The point of soldier training - as opposed to SOLDIER training - was as much to peel away the human traits of defying orders and questioning authority as it was to prepare them for the rigours of monster hunting or war.

Sleep was regimented, and never quite enough to fully refresh. Food was nutritious (or so they were told) but bland and repetitive, something the recruits fell upon each mealtime but that wouldn't encourage greed or overeating. Exercise was constant, punishing, and exhausting.

Each morning, they woke at 05:00 and were showered, dressed and fed by 06:00, at which point they'd have marching drills for an hour. They were told it was to teach them how to move as one, but Stefan was convinced it was to hypnotise them into submission through the sound of boots hitting concrete floor.

Once the drills were complete to Corporal Stengar's dissatisfaction, it was time for them to be handed over to either the hand-to-hand fighting specialists or the firearm specialists for two hours of training to take them to 09:00.

A half hour break to hydrate, and they were sent to the classrooms until 16:00, with an hour's break at 13:00. There, they learned what ShinRa wanted it's infantry to know. It was a surprisingly diverse range; they were expected to know standard subjects such as basic materia theory, how to take care of their equipment, and basic field medicine, but also the history of ShinRa, non-combative conflict resolution, and general laws and regulations.

From 16:00 to 18:00, they were back to physical education, this time in whatever specialism they had chosen. Unsurprisingly most chose the sword, but some chose batons, chakram, or sickle knives.

The final meal of the day was at 18:00 to 19:00, and from then on they were free - provided that any assignments for their classes were complete. Curfew was 23:00, but the halls were usually silent by 21:30. The only exception was the night before the free day each week, when the majority would stay up late completing written assignments in anticipation of a lie-in the day after, and a full day of doing absolutely nothing ShinRa mandated.

The strict routine meant that every day of the next month threatened to fade into a blur of routine and fatigue. Cloud's teenage body wasn't the enhanced battle hardened one of his twenties, and each time he thoughtlessly slammed against the wall of his own limitations his frustration grew. He hated what had been done to him in the labs, but he had earned the results through pain and kept them with hard work later on.

So, he pushed himself harder.

To avoid injury through overexertion, something the hand-to-hand trainers had told them was very possible with their daily routine, he focused on movement rather than endurance or strength - movement, in that he aimed to regain the physical memory and unthinking reflexes of his fighting style, even without the power he used to be able to throw behind it. Flexibility and mindless repetition were simpler to develop back in the barracks or during his sparse free time than anything else anyway - even if he got side-eyed by his bunkmates for his apparent obsession.

Cloud didn't actually remember many details about his time as a ShinRa grunt on the track to SOLDIER the first time around. Part of it was the result of acute trauma inflicted by a psychopath scientist, true, but part of it was because every day was basically the same and he had always been too tired and too withdrawn to distinguish himself socially.

That was how he excused his surprise at his three bunkmates caging him into a corner to give him an "intervention", as they put it. Apparently his efforts at pushing himself were "unhealthy" and "concerning", and his neglect of his social life "just plain rude".

He didn't see it himself, but agreed to spend the next free day with them and a few others out exploring Midgar.

Cloud wasn't sure how surprised he was supposed to be that "exploring Midgar" ended up with "exploring the Sector 6 bars".

If he wanted to be fair, he'd point out that they did start by wandering around above plate. They started out in the late morning to roam up top and look in at all the ridiculously expensive boutique weapon and materia stores that sold very pretty trash interspersed with genuine treasures; the premier fashion designers that displayed the ugliest things that had ever pretended to be clothing; and to breathe in the not-actually-fresh air in the grand park that had a lot of grass and very little else.

It was both weird and good, being part of a larger group. The guys were - well, nice. Nobody had hidden trauma or a thirst for vengeance. They were just teenagers.

But as the day wore on they moved below Plate. It was obvious once they got down there that they were walking a familiar route to a familiar bar, mostly because they spent the journey trying their hardest to convince him that although it looked awful from the outside it was the best place they'd found so far, with apparently the widest range of non-Midgar beers below the Plate.

He didn't really want to be that guy, but...

"You do get that we're underage, right?" Cloud said as he manoeuvred himself into a patched up booth, trying to avoid what he hoped was just sticky beer residue.

"You do get that this is Sector 6 and nobody gives a shit, right?" Hendrik laughed and shoved him along. "We won't get trouble if we don't make trouble."

"If you tell me you've never had a drink before, mountain boy, you're a liar," Thom yelled over the noise as he started to move to the bar. "I'll get the first round."

"Stefan likes Natasha - the waitress," Hendrik murmured into Cloud's ear. "If she smiles, you'll see him turn into a tomato."

"Fuck off!"

"See, he denies it but I can tell," Hendrik laughed. "Hell, Marcel'll back me up, right?"

"Um - he definitely goes red," came the confirmation, "but that might be the beer."

"See! Marcel gets it," crowed Stefan.

"It's the stammer when he has to speak to her that gives him away," Marcel continued with a smile he tried to hide, and got a punch to the shoulder in return for his apparent betrayal.

As they bickered good-naturedly, Cloud let it all wash over him. The noise, the sounds, the life in this ratty old bar on the edge of one of the dodgier parts of Sector 6; he had a day off, and friends, and a pint of Tonberry Reserve in his hand.

It was... nice.

Four more pints and a couple of truly regrettable cocktails later, and a lot drunker than he intended to get, Cloud staggered out of the bar and into the smoke of Midgar. The air outside was barely fresher than inside, but the chill did its intended purpose of reviving him a little.

Forgot how hard this hits, he thought fuzzily. No more anything ending in tini again. Ever.

Looking around and stretching, he saw someone watching him from a nearby alley. It was difficult to distinguish any identifiable features; they were wearing a jacket with a large hood hiding most of their face, and their bulk could easily be down to the padding. He tried to straighten up and look alert, but ended up listing to one side and squinting instead.

"Who're you?" he slurred, then shook his head and enunciated more carefully, "Who. Are. You?"

The person didn't respond, so Cloud took a few steps forward.

"You hear me?" he asked.

He couldn't see their expression, so when they began to approach he tried to gather himself for a fight.

"Hello," they said. "I think you need to go back inside, and find your friends."

From up close, Cloud could see that the person was a man in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, with a kind smile on his face. He didn't recognise him, but there was something familiar about him nonetheless. The one thing that did strike him as unusual was his scent; there was a perfume about him, like lilies and wet grass, that was out-of-place under the Plate.

"Who are you?" he repeated.

The stranger started patting himself down, finally pulling out a pen and a scrap of paper that looked like a receipt.

"One moment," he said, going over to the nearest wall and using it to lean on as he wrote something down before passing the scrap to Cloud. "Here, this is my PHS number. I can't tell you where to find us, but if you come down to Sector Five next week and call me, I'll come find you and answer any questions you have. Okay?"

"Okay," Cloud nodded helplessly. "Okay."

"Good," the man said, before walking away.

"Do I know you?" Cloud asked quietly enough that the man could pretend he hadn't heard it.

The paper in his hand just had a number and no name; on the other side was a receipt from a fast food place over in Sector 8 from over a month ago. Apparently the stranger liked burgers and didn't like emptying his pockets of trash.

"Cloud? You there?" he heard Marcel call from the door. "Hey! It's not safe to be wandering off, so come on back."

As Marcel tentatively tugged at his sleeve, Cloud stuffed the paper into his pocket and obediently allowed himself to be drawn back into the noise and light of the bar.