Chapter Text
September 11 εγλ 1992
Kids’ laughter booms underneath the attic floorboards, musty with thousands of years’ worth of dust; they’re always so loud, little insects that buzz around. Why couldn’t they be frogs instead? Frogs are better, but they don’t live in Midgar. Not that the Sector Five Care Facility allowed pets, anyway. Marcel wishes he could jump as high as one—high enough to escape out a window.
Through the thin glass, light spills across pale beige skin and splashes on jagged, wayward silver strands. His face, soft in ways that still outnumber the sharp, catches the glow: a bridge of a nose just starting to narrow, a stubborn line to his mouth, the faint hint of future angles beneath boyish roundness. Hours, minutes, or seconds have passed since he last rummaged around the room, not as if the time mattered here.
His hollow, storm-grey irises bore into the popcorn ceiling, as if it holds the answers to the universe in every crack. A scraggy black rabbit plushie slumps against his scraped knees, its sky-blue button eyes and wonky pink nose pointing downward while his scabbed fingers tighten around it before falling slack again.
Déjà vu: Lumpy mattresses, hard beds, and muffled voices filtered through fans.
"Oi, Marce!" His older brother's gruff timbre cuts his thoughts in two. The flickering lamp catches Kaelan in shadow, warm beige complexion glowing amber in the low light, pale grey irises wide in the gloom. Rebellious ash-brown hair sticks out like an out-of-bounds hedge, tamed only by a lazy ponytail, a clingy caterpillar on a droopy leaf. "Found anything worth dying of boredom over?"
Kaelan's features balance on the edge of becoming one of the annoying teenagers that ask for Marcel's food in the halls: rounded cheekbones with the first hint of definition, a nose still slightly too big for his face, soft edges everywhere despite him trying to seem grown-up. A newspaper trembles between restless fingers, caged energy simmering beneath worn boots and a frayed jacket with sleeves that barely reach his wrists.
"Yeah... I saw a spider eat a fly before you came in." Marcel’s lips twitch upwards.
"Don’t be a little brat!" Kaelan pokes his cheek.
"Ew. Your finger’s all gross." Swatting him away, Marcel glimpses the chunky, rectangular ink staining white. “And thinking is fun. Better than whatever you do all day.”
"Yeah? Well, here’s something for that big brain of yours." Kaelan drops beside him on the creaky ground, the worn wood whining in protest under their weight. “Check out what the old bat brought today."
“It’s just gonna be about the stupid Wutai War. President Shinra looks like a potato. All hard and pretend-nice.” Like the posters plastered on every corner, promising peace while troops march into the streets and the kids copy their salutes in their hideout. Marcel’s learned to duck into alleys whenever he spots a black suit: Turks, as Kaelan calls them between clenched teeth.
"Nah, it’s not about that bastard. Something different this time." His fingers crease the newspaper edge. All sharp edges and stiff shoulders, Kaelan sounds... off. It reminds him of the wooden blocks the other kids stack or when Marcel hears him use his “safe“ name to introduce him. He doesn’t like the way it tastes on his tongue and the way it feels like a secret. He’s not sure he likes secrets.
“What article…?” The words in the newspaper twist into worms, except for one—Shinra. Stupid worms. The teachers don’t bother helping him read. Most of the time, Kaelan does instead, but he’s not very good either. Still, at least he keeps trying.
“This one.” He slaps the newspaper between them and hunches over. "About Shinra’s new attack dog..." Kaelan’s finger stops at a title:
The Fifth Column
The First SOLDIER, Sephiroth
Midgar's Silver-Haired Saviour Makes History in Rhadore
Meet Sephiroth, the youngest and first SOLDIER in Shinra's new military division. This child prodigy became an enemy of Rhadore. When hostilities erupted, the enemy attacked Midgar. Sephiroth repelled them, killing dozens of Rhadorans!
After the battle, the silver-haired wonderchild sought the Logue Ruins. The enemy had a stronghold there. In one night, he wiped out the Rhadore army's elite and captured their commander, Rosen.
Days after the war, an explosion triggered a massive mana discharge. The boy from SOLDIER sprang into action once more. With his comrades' aid, he evacuated the area around the ruins before the mana torrent could harm them.
The photograph's all fuzzy: a boy about Kaelan's age with glowing green eyes that pierce the blurriness. His black jacket probably costs more than everything they own. Marcel frowns at his empty stare... So lonely. Trapped behind glass. Maybe popularity is another kind of cage. That stare buzzes in his head—trapped-fly loud, there-then-gone before he can catch it. "Famous people are dumb."
"Hah! Just another Shinra mouthpiece." Kaelan ruffles his hair. His fingers linger a moment too long, and his smile strains. "But hey, I bet I could outrun him."
"No way." Marcel shoves the paper back. "But if you ate vegetables, maybe you could. They're power-up items."
"Rich kids stuff their faces with that garbage and they're still weaker than us."
Marcel traces zigzags on Lily's back while Kaelan's shoulders hunch forward, just like last week when he burst in with split knuckles. The signs are all there: clenched jaw, fists curling and uncurling. His brother's face scrunches up. "Listen..." The word sours the air around them. "Ever since Shinra started pushing harder in Wutai, broadcasting their propaganda about 'savages in the west attacking Midgar,' those punks at school... They've been calling all Wutaians killers. Started with name-calling, now it's fists. Tried walking away but..." He rolls up his sleeves, revealing fresh bruises.
"That's why you need to be smart. Or you'll be stuck in detention forever. Teachers only see what they wanna see."
"Well, you're the only one I need to see." Kaelan bumps his shoulder. "Don't tell anyone I said that, though. Got a reputation to keep, yeah?"
Hurrying to the dirty window, Marcel smooshes his cheek against it, outside the crowds shuffle past. "Someday, we'll ride far away from this dump. A hidden valley would be good. With streams and tall grass. No metal sky above. I'll build the biggest bug sanctuary ever there. A place where you wouldn't need to fight anymore. No fake names, no teachers." He sets Lily down, thinking about all his favourite spots: the attic, Lookout Point... Oh! "... If we can't do that, maybe we could live inside the fridge?"
Kaelan stares at him as if he's sprouted chicken wings, chucks the newspaper onto the windowsill, then bursts into laughter. "What the hell, no, you weirdo. The fridge?"
Nobody ever reaches behind the expired milk cartons. That made it perfect for his journal; pages and pages of careful drawings, all the weird bugs he'd found around the orphanage. Ten new species already! Well, probably new. Maybe. Sometimes when he couldn't sleep, he'd imagine opening a flower shop instead, him and Kaelan surrounded by green things. Midgar could use some colour that wasn't brown or grey.
After catching his breath, Kaelan huffs. "For real, though. That's an idea. Ditch this place, go on adventures like in those films. We could even kick a few Shinra suits while we're at it."
"Those zombie films are stupid."
"Oh yeah? You'd piss yourself seeing one." Kaelan prances around, voice pitched high. "Help, help! The zombie's gonna eat my bug collection!"
Face on fire, Marcel retorts, "You're just mad 'cause I won't watch those dumb films with you."
Kaelan squats, his voice a little softer. "Aw, I'm only messing. Hey, Marce... we're gonna make it, right? Long as we stick together?"
The squeak of footsteps interrupts Marcel before he spits out the response stuck in his mouth. When the door creaks open, the housemother stands with her hands on her hips. Her untidy brown hair catches the tiny bits of fluff in the air. Without even blinking, she asks, "What are you doing in the attic? We have visitors downstairs."
Visitors? The adoption kind? Marcel's insides twist, but he doesn't know why. His throat tightens and he squeezes Lily's body. He tries to match it to his list: hungry? No. Tired? No. Sick? No. Nothing fits right. When Kaelan's expression darkens, he wonders if his brother's body feels odd too. New parents would probably yell at Kaelan for taking him monster-hunting at Lookout Point. Make him eat gross food. Take Lily away. Then an even worse thought hits him. What if they only want one of them?
Beads of sweat dampen his neck. He can't lose Kaelan; he needs him.
"Let me guess, more rich caretakers?" Kaelan snarks.
The housemother sighs. "Kai... We've talked about this attitude. You're being a bad influence."
"Don't wanna go," Marcel mutters.
"Eli." The "safe" name hits in shards of broken glass, bringing back flashes of a distant night. Blue suits moved in shadows through the orphanage halls. Too quiet... "You can't hide up here all morning."
Marcel's fists clench as he glares up at her. "Why not? You never care what we do anyway."
A line burrows between her thin eyebrows. "That's not true, Eli. We care about all our children, including you and Kai. Now, come downstairs with the others. I'll wait."
As she clomps away, Kaelan tugs Marcel's wrist. "C'mon, let's see what dirt X has on Jean."
"Not going just 'cause she said to." Marcel breaks free of his hold, scowling at where she disappeared. "Rather go to Lookout Point."
"Yeah? Me too, but we're stuck. Might as well check out the drama." Kaelan swings onto the stairwell. "Drop the death glare, would ya?"
Shadows eat Marcel's features as he clutches Lily almost to the point of strangling her. "No. Don't wanna watch fancy people take us away..."
"That won't happen, promise... But if they catch you hiding up here, we're both dead meat."
"Not hungry."
"Not dinner-dead. Chopped up and fed to monsters dead." Kaelan bites the inside of his cheek. "But if you come down, I can get you a watermelon soda. Deal?"
Marcel's heart leaps. He'd steal anything to drink one of them; even risk trouble. He grabs Kaelan's hand and hops onto the landing. More watermelon soda awaits!
"Whoa, calm down!" Kaelan chuckles. When he slows his pace halfway down the stairs, Marcel waits, bouncing on his heels, then as soon as Kaelan catches up, he bolts down the steps with Lily swinging in his grasp. Kaelan's palm hovers near Marcel's back, ready to catch him if he stumbles.
If Marcel's legs were longer, maybe he could find a better home for them.
A swirling wall of motion collides with Marcel in the busy corridor, making his lungs turn to sandbox mush, tight and scratchy, full of stuff that shouldn't be in them. His heart drums as they race along the halls.
Marcel wrinkles his nose at the stench of cigarette smoke. The walls are a mess; mould eats one corner while water drowns another. Someone must have taken their frustrations out on the furniture again. He traces a fresh claw mark with his finger, wondering who had done it this time.
Older orphans shuffle aside, the usual pecking order forgotten as whispers about visitors ripple down the corridors. Even X's gang stop their daily shake-downs to press against the railings.
A girl stands out through the gaps in the balusters, light brown braids topped with a pink bow, burnt-orange dress screaming money among their rags, all clean skin: a fresh, shiny apple in a dumpster. Marcel slinks down the last step.
Kaelan flicks his ear, earning a grumble. "Oi! Check it out. It's Elmyra's kid again. Another Ronna. What are the odds? Still think it's strange she's got the same name as Meguro's daughter. Bet that's why she gets special treatment. Even the Gainsborough business won't mess with her and they run this place when the housemothers aren't looking."
That man, Meguro, claims to be their friend, he lets people with perfect suits and plastic smiles inside the orphanage. All the weirdos who used to work for Gabriel Gainsborough, the "number one man" in his family business. But Gabriel's dead now. Does that make Meguro "number two?" Whatever. Doesn't matter.
Meguro's visits bring food, clothes, promises, though his words weigh heavy, like boulders in pockets. He never mentions debts, yet Marcel can tell he's keeping notes on who paid. When he visits the House, he smiles, pats heads, but his gaze stays blank. Another adult who appears for easy moments disappears for hard ones. Kaelan told him those are the worst kind of people.
When they veer towards the chipping entryway, there's no chatter, no clinking plates. Not even any arguing over the last pizza slice. No one says a word. X's shadow fills the kitchen door frame, stretching across the floor to the broken cupboards.
Craning his neck up, up, up, Marcel finds X's face, brown eyes glowing like the sparks from a welding torch, but without the glare. Shoulders curling inward, X folds his tall body until he's almost Marcel's height. "Hey Kai. Heard the news about Clay?"
Marcel's stomach drops. Clay, Elmyra's husband, he may as well have a tree for a body, with slicked-back brown hair and a cigar hanging from his lips. Just last week he brought them candy and told Marcel about his duties as a trooper in Shinra. Was he loud? Quiet? The details blur, though his warm smile has always reached his eyes.
"What about him?" Kaelan asks.
"He passed away last night." X's dark hair flops as he shakes his head. "That's why Elmyra and Meguro are here. They're taking us to the funeral this afternoon."
"Clay died." The words bounce around Marcel's head: ping-pong balls and crashing wooden swords. When people die, they don't come back, no different than the animals squished on the road. Kaelan wails at those stupid zombie films, so Marcel waits for the tears to come, but a big spoon scoops out everything from his chest. The other kids cry. What's wrong with him?
"This afternoon?" Kaelan clenches his jaw as he takes out a watermelon soda. "Damn Shinra..."
"Yeah. Service is at two." X's expression softens. "Elmyra invited everyone from the house. Says Clay kept this place going, y'know?"
"We don't need their pity." Kaelan cracks the drink with a hiss, passing it with shaky fingers. "Or Shinra. I'd rather die than join those bastards."
Marcel carefully sets Lily down on the dingy countertop, her floppy ears drooping against the stained surface. He reaches for the soda and tries to remember his parents' faces, but they are always just... fog. Features squiggles in his mind. Weird how memories work, he can picture the cold metal Kaelan slips between his fingers, but not them. At least he knows how to feel about Shinra. That was easy: Kaelan hates it, so Marcel does too. They hurt people; it's enough of a reason.
"I get it," X sighs. "But we need to keep it together for everyone. Meguro's on his way, said he'd look after us all now that Clay's gone."
"What are we meant to do at funerals?" Marcel tugs his brother's sleeve with his free hand. "I don't get it."
"It's where you pay your respects to people who have died. That means you say thank you for their help and stuff. They're also kinda sad, so you're meant to be sad, too." Kaelan fiddles with the buttons on his shirt.
"But how do you know if you're sad? And what do you do if you're not?"
Kaelan turns away. "You just feel it. In your chest, your heart's heavy. Sometimes it makes you mad or you can't breathe. It's… hard to explain."
Marcel frowns, turning the words over in his head. He felt that before, but maybe it was the orphanage, not sadness. He's never been to a funeral, only seen them on TV. They look serious, with everyone in black.
It's a rule: no smiling allowed.
"I'm gonna go sit over there," Marcel decides, finishing the last fizzy sip, bubbly sweetness on his tongue, then he tosses the empty can toward the bin with a clatter. He scoops Lily back up from the counter, trailing away from the kitchen and onto the staircase.
"Are you sure?" Kaelan scratches his cheek. "Me and X were gonna get some snacks."
"Don't want any." Shoes slapping against the worn steps, Marcel drags his feet past the landing and into the common room where the weathered furniture waits.
He curls into a threadbare sofa, pressing back against the cushions, Lily tucked close. A rusty shutter with plastic plants in crusty pots steals his focus. The other kids' noise scratches his brain, so he counts—shiny leaves, metal clangs, nails in the frame. Counts everything, hoping the right number will empty his head of the dark clouds building inside.
But the bad thoughts sneak in anyway: red flashes behind his eyes, sharp stings on his skin, bright colours, rough bricks against his fingers. He swats at them, but they cling; boiling caramel burning his hands.
Fifty.
Marcel’s eyes snap to the housemother and Elmyra, their heads bent while they murmur. The other Ronna peeks from behind her mother's green gown, a curtain that brings the refreshing scent of flowers and the outside into the musky air.
Is she staring at him or the shadows? Maybe she sees the monsters in the corners the little kids always talk about, or is there something on his face? Marcel rubs his cheek and finds it smooth. No dirt.
Her eyes lock onto Lily, and Marcel squeezes his plushie tight-tight-tight, making a shield of cotton. Lily belongs to him and no one else. Kaelan said Lily’s from his parents, and Kaelan knows everything about everything.
“Mine,” Marcel mutters into the sea of noise.
The girl’s head tips sideways, and Marcel’s tongue shoots out, take that! Stupid. The fan above whirs, whirs, whirs, its blades a tiny tornado cutting through the air.
Meguro arrives with enormous feet thudding against the ground. The man’s HUGE, Marcel figures twice as tall as anyone else, round and stuffed in a puffy trench coat. No way he’s a crime lord. He has to be a toasted marshmallow in disguise.
“Ah, Meguro, wonderful to see you,” the housemother’s voice breaks his thoughts. A small smile sticks on her equally small lips.
“Sorry for the delay. Marcellus and Ronna are waiting outside.” Meguro nods to Elmyra. “Shall we?”
Kaelan snickers and pokes Marcel, whispering, “Hey, think he stole your banned name and got fancy with it? You could totally sue.”
“No.” Marcel slides off the sofa and bats away Kaelan, keeping quiet so no one hears them. “Marcellus is stupid. And talking’s dumb. Rather eat worms than listen to you yap all day.”
“Hey! I’m great at talking!” Kaelan protests as X stomps over to him.
“You’re a loud pain in the ass, is what you are.” X grabs Kaelan’s sleeve and yanks him forward. “Move it, Kai! They’re leaving! Jean! Over here!”
“I’m not deaf,” Jean snorts, his exploded-straw hair frizzing up as his tawny skin catches the light. He and X always chase treasure in the scrapyard, though Marcel thinks it’s silly.
The other Ronna’s gaze finds Marcel’s one last time, like a magnet pulling them together. For one, two, three seconds, they share something familiar, as if they know where all the best hiding spots are, and then it pops-pops-pops away.
Before he takes another step outside, a web catches on his clothes in the doorway. A cream-spotted ladybird thrashes while a silver spider stalks closer. They make sense: predator, prey, survival, not like the confusing faces around him, wet from sobbing. He saves the ladybird, careful not to squish either of them, and places it on a steel bar. “Watch out... monsters live here.”
“Come on!” Kaelan yells.
“Go ahead.” By the House, Marcel lingers, his fraying shoes scuffing the cracking pavement.
“Whatever you want,” X shrugs, and the three boys drift further down the street.
Voices fade into static while Marcel stops near the chocobo tapestry. The yellow, white, and blue threads shine so brightly that the bird could jump off and run. His fingers trace the bumpy stitches. He dreams of riding one. It would let him fly away from Midgar’s dirty air and rusty pipes, escaping all the stuffy classrooms with their droning about the Wutai War.
Red lights slash past the shutters, curling in the metal slits and painting jittery shadows on the creaky wood. The crowd’s noise fades, but the prickly weight of eyes on Marcel’s back won’t leave. He hurries to catch up with the others, counting each thud of his feet as he goes.
Lily’s ears flop against his chest as Marcel follows Kaelan’s blurry outline. His body winds up like a frog before it hops, but there’s nowhere to jump—just forward. Marcel hugs the soft fabric of his plushie closer. At least she’ll never die.