Disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy or any of its characters.
One: The Auction
Squall Leonhart hated company events.
He especially hated events that he was required to attend because of his rank within the company. Rank being a euphemism for "Owner's Kid." Being the son of said owner earned him zero respect among his peers. It also did not help that he was not a writer like the majority of the staff. At best, he was a desk jockey, and at worst many saw his continued employment as blatant nepotism. Both were true.
He used the term "writer" loosely. Timber Maniacs was not considered a reputable or reliable news source anyway; its staff of so-called reporters were a bunch of hacks with a few talented exceptions to the rule. The magazine dealt in scandals, conspiracy theories, satire, celebrity gossip, and rumor, oftentimes without the benefit of actual fact to back up its claims. Thus, it attracted the journalistic talents of far-left zealots, conspiracy theory buffs, and college interns who spent more time dissecting celebrity outfits than doing any actual work.
People loved the magazine. That could not be denied. Circulation was up 27% and was popular with university students, housewives, and the growing resistance to a long established dictatorship. A handful of politicians openly enjoyed the magazine's liberal bent, too. A few others decried the lack of substance and the obvious attention grabbing headlines and called it the fiction that it was, but still they bought it once a week at news stands and grocery stores to scoff at the dreck about affairs, aliens, and embezzlement.
Squall would know. It was his job to track sales and profits. Boring, but it was a living that earned him his own money. He preferred not to live off the trust fund his father reminded him of at least once a week.
Tonight's event was a charity auction to benefit a local children's home. He appreciated the sentiment, but not the means.
They could have auctioned off art or services. Gym memberships. A dinner for two at the Bartz Steak House. A painting done entirely in day-old coffee by Becky in HR. Anything but this.
On the stage, six young women from various departments were lined up like prized chocobos, dressed in their best and made up like pageant queens. They ranged in age from 20 to 30 but they all had one thing in common: every last one of them was hot, to use Seifer's favorite descriptor of attractive people or things. The highest bidder for each girl would win a date with their prize.
Squall was adverse to this on principal. It invited all manner of potentially gross opportunity for Carl from accounting to grope, harass, or otherwise commit sexual misconduct under the banner of a good cause.
His myopic father didn't agree.
"It's for needy kids!" Laguna cried. "Plus, it might be a good chance to get out there and meet your co-workers."
"I have met them."
"I meant in a less formal setting. Get to know them on a personnel level. You won't be disappointed."
"I don't want to know them on a personal level, dad," he said. "They're my co-workers, not my friends."
Men weren't excluded from volunteering for the fundraiser. They were actually the main course, or so Squall had understood. Many a lady had their eye on him when the event was announced, and he'd broken a few middle-age hearts when his name didn't appear on the list of auctionable young men. Knowing that only cemented his surety that he'd made the right decision to abstain.
"First up is Selphie Tilmitt!" Becky from HR announced. Cheers rose from the crowd. "Selphie is the head of our nightlife section. Her favorite season is winter, she loves the color yellow, and her hobbies include music, dancing, and explosions."
Becky looked at the card she had just read from and turned to Selphie.
"This must be a misprint, dear."
"No, it's right!" Selphie said. "Explosions are the bomb!"
Selphie wiggled her eyebrows. The crowd laughed.
Squall considered leaving. This was stupid. Really, incredibly stupid. His father was a moron. A moron with good intentions, but still a moron.
"We'll start the bidding at 100 Gil!"
Several paddles went up in the air at once. Selphie bounced on her toes, spun in a circle, and curtsied.
"150!" a man shouted.
"250!"
"I hear 250. Can I get 275?"
"300."
Squall left the main floor and approached the snack table, unable to witness the atrocity happening on the stage. Zell from IT was busy examining the offerings, his plate already full of cocktail shrimp, finger sandwiches, and items from the meat and cheese tray.
"What the heck is Pâté?"
"Chocobo liver paste," Squall said.
"Gross. People eat that?"
"It's considered a delicacy."
"Rich people eat some weird stuff."
Squall agreed. He was not a picky eater himself, and he was ambivalent about food in general, but there were some things that were not meant to be eaten. Chocobo liver, for example.
The bidding war for Selphie continued. They were up to 3000 Gil. Zell almost choked on a bite of celery with cream cheese.
"Man, I wouldn't pay a single Gil for that chick," Zell said. "I heard she put sugar in some guy's gas tank because he made fun of her hair."
Squall might have heard something about that in the elevator, but he hadn't paid much attention at the time. At a magazine that dealt in scandal, a person joined one of two camps: gossip or fact. Squall had placed himself firmly in the fact category a long time ago. If there was no evidence to back a claim, he was not interested in discussing it.
"She also threw a handful of glitter at some lady who said her story about the Shumi was garbage," Zell said. "Heard the lady had to wear an eye patch because the glitter scratched her corneas or something."
"You mean Fujin?" Squall asked, less interested than he sounded but willing to look like he was socializing so he didn't have to hear it from his father later.
"You know her?" Zell asked.
"She works in my office," Squall said. "She wears an eye-patch because she was attacked by a behemoth when she was a kid. Glitter had nothing to do with it."
"Oh. Well, that's just what I heard."
Squall decided against the food and accepted a glass of champagne instead. If he had to endure this farce, he would endure it drunk. Blind drunk, if necessary.
An animal shriek came from the stage and drew Squall's attention back to the dog-and-chocobo show against his will. Selphie's face glowed red. Her eyes bulged and her fists lay balled tight against her thighs. Beside her, Seifer Almasy, an investigative reporter from the Paranormal Department grinned toothily at the crowd.
Squall sipped his drink and considered this unusual, mind-boggling development. Seifer was no philanthropist. He didn't believe in charity. There was no way he bid away a month's salary for a date with Selphie Tilmitt out of the goodness of his heart.
There was also no reason to believe Seifer found Selphie attractive enough to buy a date with her. Seifer didn't need to buy it. Women fell in his lap of their own free will, for no reason other than he was a good-looking jerk who drove a nice car and had a swank apartment in a trendy, expensive part of town.
Not one inclined to curiosity, Squall didn't think too hard about it. There stood a better than average chance this was some form of twisted revenge on Seifer's part. Either Selphie's on-again, off-again boyfriend had offended him in some way, or something Selphie herself had done exacted some vendetta response in him.
It might be interesting to watch the shit-show unfold, but Squall preferred to stay out of it. It was none of his business.
The bidding for Quistis Trepe began, and the competition was fierce.
She, like Squall believed in facts, and ran the actual news desk with a hard-nosed determination that was decidedly off-putting. Her saving grace was what Seifer called "a bangin' body," and a face fit for fashion magazines. Men in the office fell all over themselves for her attention, interactions that were limited to either a polite hello or a verbal reaming for using unverified sources.
Squall was surprised to see her up there. She didn't date at work, which in Squall's opinion, was a wise choice, and she kept her relationships almost as dry and sterile as Squall did. This was not her scene, and the grimace on her face said so.
He had a feeling his father was responsible. Laguna had somehow strong-armed the woman into this. Knowing Laguna, he'd played on her pity for underprivileged kids or bargained with her for something she desperately wanted. A better office. An actual byline. The sexual harassment policy updated to ban swimsuit calendars from the cubicles.
And speaking of the devil, Laguna slid up beside him, a tall glass of orange juice on ice in his hand. He beamed at Squall and took a swipe at Squall's shoulder. Squall stepped out of the way and sent his father a dark sideways look.
"It's not too late to join the fun," Laguna said. "Still a spot open if you want it."
"Pass," Squall said.
"Spoilsport."
"If you're so into this, you go up there and leave me out of it."
"Didn't you hear?" Laguna asked with a hearty laugh. "I'm the main event! It was Selphie's idea, to be honest, but I figured hey, why not? Still a lot of spark in this old bachelor."
Squall was not surprised. Or amused. Sometimes it was like their roles were reversed. Squall the adult mature, responsible adult, Laguna a child lacking common sense.
"Next up, Rinoa Heartilly, AKA, Dear Lenore, our celebrated advice columnist!" Becky announced. "Rinoa's favorite color is sky blue, her favorite season is Spring, and her hobbies include dog training and social activism."
Squall would never be able to pinpoint what it was about Rinoa that drew his attention. She was pretty, but more girl-next-door than stunner. Unlike the others, she wasn't made up for a fashion show. If she was wearing make-up, he couldn't tell, and her pale blue summer dress was unremarkable next to the shimmery cocktail dresses and frills.
There was literally nothing about her that stood out in a line-up like that, but Squall couldn't tear his eyes away.
The bidding for Dear Lenore wasn't nearly as competitive as either Selphie or Quistis, which Squall saw as a potential red flag. This whole thing was a popularity contest, and a lack of bids said Rinoa Heartilly might have a few enemies among the crowd.
Or maybe she wasn't as well known as the others.
Squall preferred to see it that way. She didn't look like a bitch. She looked out of her depth, embarrassed, and unsure of how she got here.
He would also never know why he took Laguna's paddle and raised it. Pity maybe. A baser, less respectable reason. Reasons best left unexamined.
"700," he said.
"I hear 700, can I get 750?" Becky intoned. "I heard 700. Any takers for 725?"
"725," a voice said from the far side of the room.
Squall didn't know him, but he hated the man on sight. Dark hair gone gray at the temples. Arrogant if his posture was any indication. Steely eyes that promised to murder Squall later. Far too old to date the young lady on stage, good cause or otherwise. He looked none too thrilled to have competition and his angry stare at Rinoa looked like ill intentions.
A competitive force took hold of Squall. A deeply buried drive to win, be better, smarter and faster than his opponent. To crush the opposition under his bootsole. Nothing at all to do with concern for the girl's well being. Nothing at all.
"800."
"850!"
"1000," Squall said.
Rinoa, onstage, shuffled and flicked her eyes back and forth between Squall and the dark haired man. She held onto her elbow with her opposite hand and offered Squall what he assumed was an encouraging smile, asking him to rescue her.
"1005."
"He's running out of cash, Squall!" an utterly delighted Laguna stage-whispered. "Move in for the murder! She's yours for the taking!"
"What?" Squall asked. "You know what, never mind."
"Don't give up now, son!" Laguna said. "You got this."
"Do I hear 1025?"
His opponent smirked and raised his paddle. The competitive beast in Squall reared up, ready to attack.
Laguna beat him to it. He lifted Squall's arm and called out a number that was so incredibly moronic, only Laguna Loire, with his deep pockets, would find it a reasonable sum.
"100,000 Gil," Becky said. Her voice wavered. "Do I hear 100,001?"
The young woman on the stage clasped her hands together below her chin and closed her eyes. The room grew deadly silent. The dark haired man scowled but did not raise his paddle.
"Going once! Going twice! Sold, to Squall Leonhart of Sales Management," Becky cried. "Come on up here and meet your date!"
Squall turned to his father.
"What the hell did you just do?" he hissed. "I don't have 100,000 Gil."
"You have a trust fund."
"I do, but it's not for blowing on whatever strikes your fancy, dad."
"Eh, no worries," Laguna said. "I got you covered. You just have fun with your new lady friend. You never know. Maybe she's the one!"
Laguna elbowed him in the ribs, laughing. Squall breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. A technique his therapist taught him, for when Laguna and his eccentricity got to be too much. Which was every time the wound up in the same room together since he turned eleven and stopped thinking the goofy, bumbling antics were funny.
"Squall! Get up here, young man. Don't be shy," Becky said. "Come claim your prize!"
He moved like a zombie through the crowd, to the stage, and climbed the steps like he was marching to his own execution. He couldn't look at Becky, or Rinoa. Or his grinning, moronic father.
The crowd cheered. A donation that big was the likely reason for it, but this was like landing in the middle of some strange dating game he didn't sign up for.
Beyond the stage lights, the steely eyed competition glared daggers. Rinoa stepped up beside him and took his arm. The man's dark look turned black and murderous.
"Thank you," she whispered in Squall's ear. "This was really nice of you."
Squall answered with a curt nod, then fled the stage, certain he'd just had an out of body experience, like he'd parted ways with his soul, and that soul had not yet returned.
What the hell had just happened?
Rinoa knew who he was. Everybody did.
Squall Leonhart, son of the owner, quiet, professional, cold, and devastatingly good looking. He'd never spoken to her personally, and he'd never had cause. They worked in entirely different areas of the office, and if their paths ever crossed, it was brief and lent her no opportunity for small talk.
Sure, she'd seen him at office events and parties. It was hard not to notice a guy who looked like that. Even harder not to notice the bored, disengaged look on his face, and she, like most others was encouraged to keep her distance.
100,000 Gil, though. That was something.
If it was some bizarre way of signaling his interest, there were other, less extravagant ways to get her attention.
He approached the stage like a man on a mission, but when he arrived at her side, he didn't smile, didn't say hello, didn't even look happy to be there. His frosty eyes took on a distant, detached quality, almost like he was dissociating or had gotten lost in thoughts of an existential nature.
Her father didn't look so happy either. He'd hated the idea of selling herself for a date. Forget that it was for a good cause, or that the money raised would help build a new recreation center for kids that really needed a place to stay out of trouble. Forget that she was an adult who could make her own choices.
No, he had to interfere with her life as if she was still a rebellious 15 year-old girl with a chip on her shoulder who had bought two grand worth of spray paint and pizza on his credit card.
If she were being honest with herself, Rinoa wasn't crazy about this, either. To begin with, the event's premise reminded her of a thinly veiled allusion to the Centran slave markets of the past, and Rinoa, being the very active activist she was, felt it was in extremely poor taste.
She'd refused at first, but Selphie goaded her into it, and then Mr. Loire asked it of her as a personal favor, to be repaid with a transfer from the god-awful advice column to op-ed.
Op-ed was not exactly hard-hitting investigative reporting on the atrocities and fascism of the current sitting dictator, but it was a step up from answering letters from people complaining about their overbearing in-laws or people being petty over the seating chart at a wedding reception.
It was her father's condescension when she mentioned it casually during their weekly dinner, a forced and chilly event she never looked forward to, that cemented her resolve to go through with it. In turn, he attempted to thwart her and publicly embarrass her, only to be bested by someone with very, very deep pockets and some sort of agenda she was not aware of.
A handsome someone.
She took Squall Leonhart's arm, lost herself in a pair of cool blue eyes framed in lashes she would kill for, thanked him, and prayed to the gods that he wasn't a creep. He nodded, disentangled his arm and left the stage.
Rinoa only followed because she was supposed to. They needed to set up a time and a place, maybe exchange phone numbers, e-mail addresses, and get to know one another first. Rinoa did not make dating strangers a habit and she didn't go out with men who she knew only by name and job title.
She didn't make a habit of dating at all, actually. Seifer had been her last, against her better judgment, but before she'd taken the Dear Lenore job. He wasn't a bad guy, he just wasn't the kind of guy a smart girl wanted or expected to be a long term boyfriend. They stayed friendly, he'd gotten her the interview at Timber Maniacs, and since then they had lunch from time to time, no hard feelings.
Right now, it wasn't smart for a girl to date men she barely knew, anyway. There was a serial killer on the loose. They called him the Sweetheart Killer. He picked up women, sometimes online, sometimes at bars, took them out for a long, romantic walk on the beach or through a park, strangled them, and left them for some unsuspecting jogger or beachcomber to find their body. Bodies he left covered in pink rose petals.
It was a story she'd been following for the last year. Not one of the women let their friends know where they were, where they went, or with who. Not one of the witnesses could identify the man, when there were witnesses.
One more reason not to date. This charity fundraiser thing was an exception. Squall Leonhart would be an exception.
Squall pushed through the exit doors at the back of the banquet room. He didn't look back.
On the stage, Becky announced the bidding would begin for Iris, otherwise known as the girl with the pigtail, faithful minion of the paper's archives. Her favorite season was spring, and her hobbies included reading, kung fu movies and knitting.
Rinoa arrived in the hallway in time to see Squall disappear through the double doors to her left. She picked up her pace to a fast walk, pushed through the doors, and found herself in a beautiful tropical atrium with a fountain, palm trees, hibiscus flowers, and vines. Brilliant sunlight spilled through the glass roof, creating a humid hot box that smelled of wet earth and fresh air.
She hid behind a palm tree and watched him.
He paced on the far side of the fountain, his hands in his perfect, shiny hair. Rinoa questioned her choice to follow. Normal guys didn't spend 100k for a date and then run away without a word, looking like they were about to kill someone.
Squall gritted his teeth and slapped at his neck. Slapped his forehead. His own cheek. He turned his back to the door and slapped his neck again.
"What a moron," he said. "Why me? What did I do to deserve this?"
Rinoa took a step backward, prepared to run. She had hoped he was just shy, but this was weird. Really, really weird.
"I'm gonna kill him."
Squall Leonhart was pretty, but obviously, he had problems. No normal guy slapped and insulted himself or talked about murdering someone in a public place.
Rinoa had a terrible thought. An awful, worrying thought.
What if...?
What if he was the Sweetheart Killer?
Author's Notes: Hiya! I used to read fanfiction for this fandom about 12 years ago and wrote a little too under the name echonicole. All that old stuff is gone, but I thought I'd dip my toes back in and see what happens.
Reviews are very much appreciated. I'll post the next chapter soon if anybody is interested in more. Thank you for reading!