Act Two - shards
i - in wolf's clothing
"Oh, I get it. You don't feel anything at all. You're the type of guy that two weeks from now, you'll be stopped at a traffic light and all this will hit you and when it hits, it'll hit hard. It'll hit you so hard that your heart will burst into a hundred pieces."
"He who loses control, loses!"
-Homicide: Life on the Streets
***
It smelled like rain.
It didn't often smell like rain anymore. His faintly aquiline nose was used by now to brine and human flesh flavored with a hint of napalm. So accustomed, in fact, that it plagued his senses like Richard the Leonhart back from the Crusades in some cheap Robin Hood parable. The faithful outlaw called out from his triumphant guerilla was by the mere hint of a royal decree.
Rain was important. No reason why. Just was. Rain was important like the wind and the sun and the earth below him - and rain was where he'd decided to run from the world like water.
Said rain was currently washing a fortnight's accumulated salt and mud and grime off of the side of the Fallen Garden. SIlver rivulets might have made a pretty site, but for the clot of grey-black clouds above. To love such weather would be foolish. But to appreciate the camouflage of mist and waves and sheets of noise was not. Though to say exactly who or what it was camouflaging, and to what purpose, would not be conducive to the young man's pride.
When it smelled like rain it felt like rain too. A nurturing sensory deprivation of air and water. It was a clammy sort of rebirth - like spring, but without the annoyance of melting banks of snow or the random stenches of animal and vegetable. And the hairs on the back of your arms felt that little bit more...
Whatever.
"Sir, incoming transmission from Esthar airspace. You want I should patch it through?" the comm. system crackled, disturbing one very tired young man's repose. That was another thing about rain - it had a tendency to lull you to sleep. The one-and-only lullaby fit for a child of empty seas.
There was alot of static, drowning out the water. Raijin and his crew must have been at the wiring again. .... Damn.
"I'll take it," Squall verbally nodded, rubbing a half-sleep out of his eyes. Clear patched drizzled incessantly over his windows, which only managed to make the small office look even more grey. But he honestly didn't envy Fujin Martine's - not with the kind of access he had to the central staging area.
The commander was practical like that, though his sense did not extend to keeping any semblance of regular hours. Responsibility has a way of defying logical thought processes sometimes. Like symbols and talismans and superstitions of the ilk of Martine's room.
And it kind of meant something to her, though he honestly couldn't say what. It was.. important. Symbolically, or whatever. He didn't get the room, but he did get the gesture. And if he'd bothered to think about it (which he didn't) that was probably why he felt so comfortable working with her at all, when it was so obviously against his (would-be) nature. There were very few people in this world that Squall Leonhart would consider getting, and even few that he actually might understand. On some level or another.
The pads of calloused fingers ran over a stirling-silver lion's head as the screen on his desk blinked to life, drawing his attention away from the roiling clouds outside.
"Leonhart," one word was all it took. If you were bothering to call Squall Leonhart, then you were in possession of the very privileged information that he was, indeed, alive. Or risen from the dead - whichever one preferred. And if you could be trusted (at at the very least begrudgingly granted) with that fact, then you were probably of sufficient proximity to the Garden command to know that the day Squall bothered with conventional manners would be the day he died. So if you dropped the respectful sir, or the customary prefix, he wouldn't mind. Probably wouldn't even notice.
"We need to talk."
Usually.
"What do you want?"
At least he hadn't used Loire.
What the hell? He'd had this man screened out. There was a reason they had a comm officer. Wasn't Fujin around to deal with this? Why wasn't Fujin around to deal with this? Of all the times for Fujin to be off in one of her non-dependable moody periods (which was rare enough that few people had anything to complain about, and often enough to annoy Squall for reasons that he didn't care to name) this was not it.
Not that he wasn't able to deal with it, with the white noise of rain in the background. Not at all.
His Impassive Neutral voice was going quite well, actually.
"Look... I'm sorry. I'm really really sorry about everything even though it's useless and stupid and stuff. And if there was a way I could make it up to you. But I can't," the green eyes in the screen looked.... wide. And just like Squall's own. So he stopped looking at them, because he found the rain more interesting anyways. Eyes never change. Windows on the soul? In what universe? "And we don't have time for this."
Business before pleasure. Good. There was no pleasure to be had here. Loire would do well to remember that. He seemed inordinately attached to unprofessional values of life in the moment that undermined his credibility better than any genetic remnant or accidental heroism.
"I'm listening," Leonhart stared out the window with unblinking cats eyes, as impassivity reared its ugly head.
And rain trailed down the plexiglass to meet at passive junctions.
"Squall.. erm, Commander Leonhart... we have a problem."
We?
He did not often use the word. Inclusiveness implies culpability, and culpability is not an asset. Lesson #5, Negotiation Tactics 3-20 (Advanced SeeD Training Stream).
"We?"
"Those of us not professionally kissing Seifer Almasy's ass," Leonhart did not bother to track the open gesture path of two faintly pixellated hands. Nor did he marvel at the backdrop - a miracle of modern science in trasparence and blue. Squall focused on the water - because its song was much more pleasant to the naked ear. Was he trying to make this funny? Whatever.
And then the silence came. And it was Good.
"Klaus Odine went missing a week ago," Lore continued - voice was smooth and baritone, like rocks polished at the bottom of a creekbed. The man had been an actor. This he knew. The soldier had seen the movie in his youth. It had poor production values, an an unimpressive historical perspective. "And there is so no way he got out of out airspace without Neo-Galbadian help."
"And you want me to do what about this?" Funny, how he could keep his face so still while the president raced through contortions unknown. Strange, how it took so little effort that the lion barely thought of it, barely acknowledged it, as the numbness draped over him - painkiller of an old blanket.
"I'm just.. letting you know, m'kay?" Was Loire skittish, now? Did he feel remorse, or indifference, or a practiced relief? He was an actor. And Leonhart couldn't tell in any case. He refused to look at that man. He refused to rip his gaze from the window. The solder took no marching orders now. "We'll pay you for him back. He's needed for the Space Program."
The sound grazed past the lion's one pierced ear, then lost itself in clammy sanctuary. With their ventilation problems, it was a miracle the air was moving at all.
"Why should I believe you?"
"Excuse me?" a pencil-thin black brow arched. Loire's face was flushed.. expressive and inappropriate.
An actor. Was this an act? The solder was no patron of the theater - sentimentalist trash.
Whatever, Loire.
"Why should I believe you? Why should I care enough to trust that information? You people put us here - so let us do our jobs."
Lesson #12 - Trust is secondary. Mission is primary. In the absence of a mission or a designated partnership, there will be no trust. The enemy will take advantage of you. They'll feed you false information over your own radio.
And then they'll leave you so far. So far behind. So far behind in what? What does it matter? Any way you put it you still lose the race.
"So what.. I'm your destiny now?" Loire was upset. Whatever. " Our whole freaking generation are the fates? Is that it? Kid, for Hyne's sake... what, do you want history to reset just for you? Stop blaming me for you being out there... we've had this conversation before. Yes, I feel really really sorry for leaving you behind and it was the biggest mistake I've ever made, okay?"
Spare me emptiness.
Wolflike, Squall ignored his father studiously, preferring to stare off into the depthless dove-grey sky.
"But where the hell do you get off dumping your problems on us? If you don't take out Almasy soon, kid, we're all gonna be in some extremely deep shit. And despite the fact that you don't seem to care and stuff - I'm sure those kids with you do! Stop living in the past, kid.. look, I hate having to say this. You have no idea how much I have having to say this, because it prolly means you'll never speak to me again and that's so the last thing I wanted. You have to believe me - it's the last thing I ever wanted. But blaming us ain't gonna help anything."
Squall bothered to look at the President for the first time, then, eyes half-lidded and impassive. Father - his father was upset. Very. His father was upset and sincere and a thousand other things that perhaps only a skilled actor could have communicated to one Commander Leonhart. ".. whatever."
Guillotine, his words where. Cut the ties that bind - they'll fray anyways.
"Always wanting to fight against the tide.. but somehow, the whole damn world seems to want to thrust itself into your hands. You're your father's son," the man smiled wryly, shaking an absurd amount of coal-black hair from his vision. He was smiling? This couldn't' be. An act. An act. An act. Bravo, President Loire. " Believe it or not, I'm almost kinda proud of you. And you're gonna have to do what you have to do some day, 'cause you're the only one who can."
No time for encores today. It was raining. Rain was important. Not because it caused his leather jacket to stick ever-so slightly to his skin, or because it threw down inner peace from the heavens. He remembered now. The tempest would interfere with Neo-Galbadian tracking equipment, and allow them to move into a more secure position.
"I have other buisness to conduct."
Get off the stage. Actor. Don't smile at me through the telescreen like you did when you saved Sorceress Aela from the big bad dragon and you grinned onto film your happiness at being her Knight. I've seen that smile before.
".. kay then. Don't say I didn't warn ya.."
"Goodbye."
"Good luck."
On two sides of the world bathed in two Hyne-sent
deluges, two uncomfortably identical mouths breathed a sigh. And
then moved on with their day.
***
On the bridge of the Fallen Garden, the shadows had melted into the light.
No, not by magic. Though one of the goddamn sentimental pansies that trussed their dorm room up with unicorns and paper flowers might think so. This was nothing but the fuzzy, elastic, imprecise light of rain.
Screw it.
With a stomp, and a pace, and a dignified huff, the fluorescent lights mercilessly dispatched any tendril of atmosphere that might have been brewing in the midsize observation chamber. Which was of course the point.
The bridge of the former Galbadia Garden had two captain's seats, and that was good. One for Cid and one for Edea, Fujin supposed, though when her goddamn majesty was supposed to have been making use of these she'd never know (her role in this little freakshow was a bit of a mystery.. what the hell kind of moron would bother even contemplating screwing Cid Kramer when they had Seifer Almasy of all people!? ). It also - as of exactly two months, six days, fifteen hours and twenty-two minutes ago - had a coffee machine. Not that frothy airy-fairy cappuccino crap - real coffee. The kind that took a bite out of your tongue and kept you awake (and oh-so addictively alert) late into the night.
This too was a good thing. A Fujin without her morning, afternoon, evening, or snacktime coffee was an unhappy Fujin indeed. And it was a bit of an unwritten rule in the Garden that if Commander Asher wasn't happy, nobody was happy.
So despite the oddity of its presence among sleek pretty-little next-generation consoles and sleek pretty-little next-generation soldiers, the coffee machine stayed. On a clammy day like this, it was all she could do to keep from clutching at the sweet warmth of her styrofoam cup for dear warming life. The light was fuzzy, the world was grey, she was bored, and if she didn't' find something to think about soon there'd be hell to pay.
Speaking of which, in came Squall. A Squall who looked like hell. That he got even less sleep than she was kind of disturbing, and in a way even offensive, since Asher prided herself on an unhealthy work ethic.
Gulp. Coffee. Yum. Third cup this morning.
"What happened?" Fujin bothered to disengage her mouth from the cheap disposable cup. Dammit, they needed more utensils and tableware. Why couldn't army caravans ever carry anything useful, instead of the hull full of cannibalized parts they were currently hauling around in the vain hope of pawning off some black market scrap metal?
This was her was of asking how his day was. Since he looked like hell, and actually asking how his day was would have been both unprofessional and really bloody wussy.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Yeah. Right.
Random note to self: never again attempt to operate on black market with large flying fortress of destruction. They needed more money. More money to by coffee. Good, wholesome coffee that keeps people awake and happy and not in some damn self-destructive Squall mood.
"What happened?"
Fujin did not humor people, so she just sat down while he stood stiff as a board.
".....Loire."
Well. Well, well. The obvious returns.
"I ... see."
And she was suppose to help this how? Stupid Squall. There had to be a tactical report around here somewhere.. or at least Raijin to kick. Stupid Raijin. Ever since he started working with the kids he was all off on this pansy 'kids shouldn't' see violence, ya know? Ya gotta set an example as their commander ' kick. Though she'd never admit it, this was not good for Fujin's stress level.
"Just forget about it."
Neither, for that matter, was trying to get a strait answer out of the now-sitting fetish-shop posterboy. Sometimes, talking to Squall was like pulling teeth. Your own teeth.
"If you say so."
If he wanted to be left alone, his problem. She had the coffee machine by her chair, and the proverbial stack of reports to fill out. Well, not actual reports. But someone had to keep track of how much money they were making, and Seifer (Fucking) Almasy had always made her do his taxes anyways.
"He says that Almasy has Odine."
"Odine?" Shit. That didn't sound right. " What the hell would he need that psycho for?"
If Fujin knew Seifer (and Fujin knew Seifer) he did nothing without a reason. Even if that reason involved psychotic, delusional ideals and hyper-romanticized dreams.
"That's what I'd like to know."
Squall did not look at Fujin. Fujin did not look at Squall. And the large, black flatbed screen they were staring at certainly wasn't about to look back to reveal any sort of divine character insight.
So the albino let her hand wander over to the scaldingly warm (it did not hurt, dammit) pot and pour a lazy paper cup. Which was promptly transferred over.
"Here."
"Balamb roast?"
"Yeah."
"Thanks."
"No problem."
Seifer had loved coffee.
And misery loves company.
***
At a third point in space, circling 'round the same point in time, two other men were sighing. But their world was neither rainswept nor wrought with conversational landmines, nor did they sink into a ritualistic silence, so that was alright.
The problem might have been a lack of proper atmosphere. Their particular abode was far from pleasant, or engineered to facilitate dinner parties, brilliance, or scientific progress. It was, in fact, pretty damn useless. Unless, of course, one wants straight answers.
"Fucking morons."
Beware of crooked answers. They get you tied to a chair in cramped little room in the Delling Citadel, complete with the charming smell of urine, spent gastric juices, and sweat. One unsanitary little deathtrap, where the corners were shadows and they spurned the sinister electric shock for the more old-fashioned torture-interrogation method of punches to the gut.
Punched from faceless, unnamed soldiers like those who had just worked over a good portion of Klaus Odine's intestines. The hellhounds that had been called down on him from the self-appointed General of the Crusade.
"Vat zeee.. zees is an outrahge!" the scientist hacked, thankfully without blood. Sir Almasy had not liked it when, thirty-four hours ago, the professor had dared to mar the leader's pure white mantle with a flack of cross-sword's red. That was when they had broken his right leg. Had he gone to sleep since then? " I demand zat you releaze me immediahtley! I have zee... how do you say... connections! Zees vill not be.."
Had he said that before too? Couldn't remember. Couldn't remember much of anything, but the sporadic bursts of formulae that flahsed with mayfly accuracy through his mind - doomed to die without pen to put to paper.
And the face - the only lit one - was starting to get blurry.
"Shut up, old man," did it speak?
"Vat do you vant?"
If he asked it nicely, would it stop? Could he give it something? Where the ropes making his wrists bleed into their unforgiving fibre, or was that his imagination? Had his circulation been cut off there long ago?
"I've got an offer you can't refuse."
Well yes. Odine already knew that. Doctors do.
"I'm liszening. Anysing.. anysing you vant...."
Odine, no matter how much he would endure to retain his space project funding, was not that stupid. Not at all.
Oh, how nice. The scientist's head was lolling back. And the nice solders poured some water down his gullet. It had grown dry and raspy with all the screaming.
How nice. He wanted to die. He wanted to fly away from here. He needed sleep.
"You're going to make me my very own remote-controlled sorceress to play with!"
Oh - he had Odine's old bangle too, did he? That must be the only way he'd know. yes certainly! More reaserch. Good. So good. And blackness comes to nurse away the pain.
Fly away, now. Fly away.
***
Happy happy day. It was a happy day.
Sir Seifer Almasy was in a good mood. A very good mood. A good mood of such fine vintage and rare lineage that the very birds in the trees below his floating fortress broke out into song. No napalm for them today!
"Excellent news, Mistress!" the Knight verily floated into his Sorceress' room. Or.. stalked at least. Prowled? No.... no stalked would do. Seifer stalked through the halls with a lupin grace slowed down by force of habit to more loping, catlike speeds.
His Sorceress - so no, he did not fucking need to knock, thankyouverymuch. Besides which, despite their inactivity during the last few months.. well.. it wasn't anything he hadn't seen before.
"There.. there's been word on Selphie and Zell?" Rinoa eyeshadowed herself into prettiness, staring into the large mirror of a pine vanity he'd had brought in from Timber. Yes, Timber. What did you tink it was named after, a goddamn animal? "Oh that's great! I hope they're okay. Do you like this dress?"
Her Holy Majesty did not bother to look back, so Seifer could keep grinning with that delicious little edge of fangs.
"Better than a dress, my liege," the blonde kept a good three feet back. At one time or another, he might have whispered it with just the right amout of breath and body heat into her ear. But that was when Heartilly was a spoiled kid on the town for an 'adventurous rebellion against horrible cruel Daddy'. Out for a fling with one of the soldier's that'd come to town on leave, and been Garden enough to be labelled the Wrong Crowd. Not a Sorceress.
"What do you have in mind, you bad boy you," the sorceress giggled, turning and poking him in the nose with her index finger for... no apparent reason. Sorceresses did not giggle. He'd have to make a note of speaking to her about that. Though admittedly, she giggled alot less than when they were dating. Probably because that asshole Leonhart had been inconsiderate enough not to die by Seifer's hand. Pansy-ass fairyboy wasn't even useful in his grave.
"We've tested a new... weapon. A magical drive. It shall simulate the Sorceress effect, so we won't have to dispose of your friend."
"Oh Seifer.. I knew you'd see that killing Quistis is wrong! You just spent too much time in those horrible repressive Gardens. She just needs help, the poor thing."
"Don't worry. I have the best doctor I can
think of on it. He knows what he's doing - he's even a Professor."
***
Let's say, hypothetically, that somebody was kind of sort of spying.
You know, hypothetically. It was Zell Dincht's Word of the Day. See, 'cause Ma had gotten him this calender and sutff, so he had to totally read the thing for vocabulary or else Ma'd be pissed, and now the one he'd taken from that officer a few weeks ago reminded him of her. Ma said that if he sounded smarter he'd get more chicks. And she wanted grandchildren. So.. like.. yeah. That's always good, hey? And Grandpa was so damn smart with stuff and all, so Zell should at least make an effort right? Pass on the ol' Dinch blood and traditions and.. umm.. stuff.
So, in a hella hypothetical way, let's say someone was spying.
'Kay, so they're spying, right? And they're right arounda corner kinda wedged between a bulkhead and some useless flashing console thing on the bridge of Galbadia Garden. Their muscles are reeeeealy cramped from being there for like hours and hours and hours, but they so did not trust that Fujin bitch. Even after all this time, 'cause evil lies in wait and lurks and all that, and damned if they're going to let their only living thread get chewed up in the path of Fujin's bitch of a rebound.
Right.
Now, while they're spying, Psycho Fujin gets a call on the really big screen at the front with the crappy resolution. So she takes it, adn it turns out to be that femmy guy... whatesisname... Kiros. And he talks alot about who Squall's dad is, though, even though Squall's never told Dincht this. But he'll all sensitive and shit.
So she's talking to the guy - complete sentences and everything - and then who comes on screen but Laguna Loire in the flesh, baby! Damn... to be Laguna Loire. All the guns in Esthar, and half the chicks too. Not to mention a celebrity.. that guy lived it up. Well.. y'know. Not in the strictly disciplined way Zell did, but well enough. For a non martial-arts guy.
Then he's all 'I wanna hire you' and she's all 'what about Squall?' and he's all 'he'll come around.'
Come around!? The fighter didn't damn well think so. Shiiiiiiiit.. she was selling them out. Or.. at least selling them without Squall. So she was just selling him an' Zell out, since Squall and Zell were friends and all as much as anybody was ever friends with Squall. Which was enough, Zell guessed. Enough for a guy like him.
And she goes 'we need the parts. There aren't any Gardens to haijack' and he seems sympathetic. Then you see 'em talking more, and you're soooo pissed but what can you do? Damn your back hurts. The metal is cooooold. And then she all says she'll support then and stuff if we have to and Squall agrees, and Loire starts asking kinda wierd questions for a president who's not gay to ask about some guy. Y'know.. personalish questions. That she kinda half-answers when she can.
What!?!
So Fujin and girlydude were were working together all along. . Not fair. So not fair. I mean, yeah, when you looked back it seemed like they'd tried to talk to Squall, but still! No wonder their stupid lame Posse broke apart. Damn traitors.
"I know. I love my son, Commander Asher. I want us all to live through this."
"Survival indeed."
"I can't thank you enough, either. I mean.. I gotta make sure... "
Bloody hell
What if they found out something really important? What if they found out that Squall's dad was.. checking up on him and trying to hire them and shit even though Fujin kept saying no?
Well, if someone did that they wouldn't be able to tell enyone anything, would they? Because they were spying.
And you know what? That fucking sucked.
But it was alright. 'Cause Squall saw anyways,
even if Zell didn't know it. He'd come to find his friend and stuff,
and then he'd heard it all. Since really, spying's not all that hard at
all when your flying base is so shadowy.
***
This was ridiculous.
It had right from the start been cursed with a certain amber tinge of the absurd. A vibrant, bacterial shade that struck at the unsuspecting from behind the Garden's edged grey pillars and benches benched of chic industrial grating. They were young. They were powerful. They were free. And they had no idea what the hell they were doing parting the ocean at two hundred miles an hour. No real grudge to drive them on, besides a hate of the world so ephemeral as to be naught but vapor without the added steel of mutual companionship. There was no longer a scourge of survival to harry their heels, now that they could just take what they wanted. And they wanted. They wanted so many many things. It was no small miracle that their rebellion against cause unspoken hadn't degenerated into some kind of tequila party weeks ago.
Some of them were soldiers, true enough. But some of them were just teenagers. And some of them weren't sure which of the two made for a better option, with no chance of holding all the cards in either seat.
Lucky they were, to employ so strong a charcoal as to filter out irresponsible citron glee through a haze of coal-grey smoke (or, in this case, alabaster fog and a deceptively generic caucasian mist). That Taoists might have called it yin and yang in a moment of unabashed cliché as the two were male and female. But they were too the same for that. And since when was grey black and white, anyways? Grey gets far less than the respect it deserves.
Back, then, to ridiculousness.
It is a well-known fact that color blindness is far more common in the male of the species than in women. Perhaps, then, it was inevitable that half of the morally-ambiguous stereotype shade would mistake the aforementioned amber glow for something other. Refracting it through forest irises until that innocently unruly sunshine wavelength was transformed into the toreador's red.
In short, Squall Leonhart was sick and tired of it. Because this was ridiculous. These... children were ridiculous. Their day to day, temporary, aimless survival in the face of global domination was ridiculous. The salt air was ridiculous - where on the open sea was there to hide? Zell Dincht and Raijin Kasim, so secure in their little jokes and their poor-man's happiness were ridiculous. His mission, nonexistent, was ridiculous. Laguna Loire wanted him to be a hero, which was also ridiculous, since Laguna was a hero and Laguna admittedly hated himself.
What was he thinking? Ridiculous.
Fujin Asher was ridiculous too. Ridiculous. Ridiculously mooning over some arrogant, delusional, violent loser too wrapped up in his own little world to accommodate anyone else's. And able to be soldierlike beside it, with a professionalism that demanded his respect despite her occasional.. 'moods' being utterly absurd. Laguna Loire was ridiculous, for being a man that professed to love him. Love him. Despite the fact that for all intents and purposes the Hero of Esthar had thrown Squall out to be raised by the wolves. Ridiculous, that they would form some kind of unholy conspiracy against his sanity.
Ridiculous!
What had he done to them, to make them do this!? Hadn't he done his job properly? Hadn't he gone where his father had sent him? He was what he was supposed to be.. why the hell did they care?
I don't get it.
He too must be ridiculous.
Why am I here?
He didn't need anyone. Anyone. Leave him alone - that was the refrain of a melody that had played for seventeen long years.
Why am I here? Why?
This was not the job. This was not the score. This was not the law and this was not his calling. He would not be bonded to this.. gaggle of opaquely non-sensical youths. He wasn't getting paid. He was being stupid.
Leonhart. Weak. Who would have thought it?
Why am I....
He didn't need this pressure. This stress wasn't his - no not his. When did the lion agree to take responsibility for a pride? That wasn't in the contract. There was no contract. Another reason he was being ridiculous.
I don't get it. I just don't get it. Some day.. will this all make sense?
That was, perhaps, why he'd bothered picking up their little conversation from outside Martine's gutted office.
And it also might be why he was sitting in the Garden's spartan garage. Brooding, and looking at the door. For once actually thinking about the twist in his gut and a mysterious hangnail pain in his heart. No rain to watch drain past the window, washing his pain away with implied tears in their smooth, dark ride. No phasing out to the rhythm of the skies.
In another time, on another world, in a different place with less soldiers and more uniforms, Squall Leonhart might have felt the hand of passion. Love could have cradled him - a sunny smile. A warm embrace. But there is no love in an empty room. And there are no embraces from a substance that is confirmed to exist only in theory, a force that has yet to be broken by scientific dogma into becoming something tangible. In this world... love did not have the privilege of being that which finally broke Squall Leonhart. He came to the brink all on his own, in an empty gasoline-stained parking garage.
Not the love of angels wings or spaceships or castles in the sky. Not that kind of love that would have counted.
***
Up Next: The shit well and truly hits
the fan when Seifer gets a new toy to play with from jolly Santa Odine.
In act two, chapter two - the ballad of sleeping beauty.