A/N: Thanks to everyone who took the time to leave feedback and add the story to their favorites! Happy holidays, guys!

02. [ μ ] – εуλ 1986 / August

There was an impressive difference between summer above the plate and summer beneath it.

Above, in Midgar city proper, the heat was nigh intolerable. Even the endless sources of shade were of little reprieve from the heat. The cobblestone streets smelt like artificial fragrances that did little to conceal the stench of sweat.

However, there were also plants—few the city was able to cultivate given the barren environment—which, in a metropolis manufactured entirely of metals, were a sight.

Beneath the plate was a different tale. While considerably cooler, in large part due to it being disconnected from direct sunlight, it was somehow worse. The aridity intensified the fetor to the point of it being agonizing to those not circumstantially immune. It was even worse for SOLDIERs, whose senses were enhanced.

Summer in the slums was a miserable affair, made obvious by the despondency of its inhabitants. Without AC units to cool their homes and establishments, or access to non-contaminated bodies of water and recreation centers that housed pools, they were forced to endure until the cooler months set in. That being the case, it was not novel to find the majority of the underground in a state of indecent half-dress, men and women alike sprawled on the ground and beside huts and against junkyard piles in half-naked, lethargic heaps.

Sephiroth kept his gaze away from the many displays of sweat-slick skin as he stalked towards the Sector 6 reactor on another one of President Shinra's paranoid whims.

It was night, though that meant little for the slum dwellers, many of whom had never been above the plate to see the light of day. The streets were dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of lanterns that hung from wires and coiled around iron posts. Only that light, and his own enhanced vision, kept him from stumbling over the raised dirt mounds and the trash that littered the streets.

Muffled voices carried from the east, followed by the groan of straining metal and the sound of shattering glass, and Sephiroth found himself stopping to crane his head in that direction. He deliberated over whether or not to investigate—he had only one objective, which he was determined to complete as soon as possible so he could return to his temperature controlled apartment and the comfort of his bed—but a sudden cry sounded, high-pitched like that of a child, and his body made the decision for him and broke course.

Seconds later found him gripping the shoulders of two boys and forcefully separating them from that of the younger one they'd been assaulting. In unison they both looked up, curses flying off their tongues, only to stop short and go still when they realized it was a SOLDIER apprehending them. Even with the lack of light the way their faces went pale was no less dramatic, and they shook beneath his gloved hands like the frightened juveniles they were.

"I would suggest," Sephiroth said coldly, flickering his gaze between the two, "that you get out of my sight. Otherwise, the two of you will find yourselves in the precinct under charges of assault, which, if you weren't aware, is a class-B crime punishable by fine and a minimum of six months confinement."

After a moment of listening to them splutter promises and apologies—neither of which they'd keep or likely meant—he released them. They fled, but Sephiroth didn't bother monitoring them. They were hardly silent as they made their escape. Instead, he turned his attention to the boy still on the ground, one hand cupping a purpling cheek, the other curled around his bare stomach where a mottled bruise peaked above a too-thin arm.

"Are you alright?" Sephiroth asked after a pause, eyes roaming over the bruises and scrapes he could see scattered on his pale, sweaty skin. All were superficial, and so he dismissed them as insignificant. He knew that to a slummer, anything less than broken or bleeding was child's play.

The boy said nothing, opting to run a shaky hand through his blond hair and hoist himself to his feet, wincing as his bruised skin pulled. He looked up, and oh, Sephiroth remembered those eyes. They were darker, reflecting shadow and shade and deepening into a midnight blue, but the shape was familiar, as was the challenging narrow of his eyes, the stubborn glint. The only difference between the boy he'd seen then and the boy he was seeing now was perhaps an inch difference in height, a growing collection of bruises, and the defensive hunch of shoulders that Sephiroth could distinctly remember being stronger, prouder, even when he'd been caught stealing, had to return his acquisition, and was faced with the possibility of arrest.

It seemed wrong, somehow, and without thinking Sephiroth drawled, "Ah. The pickpocket. Picked the wrong pocket, did you?"

Sephiroth knew it was cruel to mock the boy in his state, but it felt like an impulse, almost, something he couldn't quite define driving him forward to fix the wrong. When the boy straightened his spine and drew up his shoulders, blue eyes narrowed in a furious glare and chin lifted obstinately, a tightness he hadn't realized had gripped his shoulders eased.

For another day, at least, this boy wouldn't be broken by the mercilessness of the slums; wouldn't become one of the blank-eyed lifeless that meandered the dirt streets, the weight of a city's greed on their shoulders and thieved of all hope.

For another day, at least, he'd continue to fight.

The boy, huffing in aggravation, strut forward without a word. Their arms glanced, and then he was off, sprinting into the dark.

"You're welcome by the way," Sephiroth muttered, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his lips. His fingers toyed with the money pouch the daring boy had tried, and failed, to lift before he returned it to his pocket and turned on his heel, towards the main path.

If the patrol team stationed at the reactor found his perpetual state of amusement unnerving, they didn't say.

to be continued.