Prequel to Theory of Evolution. Canon has pretty much been stabbed to death and then set on fire for good measure by this point...

Just to reiterate, this one is rated M. There are warnings up there in the summary. You should look at them. Seriously, do it now. If you're not in the mood for violence and the death of named characters, then maybe give this one a pass for the moment and come back when you are. :)

Love to lilhb421 for pre-reading and hand-holding and just being generally awesome despite my neurosis.

The Siege

Laguna, Squall decided, had finally lost it. He'd come to expect the unexpected from the man who had—somehow—fathered him, but calling up at five in the morning ranting about the shadows chasing him while Squall wanted nothing more than to finish the long drive home was the icing on the cake. It wasn't surprising, only a matter of time; the man certainly had more than his share of screws loose. Squall sighed and pulled over. Time had taught him to deal with Laguna, but not well, and there was little he could do to help before he figured out what had Laguna so riled up.

"Stay sharp! These things can get through the walls."

Squall's fingers tightened around the receiver pressed to his ear and he repeated his question, slower. "Calm down. What exactly is the problem?"

"The problem is that we're being invaded by gross looking blobs of goo! They're everywhere!"

Normally Squall would have kicked back and let Laguna talk himself out, but he was tired and home-sick. Spending a week with mercenaries who didn't hesitate to call in favors, regardless of whether or not they were actually owed, put him in a bad mood. "Maybe you should ask the faeries for help?"

"Just be careful!" Laguna snapped. That in itself was enough to give Squall pause. Laguna never spoke to him like that. The telltale rattle of gun-fire sounded over the line. Squall felt a bundle of nerves uncurl in his stomach. Taking the secluded route back to Radiant Garden didn't feel like such a good idea anymore. He pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment to listen, but the abandoned mountain road was silent. He'd half-expected a swarm of monsters to appear out of thin air the moment he started believing Laguna's ramblings. Still, caution would be prudent. He switched the phone to his left hand, kept a careful eye on the scenery.

"What do they look like?"

"They…" Laguna trailed off, and several more shots went off. "They're black. In every sense of the word. They're—God—just watch yourself! Please."

The churning in Squall's gut became more persistent. He needed to get back to the castle, now. "I'm heading home, then we'll see if we can get out there. I'll be in touch."

"Worry about yourself." Now that he was listening for it, Laguna sounded more panicked than insane. "They take a few shots to go down, so keep your guard up."

Laguna hung up on him. It took a few minutes to process. Laguna hung up on him. Squall stared at the flashing numbers and letters announcing the disconnected call, unable to believe it. This was worse than he'd thought.

It was the end of the world, the apocalypse. Ragnarok had come for them. If Laguna hadn't warned him about the creatures, Squall would have assumed the castle had undergone an air-raid.

The primary bridge was well on its way to ruin. Chunks of stone crumbled away from the sides and although the bridge was sturdy enough, it had a dangerous feel about it. Squall didn't allow more than a cursory assessment of the damage. Up ahead smoke curled around the outline of the castle, the taste of it heavy on the still and silent air. Two feet ahead, a black mass bled up from the stones. His movements were all muscle-memory—swing, pull, thrust, slash. The creature fell to the ground in pieces. Laguna was right—and if Squall had two seconds to think about it, that surely would have enough to send him reeling—these things were black. The one he'd just cut down was still squirming. It oozed back together and slithered over the ground, inching its way toward him. He couldn't believe it. Two more shots put it down for good. A couple of hits, indeed.

From where he stood, the battle appeared to have already been lost. Crimson smears painted the ground and weapons were strewn about, but there were no bodies. Squall fought down a shiver and kept his blade ready. He'd have been a fool not to.

It felt odd to storm his workplace, weapon raised, eyes searching for enemies. It reminded him of returning to Balamb years ago only to find it in total chaos, factions of the student body at war with one another instead of focusing on what was coming—except this time there wasn't any screaming, no in-fighting to hustle his way through. There were only monsters crawling up the walls. As he crept through the entrance hall toward the west corridors Squall decided he much preferred chaos.

Two left turns, a right, and a few sets of stairs later he barreled into the west wing of the castle's safe-room, only to be greeted by a shotgun two inches from his nose. And Rinoa always claimed he was the one prone to over-reaction.

"Thank god," Irvine said, lowering his weapon a few inches. Squall didn't know what the correct response was, not when Irvine was only one of two figures to greet him. The sense that something was terribly wrong boiled in the pit of his stomach.

Rinoa took a more direct approach, and promptly flung herself at him. She wrapped her arms around the back of his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek—more an outlet for her worry than affection—and then released him. Rinoa had learned when she could be clingy, and understood this was not the time.

Squall offered her a small, tight smile, though it did little to assure her. He focused on Irvine. "Report?"

Irvine floundered, baffled as to how to respond. Finally, he settled on saying, "Every bit as bad as it looks?"

Squall arched an eyebrow and waited for something more useful.

"It was total pandemonium up until a few hours ago. It's calmed down a little, but I think that's only because those—whatever those things are—have realized not many are left." Irvine shrugged. Squall appreciated the brave front. "The guard was in and out at first, but we haven't seen anyone in at least an hour. Can't get a hold of anyone, can't keep track of what's happening. We started out acting as support and trying to keep the area clear, but now we're struggling to keep what little ground we've got. They came out of nowhere. One minute everything was fine, next thing I know we're at war."

Squall allowed the explanation to roll over him, absorbed and processed what he could, and tried to understand what it was that Irvine wasn't saying. The pieces fit too well together with what he'd already learned from Laguna. Squall had a bleak suspicion that he'd arrived in time to witness nothing more than Radiant Garden's death rattles. The crisis had claimed its victims and moved on.

"When did it start?"

"Yesterday morning. Communications were the first to go—Selphie was trying to get them back up last I saw her, but she obviously hasn't had much luck. It's…" Irvine paused and shook his head. "It had to have been planned. They cut us off, thinned us out—and they're monsters. They can't think or plan like that, there's no way. This isn't an accident."

Squall was inclined to agree. "Shields working?"

Rinoa fielded that one. "They work. Not well, but enough. I had to make some adjustments. I'm pretty sure we're safer in here than out there."

The simple fact that they were alive was all the proof of that Squall needed.

Now that he had a proper chance to examine them, he saw signs of the struggle they'd endured. Irvine's hair fell askew from its usual neat ponytail, Rinoa's duster was sooty and torn, and they both looked worse for the wear around the edges. Rinoa was holding up surprisingly well, but Irvine had a frantic anxiety buried deep in his expression, beneath the annoyance and anger. Rinoa wasn't privy to all the ins and outs of the guard and couldn't understand just how bad off they were. Irvine did, and he was worried.

"Balamb?" Rinoa asked, one hand fixed tight around his arm, eyes relentlessly darting from corner to corner.

"I don't know. They were fine when I left and I haven't heard anything. I've been on the road. Laguna called to warn me."

She stopped fidgeting. "You haven't heard from anyone else? Not even Quistis or Zell?"

It went unsaid that nearly three days had passed since Squall had left Balamb. He almost couldn't believe he hadn't seen any traces of this disaster on the road—but that was probably the fault of his route. He didn't go anywhere near the towns if he could avoid it, hadn't been concerned that he hadn't seen another soul the whole way because he hadn't expected to.

"If Laguna's having problems, then it's only a matter of time," Irvine said. His mouth set into a grim frown. "How did this happen?"

Squall didn't know, but he was going to find out. He spared the time it took to reload his gunblade and check his equipment. He needed as much firepower as he could carry without getting slowed down. He ransacked the stores, finding much less than he liked. Most of the backup weapons had already been taken; the medical cabinets were empty save for the most basic of first-aid—a disturbing reminder of all those missing. There were no bodies, no signs of life in the castle except for what was standing next to him. Squall almost didn't want to know what happened.

He'd been hoping that whatever was happening in Esthar was an isolated event, prayed that if it wasn't, they'd have time to prepare, but it was obvious that whatever had happened had hit Radiant Garden first. There wasn't any other reason why Esthar would be under siege when the castle had already been ravaged. Whatever this was, if it started here, it came from the basement. There wasn't a doubt in his mind. Deep below the castle, underneath the primary labs and storage areas were dozens of twisted hallways, all off-limits, never spoken of. Some of the people down there made Odine look ethical. Squall had trusted Ansem to keep them in line—a lot of good that did.

He never should have left—shouldn't have allowed himself to be convinced that he owed his former company anything, no matter the flimsy excuses Xu came up with or how much Quistis begged. If he'd just been here…

There wasn't time for that line of thought. First, he had to get to the labs. He needed to gather whatever survivors there were and get everyone back to base to regroup. It wasn't the best plan, but it was better than nothing and he didn't have a whole lot to work with.

Irvine cut him off at the door. "Where do you think you're going?"

Squall didn't pause as he gave his answer. "Don't you get it? They're spreading. Wherever these… things… are coming from, the first priority is cutting them off."

"We should stick together."

Nothing could convince him that bringing Rinoa out there was better than leaving her behind. He pulled the door open and stepped through. "You're not fast enough. Hold our position. I'll be back."

"Squall, wait!"

He ignored the furious shout, and ran. If he gave himself time to think about it, he wasn't sure he'd be able to hold his resolve. At least Rinoa should be safe. Laguna's warning came back to him: these creatures could get through the walls. Squall picked up the pace and nearly collided straight into Selphie when he reached the entrance hall.

If Irvine looked worse for wear, Selphie looked like she'd marched right through the apocalypse. In many ways, Squall supposed, she had. He regained his balance and glowered at her messy hair and dirty face. He didn't want to think about how her jumper had gotten so torn up.

"Where have you been?"

Selphie drew up what little height she had and matched his glare. "Re-establishing communications. As per protocol. And let me tell you that was a bitch."

"And?" Squall asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Selphie shook her head. "Not much to go on. There's only been a few transmissions we could pick up. From what I could tell, those monsters are pretty much everywhere by now. They don't… most places can't fight them like we can. They're defenseless."

Aptitude probably made little difference. Squall had trained his men well—they'd still been ripped to pieces. There were only a handful of places with anywhere near the strength they had, and he shouldn't ask, but he had to. He knew one of the first things Selphie would have done was to check on their friends, protocol be damned. "Any luck getting hold of Garden?"

She paused and glanced off to the side, along the widening crack in the floor. "Nothing."

There was only one reason for that. True, it wasn't unheard of for a deputy commander or a green operator to panic and leave the coms abandoned, but Squall had left Xu in charge. If anyone was alive, it was her, and she always followed the book. "So, they were annihilated."

"I think so." Squall studiously ignored the tears Selphie was struggling to hold back. Two escaped her grip and cascaded down her cheeks in tiny, wobbling trails. "How did this happen?"

"I don't know." Quistis, Zell… Xu—gone. He felt awful for being angry with them earlier. He shoved all those thoughts to the back of his head. This wasn't the time. Right now he had to get Selphie to safety, and get to the labs—but first… "Any word from Esthar?"

Selphie's gaze slipped to the floor as she shook her head. "No."

Squall didn't know how he should feel about that, though he supposed he should be afraid. For the moment, the only thing he felt was numb. "Irvine and Rinoa are in the west wing—go!"

"Not a chance!" Selphie took a menacing step forward and tapped the handle of her nunchaku against his chin hard enough to make a point. "I'll stick with you."

"You'll go to the west wing."

"I won't." Selphie planted her feet on the floor and crossed her arms. She would keep this up for as long as she needed to get her way. There wasn't time to argue.

Squall nodded, and half-way through his turn to head deeper into the bowels of the castle, he caught sight of a hovering, black orb. "S—"

It was too late. In the blink of an eye she was falling. Her body shimmered and dissipated before she even hit the ground, leaving behind nothing but a throbbing, pink light floating through the air. Another blink and the monster was bisected. One more and Squall was running, desperately fighting to concentrate on nothing more than the roar of his pulse in his ears. If he gave himself the slightest leeway, if he took one instant to breathe, he would break. He had to get to the basement, had to stop this. After that, he could fall apart.

Squall's boots screeched against the floor as he took the last corner. His lungs were screaming, but since that was more appealing than actually screaming, he refused to let it bother him. The passage to the labs sprawled ahead, the large, metal door growing larger each time his feet pounded the floor. He was not prepared for the tranquility that greeted him when he barreled through the double-doors.

It was, for all intents and purposes, business as usual. Squall struggled to rein in the urge to look back into the hallway for comparison. An undeniable sense of wrong smothered the room. It was enough to make Squall feel nauseated. It was too calm, too sterile. The environment was too controlled. Even and Dilan leaned over opposite sides of the long table spanning the center of the room, and Squall didn't believe for one instant that they were unaware of what was happening just outside their door. If he had any doubts about who was responsible, they were at rest.

The table was littered with beakers and an endless supply of loose papers strewn from end to end. Two computers hummed away against the far wall, and beyond that, in the next room, a large machine ran in the corner, glowing with the rapid display of data crossing the monitor. He almost wanted to cause a scene, but he supposed he should at least try to get some answers before he started killing scientists and smashing everything he could find until it was nothing more than shards under his boots.

Even's gaze snapped to Squall, his eyes narrowed and upper lip curled back in a sneer; he never liked the bastard anyway. Dilan whispered something and tapped the papers between them. The scowl that had appeared at the first sight of Squall faded. Even nodded and went to the next room, closing the door behind him, cutting off Squall's view of the ominous machine and whatever it was doing. Instinct roared in Squall's ears; that block of wires and metal needed to be turned off.

There was a charge in the air, something bad was coming. Dilan's eyes…

"Should have known you'd try to play the hero, Squall. No matter." Dilan wrenched his mouth into a twisted grin as he straightened from his bent pose. "It will be over soon enough."

"What have you done?" He didn't expect an answer, had only asked because he needed a second to pull himself together, but he got one anyway.

"This," Dilan's arms swept wide, "is the height of our research—our greatest accomplishment. Soon, we will have all the answers."

Squall had no reply. This was insanity.

"Now, run along."

Dilan shooed him out the door, as if he were a troublesome child interrupting instead of a seriously pissed off—and more importantly, armed—man with more combat experience than half his regiment put together. He wasn't even being taken seriously if the amusement sparkling in Dilan's eyes was anything to go on. Squall had drawn his blade for less before he hit puberty. He twisted out of the hands grasping his shoulders and in one movement had his gunblade pointed at Dilan's adam's apple.

"Shut it down." Squall didn't specify what, but then again he didn't know. The machine in the next room, some other contraption further into the labs—it could have been anything—but Dilan would understand his meaning.

"No."

"Whatever." Squall pulled the trigger.

He was halfway across the room, intent on ripping the whole place to shreds if he had to, when alarm bells went off in the back of his head. He turned, and his stomach twisted. The shock was so inhibiting that one punch to the center of his chest was all it took to bring him down. Dilan snarled over him, whole, uninjured, and ferocious.

"Did you really think something so pedestrian could stop me?" Dilan's lance flashed in the air. Squall barely had enough presence of mind to guard his head against the first blow, and half a second later agony radiated from the left side of his abdomen. If he had been anywhere near on top of his game it never would have happened—but the image of Selphie falling in the entrance hall prickled at him constantly, the memory of Laguna's last words to him roared in his ears. They were phantoms working to steal all of his attention. Coupled with the guilt of trying to push those few horrific minutes away, he was nowhere near focused enough to deflect Dilan's attack. Two more slashes joined the first. Shallow wounds, not fatal. Dilan was playing with him. "Ansem has granted us more power than your spindly little brain could ever comprehend."

Betrayal raced through the air—so Ansem had started it after all.

"I should kill you for your insolence, but why dirty my hands? I'd rather play with your heartless, anyway." The heavy echo of boots thudding against the floor was the only sound to focus on for one horrible, quiet minute, and then the door leading to the lower labs clicked shut.

Squall stumbled to his feet, touched his hand to his bleeding side and hissed. The slashes weren't deep, but they were a hinderance. He probably shouldn't have enjoyed ripped up the nearest lab coat for a make-shift compress as much as he did.

Squall stared at the door, contemplating his next move. He knew Even, at least, was down there with Dilan, and if his abysmal failure to blast a hole in the man from four feet away was any indication, there wasn't a chance in hell he could take them both out and put an end to the nightmare raging in every direction. The next best hope was escape, and it was a pitifully thin chance. Then again, Squall never had been good at backing down.

The door was sturdy, but it was nothing against a gunblade and two raging kicks. The door came away from its hinges and revealed… nothing. Even and Dilan were gone. The machine was quiet. Then, monsters were lurking in the corners.

Retreat was his only option.

The first thing Squall noticed was that Irvine's hat was missing. It was a small, innocuous thing, but it sent a barely restrainable panic racing through him. Irvine loved that hat, he loved it almost as he loved… Squall's mind ground to a halt. He focused his attention on Rinoa. He almost wished he hadn't.

She supported herself against the wall on his right, breathing heavily. She was clearly favoring her right side. There was a distinct buzz of magic around her—too much magic. She'd been hit by something. Her face was ashen with a slight tinge of green, and she had not looked like that when he left. His first instinct was to take the worry clawing its way through his chest out on Irvine but he pushed it back. He had enough awful things to tell him already.

"What happened?" Somehow, despite looking two steps away from passing out, Rinoa managed to wrap an obscene amount of concern into her question.

Squall didn't want to recount the events, not now and probably not ever, but he would have to give her something. "Trouble in the labs. Do we have bandages?"

Rinoa nodded, the gesture not more than a simple incline of her head. "Yeah. There are some left. Do you need help?"

"No." She didn't look like she'd be able to do much, anyway.

Irvine gnashed his teeth and followed Squall to the medical supply cabinet. "I told you to wait. We should have stayed together."

Squall had no rebuttal. If he let himself be drawn into a debate he was going to have to start thinking, and he couldn't handle that. He'd always been good at compartmentalizing, but the skill had never left him feeling like a monster before. Squall finally understood what people meant when they called him cold. He certainly felt it. He stripped off his jacket and shirt, let them fall to the floor, and tugged off the strips hastily wound around his middle. He put an inordinate amount of care into cleaning the gashes in his side—a delay tactic. He didn't have the first idea how to tell Irvine that his girlfriend was dead.

Irvine cast a worried look over his shoulder, and then leaned in to speak to Squall privately. No matter how angry he was, at least Irvine could be counted on to keep his head in a crisis. "These fucking things can use magic. I don't know what they hit her with, but it was powerful. Only a few have gotten through, but it was more than enough. Did you at least figure out where they're coming from?"

Squall nodded. "I was right, it's the labs—they're all in on it, too. Even Ansem. It's some sort of fucked up experiment. They're…" he paused, still unable to fathom what he'd witnessed. "They're not human anymore. I shot Dilan, point-blank, and he got right back up without scratch on him. I don't know how he got away, either. He just disappeared."

"That where this came from?" Irvine wondered, gesturing to Squall's bloody shirt on the floor. He tugged the bandages from between Squall's fingers to finish the job. "Damn."

"Yeah. Dilan wasn't too happy with being shot. Didn't even try to kill me for it, either. They want those things out there to get us."

"Sure doesn't look it," Irvine said, tilting his head to watch as the last of Squall's injury disappeared beneath white bandages. He gave a tug to make sure the dressing was secure, then fastened it off. "Hell, Squall, you look like shit."

"You're one to talk," Squall muttered, able to resume his examination now that he had one less piece of bad news to keep to himself. Irvine had been in his share of fights, and a missing hat was only the first of many tells.

"I'm fine."

He wasn't, but Squall figured he owed it to Irvine not to argue.

Irvine paused, then asked, "Did you find Selphie?"

Squall swallowed an apricot-sized lump back into his throat. He didn't want to be the bearer of this news, didn't want to explain, but he had to. He couldn't keep Irvine in the dark, and whatever pain came from reliving what had happened was his to bear. "She's gone. It was quick. I didn't see— We were talking, and…" He clenched his fists to keep his fingers from trembling. His focus wavered, and everything hurt. His side, his head, his chest; he ached. It was nothing compared to the raw heartbreak all over Irvine's face. He decided not to tell him about Quistis and Zell. Not yet.

"I see." Irvine reloaded his shotgun, and for a one endless second, Squall was certain that Irvine was going to shoot him. Instead, he shifted his gun onto his shoulder and checked both windows before heading toward the door. "You should check on Rinoa. She's not looking good."

He waited long enough to be sure Irvine was simply keeping watch instead of barreling head-first into whatever was waiting outside before tugging his ruined shirt back over his head. When the door stayed ajar enough to spy Irvine pacing the hall, as alert as he was going to get, Squall allowed his concerns to drift back to Rinoa. The shields were still functional, even if they didn't work particularly well. Irvine could have his space.

Rinoa was paler than she had been five minutes before. She'd given up on leaning against the wall for support and sank into a shaky crouch with her back flat against the stone. Dread wasn't a strong enough word to describe the fear pounding away in Squall's heart. He'd experienced horror like he'd never known over the course of the past several hours, but the sight of Rinoa struggling to breathe was on an entirely different level.

Squall knelt beside her and cradled her shoulders so she could move into what he hoped was a more comfortable position. "What happened?"

"Oh, you know how it is. I always manage to get hit with the whacky magic." Rinoa let out a small laugh and then groaned. A thick, hacking cough rattled her chest. When she pulled her hand away from her mouth, Squall saw flecks of blood spattered across her palm. "Okay, laughing is bad."

"Tell me what's wrong." Squall nearly winced at the demanding tone to his voice, but if he didn't know what was the matter he couldn't fix it, and not fixing it was not an option.

"I'm having trouble catching my breath, that's all." Rinoa was a horrible liar. She turned her head to nuzzle his shirt, uncaring for the dirt and blood. "Can we just… sit here? Just for a few minutes?"

"Yeah." He shifted his weight back a bit and held her closer.

Rinoa hummed her approval and relaxed, the only sounds were Irvine's pacing feet just outside the door and her labored breathing. For five minutes he thought through their meager list of supplies while Rinoa lazed in his arms. They had basic first-aid but no potions, and neither him nor Irvine were adept enough with magic when they didn't know exactly what the injury was. His chest was tight. It was bad, and Rinoa knew it, too. She always picked the worst moments to be brave.

Medical it was, then; there might still be some decent supplies left there. He nudged Rinoa and began the slow process of adjusting his grip so he could stand and carry her without disturbing her too much.

She mumbled something that sounded like a question.

"We're going to the infirmary."

"Shouldn't go out there." It figured that she couldn't walk, couldn't stand, and could barely keep her eyes open—but she managed to argue with him as easily as ever.

"We have to."

Rinoa braced her forehead against his shoulder as another series of coughs overtook her. "I don't think it matters much, anymore."

Squall couldn't bring himself to admit that she could be right. Rinoa's skin was clammy and cool, her limbs trembled, and she seemed to be having an increasingly difficult time concentrating—signs of shock, if he remembered his field medic training right. Without someone who actually knew what they were doing to help her… Squall tightened his hold. It couldn't be allowed to come to that.

"Love you." Rinoa sighed. She smiled up at him, soft and tender. Her eyelids fluttered twice before she couldn't keep them open anymore and her head lolled to the side. It was the same smile she'd given him hundreds of times for hundreds of reasons—the first time they met, the first time he kissed her, the day he told her he wanted to leave the Garden and never go back. It sent sheer terror flooding through his veins; it couldn't be the last look she gave him.

They could have Selphie. They could have Irvine and Zell and Quistis—but not Rinoa.

"No, no, no." He swatted her cheek and grabbed her wrist with his other hand, seeking out a pulse fading faster than he could find it. "Rinoa? Wake up! Don't you dare do this! NO!"

She was smiling; she was always smiling. A low, guttural moan tore its way from Squall's throat. He held her close, unable to weather this latest of tragedies. He couldn't let her go; he couldn't do this without her.

At some point Irvine shuffled back into the room, identifiable only by the sound of the door latching. He remained a vague presence hovering in the corner of Squall's awareness. He didn't speak, didn't ask questions.

Squall closed his eyes and focused on breathing. If he could just keep moving air in and out of his lungs, he could pull it together enough to figure out what to do. Rinoa would want him to be strong, to save who he could. She would want him to stand up instead of kneeling on the floor clutching at what had already gone. He didn't think he could; he didn't want to, without her. He wanted to scream until his voice was raw and break his knuckles against the wall and blow this whole cursed place to bits.

The shuffle of boots pulled him back just long enough to get his emotions in order. Irvine had sucked it up the best he could, and the least Squall could do was the same. He could cut out the chunk of his heart that wanted nothing more than to grieve, and deal with it later.

He eased Rinoa to the floor, slipped the clasp of her necklace open and pocketed it. He tugged his glove off with his teeth and let it drop to the floor, kissed the tips of his fingers and pressed them to her lips. "Goodbye, Rinoa."

His legs had no right to be as steady as they were when he stood. There was something wrong with him that he could just get up and walk away, but that was yet another thing to deal with later.

Irvine kept pace through the winding halls and didn't falter once on the ride up in the lift. Squall stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the castle gates and kept marching until they reached the crest. High-ground. They needed the high-ground.

"What are we going to do?" Irvine asked, weary and broken. He sounded like he wanted to fight about as much as Squall wanted to face reality. Irvine ventured another question. "Do you have a plan?"

"No." It was a lie, but since Squall's plan consisted of killing everything he set his eyes on until he went down, he kept his mouth shut. Escape was near impossible, so he was going to do the next best thing. Squall was going hunting. He'd either find a way out or take as many down with him as he could, but that sort of defeatism wasn't something he wanted to vocalize. It was too bad that Irvine was almost as bad at backing down as he was.

Four quick steps found Irvine in front of him with a severely displeased expression on his face. "What do you mean no?! How the hell are we going to get out of this?"

The solution was simple. Irvine just didn't want to see it. "We're not."

"You can't think like that, Squall—"

"Fuck off."

Irvine twisted his hands around the collar of Squall's coat and shoved him into the wall. Squall winced at the strain on his wounds. "What is the matter with you? We can't just lay down and die. I won't do it!"

Squall never had any idea how to handle these kinds of situations—and god, how sick was it that he only realized it when the world was crumbling around him—so he narrowed his eyes and said nothing. If, by some miracle, they made it out of this mess, Squall was going to learn how to talk to Irvine if it killed him.

"Do you think you're the only person who lost someone they loved today?" Irvine punctuated his rant with another, harder shove.

The wind tore a violent path across the crest, burning his cheeks; any trace of empathy he had blew away along with it. All of Squall's heartache sprinted to the tip of his tongue, ready to explode in a flurry of harsh words and even harsher fists, when Irvine's eyes widened and an instant later his jacket and shirt were soaked in blood. Irvine looked down, flabbergasted, and a sickening crunch echoed over the crest. The red spray settled on Squall's face in a fine mist. He wiped his eyes clear in time to see the last glimmer in Irvine's fade—utter fury snuffed out mere inches away. Squall would never forget it. That anger was seared into his mind, and it would haunt him for the rest of his life. He could only hope it wouldn't be very long.

Pure instinct saved him from falling victim to the monster pulling its claws from Irvine's back. The shape of a dragon unfurled, glowing yellow eyes locked onto him. Squall dropped to the ground and rolled. His skin ripped under the weight of a vicious swipe. Another warm gush of blood soaked his back. His head swam. The monster was on him again, poised to rake its claws into him a second time when Squall gave up.

There was no end to this, no escape. He was alone. There was no one to watch out for, no reason to pull his punches and play it safe. There was no one to protect; no more retreating. It was like being a mercenary again: get the job done, no matter the cost. He was flying solo.

The only variable left was how many of them he could take along for the ride.

He felt seventeen years old when he hoisted his blade despite the pain radiating through his body and brought it down on the beast in time with his finger squeezing the trigger. He changed the angle of the swing and brought it up, firing again. There was a rhythm to it he would never forget.

The sickest part was that a small piece of him missed it. That version of him—the teenage boy who went up against the world and cut it down was still buried deep in his chest, waiting to come out. He was born and bred a fighter, and the satisfaction of slicing his foe into pieces with carefully practiced movements was greater than he anything he got out of commanding a proper military.

There was no reason to seek higher ground now. There was no last stand to be made, not a chance in hell of surviving. Squall pulled himself up, and leaned against the back wall of the crest to regain his bearings. He kicked what was left of the dragon hard enough that it sailed over the edge. There was no reason to go on; he did anyway.

He climbed the rest of the way to the High Tower, unimpeded by silly things like monsters and grief. It figured that once it didn't matter, it was easy. A small piece of him found it unfair that he was going to make it to his destination. After everything—the past twenty-one years and all he'd endured over the course of the day—he could at least be given the courtesy of going down while he still had some fight left in him.

Squall stood at the edge of the tower, toes dangling over the edge, and he thought about jumping. If the world was ending, could he stand to end it himself, on his terms? He took a step back. He couldn't, and a petulant voice whispered in the back of his head that it wasn't fair. Everyone was gone—and the last memories of them he had to hold on to were too much to bear. The dam broke. The deep ache settled in his chest rattled and bent into something sharp and burning. A thousand what-ifs raced through his mind. When was the last time he even told Rinoa he loved her?

A quake rocked the tower, punctuated with a deafening crash. Squall stood and watched as the east wing folded in on itself. Stones tumbled down the outer walls, vanishing into the black hole swirling beneath. The only sign it had ever been there was the dust still floating through the air.

Yes, this was the end of the world.

He lifted his face to the sky, set his jaw. He gripped his weapon tight. The tower collapsed, and he fell.