Johnny went down to the kitchen after his shower. The smell of cooking hung in the air, but it wasn't as appetizing as usual. On the wooden dining table, its surface scarred by countless scratches, breakfast was served: a few slices of stale, hard bread and a bowl of clear vegetable soup that contained far more water than vegetables. No meat. No eggs.
Marilla placed the plate in front of Johnny with an awkward smile. Her hand hesitated as she poured the soup.
"I'm sorry, son," Marilla said softly, unable to meet her son's eyes. "Lately, this is all your father and I can provide. Sales at the workshop have been incredibly low. Parts prices are skyrocketing, but folks in the Slums don't have the money for repairs."
Johnny stared at the bowl of soup.
In his old life as Guts, he had gnawed on raw rats, eaten leftover dog food, or gone days without eating while hunting Apostles and Demons. Food was fuel, and it often tasted like ash.
But this food before him... it was made by his mother's hardworking hands, set aside from the little money they had.
Johnny picked up his spoon and tasted the bland broth. His throat tightened. It felt warm.
Johnny's eyes watered again. He swallowed the hard bread as if it were the most luxurious feast from Griffith's palace in the old days.
"It's delicious, Mom," Johnny said honestly. His voice was a little hoarse, holding back his emotion. "Really. Thank you for the food."
Marilla looked at her son in surprise, then smiled with relief. She rubbed Johnny's shoulder. "I'm glad you like it. Eat up, so you'll be strong enough to help your Dad."
After eating, Johnny went straight to the workshop beside the house.
His father, Garrick, was there. ((in ff7 Remake Only Johnny's Father)
He was a man with a thick black mustache, bearing a striking resemblance to Azan, the Vice Commander of the Holy Iron Chain Knights. He wore a red ribbon, a maroon vest over a shirt, dark grey slacks, and dark brown loafers.
He was sitting at his workbench, staring at a stack of bills with a blank gaze. The workshop was silent. No sound of customers, no big orders.
"Morning, Dad," Johnny greeted as he grabbed a broom and started sweeping the iron filings off the floor without being asked—something the "old" Johnny would never have done.
Garrick looked up, startled by his son's initiative, but his smile was weak. "Morning, Johnny. You're unusually diligent today."
Johnny didn't answer; he just kept working. He helped his father organize the wrenches, oil the old chains, and lift heavy gas canisters that usually made his father's back ache. Johnny's physical strength wasn't yet at the level of the adult Guts, but his efficient lifting technique made the heavy loads look light.
However, even though they worked hard to tidy up the workshop, not a single customer came as the sun climbed higher.
Garrick let out a long sigh, then slumped into his rickety wooden chair. He lit a cheap cigarette, staring out at the empty street.
"Sales are down again today, son," Garrick mumbled lethargically, smoke billowing around his tired face. "Shinra raised the material tax again. If this keeps up... I don't know how long we can keep this shop open."
Johnny stared at his father's back. He saw shoulders slumped not from the weight of iron, but from the weight of life. In this world, the enemy wasn't monsters, but poverty and an oppressive system.
"I have to do something," Johnny thought. "Muscle alone isn't enough here. But for now... I have to ensure I am strong enough to protect what's left."
At midday, Johnny asked for a short break. He walked out of the workshop, standing in the middle of the dusty streets of the Sector 7 Slums.
He looked up. The view above made him struggle to breathe.
There was no blue sky. No white clouds. There was only "The Plate"—a gigantic steel structure covering the entire sector like the lid of a jar. The Plate blocked the true sun, replacing it with giant Mako-powered floodlights that cast a sickly yellow glow.
The air here was heavy, smelling of rust, sewage, and exhaust fumes. The sound of trains passing atop the plate rumbled every few minutes, sounding like the growl of a hungry monster. All around him, houses were made of scrap metal, salvaged pipes, and rotting wood.
People walked with hunched backs, their faces dull and covered in factory dust. Children played in puddles of dirty water. Shinra troopers in blue uniforms patrolled with rifles, looking down at the citizens with contempt.
"This is a birdcage," Johnny thought, feeling suffocated by the orderliness around him. "Or rather... a prison."
However, a bitter reality dawned on him: this prison was still far better than the hell he had left behind. Here, there was peace; no demons tearing humans apart in the streets. But that peace felt wrong, masking a systemic rot eating away from the inside.
Johnny's body, forged in ceaseless violence, reacted to this tranquility with a familiar unease. His palms itched—an automatic response to dangers that no longer existed. It was the deep-seated insecurity of a soldier suddenly bereft of an enemy.
He hated this cage, but the terror of going back to that brutal world was far worse.
He stared at his open palms. Empty. Hollow. "Lacking," he rasped, his fingers clawing the air, seeking a hilt that wasn't there.
"Something is missing." His body rejected this weightlessness.
His muscles screamed for a burden.
He needed something Big. He needed something Heavy. He needed... the Heap of Iron.