"Galbies"
by Skandranon
Summary : Irvine deals with anti-Galbadian sentiments at Garden.
Irvine ducked his head lower over the papers he was grading and tried to lose himself in them. At this angle, the brim of his hat covered his face and hid his reaction to Squall's topic of the day.
"I say we bomb them all. Fucking Galbadians are always stirring up trouble. We sent twelve missions last month with the sole purpose of stopping the havoc they cause. We could save costs if we just bombed the mother blighters." Quistis nodded enthusiastically and offered some good targets. Top of the list was Deling.
Just ignore him. It's how he lets off steam. Just grade the papers.
The conversation went on for awhile in that strain, and wound around to jokes. By the time it got to "How many Galbadian girls does it take to screw in a light bulb – one, but you might want to wash it off afterwards", he figured he could reasonably head to his next class early. Surely twenty minutes wasn't too long a planning time.
At his classroom, he found the other side of the problem, and threw his briefcase at the wall.
Squall just didn't understand how much the students looked up to him. How much they worshipped every move he made, and strove to be just like him. And they did a good imitation, occasionally.
After a breathing session to compose himself, he retrieved his bag and set to erasing the graffiti of the board. Some of it was quite clever, actually, but… oh come on, GalBADian is the best you could come up with? Whoever wrote that, you seriously need Remedial Insulting 101. And the creator of the SeeD stick figures shooting the Galbadian stick figures needed some art training as well.
At two on the mark, most of his class filed in. Trust SeeDs to be punctual; they expect to get graded on it. He listed those absent, and went about teaching his lesson.
It wasn't anything big. If it had been, he wouldn't have hesitated to send them off to Cid for detention. Some girls whispered and snickered during his discussion on status defense junctions for desert climates. A boy in the back fell asleep. Some threw each other knowing smirks occasionally, or rolled their eyes when they thought he couldn't see them. What, they thought the metal fire extinguisher cabinet in the corner wasn't perfectly positioned for him to see behind him? Lazy students haven't been studying hard enough.
He chose to ignore it, and by three they were all gone and he could collapse in his chair for a moment. He contemplated erasing the blackboard or just leaving it, knowing what would be on it tomorrow.
Things got a bit more troubling when Galbadia invaded Dollet. Again.
It was on the net news every day. Lists of how many troops had been killed – always Dollet troops, mind you. Photographs of civilians caught in the crossfire – they exaggerated the numbers, he knew. That was why every report said "nearly eighty" or "nearly twenty".
Squall had claimed "Galbadians suck" as his theme for the month, and wouldn't shut up about it. Quistis would argue loudly with Cid or whoever would listen that Garden should step in and kick Galbie butt. Irvine was close to taking meals in his room. He could feel it coming, the thin line where Squall would one day look at his orphan gang friend, and realize that their "friend" was one of "the enemy".
The students had gotten worse. The few Galbadian SeeDs had acquired mysterious bruises and cuts that they refused to explain, and many of them had put in for transfers. Some of the Galbadian trainees had just dropped out. He heard more whispering and snickering in his classes, and occasionally the words "redsuit" or "cottonmouth", which he knew referred to Galbadian officer uniforms and accents, respectively. Once he got hit in the head with a paper wad, but he didn't catch sight of the perpetrator, so he tried to ignore it. It hadn't happened again, thankfully. Students were usually respectful to their teachers. They knew that their teachers had weapons and permission to use them lightly for punishment.
Even Selphie picked up a little of the hatred, though she was more sensible about it. She turned to him one day, during a broadcast of a burning Dollet fire station – oh the irony – and asked, "Are all Galbies like that?" He'd grimaced at the word and replied "Not all," but part of him wished she'd already known the answer. She should've.
When Balamb Garden did get involved in the war, Irvine began eating in his room and requested a teacher aid.
The students had hung banners in the halls to encourage the troops. One read "Kill the Golems". Another slang for the Deling uniforms, which admittedly did look like golem armor a little. But that the officers had let them hang that in the halls…
He didn't get the teacher aid. He knew the decision had gone through Quistis' hands, so he asked. She cited the war as limiting available manpower. She threw in a few "damn Galbies" for measure and Irvine back out of the conversation as quickly as he could.
Classes got downright dangerous. A student tripped him as he walked along the aisle passing out papers. More paper wads to the back of the head. A braver fellow tried to "accidentally" smack him with a notebook, but he ducked in time. He sent them all to Cid, of course, and then ground his teeth as they came back with a note reading "They're just letting off steam. The situation, you know". Bloody Hyne, Cid! If I can't trust the higher ups to support my authority, then I don't have any.
The worst of it came one night when Selphie dragged them all to a bar for some "stress relief". Every net-vid in the place was tuned to the newspages' latest war clips. He tried to keep his eyes down, but he felt himself glancing up frequently to see what picture went with the words he was hearing. "Nine injured". "Building collapsed". "Many homeless".
He had been looking up at the sentence "Though heavily outnumbered, the Dollet troops put up a valiant effort and managed to secure most of the docking lanes" and saw a friend die.
Willis Maerskin. Short fellow, cheerful, a bit pudgy but he'd never let it bother him. A few years older than Irvine. It'd been Willis that'd bought him drinks at fifteen, when some girl – he'd forgotten who – had turned him down. She'd been the light of his world at the time, but Willis had helped him get over her. And it was Willis that lay dead in the streets of Dollet, killed in a "valiant effort".
He couldn't remember the rest of the night. Clearly he'd had some more to drink, and he'd probably been a bit angry, because he woke the next morning with bruises on his jaw and a hangover. He was befuddled enough to go down to breakfast for once, and was welcomed with Squall muttering about a certain "drunk cottonmouth" throwing a "hissy fit".
He couldn't remember much of that morning, either, but one way or another the table got knocked over. And one way or another he ended up in the brig.
It was on the last day of his detention that it ended.
He was trudging back from seeing Cid – again, for yet another talk about "anger management" – when he passed by Quistis' office and heard the phrase "bomb Deling".
And not in the usual wistful tone either.
He paused long enough to hear "tonight" and "about damn time".
Oh Hyne. Dizzy. Deedee.
Squall must've been on his way out, because he whacked Irvine with the door moments later. Leonhart instincts meant a gunblade was at his throat immediately after. "What did you hear."
He didn't remember what his response was, but it made him proud of his insulting abilities.
Quistis was in the hall now too, looking stern. "Irvine, you decide, you decide right now where your loyalties lie. You're either a SeeD or you're not."
"It's not that simple."
"It is now," Squall growled, and leaned on the blade just a fraction.
Irvine gasped a breath. "It's not. I have friends in Deling. You're gonna kill them."
"We're not your friends?"
"Charred- I have more than one group of friends! One… one person. Please."
"What?"
"One person. Just let me…" gasp, "…let me warn one person." Two. The blade inched closer. "Not warn them. Just tell them to leave town. Please."
"This is a war, Irvine."
"The person's a civilian! Let me save one civilian. Just one. Please."
A scowl crossed Squall's face, but at Quistis' gesture he dragged him into the office. "You do this," Quistis stated slowly, "and that's it. You don't make any more fuss, and you don't tell anyone about this. Ever."
"Swear."
"You tell them just to leave town, not what's going to happen, or so help me we'll kill you here."
"I swear."
She set the phone to speaker, and pushed him towards it. "Dial the number."
Desaree's manager picked up on the third ring, and gave him her cell number. She picked up after only two.
"Hey Minx, it's Slinger."
A long pause. "You burnt bastard, I oughta hang up on you right now."
"Don't. Please."
She caught his tone, and hesitated. "Is this line secure?"
He glanced at his two guardians, and snorted. "Yeah. Of course. Minx, I need you to get out of Deling right now. You hear me? Take everything you care about… everything you care about," he let that sink in for a moment, "and drive fast as you can outa town without getting stopped for speeding."
"And then what?"
"Just keep driving. Go now."
"Gone." A click and a dial tone.
She had understood him. Within ten minutes she'd have her daughter Desmona Darcy – Deedee - and whatever cash and clothes she could scrounge packed into her car and headed for the nearest highway. He allowed himself to collapse into the nearest chair with a groan.
"Minx? Slinger? Is this line secure? You want to tell us something, Irvine?"
"Just nicknames. And she's got an ex she's paranoid about."
Quistis leaned towards him intently. "Bull. Just whose side are you on, cowboy?"
He stared back at her silently. He didn't have an answer.
Author's Notes - written because my FFVIII Larp group has developed a worrying hatred towards Galbadians.