My first attempt at a Seifer/Quistis story. Feedback is much appreciated, so is constructive criticism, I don't need flames thanks. Hope ya like.

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters of The Taste of Crimson; all I own is the place that I made up. I might have changed the characters slightly to fit my purpose whatever. Don't trip ya.

~Hoarfrost; The Taste of Crimson, November 14, 2003

Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger
constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood,
garnish'd and deck'd in modest compliment,
not working with the eye without the ear,
and but in purged judgement trusting neither?
Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem.

William Shakespeare

*

Chapter I

Seifer Almasy hated the smell of blood; it reeked his hotel room and offended his clothes.

If he smelled hard enough, he could tell what his victim ate three hours ago. But if he managed to sniff that hard, he was sure to fall to the ground mentally exhausted. Because the odor of blood stained the walls with the flimsy smell and even the carbon monoxide floating in the air didn't make the smell disappear. As he hoped it was.

But it was all worth it. The adrenaline that rushed through his veins and the crimson staining his hands. It was worth it, seeing the pride that glistened upon his sword. He ruffled his dyed black hair as his eyes rested upon the dead body that lay upon the hotel floor.

He still hasn't moved from his original spot. His mind constantly dwelling on whether or not he should throw the body from the window. The blood drenched the off white carpet and it spread underneath the body, making an outline.

He scratched his chin, kicking the body once again; making sure the person was dead. He wasn't going to make any false moves. If he was going to get himself jumped, it wasn't going to be by the person he should've been cautious about and killed correctly.

He smiled. Paranoid no, but extra careful that was him. Hell yes that was him. Too many times where he let himself grow weak and coy, letting himself depend on somebody like a pussy. And after those too many times, his ass almost got killed.

He let out a breath, too many close shaves. Even if it was only twice, that's still twice too many.

He swore to himself, what the hell was he was going to do with the body that reeked of death. That began to turn blue from the liquids inside exploding from the sudden death. He tucked a black cane underneath his pit and sighed. His mind wasn't quite made up but he bent down, slipping his fingers underneath the neck bone.

He smiled upon the body and dragged it towards the balcony window. The sky was beautiful that night, the stars danced above him and the moon glistened. It was going to be a helluva night. He hauled the body over the rims and watched it drop to the river.

He glanced at the wallet that was still in his hand. His index finger flipped open leather plastic and inside a picture of a family emerged. The man and what seemed like his wife, with four little ones. He grew curious, slipping out others and finally he reached a picture of a blonde woman with huge tits. Well at least he killed the bastard before the man's wife did. Only Hyne knew what the wife would've done.

Probably surgically removed his balls.

He wiped his hands upon the white jacket that he wore and slipped his body out of it. He held it in his stained hands and tucked it underneath his pits. While strolling towards the door as he listened to the soft sounds of owls crowing. It was his exit cue; he pressed the elevator button with his cane. And with it's painted on golden doors, he walked inside.

He was appalled that they let him get away with another murder. But it wasn't their first mistake; never let a murderer out of site for a second… they might walk all over ya. He smiled, twirling the cane around in joy as the elevator beeped, indicating that he was on the first floor. Suckers…

Catch me if you can… He whispered as he prowled through the lobby with his head tucked down. And the jacket securely tucked underneath his arms. He was waiting for him to be caught for he could laugh in their faces for they could know that he was underneath their noses the whole time. What a joy that would be, to see that he didn't mind at all being caught. He won that was all that mattered.

He stopped before a trashcan and dumped the jacket inside and slipped off his gloves. Throwing them inside also, he glanced around and continued walking down the slippery streets. The streetlamps were dimly lit and the taxies sped through the night. Not even a soul were outside and not a whisper were heard. Good, that was the way he liked it.

Silent.

The way he has been for three years. He wasn't going to say a word; his mouth was sealed for if he opened. Hyne only knew that secrets were to be unfolded and he was going to be the one unfolding them. Like a traitor and she would be blindly furious, like lightening in a storm, silent but deadly. He wouldn't betray her. He wasn't that foolish.

Why, his heart was still bided to hers and love for her was untouchable. She still held him in a special place, made him feel like nobody ever before. She made him worthy. At least feel worthy. Even though he dreaded the nights as he sipped through the darkness, preying for food and a warm body to lie by. But without her… none of that would be possible. He would still be underneath the thin line of the Garden and hell he made a lot of things possible for the others. They should be grateful… instead of hunting him like a fucking dog. But he played their games; he hid when he was supposed to and fought when he could.  

He wasn't giving up so easy; she wouldn't make him her knight he did. His head bent low as he crossed the streets. The bright lights from the dim apartment shown, he sighed looking up and into his window. The murky home of his… Awh but it was all he could afford but he'll be damned if he wasn't proud. Proud to say that…

He shook his head as he jogged up the crumbling cement steps and towards the dark door. He kicked open he door for it was tricky and only opened if it was greatly forced. And he walked inside to the flickering bulbs and stared as the backwards 2 on his door. He sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets and butting the door, flying open.

He flicked on the lights, the only light in the whole damned complex that actually WORKED. And slithered out of his combat boots that was still a bit tarnished. He yawned and threw himself against the sofa that its cotton pushed out through and its springs hung loose. He clicked on his television and stretched across it.

He wouldn't give up, not in a million years. He winced; his head throbbed, pounding against his head. They were probably fixing the damn transmitter again. He smiled throughout the pain, remembering the thrill he felt as he ripped the cords out of the machine that was located in Balamb's basement. The controller, his controller. He swore as the pain continued to linger.

His hands trembled as he reached for the pack of cigarette that lay on the table. He pulled out one and slipped the liter into his other hand. He slid the cigarette into his grateful mouth and lit the cigarette, sighing. He closed his eyes as the transmitter began to make faint beeping sound. He leaped off the couch, swearing and muttering as he picked up a few shirts off the floor and into his other pile of clothes.

They were fixing it. No surprise there, he dropped to the ground… holding his hand in agony as tears welled up in his eyes. Fuck, it hurt. It throbbed like no other. Son of a bitch, they fixed it. No surprise.

The tears dripped unto the wooden floors, and made a small puddle. The beeping and the pain all together ceased, and he was joined again with silence. They were near. He was too tired to bring himself off the ground and to begin running… No maybe he wasn't tired. Maybe he didn't have a place to run.