He heard the strumming an out-of-tune guitar. Likely the person who was raving about wanting to become a famous “music man.” That would place him… in the Sector 5 slums. The same tenements. Stone floor, no walls, a ladder going down, a perch to sit on—it was now the roof.

  There was the music man with the frayed guitar and a howling singing voice that the fiends underground would appreciate more. An unconscious mako junkie lying in the corner of the roof barricade, probably dying. Various characters sitting around, smoking and pouring out the last drips of liquor bottles onto their tongue. They were the lowest failures that the undercity could deliver.

  He was technically outside, but no less kept between walls and a large ceiling. The undercity was sheltered on all sides from the environment; the upper city plates guarding them from sunlight, the city walls sheltering the people in place away from the roving fiends of the continent, and miles of clouds of toxic smoke protecting them from a blue sky. Dangers lurked everywhere outside, and containment by Shinra down here guaranteed the people defense from everything but the ground—and themselves.

  Eight mako reactors total sprouting around Midgar’s border, one between each sector. A tremendous amount of pollution, and an even greater surplus of power, which fuels the hundreds of thousands of lights across the undercity surface. From the elevated tenements, much of it could be seen.

  In a gigantic box awash in darkness, specks from lamps and street lights were everywhere. The people used to rely on gas lamps that shone white and projected the appearance of natural light, until many gas extraction wells were abandoned and overrun when the fiend epidemic emerged, and Shinra never reinvested as mako became the more lucrative venture. Now most lights burn straight mako, making the expanse of Midgar glow a hazy hue of green. Miles of this. It was unnatural, inhuman. But it was the future.

  It could have been nighttime or the afternoon. It was dark and moody anyhow. Houses and businesses built of sheet metal and wood scraps held together by screws and nails slumped crookedly below. People in the slums mimicked them as they walked, lounged, or labored in a yard. What do any of them want? Where is the red line for them?

  He looked at the other dregs on the roof; the product that this atmosphere of dingy artificiality produced. He was right there with them. He might be just like them, only difference being that he carries a giant sword.

  He was lying down, buster at his side, staring up at the dark plate underbelly that serves as his sky—all the visual static of metal beams and pipes, the few giant sunlamps hundreds of feet in the air barely illuminating the scenery below—trying to make sense of it.

  A decrepit man in tattered factory-made rags stained red and green with a perpetually slack jaw and bulging eyes, someone near their 40s but aging like squash, leans over his face. The worst features of that man’s visage aren’t quite visible in the lighting.

  “‘Ey. Sword guy. You never answered me. What’s ya deal, huh? You a SOLDIER like I think you are?”

  He pushes the guy away and sits up. “No.”

  “Yeh? Then why ya got the SOLDIER fatigues on, huh? I’ve seen the shits you guys wear. That’s the same… the same shit. I know people who was in SOLDIER. I’ve seen the—”

  “I’m not a SOLDIER.” He lumbered onto his feet, dragged the gigantic sword away to a small round wooden table, and plopped down in its creaky wooden chair.

  The man followed him, and tried to make a scene by jumping onto the table, but neither the top, the post, nor the base were fastened together. The moment his ass made contact with the edge of it, it all fell apart, and he collapsed with. A person laughed at him.

  The man clamored back to his feet to save face. “Shit! So I was sayin’: if you ain’t a SOLDIER, how’d ya get that outfit? Ya pull it off a dead body or sum’n? Ya kill some’un for it?”

  He was not interested in doing this. He was not interesting in being at this place any longer. He wondered what led him here to begin with. It was a casual musing, the typical “What am I doing here?” one asks when finding themself in a stupid situation. But he didn’t know the real answer. There weren’t any steps he could retrace. He was just there. He just ended up there. And what was he going to do? Ask one of these people to refresh his memory?

  He answered, “Sure.”

  The man scrunched his face. “That don’t sound convincin’. Tell me, wuh’s yer relationship to Shinra? C’mon, ya can be honest.”

  Another bum perched over the edge of the roof shouted, “Lookit! There’s the kidders again!”

  The bearded man disengaged and bolted to go see, along with a handful of other guys.

  “Wassup, Donut!” heckled one.

  “Hey there, Pickle! Ya wanna beer?!” heckled another.

  One of them chucked an empty bottle down at the street, complimented by the screams of children running away. The roof perchers laughed hysterically at them.

  “Tell yer mom I said ‘whuddup,’ Oates!” And then that guy doubled over on his back cackling and foaming at the mouth. He found his own joke very funny.

  The man from earlier did not remember to come back. All of them fell into their own gaggle and bothered each other somewhere else. He, meanwhile, pulled his chair away from the broken table to the roof perch.

  There were gunshots in the distance overlapped by the sound of shattering glass, and the cheering of a pack of freaks. But amidst the blurry mesh of grey and green, it was difficult to locate them.

  Sitting on the corner of the roof barricade was a dimming oil lantern. The bulb was glowing orange, not bright enough to hurt looking at. He was drawn to it like a moth. The way it illuminated his black gloves and highlighted all the little wrinkles and ridges in the hard leather was captivating. He removed the bracer on the glove then the glove itself to shine his own skin in the light. He parsed over the patterns in his fingerprints—the lines around his finger joints—his white knuckles, and the valleys between them—the hills in his palm from protruding bones—all the blue veins spread about like roots of a plant, or the tendrils of a venomous creature—

  Who knows long he had sat there, staring at his hand like it were a prized, damaged work of art. He didn’t. But in the first moment he started to remember things again, it struck him with another headache. His legs recoiled and scooted back in the chair, then a spasm in his foot made him kick one of the chair legs clean out and fall over. Just like the guy who broke the table. He kicked the chair away and stayed lying there to weather out the headache.

  Minutes of writhing in the fetal position clutching at his poisoned head, in the middle of a human cesspool where people like him were common. Nobody to aid him, nor to so much as check on him. Not that he expected them to. When thinking about how he looked in third person twitching on the floor, he thought about the unconscious mako junkie in the other corner of the roof who he didn’t help. He tried to think about what that meant, but there was a terrible headache in the way.

  In the next recorded moment, he was fine. Sitting down in the corner by his broken chair. Vision clouded and nerves woozy, but functional. The sunlamps on the plates were glowing brighter and lightening the dark green hue of the undercity. He thinks it must be signaling daytime. He contemplates the size of them all—four on each of the eight plates—and how much power it must take for bulbs that large, just to produce this faint illusion of sunlight. It was still a city of shadows.

  He had put his glove back on at some point, but the bracer for it wasn’t where he left it. It wasn’t anywhere around him either. Someone must have thought it was a cool piece of armor they could pawn off for scraps of gil to buy more liquor. And now it was missing. Nobody touched his sword, at least.

  Here comes another drunkard hedonist with a piece of mind to share. This one is far older than the rest; sweaty, hairy, grey, and out of shape. Half of their discolored belly poked out from their cheap tank top and revealed what looked like scars from getting stabbed, or a botched surgery.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The old bastard ducked down to meet him. “Hey, blondie. I overheard ya from before. Said ya worked for Shinra, yeah?”

  He just sighed. That wasn’t worth responding to.

  The man kept talking. “Yeeeh, I get it. I see folkarinos like you ‘round here all the time. I’ve known a lotta folks who quit SOLDIER. They come a dime a freakin’ dozen in the slums. S’prob’ly why Shinra don’t make ‘em anymore.” The man was talking like he knew him. He didn’t.

  “B’lieve it ‘er not, I worked for the comp’ny too, once upon a yesteryear. I’m old ‘nuff to ‘member a time before the whole monster epidemic started. Tha’s right, folks in my day used ta be able to walk ‘round in the Grasslands, Junon, wherever th’ fuck—and nuthin’d bother ya. S’unimaginable nowadays, even in Midgar. Them walls don’t do shit when there’s freakin’ creepy crawlers ‘n’ drakes ‘n’ goblins ‘n’ shit poppin’ outta the ground, y’know. Whole reason I joined the army was ‘cause of the fiend outbreak.”

  This has to be the fifth story he’s heard from a depraved weirdo in the tenements. He doesn’t specifically remember five stories, but this feels like the fifth. “Not interested,” he griped.

  The man chuckled. “‘Course not. ‘Cause why should ya, right? No use reminscin’ on how it used to be when the planet’s tryna kill us now.”

  His interest was not recaptured. The man kept on rattling obliviously about his colorful history in the army, loving the sound of his own ragged voice. And so did the audience he attracted, apparently. Eventually the man had turned around and was just performing for them.

  His brain turned on again, which activated another headache. It was awkward sitting there behind the old man’s back, with a handful of people standing and sitting who could see his depressed figure as they watched the man. He hauled himself up, stabbing the buster sword in the floor to lift up from. He peered over the edge of the roof, and thought about jumping off of it. It was only six stories; he could probably stick the landing. And even if not, it would get him out of here.

  Everyone notices him stand up. One shouts, “Lookit that, the sleepyhead has waken up!” A couple guys give an ovation to his consciousness.

  Someone asked him, “Hey! How far up’d you make it in the Shinra army?” There was a mix of heckling and genuine curiosity in that question.

  He towed his sword and sighed. “First.”

  “First class?”

  “Daaaamn!”

  “I told you he was a SOLDIER!”

  He seemed to command some sort of respect over that crowd. But still, “I’m not a SOLDIER.”

  The old man says, “Ha! Relax, we’re all vets here, pal. Most of us quit the biz too.”

  Veterans. That would have almost made him laugh. The same people in front of him. The most respected members of society in one time, its most wasteful bottom-feeders in another.

  Again, the group turned inward and went on about their own conversation. “I quit during Wutai when I realized they was just in it for the money! Ha’nt looked back since!” “I quit ‘cause they kept me from takin’ care a’ the kids back home after Momma died!” “They booted me out ‘cause I refused an order ta knock out the power grid of a town they said Avalanche was hidin’ in so they could invade it!” Hollers and high fives.

  They all seemed to be very proud of themselves. So eager to pat themselves on the back and cheer on each other for their “bravery” and “boldness” to do nothing and retreat to the slums so they could huff mako fumes all day and die in a pit. And they act like victims of injustice while doing it. Yes, if you refuse to follow orders, they’ll discharge you. No, you can’t go home when you’re on active duty.

  They looked at him next. “What made you give up the comp’ny, SOLDIER?”

  Without even thinking about the question, he knew he didn’t want to answer it. But as appeasement, he sighed and said, “‘Cause they were in it for the money.”

  “Ha! Damn straight! Ev’rybody fuckin’ knows it!” That made them happy. Good for them.

  He looked out into the same boring undercity distance as before, as if he had somewhere to go. From the clamor behind him, a bone-thin guy with shoddily-cut hair, scarecrow-quality clothing, and a freakishly toned voice rushed next to him. “You know what I think?” he bleated. “I think this planet’s dyin’. I think all’is junk about how tha lifestream’s killin’ people with these monsters is bullshit. I think Shinra created them monsters, ‘cause they’re tryna kill this planet!”

  For some reason, he responded, “That’s not what’s gonna destroy us.”

  His ears perked. “Oh yeh? What is gonna kill us?”

  A lever in his brain flipped. “Underpopulation. Aren’t enough people in the world to meet the demands of an advanced society with a fiend epidemic. Resources can’t be extracted safely anymore, and there isn’t enough manpower to protect operations outside of quarantine zones. Technological research is being diverted to weapons development to destroy infrastructure instead of building and repairing. Shinra will keep cutting costs on the people’s safety to keep up their bottom lines as they lose gil against the fiends. Birth rates will keep dropping and family will be less viable. Basic supplies will run short. Food will run short. More people will die. And Wutai and Junon can’t help defend us now that they aren’t military powers. We’re fighting an existential war of attrition, and we’re eventually gonna buckle.”

  The scarecrow guy paused under that deluge of information. “Heh! Well, aren’t you all educated ‘n’ shit. So what’cher sayin’ is… it’s all ‘cause a’ Shinra!”

  The lever unflipped. He groaned, “Sure.”

  The man made a screeching laughing noise out of excitement, and bounced onto the roof barricade and perched on it like a drake. “Y’hear that, Chinra?! We all know whats yer deal is, beeitch! I’ont give a sheeit thatchu don’t care ‘bout any of us! ‘Cause we don’ care ‘bout you!”

  Everyone around went, “Yeah!” and started shouting different things into the air at the same time. They spoke like they truly believed there was a purpose. But all they’re doing now is waking people up.

  The scarecrow kept screeching to the sky, “I ain’t gonna work in yer factories! I ain’t gonna scrub yer fuckin’ toilets! I’mma keep eatin’ and shittin’ down here in the pits, wavin’ my nuts at you and screamin’ thatchu fuckin’ suck! Fuck Shinra! Fuck Shinra!”

  The crowd behind joined him in chants of “Fuck Shinra!” The voices of the people in the tenement floors below echoed “Fuck Shinra!” through the walls. A handful of people in the slums also not living serious lives heard the chant and shouted back, “Hell yeah! Fuck Shinra!” If the chorus of their voices could reach up to the plates, it would probably bounce off.

  He decided this was probably enough. And he wasn’t about to walk down a flight of stairs past all these people. He stepped onto the barricade, the sword on his back bumping the oil lantern off of a six-story ledge to its unceremonious demise.

  He catches the attention of a guy in the crowd. “Ho! Where’s this guy off to?” He probably has interacted with them, but hasn’t been and will not be committing any faces to memory.

  People gather as the “Fuck Shinra!” chant is continued by others. People ask him, “Where’s ya goin’?”

  He shrugs and holds onto his sword hilt, just for good measure. “To fight Shinra.”

  And he drops off the ledge like some fictional hero, and his genetically enhanced, cockily posed form crashes into the dirt, perfect form, awesome cloud of dust on impact. The crowd goes wild. His legs seized up on impact, but the people above couldn’t see his wincing face.

  They cheered and waved him off as the chant continued. It felt sarcastic, even though they fully meant it. Part of him wanted to believe the hype. A bunch of veterans, rooting for him to stick it to their former boss. But he was just another failure in the tenement shitholes of the undercity, and he’ll probably return to them, wherever he goes next.

  “He.” Is “he” that? In all the chaos and depravity without, he never thought to look within. Who are you? What do you look like?

  He’d heard “blond.” He knew the SOLDIER fatigues—black sleeveless turtleneck sweater, leather accents, shoulder guards, gloves with metal bracers, baggy pants, and combat boots; a fit chosen more for distinguishing vanity and function than protection, as the SOLDIER mako infusions turn their skin impenetrable enough. Although he’s now a bracer short. He checks for his hair, and feels a bunch of spikes sticking out and wafting in the air, like a terrible case of bedhead, or not showering. It might have been a long time since he showered. But who is he?

  He couldn’t see it. He couldn’t turn his vision around to see the edges and formations of his face. His vision couldn’t pierce into his own brain to discern the truth of his identity. The closest he could get was his hands. The prints, ridges and valleys in his skin are his identity for now.

  He recovers from the six-floor landing and walks away into the cover of the slums, keeping up the performance until the tenement crowd can’t see him. And he kept walking. There was a destination out there somewhere. Midgar was a big city, surely he could find… something in it. The faith and well wishes of the tenement vets would… carry his spirit to new horizons.

  His triumphant steps down the dirt road left clouds of dust on his path to herodom. The dust clouds reminded him… “Cloud.” That was it. This whole time, he was Cloud. And the whole time going forward, he will be Cloud. It was… liberating? He was only one thing, and will only be that thing. The same “Cloud Strife.” What an impression he has made.