Enough was enough was enough, and that night was the straw that broke the camel's back. Sobbing silently through a bloody nose and a loosening gag, her wrists raw from being scraped by rough twine, body aching with every movement and blinking through a black and blue eye she gathered up her things-- what she needed, that was all: her birth certificate, her ID card and another tee shirt and a single, battered magazine; no food, no money, no anything, and she left her house of seventeen years.
She had to leave, if she wanted to survive.
Sure, her mother's advice could have made things better-- pretend you hate Shin-ra Inc. too just when you're at home, and your father won't get mad at you, won't hurt you anymore. She'd tried that for a while, but-- SOLDIER wouldn't accept you if you were over eighteen; they wanted you young, wanted a malleable piece of metal to work with. She needed to apply soon; she'd be too old very shortly. She'd so, so stupidly mention that to him, and before she knew it he'd thrown her down the stairs and before she could recover from the shock was sitting on top of her and beating her as if to kill her, screaming and ranting as he did; no child of his let alone his only was going to grow up to join that vile mafia and weren't you happy with what you had, you don't live in the slums and why are you such a worthless ungrateful little bitch and more beating. Eventually and mercifully she'd passed out.
When she'd woken up she was bound and gagged to a chair in the kitchen, bleeding from her mouth and nose and immobilized, her father nowhere to be found, not that she cared. Her hands were tied behind her but not very well, and with some doing she'd managed to get the twine undone but when she had she realized her hands were too numb to undo the gag and so she left it as she gathered her things together in a small messenger bag. Her mother was missing too; she had a way of disappearing whenever he'd gone off on her so that was not a surprise. Her father was a violent antigovernment anarchist, and her mother was a coward; what a pair. She, however, was better then them. She would become the one to make herself of use, and someday, she promised herself as she pulled on a clean shirt and tugged the gag free, she'd make sure revenge was served, assuming she got the chance. That sort of thing rarely happened; only in comic books really, but one never knew. It was possible she supposed.
The girl pocketed the papers, slung the bag over her back, pushed her blonde hair out of her eyes, and left her life for good.
-;-
"Age?"
"Nearly eighteen, m'am."
"Hm. And where are you from?"
"I am from Midgar's sector seven, top plate."
"Hmm." The women in the revealing red dress circled her, examining her, taking a hand and lifting her face. "You don't have a hard look in your face, but your clothing..."
"M'am," the girl squirmed indignantly, "I'm not slum trash!" In truth, she didn't feel that way, but she'd been preparing herself for a long time. She'd come far. There was no way she was failing now.
This seemed to amuse the women, and she laughed an exceedingly irritating laugh, a grating "Kyahaha!", and she sat down at her desk.
"Fine, but how do I know you can fight? If you want to be a SOLDIER..."
"I understand that! I can fight! I will prove it to you, I swear!"
"Empty words."
"I realize that, but I will prove it to you by becoming one of the Shin-ra forces and excelling. I can fight." She took a step forward and balled her fist.
The women seemed to enjoy toying with her. She drummed her fake fingernails on her desk and looked over the paperwork, a single birth certificate and a plastic ID card. "Hm." She stood up again. "Fine. I'll give you a chance. You seem to have some balls at least." The blonde girl winced at the use of such a crude term. "Give me your name."
"...You can see it there, m'am."
"Indeed, but if you are to be a SOLDIER, with your history, if it's true..." She wrinkled her nose in skepticism, but went on, "You're not you anymore."
"...I've had this name all my life, m'am."
"Hnmph." She threw up her hands in irritation. Keep the name then. Your last name, however..." She leaned forward on the desk, and tore the certificate in half. "From now, you are just Elena. Nothing more. Forget your name. It's not yours anymore."
"I understand."
"Well, then, Elena. One moment." She picked up the phone. "Rosalind? Give me Heidegger..."
Elena's heart quickened. Rosalind was here?
-;-
"This is your uniform. No alterations are to be made to it. As a woman," the man's nose wrinkled, as if women were something distasteful, "Your bunkers are there. Someone will show you your bunk. You are in building A4-73. This is the key to your footlocker, and the training facilities are over there. Are there any questions?" He spoke as though it was a mandatory question, to ask if any questions needed answering, but his tone was biting and short and Elena bit her lip shaking her head, and looking down at the ugly blue uniform and face mask.
"Fine then. Dinner is served promptly at seven. Arrive late and you will have to perform cleanup duty afterwards."
"Thank you, sir."
He looked taken aback at her polite speech, but quickly regained his nasty demeanor. "Who do you think you are? Rosalind of the Turks?" He turned on his heel, and stomped off, leaving Elena with her uniform and key and feeling very, very lost and in over her head.