It was an unexpectedly cold night. "The weather sure's been messin' 'round with us." Jon wasn't really thinking about the sudden drop in temperature. The loud and regular grumbles coming from his gut were now beginning to hurt. That's when he knew he should probably find something to eat. He left his home (only him could call that to a messy arrangement of carboard pieces and torn, ragged sheets), made sure that nobody is close, and went on his way.
Dragging himself across the streets, he goes straight for the markets. It wasn't a long way from where was right now, and, most important of all, it wasn't dangerous for him. After ten minutes or so, he can already smell the sweet aroma of fried food and grilled steaks. He was beginning to grow desperate. As he was getting nearer, the odors of the delicacies became unbearable to somebody who hasn't properly eaten for some time. He goes round one corner and stops to his right, in front of a building. He could hear the deafening sound of cracking and frying of the eggs, to which his body would reply back with an even louder rumble. He dared into the restaurant, only to be thrown out in the first minute.
For twenty minutes, he got in diners and bistros, politely (in his own way) asked for food, and was refused each time, until he finally found a place where he got to enjoy some leftovers. He got the chance to stay and talk to the cook, Ford, for a while.
"Enjoying those noodles, ey?", Ford laughed. Jon had already been thanking him the food since the first bite, but he didn't mind thanking him again.
"So, how long has it been since you've been on the streets?" There was no way Jon could answer that. He had completely lost the track of time ever since he got in Midgar. What he felt as a lifetime could had been in fact some weeks. Still, he answered what he always does: "Fifteen years. Came here for a job but never got offered one." The cook's smile fades.
"No family, friends...?"
"Family's never been fond of me. They kicked me out when I was eighteen. Heard of this place and thought that I could get work here."
"How didn't you get one after so long?" Ford found odd that a man couldn't get a job, especially in the time where a lot of handiwork was needed for the construction of the plateaus.
"Seems everyone in that time that needed to put cement or walk under a door was supposed to have qualifications for it. I didn't. And so I turned to what later became the slums. I could have either become a thief or something worse. I chose neither."
Ford nodded. unsatisfied. He couldn't tell if there was any truth in Jon's answers. "Why not return back home, after all this time? I'm sure your family misses you."
"Old man's been dead for years. Never got to meet my ma'. My brother left shortly after my departure."
"...Have you ever considered leaving this place? Maybe this isn't meant for you. I'm sure you could find something out there."
As Jon was returning to his home, he began to think about what he had said to the cook. He kept wondering if Ford realized he was lying to him.
He could never give the real answers for those questions, anyways. Everything in Jon's past is like a dark fog, where he can't see two feet away. No one knows how he got to his current state, not even him. He can't even be sure of everything he remembers before coming to Midgar. Jon often blamed his loss of memory to his malnutrition, and left it at that. But this time, he tried really hard if he could glimpse some lost link in his mind. Because of this, he was led to stray from his path, and, unknowingly, went all the way towards sector 7.