TWO


Sobriety brings clarity. Stone sober, the idea of being the lost child of monarchs is laughable, the product of an alcohol drenched brain and highly unlikely.

I'd like to stay in my apartment for a repeat performance, to numb myself for the next week, but rent is due. I go to day labor and pick up a job hauling concrete blocks from one pile to another and sweat my ass off for eight hours for a paltry sum that is far less than I'm worth.

It's thoughtless, idiot work that requires nothing more than a strong back, but they pay in cash and they don't ask questions.

I do it again the next day, and the day after that. Wash, rinse, repeat. I don't think about Sevillia Massey and her heartbroken pleas. I don't think about much at all.

It isn't until three days later it occurs to me, there's an easier way. One that doesn't involve me breaking my back for a handful of Gil or, when times are really desperate, foraging through dumpsters for discarded valuables to sell at the pawn shop.

After all, I might be the prodigal son. Even if I'm not, if I play it right, Caius Massey might just come back from the dead.


Sevillia Massey stares at Zell with a cool and calculating gaze. Her eyes sweep over him, from his polished boots to the collar of his jacket. It's predatory, the way she takes him in, and he expects to be torn apart any second now. He stands at attention, his hands clasped behind his back to keep from fidgeting with the toggles on his SeeD uniform. He feels like a bug under a microscope, the next meal for a hungry dragon.

Selphie stands beside him, all but bouncing with excitement, her green eyes are all twinkle. She can barely contain herself, but Zell is nervous. It's rare that he is ever given a leadership role, even if Squall recognizes his potential, a long list of screw-ups work against him when decisions are made about who is assigned the point position.

If only he could control his mouth.

The only reason he's in charge now is because Selphie is even less experienced a leader than he is. She might be Squall's friend, but he does not trust her to follow the mission directives. Either she would turn it into a party, or something would explode.

"I suppose you'll do," Sevillia says. "You understand, anything we discuss privately stays that way."

"Yes, ma'am," Zell says as Selphie chirps, "Of course!"

"You may call me Lia, if you wish," she says. "If you'll allow me to call you by your first names as well. I prefer to keep things informal among my staff."

Zell is fine with that, but he's still unsure of the scope of this contract. There are few details in the mission briefing and most pertain to financial matters. Zell isn't interested in payment. He gets paid the same, regardless. What he needs to know is why they're here.

Lia stands and smooths her hands over fine silk. She drifts across the room to a book case full of leather bound classics and runs a finger along their spines.

"I'm not convinced that my father and brothers deaths were accidental," she says. "The two of you are here because I no longer trust my staff, my family or my security detail to protect me."

"You think someone wants to kill you?" Selphie cries. "That's so scary!"

"Perhaps," Lia says. "Or maybe I'm just being paranoid. I wish I could say this was the first time these concerns have come up, but it isn't. You've been briefed about my son's disappearance, I assume?"

Zell nods and his heart squeezes with empathy at the sadness he sees in this woman. He can't imagine surviving so many tragedies intact.

"In addition to serving as my personal guard, I'd like to ask you to conduct an independent investigation into the possibility that someone close to me has committed these crimes against me and my family," she says. "I don't know if there's anything to be found, but your commander tells me that you're especially good at research, Zell."

Zell likes to read, he has a good memory, and his brain is full of useless facts, but he's not sure that translates into a talent for research.

"I'll do my best," he says.

"I'm sure you will," she says. Her fingertip brushes over the framed photograph of an infant. "I don't want to believe that someone so close would hurt me, but I can't rule it out, so I'm asking you to be merciless in your investigation and in your reports. Don't shield me from something you think might upset me. I'm not a fragile woman. I can handle whatever you discover, even if it hurts."


It isn't until three days later that I work up the nerve to devise an approach. There's money in this, if I play my cards right.

I've done my research. The Massey's are wealthy beyond my comprehension. They're not just some archaic dynasty that survives on name alone. They own a company that holds exclusive rights of manufacture for all of the G-army weapons, a contract that ensures their protection and continued independence as a nation. They employ thousands of people and Dollet's economy is built around Massey Enterprises.

Sevillia is head of her own company, a high end women's clothing line that specializes in formal evening wear and lingerie. If the rumors about her are true, she is a smart, savvy and formidable woman.

She won't be fooled easily, but she might pay to make me go away.

I clean up and shave and dress in my best, which isn't much. Slacks with no holes or stains. A dress shirt. My everyday boots with the mud cleaned off.

I have second thoughts as I approach the gate of Sevillia Massey's personal estate. Like they're just going to let me walk right on in. Like a hundred others haven't tried the same scam already. Who am I kidding?

It's too late to back out. The guard at the gate has spotted me and his face drains of color. He stammers something into his radio and steps out of the booth.

"Nic?" he asks. "Is that you?"

I don't know who the hell Nic is and I don't care.

"Nope."

The guard looks closer, shakes his head.

"S'pose you're not," he says. "You're younger, but damned if you ain't the spittin' image."


Zell stares at the Massey family tree he's drawn up to keep all the names and relationships straight. Anyone born with Massey blood is a Massey. Those that marry into the family take on the Massey name. There's too many too keep it straight.

He's spent the last few days researching the family history. The Masseys have ruled Dollet for over 500 years and they have never lost power, even when under siege by larger nations. Every attempt at occupation has been thwarted and repelled. They are small, but powerful and they've managed to stay independent through smart trade agreements, and until the last ten years, a highly skilled army.

"What do you think of Lia?" Zell asks Selphie. "Think she's hiding something?"

"I dunno," Selphie says. She examines her nails and picks at her cuticle. "Her whole family died. That's sort of a free pass to act weird, isn't it?"

"Didn't say she was acting weird," Zell says. He examines the family tree. "Her uncle's still alive. And his kids. And some cousins."

"I meant immediate family," Selphie says. "Anyway, I don't think she told us everything. There must be someone she suspects, right?"

"Maybe," Zell says.

The door to the study opens. Lia, dressed casually today in jeans and a man's work shirt, enters the room with a carafe of coffee. She sets it on the table, next to the sugar and cream and joins them.

She pours for the three of them. Her posture ramrod straight and her face a mask of indifference.

"Find anything interesting?" she asks.

"Sure," Zell says. "I didn't know all this stuff before. Dollet doesn't come up much in the history books."

"That's because, for the most part, we keep our noses out of conflicts and try to avoid going to political extremes," she says. "We're rather boring when compared to Galbadia or Esthar."

"Got any major enemies? Business or personal?" Zell asks. "Gimmie a place to start, because the history lesson is interesting, but it doesn't tell me much."

Lia sips her coffee and the mask slips. She's bitter, maybe angry.

"You don't belong to a ruling family or run a successful business without stepping on some toes," she says. "Around the time Caius was born, there was a movement to overturn the dynasty and implement a democratic style government with elected officials. They made a lot of noise, but Dollet has never truly been ruled like a kingdom. We operate like a democracy, we serve the country and its people and try to be fair in our decisions. We're not tyrants or despots or dictators..."

She pauses to sip her coffee again and her passivity slips away. Her quiet, smoldering fury reminds Zell of someone, he just can't place who.

"I was supposed to be in that house when it burned," she says. "Along with my father and my brothers."

"You were?" Selphie asks. "Ohmigawd, what happened?"

"We were delayed by traffic," she says. "If I arrived ten minutes earlier, I wouldn't be sitting here now."

Zell curses under his breath and mentally adds her to his list of suspects. So far, hers is the only name on it.


I sit in a small but ornately decorated room on the first floor of Sevillia's mansion. Beyond the heavy, silk drapes is a view of the ocean and the beach to the south. At the door, a uniformed guard says nothing and stares at me like he wants me dead.

They almost called the cops. The only thing that saved me from a trespassing charge was my apparent resemblance to a dead man and the chain I wear around my neck.

The longer they make me wait, the more anxious and trapped I feel. I want a drink. I want to get up and pace the room. Fight the guard. Get the hell out before it's too late.

It was a mistake coming here. A mistake, and I'm an ass for thinking I could extort a grieving woman based on circumstantial evidence.

By the time the door opens, I've been here twenty minutes, and my mouth is dry and my nerves are shot. I expect to be arrested or hauled out by the collar of my shirt, but there she stands and I feel sick.

In person, without make-up, the resemblance is even stronger. If I were a woman in my 40's, I would look like this. She's taller than she appears on the screens, solidly built but lean, and her hands are large, broad, and the same shape as mine.

Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks and she stares at me, through me, and moves closer. Instinct says run, she will strike me, try to kill me, claw my eyes out, but if so, I deserve it.

She stares at me. I stare back.

My throat is tight and I sweat underneath my dress shirt. What I say next isn't as much of a lie as it should be.

"I think I'm your son."


Author's Notes:

Thank you to laylaevercrest for the review and the subscription!

Ao3 gave this a much warmer welcome, so updates might continue there and be suspended here. We'll see, I guess?