Title: I'm Going to Be...
Characters: Cloud, blink-and-you'll-miss-it references to others.
Fandom: Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: 04. Insides
Word Count: 528
Notes: I've read a lot of "My thoughts on the Compilation, let me show you them," particularly since the Crisis Core ending surfaced. The thoughts du jour were about something missing, and this is that something. Yeah, I wrote fix-it fic. In a sense.

Title once again taken from "I Would Walk Five Hundred Miles."



He wouldn't forget. He wouldn't. He couldn't forget. But every time he stopped and looked back, the world got blurry and he felt dizzy and weak. If he was going to make it, he had to just keep heading towards Midgar.

The sword was heavy, the uniform felt weird. They were stupid complaints. He should know better. He sounded like some green cadet. He had to keep moving. He had to get to Midgar.

The sun was out. He was sweating. The blood caked on his face was dripping away. Good. That way he wouldn't look like a total psychopath at the gates.

He would not look back. He was a member of the PKD--well, former member, he should say. He'd seen dead bodies before. He'd killed people before; it shouldn't be affecting him like this. But his mind wanted to wander back to the attack, wanted him to look at each and every corpse...

He was dry heaving. Again. Damn it, he wasn't weak.

Every retch forced him to look down at his bloodstained uniform and then at his sword. There was another wave of pain and hurt that wanted to rise up, but damn it, he had to stop it. He wasn't weak.

The small pool of spit and acid at his feet disgusted him. He wasn't weak. There was small string of spit dangling from his chin, cooling his skin. He waited for the string to snap before wiping his face.

He got back up, and then reached for the Buster. He stopped himself before his hands touched the hilt. He was doing it wrong. Soldiers didn't drag their swords. Soldiers didn't let their swords fall to the ground just because they decided to puke. Soldiers weren't weak.

He wasn't weak. His legs buckled a little and his arms shook as he picked up the Buster, but he got it up and onto his back. With a little rest, he'd be back in fighting form, no question. He wasn't weak. He wouldn't be able to rely on the Company anymore, that group of assholes, but he'd manage, somehow. Soldiers had to think on their feet.

He wasn't weak. He earned this uniform, damn it.

---

It was kind of weird to wander around Midgar and not see the cranes and scaffolding everywhere. He was just so used to the sight of the city under construction that anything else seemed wrong. He'd get used to it; it'd only take time.

One thing that stayed the same were the stares. Five years and everyone still looked ready to wet themselves at the sight of mako eyes. Of course, all the shit with Sephi--the Bastard wouldn't help things much.

Well, in the spirit of change and all, he'd have to change, too. A new look for a new life, or something. It wouldn't do for a mercenary to just go around in PKD surplus.

...a mercenary?

I've got a lot of brains and skill that other guys don't... Boring stuff, dangerous stuff, anything for money.

Oh, right, that. He'd blacked a lot of shit out. Only way he could function. Stupid trick, but necessary.

The Buster's familiar weight was at his back; he'd gone through hell; he could do anything.