C h a p t e r II

-

"A G a m e o f C a r d s "

-

--

Balamb.

Secure in the back, Squall said nothing to his driver, nor to the SeeD escort at his side. They were both young men, fresh from graduation. The last batch of graduates had seen a dramatic decrease in traditional combat roles-- machine guns, guided weapons, all focused on a distinctively ranged infantry mindset. No gunblade experts. Not even a swordsman.

While he saw and understood the need for capable ranged combatants, Squall felt something akin to disappointment in the rapid change; a reliance on technology, after all, led to increasingly rare GF and para-magic activity and training. Slowly but surely, they were becoming Galbadia all over again.

Perhaps this was a good thing, however. While an understanding of the mystical side of things was required to combat the Sorceresses, a new age of SeeD as general peacekeepers would require more practical solutions rather than magical ones. Truth be told, Squall had just about resigned himself to living the rest of his life in a mundane world of machines, content without the threat of nightmarish creatures haunting his every waking hour.

Still, he mused, I almost miss it.

"Are you all right, sir?" his rifle-wielding escort asked, grinning despite his obvious discomfort, clad in an armored, helm-bearing variant of the standard battle uniform, akin to a G-Soldier. Squall shrugged, feeling the fresh scar tissue along his side tighten as he did so. The Cura had done the job quick, but he could never get used to the sting.

"I'm fine. Just thinking."

"I'm a little nervous, myself. This is my first mission since I came back from FH, and.."

"Hm?"

"..oh, it's nothing.."

"What is it?"

"...it's just that, well, it's you. I never thought I'd be on a mission with Squall Leonhart in a million years."

"...?"

"You're like, the champion of the old guard, man! You're the SeeD."

Old guard?

"It's only been two years.."

"Well, yeah, but most of us will never see the kind of action you guys got during the Cry and everything. You're living legends!"

He wanted to slap him. He wanted to tell the kid to be grateful he'd never have to see not one, but three Sorceresses lay waste to the planet. He wanted to tell him about the sleepless nights, the flashbacks-- Deling City, the cold touch of death crawling up through his shoulder. He restrained himself, however, allowing himself a disparaging hiss. He curled his fists in his lap-- a quiet suggestion to his colleague to drop the subject.

"It wasn't worth it."

He would save those stories for another day.

--

B-Garden, Headmaster's Office.

Quistis' lift stopped at the top floor, her feet gingerly floating her out of the elevator and into the main office. The heart of Garden had undergone a few changes since the transformation-- mostly aesthetic alterations to make the transition to the shelter's hover mode less traumatizing on the furniture. Gone was the Headmaster's desk, replaced with a recently-installed command console to circumvent the perilous trip to Garden's lower levels. Usually supervised by at least one faculty member, the station had seemingly been abandoned by the SeeD crews-- a lull in the shift switches, maybe?

"I was told you wanted to see me..."

The Headmaster paced beyond the control module, his shirt sleeves rolled up to just above his elbows, his sweaty palms locked into each other behind his back. He looked worn, tired of the countless deals he'd had to strike over the last few days just to arrange the Dollet/Galbadia meeting he wouldn't get the chance to oversee himself. His familiar vest was ragged, wrinkled and unbuttoned, his inner shirt moist with perspiration.

"Are you all right, Headmaster?" she asked, unable to deter her gaze from beads of sweat running down his cheek.

"Ah, Quistis...yes, yes. I'm fine." he lied.

"What did you want to see me about, sir?"

"You're aware of the Centra trial underway?"

"The last SeeD candidates, yes. Have they returned yet?"

He continued to pace, making his way to the front of his office, his eyes still dodging contact with Trepe's own as he moved his hands from his back to his vest pockets.

"...no, I'm afraid not. We lost contact with both teams and their supervising instructors some eight hours ago. I've instructed Nida and his crew to remain on standby for full mobilization."

"We've lost them? How?"

"The Centra trial was initially a joint operation between SeeD and the G-Army; we were to engage and apprehend former Dollet soldiers involved in an assassination plot against the new President."

Finally slowing his march, he came to a stop in front of her, hands stuffed deep into his pockets as he stared at her through thick-rimmed glasses. He was beginning to feel the hindrance of age working through him, making him weak.

Squall had relinquished control of Garden in the hopes that his predecessor could adapt the SeeD to a new purpose in the coming time of peace, but with each passing day, the older, weary Cid Kramer was beginning to believe he would not live to see that day. Many had noticed the steady decline in his health-- too quick, too sudden to be natural. He was sick, but no one spoke of it. Even with Edea at his side, he could not handle the burden of SeeD for much longer.

"Xu's recon teams confirmed them as members of Blue Heaven, a Sorceress-worshipping cult utilizing the Centra ruins as a staging area for their planned 'invasion' of Deling City."

Quistis had a vague recollection of the Blue Heaven group-- they'd seen evidence of them long before the Cry, but they were little more than orphaned delinquents back then. In recent years, they'd expanded into a kind of pirate organization, preying on anyone brave or foolish enough to cross them. Even the White SeeDs had felt their wrath in the past few months. Why, then, she wondered, had they not acted sooner? It was about time they went after those crazed extremists-- and with more than just a few cadet teams.

"So there are still Galbadian operatives there! Can't we contact them?"

"No, Quistis. The G-Army pulled out of the operation, protesting our moderation of their ceasefire discussions with the Dollet Dukedom. Instructors Zindel and Barret agreed to continue with the operation as planned, using the remaining SeeD cadets as frontline troops for a full-on assault on Blue Heaven's headquarters. They each took a team of four."

She recalled meeting Cait Zindel at the last graduation ball. Formerly of Trabia, she'd taken quite nicely to life at Balamb; nearly every student of hers since her arrival passed their field exam on their first try. With the increase in monster activity following the last Cry two summers ago, she'd been the only instructor able to keep such a spotless record, something that garnered a great deal of respect from the older Garden faculty. One of her latest students was even being called 'the next Squall Leonhart', of all things.

"I don't understand. Why didn't you tell Squall about any of this before he agreed to take part in the meeting with the Galbadian delegates? We could've addressed this with them in person--"

"I..I didn't want him to find out.."

"What? Is something wrong?"

Cid stroked the bridge of his nose, sifting through the clutter in his mind to find words to express the delicate situation he'd been tasked with resolving. This was no routine mission, it seemed-- their first expedition to Centra since Edea's recovery was thought to be cursed from the start, and this certainly seemed to imply there was some truth to that belief. Trepe bit her lip in anticipation of his next sentence.

"Blue Heaven. We've identified the chief conspirators."

"Who...?"

"Mostly felons and war criminals, but there were a few unconfirmed names on the list of expatriates assisting in their militarization. The primary supplier has been already been identified: Heartilly."

"No.."

"I'm afraid so, Quistis. Rinoa Heartilly has become a liability."

--

Balamb.

"We're moving a little slow, aren't we?"

"Waiting for clearance to enter Balamb, sir. We're about a kilometer away."

The rest of the ride had been a quiet one, as Squall actively snuffed out any attempt at small talk with a grunt or a loud and telling cough. He'd learned the escort's name-- Dyson Taggert, a status magic specialist, Rank 5 --and kept it at that. His driver was an older operative, a twenty-something by the name of Zagat. He remembered him from the Dollet field exam, one of the older SeeDs supervising the beach advance.

"SeeD PCV One, requesting clearance to enter town square." he buzzed over the new radio communicator. With Adel gone, radio waves had once again become a viable method of data transmission, and the town of Balamb was one of the first to benefit from it. Trains, rental cars, and fishing boats had all been outfitted with some manner of radio device, and the small, developing SeeD police force stationed there had set up their own relay station on the outskirts of town. Today, however, it seemed they were lax in their preparations.

"I repeat, this is SeeD PCV One. Do you copy?"

"What's the matter?" Squall asked, tensing as a chill ran down his spine. He looked over to his escort, catching his eye as the younger SeeD let out a shiver. The air grew cold, chilled by some invisible current running through the wind outside.

"Don't know. I think the radio might be on the fritz. I'm not getting a response."

"J-just try again!" the escort begged, teeth chattering in between words. It was getting colder by the minute.

"Stop the car." Squall ordered, securing the Lionheart. There was nothing yet, but he could feel that familiar ache in his arms, begging for release. He wanted to fight. He needed it, Hyne help him.

"It's all right, sir. I think we've just run into a cold front. Once we get clear of the shore and reach the gates--"

He didn't trust it. His first few months as a SeeD had been more than enough to hone his instincts, and those same instincts were now telling him not to push his luck. He could hear the car straining, gears wearing down as its internal components began to freeze over. He could taste the condensation in the air, building up along the inside of the carrier, dripping to the floor…

Moisture pooled at Squall's feet, and he knew then it was an ambush.

The puddles froze, and he knew the car wouldn't stop. His ears tuned the screams of his driver and fellow passenger out as the carrier flipped, propelled by the force of a massive ice dagger tearing through the side of the vehicle like a knife through a paper plate. He didn't even hear the hiss of the carrier's pressurized fuel tank bursting from the impact, spewing volatile gas into the air around them.

SeeD PCV One had tumbled off of the road to Balamb, launched by the giant frozen dart into a clearing twenty meters from the sandy island shore. Leonhart smashed shoulder-first into the intact side of the car, dropping his weapon in the confusion. He could hear her-- the attacker applauded with a loud and impish giggle as she approached the wreck, surely intent on finishing the job. Opening his eyes, Squall assessed the situation as best he could, rolling onto his back. The car was on its side; Zagat was crushed behind the wheel, probably dead on impact. Dyson was pinned beneath part of the collapsed ceiling next to him, and his gunblade was lodged into a mass of hydraulic tubing under the floor, just out of reach. He was maybe within walking distance of the gates, if he could make a run for it...she spoke.

"I think I might've overdone it a bit, yeah?"

His back against the new 'floor', he immediately tried to right himself and reach for his weapon. Working his way up to his feet, however, he found it increasingly hard to focus-- a concussion, he noted mentally, and stumbled, falling back against the hard steel of the armored car's innards. The blue sheen of Lionheart's blade was his only reference, his senses slowly dulling as the pain set in. Only then, dazed and struggling to climb back up to his weapon, did he realize it wasn't a concussion at all.

It was a spell.

"Are you okay in there, Mister Squall?"

The Blizzara spike melted away, and she hopped onto the wreck, peering down the hole to the Confused pair within. Dyson moaned, muttering something between labored breaths, and was gone, unconscious and useless as far as Leonhart was concerned. One hostile, two bodies to drag out of the wreck--a tactical disadvantage from the start. It was getting harder to think or see straight, but he could make her out, at least. It was strange; he wasn't sure if it was the spell, or just his own delusion, but if not for the familiar red and black of the G-Garden uniform, he could almost swear she looked just like..like Selphie.

"Who are you?" he asked through the haze, his hand finding the Lionheart's grip after a few moments of blind probing. Tugging on the gunblade, he felt the light touch of cards fluttering down from above. She giggled again, and as the daze of the girl's spell began to wear off, he drew Lionheart from the shredded metal.

"Tell me who you are!" he demanded, his eyes drifting from his six full chambers to her face-- a darker-haired, sickly reflection of Selphie Tilmitt. She was not real. She was not Selphie, and if she didn't answer, she'd be as dead as the last person to cross his blade.

"Don't be angry! My name's Traline. You wanna play some cards?"

But Squall's answer did not come. He watched her, quietly observing the way she chuckled every other word, tilting her head as she waited on a response. He watched her flip those cards down into the wreck-- Triple Triad cards.

Glacial Eyes.

The air was getting cold again.

"Well, do ya?"

Taking the Lionheart in his right hand, he reached out to her with his left, and his open palm greeted Traline with the white-hot glow of a Flare spell; drawing strength from his Guardian, he answered with the strength of an exploding sun.

"No."

--

B-Garden, Quad.

"Selphie? Selphie, I'm back!"

Nothing. Not a soul anywhere. Irvine Kinneas was beginning to think he'd come all this way for nothing. They'd all thought he was a little batty after jumping ship on the SeeD training for a Shumi Village retreat. He'd promised himself, after that Sorceress business, that he'd try and make something of himself. He wanted to come back to their Garden, to Selphie, as a man, not the frightened, lonely boy he'd been years before. The GFs had granted him the chance, at least, to replace their old memories of little Irvine with those of today-- those of a man ready to dedicate his life to a pursuit of spiritual peace. After all, they'd always have old knucklehead Zell to poke fun at.

He made his way down to the stage area, marveling at the sight of the massive new set up. It amazed him what this girl could do with aluminum pipes and weighted sandbags. Hopping up on stage, he hoped to get a better view of the Quad from higher ground...and again, nothing. Sighing, he looked up at the sky; rain clouds had crept in from beyond the horizon, blocking out the setting sun. No, wait, he thought to himself, catching a flash of reddish yellow out of the corner of his eye, there it is.

Setting a little early today.

"So much for a welcome party.."