The four-story glass atrium and potted palms kept the Esthar Grand Hotel lobby looking lovely, but the hideous orange and green banner hanging over the front desk was probably going to induce a seizure in someone.

Squall sulked in the queue, glaring every few seconds at the banner. "Welcome to the Third Annual Leadership Seminar and Teamwork Pow-Wow," the ugly thing announced. Squall figured that Laguna had come up with the name. Or at least the pow-wow part. He'd already taken plenty of aspirin on the flight here, and he wouldn't be able to take more for at least another two hours. Squall gripped his duffel bag tightly, cursing his inability to say no to Rinoa.

The big Esthar leadership seminar was, at least as far as he knew, a gathering of the bigwigs in the corporate world for a weekend of schmoozing, pointless meetings and Squall's least favorite: motivational speakers. Of course, the stupid thing was organized by President Loire himself, and Squall had checked his email one morning to discover that his girlfriend had signed him up without his knowledge or consent.

And to seal the deal, she'd used her own money to register him and threatened him with bodily harm if he didn't attend. He decided that one stupid weekend would have to be endured or he'd probably never get to do so much as hug his girlfriend ever again. "Besides, Squall," she'd argued. "It can't hurt to develop your leadership skills. You need to be more approachable!"

More approachable, he thought grumpily as the vacationing family from Dollet registered at the desk in front of him. Why did he have to be approachable? He was the Garden's leader, not their buddy. He sent them on missions and attended several of his own. He didn't exactly care about all this touchy feely management style crap. The young woman at the desk waved him forward.

"Checking in, sir?"

He nodded. "Leonhart, here for the conference."

The woman smiled and typed something in the computer. "Oh wow, you're so lucky!" Squall's stomach dropped. "That's a really nice room you're sharing."

"What do you mean sharing?"

The woman was puzzled. "You did know that you bunk with someone else as part of the conference? It's to build rapport with others."

He narrowed his eyes and took out his wallet. "I'll pay more if you kick the other person out."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Leonhart. I can't do that."

"Why the hell not?"

By now, he could see the bellhops and other hotel staff looking at him curiously, along with the rest of the people in the lobby. He lowered his voice. "How much do you want? Seriously, I have the money to buy out the whole floor."

The employee shook her head. "It's part of the conference. And even if I could move you, sir, I'd be in trouble."

He waved his id card. "I'm the commander of Balamb Garden," he muttered through clenched teeth. "Make it happen."

Someone else, probably a manager, approached them. "Hello, sir. Welcome to the Esthar Grand."

"Yeah, thanks. Anyhow, I'm Squall Leonhart, here for the conference," he explained, pointing dismissively to the horrible banner. He decided to take a different tack. Rinoa was always making fun of his temper. "But I'm not sharing a room. I…I snore, really loudly and wouldn't want to inconvenience anyone. Also I sleepwalk and curse in my sleep and…"

The manager held up his hand. "Don't worry. Your roommate is already there, and he forbid us from moving you."

Just what kind of CEO dirt bag was this guy? He hadn't had a roommate since before the SeeD exam, and he would be damned before he had one again. He could imagine Rinoa laughing at him in his head, but he told her off. You don't count as a roommate since you pick up my dirty socks. Willingly.

The young woman held out a key card. "I'm sorry, Mr. Leonhart. This is one hotel guest we can't defy."

He snatched the card angrily, waving off the bellhop who desperately wanted to carry his bag after he'd gone on and on about how much money he had. As soon as the elevator doors closed, he kicked the elevator wall in frustration. There was a mountain of paperwork on his desk, some monster had been terrorizing the outskirts of Timber, and there was a new SeeD exam scheduled for the end of next week. He didn't have time for this useless weekend. The elevator brought him to the right floor and he stalked off, the strap of the duffel bag cutting into his hand he was holding it so tightly. He was just about to put the keycard in the door when he remembered.

Roommate.

With a heavy sigh, he knocked on the door. The voice that responded was not entirely surprising considering how his day was going, but he really hoped he was wrong. He wasn't. The door was pulled open.

"Squall! Great! Great, just absolutely great, come in! Come in!" Squall bit his tongue and followed President Laguna Loire into their shared room. "Isn't this amazing?" the irritating man and occasional father gushed. "I already took the bed by the window, hope that's okay! Oh, and they charge for the mini fridge! 300 gil for a bottle of water! Can you believe that?"

Laguna yanked his duffel bag away and tossed it on the other bed, then pulled him by his sleeve into the bathroom. Squall couldn't believe the number of hair care and facial cleansing products sitting on the sink top. "I took my share of the free soap and shampoo, but if you're not attached to yours…?"

"Take it," he grumbled.

Laguna's well-cleansed and moisturized face lit up, and he grabbed several tiny bottles from inside the shower. "Oh, you're the best. I knew I made the right decision rooming with you."

Squall filed out of the bathroom and flopped down on his bed. "So this wasn't a random assignment, huh?"

His father sat cross-legged on the other bed. "Goodness, no. I hate rooming with strangers. So I used my pull around here to finagle the assignments."

Squall pulled one of the pillows out from under the tightly tucked blankets and put it over his face. "Where's your security detail?" he mumbled.

Laguna waved his hand dismissively. "No need, you're here with me. That's how I justified the room switch."

Perfectly done, Squall thought. He'd give his left arm to bunk with some self-important CEO instead of the strange man who had contributed to half of his existence. Laguna probably thought this was an excuse to bond or something irritating like that. Even worse, Laguna might turn it into a slumber party. Luckily, President Loire was rather skilled at carrying on conversations with himself and proceeded to discuss all the sessions he was planning to attend that weekend while Squall settled in for a much needed nap.

--

The following morning, Squall woke up with a sickening feeling in his stomach. It might have been dread…or it might have been the really bad Centran Lobster Surprise they'd served at the welcome banquet the night before. He wagered that it was a little of column A and a little of column B.

Laguna, however, was already awake and doing jumping jacks in front of the window. "Esthar's…" Jump. "A beautiful…" Jump. "City in…" Jump. "The morning, Squall."

Squall moved from the bed and into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He went over the stupid banquet in his mind while he showered. The food was mediocre, and there'd been the simpering idiots who spent the meal hovering over Laguna, taking photos with him. Squall got forced into several pictures too, and he was sure to scowl in all of them. There'd been really delicious looking brownies served after the meal, but Squall discovered that they were really "Brownies of Friendship." He was expected to split each brownie with someone he hadn't met before – nobody could eat a whole brownie on their own. He'd taken one last longing look at his plate before he left the room, brownie-less and annoyed.

He kept the water on hot, trying desperately to avoid thinking about the brownies. It was a busy day. Two morning sessions – one a team building exercise and the other about communication. There was a break for lunch, and then the entire afternoon was reserved for some motivational speaker from Deling City. Squall grumbled, pulling on a pair of dress slacks and a button-down shirt, confounded entirely by this "business casual" stuff everyone had been blabbing about. Laguna was similarly attired when he emerged from the bathroom, although his father had opted for flip-flops instead of dress shoes.

"Squallo!"

"Don't call me that."

"Squall! Want to hit the breakfast buffet before the sessions?"

"No."

Laguna wasn't remotely upset by his declined invitation. The president handed him a sticker. "There's your name tag. I wrote it out myself."

And Squall could tell. The man had probably spent twenty minutes on it. Each letter was a block capital that was supposed to look 3-d, but the marker had clearly smudged. It looked more like "Squail" than anything. "Thanks," he replied, putting the sticker on near his shirt pocket. "Where are you headed?"

Laguna looked puzzled. "Well, I told you yesterday. Anyhow, my first one this morning…" His father picked up the official seminar guidebook. "…is 'Clear as Crystal: Promoting Accurate Communication and an Efficient Workplace' and then after that is the one about throwing the best retirement parties."

"Sounds fascinating," Squall replied, "I'll see you after lunch then."

Laguna opened his mouth to talk yet again, but Squall was already halfway out the door. The elevator ride to the meeting rooms on the second floor was probably the last bit of peace and quiet he'd have all day. The first session had an obnoxiously long title – "There is No I in Team, but There's an I in Working Together." It didn't even make sense.

There were chairs arranged in three rows, and he took the one furthest from the speaker's podium. He was joined by about a dozen rich looking men and women in polo shirts and khaki pants over the next several minutes. Finally, the session leader, a bubbly woman who reminded Squall of Selphie in 15 years, bounded into the room. She had on sweats and a headband and looked more like she was heading to the gym than anything.

"Let's get those chairs against the wall! Come on everyone!" Terrifying Future Selphie announced, and the other participants got up and started pushing.

Squall frowned and dragged his chair to the corner of the room. Terrifying Future Selphie introduced herself as Marly Gustaf-Brinkelwetter, but she encouraged everyone to call her Trix. If Squall got through the session without committing suicide, he hoped he wouldn't have to address her at all.

"Everyone in a circle, let's go!" The group arranged themselves, and Marly herself pulled Squall right in next to her, linking arms. "This session is about working together. You can't steer a ship without a full crew, right?"

The others replied, muttering affirmatives. Trix's grip on his arm tightened. "Our first exercise is just a little icebreaker. Let's go around the circle. Say your name and describe a time when you worked together with others." She looked right up at him. "I'll go first, and then Squail here…"

"Squall."

"Squall can go next! Okay! My name's Trix. I work with an incredible group of youngsters at the Dollet Day Prep Academy. I teach second grade, run the drama club and then do these seminars in my spare time. I'm so happy to teach little ones about teamwork but it's just as rewarding to help out adults."

Trix nudged him, and he wanted to run and hide from the expectant faces in the room. "Um, hi. I'm Squall." She nudged him again, probably encouraging him to speak up. "I…worked with my friends to save the world."

The others looked at him strangely while Trix grabbed him even tighter. "We do sometimes feel like our business, our work, is so important that what we do seems like saving the world, doesn't it everyone?"

"What?"

"Squall, please take this session seriously. It will only benefit you and your organization in the long run."

He gaped at her. "I wasn't lying! We did save the world."

"Come on, kid. Don't lie…we paid good money to come here," some burly executive bellowed from the other side of the circle.

Squall frowned. "Does the fact that you're not compressed in time mean anything to you? Any of you?!"

They continued to stare at him, Trix looking increasingly annoyed. One woman looked like she wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp – and she probably could too. She was the chief financial officer for a chain of gyms in Deling City. He wrenched his arm away. "I need a drink of water."

He stomped out of the room and into the hallway, his heart pounding. What was wrong with these people? He was toeing the line, wasn't he? He was attending the stupid session, and they thought he was joking? Squall moved to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. The first thing he would do when he got back to Garden was assign Rinoa some unpleasant task like cleaning up a polluted beach during a hail storm or serving as a bodyguard for a bratty child. That would teach her to sign him up for something without his permission.

He sighed noisily and departed the bathroom, returning reluctantly to the meeting room. When he came back, Trix waved him down, forcing him to join a small group of 3. "Good, Squail, you're back." He decided not to bother correcting her this time. "We need someone to be the center of this Trust Triangle."

"What the hell is that?"

Trix gave him a wary look. "Stand here," she said, pointing for him to stand in the middle of the three others. "They'll move you back and forth while you keep your eyes closed."

He looked at the three points of the Trust Triangle. A small, balding middle aged man, the beefy gym woman and the guy who'd complained about his icebreaker comment. The perfect three, he thought sadly. The next five minutes passed in terror as the big woman and grumpy guy jostled him back and forth while the small guy just kind of creeped him out.

After the Trust Triangle, he endured some juvenile parachute activity followed by something resembling a square dance in slow motion. Thankfully, he wasn't a horrible dancer and actually seemed to impress Trix. By the end of the session, he was sweaty and gross, but he didn't know anything about teamwork, other than that he hated it. Trix gave them all her business card when they were done, and Squall deposited it in the trash seconds after leaving the room.

He had a spare moment between sessions and decided to let some of his anger out on the person who deserved it most. Finding a pay phone in the hall and calculating the time difference between Esthar and Balamb, he smiled and dialed the number by heart. After four rings, Rinoa's groggy voice made him grin. "What?"

"Hey honey," he said in his cheeriest voice.

"Do you have any idea what time it is, you meanie?"

"I sure do." Six A.M. on a Saturday morning. All he heard in response was a growl. "I miss you too, Rin."

"How's the seminar?"

He couldn't pretend to be happy any longer. "This is the worst experience of my entire life, even worse than Seifer depantsing me in the Garden hallway when I was thirteen."

There was a pause and then a muffled giggle. "Seifer depantsed you?"

"Look, when this afternoon session is over, I'm coming home," he argued. "When I hang up this phone, I'm calling the air station and chartering their fastest jet to take me back."

"Oh, you can't do that."

"Watch me."

"No, Squall. I mean you literally can't. When I…well, when Laguna and I decided that you should participate in this weekend , we assumed you'd be a flight risk. Laguna had you put on the no fly list at the airfield so…"

"You did what?!"

"Oh, calm down. It's not the end of the world, Squall. You may even, Hyne forbid, learn something about yourself," she replied.

He gripped the phone receiver tightly. This call was supposed to make him feel better, not worse. "I have learned something about myself. I've learned that I hate seminars."

"I'm hanging up now, Squall."

"Fine." He hung up when he heard the dial tone and sighed. Stuck in Esthar all weekend and on the no fly list? Seriously? Squall wondered if Rinoa had managed to sneak a tracking chip into his shoe to make sure he didn't leave the hotel grounds…maybe he'd get an electric shock. He wouldn't put it past her – once her mind was made up about something, there was no changing it.

A quick glance at his watch revealed that it was time for the communication session. He felt like he was on a march to the gallows as he shuffled along the hotel corridor, the giant double doors at the end awaiting.

More jerks in polo shirts wandered around, patting themselves on the back for participating in such a "great" and "enlightening" weekend. Squall preferred a long trip to the dentist. At least there were no Trust Triangles at the dentist. The sign on the door read "Breaking Out – From Shyness to Eloquence" and he knew that Rinoa probably laughed her cute little sorceress butt off at that.

Luckily, once he was inside, the chairs didn't have to be pushed against the wall. He was able to sit in the back and was halfway to nap time when the speaker, some washed-up member of a rock band that was popular before he was born, decided it was time to "break out" as the sign on the door had indicated earlier.

The next half hour went painfully slow as Mick McElhouser (otherwise known as the Mickster) divided them into pairs and encouraged them to start talking. The Mickster seemed to be having some sort of drug flashback from his younger days and was playing air guitar near the speaker's podium while Squall and his fellow seminar attendees were encouraged to get to know each other.

Squall was paired up with some busybody airhead who ran a hair salon in Timber. He spent the next several minutes listening to her talk about her miniature poodle's bowel movements, but it beat having to talk himself. The woman, whose hair looked like a giant red cotton ball, monopolized the conversation until the Mickster wandered over and patted him on the shoulder. "Squail, what's kickin', dude?"

Squall frowned. "Just hearing about uh…" He finally decided to glance at the woman's name tag. "Dottie's poodle."

"Mister Fussybottom," Dottie informed the Mickster.

Squall nodded. "Yeah, that's the one."

The Mickster pretended to hit the cymbals on his invisible drum kit. "Rockin! Keep it up, break out, let loose! Oh, and I've got a new show on Monday nights on the Music channel. It's called Mick's Match, like mix and match but you know, not." The man handed Squall a flier. "Every week, I date four new chicks and then one of them moves on to the next round. Wanna know how?"

"Not really," he answered, looking at the glossy flier with disdain. The man wore clothes that were far too tight and was surrounded by about two dozen buxom women in bikinis.

"Pillow fight!" the aging rocker informed him. "I tell you, Squail, it's a pretty sweet gig."

"I can imagine."

The Mickster gave him and Dottie a thumbs up and moved on to bother the next pair in the room. Squall couldn't see any trash bins in the room, so he decided to save the flier for Irvine who would probably appreciate the heads up about pillow fights on television.

Finally, the communication session came to a close. Somehow, he felt like he'd learned more in this one than in the team building session. He knew more about poodle poo than he'd ever thought possible, and he would be the envy of Kinneas for being in the same room breathing the same oxygen as Mick McElhouser. Perhaps it would get the guy to respect him more.

Squall was grateful for the lunch break. He had an hour to forget everything that had happened that morning, and hopefully there would be no expectations to share his dessert. The seminar participants were corralled into the banquet hall from the night before. His stomach cheered at the tables of sandwiches . No little "Share me" sticky notes, no "For New Friends Only" labels on the packets of potato chips. He snagged a sandwich, chips and a bottled water and found an empty table at the rear of the room.

The sandwich was the closest he'd get to heaven this weekend. Another tray plunked down across from him, and before he could tell the guy to get lost, he saw Kiros' annoyed face staring back at him. "Please, you have to let me sit with you," Laguna's old friend begged him.

"Sure," he replied, grateful that he'd met the one sane person attending the seminar.

Kiros sighed and sniffed the sandwich. "Do you think they put any happy meds in the mustard? Half the people around here are on something."

Squall chuckled. "I think the sandwiches are safe."

The older man took a tentative bite and relaxed. "I swear to you, Squall. These seminars take months off my life. Your father and I go way back, but this is not how you treat friends."

"You're here against your will, too?" Squall asked, encouraged at the thought of having someone else to suffer with.

Kiros nodded. "Never thought I'd envy a man who couldn't talk," he muttered, and Squall couldn't see Ward anywhere. "Hard to participate in a seminar like this if you're mute. Lucky bastard."

Squall sipped from the water bottle. "We could ditch the afternoon session. Hide out somewhere."

The other man shook his head sadly. "No can do, kid. Laguna has already saved our seats for Guy Della Fiorella. We're on either side of him. For security purposes, he says. I think it's to make sure we don't ditch."

"Guy Della Fiorella? Sounds like a restaurant."

"It's our speaker this afternoon. I'm not kidding, Laguna made little signs and put them on the seats in the big auditorium. We're stuck."

Squall frowned. If Laguna spent a good amount of time on the name tags that morning, he could only imagine how frightening the cards in the auditorium looked. "Damn it."

They commiserated over the awful morning sessions. Kiros' jaw dropped after the poodle poo story, but he recovered in time to share his own stories. His first session was about writing effective memos, the only benefit being the free memo pad they'd handed out as a door prize. The other session, Kiros informed him, was led by a woman who apparently "looked like Sorceress Adel after several smacks with the ugly stick." Squall shuddered at the thought.

Their brief respite came to a close, and they both shuffled over to the trash. No time for dessert - Guy Della Fiorella awaited. The auditorium was already buzzing with excitement. It seemed that this guy was a hit on the seminar circuit, but as someone with half a brain and an actual life, Squall had never heard of him. He wanted to hide when Laguna stood on one of the folding chairs in the very front row and started flagging him and Kiros down.

"Hey! There's my guys!" he shouted. "Those are my guys! Get your butts up here! Best seats in the house!"

Kiros gave him a sympathetic look, and they moved over to meet Esthar's President. Laguna was beaming, probably happy that they hadn't ditched him. Squall's eyes widened. Not only had Laguna saved their seats with signs, he'd had t-shirts made. "Guy's Our Guy!" the bright orange and green shirts announced. He was even further mortified to discover that Laguna had put their names on the back like they were all on some sports team. Laguna already had on his shirt and held one out.

"This one says Kiros!"

Kiros sighed and accepted the shirt from Laguna, putting it on with the same amount of enthusiasm as a man facing a firing squad. "They turned out great, Laguna."

Laguna smiled. "It's this program on my computer. You just print them out and iron them on. Pretty classy, huh? Yeah, I think we'll have to get shirts for our next Presidential staff retreat." His father snagged the third t-shirt from the chair. "Squallo, I had to guesstimate the size. Rinoa said you go between a medium and a large depending on the shirt material, so I went with large in case it shrinks."

He was holding the shirt out with such an expectant look that Squall would have to be a complete ass not to put it on. But seeing as how he was in fact a complete ass from time to time, he shook his head. "I'm not wearing it."

Laguna turned the shirt around. "But it has your name on it! Personalized for you, buddy!"

Squall yanked the t-shirt away and settled it over the folding chair. "I'll wear it when I get home."

"Party pooper," Laguna teased him, and they all took their seats as the auditorium lights dimmed.

Squall frowned as some smoky stuff, probably dry ice, started creeping across the stage. Multicolored light beams zigzagged across the room, burning his eyes as some enthusiastic rock music started piping in through speakers overhead. Laguna elbowed him, handing him a sheet of paper with lyrics on it.

"It's Guy's song!" Laguna told him over the noise. "It's really great!"

It really wasn't. Squall squinted in the dark at the lyrics and almost longed to be at the center of a Trust Triangle once more as the gathered multitudes began to sing along.

"When you're down and out,

The work day's got ya down,

Brothers and sisters, there's no doubt

That you need to lose that frown!

Guy's our guy, sing and shout!

He's coming to your city and your town

Guy's your guy, sing and shout!

Della! Fiorella! The motivational clown!"

"Wait, this guy's a clown?!" Squall exclaimed as the crowd sang the chorus, and his eyes widened as a man about Laguna's age came bounding out onto the stage. He wore a neon green shirt with orange polka dots (hence Laguna's color scheme) and striped slacks in similar gaudy colors. His face was painted white with a big red mouth, and he wore a top hat with an orange flower to complete the fashion crime against humanity.

Laguna was still singing and clapping along, nudging Kiros every few seconds to sing as well. Squall was too busy being appalled beyond comprehension at the sight before him. A clown. A motivational speaking clown.

Guy reached the edge of the stage and waved, his voice booming through a microphone headset attached to his ear. "Good afternoon, Esthar Grand Hotel!"

The crowd nearly wet themselves in their enthusiastic return greeting. "Guy's our guy! Guy's our guy!"

Squall settled as low in his front row seat as he could as Guy's stagehands set up a white flip chart sure to be full of inspirational messages. Guy then flashed the audience his hand, and Squall rolled his eyes at the joy buzzer attached to his finger. The clown proceeded to give the stagehands an obviously rehearsed shock, and the crowd applauded uproariously.

"Everyone!" Guy announced as soon as the lights returned to normal and his stage set-up was complete. "This weekend is about respect, it's about teamwork, and it's about communication!" Squall was confused as to why Guy needed to be in full clown makeup to convey his message. The next several dull minutes passed as Guy started speaking about his history as a motivational speaking clown.

He'd been raised in Fisherman's Horizon, the son of a fisherman. Surprising. Expecting to follow in his father's footsteps, he had a tackle shop at the edge of town. Several boring fishing anecdotes and analogies later, he finally explained about some freak accident – a clown on his way from Esthar to Timber back in the day before the Sorceress War had gotten a fish hook lodged in his face. Squall actually found this part interesting.

The clown happened upon Guy's tackle shop but died from blood loss. From a mere fish hook in his cheek. Squall assumed the story was a crock, but the thought of stabbing himself with a fish hook was a new and exciting concept. It would certainly get him out of this damn weekend. Somehow, the clown's death inspired Guy to do more with his life – and get others to do more with theirs. The story was meandering and confusing, but by the end, the crowd was in tears. Even Laguna had fallen for it.

Guy then moved to his giant flip chart and lifted it to show the first page. "Communication is about talking!"

Squall lifted an eyebrow. Duh, he thought. It appeared, however, that talking was actually T.A.L.K.I.N.G. An acronym – and it became clear that all seven items in the acronym would be covered that afternoon. Squall was already asleep by the time "A" for Articulate came up. So he barely felt Laguna tapping his shoulder until a giant spotlight on his face woke him immediately from his nap.

"Squallo, we're up!"

Disoriented and confused, Laguna took advantage of Squall's present state and began dragging him up the steps and onto the stage. "Wait, Laguna...no," he managed to mumble as his body veered wildly from sleep to panic.

But it was already too late. He squinted against the blinding light as Laguna pulled him alongside Guy Della Fiorella's flip chart. He'd managed to sleep through whatever L and K were. According to the chart, "I" stood for Interesting. Squall froze in place, seeing the sea of expectant faces in the audience. Kiros was looking at him sympathetically. Somehow, Laguna had volunteered the pair of them for something, but Squall wasn't sure what that was.

Guy and his clown makeup were even more terrifying up close, and the man stood between him and Laguna, clapping a friendly hand on his shoulder. "Thanks for volunteering, President Loire! And who is your partner in crime today?"

Laguna beamed. "This is my son, Squall."

"Squall! You mean, Squall Leonhart, the commander of Balamb Garden?" Guy announced noisily in a clearly well-rehearsed manner. Squall's heart sank – Laguna had obviously planned this. Things did not bode well. The audience cheered enthusiastically, and Squall was mortified. Nobody had paid him the time of day earlier, which was fine, but now that he was Mr. Garden Commander again, he was an instant celebrity.

He waved politely to the crowd, but then went back to staring at his shoes, begging for a monster attack or another Lunatic Pandora to come and crash into the Esthar Grand Hotel. Guy smacked him on the back jovially, hard enough to make Squall wince. "So I is for Interesting. When we communicate with other people, it's vital for us to be interesting!"

Squall wondered where this was going. He found out quickly enough as some leggy assistants blindfolded him and led him to a wooden wall set up at the other side of the stage where he was then tied to it. "Okay! This is a trust exercise – Squall is going to talk to President Loire, and if what he says isn't interesting, the crowd is going to shout 'throw that knife!' and President Loire, sir, it's your job to either say something interesting to save Squall...or side with the audience and throw that knife!"

The blindfold was removed, and he could see Laguna just opposite him holding a sharp looking throwing knife. Squall struggled against the wall. This clown was one sadistic bastard. "What the...how does this...I...what?"

Guy merely beamed. "So it's in Squall's best interest to be...what's that, audience?"

"Be interesting!" the dozens of voices replied.

"You can do it, Squallo! I'll help you, buddy!" Laguna offered in encouragement, gesturing at him with the knife.

He scowled. "What the hell do you want me to say?"

Guy shrugged. "Mr. President, you can only prod him in an interesting direction. Communication between two people is essential in business and in private – it's important for both parties to engage one another and remain interesting."

If Squall heard the word "interesting" one more time he would probably murder Guy Della Fiorella in front of the entire audience. Laguna scratched his chin. "Okay, Squall, why don't you tell us about Rinoa?"

He shook his head. "No way, she's off limits."

"Throw that knife! Throw that knife!" the audience chanted in sadistic enjoyment.

Laguna smiled and moved the knife back and forth between his hands. "Okay, okay, that wasn't fair. Um...here, let's give you another chance. Um, could you tell me what you think of this seminar? And be honest, and more importantly, be interesting!"

Guy nodded feverishly at Laguna's suggestion, and Squall was starting to feel lightheaded. He didn't know if it was the lights, the sandwich from lunch, or the stress of Laguna holding a gleaming knife, but he could barely control the stream of words that emerged from his mouth. The audience fell utterly silent as Squall unleashed a verbal barrage against everything the conference stood for, the state of the food, the speakers in the sessions, and he was speaking so quickly and at such length that even he didn't know what he was babbling about any longer. All he knew was that his last sentence was...

"...and the fact that this pathetic conference has hired an ex-fisherman clown with no discernible usefulness or worth to the human race to try and motivate you has thoroughly convinced me that you are all sycophantic, brainless, sheep-like morons who ought to be frozen and launched into space like Adel so I'd never have to see any of you ever again!"

The hush continued, and Squall took several heaving breaths. It appeared that he'd shocked Laguna and Guy Della Fiorella into silence. His own father's face registered utter amazement, and Guy's gaping red mouth was open like a gasping fish.

Maybe he should have been nicer. He cleared his throat. "So um, that's what I think of this seminar. Can you let me go now?"

The audience remained silent a few more agonizing seconds later...until they positively erupted. "Throw that knife! Throw that knife! Throw that knife!" The stage was soon littered with cups and other debris, and Squall himself was smacked in the leg with an orange and green "Guy's Our Guy!" sombrero.

The chaos threatening to overtake the proceedings, Squall was quickly untied and dragged off stage by Guy's crew, Laguna shuffling along after him. It appeared that the clown was doing his best to recover, as Squall overheard the man telling the audience that his words had been a joke. Laguna, usually calm and easygoing, did not speak with him.

–

Rinoa stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. "Do you have any sense in you? What is wrong with you?"

He shoved his clothes into his duffel and zipped it in a huff. "They told me to be interesting. I chose honesty instead," he informed her. After the debacle at the auditorium, Laguna had had Kiros personally escort Squall back to his room where he'd been sequestered for the remainder of the weekend lest one of the seminar attendees attack him. Rinoa had only just arrived, and Laguna was still smoothing things over with event staffers.

Rinoa looked ready to kill him. "You're the commander of a Garden, for Hyne's sake. You told a group of the most powerful people in the world that you'd like them shot into space! And Laguna says you don't even remember the bit about feeding Guy Della Fiorella to your girlfriend's dog! These are the people that hire SeeD you know."

Squall shrugged. "I didn't want to be here."

"Do you have zero business sense?" she screeched at him, throwing his dirty clothes from the hotel bathroom floor at his face. "You don't even know how many enemies you've made this weekend."

"I don't really care."

"Squall, what am I going to do with you? Laguna's down there arguing exhaustion and food poisoning on your behalf to the press. Quistis has been working non-stop since last night writing a public apology for Garden to issue in your name, and then I spent the entire flight over here arguing with everyone else to determine whether you're even fit to be commander."

He smiled. "I prefer to be in the field anyway. If I get demoted, I wouldn't have to go to any of these stupid events."

She walked over and punched him in the arm. "You're impossible. I can't even imagine you saying half the stuff you said...seeing as how you're usually quieter than a corpse."

Squall rested his hands on his girlfriend's shoulders. "Rin, can we just go home?"

"On one condition," she replied, her eyes narrowing.

He rolled his eyes. "If it gets me the hell away from Esthar, anything."

She shoved his hands off her and reached for her purse, tugging out a pamphlet. Rinoa pushed it into his hands. "You'll attend this and you'll behave yourself."

He frowned at the advertisement for the 17th Annual Dollet Anger Management and Recovery seminar, scheduled for the following weekend. "Anger management?"

"Don't worry," she informed him. "There won't be any clowns. And plus, I'm going too. After this stunt you've pulled, I could use a seminar like this myself. We can be roommates for the weekend there."

He crumpled the pamphlet and tossed it in the corner of the room. At least he'd be sharing a hotel room with her then. The thought pleased him. "If you need to get your aggression out in a...physical manner at this other seminar, let me just offer myself as..." Rinoa raised a hand to smack him, but he backed away. "Fine, fine. But you promise about the clown thing?"

"I promise. I hate clowns."

He hoisted his bag and put his arm around her waist, escorting her to the door. "Good. Let's get out of here before Laguna tries to institutionalize me."

They snuck out the Esthar Grand's kitchen exit and made it to the air station unscathed. The President of Esthar never invited Squall to the leadership seminar again. And somewhere over the Estharian desert, a "Guy's Our Guy" t-shirt fluttered into the sands, having been dropped from a passing airship thousands of feet up.