Chapter 1 – American Idiot

Thick tires bore into the soft, sandy earth, propelling the rider of the motorcycle forward. A second cycle, its rider stunned by the first’s abrupt burst of speed, dug its own hole in the ground before racing to catch up. The air was filled with the growling noise of the racing motorcycles and the scent of kicked-up dirt and hot grease.

The first rider wore a black helmet, emblazoned with silver tribal designs. He turned, looking back at his pursuer, and revved the engine harder. Dust kicked up as the bike roared forward, nearly fishtailing as the driver barely managed to maintain control. The second rider, whose helmet was gold, also revved his engine in an effort to catch up. The more experienced rider, he kept his bike straight ahead, leaning into his vehicle as though urging it forward. The first rider weaved in and around the hilly dirt mounds of the wasteland soil, barely avoiding bunches of dry, brushy grass and hopping dangerously over the smaller hills.

The gold-helmed rider watched the other as he jumped around the terrain, clouds of dust rising from the spinning wheels. The first rider jumped a hill that was way too big, falling into a valley that was way too deep. A huge burst of dry soil was launched into the air, and the second rider panicked, if only for a second. He knew the other man’s abilities better than anyone, but was still relieved when he saw the black helmet leap out of the steep valley like a bat out of hell.

The first rider kept looking behind him, making sure the second was still around. If abandoned, he would lose all hope of winning his argument, but he knew the issue itself was sensitive. The matter at hand was generally one the two friends avoided.

Finally, the two sped past the edge of the wasteland, tires churning instead on soft grass. The first rider skidded to a stop, leaving a deep tread in the soft soil. The second rider, frowning under his golden mask, slowed until his feet safely touched the ground. They stopped in the middle of a wide field, bordered on the north by ocean some miles off and to the south by a large plateau. They were closer to the plateau, its rocky walls weaving in and out, shadowing them even in the heat of the day.

The second rider lifted off his helmet, setting it gently in his lap. His frown deepened, giving his already-serious face a sour look. He smoothed down his short, black hair with a gloved hand.

"That is exactly what I’m talking about," he said gruffly. "Why did we have to race?"

The other rider threw off his helmet, tucking it under his arm. He tossed his head, freeing his grayish-white hair into the breeze. He was panting hard, and was unable to respond.

"Look, you’re out of breath just from that. What the hell was so important that we had to rush down here?"

Still huffing, the other man simply motioned to follow. He drove behind one of the curves of the plateau and stopped in front of a massive white sign. In red letters, it read:

SHINRA ELECTRIC POWER COMPANY PRESENTS
MIDVALLEY HOMES - A PLACE FOR THE PEOPLE
DEVELOPMENT COMING SOON

"Now…do you…believe me?" the silver-haired man puffed. The black-haired man shifted forward on his bike, his brows furrowed in contempt and disbelief.

"Shit," he spat.

The silver-haired man leaned on his handlebars. "’The people.’ That’s a nice term. I don’t think they mean you or me. Hell, they barely consider us people." He looked over at the other. The black-haired man was silent, grinding his teeth. "Now, who in the world do you think they meant when they say ‘the people?’ Certainly not the wild beasts that live in this area. Not the wolves or the rabbits or the chocobos. They’ll probably slash right into the side of this mountain for a high rise. I have a question for you, Angeal – two questions, in fact. And I’d really like to know the answer."

Angeal turned to face him. The expression on his face told the other he was not interested in any cynical remarks, although he knew full well he was going to receive one.

"Where are we going, and why are we in this handbasket?"

Angeal looked down, grimacing. "You can talk all day, Sephiroth. You can preach and rattle until you’re blue in the face. And you’d be right. Shinra is hurting the people. Shinra is killing the world. But that doesn’t change the situation. It doesn’t change who we are or what we do."

"Angeal, I don’t want to change us. I want to change them."

"It can’t be done – "

"Why not, for crap’s sake? Are you content with just lying there, night after night, in the warm
cozy bed that the company provides for you, while just outside your window and a hundred or so feet downward some little homeless kid gets to sleep under a garbage bag? Are you happy with that?"

"No!" Angeal retorted, "Of course I’m not! But we can’t do anything. We have no power."

"You and I and Genesis are Soldier First-Class…"

"Not this again!"

"…we three are the strongest people in Midgar and perhaps the world…"

"Sephiroth-"

"…we are cunning, speed, and strength! The three of us combined could take over the world
without fear of any army…"

"Stop it!"

"…and you have the gall to say we’re not strong enough…"

"I said we have no power! Sephiroth, wake up! We’re feared, even by the people we protect! Yes, we could take over Shinra, but where would that get us? We have no political experience. We don’t even make great leaders. You can tell that by how much we fight. We don’t know how to handle things, and they wouldn’t trust us to. I know you hate it – you’ve told me a million times – but it’s useless. We’re puppets to them. We can only do what they tell us to, because that’s all we know."

It was Sephiroth’s turn to glare. "What will it take, Angeal? Will they have to kill you before you understand just how dangerous they really are?"

Angeal glared back, silent.

"Take a long, last look at this place. Say goodbye. Because in a year, there won’t be any chocobos or wolves. There won’t even be grass. All that will be here is the Shinra upper class and a shitload of Mako." Sephiroth turned his bike around. As he did, he saw far in the distance a small group of chocobos. The giant bird-beasts were eating feverishly at the grass as their little ones, about the size of large dogs, played around them.

"Tell them you’re sorry, Angeal. Say you won’t fight for them. I’m sure they’ll understand why you let them die, that you weren’t strong enough."

With that, he sped off into the wastelands. Angeal stared at the group of birds, and then turned his own bike around. He looked at the long trail of dust back to Midgar.

"Oh, Sephiroth," he sighed, speaking quietly to himself, "you know how correct you are. But you don’t know how wrong the world makes you."


As usual, he’d left the conversation angry. The worst part was knowing that Angeal was right. The people feared Soldiers – mostly due to the constant bullying and harassment – and could never allow one to be their leader. Revolution to revolt to anarchy, and that was not what Sephiroth wanted at all. The toilet that was the Midgar political system just had to be flushed, and Sephiroth knew he was the one holding the plunger.

But what to do? His position as a Soldier could not be compromised. Soldier wasn’t something one would quit. If they found out he was causing dissent, they would kill him. Or worse – they would "re-educate" him. He’d had more than enough "education" during his career.

Ever since he could remember, he’d been under Shinra’s shadow. He was unable to ever get a coherent story from anybody he asked, so he assumed that he had been born in a test tube or mechanical womb or whatever godforsaken device from which experimental creatures crawled. He was raised by multiple Shinra employees, many of which mysteriously "disappeared" after becoming too attached. At the age of ten he was entered into Soldier training, and almost a decade later could devote himself to nothing else. He was the first but not only Soldier First Class, a title created exclusively for him at the age of twelve. A couple years later, both Angeal and Genesis had achieved this rank. Lack of familiarity and jealousy kept the three at bay initially, but upon realizing that no one was martially better than the other, the three soon became friends.

Sephiroth left the wasteland, feeling a familiar pressure in the front of his skull. A headache slowly crept in. Although the majority of the atmosphere in Midgar was polluted by Mako and Sephiroth had lived his entire life in such surroundings, he had never grown acclimated to the poisoned air. The constant headaches were the bane of his existence, often making him irritable and hard to handle.

He pulled his motorcycle into the elevator to the upper plate, leaving below the cesspool of poverty and pollution. The upper plate was sparsely populated, leaving enough breathing room for all who could afford to enjoy it. Many of these were Shinra employees – not Soldiers, who mainly lived in conditioned barracks around the Shinra building. Sephiroth, Angeal, and Genesis were fortunate enough to live in separate apartments away from the barracks. Such were the freedoms given to Soldier First Class.

Finally home, he shed his dusty longcoat and boots, and then fell onto his sofa. The one-bedroom apartment echoed in a quiet white noise. Sephiroth closed his eyes and started to think. The revolution needs to start…

…from the inside out…

Sephiroth’s eyes opened wide. The idea, fueled by the silence in the room and Sephiroth’s lasting anger, was taking form.