Ever wonder how SeeDs deal with the stress, death and destruction that come with their work? Warning: drug/alcohol abuse, language and mutilation. Please read and review. Oneshot, set sometime before battle against Ultimecia.

And of course, I own nothing, it's all Square Enix.

Kozmik

The mission was long, strenuous and not without its casualties. Almost every last SeeD had been dispatched to fight alongside the Timber revolutionaries, a war against the oppressive Galbadian army. All the work Rinoa's faction had been doing had finally amounted to something, something big enough to gain the employ of Balamb Garden—rookies, intermediates and seasoned veterans alike were out slaying the enemy army in mass amounts. There wasn't a single person in all of Timber who wasn't saturated head to toe in gelatinous, heavy blood, a rich red glomming on to their skin and uniforms, settling in their hair. Despite a decided favouring of the SeeDs to the Galbadians, neither side was without its loses. Innumerable streets were piled high with the bodies of both sides; some piles were mere stackings of appendages and unrecognisable students, none of which could have been over the age of 25, save for the odd high-ranking Galbadian officer who had, by sheer bad luck, stumbled into an actual combat zone.

Irvine, who had come to serve Balamb like a SeeD, was stationed high atop the roof of a hotel, impassively watching his reign of bullets take out countless men. His ponytail, a frizzed knot along the back of his neck, swayed gently in the restless air, catching a few stray stands and blowing them into his face. The bodies tumbled to the cobblestone, one after the next in great multitudes, piling up higher and higher, vaster and vaster until not a single soldier could pick his way through the muddled mess. When this happened, all the fighting would relocate a few blocks west and resume as if there had been no pause.

'Who the hell knew we had so many goddamn SeeDs, anyway.' Irvine muttered to himself as he packed up his gear and padded along the skyline to find a new vantage point.

Had he ever bothered to give it some thought, Irvine might have stopped to consider how many lives he had taken—he, himself, as an individual. He had done countless murders, assassinations, takedowns and busts in his young life—but had he ever asked himself why? 'Hell, for the money,' he'd say…but could a man's life really have a price on it? Sure, he thought some men were piles of shit that needed getting rid of, but hadn't he always been taught that every human being, no matter how sick or twisted, had a right to life? How could he, a mere mortal, claim the life of a human being? Hell, he'd even gone through a six-month period of vegetarianism in his life merely because he hated the thought of butchering cows…If he had been concerned enough about a cow's life (for an entire six months), how was it he could find himself so indifferent to all the human lives he had claimed? His gun was silenced as he paused for thought.

An upstroke to the left, followed by a clean sweep to the right and Squall managed to take two out. Now who in pluperfect hell was firing at him? Dear God, was that Irvine? Surely his aim was better than that! No, wait, it wasn't Irvine, it was a different gun-toting idiot. He sidled over to his left into an alley, putting himself out of the range or fire. Several Galbadians followed. Nothing a few good stabs couldn't take care of. With all his quarry dead, Squall stalked down the alley, out the other side and into the next side street. Oh, there was the mound of Galbadians he had butchered earlier.

For Squall, fighting had always come naturally. When it came time to confront his foe, his mind went blank, save for a loud roaring as the lion within him overpowered his otherwise reserved disposition. Usually, killing was just part of the job, and nothing more. It wasn't personal and he didn't take it home with him. The hours were good and he was well paid. He had no qualms…except when the battle hymns had died and the roaring in his mind descended into a quite hum, and he had time to reflect over the day's work. Sometimes Squall would let the killings wash over him and bathe in his own success…but sometimes, and only sometimes, he would recall the faces of the ones he had slain. Many of them were so young…younger even than he. Though they were savage as they lunged at him, jabbing and swinging wildly, there was the unmistakable spark of panic and terror in their eyes. He couldn't help but regret his actions when he faced his victims in the aftermath.

It was no secret that Squall bottled up his emotions. It was a technique that partly aided him on the battlefield. If he felt nothing, nothing could hinder him. But when the emotions mounted and amassed in too great of a quantity, they needed either to be released, or to be forgotten…Squall handled neither option well.

Quistis and Selphie had been thrown together in the midst of a particularly fierce Galbadian onslaught. At present, they were holding their own fairly well, standing back to back and lashing out at the ring of Galbadians with their whip-like weapons. Selphie, growing impatient with the tedious flails, summoned Quetzalcoatl and annihilated the remaining Galbadians. With a sigh, Quistis stretched her long arms and leaned against a wall.

'…So many damn Galbadians…' she muttered, noting the carnage around her. 'Selphie…does it ever bother you?'

Selphie, who had been wiping blood from her nunchaku, met the gaze of Quistis. She fell still, and for a moment, Quistis wondered if perhaps she hadn't heard the question. Then her soft voice answered.

'Every time. I can't bear to think about it, or I won't be able to do it. The only reason I could kill as many as I did today was because I kept thinking about what they did to Trabia…when they, you know…'

'Yeah, I know.' Answered Quistis, softly. 'It gets to me too, Selphie. Sometimes I wish I had been born into a different life. I didn't want to go to Garden, you know. I wanted to paint. But, things didn't work out very well with my adopted parents, and so they shipped me off to Balamb. Not that I'm not grateful for all Cid's done, it's just…Selphie, I can't take all the death! And I feel like we're trapped in this way of life, like we have no way out. It reminds me of that song…"did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?" Sometimes I feel like we really did, Selphie. What choices do we have in our lives? All we do is follow orders and listen to other people…sometimes I just can't stand it!'

Quistis's outburst marked the end of their respite. It had been hard to fight before, but the resentment the two women shared made it just that much harder to start back up again.

'Do it for Garden…do it for Ma…do it for Rinoa and all her friends…think about Timber's independence and how much it means to everyone…just do it, chicken-wuss!'

Zell was poised above a young Galbadian, who was bleeding badly from a smashed temple. He had been engaged in a fistfight with Zell until Zell managed to bash him badly to the side of the head. The kid fell like a ton of bricks, and now Zell was waiting to deliver the final blow, the snap of the neck. All it was was one quick snap to either side and it would be done. He'd done it before. He'd even done it today, dozens of times. He was responsible for the death of countless young men. And this one…this one was perhaps the youngest of them all. And Zell just couldn't do it. Part of him was mad at himself, as though suddenly discovering he were impotent. And the other half of him…well, that half was pretty sick and goddamn tired of killing people, especially young kids. Zell bent down and grabbed the young Galbadian and slung him over his shoulder as his limp head lolled about. Turning around, Zell struggled through the slick, bloody streets back to the base where he could drop of his burden, and with any luck at all, not go back to the fighting.

It took just over eight hours for the Balamb SeeDs to completely stomp out the Galbadian army. The remaining SeeDs were back at Garden, sitting in an utter stupor of horror and exhaustion. It had been one of the bloodiest and most horrific assignments they had ever seen.

Irvine was in his room. The lights were off and the dim evening sun filtered through his heavy shades. His coat and hat were thrown over the back of his chair. His papers were littered everywhere. Ever since he had let the thought start to invade his mind, he hadn't been able to get rid of it. What makes him capable of killing? Who is he to determine who lives and dies? He's not God, or Hyne or anyone…he's Irvine…just Irvine. How many lives was it tonite, eh, Irvine? How many last week? How many lives have you ever taken in your entire meaningless existence? You're a worthless piece of shit, and yet you think you're worthy of determining who dies? You're disgusting. You're sick. You're mortal.

He flicked the lighter and let it glow as he reached for the spoon. The liquid was mixed in it, careful not to spill a single drop. It heated over the flame, the spoon radiating heat. His hands were itching with the intensity of the flame, but it was worth it. Dropping the lighter, he grabbed his syringe and sucked up every last murky orange drop. Yanking off his belt with more fervor than necessary, he tightened it around his upper arm, then found a vein. It was one quick, smooth motion—in, plunge down, pull out, collapse into a blissful stupor. Nothing mattered…nothing existed outside of his own delirium. He wasn't worthless anymore. He wasn't anything anymore.

The persistent hum was driving him nuts. What was usually his battle cry was now nothing more than a dull, throbbing drone in the back of his mind, and with each pulse of it came a new face of somebody he had killed, undoubtedly some mother's son, some woman's husband or boyfriend or someone's father. He didn't want this life any more…he'd never wanted it, but it was all he had. Squall began to tremble, reflecting on all carnage and blood he had waded through that afternoon.

There's blood in the streets, it's up to my ankles
There's blood on the streets, it's up to my knees
Blood on the streets in the town of chicago
Blood on the rise, it's following me

Squall fumbled about for the knife, finding it in the top drawer of his dresser, where he always kept it. It was always his escape when things got to be too much. The coldhearted Squall Leonhart had a breaking point, and he had reached it. Nothing would keep him from trembling except the cold metal running along his skin. Picking it up, he propped his legs up on the desk and rolled up his sleeve. He began at the flexor muscle just beneath his elbow and ran the length of his forearm, stopping before he got too close to arteries. The blood ran like a river, but this time it didn't get to him. No, this time, with surgical precision, the blood carried away his guilt and let him start anew.

Selphie was in her room with all the lights off and shades drawn. Crowded around her were various bottles of alcohol, ranging from whiskey to vodka, brandy and cognac, kahlua and tequila…her supply runneth over. At present, she was swigging away from a nearly empty bottle of Triple Sec and wobbling dangerously and shaking her head no over and over again. Finishing the Triple Sec and letting it drop into the pile of other empty bottles, she put her head in her hands.

'I don't wanna do this anymore.'

We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found? The same old fears

As Selphie was drinking her anxiety away, Quistis was knocking on a door that wasn't her own, trying to look as appealing as possible. After a moment's waiting, it swung forward and a man peered out at her. Suddenly, he grinned.

'Thought you'd be stopping by. Heard all ya SeeDs had a rough day, ya know?'

He grabbed her none too gently by the upper arm and pulled her into his room, kissing her roughly as he slammed the door with more force than necessary.

Zell was by far the most pitiful of the SeeDs that nite. The others had their own destructive ways of letting out stress, but Zell had none. The best he could do to make himself feel better was to cry until nothing was left. Though he knew nothing of the others' bad habits, he secretly wished he could be a man and drink his problems away, or cut them, or fuck out his frustrations. But Zell didn't do any of those things, and maybe that is what made him the biggest man among them, even as he sat scrunched up in his empty bathtub, his shoulders shaking violently as he cried it all out.

This song is for all the children

Mamma want you to be what she wants you to be

You got to be what you got to be

Yes everyone suffers from the pains of life

A harrowing day, and Balamb's elite mercenaries fall apart at the seams. Headmaster Cid sat at his desk, wondering just how prepared they really were for the final battle against the sorceress.

Thanks for reading! Lyrics are (respectively) from Pink Floyd, The Doors, Pink Floyd and Ziggy Marley. Title comes from a Ziggy Marley song ('Kozmik' from the album Jahmekya), and it really fits just perfectly with the feel I was trying to go for with this oneshot. Please tell me what you think.