I Sleep In the Streets
Book I:
Paint Me the Sky
Chapter One: Bulletproof
Midgar was an inky black spot on the green face of the planet, a
rat-infested hole that spread over a once healthy expanse of country
like a plague. The earth itself was griped by the crippling malady,
nothing could ever grow within those boundaries. Even the people felt
the taint, a bad taste in their mouths of polluted air and the scrape
of poisoned soil beneath their feet. A sense of wrongness pervaded
anything and everything in the city- if you could even call it a city.
It was more of an abyss of every wretched being, every unlovely thing
that could find no home in the light of day; in the blackness of
Midgar, nothing was beautiful or ugly, everything was weighed by gain.
High above the cold sludge and human decay of the slums loomed the
artificial sky, promising the poor an eternity of oppression and bitter
misery. The sky of the destitute was the ground beneath the feet of the
rich and powerful. The towering tier of earth above earth defied
belief, blocking out the sunlight and taking the one last thing that
had not been raped and robbed from the common people- their will to
live. Beneath the plate the unfortunates dwelt in that sunless prison,
poverty not allowing them to leave and human dignity bubbling in
protest of staying. The very air they breathed was heavy with moisture
from Planet-knows-where, so murky the bright electric lights were dull
in the haze. An unnatural fog swirled and twisted almost like a
sentient being, curling around lampposts and the giant cylinder of the
pillar; clouding all view of the wires and girders that held the plate
in place.
The streets were lined with filth, in every possible definition of
the word. Grime and a nameless muck collected on the walls and the
pavement and all who passed left footprints in the mysterious
substance, that which clung to their shoes ensuring they would reek of
it for the rest of their lives. Smoke stained anything left above
muck-level a melancholy gray-brown, and that was everything. Masses of
rags and rubbish that were once human beings lay full-bodied in the
stew, some only half-alive and many more than half dead. There was no
where to escape from the garbage and the prostitutes and the thieves
and the countless other unmentionables that flocked to this haven of
slime. There was no escape from the streets.
Few survived it for long; few could maintain their sanity without
drowning themselves nightly in the strongest drink money could buy. Not
one of them was free- and they knew it. Those lucky enough to have a
house were constantly afraid of loosing it, those who weren't feared
for their lives. You were safe as long as you were willing to kill
those who threatened your safety; violence was law and the only
universal language. Some homeless questioned whether it was better to
have shelter and risk your life taking what probably belonged to
someone else- or remain on the streets where a curious brotherhood
guarded you from others like you. At least on the streets you knew were
sleeping with the people not dangerous enough to have commandeered a
house.
The cleanest life in Midgar was that of a street urchin, the word
'clean' being figurative. They stole only what they needed, killed only
those who threatened them and did all they could to keep innocent
people off the Streets. Hundreds of them belonged to gangs who worked
together to keep from getting dead and maintain as much peace as could
be had in Midgar. They knew who they owed and they knew what to do when
those who lived outside their order wanted something from them that
they could not provide. The password that could call off any bandit,
the secret that could guard you from the deplorable cruelty of the
rival gangs was a confession of your own lowliness.
I sleep in the Streets…
To some it was like an anthem, something to be proud of when you had nothing else- in Midgar, it was freedom,
that which the house-holders and the headhunters could never claim for
their own. To the dangerous ones it meant you were no better than they
were and no threat to them- and you knew it.
It was night- not that it made any difference in the dank, artificially
lit slums- and a dark shape had detached itself from the shadows. The
slinking figure steadily, stealthily worked its way along the pathways
of Sector Five towards the open back door of a restaurant, warm light
spilling out into the alley from the kitchen and beckoning the shadow
forward. Another light overhead caught the figure standing still as
stone and surveying the activity around his chosen target.
He was of average height, but his elegance somehow made him seem
tall, something about him gave such an air of power anyone would feel
dwarfed in his shadow. His hands hung loosely at his sides, long,
slender fingers twitching in anticipation of use; nimble digits that
operated so precisely it was stunning to observe them in action, the
hands of a thief. A good thief.
His body was much the same, a bundle of long, lean muscle that
propelled him with the speed of a gazelle and all the grace and agility
of a panther. He had a narrow chest, but broad shoulders and thick,
powerful-looking arms; his upper body was draped in a faded blue shirt
that had definitely seen better days, being so badly torn there was
little point in wearing it at all. Impossibly long legs were covered by
beat-up jeans about four sizes too big; he'd strung a length of rope
through the belt loops and yanked the waist tight, but it still rested
about his slender hips and left another patch of bare skin beneath the
hem of the ruined shirt. His feet were bare and dirty, covered in many
scratches, presumably from walking through the Streets barefoot.
The eyes that darted back and forth with the movement of the chef
cleaning the kitchen up for the night were a melancholy blue that
seemed to swirl endlessly and mirror the shade of a summer sky just
before a light rain. The colour was so perfectly even, the gaze so deep
and intense that anyone passing him would double-take and stare into
those eyes... they were so emotionless, so dim- and yet they had a
nature of their own that glittered like a thousand diamonds. Their
beauty was striking amid their lackluster surroundings, gleaming like
mirrors, but even with the stunning complexity within them it seemed as
if they were missing something: Something very important to their very
nature that was independent to that of their master. He was decidedly
grim and indifferent- but those eyes pooled with sadness and an aching
need to laugh too long denied.
The face in which these eyes were set was as slender as the rest of the
body, soft-looking skin pale as milk with features so utterly exquisite
they almost seemed delicate, looking as though they had been
painstakingly sculpted by a perfectionist's hand. The lines of his face
were so fine- but the angles so harsh, his jaw sharp and his cheekbones
jutting with almost sinfully perfect definition were indicating of his
rather difficult, yet intriguing attitude. The light rained down on him
from above, hitting his hair, a scattered mess of spikes and fly-aways,
and making the golden strands sheen like a crown of that metal. He ran
a hand through it in impatience as his other hand flexed with eagerness
to being the night's 'work'.
The chef was taking longer than usual... too long... something was
probably up. With reluctance he abandoned his post and sought to state
his insatiable curiosity.
'Curiosity killed the cat...' an old voice rang in his head,
laughing merrily at some joke made many years before. He repeated the
old saying out loud in a mutter, not exactly certain why he had done
so. He wasn't in the habit of talking to himself, but, he supposed if
the occasion called for it... he found that chiding was often the
occasion.
"Ho there!" this shout was followed by a shrill whistle spiking through
the air like a bullet from somewhere over to the thief's right. He
covered his ears and bit his lip to keep from yelling something back
from behind the shack that offered him a hiding place.
The man who had spoken wore a black suit and that was rather
conspicuous in Midgar... the street rat wondered if this man was the
reason that the chef was making an extra effort to clean up his
slovenly eatery. The food in there could kill an elephant, he knew,
he'd stolen it.
"Come inside, sir! We've been expecting you!" The chef answered his client, confirming the street rat's suspicions.
He cursed, turning away from the scene. The chef was getting out by
making a deal with the enemy- those chances didn't come often and the
things you had to do to get them would turn the stomach of the worst of
Midgar's tough customers. Street rats weren't usually willing to do
what it took- or condone the people who did, there were better ways to
get ahead, it just took a little longer...
"You shouldn't be poking your nose in things that don't concern you,
boy." a voice came from directly behind him and the tableau he had just
turned his back on, as did the thick hand that grabbed his shoulder and
slowly turned him around. He faced the sneer across the face of the
suited man and returned it with one of his own.
"You shouldn't touch me," he hissed, hands aching to back up the unspoken threat.
"Why's that?" The man with the suit snickered, putting one meaty hand
across his other arm and grinning as though he knew something that this
street urchin didn't, "What are you going to do about it? Gonna fight
me, kid? I wouldn't advise it."
"Oh yeah?" he said smoothly, not looking the slightest bit flustered,
in fact, his expression was completely unchanged. "Why wouldn't you?"
The taller man seemed to show the smallest amount of anger and he
quickly uncrossed his arms and glared down at the boy as if he were an
insect, "Do you know who you're dealing with? You can't... 'cause if
you did you wouldn't have said that- or your just real stupid."
"Stupid is one thing I'm not. Not ignorant either- I know who you are,
nobody else with a suit ever hangs around this sector." He hooked a
thumb through his belt loop and rested back on his heels, a cocky look
on his face as he used his free hand to flip the invader off, "And
that's what I think of your monarchy, Turk."
"If you play with fire you'll get burned kid." The Turk's face was deeply lined with threat.
"Yeah, I know, but not if you know what you're doing. Which I do." He
grinned, "Fuck king Shinra..." he paused for effect, leaning closer to
the Turk and smiling wider, genuine amusement reaching his cold eyes,
"Fuck 'em."
"Insolent little bastard!" the Turk lifted a hand and moved to punch
him across the jaw but the rebel avoided his swing with ease and
slipped around behind the older man and kicked him soundly in the ass,
knocking him face-first into the ground. The Turk scrambled to his
feet, his guard up now- he hadn't been expecting someone who knew how
to fight- he hadn't been expecting any resistance at all. He faced the
traitor and dropped into a battle stance, ready to fend off an attack
as he watched the urchin warily.
"All that training and some simple 'kid' got the jump on you?" he was
grinning again, enjoying himself. "Or am I more than what I seem?" He
watched the Turk's features change ever so slightly as he considered
that possibility. More than anything, he enjoyed toying with the enemy,
especially an enemy from Shinra who would jump at the chance to exploit
anything and everything. The government was definitely corrupt.
"I dunno, kid, are you?" the Turk was tempted to smile.
"Maybe... maybe not." He placed a hand on his hip and ran his fingers
through his hair, flicking his head back arrogantly to get the full
effect. This tactic never failed to infuriate the opponents he faced
that were bigger than him- they tended to take offense to the silent
boast. "Maybe I'm bulletproof- you'll never know, will you?"
"Well, buck, if I shot you I'd know." The heavy set man was tempted to
let his guard down as the banter continued, but he wasn't quite that
stupid. Even against some ragamuffin on the street it was always good
to be prepared.
"Yeah, sure you would, but are you willing to take the chance that I'm
not bulletproof- but may have some other hidden talent? After all, not
many street rats know about the Turks and not many street rats know how
to fight a Turk. Then there's the way I talk... do I sound like any of
the other bums you've met?" he rubbed his chin philosophically, safe
atop a pile of garbage and looking down on his foe. "Me, personally, I
wouldn't want to take the risk that one of my superiors was watching
the street rat and maybe even employing him."
"You know kid, I have to hand it to you, you're very clever. Now, give
me the straight facts without any of the head-messing bullshit, is any
of that stuff got a lick of truth to it?" he still kept his guard up.
If the kid was telling the truth he couldn't- or shouldn't- hurt him,
but the kid didn't need to worry about that.
"I dunno- what do you think?" he smirked. This was going better than he'd thought it would.
"I think yer shitting me." The Turk was getting tired of being answered with questions.
"Okay. Shoot me then. We'll find out." He grinned again, his face
lighting up with mischief. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood
with his feet apart, cocky and sure of himself. There was a long
calculating silence. "Are you a coward?"
"Nah, I'm careful." He lifted his gun, a small pistol that he rarely
needed to use. The kid didn't flinch and he didn't seem the least bit
nervous- the Turk couldn't tell if that was because he was so sure his
little psychological game had worked or if the young thief was crazy
and really thought the gun wouldn't hurt him. What if there was some
truth to the story? What if somebody used the kid as some kind of
lackey or somebody on the inside of a gang... those kinds of workers
were hard to get....
"I'm waiting over here."
"Yeah, yeah." For a long, long time neither of them moved and the
Turk's gun stayed homed on his prey. And finally, the urchin watched as
the barrel of the gun slowly fell down to the older man's side. He
grinned again.
"Y'see? Bulletproof." He uncrossed his arms and plunked down into a
sitting position, knowing full well the Turk was no longer a threat to
him. He hadn't even needed to fight- this was turning out to be a
better day than most. His former enemy finally lowered his guard,
understanding they were at an unexpected truce.
"What's yer name kid?" he asked roughly.
"Gonna check up on me back at base? Well... I'll be long gone by then
anyway, won't I? So either way, it won't matter." He paused as if to
reconsider it before giving out such important information. "For the
first part you can stop calling me kid, I'm twenty-one years old and I
don't need you getting all senile and righteous on me."
"Really." The Turk didn't seem amused. "Now your name hot shot."
The kid turned to him in a flash of gold, his eyes glinted, "Strife."
He said in a strange tone that sounded harsh and yet laughing, both
bitter and proud and something else that defied description. "I'd say I
was aptly named... wouldn't you agree? Cloud Strife...."
"I dunno, Strife, I can't say I know you that well. I'm gonna make it a
point to learn, though! Next time I see you, you aren't gonna play any
games with me." The Turk smiled a greasy smile and started to turn to
walk away- he would keep his word, nobody got the better of a Turk and
did it twice.
"Won't matter. I can fight with my body as well as my mind. Sorry the
same can't be said for you- so long then, until the next time." Cloud
waved, wriggling his fingers and grinning in mockery as the Turk
retreated.
Once the suit had put some distance between them Cloud pulled out the
wallet and the set of keys he'd stolen... at least he had more than
enough gil to eat for a week and he hadn't had to go to any trouble to
get it. Bulletproof... this is one of my better ones.
He chuckled to himself and rose to find somewhere to eat that was less
likely to kill him than the restaurant he usually stole from.
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
"I say we can't risk it!" the rumbling, coarse voice almost seemed
to echo from the giant of a man who gave it life. Shoulders acres
across and towering height made him a threatening figure even when he
was seated, yet for some strange reason, he didn't seem imposing to
those sitting around him. There was a pervading gentleness in his eyes
and beneath the rough exterior that undermined his appearance.
"Who the slobbering hell asked you, you big hairy-ass fuck?" a second,
also rough and tumble voice said, it's owner spitting over his jacket
clad shoulder into the darkness.
"I'm the fucking leader! And I ain't riskin' nobody's neck jus' to
check out some rumour we heard in the damn slums!" the tall man leapt
to his feet in his fury and slowly sank back down to the filth of the
alleyway in the silence that followed his sudden outburst.
They sat in something like a circle with their backs against the
cracked and dirty wall of an old abandoned hotel that looked more than
ready to fall in at any moment. A fire burned in the center of the rag
tag bunch, blazing away in a on rusted out barrel half; they rested
their feet on the ruined metal, barely feeling the heat through the
thickness of their boots.
The huge man who had spoken first was sitting on a hunk of shingle that
had fallen from the hotel's roof, his big, meaty hands resting in front
of him against his one bent knee, the other leg extended. His skin was
a deep chocolate brown, enormous, muscular arms exposed from the
raggedy vest he wore.
Across from him, the man who questioned his authority was leaning
against the wall with his legs splayed out in an attitude of extreme
disrespect to common cordiality. His callused hand flipped a cigarette
out of a soft, well-worn packet tucked under the head band of his
goggles (which he wore for no discernible purpose as far as his
companions knew) as if he had an audience of a million people.
He cupped his hands and flipped up his collar to shield the tiny flame
of his lighter and light the smoke, holding it between his fingers
close to the knuckle, letting smoke slowly escape his mouth and curl
over his upper lip. This lunatic left the glowing ember of the end of
his cigarette near his cropped blond hair as he eyed his companions.
"May not be jus' a rumour, ya bull-headed buffoon. We ain't got no
ideas to spare... 'less you got something you ain't sharing with the
class, Barret?" he took another long drag on his smoke.
The 'bull-headed buffoon' glared at him.
"Quit it both of you," a calm, female voice interrupted the showdown.
"...We really don't have any choice but to follow every lead... I think
we should go for it."
"You agreein' wit' Cid?" Barret sprang up straight, seeming truly shocked; his smoking adversary started laughing like a hyena.
"Come on, you know we have to..." the female was sighing, fed up with
the childish antics of their fearless leader. There were times she
wished they had someone a little less… involved in charge of the operation, it would be nice to have one meeting where no one took anything personally.
"Fine!" Barret crossed his arms sulkily, "Hey, whatta 'bout the new kid; what d'you say?"
"I say I'm with the oldster," a much younger, much cheekier voice responded, giggling.
"Hey, shut up!" Cid barked, sitting up, bristling at being called old, "He's olderan' me, ya know!"
The level-headed voice again, silencing the new argument before it
could begin, "Then we're all agreed. No one's leaving Midgar for a long
time.... Guess we better get settled in. You two-"
The heavy-set leader and the smoker were fingered.
"-Find us some place to crash."
"Why am I always paired wit' him!" Barret protested in a wailing shout loud enough to wake the dead.
"Could be worse, chum," the cigarette was hanging from Cid's lip as he grinned, "could be worse."
"Yeah, right, like how?"
"...Oh, have faith." his grin widened sardonically around the cigarette.
"Grow up you two- and get moving!"
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
The Turk was cursing up a storm as he walked along the dreary
pathways of sector five, looking for a familiar shock of golden-blond
hair. He'd told his story over and over again as more and more people
became interested- it seemed Strife was telling the truth, he had had
some odd jobs. Nothing special and no one would have been too ticked
off if he'd met an unfortunate demise, but still.
After hearing the story they got a lot more involved. The Turks admired
people who were cunning enough to fight without throwing a single
punch- and the tactics and obvious intelligence of a street rat were
irresistible to them. They had to find out where he came from.
Cloud Strife, himself was sitting with his back against a run-down
building, his face shadowed by his hair as he leaned over, resting his
elbows on his knees. Half waiting for the 'visitor' he knew was
coming...
A pair of brown leather shoes caked with muck stopped in front of him
and he heard a disgruntled snort, "Strife, I got a job for you."
Cloud grinned.
