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.

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"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!"

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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.