Untitled 5
Prologue - Down and Out Days
By Loquacia Dee
boring author crap...
Well, here we go again. I question the widsom of beginning a FFVII story arc mere months before Advent Children but... well, ah well. Could still fit, I guess...
Anyway, this story owes a lot to Twig's A Long, Hard Road, so apologies for the derisive elements. I'm also not entierly sure of timelines... I think they're... acceptable. If not... then it's an AU. Haha! Can't argue with that, can you Miss Nitpicker! Nyah!
Er...
Untitled 5
Prologue - Down and Out Days
By Loquacia Dee
He had barely enrolled at the Academy before realising he was in no way, shape or form cut out for it; too short and too scrawny, with hair too long to be in fashion and an accent that instantly marked him as from the sticks. On his first night he had been barrelled out of bed, wrapped in his blanket. A bucket of water had drenched him from head to toe, and a quick flick out a first story window had both divested him of his blanket and forced him to spend the night outside in the garden. Midgar was not a warm city by night at any means. He had grown up in the mountains, however, and had survived. Much, he sometimes thought, to the disappointment and continued sadistic amusement of his peers. It had been useless at the time to ask who had done it. Everyone was guilty; either by active participation or the relief that they had not been the one taken.
That had been over four years ago now and, really, nothing had gotten any better since. Every day had been a struggle to the point that he had simply given up any semblance of fighting back -- he was, after all, too small. He was not, however, too slow. This coupled with his innate ability to hide and not draw attention to himself meant that he had survived the years intact. Barely. His grades were nothing special -- his tutors found him to be a source of either loathing or despair and had long since given up -- but they were adequate. Adequate enough for four long years of the Academy to finally pay off. Last week had been his sixteenth birthday, though none bar himself had either remembered or cared, and tomorrow every student over that age, who held adequate grades, would be required to participate in the first of several tests that would determine their suitability to enter the Shinra army and, possibly, go on to being one of the lucky ones hand-picked to join the company's elite fighting force, SOLDIER.
It was every recruit's dream. To be selected, above all others, and taken into seclusion for several months, only to return stronger, faster, tougher and somehow more than the average human.
The boy remembered clearly the SOLDIER who had come to explain the process to them; a good-natured man who introduced himself as Zack. He went through in detail the methods of selection, both for the standing army and for SOLDIER. There were many tests a recruit had to pass; physical, mental and psychological. Only the best of the best for Shinra, Inc. Zack had stressed that simply to be selected for the army was honour enough in itself; the wages were good, after all, and the job itself was stable and an excellent lead-in to the various other department of the corporation. It was a transparent ploy; meant to let them all know that at most only one or two would be selected to go on into the SOLDIER program, and that there was no shame in not being selected. But SOLDIER was where dreams and heroes were made. Not to mention that it was the one and only sure-fire way to meet the General.
Everyone -- absolutely everyone -- idolised the General; the pinnacle of Shinra perfection.
Afterwards, when Zack had called for questions, they only focused on one thing. Zack answered them with the put-upon good-humour of one who had been specifically picked for the position of answering these very self-same questions over and over. Yes, he had met the General. Who really was quite tall, and very strong, and whose sword really could slice flames in half, no really I saw it happen this one time last Midsummer's.
The boy had sat silently, as usual, though one question above all others did burn in his mind. Unfortunately, for once his silence had set him apart from the rest of the excitedly-chattering group, and Zack had called for quiet, before asking, "You there, what's your name?"
The boy jumped. "S-strife," has had said, small voice almost lost in his tightly clenched hands. "Cloud Strife."
Several of the other teens snickered, and had Cloud been looking he might have caught the dark expression that passed over Zack's face at the noise. Nevertheless, his voice was no less bright when he asked, "Well, did you have anything to ask?"
Cloud was about to say, 'No,' when the SOLDIER added; "Preferably not something else about the illustrious General?"
There was something in his tone of voice that caused Cloud to glance up, if only briefly. Zack looked so kind, Cloud thought, but desperate too, in the way of a slowly downing man. And Cloud really did have a real question, so...
"Um... I just... What do they do to make you a s-SOLDIER?"
Another round of snickering went up, and someone called, "Pump you full of mako, you idiot! Everyone knows that!"
Cloud felt the heat rise to his face before he could stop it, and was about to mutter an apology, when Zack said, "That's actually a very good question. And, to tell you the truth, we're not actually allowed to talk much about it. The process itself is top secret, but yes, it does involve a small quantity of inert mako being injected into your bloodstream. I won't lie and tell you that it's painless, because it's not; mako is highly volatile stuff, not something we're innately supposed to have in our bodies. Afterwards you'll be put through all kinds of tests to see how well the mako has taken hold in your metabolism. I won't lie and say these are painless either, because they aren't. But they're necessary. And no, not everyone survives. The failure rate is minimal, but it still exists. And by 'failure' I mean you'll be one of the lucky ones if you die. That's why we need to choose SOLDIER candidates so carefully; we want individuals who are strong enough in both body and mind to survive."
Everyone grew quiet after that, and Zack had wrapped up and wished everyone luck in the upcoming trials. That night, the dormitory had been full of excited whisperings about exactly what kind of painful tests new SOLDIERs had to endure.
"... pull all the muscle off you arm and see how long it takes to grow it back..."
"... hit you with lightning until your heart fails..."
"... drop you from high buildings..."
"... break your spine and see how far you can crawl..."
Cloud had tried very, very hard not to listen.
The night before the trials had started somewhat similar to Cloud's first night at the Academy all those years ago. He had been ripped from sleep, rolled in his bedding so tightly he could barely breathe let alone move, and carted off away from the dorms by five or six snickering voices. He had long since given up fighting these occurrences which had, thankfully, grown less and less frequent as the years progressed. That his tormentors should choose to pick this night of all nights was unfortunate but not, Cloud realised, unexpected. It had been far too much to hope that life would have allowed him any peace.
So he didn't struggle as he was dragged bodily down a flight of stairs into a darkened storage room. He didn't struggle as he was stripped bare and pinned spreadeagled to the ground by four sets of clammy hands. Didn't even struggle as a fifth figure emerged from the shadows, dressed in a cast-off white lab coat and doctor's face mask.
He didn't struggle when the 'doctor' said, "Now preparing 'Subject C' for mako induction. Looks like a bit too much of a faggot to be a real SOLDIER, but hopefully any adverse reaction will provide a good few hours entertainment down at the shower blocks. I hear they like that kind of thing nowadays."
But Cloud did begin to struggle when the 'doctor' continued, "Nurse, pass me the mako." And watched, to his horror, as a syringe full of... something green was passed to the 'doctor's outstretched, latex-covered hand by another figure wearing a too-tight lab-coat rolled up to just below crotch-level.
And then, when he felt the syringe being jabbed through the flesh in the crook of his left arm, and the sharp fire in his blood as the plunger was depressed, he screamed...