Author's Note: Yes, I'm alive. It'd been a hectic month and a half that had driven me away from writing (temporarily, of course). I lost my grandmother on April 3rd; she was my best friend and mentor in life and I'll miss her dearly.
On a brighter note, I'm back to writing and drawing and all that good stuff with more motivation and passion than ever. I do hope you enjoy my next chapter.
8. Static
It was almost time.
Quistis had arranged for Meredith Ellsway to make a public plea on the evening news, and he wanted—rather, needed—to watch to ensure everything went according to plan. It was 18:03 and the top stories were running, their moment just minutes away. A combination of impatience and anticipation ran through his veins, the coursing of anxious blood as he sat, waiting, mouth dry, stomach airy.
Car crash in South Deling, killing two people and injuring one other.
Tensions rising in Timber as global summit draws closer.
Citizens speculating over Diplomatic Ambassador Isabella Winter's competence.
Blah, blah, blah.
"...And now on Channel 4 News, the mother of a student who was murdered in Deling City early Monday morning is breaking her silence tonight to make a plea to the public," the anchor stated. A photo of Leigh flashed across the screen. "The twenty-three year old Dollet native, Leigh Ellsway, was found dead early Monday morning on the Downtown Eastside. Deling police, as well as investigators from SeeD, believe that Miss Ellsway's murder is a part of a string of homicides dating back over a year ago.
"The victim's mother, Meredith Ellsway, is asking the public to come forward with any information they may have regarding her daughter's murder."
The screen moved to Meredith, who was still visibly shaken, sitting on a chair, surrounded by microphones. "My daughter, Leigh, meant the world to me. She was going to university, she had dreams, and she was just..." Meredith stopped to compose herself. "She'll never get to graduate and fulfill those dreams now. Never get married. Never have kids of her own. She was just so young, too young to die... And to die this way... Whoever did this needs to be brought to justice. Please, if anyone knows anything, come forward. She might be just another person to anyone else, but to me, she was absolutely everything. She didn't deserve this."
The camera then panned over to Quistis, decked out in her freshly pressed SeeD uniform and looking as serious as ever. "We believe Miss Ellsway's death is just one in a series of homicides targeting young women. SeeD's Intelligence Division and the Deling Police Department do not want to see any more people falling victim to these senseless acts.
"We are certain that there is someone out there aside from the killer or killers who has information regarding Miss Ellsway's murder. If you know anything about what happened to her, no matter how insignificant you think it may be, we urge you to come forward. We need all the help we can get in solving this case and ensuring that justice is indeed served."
The screen moved back to the anchor, contact information for the Deling Police department displaying on a caption across the bottom."Once again, if you have any information relating to the murder of Leigh Ellsway, you are urged to call the number below."
Squall let out the breath he didn't know he was holding. He knew Quistis would do the job, trusted that it would be well-executed, but still... Putting a task entirely into someone else's hands just didn't come without reservation, no matter who it was. Knowing that it was over and that it went according to plan came as a great relief.
He pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He had spent the greater part of the last night writing up another report for the headmaster, and the weight of fatigue was starting to bear down on him. He dreaded sending it off, knowing that it was everything that Cid would not want to hear—another chronicling of almosts and should-have-beens, detailing all of his newest failures from Leigh's murder to present, with James playing the leading role.
A part of him hoped that the media plea would work out, and he would get the magic phone call to solve the mystery for all the serial murders. It would save him a lot of grief, and not to mention, a lot of paperwork. But he knew that hope was, if nothing else, fleeting, and that the phone call he so desperately sought would probably remain within the bounds of his dreams.
He turned off the television and let the white noise blanket the room. A brief calm overtook him as the static of the empty air filled his ears, quiet save for the sound of his own breath. His eyes moved to the window to see the last strands of sunlight clawing at the western horizon. The days were getting shorter and shorter, turning the night into an all-consuming beast with no compassion for those who found refuge in the sun.
Squall found refuge in nothing. There were only temporary escapes, distractions. His thoughts were wild animals running rampant, ravenous and unforgiving, the kings of his being. A part of him had come to terms with his lack of will to change; it was the devil he knew, and although damning, it was still slightly more comforting than the unknown.
A soft melody carried over the silence, pulling him gently back to reality. He grinned as he heard the voice merrily sing one of his favourite songs in and out of key. Quietly, he walked to Ellie's room and peeked through the doorway. She was sitting at her desk, drawing a picture with a vibrant wax crayon palette, completely oblivious to her one-parent audience.
He choked to stifle a laugh as he heard her recite her rendition of the lyrics, made up of a mish-mash of real and made-up words. Her eyes darted up to meet his and her singing stopped abruptly, her normally fair-skinned face turning a bright, blushing shade of pink.
"Daddy! You're not s'posta sneak up on me like that!" She snarled as she put her hands on her hips.
"Sorry..." He offered her an apologetic look. "I thought your singing was...cute."
"It's not cute! It's a serious song," she explained, exasperated. "You should know! You listen to it all the time!"
Well, excuse me. He stepped into the room and knelt down beside her. "Okay, fine, it's not cute. Will you at least show me what you're working on?"
Tentatively, she slid the piece of paper across the surface of her desk, setting it in front of him. Squall felt his grin transform into a smile as he noted all the little details Ellie had put into her artwork. The child-like, honest lines came together in a flourish of colour; a man with glasses holding the hand of a little girl, trees with amber leaves, the cobblestones below their feet, bright blue sky illuminated by a giant yellow sun.
"Is this me and you?" he asked.
"Yeah...but it isn't finished yet!" She pulled the drawing away from him and covered it up with her hands. "I still have to draw more buildings and stuff. And maybe a cat. But I haven't decided yet."
Squall ruffled her hair lightly before rising back to his feet. "Let me know when you're finished and we'll hang it up on your wall. I'm going out for a smoke."
"Okay," she agreed, "but do you really have to smoke?"
"Do you really have to argue with me every time I do?" he countered. "It's not exactly an easy thing to quit."
"It's still yucky."
"Whatever." He rolled his eyes at her. "You've got half an hour before you have to get ready for bed. Don't waste it worrying about me."
"Whatever, Daddy."
Squall couldn't help but laugh at the sound of the little girl using his trademark retort against him. He shrugged in defeat and exited the room, striding down the landing and out the front door. The sky was now void of daylight, and only a few stray stars had the power to outshine the manufactured glow of the city. He pulled a cigarette out of his pack and lit it with tense fingers, cursing himself inwardly for neglecting to put on a jacket before stepping out into the cold.
He shoved his hands into his pockets when his phone started vibrating insistently. An eyebrow shot up at the name that displayed across the screen, and the corners of his lips quirked slightly. "You are the last person I expected to hear from today, Kinneas," he greeted, smile evident in his voice.
"And 'hello' to you too, Squall. What's up? Seems like forever since we hung out," Irvine replied in his usual laid-back tenor.
"That's probably the best career move I've made in the last four years," Squall replied jokingly. "...So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"
"Right to the point, eh? You haven't changed a bit, man." Irvine let out a small chuckle. "Well, I actually wanted to let you know I am coming to Deling next weekend to celebrate my last birthday before I hit the dirty thirties. You know, have one last hurrah and all that jazz. You in?"
Squall was silent for a moment, feeling his stomach drop a few inches at the idea. "...I'm not sure... You remember what happened the last time. It didn't exactly end well."
"That's because you were an idiot last time."
"I guess there's no arguing that point," Squall conceded, running his free hand through his hair and feeling the influx of nerves as they reacquainted themselves with his senses.
"Besides, that was a long time ago," Irvine stated frankly, voice dismissive as he pushed ahead. "You were in a weird place, then—Garden may not understand, but I get it. Anyways, it's not gonna be like that again."
"What are you thinking about doing?" Squall asked, his interest slowly taking hold. He took a quick pull off his cigarette before continuing. "I have Ellie on weekends, so whatever it is has to be child-friendly. Plus, my father is going to be coming in that weekend to attend some big world summit, so I'll have to work around that somehow... And that's assuming that I'm not drowning in work, which, if you weren't already aware, is a pretty damn big assumption."
"Perfect. You can con the old man into babysitting," Irvine stated simply. "I was planning to have the gang get together again since you and Quisty did shit-nothing for your birthdays. I'm thinking dinner, drinks, crazy night out on the town, more drinks... Pretty much all the good stuff. Maybe even get you hooked up with another little hottie."
Squall made a noise that was halfway between a dry laugh and a sigh. He took another pull off his cigarette, trying to quell the nervous feelings that were churning his insides. "Hell, Irvine, I don't know. Even if I was still into that—" I'm not into it anymore, right? "—you seem to forget that while Laguna is my father, he's still the president of Esthar. He might have matters more pressing than child minding to tend to."
"C'mon man, seriously. One look at Ellie and he won't be able to say 'no'. Grandpas are suckers like that." The cowboy paused for a moment to re-evaluate his last sentence. "At least, I think they are..."
Squall smirked at Irvine's complete disregard for reality. He wondered how exactly the man could carry through life relatively unscathed with such a distorted view of other people's priorities. "You don't know. You don't have a kid. It's not like I can just dump her on someone else so that I can go out on a bender."
"Condoms are a fantastic thing, dude. They work."
He shook his head. "Pfft. Thanks for the advice, but I think you're a little late."
Irvine's laughter filled the speaker. "Ah, damn. Well, anyways, you know I am going to expect you to be there; no excuses, no 'buts', and especially no anti-social 'I'm too busy, I'm above partying' bullshit. Because we both know that you've proven otherwise on more than one occasion."
"Yeah, yeah, don't remind me." He shook his head and was thankful for the fact that Irvine couldn't see the heat rising in his face. "So, where exactly is 'there'? You know, if I decide to make an appearance."
"I think you mean 'when' you decide to make an appearance. And dinner is gonna be at the Oxford Pub at 19:00 on Saturday. After that, well... It's pretty much up in the air at this point."
"Okay, okay, I'll see what I can do," he half-surrendered. "Have you discussed this with everyone else?"
"I've talked about it with Sefie and Zell, and they're in. I've gotta call Quisty, yet. Not sure what she will think of the whole idea."
"Yeah, well, don't be surprised if she puts up a fight. She hasn't been out to a club before, and from what I can gather, she's pretty resistant to the idea of hanging around, quote, 'smutty women and douchebags'." He finished his cigarette and smothered it into the ashtray.
"Fuck that. I bet if you get enough drinks into her, she'll turn into the craziest chick on the dance floor."
Squall tried to picture a drunken Quistis sprawling precariously around a nightclub, but the idea went beyond the limits of his imagination. "I honestly can't even get a mental image of that."
"So, I guess you'll have to come out then and witness it in person."
"What...I don't even...," he stammered, incredulous. "...Whatever. I'll let you know if I can make it when the date gets closer."
"Sounds good. Talk to you later."
"Yeah, later." He put the phone back into his pocket and quickly stepped inside, suddenly aware of how cold he was. His arms had turned to gooseflesh, and his nose and ears were starting to sting from the air's bite.
He had barely made three strides before his phone started to buzz once more. An annoyed sigh escaped him as he retrieved the phone again, flicking the screen on to reveal a text message from Quistis. "Hey, did you catch the news? Do I get the Leonhart stamp of approval?"
'Leonhart stamp of approval'? God, am I really that high strung? He sat back down on the couch and thought of a quick reply. "I saw it. You did fine."
A few brief seconds passed before he received her response. "Only fine? I guess I'll take what I can get. I'll let you know if I hear anything."
For a moment, Squall debated telling Quistis about Irvine's party for the next weekend, before deciding that his warning would only put a kink in the cowboy's master plan. Try as he may, he could not picture Quistis as the so-called 'craziest chick on the dance floor'. That title, he had determined well over three years ago, belonged to another woman already.
He wondered what Zurie was up to after all the years that had passed. Since the brief period he spent with—or at least around—the bizarre young woman, he had not seen or heard from her, although he couldn't say that he was at all surprised. She had opened his eyes to a whole underground world, one whose very existence he hadn't even been aware of before. The only thing he could truly remember about that time was how muddled his priorities had been back then. Everything else was a fast-paced haze.
A beautiful haze.
A secret want.
He was trapped.
He tried to run, tried to scream, tried to do something—anything—to escape. His breathing sped up to a painful, laboured pace that fell somewhere between gasping and total suffocation. His eyes strained for focus that would not come, the world around him agonizingly bright, a vague guise that served only to dizzy him. Laughter ripped across the atmosphere, comforting and terrifying and familiar all at once, and for a moment, he wondered if he was dying.
A dark shadow cut through the light. The world started to distort with each step it took, rippling outward, feral and violent. Again, he tried to call out, but his throat went raw and the sound was vacant. His mind was racing, panic and adrenaline coursing through his uncooperative body; what to do, what to do, what to do...
"Don't be afraid, Squall."
That voice. It belonged to...
...Who?
The shadow took form, slender curves, fair skin, gentle. He felt a light breeze kiss his skin, and as suddenly as the terror instilled itself, it was gone, leaving only a strange sense of tranquility in its wake. He felt a lopsided smile involuntarily slither across his face as she drew closer still, until he could almost feel her against him. The air smelled like sea salt and lavender and something foreign.
"Do you trust me?"
Yes.
The light surrounding him shredded into a thousand little pieces, and he felt a distinct transcendent feeling overtake him. He reached out for her hand, only to feel her fingertips slip through his grasp. Before it could register in his mind, he was falling, faster and faster through time compressed mayhem, except this time, he was not scared; this time, he felt a connection to this world, and the boundaries where self ended and the other began infinitely blurred.
An explosion broke through the sky and he could hear her laughing all around him and everything went by so fucking fast and he held onto his breath because there was nothing else to hold on to and she was there and who was she and he was overtaken by the euphoria of it all...
Squall shot up, feeling the air slam down to the bottom of his lungs as his wild eyes darted around the room. It was still dark. His fingers felt around, grasping anxiously at the covers as he slowly began to realize where he was. His skin and his sheets were soaked with sweat, blankets thrown asunder in his terror-stricken sleep. Reaching up, he pushed the matted hair from his face and slowly counted backward from ten.
He fell back down to the mattress and let out a sigh, feeling more exhausted than when he went to bed in the first place. Not often did his dreams take on such lucidity; he tried to shake the leftover panic, telling himself that it wasn't real, that he was okay, that he was in his home, in the bed he shared with no one, exactly where he was supposed to be.
His mouth was dry. He became aware of the raw feeling in his throat, and a part of him wondered if he had screamed. He remembered trying to call out, and how impossible it had felt, and—Oh shit. Ellie...
He summoned the will to roll out of bed, quietly striding across the floor to check on the little girl in the next room. The faint green glow of her cactaur nightlight illuminated her features enough for him to tell that she was still sound asleep. It came only as a small relief, however; there was still the pressing matter of whether or not he could find the courage to will himself back into his own slumber.
His fingers itched for a cigarette, and he decided to oblige them, going back into his room to put on a hooded sweater and an old pair of beat up sweatpants that he'd owned since he was a teenager. Grabbing his glasses and smokes from the nightstand, he made his way outside, careful to shut the door gently behind him as not to alarm his daughter.
The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees since he had last been outdoors, the ground now covered in a layer of shimmering frost that choked the grass and made the sidewalks treacherously slick. At some point, the clouds had rolled in, blotting out the moonlight and sealing away the few stars that could be seen from the city. It delivered certainty to his suspicions—this night was traitorous.
As Squall sat on the cold doorstep, he tried to decipher when exactly he had become such a slave to his vices. He felt like a rabbit digging down a hole that could never go deep enough. The more he thought about it, the more conscious he became of the fact that he had an addictive personality. Whether it was clinging to Ellone, or training until his body crumpled under its own weight, or working at his computer until his eyes burned, or smoking almost a pack a day, or his constant, desperate wanting and longing for Rinoa, his private need to feel something that could make him feel as alive as she once did...
He watched as a mixture of smoke and breath rose from his lips, making lazy shapes in the frozen air. It wasn't enough to take the edge off his mind, and for a split second, he wondered how difficult it would be to get some pot at this time of night. The idea of being stoned, to feel a step outside of himself... It was putting the world on hold, it was the temporary diminishment of dread. What did he care if it was some short-term, pitiable excuse from reality?
Squall Leonhart. Galbadian cigarettes and a full liquor cabinet. A promising career with Garden left in shambles. Passing time until he died. Where was the poetry in it all? What happened to the beauty that had been so prevalent not even ten years ago?
Burning the last of his cigarette, he retreated back into the warm comfort of his bedroom. The glowing red numbers in the corner flashed 03:19 and told him to catch whatever sleep he could before morning came. He removed his glasses and dressed down to his boxers before crawling back into his blankets like a blind, burrowing animal. It smelled like stale sweat and the remnants of day-old deodorant.
The silence was overwhelming. It roared in his ears and all he could do was stare blankly at the ceiling. Once upon a time, he could hear Rinoa dreaming through the stillness, but that was an eternity ago, and their bond had since relinquished him of that power. He remembered when he first noticed the ability fading, how he could only sense her in fragmented pieces, then vague, fleeting impressions, and finally, static. The first time he truly felt her absence was in this bed, alone, holding hopelessly onto a pillow and hearing only the wind.
When Squall fell back to sleep, he dreamt of nothing.
It was still quiet when he woke up. The sun poured through the cracks in his blinds and alerted him to the morning that was now outside his window. He took it all in from his bed; the way the freshly risen light edged its way up the carpet, the unsettled dust that hung in the air, the sound of the furnace pushing heat through the townhouse. It was 06:24, too early to get up, too late to go back to sleep. He still felt tired. He always felt tired. The cocoon he had wrapped himself in felt more inviting than ever; if he got up now, he would be forced to surrender himself to the outside world for another day.
The longer he lay there, the more ways his body came up with to betray him. He could barely stand the filmy feeling of slept-in skin, the oily strands of dirty hair that framed his face, and the undeniable ache of his bladder telling him he had no choice but to move.
He half-staggered to his feet, legs crying in languid protest as he made his way across the cool tiles of the bathroom, and let nature run its course. He allowed himself to think about next moves—hot shower, coffee, breakfast for himself and Ellie. She wouldn't be up for at least another hour, yet.
He stripped down and stepped into the tub. The scalding water only teased him, heat running down and around his body, but never penetrating beneath the surface. He was pretty sure he hadn't felt truly warm since he left Balamb. His eyes looked for patterns in the drops that formed on the frosted glass and he felt another day—the stress and the filth—wash away from him.
Once he was finished, he made his way back to his room, stopping only to glance quickly at his phone before getting dressed. No missed calls. No messages. He hadn't been exceptionally hopeful that something would have been unearthed from the media plea the evening before, but even still, he couldn't help but feel the smallest twinge of disappointment. Someone had to have the information he sought. Someone had to make his phone ring.
He had just finished pulling his t-shirt over his head when someone did.
