nine

four weeks later.

This is how Xu believes war should be:

The gushing red of arterial blood, the fallen head of a comrade, lopped off of stalwart shoulders, the sightless eyes looking up from her from where it has rolled to a stop in a puddle of mud, asking the eternal question, is this it?

This is the bitter reality of it:

There is the hulking, half-patched ruin of Balamb Garden, no time to repair things beyond some sheets of plywood and roll upon roll of duct tape. She boasts the best corps of engineers, and all she has to show for it is a spiderweb of silver sticky tape crossing all over Garden's hull.

Endless funerals. Endless caskets filled with bodies missing limbs and thick metal jars of cremated ash poured out into the sea in a sailor's burial. She sees a hundred reports a day from Dr. Kadowaki, advising her of medical discharges and therapy sessions with practitioners more experienced than she. The psych ward at Balamb General is more of a field hospital now.

She doesn't sleep much, her life an endless rote of orders and schematics, dispatching troops and withdrawing them. Galbadia's army is small but vicious, and holds grudges in the name of countless generations. They have never liked Garden, and especially not Balamb, the loins from which their worst nightmare spawned. The spark of rebellion is enough to set them off against their enemy, a fact that is altogether too obvious now. This is what happens when she goes digging for answers, asking the right questions and getting nothing but trouble and unending death threats.

When she finds an hour here and five minutes there to spend in her bunk, her eyes slip closed and she sees the screaming steel of an honest-to-god bayonet running through her thigh, leaving her helpless and having to be airlifted out of an alleyway in Deling, her hands clamped over the wound as bright hot arterial blood seeps out beneath her. The wound is half-healed and she walks with a cane now, will have to for weeks, if not months. It's embarrassing, really.

Nida finds her when he has time, and their relationship is a sixty-second neck massage and a harried tryst in the command suite's bathroom, of all places, making her feel like she's a cadet again and he's her first boyfriend, all awkward movements and bumping limbs, a last-ditch effort at reconnecting, just to make sure they're still alive.

There just isn't time for a normal life anymore, and she isn't even counting the fact that there is still a sorceress and her knight out there, waiting, waiting, waiting.

This new war is very exhausting, indeed.

xx

It's not a good day.

Seifer eases himself down on the edge of the bed, its hideous floral bedspread only slightly more tolerable in the darkness, and touches her face gently. Her skin is cool, too cold to the touch, and he smooths her hair back away from her face.

"Hey," he says, and Quistis slides open her eyes, just enough of a sliver to stare up at him. "You have to call in."

"You do it," she murmurs, and rolls away from his hand, drawing up the covers until she is little more than a mop of tangled hair and the curve of an ear.

"You know Xu won't believe me," he says, and even he can hear the strain and frustration in his voice. This is a never-ending battle between them, and he's out of patience with it. It pisses him off. He grabs her phone off of the glossy wooden nightstand, and dials the commander's direct line for her, balancing the phone against her ear until Quistis sighs and takes it, her fingers milk-pale against the black casing.

They have been in Deling City for several weeks now, and it's starting to feel like they've burned some serious bridges, rather than Quistis calling in every last bit of her medical and emergency leave time for a "necessary separation" from Garden. They are watched, of course, all the time. Only an idiot would miss the SeeDs in civvies, eying him at the coffee shop or coincidentally browsing the same aisle of the bodega at the corner of the block, practically stalking him as he picks out bagels and quarts of milk and a box of aspirin.

Galbadia has changed practically overnight, turning from lukewarm tolerance of Balamb and Garden in general to starting fights in the street with anyone who even looks like SeeD. A civil war has come to town, and when they leave the hotel suite, it is, by necessity, in disguise. Quistis makes an interesting brunette. The false beard he's acquired itches like a motherfucker.

Most of the time, he finds himself bored out of his skull, playing endless rounds of solitaire on Quistis' computer and watching more daytime television than one man should possibly be able to consume. He's started doing the crossword puzzle in the fucking Deling Times, just to keep himself occupied. One more week in this room, and he might have to take up arms and join the fighting himself, just for something to do.

Quistis snaps the phone shut, an overly loud click in the silence, and drops it back over her shoulder. She's been sleeping an awful lot lately, and when she's awake, she's moody, irritable, more liable to bitch at him about something stupid like leaving his shaving cream on the edge of the sink instead of putting it in the cabinet. It's a hotel, he tells her, there's an entire cleaning staff just waiting to scrub a rust-ring off of stark white porcelain the second they check out.

Sometimes, though, for days on end, Quistis is startlingly clear, aware of everything, staring at him like she can hear every thought he's ever had or is going to have- and she can, he knows; he feels her probing around the edge of his mind, slipping into crevices he'd rather she left untouched. She doesn't sleep during those times, standing at the window and staring down at the streets like the hurried walk of DC residents herded like rats in their own city will tell her something that she doesn't already know.

Her marks are spreading, cascading down her throat and across her collarbone, faint blue trails that look like runes in the right lighting. She's getting stronger; when she touches him, her fingers are slender bands of steel, capable of crushing his throat with the wrong movement.

"I'm going for a walk," he announces, and she makes no indication that she's heard him at all.

He takes a few minutes in the bathroom to glue on the beard, smoothing it around his jaw and yanking a knit hat over his shorn hair. It's already starting to grow back, bright blond tendrils creeping down and tickling the back of his neck. The beard is just dark enough to look natural without having to do something stupid like dyeing his eyebrows, and by the time he finishes smearing concealer over the faded ridge of his scar, he looks like a different person.

That's the idea, jackass.

He shrugs on his coat, a bland black trench coat that looks exactly like what every other Galbadian hipster asshole is wearing, only it's cut just enough to hide the bulge of a shoulder holster that he's conveniently "forgotten" to return to Garden's weapons storage. He's unlicensed for concealed carrying, but he doesn't give a shit. Seifer double checks to make sure he's got their room key, his wallet, and a few extra rounds in a secret inner pocket.

He sticks a knife into his boot, and walks out into the hallway, head down, collar up.

War in Deling City is really business as usual, only with more hidden bombs and soldiers who make no attempt to hide their distaste of the entire situation camped out on street corners, glaring at anyone who looks at them askance.

Seifer has seen people shot for less than looking, and hell, he's decapitated people with Hyperion for doing less than that. The entire thing has an air of deja vu about it. He's actually fairly surprised Xu hasn't ordered Quistis back to a safer proximity. The natives are restless and this is the worst place they could be, hiding out in the thick of things.

Probably, Commander Bitch wants her out here, close to enemy headquarters, in the event Quistis does go insane and slaughters everyone in a fifty-mile radius. It would be so beneficial, not having to sacrifice another platoon of SeeDs when one mage can take care of it all.

-endless fucking nightmares of it playing out just like that, with Quistis as the vengeful angel of ruin and destruction, and her body ridden with holes as they open fire on her-

He stalks down the street, ignoring an interchangeable group of protesters who just want to let people know that SeeDs Are Murderers, and, Garden Harbors Sorceresses. Because, really, when it comes to slogans, no one's particularly original these days. And he's pretty sure those are the same signs from like, eight years ago, probably dug up in someone's basement. He's seen them before, back when Squall was in charge and Rinoa was the deceptively pretty face by his side, until someone leaked the secret.

There's only so long that much hatred for one person can boil before it overflows, especially when the public cried out for Rinoa's head and Garden sent them away to Esthar instead, to live peacefully like civilians.

Garden isn't even harboring sorceresses anymore, you ignorant fucks, they've thrown them all out, he wants to scream as he stalks by the protesters, but he keeps his mouth shut and his feet moving ceaselessly forward. Soldiers are already moving in to break up the protest before he even makes it to the bar. He enters, letting the door slam shut behind him, muffling the cries of indignation from down the street, and orders a beer. He tosses a handful of gil onto the counter in exchange, then carries the mug to a table in the very farthest corner, where he can drink in relative shadow and silence.

She's already waiting for him, bundled up like a kid against the cold. Winter doesn't leave lightly from Deling City, and everyone's still in coats and scarves up to the eyes. Seifer very nearly draws and shoots her before he realizes who it is.

"The hell are you doing here?"

Fujin sips her whiskey and looks at him like he hasn't said a thing. "Checking in," she says mildly. "Was in town."

In town can mean anything these days- planting explosives at a G. Army hotspot, a diplomatic emissary to G. Garden, visiting friends, potential targets, enemies. Idly, he wonders how many people she's killed today, but it isn't a question worth asking.

He drinks. The first sip of beer leaves a cold searing in his throat, and the second soothes it like a balm.

"How is she?"

It is his turn to feign deaf, but Fujin is patient, watching him over the rim of her glass as she sips her drink. Seifer sighs, curling his hands around the frosty curve of the mug in front of him.

"Not good," he admits. "She's fighting it, but..."

Fujin nods.

"She barely talks. She just... looks at me." The words are hard to get out, harder than he would have thought. He stares down at the amber of his beer. "It's coming, Fuj."

The beast under the bed, the thing of all his nightmares, the witching hour of the night. The monster that wears his mother's face, slipping on a different mask this time. The cure Squall disappeared for days for is bullshit, leaving only three raised lumps at the injection sites and Quistis shaking and throwing up ceaselessly for forty-eight hours like she was detoxing from something.

It might've worked on Rinoa, on a Sorceress in the traditional sense of the word, but no one knows quite what to make of Quistis, and Xu can't hold her on charges of being one, not when everyone knows there can't be more than one sorceress at one time. They have Rinoa on tape, back when Quistis came back, admitting that she can still feel the power in her veins, even if she can't use it. That's enough to prove she's still a witch, according to Garden legislature.

He drinks, and when the mug is empty, Fujin buys them both another round.

xx

Rinoa runs her hands over the very subtle curve of her belly, even though she knows it's too early for something to kick, to prod at her touch.

It is a moment of weakness, and she goes back to sorting through the piles of baby clothes. She hasn't had any sort of shower or celebration- everyone left that she was friends with at Garden have sent care packages in the mail. There's no time for parties anymore, not for outcasts and heathens. Laguna has even done his best to quash any potential press releases.

Quistis sends a card, something trite and flowery that looks like it was found in the checkout line of a grocery store, and Rinoa has few doubts that Seifer was probably tasked with picking it out. Her friend's handwriting is slanted and rushed, a quick note scrawled across the bottom, leaving out all the things Rinoa needs to know. There's a hundred gil gift card to a popular baby boutique enclosed, as if that makes up for the secrets and the lies and the silence from Squall on what he's been able to glean from Garden.

This child will be born without fanfare, in secret.

In the other room, she can hear Squall, his voice pitched low as he talks to Kiros about the situation between Galbadia and Balamb. Ever since B. Garden rooted out the nest of rebels that claimed responsibility for the bombings, things have escalated. Fingers have been pointed, political agendas uncovered, tabloid media exploding with spectacle and speculation alike. SeeD is reviled, made out to be the bad guys in a world rife with monsters.

Every night, Squall watches the news like a man possessed, waiting on tenterhooks for the body count to be announced. She's just grateful he doesn't have to put on steel-toed boots and battle leathers to march back into the fray. He is here, he is civilian, he will get his taste of bloodshed secondhand from glossy newscasters.

Her pinwheel is buried in a lock box somewhere in one of the closets. She doesn't care to look at it again, and she cannot be involved, not anymore than she is, because the blame will always come back around to her, to her magic, to her very being. She is committing the ultimate sin in the eyes of the world by simply being pregnant. No one knows what will come from her loins, what untold nightmares her child will bring, even though she has tried so hard to be good.

Garden sent her away because she hadn't spilled any blood. If she were a murderess, they would have killed her, she knows. Edea was a special case, the wife of Garden's founder. They couldn't kill her. Executing Edea would've been akin to chopping off their own limbs.

But Cid is dead now, unable to sway a council in its decision, and Rinoa knows if they tried her again, someone would find some way of making sure she made it in front of a firing squad.

xx

When she finally wakes up, she is trapped in the cloying darkness, and her first instinct is to cry out.

Her lover's name hangs in the silence and the solitude, and no noble knight rushes to her aid.

She is alone.

Alone.

The thought terrifies her like there is a little girl with her hands locked around Quistis' throat, like there is a snake-silken voice whispering in her ear, the succession always kontinues-

Quistis hurls aside the blanket and fumbles for the switch on the bedside lamp. The room comes into sharp relief, all harsh angles and uncomfortable, bland furniture. It does little to slow her racing heart. The dream clings to her, an unwanted coat.

She licks her dry, cracking lips, calls again. "Seifer?"

There is still no answer.

The room is too small, collapsing in on itself even as she sits here, working her way from abject panic to the controlled breathing of a soldier who knows what she's doing. She will be the first to admit that she's falling apart, losing a grasp on reality that has turned out to be tenuous at best.

There is only the voice, whispering honey-on-fire in her ear. There is only the raw, ceaseless power, pulsing, a lightning strike with every synapse fired in her brain. There is only Seifer, endlessly Seifer, his fear and loathing and utter devotion and every single dream he has had for the past endless weeks playing out on a loop.

He will follow her into the fire, without question, and he will burn the world down for her.

God, she cannot breathe in here.

Quistis gets up and gets dressed, buttoning her jeans with hands that tremble just slightly. Her hair is a gnarled mess; she gives up with the brush and pulls the whole thing back in a hasty, messy knot. It needs re-dyeing, and brown does not suit her.

She cakes her face with makeup, and when she's done, she simply looks pale, weary, unfinished.

The door to the room clicks shut behind her with all the force of a gunshot.