Squall

Drip. Drip. Drip.

A constant dripping sounded against concrete floors. A puddle was forming, and soon a small stream made its way down to the lower part of the room. It dampened his hair, and chilled his face. Then he awoke.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, a dull pain made its existence glaringly obvious throughout his body. He sighed inwardly, (am I ever going to stop being in pain?).

(Maybe, if you stop being you)

(Oh right, of course, thanks for making sense)

(No problem)

He let out a soft moan of pain as he struggled to sit up, chains binding him loosely, but effectively. Confusion erupted in his mind, until suddenly images of the past few days flashed through his thoughts. Then as he remembered, he grew annoyed.

(How did you do that?) he demanded

(Do what?)

Irritation flared. (Send my memories to me!)

No reply.

So I'm not talking to me. Fine. Be like that. Why had Griever started talking back again anyway? He hadn't spoken for years…He had hopefully begun to think its was part of a dream he had long ago or that he made it up in his loneliness. But when Griever spoke, or sent messages through the mind, he was so clear and definite. But if it was him, then wouldn't he think that anyway? His head began to hurt.

"Oh he's awake!" Gleeful laughter ensued. "Do you know where your are, boy?"

He sat upright, and peered through the bars of his apparent-cell into a grimy face. He glared.

"You're in Aeronia! Hehe, our own special little prison, for, ah, discipline." He chuckled deeply, and Squall kept his face expertly blank. He's been tortured before, no problem. (I'm not giving in.)

(Good luck with that) He could sense his scepticism.

Wait, he could sense Griev- well, his alter ego- thing's, emotions? Well it did make sense…Sort of.

The lock rattled, and a key flashed. Then before he could think much more, he was hauled off down the corridor of prison cells and through a shiny black door.


Seifer

His eyes roamed over the fantastic landscape, and all he could think was… "I can't believe you died, you bastard." Selphie looked up at him from his left, but looked back out again as she swerved around a mountain.

They were on the Ragnarok, on their way to see the President of Esthar. Too many days had been spent lifeless, he had decided. So he told them to get the hell over it, dammit. But he was failing at his own advice. All that time he spent under Ultimecia's control and all he wanted really was revenge, to show them all how much better he was when they treated him like dirt. But now he couldn't even get that. This wasn't revenge. This was…wrong.

He frowned out over the city as it came into view, as he remembered the reason for visiting. They landed and stoically made their way through the city streets, not speaking. They passed through some shops to stall for time, but eventually they entered the Presidential Residence and waited to be called in. It didn't take long. Apparently Laguna had been postponing and cancelling his appointments for a while now, and cancelled all of the day's schedule completely. They weren't the only ones taking this badly.

And as they entered his office this was more than clear. The place was unusually clean and organised, with a tidy-looking Laguna sat behind a neat desk. The signs of a man with too much time on his hands, and not enough tasks to occupy his mind. He welcomed them warmly, but his smile was strained and his eyes remained sad. They respected his misery by not allowed their own to show too much.

He gathered himself together and he, Kiros, and Ward accompanied them back to the Ragnarok to head out. The trip was also too quiet, with Rinoa staring watery-eyed out the window and Laguna trying at a few jokes and games of cards with them. They landed again, and disembarked onto the soft plain of flowers they had chosen. As he stared out at the endless sea and caught sight of the abandoned orphanage, his stomach seemed to drop. This was it.

It grew worse as they all walked for a while came to a respectful stop a short distance from a large stone sticking out the ground. But it wasn't just any stone. His stomach tightened as they gathered around it.

This was final, this was too much. it's become too real. He read the smooth stone:

Squall Firion Leonhart

A Son, A Commander, A Hero

Ah damn, why did they have to mark it like that? Like he's dead…but he is dead. He wouldn't like his headstone. Who cares? He's dead. I didn't know his middle name. He was a bastard with an annoying pendant, necklace, thing-

He saw their faces. So calm, yet sad. How could they believe this?

"No, nah, wait a minute…" He began weakly, growing louder. Laguna put a hand on his arm, pissing him off. Why was he looking at him like that?

(Don't act like you understand me, I ain't sad, I'm just disappointed this is all that freak could ever achieve; misery.)

He noticed the tears that leaked down across their faces, and he glared obstinately away from the grave, into the wind. It stung his eyes, and he clenched his fists.

Flowers soared in the wind, and a single white petal landed serenely on the smooth stone. Fluttering slightly, it flew away as the wind carried it.


Squall

Blood streamed in his eyes and he gasped for breath, hot white pain dominating his mind until it was blank. He choked and tried to maintain his breathing pattern at a normal level, and he turned over to face the ceiling. Knives, fire, ice, electricity, chains, endless, endless pain. He was free for now, but soon they would call again. He didn't know how long it had been, days, weeks, months; but it felt like years. There seemed to be no reason for this torture. They didn't seem to enjoy what the pain they put him through, but they didn't dislike it either. Like they were machines working a job they felt nothing about.

But the thing that got to him the most was the strange affinity he felt to them. Scary moments when he felt like he belonged to this darkness still haunted his mind as he lay, bleeding and sweating, dying and praying for some feeling of hope. But it never came. And the days kept on stretching out, until he got a visit. He came in between moments of unconsciousness where he could make out the blurry outlines of people approaching. He sat, slouched over, and bound by chains. His hands lay lifeless by each side of his crossed legs. His hair shadowed his face, and as he raised it slowly to regard the trio before him, demented and dead eyes stared out of an expressionless face. He was broken, and it felt familiar.

They watched him, and the one at the front said "Do you want to die?"

Die? End this forever? Of course. He nodded silently, narrowing his eyes slightly.

His head turned to the side. "Do you not recognize me?"

"Should I?" The man watched him speculatively.

After a minute, "he's completely broken. More than useless."

One of the others by his side interrupted, and grey-haired man, "But he is powerful, there is no need-"

"He's too young, and turning insane. We might as well let him die." His cold eyes pierced him, but he could return it easier than he thought possible. There was something familiar in them, too. Something much like his own.

And just like before, he was alone again. Grey walls closed off his mind and all he had to talk to was Griever. So he talked to him through his mind, until Griever couldn't make sense and wouldn't respond. But he carried on talking, but he couldn't focus in his mind anymore, so he spoke aloud. He muttered to Griever without a response, day after day he spoke to him about the walls closing in on him, the bars that watched him, and the thoughts he couldn't ignore.

Everyone here was the same, they didn't know where they were half the time. He heard them, every night talking to their families that weren't there. Some starved themselves, and some died in torture. No one ever stayed long, but he did. As they brought in more prisoners and removed the bodies of the old, he stayed and endured longer than any. The guards expected only madness, and that was all they received.

And then he couldn't take it anymore, the walls were getting too close and the pain never dulled. So he waited, waited for the right time. The right time presented itself one day. He was lying down, staring at the ceiling again, but this time he wasn't vacant. He knew what was happening, he had been training himself to stay focused for minutes, then hours at a time. But the guard didn't know that, he grabbed him from the floor and unchained him from the wall, and took him back down to the same old black door. Once they were in the secluded dark corridor, he swiftly cracked him round the head, and he slumped to the floor.

He stood crouched for a second, forgetting what he was supposed to do. Why had he wanted freedom? He couldn't remember.

But Griever came back, (You have nothing to live for, kill everyone you find!)

(Kill? That's not who I am…)

(You aren't anybody anymore. You died a while ago, your body just hasn't caught up)

He was right. There was nothing left for him, his time of torture had ended all that. The only thing that can repay blood, is more blood.

He sprinted down the corridor, and into a room he hadn't been before, but had seen the officials go through. He stood in another deserted corridor, and entered random rooms. He came across ordinary storage, food, clothes, documents, and finally, weapons. He grabbed a sharp-looking sword, and bolted from the room. He barely realised he was in one of four of their headquarters, and he barely realised that he should soon die. But if he had, he would not have cared. He couldn't comprehend the blood that splattered as a result of his sword, but his rage that drove him silently. He didn't express his anger, but he saved it, so he could feel it and use it to cut those in his way.

Seven, eight, nine dead. They fell down easily. But he now came across many of them, yelling and shouting things he couldn't understand. He was soaked in blood and filth, a deranged youth with a mask of panic plastered on his face. He cut them away, Twelve, thirteen dead. Until a soldier with a '14' tattooed on his face confronted him. The others prepared themselves in case the Captain died, circling them, and he knew it was over. But not yet, there was still blood to be shed. He lunged, ducked, swerved and slashed. A battle of strikes and metal sparks ensued, until he out-manoeuvred the leader and plunged the sword deep into his heart. His mouth opened in a silent scream, choking on his breath, until he collapsed. Blood pooled around him.

The soldiers were shocked into quiet, and he didn't move. Suddenly inky black shackles were clasped around his wrists from thin air, and another Black Army Captain approached from behind him. He was numb, and cold, and there were no thoughts to be heard. Griever was mumbling.

He was pulled down corridors, and more corridors, flanked by two more Captains who kept shooting odd glances at him, as though they were seeing him clearly for the first time. As if there were other thoughts encircling their mind, muttering things like "How the hell did he have the initiative to survive and escape..."

"You caused a hell of a mess, Leonhart," the Captain holding him said. He didn't care, surely they would kill him now. It was almost over anyway, why would he bother?

They came across double doors, and pushed through them. They were in a quite large semi-circular room. It looked like a planning room, a meeting room, and a control monitoring room. It looked official, why would they bring him here just to die? A man turned form the screens of the far wall, and he recognized him vaguely as someone who came to visit him in his cell, but he couldn't quite remember. He regarded them, and focused on Squall. He stared back.

"Why are you bringing him here? Just kill him." The man spoke. He had another vague feeling that he knew him from a long time ago, but it faded quickly.

"Commandant, he has potential, he could be-"

"He is insane, there is nothing left for him."

"A Curse could save him." A familiar grey-haired Captain said. Had he been to his cell, too?

The 'Commandant' looked sceptical. "I don't want him alive. He is too young."

"But he could be trained, it shouldn't take too long after the Curse-"

"He would probably die. Look at him." he replied.

"Then surely there would be no loss? He took down fourteen soldiers easily, including Lieutenant 7 and Captain 14!"

The Commandant narrowed his eyes, and calculated the mess of a boy before him. It would be suspicious to press this matter…

"Fine. Bring him here. He killed fourteen, you say?"

"Yes, sir, maybe he could replace…"

He nodded, "then he will make the new fourteenth Captain. The youngest in history."

He paled. They couldn't be serious. He killed, killed to die! He didn't want the walls there anymore, he didn't want the voices, the regret, the-

The Commandant laid a hand over Squall's heart, and next was burning, unimaginable, black pain. But he couldn't scream, he could barely move as it burned and changed him. Inside and out.


Thanks for the reviews, people. I wonder if anyone knows where I got the name Firion from XD It is a fantasy name so I thought it wouldn't stick out. There's nothing I hate more in fiction where people place random Japanese, especially in names -.- Review!