Seifer bowed his head under the spray of the shower, the lukewarm water serving to cool his heated skin. The Training Center was still more jungle than building, and even without his trademark coat the ex-knight had gotten overheated. But he wouldn't have expected anything less from his first rematch with the SeeD Commander himself.
He'd… well, he'd lost, really; there was no way to excuse Squall's gleaming blue blade at his throat as he lay prone on the mossy ground. But Seifer blamed that weapon more than his own lack of skill. Sure, Squall's skills had improved amazingly since the start of the war; he'd gotten valuable experience fighting all types of monsters and enemies from all over the world, instead of fighting the only other gunblade user in Balamb Garden over and over. But he'd also acquired about four other gunblades that were better than the model he started with, and each one better than the one before it. Lionheart was a gorgeous piece of work, and its shots were more powerful than he'd ever considered.
Whereas, for his part, Seifer hadn't been using the battles he'd fought to further his skills, only to win by whatever means necessary. He'd found a handful of techniques that worked most of the time and stuck to them until they proved unsuccessful on a particular opponent. And his blade… When he'd been released from Ultimecia's control, Hyperion had been a scuffed up, dull mess of a weapon. He almost hadn't been sure if he could salvage it, but he had kept working on it, little by little, whatever chance he got. The first thing Squall had said to him upon his re-admission to Garden was to challenge him to a duel, and Seifer had been forced to stall him until his blade was in presentable condition. Today had been that day, and Seifer was ashamed at how poorly he'd performed. He had to get better.
Smirking darkly to himself as he rinsed his hair, Seifer noted how the tables had turned. Now he would need to train under Squall, only about eight short months after the opposite had been the case. But the tables weren't just turned, they were more like flipped over. Squall was the mighty hero who'd saved the world, and Seifer was the hated villain who'd come crawling back home with his tail between his legs. His face twisted into a scowl, and he rubbed the soap over his lightly tanned skin a little harder than was necessary.
Officially, they'd had to recognize that Seifer had been under Ultimecia's mind control, and none of his actions were really his own fault. Officially, he'd been let off with no punishment. In reality, however, nearly everyone in the world knew his name and his face, and hated them both with the fervor only angry mobs could manage. His trial had been one of the first worldwide television and radio broadcasts made since Adel was finally defeated. So not only had Seifer been forced to relive every grueling detail of his actions—now without the numbing effects of Ultimecia's magic—but the entire world had also been witness. They all knew about the missiles launched at Trabia and Balamb, about the battle between Galbadia and Balamb Gardens; and for the first time, Seifer had learned the exact number of children and teenagers that he'd killed.
Turning the water to just slightly hotter than his tolerance, he placed both palms against the wall and hung his head between his outstretched arms. He closed his eyes as the water ran over his pained face. Even just walking around in Balamb town, he'd gotten a host of different reactions—all bad, of course. People had crossed the street to avoid passing him, or ducked into the nearest shop to escape his presence. More vocal individuals had actually gasped or cried out when catching sight of him, and particularly brave ones had called him things like "murderer" or "monster." His reception back into Balamb Garden had been equally disturbing. In Garden, instead of bystanders simply being outraged or terrified, now they were armed and outraged or terrified. Over the past six months since he'd returned, he'd been challenged to more fights than he could remember, and that was when they bothered coming at him from the front. In addition to having his gunblade on him at all times, he also carried three knives and—when he was ever permitted to leave Garden—a concealed handgun. Even right now, in the Training Center communal showers, his smallest knife was within the folds of his towel, on the bench to his left.
He was never safe, never at ease. And neither was the Garden staff—all the instructors and staff members were keeping a watch on him at all times, supposedly for both his own safety as well as others, but there'd already been one "altercation" between Seifer and a few older cadets that had been conveniently "overlooked." He was lucky no one was able to cast magic on him, or he'd probably already be dead. As it was, anyone who wanted to try and get revenge for something or another that the ex-knight had done was forced to try and physically overpower
Seifer balled his right hand into a fist and pushed it into the white tiled wall in front of him. Deep down, in the darkness of the back of his mind, he knew he deserved everything he got. Why the hell shouldn't he be hounded at every turn, attacked from behind whenever he let his guard down, and have his every meal poisoned? Why the hell was he even alive, after what he'd done? Being under a sorceress's control was no excuse—he remembered every moment of the war, felt every drop of blood on his hands.
Pain—sudden, burning pain shot through his body, arcing from the base of his neck down the front of his torso. Seifer grunted lowly and pressed a hand instinctively to his chest, and felt an unnatural split. He moved his head out of the water and opened his eyes to examine himself.
"Aah, what the hell?!" There was a huge gash, open and bleeding, diagonally across the center of his chest. Bright red blood—too much blood—washed down his body with the water and swirled into the drain at his feet. He simply gaped at the sight, frozen in shock.
It was a clean cut, as though from a sharp knife, and deep. 'How did this happen?!' He knew he was alone in the shower room, and a glance over to his towel showed it to be undisturbed. The room started to tilt slightly as he turned his head back to stare at the wound.
"What's wrong?!" Squall exclaimed, having been summoned into the room by Seifer's cry. The blond turned around with wide eyes to see him standing in the doorway, a towel around his waist and his pale body in a ready stance. Ice-blue eyes went wide at the sight of the bloody wound, and he instantly checked the room for a possible assailant.
Seifer shook his head slowly, feeling a chill despite the steamy room. Everything seemed to be in slow motion. "I don't know…"
As the room tilted dramatically and started to dim, Seifer distantly wondered how Squall had suddenly gotten so close, and how in the world he was taller than him…