Disclaimer: They're mine! Oh, wait … my bad.
A/N: Originally written for De Yaten on the LiveJournal community KH Request. She asked for Xigbar and the prompt 'the most dangerous game'. She also asked for something 'a bit dark'. This grew more than I was expecting, since all the other request fics I've written have been fewer than three pages and this one came in at … coughforty-twocough – eek! Hope you like, De Yaten!
EXTRA (JUNE 2009): I'm reworking this thing into a chaptered fic, with some minor alterations to (mainly syntax and grammar) from its original form. This is mainly because there's a sequel in the works, so I now have an excuse (and the motivation, because I'm lazy) to do something about the parts of this fic that have always bothered me, and so bring both fics (and the spin-off, Detention Woes) into line for a more seamless continuity.
The Most Dangerous Game
© Scribbler, August 2008/June 2009
Braig sat across from the Captain of the Royal Guard and sighed. "You want me to test him early?"
"Yes. I believe he's ready."
"You would say that. You're his father. It's an unwritten rule that parents are supposed to think their kid's some child prodigy when really he's as shiny as a piece of asphalt in a jewellery box."
The other man frowned slightly, but maintained his air of resolve. "I think, if you test him, he'll prove I'm right."
Braig resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "All right, I've got a spare ten minutes before the advanced class comes back from manoeuvres." He stood up, absolutely not sighing wearily, but implying it from every pore. "Let's see what your boy can do."
"You won't regret this, Commander."
"Yeah, yeah."
Years of watching Lord Ansem had given Braig a working knowledge of politics and placating people. Nevertheless, he still found it irritating to dance around on eggshells just to please others, and so did it with very bad grace whenever required. Give him a rifle to take apart and put back together, rather than situation that called for diplomacy – he preferred the idiom 'if it argues back, shoot it'.
Probably that was why he'd been put in charge of training cadets instead of fieldwork after the war ended. Lord Ansem knew he had useful skills that shouldn't be wasted, and was generous with those who'd been most loyal to him, but peacetime was no time for a man like Braig to be in the public eye. Possibly in case he poked it out for looking at him funny.
In this case, however, what started out as grudging diplomacy turned out to be worth it. After the last gun report faded, Braig whistled at the target, which had ten neat holes through its centre.
"How old are you, kid?"
"Thirteen, sir."
"That's two years too young to join the cadets. You a junior trainee?"
"Yes, sir. Since I was nine."
"Two years earlier than they usually take applicants. What were your entrance exam scores like?"
"A ninety-eight percent average, sir."
Braig met the eyes of the boy's father over his head. "And you decided you wanted to be a Royal Guard all on your own, I take it?"
"If you're implying my dad forced me into it, sir, then you're wrong." The kid's scowl was deep enough to plant potatoes. "This was my decision. I want this. I've always wanted this."
"Following in daddy's footsteps?"
"No." The kid risked a glance at his father. "I'm going to be better than him."
Braig spluttered a laugh. "I hate to point this out, kid, but your dad's Captain of the Royal Guard. That's pretty damn high. Lord Ansem doesn't just choose anyone as his personal bodyguards."
"That doesn't mean I can't do it better, sir."
Braig stuck out his hand towards the other man. "I'll try him. Trial basis, you understand. First sign he can't cope, I'll bust him back down to junior trainee faster than a bride drops her nightie on her wedding night."
"I'm still here, you know," the kid said insolently, in a way that would've had any other commander foaming at the mouth – bunch of straight-laced pansies. "You don't have to talk about me like I'm not."
Braig laughed again, and shook the boy's hand as well. "So what's your handle, kid?"
"My handle, sir?"
"Your name."
"Squall, sir."
"Not anymore. As long as your teachers are the junior trainee corps back-up what you've told me, from now on you're Cadet Leonhart, so get used to answering to that."
Against all expectations, Squall was impressive. He left his older classmates in the dirt, and quickly ostracised himself through being held up as a shining example by all his teachers. He learned faster than any of them, retained more, but never volunteered any of it unless asked. He wasn't stupid. He had obviously made the connection long ago, between his talent at the dagger-like looks thrown his way. Some saw him as a show-off. Some saw him as a freewheeler who wasn't applying himself fully, yet succeeded anyway. Resentment bred alongside admiration. Within weeks he had divided opinions in faculty and students more cleanly than a sword slice.
Braig watched from a distance, since he was in charge of the entire training programme but only actually taught firearms. Despite Squall's obvious talent and the evidence of previous training exhibited during his test, cadets weren't permitted to handle anything beyond blunted swords until their second year. The idea was that their physical endurance would've built up by then, so they wouldn't rely solely on weapons as a crutch, plus that gave them a year to learn all the theory that underpinned physical training. They took regular schooling as well a combat training, but condensed it so that by the time it came to the crunch, and Braig and the other weapons-masters got their hands on them, those too dim to be good for anything but cannon fodder had been weeded out and relocated to the air force.
Highwind always kicked up a stink about being lumbered with the Guards' cast-offs, but Braig paid him little mind. What use were airships, anyhow? Any lughead could fly above the enemy and drop bombs on them. He preferred his feet on the ground – better to be the one shooting someone out of the air instead of the one crashing and burning.
Squall was fourteen when they met properly again. Braig had seen him at assessments, since he had to be on the board of examiners for all termly testing. Frankly it was all a load of bullshit, and the more Braig did this job, the more he wanted to be back in the field. He hated paperwork, hated politics, hated bigwigs who'd never touched a gun telling him what to do, and hated the itchiness in his feet for a good old-fashioned battle. He was a man built for war, and Lord Ansem's new, civilised empire chafed at him.
"You seem restless, Braig," Lord Ansem said once, at a dinner to which all his old generals had been called. Apparently that fart of a man, Professor Even, had discovered his own child prodigy and convinced Lord Ansem to have a dinner to introduce him like some freaking debutante.
All the old gang were there. Alongside Even were Cid Highwind, plus Dilan and Aeleus, both ex-war heroes from Braig's unit, but neither so hot-tempered. Their history meant they were none of them had been allowed to remain active within the military. Dilan had been put in charge of law enforcement, while Aeleus was redeployed to oversee the prison sector. There were noises, however, that they wanted to start some sort of research programme with Xehanort, the foundling Lord Ansem had picked up at the end of the war. Braig wondered about the exact nature of the relationship between Xehanort and Ansem, but figured it was none of his business. Xehanort sat on Lord Ansem's right side, and next to him was Even's pet, who watched everything with disturbingly adult eyes for a thirteen-year-old.
"Exam season, sir," Braig said in response to Lord Ansem's remark. "Lots to do."
Highwind grumbled about it being exam season for him too, but you didn't catch him whining. Since Highwind had the congeniality of a bulldog licking piss off a nettle, everybody ignored him, save for Lord Ansem, who threw him a gently disapproving look.
"Ah yes, I hear you have your own prodigy in the ranks this year," Ansem said, trying to bring Braig into the conversation he'd been deliberately keeping out of.
"You do?" Even's gaze flashed. He sensed the spotlight being taken from his apprentice. "And who, pray tell, is making a name amongst the sweating ranks of grunts and heathens?"
Braig frowned. More than all his paperwork and etiquette combined, he disliked Even. The professor had concocted enough biological weaponry to wipe out the planet before Lord Ansem, struck by post-war guilt, forced him to destroy both it and the back-up research. Braig didn't doubt Even hadn't destroyed everything. Sometimes he wondered why Lord Ansem couldn't see that. Then he remembered Lord Ansem didn't want to acknowledge a lot of things about the war and what his people had done in it. Self-delusion wasn't only found in nuthouses.
Braig bared his teeth across the table. You could see what Even was about in the way he moved; the precise way he cut his food and the scalpel-gleam of a knife in his hand. He had the eyes and morals of a snake, but hid them behind affectation and enough heavy self-importance to drown a whale. Braig may be bloodthirsty, but at least he was honest about it.
"Braig?" Aeleus prompted.
"Squall Leonhart."
"Ah, yes, the dear Captain Leonhart's offspring." Even took a sip of his wine. Pretentious bastard. "Where is the Captain tonight? I would have thought it was his duty to attend this dinner."
"I have dispatched him with a party of other Guards and dignitaries on a goodwill mission to Resplendia," Lord Ansem said. "They're strategising on how best to pool our resources against a poor harvest this year. Resplendia's weather mages warn of a harsh Winter. If possible, Captain Leonhart is going to form some sort of exchange agreement between our healers and their mages."
"Because their mages can fertilise barren ground, but they can't do a damn thing about curing diseases, while our healers can't heal starvation, but we have the lowest mortality rate from sickness of any recovering city-state."
"Exactly, Highwind." Ansem's eyebrows quirked a little at 'recovering', but not so much you'd see it unless you were looking.
Even started talking about how being good at destroying things couldn't possibly compare to the intricacies of science that was responsible for curing tuberculosis and cholera, then went off on a tangent about brain-shapes and how he'd once proven that the brains of those attracted to fighting as a career were closer to those of Neanderthals than those who chose academia. Braig was half a second from ripping a leg off the ornate wooden table and clubbing him with it.
All the while the boy by Even's side methodically cut and chewed his food, never once chiming in with his own opinion, or even acting cowed by the high-ranking company around the table.
By the end of the meal Braig had as little idea about Ienzo's personality as he had at the start, though something about the boy made him uneasy. Perhaps it was the sly way he sometimes glanced at Xehanort, or the way he casually allowed Even to pat him on the shoulder or push him in the small of his back when gesturing him out of the room. Even's possessiveness slid off Ienzo like water down a pane of transparent glass
It was with relief that Braig attended the next day's assessments to see Squall's determined scowl. Both boys had drive – they had to in order to be scouted by people like Braig and Even – but Squall's was more honest, and Braig found himself glad his discovery knew how to form facial expressions.
To Be Continued …