The Sky Beneath his Feet.

The first thing that Cloud noticed was the sound. The noise pressed in from all sides—voices overlapping, the shuffle of feet on pavement, the faint sound of sirens in the distance. Kids wailing. Sharp, piercing sounds cut through the air—jarring and mechanical.  He was used to waking up on the tail end of explosions, monster attacks, and/or catastrophic failures of basic planetary infrastructure. Usually, there was some blood involved. And a lot more fire.

His eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dim light filtering down from above. The air was heavy with the smell of rain-soaked pavement and something faintly sour—garbage left out too long. He was lying on his side, the rough texture of the ground pressing into his arm.

Concrete. Cold and uneven beneath his skin.

He pushed himself upright, bare hands scraping against the ground. He frowned as he took stock of himself—sleeveless black shirt, black shorts, no shoes. No aches or stiffness. A strange weightlessness to his body that he was entirely unfamiliar with. His hand drifted toward his back, but there was nothing there. No sword. Ah.. That explained it

The alley was narrow and empty, with walls of brick and faded paint stretching up toward the sky. A few dumpsters lined the edges, the lids crooked and dented. A stray piece of newspaper drifted past his foot. Metal pipes ran along the walls, streaked with rust and water stains. A lone fire escape hung overhead, creaking faintly in the wind.

Cloud stood. His bare feet pressed into the concrete, but the cold didn’t bother him. He stepped toward the mouth of the alley, drawn by the noise beyond.

People. Everywhere. A sea of them moving, some walking, some running, all stumbling along the same path towards the loud sirens. The crowd was a patchwork of extremes. Some people looked like they’d just rolled out of bed—barefoot, hair wild, wearing pajamas or rumpled clothes. Others stood stiff and composed, dressed in suits or uniforms, A teenager in a hoodie sat cross-legged on the ground, arms wrapped around himself. Beside him, an older man stood shirtless, jeans hanging loose on his thin frame, his skin mottled with dirt and bruises. A woman nearby wore nothing but an oversized T-shirt, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she followed the crowd.

Expressions ranged from frantic to dazed. Some people were sobbing, clutching their PHS or each other’s hands. Others stood perfectly still, eyes glazed over, barely registering the movement around them.

Cloud followed the sea of people that spilled onto the open street, crowds of people standing in loose lines, some sitting on the curb or leaning against barricades. Towering screens above the street were dim or flickering, casting pale glows over the scene. The streets were packed with people. The noise of it all pressed in from every direction.

Cloud looked up to make sure the sky wasn’t aflame. He’d half expected Sephiroth to be there, Hovering menacingly. One hand stretched to the heavens to call forth their demise. Someone bumped into him from behind. He stumbled forward almost falling. 

Not a dream, then. It felt too real for that. But you’ve been wrong before, a voice in his head reminded him, dry and sharp. How many times now? He shoved the thought down with a quick shake of his head. Men and women in black uniforms moved along the whole plaza, checking papers and handing out wristbands. Trying to get people to form some semblance of a line. People in dark jackets with neon armbands were stationed along the streets, forming a barrier around the plaza and holding back a restless crowd calling out from the sidelines. A man stood at the front, speaking into a bullhorn, his voice cutting through the noise.

“To contact family and friends, come on toward the red tape to the right! I repeat! To contact….”

All at once, a surge of movement broke out to the right side of the square. Cloud’s breath hitched as people shoved past him, the smell of sweat and tears mixing with the sharp tang of fear, turning his stomach. Someone slammed into his side, nearly knocking him off balance. He looked at the woman who’d pushed him. She rushed past him through the chaos, clutching a young boy to her chest. Her eyes were wide and wild—like she’d been running on empty for days.

Someone, a man, spotted her and pulled her aside, speaking softly as they led her toward the red-marked line. Everything was too much. Too loud. It made his skin crawl. The memory of people running from the meteor burned through the forefront of his mind.

He forced himself to breathe. Slow. In. Out. Just like Tifa taught him. He could do this. 

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath. “Figure it out.”

He didn’t know where he was but he was unharmed. The last thing he remembered was going to bed. It was one of the rare times he’d managed to spend the whole week at the Seventh Heaven without the urge to flee. He tried to remember how he got here but he drew a blank. A faint echo of an apology rang through his head. Familiar, but not. He couldn’t pin it down; trying just made the static roar louder behind his eyes. His vision swam and he clutched his head in pain.

"Not now…" he breathed. "Come on. Focus." 

It was useless. His mind was a fogged-up mess, and digging deeper only sharpened the pain. He gritted his teeth and let it go — forcing it would only make things worse. 

Before him was a fork in the road with the right side clocked by red tape and the left blocked similarly with green tape. A line of people stood in front of the red tape pulling out their PHS, battered IDs, and whatever paperwork they had. Some were smiling, relieved as they were waved through. Others weren’t so lucky. They were redirected to a slower line, the one where people were already looking tired and defeated.

“If you have no proof of identity and require temporary housing, proceed to the green tape on the left! I repeat…"

More movement. This time toward the left. Cloud felt himself swept along, the press of bodies closing in on all sides. He moved without thinking, legs carrying him automatically as the crowd surged forward. 

Someone’s elbow clipped his side. Another person’s heel came down on his foot, but he barely registered the pain. His shoulder knocked into someone’s back, and they turned to glare at him, but Cloud just lowered his gaze and kept moving.  

The crowd thinned suddenly, and Cloud stumbled out into open space. His head lifted, gaze landing on a large yellow "M" glowing above a glass doorway. The smell of greasy food almost made him gag.

He stood there for a moment, the cold pavement beneath his bare feet grounding him just enough to keep his breathing steady. Just enough not to lose it completely. He watched a thin and ragged collection of people sitting on the curb or leaning against walls. A few were starting to take notice of him. 

 A teenage girl near the barricade elbowed her friend, who giggled. Someone whispered, “Holy shi- Look at him!” Cloud twitched, his gaze snapping toward them for a fraction of a second before he quickly turned away. Eyes flicked toward him and then quickly away, the low murmur of voices skimming the edge of his hearing. More whispers. Cloud’s gaze dropped to the pavement. He ignored them. He'd heard it all before—the curiosity, the assumptions, the idle chatter. It was all the same. 

“Sir?” someone said.

Cloud turned toward the voice. A woman in a black jacket stood there, holding a clipboard. She smiled at him, but her eyes were wide. 

“Are you here for processing?” she asked.

Cloud hesitated. He had no idea what that meant, but he nodded anyway. Her gaze flicked down—first to his bare feet, then back up toward his face. “Uh… okay. Do you have any ID?”

He shook his head. He'd never needed to carry one around.

“That’s okay,” she said quietly. Her lips parted like she was going to say something else, but instead, her eyes slid back toward his face. The silence stretched a little too long. Cloud’s brow furrowed.

“…What?” he said.

She blinked rapidly. “Oh! Uh, nothing—sorry. Just—um.” She coughed into her fist. She fumbled a little before pulling out a wristband from the back at her side and looked at him expectantly. “what’s your name?” 

Cloud stared at her… a bit non-pulsed. He glanced down at himself and then back at her. It had been some time since anyone didn't recognize him. That nagging feeling — the one that had been tugging at the back of his mind ever since he’d woken up — suddenly flared to life, blaring alarms inside his head. Something wasn’t right. He wasn’t just out of place, he was… lost. 

“...Cloud Strife.”

She stared back for a few moments before clearing her throat awkwardly. She wrote his name down on the band handing it to him, before moving on to the next person with a “Make sure it’s visible at all times until you’re settled.”

The sensation hit him like a quiet, undeniable truth — an instinctive pull in his gut that told him this wasn’t home. He didn’t need a landmark, didn’t need a map to confirm it. The air felt wrong, the very taste of it foreign on his tongue, thin and sharp, lacking the weight of Gaia’s familiar atmosphere. It was the kind of realization you get in a dream when you suddenly know you’re not where you belong but can’t yet make sense of how or why. This wasn’t Gaia.

He stood there for a long time, unmoving. Until the sun started to set. Until the crowd around him thinned out enough to allow the vehicles to pull up.

Last he checked, he’d been on the way to work, debating whether his soul or his wallet could survive an extra shot of espresso. Then he blinked — literally blinked — and got body-checked by a stroller. The baby was fine. So was Nate, but it was not like anyone asked. The furious mother spat at his feet, shot him a glare like he’d insulted her entire bloodline, and speed-walked ahead… only to plow some other poor bastard into the pavement.

Nate had exactly two seconds to process that before reality glitched, tripped over itself, and face-planted into chaos. People started… appearing.

Not walking in from side streets, not stepping out of cars — appearing. Out of thin air. Like a bunch of clay blobs suddenly decided to snap together into fully-formed humans. No build-up, no sparkle, no “ta-da!” — just pop! Person. Pop! Another person. A guy in a business suit holding a briefcase appeared three feet away, promptly got clipped by a cyclist, and screamed like he’d just been teleported from hell.

Across the street, a woman materialized mid-step and immediately got rear-ended by a hot dog cart. Somewhere behind Nate, a kid in a Little League uniform popped into existence, looked around, and yelled, “MOM?!”

“Oh my god, they’re multiplying,” Nate muttered, stumbling back as yet another person appeared directly in front of him.

Someone grabbed his arm. "What's happening?"

"Buddy," Nate said, wide-eyed. "You're asking me ?"

Across the street, two grown men were throwing hands. No context, no explanation. Just full-blown swinging fists and shouting. The cops hadn’t shown up yet. 

A teenager staggered past Nate, blinking at the street signs like she’d never seen them before. “This—this wasn’t here before,” she said, pointing at a new-looking glass building.

“Jesus Christ,” Nate muttered. Because while his capacity to notice anything out of his immediate interest was almost non-existent, he was pretty sure even he wouldn’t miss an entire fucking building. “What the hell did I miss?”

A headline on the TV in a window read. "WORLDWIDE EVENT — MILLIONS RETURN AFTER FIVE-YEAR DISAPPEARANCE."

Five years. Gone. Just… poof.

One minute, normal life. The next minute, half the population blips out of existence — and then, five years later, they just… come back?

That kind of shit wasn’t supposed to happen outside of bad sci-fi flicks. Nate felt like he should be freaking out more. Maybe he would later. His brain hadn’t fully caught up with the situation yet. He figured that was probably for the best. If he started thinking too hard about it, he might actually start screaming alongside everyone else.

Eventually, Nate made it to one of the makeshift shelters — This one was set up at the Javits Center, a place he knew had been used for disaster response before. The place was already packed. Not to the brim yet, but close. A steady stream of people were shuffling in, eyes wide and hollow. Nate had seen it before — in war zones and disaster sites. Same look. Different cause.

He’d been one of the lucky ones to get processed fast — handed a ratty blanket, a bottle of water, and a “Sit tight, we’ll figure this out” from an overworked volunteer who already looked like he was running on fumes.

And instead of staying out like he’d been told, Nate stood up, stretched out the kinks in his spine, and got to work. There was a restless energy in the air and sitting still would make him go stir crazy. 

A section near the back had been turned into a safe zone for kids with no guardians, colorful blankets, and plastic toys scattered over the floor while overwhelmed volunteers tried to keep them calm. The elderly were directed toward the second-floor conference rooms, where medical staff had set up cots and folding chairs, dispensing medication and quiet reassurance. Sleeping quarters filled the upper levels — just rows of cots sectioned off with privacy dividers, though some people gave up and sat on the floor instead. Security volunteers in bright orange vests hovered at key points, ready to intervene at the first sign of trouble — and trouble wasn’t uncommon. The place was loud, chaotic, and barely holding together under the weight of too many bodies and not enough resources. Desperation clung to the air like smoke.

The volunteers were overwhelmed. Half of them looked barely out of college, the other half looked like they got dragged from their bed. Which they probably were. Everyone was trying their best, but it was chaos. Nate had been trained for chaos.

The main exhibition hall was where food was distributed — long rows of tables lined up beneath harsh overhead lights, manned by tired volunteers, and holy hell, it was a mess.

People bunched up, cutting in line, arguing with each other. No real malice behind it — just desperation, confusion, and exhaustion.

“All right,” Nate barked, clapping his hands together when they’d finally started handing out the food. “Single file. Stop shoving, or you’re getting sent to the back.”

Some people blinked at him. Others glared. A few others who’d disappear? Been dead? for five years started to follow his lead and started to help people shuffle in a single file. A security guard standing by the door gave him a wary look. Nate gave him a thumbs-up and an easy smile. 

Eventually, someone handed Nate a vest. He didn’t ask why. He put it on and kept moving. He could hear the low murmur of voices — crying, quiet conversations, the occasional outburst. The heavy hum of trauma finally settled into some semblance of order. And then — of course — it went to hell.

Then a loud crash as a plastic tray hit the floor. Nate’s head snapped toward the noise. A redheaded man was yelling at one of the volunteers. Face almost purple. Spit flying. He was shaking, hands clenched into fists. “You gave it to him! It was my turn!”

“I—I’m sorry,” the volunteer stammered. “There’s enough for everyone—”

“You think I’m stupid?” His voice sharpened as he lurched toward the kid, jabbing a finger at his chest. “I’ve been standing in line for over an hour! And you hand it to him?”

The volunteer’s eyes widened. He took a shaky step back. A nearby man, in his 40s, tried to step between them, hands raised. “Hey, man, calm down…

“Bullshit!” Red said and his foot lashed out, the table before the volunteer shook

The man’s breathing was shallow, ragged. His pupils were blown wide, sweat beading at his temples despite the chill in the air. His hands weren’t just shaking from anger — they were trembling with the frantic, jerky motion of someone whose body was locked in fight-or-flight. Panic attack, He realized. But it wasn’t just the look in his eyes — the guy’s stance was squared off, feet planted, weight shifting to the balls of his feet. Definitely military. That made him more dangerous — to the others and to himself. Panic and training were a bad mix.

Nate was already moving toward him when a blur of motion passed him. A blond man slid between the man and the volunteer in one smooth motion. The newcomer didn’t appear threatening considering the guy was a head shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than Red. But he wasn’t harmless either. Nate could see the wiry muscle of his exposed arms — lean and roped tight, the kind you’d expect from someone who’d gone too long without a proper meal but could still knock you flat if it came down to it. There was a sharpness to the way he carried himself, a quiet sort of gravity.

“Hey,” the Blondie said, voice soft but with enough weight behind it to cut through the noise. “Cut the shit. Nobody’s trying to screw you over.” From here, NAte couldn't see his face so he slowly maneuvered his way around the duo. 

“You don’t know that!” Red’s voice cracked. He twitched, muscles spasming.

“Calm down, asshole,” another man muttered from the crowd.

Red snapped toward the voice, eyes wild. “What the hell did you say?”

“You heard me,” the voice called back — a guy two paces behind him in the line, arms full with two boxes of Survival Meals. “Everyone's been waiting for fucking hours! You’re throwing a tantrum over some food like a damn -.” Red lunged — fist swinging wide — and Blondie’s hand shot out, catching his wrist mid-swing. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand like he was dealing with a particularly fussy toddler and not a man twice his size.

Red strained visibly against the smaller man’s grip. His arm trembled, but the Blondie didn’t budge. Didn’t flinch. Just held him there, steady as a steel beam. Which, ya know, shouldn’t be possible, considering Blonde was tiny compared to the massive bulk of Red. 

“Stop,” He said. His voice cut through the air like a blade. Flat. Calm.

His face, when Nate could see it, was cool, blank — the kind of stillness that didn’t come naturally. It was practiced. Earned.

“And You!” Blondie turned at the asshole who triggered Red. “Unless you’re trying to make this worse, keep your mouth shut.” The man frowned immediately offended. “Hey that’s no way to talk-” 

Nate stepped in and grabbed the other man by the bicep. “You got your share, book it!” and pushed him back to the seating area. Thankfully, it only earned him a vague insult to his ancestors. 

By the time he turned back Blondie was talking softly to the Red, Nate took a box from the volunteer’s table and handed it to the redhead with an equally red face.  The area was too big and too packed for there to be dead silence but the Blonde man had certainly attracted the attention of almost everyone in the immediate vicinity. Everyone around him was staring at him. Nate included.

Hard not to, small, lean, and ridiculously pretty — wearing nothing but shorts and a sleeveless shirt. Even barefoot, the guy looked like he belonged on a billboard. His hair was the color of sunlight through the glass and spiked up in the kind of way that either took a lot of effort or no effort at all. 

He stuck out like a sore thumb. This place wasn’t exactly full of soft edges, and standing out wasn’t always a good thing. A guy further down the line was giving the kid the kind of once-over that made Nate’s shoulders twitch. The blonde, for his part, ignored the curious looks and outright gawking from passersby with the kind of professional indifference that came from years of being conspicuous. His gaze stayed down, hair hanging over his eyes. He looked lost and something about the posture pulled at his heartstrings. 

Everyone seemed content to stare at the kid like some kind of exhibit and nobody seemed like they would approach the guy so Nate clenched his jaw and stepped up, casual but deliberate, tall enough to cast a bit of shadow as he used his body to shield the guy from the worst of the stares. "Hey," Nate said quietly.

The blond’s head lifted slightly,  bright blue eyes flicking toward Nate before cutting away again, and Nate swore his eyes were glowing green. 

“You good?” he asked quietly stepping away from the front of the line as hunger started winning over any lingering curiosity and people started shuffling to get their food.

“Fine.” Came an equally quiet reply.

“Come on, then. Let’s get you out of the spotlight.”

He nudged the small man toward the line of volunteers. The other let himself be steered — not resisting Nate guided him through a narrow gap between the rows of food counters, toward a set of double doors marked Staff Only. He pushed through into a quieter area — a break room, maybe, or storage. Folding chairs were stacked against the wall, and a table sat cluttered with open water bottles, paper cups, and a half-eaten granola bar. A box of medical supplies sat open on the floor in the corner.

Nate leaned back against the table, arms crossed. His eyes tracked the blond, who was standing stiffly near the door like he wasn’t sure if he should sit down.

" So, what's your name?" He called out with a playful drawl. "Because I've been calling you Blondie in my head. " The kid just looked at him like he'd sprouted a second head. "real original, I know." he joked.

The blond’s head tilted slightly, blue eyes cutting toward Nate with quiet scrutiny. For a moment, he didn’t answer, gaze cool and measured. Just as things hit Nate's threshold for awkward silence he finally spoke up.

"Cloud Strife."

Nate huffed a laugh. "Damn. Cool name, man."

Cloud’s brows pulled together slightly. "…Thanks?"

Nate grinned and pushed off the table, stepping closer. "Nate." He offered a hand.

Cloud didn’t move at first. His gaze dropped to Nate’s outstretched hand warily. After a moment, though, he lifted his hand and shook it. Brief. Firm. Stronger than Nate expected from someone that lean. Then again, the man stopped a man twice without so much as a blink.

Nate sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Hell of a first day, huh?” 

Cloud’s mouth quirked at the corner. Just a flicker of movement before it was gone but Nate caught it.

“You don't even know half of it.”Nate smiled wider. He had a feeling things were about to get a lot more interesting.