A/N: This fic is written Pre-Crisis core and won't run alongside canon. There will be slash and there will be OC's, and if you hate either of these I suggest you get out now. I promise I'll do my best to humanize them and not centralize them and avoid Mary-Sueism as much as possible.

Warning for coarse language, and dubious sexual content. Go back to google, kiddies.

Many guest appearances from minor characters will be in play. God bless those loveable shitheads. I haven't played Before Crisis or the original Playstation game so be prepared for bullcrap and did-not-do-the-research moments.

Without further ado, chapter one.

His first day in Midgar and Cloud was already sweating. Whether it was the heat or the anticipation he couldn't be sure, but it might have had something to do with the manic psychophant weilding a megaphone looming before him.

Oh yes, Cloud's drill seargent was a beefy man, bulging Popeye forarms and a taught, ever-grinding jaw. He looked over the cadets with a practiced glare, knuckles cracking in preparation or resignation.

"Ten laps to start you lousy shitpiles, and be quick about it. No whinging and no bludging," he commanded. No one moved. "Well? The hell you waiting for!"

The bark was enough to startle the most of them into submission, and Cloud, at the front of the queue, had to break into a sprint. Other, fitter cadets quickly overtook him and by the second lap around the four-hundred metre racetrack, he was determined not to be the first one to crack. Their drill seargeant stood aside, hurling expletives at them through a megaphone, punctuating their deathly quiet.

Cloud was in no way used to or built for this kind of physical exertion. Despite being a born and bred mountain boy he had a small, trim figure that all kinds of muscle and fat instantly slid off. He needn't run back at home, as the most energy had to be saved for food-gathering walks; the monsters around Nibelheim were too dangerous to be hunted for food.

By the third lap they were nearly all panting, excluding one tall cadet who had broken into a mild sweat the moment they started running. City rat, he looked like, with the long ragged hair and overpierced ears.

They had their base uniform on- blue slacks and a plain top only, which meant all their running across track had to be done barefoot. They wouldn't get their regular fitted uniform until they were actually sent on field mission: like most things at Shinra, comfort was a priveledge and not a right. Cloud wished he'd worn a singlet now, as the heavy cloth of his winter sleeveless weighed on him.

Two hundred metres each way, according to the flaking paint at the start lines, and ten laps meant it was more than he'd ever ran in his life. Four whole kilometres. His mouth watered for a drink and his feet ached for a rest. His breath released in bursts, his head throbbed, he began to trail behind.

"Keep up, slackers. Any slower and the moon'll rise and overtake you. What do you think this is, a holiday?" Cloud exchanged a sympathetic look with the boy next to him, squat with a mop of shiny black hair. They sped.

"Run like you mean it, shitheads! Is ten laps so bloody much to ask for these days? Minevra up high."

Their drill seargent didn't seem like much of a religious man, so Cloud just figured he was saying it to shit them. Lungs heaving, sweat pouring down his brow, Cloud began to stumble. This time he wasn't the first. Three others had stopped, and one boy was heaving behind a dirt pit.

One by one the others collapsed, and the seargent raised the peramiter to twenty laps, then fourty, as all the cadets were weeded out one by one. In the end only the long-haired boy was left, making his rounds as requested while the others endured the seargent's torment. By the end of it, Cloud didn't think he ever wanted to see the running track again, and a heavy stone lodged in his stomach at the thought he'd have to return tommorrow.

Whatever motivation he'd built up for this class had teetered to a stop. His feet screamed and his legs ached and Cloud didn't envy the guys who had actually tried to start running again after their bodies collapsed. Technically the punishment for falling short was push ups, but their seargant just seemed happy to bitch at them laying there and leave it at that. Stupid loser got a microphone for his efforts. Wasn't it torment enough just to hear the man yell without it screeching about every which way?

The last hour they were begrudgingly dismissed, and a half felt round of applause and a few back slaps went out for their obvious endurance runner, who doubled over panting.

Fresh, blessed water. Well, stale, coppery Shinra water-bubbler water, but that wasn't the point. Cloud stood in that accursed line for ten minutes before he got the flash of liquid back down his veins, and tried not to sigh too happily when his thirst was finally quenched.

They hadn't even been shown the toilets and the bell sounded, announcing them another class. This time it was inventory and stocktake theory, which covered their basic supplies (toilet paper, Cloud was pertuerbed to note, was not one) and military comands.

Not that any of them would ever be doing any real taction work themselves; everyone knew Soldier was just the brunt of the operation. They were told to copy out I will follow the orders of my commanding officer at all times twenty times, and then another fifty for homework. And then their teacher proceeded to list the few situations when they could ignore the order of a commanding officer, noting that those few were practically ridiculous as with the professionalism of trained Soldiers in all likelihood they'd never happen anyway. What a joke.

Third class was Materia and the cadet program was so well underfunded they could only fit three classes a day for fear of a time clash with their active superior officers. So that was why Cloud's drill seargent was such an asshole. Cloud'd be pretty mad too if he had to go out on field work and come back and teach all day. God, why didn't they just use retirees?

Cloud sat by himself. "There are eighty-eight types of materia currently known to Shinra," their teacher, bald and bored-looking, droned. "Later, when the printer starts working, you will recieve a list of all relevant Materia, their slot usage and clearance levels. For now, all you need to know is their five types- Spell, Summon, Support, Command and Independent. Our society is highly reliant on Materia, as it powers our phones, watches, streetlights, everything. As such it is mined heavily in the northern plains by a Shinra outpost. Unfortunately as a non-renewable resource Materia use is highly regulated and the rarer types are non-accessible to all but the richest of us today."

Did everyone know this stuff? Cloud wondered, penning down notes in their regulation notebook. At Nibelheim you knew what it was, what it did, not neccesserily how it powered your car and that was enough to get by. Was working with Materia in Soldier really that convoluted, or were they just covering all the grounds to justify the danger element? The class was rowdy for this lesson though, obviously eager to have dinner and find the barracks, so Cloud didn't dare raise his hand and break the status quo.

The final bell went with a blare and Cloud smiled, trying to restrain his show of excitement as the teacher looked over. He moved slow, and was the sole person to actually pack his book away in the box, so he was left standing by himself while the exasperated man shouted at the cadets to all come back push their chairs in as they rushed out the door.

He sighed. "This job wasn't made for a softie like me. If you could lend me a hand with those chairs, son?"

Cloud complied, and packed all the books away in the box when he was done. "If that's all," he said, and the man nodded his dismissal.

Dinner was being served at the mess hall, wherever that was (they hadn't been told, Cloud had no idea how the other cadets had known) and Cloud wandered around the ground floor looking. When he couldn't find it in the main building he wandered out of their grounds and into the second building. After he'd gotten off the bus from the main Shinra HQ they'd completely bypasses there, and maybe it being the mess hall was why.

Cloud slipped through the steel front doors and reached a desk, where a stern looking secretary sat typing into her computer. This didn't look like the mess hall...

"Excuse me, could you tell me-"

The secretary's head snapped up. "Cadets aren't allowed here."

Just then the double door burst open, and a man in a purple uniform held on a long stretcher was pulled through.

His lime green eyes hit Cloud's. "Angel," he whispered, and his escorts frantically screeched about medical emergency ovverides in the background. His face was pale and sweating, and he raised one shaky, gloved hand towards Cloud. "Angel, angel, Angeal..."

Cloud stood stone still as the Soildier was carted off into the other room, still trying to turn backwards towards him. The secretary eventually regained enough of her former awares to snap, "what are you still doing here?"

Asking directions would be stupid now. Cloud, utterly chastised, turned and left the medical block, trudging back to the main building in stupor. The man had called him an angel. With his fine, delicate features and cool blue eyes it wasn't like Cloud wasn't used to compliments, but it was the first time anyone had called him that before. With such emotion on his face too, and from a senior ranking officer?

The guy was obviously off his face, Cloud told himself. Still, it hurt him to think that the war with Wutai might be so devestating as to make someone look to a complete stranger in foolish hope.

Cloud was no angel. He'd come to join the cadets at Shinra because he'd drawn the short straw and been conscripted, not out of any hero worship for Sephiroth or the president or any of those other pipe-dreams idols other boys his age had. Cloud planned to fail his cadetship marginally, join the regular army and work off his five year minimum before retiring to a grueling but familiar life of farming and trading around the shit lands and marketplace back home. Violence, patriotism, fame... these things held no love for him.

The receptionist of the main building, politer, asked how she could help him. End the war, Cloud thought.

"Could you tell me where the mess hall is?" he asked.

"Upstairs and to your right," she replied. Cloud mentally groaned and refused to put his head in his hands. Of all the places... "I'm afraid it's too late to be served now, however."

"Oh," Cloud said. He took the lift up and the signs on the corridor directed him straight there.

The mess hall was a maze of seats and faces, alive with the hum of chatter. Rambunctuous boys banged trays, flipped knives and threw food.

Somehow between the crowd and movement and chatter Cloud caught sight of the boy he'd exchanged an understanding glance with during Fitness Training.

Cloud found his feet and walked over, taking a seat across from the boy. Conversation fell quiet in his wake.

"Where've you been?" the boy asked curiously.

"Toilet," Cloud lied.

"Geez, you musta been at the end of the line," the other inferred. He grinned. "Were you busting?"

Cloud mumbled something inaudible, inspecting the veneer of the table.

"James Hitmund," introduced the boy. He pointed at the others individually, "this is Craig, Georgie and Arklan. We were just about to head off."

"Fine by me."

The guys stood as a unit, donning their trays atop the trash can on the way out. "Gonna start feeding the trays into the trash one day, just to see what happens," the eldest looking, Georgie, commented.

"Just demerits and lunch ladies who hate you," said the blonde, Arklan. "Trust me, not worth it."

"And you would know," Georgie shot back.

Craig cut in before an argument could develop. "Hey pretty boy, these assholes here didn't let you introduce yourself. Ignore them. So what's your name, buddy?"

Cloud stared into the face of teenage oppression. "Strife," he answered.

Georgie burst out laughing, stopping short in the hallway. "Is that a stage name or what? You can't seriously tell me that's your real name dude. So what is it, symbolic for the strife you give your enemies?"

I think I'd like to see some strife put on you, Cloud thought. "Do you want to see my ID card?" he asked, straight-faced.

James laughed at Georgie, who stared at him dubiously. "Ooh, burn. But we're not like those TV gangs that go around calling peole by their last names. You can tell us it, we won't laugh."

Cloud shot James a look that said he better not. "My name is Cloud Strife," he said clearly, daring anyone to call it.

Arklan came to his rescue. "Strange accent you got there buddy. Anything to do with anything?"

"Oh yeah," Cloud replied. "I come from the western continent, a small town called Nibelheim. Everyone's very big on the traditional back there, so quite a lot of us are given bizarre names."

Craig made a sound like understanding, and they entered the elevator.

"Hey, what floor's our barracks again?" James asked.

Georgie rolled his eyes. "Basement one, idiot." He thwacked the small button.

Cloud once again expereinced the inertia and displacement that came along with elevators, and he tried not to close his eyes. Midgar was weird.

"Well this is us," James announced, stepping out and pulling Cloud with him. "Later, guys."

"Later, asswipe," Georgie said, with a grin that said otherwise. Arklan stepped out and threw him the finger.

"Hey hey hey," James said, letting go of Cloud. "Down with the aggression, man. You just met."

"Yeah, and he's a complete dick," Arklan defended. "What's your room number?"

"Five," James said.

"Nine," Arklan replied, looking dissapointed. "Hey, what about you Cloud?"

Cloud checked his card. "I'm in nine as well."

"Sweet! I call top bunk." Arklan threw a wave at James and raced down the hallways.

James made a helpless jesture. "Hey, what can you do? Good luck with him."

"Thank you," Cloud said, sincerely. "It was good to meet you today."

"Any time," James replied, and ruffled his hair. "Later."

Cloud walked into his room, feeling distinctly unruffled.

"The chocobo returns," Arklan intoned. "Hey, have you seen that movie? It's really good."

Cloud threw him an odd look. "They don't have televisions in Nibelheim."

"They don't?" Arklan demanded, jumping up. "Oh my god! Is this for real? Oh god. It is. This is terrible! Scratch that, it's a bloody outrage. We have to fix this immeadiately, Cloud."

Arklan clicked his fingers. "That's it. You and me, the movies. This Saturday. We have to."

"Okay," said Cloud, somewhat bemused.

"It's a deal." Arklan said, throwing himself down on one of the bunk beds.

Cloud swallowed. "Umm, Arklan," he started, kneading his hands. "That second building, off campus. What's it for?"

"Oh that?" Arklan said lightly. "That's where they send all the victims of war they don't have time to ship to the main headquaters. All the serious injuries you can't repair with Heal or Esuna. Lots of kids there, sad stuff. Why did you want to know?"

"I thought we might have a class there," Cloud said. "How did you know about it?"

"Everyone in Midgar knows," Arklan replied. As if on cue, the Midgarian boy from earlier, the endurance runner, entered in.

"This room nine?" he asked, setting a pack down.

Arklan said it was. Cloud watched as the runner unzipped the pack, pulled out a book, and began to read. He looked over and notice they weren't carrying anything. "Your stuff's all down at Head Office. They'll let you go get it now, if you want."

"I might do that," Arklan said. "Cloud?"

Cloud shook his head; he didn't think he wanted the face the shame of having almost nothing packed right now.

He knew when he was at home that he didn't want to take anything that might get wrecked, but he longed for something precious now. A hot drink packed from his mother, a photo or a phone.

The endurance runner looked over again. "Your name really Cloud?"

Cloud folded his arms. "Hey, his name is Arklan."

"Whatever." The boy returned to his book, looking slightly amused.

Cloud frowned up into the bed above him, claimed previously by Arklan. "There's four bunks, we must be misssing-"

The door slammed open, and a prematurely tall, bandanna-wearing, muscle built teenager stomped inwards. "Fucking late train made me miss the first day of class," he cursed, throwing his bag down by the door. He held out a hand to the runner boy. "Shears Harley."

"Mitch Sorrenson," Mitch said, taking it. "Apparently that's a Cloud."

Shears took Cloud's slight form in. "Why's the hell someone like you in the army?" he inquired.

Someone like him? Cloud found that offesnive on so many levels and worked on giving the guy a piece of his mind. Except damn, he was twice Cloud's size.

"Conscription," Cloud said, trying not to sound too resentful. "That going to be a problem?"

"Hell no. Who'd you think I am, avalanche?" Shears took the top bunk, instantly straining the metal frame however many kilos of muscle. "Tough luck, man. You really pulled the short straw there."

"Yeah, I know."

They made idle chatter, testing the waters until Arklan returned. "Lights out in five, guys," he revealed. "Gotta be up at dawn tommorrow they say."

Cloud rolled over on his lumpy mattress, considering the wall. Only five more years, he told himself.

If he knew what was to come he might not have even bothered trying to sleep.