A/N:

I apologize in advance for the length of this chapter (unless of course you like long chapters, in which case, you're welcome XD). Also, there's another slight trigger warning below. Same rules apply - if you don't feel like you're likely to be triggered by anything, feel free to skip it. I don't intend for there to be a trigger warning in every chapter, but I felt like this one needed it.

- WARNING -

There will be brief mentions of grief over the loss of a loved one, sexual harassment, depression, feelings of little/no self-worth, and attempted suicide in this chapter. Please take care while reading this chapter.

This wasn't supposed to have happened.

They weren't supposed to be doing this.

Don't get him wrong, there's no place Angeal would rather be than right here with Cloud writhing beneath him, one hand wrapped around Angeal's back, the other curling into the bedsheets. But Angeal had had a plan. He was supposed to be apologizing for his behavior. Begging for Cloud's forgiveness.

And he had had it all thought out too. Get Cloud to stop avoiding him, prove his worth and sincerity by preparing Cloud's favorite meal (courtesy of Mrs. Strife), and then, finally, convince him that they never meant to hurt him, that the only reason they kept him a secret from everybody was because they wanted to protect him. Not because they only saw him as a good lay.

Ok, so the plan was actually Zack's and Genesis's, and it obviously wasn't off to a great start. Wasn't off to an honorable start. But he was apparently the only one who could 'pull it off' – Genesis was too dramatic, Zack too overwhelming, and Sephiroth… too unintentionally intimidating (Genesis preferred the term 'socially inept').

"Ha… 'g… 'geal…"

Angeal hums his appreciation and leans down to seal their lips together. He hadn't meant for it to happen this way, hadn't meant to do anything but grovel for forgiveness, but Cloud had jumped him before he had even finished with step 2 of the plan. (And the only reason he had made it past step 1 was because he had happened upon several of Cloud's fellow infantrymen cornering him in the stairwell. Cloud had insisted the black eye was his own fault – fell down the stairs, he had said – but Dadgeal (as Zack liked to call him) hadn't believed that for a second. He couldn't make him talk, though, so he had just taken solace in the clearly broken nose of the first of Cloud's attackers – "Cloud, come with me. As for the rest of you, if I ever see or hear of you doing anything like this again, with any of your fellow comrades, I will make sure you are court-martialed. And believe me, the rumors about Genesis and Sephiroth are true.")

Threatening them wasn't honorable either, he knows, but he had been so angry with them and so aggravated with Cloud for keeping quiet, that the words had fallen from his mouth, unbidden.

His anger hadn't lasted, though, he thinks as he pulls back with a slight pop, a thin trail of saliva still connecting him to Cloud. He had cured Cloud's wounds, got dinner on the table, and ended up with a lapful of Cloud before he had even taken that first bite of roast.

So, yeah, he knows he shouldn't be doing this, but perhaps he could still salvage the situation.

Start with the truth.

"I love you," he rasps, his voice rough from overuse.

And Cloud, whose eyes had been half-lidded for the better part of the past hour, stares up at Angeal, oh so vulnerably, every inch of his body trembling from fear, desire… hope? "… 'g… 'geal?"

"I love you," he repeats, louder this time. "So very much. I love how indulgent you are of Genesis's never-ending obsessions," he vows, every couple words punctuated by a slow rocking of his hips. "I love how easily you make Sephiroth feel like the human he is. How carefree you look whenever Zack is around." He pauses to draw a thumb across Cloud's cheekbone. Cloud shudders. "And how patient you are with an old man like me."

"N-Not… not o-old," Cloud counters shakily, and Angeal smiles softly down at him.

"You are the reason we get up in the morning, the reason we fight, the reason we're proud to be SOLDIERs." Angeal threads their fingers together, and Cloud cries. "You are our entire world, and we would do anything for you."

Cloud sniffs. "I-I thought… ha… I thought G-Genesis was the poet."

"I guess he's rubbing off on me."

Beep.

Angeal flinches at the innocuous sound and, in that blink of an eye, finds himself back in that miserable hospital room, Cloud's breathy chuckle and timid confession - "I-I… I l-love…" – fading just as quickly as he does. And it's Angeal who cries this time. It's Angeal who drops his head into his hands and sobs.

Cloud was still dead.

Genesis was on death's door.

And now there's this talk of a lookalike running around?

"Let me ask you something, Angeal. Your mark – is it still faded?"

Avalanche.

Tseng had brought it up. Had theorized that they were the ones behind all of this. But how? Shinra had taken them out years ago. Had carved through Fuhito, the brains of the operation; returned that ailing woman to the care of her Turk father; but, most importantly, had disposed of all of that stolen research.

So how was this even possible?

"All I'm saying, Angeal, is Shinra has many enemies. We can't afford to rule out any possibilities; especially not when the person in question is enhanced."

There were rumors of Avalanche returning, sure. Of them growing in power and size. But how had they known about Cloud? How had they even gotten their hands on his genetic material?

And why now? Hadn't Angeal and the rest of them suffered enough already? Hadn't they lost enough already?

Earlier

"Well, here we are," Zeke sighs as they pull up in front of a narrow rowhome at the end of the block. "It ain't much," he adds, as if the house was something to be ashamed of. As if the blue-painted brick front was really that much more embarrassing than the overturned drum he and Walker lived out of back in Midgar.

But to Cloud, it just looked cozy. The paint was new, like somebody actually cared enough to make the place presentable. And the lopsided clay pot filled with (fake) flowers on the porch and the yellow wreath on the door only added to the atmosphere of the place (something Tifa and Marlene had beaten into his skull by now).

Damn, Cloud thinks as he clenches his fists instinctively, unintentionally, anguish (or was that bile?) already rising in his throat. One day, he might be able to think about the family he had lost without feeling like his entire world had shattered all around him. Without feeling like every ounce of warmth had been drained from his body.

Today was not that day.

So, he busies himself with his surroundings instead. Lets his eyes drift from the scrap lining the streets to the complete lack of any type of natural greenery to be found in the area. From the men and women happily toiling away, repairing a neighbor's house to the children playing, laughing, and screaming joyfully up and down the block. It wasn't one of the richer neighborhoods, that's for sure, but there was no denying the strong sense of community here. Just like in the Midgar slums. Just like in Edge.

Honestly, it just feels like home.

As does the greying woman waiting at the top of the stairs. The one who watches, and almost vibrates, as the yellowing pickup truck creaks to a stop. And all it takes is the squinting of his eyes and the tilting of his head, and Cloud can almost see his own mother there, just as she was all those years ago. That same brown dress, brand new for the occasion and not at all faded from years of use like what she normally wore. The same white apron, that same neat ponytail. And what Cloud misses the most now (but had been so terribly embarrassed by then) – the same delighted twinkle in her eyes as Cloud brought home a friend for the first time ever.

"Oh, what a nice young man you are!" Her words had been meant for Zack, but that hadn't stopped her from sending quite the knowing look (and wink) in Cloud's direction. Hadn't stopped her from insisting that Zack stay for dinner (and therefore closer to Cloud) every single night they were stationed in Nibelheim. And really, Cloud had thought she must have gotten the wrong idea about him from his rather unenthusiastic grumbling to her 'older woman' this and 'silly goose' that. But no. Even then, even after two years apart, she could still read him better than he had ever been able to read himself.

It just wasn't until his failed relationship with Tifa that Cloud finally realized where his real preferences lie.

…Or rather, with whom.

"Walker, baby, there you are!"

Cloud jolts, the vision – his mother – slipping through his fingers once more. He tries to grasp on, tries to memorize something as she fades, but the browns and the blues and the yellows are gone far too soon, leaving nothing behind but the lump growing in his throat.

"Oh, I've missed you so much!" The woman calls as she hobbles down the stairs, and Cloud wants to lose himself to his daydream again. Wants to imagine that that's his mother throwing her arms around him, drawing him in close. But he can't. She's gone. And he can hardly remember her face.

"Hi, Mrs. Gray," Walker returns quietly, unenthusiastically – was he still upset about the SOLDIERs? – and follows along limply when she pulls him into a tight hug.

"I told you, sweetie," Mrs. Gray coos, and Cloud's heart aches. "Call me Grandma."

Cloud's not sure how long they stay like that, Mrs. Gray refusing to let go, Walker nearly hiding in her embrace, and Cloud certain he can feel the ghosts of hands on his back, his shoulders… his hair – "I almost didn't recognize you without the ponytail!" But when Mrs. Gray finally pulls away, a bright smile on her face, the pain in Cloud's chest remains.

"Now, let me get a good look at you, dear. It's been so long," Mrs. Gray says and tilts Walker's face from side to side (Cloud swears he can see tears welling up in Walker's eyes). "Oh, you need a bath, darling," she tuts, and lets her hands drop to pick at Walker's dirty overalls. "And these clothes are absolutely filthy."

"O-Oh… Sorry…"

"But you're such a handsome man," she continues and pinches Walker's side, a twinkle in her eyes. "And I see you've put on a few pounds too – " Walker splutters – "you're not just skin and bones like the last time I saw you. So, I guess I can't be mad at my son for letting you live like a slob when he's clearly making sure you eat like he said he would."

Walker opens his mouth to defend himself (or the old man perhaps) but Zeke beats him to it. "Ugh, Ma," he groans. "D'ya really hafta do that in front of me?"

"Lovely to see you too, Ezekiel," Mrs. Gray counters.

"I told ya, my name is Zeke."

"Not under my roof, it isn't."

"We're not under yer roof, though."

Zeke smirks, and Mrs. Gray points a finger at him. "Don't you backtalk me, young man. And for the last time, stop slurring your words. You sound like a goddamn fool."

Cloud doesn't know what to do. There's no heat to either of their voices, so he gets the feeling that they're just arguing for argument's sake, but that's where his trouble lies. That's what sends another shock of grief right through him. All of it, everything was just so very domestic. Something he hadn't realized he was going to miss this much, this soon.

He should be better. He's Gaia's 'champion' after all (though that probably had more to do with shit luck and the fact that he was the only one left than any real worth on his part). He should be able to hold out. Should be able to keep the homesickness at bay, at least until he manages to come up with a better plan to save the world than just 'get the fuck to Nibelheim'. But he can't. Can't compartmentalize. No one was waiting for him here, and that just hurts too much.

"Who's this?"

Cloud jolts (again), Mrs. Gray's voice drawing him out of his head for the second time that day. Out of his memories of Tifa smiling at him from behind the bar, a glass of red liquor in her hand. Marlene weaving Aerith's lilies through his hair because she had believed Barret when he had said "Why dontcha ask Cloud? Daddy's not pretty enough for that, dear!". Denzel squeaking, surprised, excited, as Fenrir accelerates, his little arms holding Cloud tighter, his laughter muffled in Cloud's side.

Gaia, he wants them back.

But he can't do that right now. Can't lose himself again. So he shakes his head and returns his attention to the people in front of him. And only then realizes that he's the only dumbass still hanging about in the truck… and the dumbass everybody's staring at right now. Crap. "Just a stowaway, ma'am," he answers Mrs. Gray and climbs down from the truck bed as casually as he can. "Though I probably proved to be more trouble than I was worth."

"Just a stowaway, he says," Zeke snorts and shakes his head. "Kiddo here killed three Behemoths all by himself."

Mrs. Gray raises an eyebrow at that and very blatantly takes in Cloud's outfit, his swords… and his eyes. "Is that so?" she drawls, her voice lacking its earlier warmth.

"I had some help, ma'am."

But that doesn't set her at ease, that doesn't stop her from giving him another calculating once-over before asking, "SOLDIER, I take it?" and wrapping an arm more protectively around Walker's waist.

"No, ma'am. Just a traveler."

"A traveler, eh?" she repeats and tilts her head to the side like she's thinking of another question, but Zeke beats her to it.

"Before ya ask, Ma, he said his eyes glow cause of mako poisonin'."

"I wasn't going to ask that, Ezekiel," she scolds, exasperated. "I'm trying to ask what his name is." And she turns her attention back to Cloud. "Well, son?"

"Uh… Skylar, ma'am."

"Skylar? Huh…" her face scrunches up (Marlene would say adorably) in thought. "You know, you look kind of familiar. What did you say your last name was?"

The words 'I didn't' run temptingly over the tip of Cloud's tongue, but then he realizes (with a slight bit of alarm) that he hadn't actually thought up a new last name for himself. Well, so much for learning from Vincent. "Oh, uh… it's…" [Ma, this is my… best friend. Zack] "Fair, ma'am."

The static clears, and Cloud can almost see Zack standing there. Can almost remember that downright goofy grin on his face – "Hell yeah, I am." But then, his words finally catch up to him, and the vision is gone without a trace.

"Fair, you say?"

"Yes, ma'am," Cloud says outwardly, even as he kicks himself inwardly. Fair? Gaia. Great thinking, dumbass. Was that really the best you could come up with?

But Mrs. Gray doesn't seem to mind, doesn't seem to notice his slip-up. No, instead she hums and lets her eyes rake over his body appreciatively. "Why yes, yes you are."

"Gods above, Ma!" Zeke groans.

But Mrs. Gray's change in tone is the least of his concerns. "F-F-Fair?!" Walker squeaks, and Ifrit's flames, he just had to give them Zack fucking Fair's last name, hadn't he?

"Uh… yes?" he opts for. Though, honestly, if this was going to become a pattern – his mouth getting the better of him – he might as well just throw himself off of Midgar's plate now and get it over with. At least then, somebody else, somebody more worthy could take over as Gaia's new champion.

Zack would be good. He was the real hero.

(Not that Cloud would ever really dump that burden on him. He was too good, too pure. Too perfect for Cloud to take those carefree Puppy-tinted glasses away from him.)

"B-But that's Z-Zack's name!"

Yeah, no kidding. "Ah, right. Fair is a common name in Gongaga." At least this lie falls easily from his lips. "Like Smith in Midgar."

"Oh, uh… really?"

"Yup."

Cloud's not sure what he's doing right – talking certainly wasn't high on that list right about now – but somehow, someway, nobody thinks twice about his terrible lie. Which, honestly, is so strange, that he hardly thinks he would have been more surprised even if he had managed to convince them that his name was 'Shinra' (ugh, at least he didn't say 'Sephiroth'). Though, to be fair, Zeke had already shown a rather generous disinclination towards prying his way into Cloud's business. Especially when they had fled that hospital earlier – "Look, kiddo. Everybody's got their secrets. Don't go pokin' yer nose into mine and ya won't hear zip from me."

He just never would have imagined that Zeke would turn to his mother next and say, "Kiddo here's tryna make it ta Junon. Thought ya might be able to help him." The words are so surprising, so unexpected, that Cloud's brain creaks to a stop, and he finds himself only capable of gawking at the man as he speaks. Perhaps he should have been clued in by the fact that the old man hadn't left him to rot back in the Wastes – Zeke must be just as warm and fuzzy deep down on the inside as Cid was – but he had thought that that idea was mainly Walker's. Had thought that Zeke would only be good for a ride to Kalm and nothing else.

Had thought that he would be fending for himself for the rest of his sad, lonely life.

"Hmm… Isaiah still goes down that way, even with all these monsters out and about," Mrs. Gray says, but then sighs and shakes her head, exasperated. "We've tried to talk him out of it, but he swears all that driving is good for his bones."

"Oh…" Cloud offers, somewhat noncommittally.

But his lack of answer, his social ineptitude is all Mrs. Gray needs to smile bright and warm at him, no trace of her earlier suspicion left. "Oh, don't you worry, dear! The man might be in his 80's, but he's got a lot of fight left in him. And you'll be there to protect him!" Cloud's sure he should turn down her unspoken offer, should insist that he doesn't want to inconvenience an 80-year-old man. But before he can think up another paltry response, before he can get a word in edgewise, Mrs. Gray has clapped her hands excitedly, something that reminds Cloud quite terribly of Aerith. "Oh! I just had a wonderful idea! You should spend the night with us, dear!"

"What?" Cloud splutters. "No, ma'am. I need to get going."

"Nonsense! There's no point going now, it'll be dark before you even reach the Chocobo stables!" Cloud tries to argue, he really does, but Mrs. Gray has other ideas. "No, no, hunker down here for the night. You and Walker can have a nice little slumber party and then Isaiah can drive you to Junon in the morning!"

"Come again?"

"S-Slumber p-party?"

"They're adults, Ma…"

"Oh, this is going to be so much fun!" Mrs. Gray bulldozes right over the three of them, their complaints rendered useless in the face of her excitement. "Now, I hope you like fried chicken, Mr. Fair, cause that's on the menu tonight!"

"I really can't stay, ma'am," Cloud tries to convince her. "Besides, I'm not that hungry anyway." But his stomach chooses that exact moment to growl and give his lie away.

Damn.

"There's no need to be shy!"

"No, really – "

"Well, that's settled! Fried chicken and mashed potatoes, of course!" She dips her head in thought, and from the way Zeke rolls his eyes, Cloud gets the feeling that this might take a while. "And, hmm… We'll need a vegetable… Green beans, perhaps…? Or maybe brussel sprouts… Oh, but wait, I have that leftover cauliflower… But, no, that's white like the potatoes…"

"Dinner won't be ready for a few hours, dear. Just make sure you're back by then."

Cloud had tried to talk his way out of this unexpected slumber party. Had tried to tell Mrs. Gray that he had some errands to run in town first, with every intention of making a break for it once he was out of sight. But the moment the words were out of his mouth, Mrs. Gray had turned that warm smile to him and made him promise he would be back in time for dinner.

He should have said no, he knows it – he has nothing against Walker or any of them, but he's already on a tight schedule as it is, he doesn't have time for any more distractions much less a slumber party with another grown man. But the woman had just looked so happy, had reminded him so much of his own mother, that the words "Yes, ma'am" had fallen from his lips before he had even realized it.

Call it a knee-jerk reaction.

Cloud sighs and pushes the door to the materia shop open, only half hearing the tinkling of the bell above him – Ding! It was terribly inconvenient, all of it, but he'd find a way to make do. He could still save the world, he could still save Zack – from Sephiroth's madness, Cloud's inadequacy, and Zack's own overwhelming goodness – but he still needed to eat first. Besides, he can't deny that the thought of a home-cooked meal nearly has his mouth watering, especially since his only other option right now is salvaging that Behemoth meat.

He'd just sneak out after dinner. Leave a note thanking Mrs. Gray and the rest of them for all of their help, and then figure out some way to hoof it all the way to Junon before Sephiroth threw himself onto the Jenova-crazy bandwagon.

Hmm… maybe he'd rent a Chocobo.

"Oh ho ho! A customer!"

A scowl nearly twists its way onto Cloud's face at the sound of that sickeningly sweet voice. And it's only from years of training (and Tifa's voice ringing in his head – "Be nice!") that he manages to swallow the disgust back down. As it stands, though, he still almost makes a face when he looks up and finds the monstrosity waiting for him behind the counter. Pinstripe suit, black hair all slicked back, oversized gold rings on his fingers. Yuck. Hadn't anybody told this guy that Don Corneo had already cornered the market on being gaudy?

"What can I do for you, dear sir?" the man asks, his voice still candy-apple sweet, and lays his hands over his plump stomach – a gesture that was probably supposed to look docile, but just screamed predatory to Cloud.

And, really, Cloud just wants to turn around and get the hell out of dodge, but he can just hear Tifa telling him not to judge a person solely on their appearance. So, he ignores the thought that this guy was obviously eating well, and strolls as casually as he can over to the counter. "I'm looking for healing materia," he says mildly, leaning against the counter and slipping into his 'cool guy' persona.

"Well, you've certainly come to the right place!" the man chortles happily and waves a hand at the glass case behind him. "Oh? But what's this?" The surprise is obviously feigned, and Cloud has to resist the urge to twitch as the man totters over to the case, unlocks it, and pulls out a suspiciously dull orb of materia from within. "Well, sir, you are in luck," he says and turns back to Cloud, the healing materia cradled in his hands. "This is my last one!"

"How much?"

The man's smile is positively shark-like. "15,000 gil."

Cloud blinks wordlessly once, twice, and wishes that Tifa was here so he'd at least have the satisfaction of saying 'I told you so'. But instead, he sticks with, "15,000, huh? Sounds a bit steep, don't you think?" He must be in shock, otherwise he probably would have reacted a little more forcefully.

"Are you accusing me of swindling you, dear sir?" The man gasps, mock-offended, and Cloud wants to put a fist through his face. "Why, I would never! I run a respectable establishment here! 15,000 is a fair price!"

"It was 750 the last time I checked," Cloud responds, his face carefully blank, but with a fire brewing underneath.

"750? There are Behemoths roaming the streets and you think this is worth a measly 750 gil? Why, no, sir! No, sir! I assure you this is the finest healing materia in the whole world! Honestly, it's a steal at only 15,000 gil!"

Anger, red and hot, twists in his belly at this pathetic sham, and Cloud opens his mouth to tell the man off. To hiss that with that lackluster glow (if you could even call it a glow), it was obvious that the materia was manufactured, not to mention nowhere near close to being mastered. But he doesn't get the chance. Not when the shop bell jingles again and a flustered man stumbles through the door. "There are Behemoths outside the city!"

And the sleazy materia seller doesn't miss a single beat. "That's exactly what I was telling this fine gentleman here," he says with feigned solemnity, and waves a hand in Cloud's direction.

"You were…?" the man asks hesitantly, his concern giving way to suspicion once his eyes land on Cloud's own. "I see…" he says, taking a moment to give Cloud one last assessing once-over, before straightening himself and his suit back out and stepping up to the counter. "I need – " he starts, but then finally notices the materia still swaddled in the crooked shopkeeper's hands. "Is that healing materia?"

"Why, yes. Yes, it is," the materia seller says, his smile growing almost Chesire cat-like – it was like he could smell weakness. "But unfortunately it's the only one I have left, and I cannot sell it to the both of you."

"But he's a SOLDIER!" The newcomer shoves a finger in Cloud's face, his eyes wild. "He doesn't need it! Not like I do! I have a family to take care of!"

Cloud's hackles nearly rise at the implication that he couldn't take care of a family, but he knows that he has to keep his temper under control if he wants this man to believe a single word he says. Knows that if he yells, then the crook of a shopkeeper would have gotten exactly what he wanted – another dupe to fall straight into his hands.

So, Cloud swallows back his frustration and tries to take the high road. "It's a dud."

"You're only saying that cause you want it for yourself!"

"No, that's not – "

"Why do you need it, anyway? Shouldn't Shinra be providing you with all of your equipment?"

"I'm not – " Cloud starts, but then shakes his head – he's had enough of this farce. "You know what, it's all yours."

Fair.

Sky Fair.

Walker slows to a stop, his free hand hovering over the doorknob to the guest room, his other clutching the bedsheets a little closer to his chest.

Fair, …Sky.

It made sense, right? A man who could pass for Cloud's twin, but who grew up in Gongaga, and only looked like a SOLDIER because he had fallen into mako. Yup. Perfect sense.

.

.

.

Gah, who's he trying to kid? Walker has absolutely no idea what's going on. Not where this Sky had come from, not why he looked the way he did, and certainly not why the man seemed to tolerate him, seemed to – dare he say it? – like him. It made no sense. Sky should hate him for what he did. Everybody else did.

Well, no. Not everybody else. But still… It felt like it sometimes.

Walker shakes his head, and elbows his way into the guest room. He can't think about that right now. He had promised Mrs. Gray that he would get the guest room ready for his and Sky's sl-sl-slum… gah, for when Sky got back. He couldn't let her down. Couldn't have her thinking that he was really so pathetic he couldn't even handle some dinosaur print bedsheets.

His face, though. Forget twin, Sky was almost an exact carbon copy of Cloud. Sure, his eyes were different and that wolf earring was new, but everything else – the nose, the arch of his brow, that gravity-defying, Chocobo-shaped hair (that Walker is ashamed to admit he had made fun of on more than one occasion) – were exactly as he remembered them.

And really, he wishes that that was where the similarities ended. It would be easier for him that way, he thinks. But no. The motion sickness, the facial expressions that were just pure Cloud, and even the way Sky seemed to be imitating Zack and Commander Hewley – the shape of his sword, the way he fought, the manner in which he did squats – that couldn't all just be a coincidence, right? There had to be something there.

Right?

He… He thinks maybe he should talk to him, talk to Cl – dangit, talk to Sky when he gets back. Should ask him if he knew a Cloud Strife. And why he doesn't hate Walker for everything he had done.

But no, wait. If Sky didn't know it was him, if he hadn't connected the dots between Walker and Cloud's almost murderer, then he'd certainly hate Walker once he opened his mouth. He'd throw him away, just like everybody else had.

"25 years, Corel Prison."

Walker had deserved it. He knows he had. And yet, with these rumors that Cloud was the President's brother, he wonders if they hadn't been a bit too lenient on him.

"You can rot for all I care!"

His friends – the ones he had thought would stick with him through thick and thin, and the ones who had bullied Cloud with him – had tossed him to the side like last week's trash. Had spit on him when the Turks dragged him past.

"You're no son of mine!"

His own parents… No. Not his parents. Not anymore.

"Oi, boys! Get a load of this! Even a monster makes a better fuzz-killer than Dumpster Trash here!"

It hadn't been terribly logical, he'll admit, but the day he saw that newspaper in the prison cafeteria, the day he found out about Cloud's death – Hero Infantryman Killed In Behemoth Attack – well… something in him had just snapped. He had spent so long fantasizing about what he would do once he was finally free. Had spent three long years dreaming of the day he could finally grovel for forgiveness (as if those SOLDIERs would have let him anywhere near Cloud, though), that being denied that was far too much.

And that night, his demons had taken Cloud's face – "If it wasn't for you, I would have been stronger! You killed me, Walker!". He's not sure why he did it, really. The Cloud he usually dreamt of had always spat in his face ("Sorry doesn't change anything!"), so it's not like it was that much of a difference. But the shock of Cloud's death had just been so great and the sight of Walker's bedsheet so tempting, that he had fastened a noose from it before he had known any better.

"Oi, Dumpster Trash! Heard yer sleepin' on steel now! Gods, I can't imagine how embarrassin' it must be to be crap at doin' the Dutch too!"

The taunting hadn't been anything new. Crowbar Bill (or Crow, as he liked to be called) had had his eyes on Walker from the moment he was trucked in – "Watch out for this one, boys! I hear he likes to blow shit up!". Walker tried to avoid him, tried to keep his head down – Crow was serving life for the murder of his wife and soulmate, and Walker wanted absolutely nothing to do with that – but Crow had always gone out of his way to seek Walker out.

"Hey, hey, Dumpster Trash. I hear yer good with yer hands," he had said. And Walker's first mistake was listening to the overgrown sleazeball, especially with that nauseating leer on his face. "And yuv got a pretty enough face. Whaddya say? Keep me entertained and I might go easy on ya from now on."

Walker had tried to leave, had tried to ignore Crow's winking and the jeering of the other inmates in the prison yard, but the moment he had turned around was the moment he had felt a hand on his ass. "Wow – " Crow had whistled – "yer ass is nicer than my wife's ever was."

He doesn't remember much after that. There was definitely the satisfying crack of cartilage as he broke Crow's nose and a flash of glass as Crow pulled a shiv out of nowhere – "I'm gonna carve ya up good, Dumpster Trash!" But other than that, nothing. When he finally came to again, he was being pulled off a broken and bruised Crow, two of the creep's lackeys facedown in the dirt next to him – "Touch me again and see how good I carve you up!"

The warden hadn't believed his side of the story. Or, rather, he just hadn't cared – "Shoe's on the other foot now, huh?". And really, Walker wasn't all that surprised when he'd been thrown in the Hole. He just never would have expected that he would yearn for the shit-talking of the other inmates, that he would crave the ability to drown out the voices in his own head. But after two weeks alone with his demons, that's exactly what he had done.

Mollywhopper Walker.

That's what they had called him. That was his new nickname once he was released from solitary. Not out of any real respect or reverence, though. Caution, prudence, discretion. Nobody dared prod him in case he snapped again. And Crow… well, Crow gave him the widest berth of all.

At least until monsters attacked and picked off half of the inmates and security guards, all in one fell swoop – Crow included. The warden would have been next, would have been gored by that stampeding Grand Horn, but Walker had somehow managed to drive it off. Had somehow convinced it to turn tail and flee with one well-aimed shot to its forehead.

He wasn't supposed to have that gun – he knew that, the warden knew that – but the fallen guard he had taken it off of hadn't complained. And neither had the warden.

Hero. They had said. Had lauded him.

He hadn't felt like a hero. Not when he had been granted parole for his 'bravery and valor', and certainly not when he had been left to his demons again for the entire agonizing slog back to Midgar – Absolutely useless. No wonder your parents got rid of you. Not even good enough to stink up the prison mines anymore.

Honestly, he's not sure why he had even gone back – his mother had been quite clear that he was dead to her for all she cared. But Corel had already been wiped from the map, and he didn't dare show his face in Gongaga (or, Gaia forbid, Nibelheim).

In hindsight, perhaps he should have chosen somewhere else to hunker down – Kalm, maybe? (Definitely not Junon). But his parents had always talked about how filthy the slums were. About how the slum dwellers were so poor, that they must have to eat rats to survive. And, really, he knows better now, but then… Then that vision that had been engrained in him had just seemed far more fitting for dumpster trash like him. So much so that he had let himself hobble mindlessly from one town to the next, barely remembering to eat or bathe, until he had stumbled through the gates of the city and breathed that first breath of slum air.

Rotten eggs and sweat.

So different from the plate, but it had just smelled like home.

"Look what the Wererat dragged in."

He just hadn't remembered that troopers regularly patrolled the slums. If he had, maybe he could have avoided that first altercation. Maybe he could have gone his first full day back in Midgar without being thrown to the ground.

"Didn't you get the memo that nobody wants you here, dickhead?"

They should have hit him. He thought that they would. Thought that they would have wailed on him like he used to with Cloud (or at least tried to – Cloud always gave as good as he got, to Walker's neverending chagrin at the time). But they didn't, though. They refused to touch him. He was too pathetic, too dirty, too scraggly for that – "Ew, he looks like a fucking wraith.". He tried to convince them otherwise. Tried to get them to hit him somewhere, anywhere – "Just do it already, dammit!". If only so he could forget about everything.

The sense of abject failure.

The self-loathing.

The emptiness he felt inside.

"Oi! This isn't a bed n' breakfast, boy!"

He doesn't remember seeking shelter. Doesn't remember curling up under that awning. What he does remember, though, what he can never forget, is the sharp intake of breath and the gut-wrenching pity in those too nice eyes.

He wasn't worth it.

"Hey kiddo, ya any good with a wrench? I prolly could use an assistant."

No, just leave me here. Leave me here to rot.

"…C'mon. Let's get y'all cleaned up."

No, stop, don't waste your time –

"Hey, slowpoke! What's takin' so long?"

Walker jerks straight out of his nightmare. Jerks so violently from the sound of the louder voice and from the sight of that lonely expanse of steel sky twisting back into the harmless confines of the guest bedroom, that he nearly sends himself toppling to the floor. Nearly loses hold of himself just as much as he does the dinosaur print bedsheets, which flutter from his shaking hands and down to the floor below.

No, no, no. He can't be doing this. Can't be doing this again. He swore he wouldn't. Told the old man that he was fine, that he was ready for a change of pace, a change of scenery. Had promised Mrs. Gray that he wouldn't get lost in his head again. Promised that he was better.

He was supposed to be better.

"Walker – " there's a rap at the door, and Walker stops breathing, if only to hide how badly he's crying – "what are ya even doin' in there?"

"I'm almost done, s-sorry!" He tries to keep the quiver out of his voice, he really does. But from the lengthy pause on the other side of the closed door (thank Gaia he had closed it), he knows he's not successful.

Why can't he do anything right?

"…Need some help?"

The old man really was far too nice to him.

"Nah, it's f-fine. I'll be down in a minute, promise!"

"…Have it yer way, then. But if yer not down in five, I'm comin' back up."

That's it. He has to tell him, Walker decides as he trudges out of the guest room exactly four minutes later. If he wants to be Sky's friend – he shouldn't, he's not worthy, but, oh, he really, really does – then he has to do things right. He has to come clean. And hopefully apologize for his rather abysmal behavior this morning. It wasn't Sky's fault that he was a complete dead ringer for Cloud. And it certainly wasn't his fault that Walker still had trouble telling the difference between illusion and reality.

No, he has to say something. He has to. And if Cloud – dammit. If Sky chooses to hate him for the rest of his life, just like everybody else, then he would be entirely justified. Walker knows it.

But he really hopes that doesn't happen. Really hopes Sky can forgive him even if Cloud never could.

Wait.

Walker comes to a stop three steps down the staircase. Were they related? Cloud and Sky? Honestly, Walker can't see how they couldn't be. The resemblance was too uncanny otherwise.

Is that why Sky had left in such a hurry? Because he already knew who Walker was – who he really was – and couldn't stand to see him anymore? Because he already knew what Walker had done and was just pretending to like Walker because of how pathetic he is?

Did Sky hate him already?

Ding dong!

Walker's heart does a little flip in his chest, and he finds he has to remind himself to breathe again. That was Sky, wasn't it?

He… He doesn't hate Walker then.

And Walker… Walker still has a chance to fix this.

"I'll get it!"

The words are out of Walker's mouth before he even realizes it, his feet already thumping their way down the stairs as fast as they can go. He'll probably be a little embarrassed later (ok, a lot embarrassed), but for the first time in years, for the first time since he had made that stupid, stupid mistake, he feels light. Unburdened. Happy.

"I'll get it!" he repeats, butterflies fluttering in his stomach as he reaches the bottom of the landing and practically throws himself at the front door.

He doesn't need to rush, though, not really. Not with the old man still arguing with his mother in the kitchen. "Honestly, Ma, when are ya finally gonna get rid of that dumb ol' pot?"

"Get rid of it? My baby boy made that for me with his own two hands and you expect me to get rid of it?"

"I was five, Ma."

"Yeah, well, you were a lot sweeter then too, but I'm still going to keep you anyway."

Walker hardly listens to them. No, he takes a deep, calming breath, tells himself that today's going to be a good day, and then flings the door open, "Hey, Sky, I need to talk… to – " and freezes at the sight of the man on the other side of the threshold – "…y-y-you."

"Sky, huh?" the man drawls, and sooner than Walker's ready for, faster than he can say 'Turk', the floor has dropped out from underneath him and left him back there again. Shackled to that interrogation chair as his world implodes around him. "So, you have seen him."

"Walker Hayes. You stand accused of sabotaging company equipment and attempting to murder Corporal Cloud Strife. How do you plead?"

Walker shudders, and far too suddenly, the dark-haired Turk is looming right in front of him, no more mahogany desk to separate them. No more mahogany desk to keep him safe.

He freaks.

"I didn't do anything!" he shrieks and scrambles to get away. He just doesn't remember about the entryway table behind him until his foot has caught on it and sent him toppling to the ground.

"I didn't mean for it to happen!"

"Oh, now. We both know that's not true."

"Guilty, then?"

An unkind smile stretches across the man's face, and terror shoots painfully hot through Walker's veins. Liquid terror. "I-I swear!"

"Please don't waste – "

"What the hell d'ya think yer doin' in there?" comes the voice of Walker's salvation. A voice that shifts seamlessly from accusation to defense once the old man gets a good look at their unexpected visitor. "Hey! Who the fuck invited you here?"

"Ah, Mr. Gray. As eloquent as ever."

"Ah, Mr. Suit. As sadistic as ever." The old man sneers, and places himself strategically in front of Walker's still sprawled-out form. "Dontcha have somethin' better ta do? Like tormentin' that President of yers or takin' candy from babies?"

If Ts-Ts-Ts… agh, if the Turk is fazed in any way by the old man's ribbing, it doesn't show, that smug look still on his face as he slides his arms behind his back. "You are aware, I'm sure, that these checkups are a condition of Mr. Hayes's parole." But he stops himself there, and cocks his head ever so slightly to the side. "No, sorry. It's not Hayes anymore, is it?" And the dark little smirk he sends Walker is the same one he had all those years ago. "What is it now? Smith? Doe?"

"I-I…" Walker tries to say something, but he's stuck with the painful dichotomy of wanting to defend himself and needing to claw his way out of his skin and as far away from the terrifying Turk as possible.

"It's Gray, ya smarmy ass!" the old man interrupts, and Walker settles for just staring, flabbergasted, up at him. He had done so much for Walker already. Why would he want to share his name with him too?

The Turk must think the same, going from the hint of incredulity to his tone, "Gray? How… paternal of you."

"Hey! Dontcha gimme that look! I'm more of a father than his sperm donor ever was! You don't get ta throw away a kid just cause they made a mistake! That's not how parenthood works!"

But while the old man's words win Walker over, and leave him nothing more than a trembling mess on the floor, they don't have that same effect on the Turk. "Well," he says, his tone the definition of unimpressed, "I never would have taken you for the sentimental type, Mr. Gray."

"Oh, shaddup – "

"But I do hope you realize that his name does not change the conditions of his parole. A parole, I will remind you, that was never approved by the President. Consider yourself lucky that he has been benevolent enough not to throw your… son – " the word is said with no small amount of derision – "back into prison where he belongs."

"Benevolent, my ass! We just saw ya two days ago! What the hell d'ya want now?"

"A friend of mine has gone missing. I'm led to believe your son knows where I can find him."

"The kid hasn't talked ta any of ya Shinra bastards 'cept you suits, and ya know it! So, unless you have sumthing to charge him with, then yer better off suckin' my big, black – "

"Ezekiel! Watch your mouth, boy, before I wash it out with soap," Mrs. Gray interrupts before the old man can finish his sentence. Before Walker can calm all of the different emotions roiling inside of him or even figure out how to get his feet beneath him again. "Honestly, is that any way to talk to your friend here?"

"Friend?" the old man scoffs, and even the Turk looks a little uncomfortable with that particular insinuation. "He ain't a friend! He's Walker's so-called parole officer!"

"Parole officer?" Mrs. Gray repeats, and Walker swears she sounds entirely too delighted for this particular situation. "Well, bless my stars." She potters forward, stopping only to help Walker up off the floor ("What are you doing down there, sweetheart?"). "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr…?" she trails off and offers a still flour-dusted hand for the Turk to shake.

The Turk doesn't shake it, though. Instead, he raises an eyebrow at her outstretched hand, but otherwise makes no move to indulge her, his arms still wrapped behind his back. "You must be the lady of the house."

"Myrtle Gray, at your service," she returns pleasantly, dropping her hand to wrap around Walker's waist for the second time that day. And Walker, well he knows he should say something, knows he shouldn't let the old man and Mrs. Gray fight all of his battles for him, but he can't manage to do anything but shiver uncomfortably under the Turk's emotionless stare. "Now, how can we help you, dear?"

"I'm looking for a friend. Spiky blond hair, dressed like a SOLDIER. You wouldn't happen to have seen him?"

"Oh!" Walker's heart sinks at Mrs. Gray's excitement… and at the confirmation that the Turks really were after Sky. "You must mean Mr. Fair!"

It's subtle – just a slight wrinkling of the brow – but the Turk looks more surprised than Walker has ever seen him (which, honestly, isn't saying much). "…Fair, you said?"

"Mm-hmm, very. Oh, what I wouldn't do to be young again."

"Ma!"

"Oh, hush, son. I'm allowed to find grown men attractive."

"That's not – " the old man rumbles, but the dark-haired Turk beats him to it.

"Did he say where he was going?"

"He had some errands to run – " Walker tries to convince Mrs. Gray not to give Sky away, tries to convince her with his horrified stare alone, but she doesn't seem get the message – "but he promised he'd be back in time for dinner."

"Is that so?" Gossip in the trooper cafeteria had often centered around how Couerl-like the Turks were – sly, cunning… absolutely ruthless. But it's not until this moment, it's not until the Turk's eyes light up, dangerously, at the prospect of catching his prey that Walker is finally able to see the similarity.

"Say, why don't you join us, Mr. Parole Officer? The more the merrier!"

"Ma!"

"Don't worry, Ezekiel. There will still be plenty of mashed potatoes for you."

"I'm not talking bout – "

"You know what?" the Turk cuts in, the smallest of smirks on his face as he pulls out his PHS. "Dinner sounds lovely."

"Now, it's 15,000 for the healing materia by itself. But, since these are tough times, I'm willing to part with that and a full starter pack of attack materia – fire, lightning, and ice – for the low, low price of 30,000 gil. What'll it be?"

The shopper had balked. "But it was half that price yesterday!"

"Are you accusing me of price gouging, dear sir? Why, no! I would never! This is an honest-to-Gaia steal what with Behemoths mauling a SOLDIER to death right outside of town!"

"Asshole," Cloud grumbles to himself and stomps further down the street. He had tried to warn that idiot shopper off. Had stopped halfway through his aggravated march out of the building to explain that that SOLDIER wasn't actually dead (probably) and that, under no circumstances, should he go anywhere near a Behemoth, much less try to fight one. But the man had refused to listen. Had refused to do anything more than fall squarely into the palm of that materia seller's hand – "Behemoths aren't the only monsters roaming about. I'd hate to see what would happen to your lovely family if a Kalm Fang got to them."

"Dammit!"

Cloud kicks at the ground and tries to ignore the words "I'll do it!" ringing frantically through his head. Tries to tamp down on the anger burning deep inside of him. He had come across quite a few scalpers in his life, especially right after Meteorfall, but none that had made him want to murder a civilian quite as badly as that materia seller had. None that had had his vision turning quite so red from disgust before.

He'd been sorely tempted to steal that scalper's ill-gotten goods. To break into the house attached to the shop and raid the creep's coffers, regardless of how hard they had tried to teach Yuffie not to steal from every person she met (not that she ever listened – "Hey! I already promised not to steal from you guys again! What more d'ya want?"). But somehow, he had managed to convince himself to leave it be. Convinced himself that he was still trying to fly under the radar and that he had already wasted enough time as it is.

Growl.

And that he really needed to eat.

Luckily, the walk back to Mrs. Gray's house takes no time at all, and before he knows it, he's already approaching the blue-painted rowhome from behind. He can't say he's happy to still be here, not with the prospect of facing Sephiroth again on the horizon, but he'll admit that fried chicken does sound good right about –

"Sky, huh?" Cloud startles to a stop, a fine tremor running down his spine at the sound of that smug voice. "So, you have seen him."

He wants to convince himself that Tseng is just there to thank him for saving Rhapsodos's life, and perhaps to offer him a (much-needed) monetary reward. But he'd known the shady Turk long enough to be able to realize the horrible truth.

They were after him.

He just couldn't figure out how they had caught up so quickly. Had he really given himself away that badly that they had managed to track him here so soon?

"I didn't do anything!"

Cloud grits his teeth and unsheathes one of Tsurugi's sawtooth blades. Forget about how badly he had messed up. Forget about the fact that Tseng was obviously after him and would only hunt him to the ends of Gaia if he showed his face now (unless Cloud killed him, of course, but that would really put him on the wrong side of Shinra's radar). Forget about all of that. Walker, Zeke, and Mrs. Gray were in trouble. Trouble he had landed them in. He couldn't in good conscience leave them alone like this. Not after all they had done for him.

Not to mention that the prospect of scaring Tseng – any Tseng, regardless of whether the man had given Aerith to Hojo yet or not – was far too tempting to give up.

Oh, he was so going to enjoy this.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Cloud pauses mid-step, sawtooth blade still at the ready, and turns to find Mrs. Gray staring back at him from the other side of the rowhome's side window. Or rather shaking her head at him from the other side of the window.

Was she telling him not to help?

He almost doesn't listen. Almost stomps out to confront Tseng anyway. But then Mrs. Gray holds up a finger for him to wait and disappears from sight.

"Oh, now. We both know that's not true."

Cloud twitches. He doesn't like this. Not one bit. But before he can do anything, before he can convince himself that dealing with Mrs. Gray's disappointment is a far better fate than being forced to listen to Tseng's smug ass for even a second more, Mrs. Gray has returned and pressed an open notebook to the window.

We've got this. You need to go.

Cloud's face twists and his mouth opens to argue – he can't just leave them here – but Mrs. Gray cuts him off. She beats him to it, underlining the word go for added emphasis.

He deflates. He knows she's right – if he intervenes, it'll just make things more difficult for all of them. Walker and Zeke will have been caught consorting with a potentially dangerous, 'extralegally' enhanced individual. And the Cloud of this world might end up in a tough spot if anybody thinks that his older brother (or uncle) was running around causing problems for Shinra.

Ugh. Why did he save Rhapsodos again?

Sighing to himself (and ignoring whatever traitorous part of him that says he only saved the man because he reminded him of Zack), Cloud resheathes the sawtooth blade and sends a curt nod in Mrs. Gray's direction. He could appreciate the merits of a strategic retreat.

But before he can make that retreat, Mrs. Gray waves him over and disappears from the window once more.

"Hey! Who the fuck invited you here?"

Cloud doubts that Tseng has ever let an invitation, or rather lack thereof, stop him, and his glib reply – "Ah, Mr. Gray. As eloquent as ever." – all but confirms it. But as much as that bothers Cloud, as much as he still wants to run the prim bastard off (or whack him over the head with the flat side of Tsurugi), he lets curiosity get the better of him and steps up to the window.

Inside, he finds Mrs. Gray scurrying about, a paper lunch bag held tight in her hands. An apple, a muffin, a handful of granola bars, and what looks to be a tray of (homemade) chocolate chip cookies are all placed inside with the utmost care, and then Mrs. Gray returns to him, swings open the window, and hands him the bag of food and an unopened bottle of water. All free of charge.

He wants to cry. Wants to blubber over the kindness of it all, and nearly does too when Mrs. Gray squeezes his hand between hers and mouths the words, 'Stay safe.'

He should thank her, he knows he should. But all he can manage is a weak 'I'm sorry', before he turns around and hurries back the way he came, Mrs. Gray's answering 'Silly boy' seared into his heart forever.

He'd make it up to them. He swears.

Sephiroth.

Not for the first time that day (or year, really), Cloud curses the man. This was all his fault. All of it. If it wasn't for him and his obsessive need to be both a sadist and an attention whore all wrapped up into one big, planet-destroying package, Cloud wouldn't be in this damn mess to begin with. He wouldn't have been ripped from his family and thrown into a world he knew nothing about and a time he barely remembered. And on top of all of that, he wouldn't be here – a mile outside of Kalm and already on the run from Shinra less than 10 hours since he was unceremoniously dropped in this damn dimension.

He'd make it work though. He wouldn't let it all be for naught. The Sephiroth of this world was still… Cloud searches for a word that would fit here ('good' was definitely out), before finally settling on 'sane'. He was still 'sane' and Cloud still had time. Time to stop him from taking that deadly fall from grace. Time to protect Zack, Tifa, Cloud, and his mo – no, Cloud's mother.

He just needed to get to Nibelheim first.

So, with the thought of wringing Sephiroth's neck put on the back burner for now, Cloud draws the purple orb of materia he had found, alone and unguarded, in that scalper's shop from his pocket. Rolls it around in his hand as Yuffie's face flashes behind his eyelids. As much as he'll miss her, he's kinda glad she isn't here to drag him through the figurative (or perhaps literal) mud for going back on his 'stealing is bad' mantra so easily. He had no qualms about stealing from people who deserved it (and that scalper definitely deserved it), but Yuffie didn't know where to draw the line, if there even was one – "Hey! That asshat deserved it! He only called Tifa a 'babe'!".

Chuckling (and definitely not tearing up) at the memory of his lost friend, it's Yuffie he thinks of when he finally feeds energy into the orb. It's the mischievous twinkle in her eye and the shit-eating grin dancing across her face that he sees as he closes his eyes and casts. And it's the obnoxious (yet endearing) way she would cackle – "Nar har har! It's time to show you suckas how it's really done!" – that he hears as the minutes pass (and pass) before the rumbling he initially thought was just that of his empty stomach dies out and a soft "Kweh?" echoes in his ears.

Finally. Something worked.

He peels his eyes back open with a calmness he isn't really feeling, only to choke on his breath at the sight of the wild Chocobo in front of him. The male Chocobo (going from the pointed tail feathers) who tilts his head to the side at the sound and chirrups again, "Kweh?"

"H-Hi…" Cloud returns, a little breathless. (Gaia, it was like he had never tamed a Chocobo before!)

But the boy doesn't seem to mind Cloud's awkwardness. Instead, he pads almost thoughtfully over, his feathered head tilting side to side as he takes Cloud in. "Kweh?" It might be a question of some sort, but Cloud's far too focused on the near longing in the creature's eyes, the curiosity in which he nibbles at Cloud's hair, and perhaps most concerning, the dirt and dried blood clinging to the bird's disheveled feathers.

Had he been in a fight? Or was he too depressed to actually groom himself?

"Kweh! Kweh!"

Cloud's torn from his thoughts, his concerns for the Chocobo's health forgotten as the boy all but throws himself at him – flapping his wings, nuzzling Cloud's chest, chirruping louder and louder for the world to hear. And all it takes is two seconds for Cloud to come up with a name for him.

"Ok! Ok! I get it!" he laughs through an armful of Chocobo. "I'm happy to meet you too, Zack!"

"Wark!"

A/N:

- I had figured that with Walker and Zeke, I didn't need any more major OCs. But then I was like "But Cloud still needs to get to Junon somehow, so let's give him a Chocobo. And what if we named that Chocobo... Zack?" So, yeah, say hi to Zack the Chocobo everybody.

- Also slight note that Zack the Chocobo has no relation to any version of Zack Fair at all. (So sorry, no alternate dimension Zack reincarnated as a Chocobo).

Prison Slang:
- Fuzz: Police
- Sleep on Steel: Have your sheets and blankets taken away, most often because of suicide risk
- Doing the Dutch: Killing yourself in prison
- Shiv: Homemade prison knife
- The Hole: Solitary confinement
- Mollywhopped: To beat someone up in a fight (or get beaten up)