A/N: Yay, back to the world of angsty-ness! I think it's a requirement for me to do one of these every now and then. Anyhow, this is just a rather darker take on Cloud's thoughts at the train station before Tifa finds him. Full of things that don't make sense but that was kind of the point. Not the happiest thing, but there's some measure of hope at the end, so yeah.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: FFVII belongs to Square Enix. I'm just a leech who thrives off their original concepts.

Left for Dead

The next time he came to and was actually somewhat aware of his surroundings, he found himself in a strange state of paralysis. His mind was sharp and functioning correctly, but his body responded to nothing. It was a disturbing feeling where his limbs refused to accommodate the fierce commands issued from his brain to move and his head kept nodding uncontrollably without his permission. In effect, he'd become a prisoner in his own body.

He tried to catalog where he was but the indistinct vision of his eyes paired with his head's constant convulsions made it difficult to get a clear glimpse of anything. The problem made even worse by the fact that it was raining heavily, the water droplets harassing his body though he couldn't feel its merciless slaps against his skin. He knew he was cold, but his senses could not pick it up.

Time passed indistinctly, a minute indecipherable from an hour, but eventually he found that he was at some sort of train station, the streets dimly lit through the gloom by faint, sputtering lamps. He couldn't quite hear the rumble of the train as it came in, but he did notice the occasional increase in commotion around him.

Nobody ever paid him any heed though. Sometimes he wondered if they could see him at all. Or maybe he didn't really even exist. Surely that would be the only reason why everyone ignored him. People wouldn't do that, wouldn't be so heartless if they really saw him there and in need of help, would they?

He scoffed at himself. Who was he kidding? The world had always been a heartless place. He knew that from childhood. Nobody ever cared about anyone other than themselves. Everyone in the world was selfish and he was a fool for ever thinking otherwise.

It was idiotic to ever think that anyone would care because nobody ever had before. This is a world that everyone lives in and shares, but everyone is too caught up within their own little universe in this universal world that other people's troubles would never give them pause unless those troubles somehow became their own.

That was life.

He wondered how he knew it so well before realizing that this was the story of his life.

Yet what was his life? His memories jumbled. He remembered a childhood of isolation, an adolescence of failure, a teenage life of disillusionment, but that was all. What had brought him here?

He tried to remember, but found that the harder he tried to remember, the more he forgot. Where was he from? What had he been doing? …Who was he? He remembered pain and disappointment, anger, hate…but he could not remember why. Why he despised the world with this intensity, why he felt so acutely the pangs of betrayal….why the moment he slipped into his darkest feelings about the world, a soft melody of piano notes would drift into his ear canals and soothe the burning in his chest.

None of it made sense and he suddenly wondered why he cared. Why was he trying so hard to survive, to live in a world that had already forgotten he existed? In a world that had already left him for dead?

He was hopeless. A forgetful mind trapped in a recalcitrant body. He should give up. He had nothing, and he was nothing.

And yet there it was. The faintest tingle of a piano—or was it someone's carefree laughter?—resonating in the back of his head. He hated it because it gave him hope and right now the last thing he wanted was hope. He tried to ostracize from his muddled memories, but it was stubborn, almost as stubborn as the one who'd made those beautifully hope-filled sounds.

The thought of her made him want to smile even though he couldn't quite grasp who exactly she was. But the darkness in his soul seemed to lighten just a fraction.

He seemed to remember he'd made a promise. Several promises, actually. Something about living life to its fullest or living out life for more than himself. Something about living. Something about a little girl and a little boy and a well. Something about being a hero.

But look at him. He was in no position to fulfill any promise. No promises about living or about being a hero.

And yet that laughter seemed to grow. Or not the laughter, but the voice that created such a hopeful sound. And it wasn't laughing. It was calling a name. His name? He couldn't be sure. All he knew was that he suddenly found himself working toward that voice.

His head stopped convulsing and he could have sworn he'd just moved a finger. The voice came closer—or further?—he couldn't tell. It seemed at once both in his head and coming through his ears.

"Cloud? Is that you Cloud? Can you hear me?"

The darkness cleared a fraction more. He could lift his head.

"Cloud?"

The rain hadn't let up, but a well-placed umbrella shielded his body from the torment of the storm. His vision cleared and he saw her eyes first, big brown eyes with hints of red whenever the dim streetlights hit them in just the right angle. They watched him warily but not in an unfriendly manner. Just curious. And worried.

His lips formed her name before his mind could register. "Tifa…"

Her bright smile was the last thing he remembered before blacking out again.

He felt a greater sense of peace than he had in a long time and somehow, maybe, just maybe, he was meant to live on just a little longer. Because yes, the world had abandoned him, but someone still knew his name. And that, that meant so much more to him than he realized.