sephiroth was stern enough for the both of them.
Someone needs to discover sugar.
Zack had started his Operation Humanize slowly, subtly. First by getting the General to realize that Zack really wasn't interested in screwing him or screwing with him – that had been hard. Sephiroth had been surrounded by manipulative, selfish people all his life – and even though Zack had managed to worm his way past the silver-haired man's walls, the effects of a lifetime of suspicion were obvious in the General's communication skills (or lack thereof). Sephiroth didn't talk much, didn't ask questions because he always drew his own conclusions from his observations and wealth of knowledge. When it came to people, the man was right 90% of the time because 90% of the people he dealt with were either dumb or had ulterior motives or both. But when it came to the 10% of people who truly meant well, Sephiroth had to be constantly reminded that Communication Was The Key To A Healthy Relationship.
Zack figured the best way to get Sephiroth to see people as more than idiots was for him to get to know more people. Easier said than done. Everyone tended to act funny around the General – from becoming tongue-tied super-klutzes on fainting sprees, to morphing into rabid fans with raging libidos – and continued exposure to those sorts only served to prove how right Sephiroth was. So Zack had gone for the second best option: the wonderful world of film.
Problem was, Sephiroth had probably never watched a fictional work in his life. And Zack had no idea what he'd like.
He'd gone for the middle ground – a horror movie. The two hours spent on his couch had him alternating between hiding behind the popcorn and wanting to smack his superior officer silly. Because Sephiroth had been so ridiculously derisive towards the characters and the plot and the setting – did the ghost really have to be a jilted lover with long black hair and a torn white dress? – that he hadn't stopped passing snide remarks.
It had taken Zack two weeks to convince the man to watch another movie with him. And he'd spent that two weeks in the video store trying to figure out what would tickle the General's fancy, or at least involve him enough in the story that he wouldn't keep commenting about how imbecilic everyone and everything was.
Somehow Zack didn't think that his friend would appreciate chick-flicks.
Then he'd found it – The Bone Collector.
It really wasn't the kind of show Zack usually watched – he preferred action movies or comedies. But Sephiroth would just criticize the action scenes, and Zack really doubted the man was into slapstick or lewd humor.
They'd watched the movie, and Sephiroth had been so intrigued he hadn't once moved his eyes from the screen. Zack had taken the opportunity to stuff his friend full of popcorn.
After that, Zack felt very proud of himself. He now knew what the General liked to watch – and it was their little secret. So he'd headed on down to the video store and sought out another intelligent crime story with characters that would help Sephiroth learn to see people as more than just idiots. That was when he'd spotted it: CSI.
Zack had had his misgivings – and he hadn't been sure which series to get. So he'd picked up the first season of all three, and cajoled Sephiroth into coming over.
Sephiroth had been hooked.
It was as close to an obsession as Zack had ever seen – the General speedily watched through all of CSI: Gold Saucer, CSI: Costa del Sol, and CSI: Junon, and then he'd watched all of them again, and again, and again. Sephiroth had become so involved in the shows and characters that after Danny married Lindsay, he'd turned a punching bag into a puddle of sand.
Boom.
Zack chuckled to himself – sometimes Sephiroth was too funny for words. The man had a sense of humor – dry, sarcastic, and so condescending that it was actually hilarious sometimes – but it was the little things that Sephiroth did that made Zack laugh out loud. Such as the time the General had used the ladies' room because Zack had somehow burst the pipes in the men's (well really, someone should have mentioned that using Materia around Shinra plumbing was a Very Bad Idea).
The men's room was fixed the very next day – and it was only because he was the General that Sephiroth hadn't been questioned about the three hyperventilating women found under the sinks.
As he neared Sephiroth's office, the door opened and Tseng walked out. Zack grinned at him, and would have stopped to chat had Tseng not received a call that made him rush towards the elevator after throwing Zack a quick greeting. He liked Tseng, they got along fine (then again, Zack got along fine with most people). Tseng had even mentioned several times that Zack would have made a damned fine Turk – which was the best compliment anyone could ever receive from him. It was true that Zack could be sneaky, could be as cunning and ruthless as they came, and although the Turks were seen as spies and assassins most of the time, Zack knew that within their ranks was a kind of camaraderie and bond to rival SOLDIER's.
It was just that the Turks had to be unobtrusive, and Zack liked his swords big.
That sounded wrong.
He flung open the door to Sephiroth's office with a flourish, and belted out a very perky "Good Morning" to a very long-suffering General.
Sephiroth didn't even bother commenting on how late Zack was, or the fact that it was already afternoon.
So Zack just sauntered in jauntily, and threw himself into the plush leather chair across the table from the General. He put his feet up on the table, and smiled to himself as he saw the General look at his boots in distaste.
Our morning ritual.
"So, what's new?" Zack relaxed back into the soft seat, having long ago molded it to his shape. He spent more time in Sephiroth's office than his own anyway.
Sephiroth ignored him.
Zack grinned to himself – Sephiroth usually only ignored him when he was in a good mood, or as good a mood as the General could be in without killing things. Had Sephiroth been annoyed or upset, Zack would've received either an insult or an order or a towering stack of paperwork.
Good morning to me.
He watched Sephiroth type on his computer for awhile, and thought some more about his Get-Seph-A-Life-tis. Sephiroth really needed more friends, people whom he could spend time with and talk to and not worry about being used by. But so far, none of the other SOLDIERS seemed up to the task – the First Class were close to the General, true, but there was still a gulf there that the men didn't seem to want to cross. It was a Shinra-wide consensus that Zack was the only one who could make Sephiroth relax, and everyone seemed content to leave it at that.
Not Zack though.
He knew that Sephiroth saw him as a friend, an almost-confidante. But that wasn't enough – Sephiroth needed someone to make him smile, someone to help with the loneliness, that immeasurable distance between Sephiroth and the rest of the world.
Problem was, candidates were coming up short. Whoever it was had to be strong and smart: powerful enough to earn Sephiroth's respect, tough enough that the General wouldn't have to worry about their safety when he wasn't there, and wise enough to understand a man born to hold the world in thrall.
Zack's gaze fell on a stack of papers on the General's desk; perfectly arranged to run exactly along one side and share a corner with the table before running exactly along the side of the desk nearest to Zack.
Cadets.
Well, if there was no one in SOLDIER right now who could step up to the plate, then maybe Zack needed to look to the next generation.
Boom.
##
Cloud was exhausted. It had been a long and tiring day, made all the more nerve-wracking by his little escapade in hand-to-hand training. Word had traveled fast, and by the time Cloud had sat down to the putrid mess that was his lunch, every other cadet was looking at him funny.
Fuck you.
He'd ignored them though, more focused on trying to figure out Reno's motivations. And he admitted that he was still a little mad with the red-head for not revealing that they'd been cadets together.
He was pretty sure this Reno wasn't from the future – surely he would've said something by now. Although, this being Reno, Cloud really wouldn't be surprised if the Turk was deliberately withholding information just to annoy him.
After lunch was Battle Comms class – where they learned the phonetic alphabet (Cloud was pretty sure even Zack couldn't remember all his Alpha-Bravo-Charlie-Deltas), and how to make their own radios. They would be tested on it, Cloud remembered. He'd barely managed to assemble his own radio in time to rattle off the right signal – but this time he'd made sure to pay attention to the code-words they'd need to learn, and the gestures for when silence was necessary.
After Battle Comms had been First Aid – where they learned how to handle basic medical emergencies, and how to know if they were suffering from concussions. Cloud had completely zoned out in the class – he'd been beaten up enough times to become an expert medic. Even Barret had winced when he'd seen Cloud fix his own broken ribs.
Then they'd had Battle Tactics class – which was more of a glorified recount of Sephiroth's numerous strategies than anything. Cloud remembered paying plenty of attention in that class before – when he'd been eager to learn about how his idol thought. This time though, he'd sat there sick to his stomach with the memories of just how malicious Sephiroth's plans could be.
He'd almost skipped dinner, not trusting himself to be able to handle the food or the whispers from the rest of the cadets. But he'd forced himself to eat anyway, knowing he'd need the energy for his private training in the morning. He'd set himself some goals – 20 successful chin-ups and 50 successful crunches by the end of the month – easy enough to achieve. And it wasn't so much the gossip going around that bothered him – Cloud was an adult, and these were just kids – but it was more the fact that his name and Reno's had been linked, and that had made Cloud edgy for some reason.
It didn't help that the red-head hadn't said anything to Cloud yet. A part of the blond was itching to slam the future Turk against the wall and demand an explanation, but he knew that that would just get him nowhere. Reno wasn't easily intimidated – growing up in the slums and an innate Turkishness made him a very hard person to crack – and Cloud didn't want to risk revealing more of himself than he already had. Reno was an expert at needling people into letting secrets slip – and Cloud had plenty of secrets. It would've been overwhelming had he not had years of practice bottling himself up.
As it was, by the time he'd taken a quick shower and crashed into bed, he just wanted to close his eyes and slip into a dreamless slumber. But he forced himself to remain alert, at least until the others' breathing evened out. Cloud wouldn't put it past Matt's friends to attempt something on him.
Paranoid, much?
Cloud frowned. These were just kids, would they really try to kill him in his sleep? Years of being on guard 24/7 said yes, but the more exhausted part of his mind was just telling him to relax and go to sleep. He didn't though, preferring to rely on well-honed instincts instead of tired pleas. He knew that if he'd been his older self, no one would be able to get near enough to him to strike without him waking up and slicing their heads off. But he was just a skinny little fifteen year old here, and he was unarmed. He wasn't taking any chances.
It didn't take long for the other cadets to fall asleep, but still Cloud waited, counting each of their breaths until he was absolutely positive that they were really out cold. And then he unclenched his fists and let himself go.
As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered if it had been Zack's dark spikes he'd seen out of the corner of his eye during Battle Tactics.
##
A/N (1): The proverb "fall seven times, stand up eight" is an actual Japanese proverb.
A/N (2): The "Relatives and Butterflies and Somebody's Cat" bit in the Barret part of this chapter refers to the Theory of Relativity, the Butterfly Effect, and Schroedinger's Cat.
A/N (3): The "Boom" in Zack's part is Danny Messer's catch-phrase from CSI:NY.
