I wrote this fanfic years ago, when I was still very obsessed with FFVIII. I unfortunately do very little writing now. My strength nowadays is in beta reading, which I would very much love to begin on this site. I am required to submit at least 6000 words in order to qualify as a beta reader, so here it is. If you end up liking this story, please do say so, and I will post the rest of it, as it is a finished project on my computer. Please consider me as a beta reader!
~veritasargent
A red sun was just beginning to dawn, a deep crimson color in the east that tainted the clouds as if a giant's blood had spilled across the sky and dried there overnight. That was the sun's color, a deep blood red, that slowly, slowly would change to a deep orange and then to a fine yellow. But crimson was the only color that emerged now, along with the azure blue of night that still lingered in the west, reluctant to retreat to the brighter skies of morning. The sun's rays were barely starting to show over the black, rocky crags to the northeast, still snow-capped even in late spring. The mountains of Balamb never fully melted, even under the heat of summer. It was almost a magical snow, for the mountains were not very high compared to the other mighty ranges around the world. Balamb was only a small island, after all, not a great land mass. The snow on even some of the tallest mountains around the world, towering over Balamb's pitiful peaks, always seemed to melt by early summer. Not in Balamb. Some ancient sorcery seemed to prevent the snow from melting, keeping it white and deep throughout the summer.
The mountains' silhouettes cast a darkness over Balamb Garden. The air had a stinging bite to it, but there was no wind – only the steeled weather of early spring. Dew was scarce to be found, even on the grassy plains to the south. Here in the rocky foothills it was unheard of. Grass and meadowland were only found in sparse areas. Other than the red beacon slowly strengthening in the east, the sky was gray and empty. Nothing stirred save two figures who were just stepping out onto a high granite plateau that stood as a mesa over the basaltic fields below.
Saying nothing, the two figures drew their weapons. Majestic gunblades for each. Over four feet long, the heavy broadswords sported thick hilts. Built into the handles were black triggers which fired a single bullet along the shaft of the blade at an opponent. It was a master's weapon, and a dangerous one in the wrong hands.
The two figures, one garbed in gray, and the other in black, started sparring. They were only training, but their weapons were deadly nonetheless, despite not being allowed to use the triggers of their gunblades. The figure in black was easily winning. He struck again and again, his gunblade flashing in the light cast from the rapidly rising sun. The other only prayed defiantly for a victory as each blow was carefully parried. As the one in black stopped to catch his breath, his training partner pulled the trigger. The young man in black dodged the bullet, but had dropped back a few feet, out of blade range.
The one in gray smiled an evil smile and, eyes twinkling, beckoned his partner on. As the man in black ran forward, the other fired again unexpectedly. The figure in black threw up his hands and leapt out of the way. He fell, gritting his teeth in anger.
Angered by his partner's dishonesty, he cursed and started to his feet. He raised his head to see the taller youth standing over him, gunblade held high.
Blood streamed down his face, and pain seared through his forehead. The figure in black picked up his gunblade and slashed in a wild arc, not caring where his blow landed. He felt his gunblade make contact, and before everything went black, he heard his gunblade ring as he dropped it on the rocks.
