Disclaimer: Never mind.

A/N: Thanks to cerespallas, x Euphoria, jellybean-kitty, the-holy-dark, EmeraldLatias, and Renegade Seraph for reviewing last chapter, as well as Carie Valentine for betareading this chapter. Now...onward to the story!

Content Warnings: Swearing and some violence.


Scarred

"Now she and her man, who called himself Dan, were in the next room at the hoedown.

Rocky burst in, and grinning a grin, he said, 'Danny boy this is a showdown.'

But Daniel was hot, he drew first and shot, And Rocky collapsed in the corner..."

--The Beatles, "Rocky Raccoon"

The mirror violently threw his image back at him, slamming into his gut and twisting his insides around until he could barely breathe. His gloved hand shivered as it reached up to his forehead, slowly tracing the horrendous red scar carved between his eyebrows and past the length of his nose.

It ached. It stung. It burned.

But all the physical pain in the world was nothing compared to the injury to his pride.

It was an eternal sign of his defeat, his weakness, his failure. It was a reminder that he was not the strongest fighter in the world. And worst of all, it was a carbon copy of another scar: a scar that curved across the face of the man who had brought about his defeat, who had exposed his weakness and caused his failure.

Seifer curled his hand into a fist and slammed it into the mirror, breaking its once-smooth surface into a wave of spiderweb cracks. He watched with a sort of twisted pleasure as his face shattered into pieces before him.

Loser, he thought savagely, narrowing his eyes at his image. Loser, failure, coward. What right does your reflection have to be whole when your spirit is beaten and broken like a fucking chocobo on a ranch? This way, at least it shows the truth about you.

"Lieutenant Almasy." The soft, crisp voice punched its way into Seifer's brain as nothing else could. "Control yourself."

Seifer blinked and looked down at his fist, slowly uncurling it as he fought to regain the composure befitting an officer of the WLA. He took a deep breath and tried to form words...but he honestly had no clue what to say.

Maybe it would be best just to listen.

Through the net of cracks in the mirror's reflective surface, Seifer could vaguely make out the shape of Commander James Melbourne standing behind him. Many hours previously, Seifer had awoken back in his underground quarters in Winhill with the commander peering down at him, an uncharacteristic look of concern on his face. At first, he had not had the strength to move, much less stand. But, eventually, he had forced himself up and made his way into the washroom, filled with a paradoxically eager sense of dread as he sought to discover just what was on his face, just what had plagued his thoughts ever since his return to consciousness.

And then, he had caught sight of the red brand of his own incompetence on his forehead.

He remembered clearly how he had earned it: the feeling of cold steel slicing through his skin as Leonhart's blue-gray eyes stared back into his. He remembered collapsing, beaten and broken, at his enemy's feet. He remembered the most painful part of the whole damn affair: watching, unable to move or act or speak, as his Rinoa buried herself in Leonhart's arms.

At that moment, he had felt something he had never felt before, not even for the Galbadians.

Hatred.

He hated Squall Leonhart.

This realization could not have come at a more apt moment, for at that instant, Melbourne conferred upon him a bit of advice that resounded so well with his state of mind, he was surprised it didn't generate some sort of musical note.

"Don't waste your anger on yourself, Lieutenant. The WLA needs you. I have a mission for you, Fujin, and Raijin...as soon as you're ready, that is."

Seifer whipped around fiercely, his eyes alight, and asked, "And just who am I supposed to focus it on, sir? I failed you and the entire WL—"

Melbourne's lips pulled back from his teeth in a cold smile as he interrupted. "Yes, you failed in your last mission. But, that doesn't mean you can't redeem yourself. All you need to do is focus your anger on your target: the deserter, Squall Leonhart."

Hours later, Seifer lowered himself onto his cot. Already, he had regained almost full control of his body. He was a bit stiff, but that was nothing a full night of sleep wouldn't cure.

Tomorrow, he was sure, he would be ready to seek redemption.

He would be ready to seek revenge.

Twisting around on the tiny bag that passed for a mattress, he closed his eyes. He felt his breath start to even out and become more regular as he slid silently into the land of dreams...


The sound of trumpets pulsed through the air, stirring hearts with their celebratory tune. All around Seifer, people were spinning and dancing, rejoicing together in a thousand voices that all somehow merged into one. His eyes scanned the crowd, briefly disoriented, as his feet moved without any direction from himself. He was struck immediately by the crowd's diversity; the people before him ranged from the very young to the extremely old, from the immensely wealthy to the nearly destitute, from the urban elite to the rural outsiders. Age, class, race: all the divisions that typically tore society asunder seemed to have vanished as hundreds had come together to celebrate this occasion.

The setting for said occasion was some sort of ballroom with a high ceiling that opened to reveal the clear night sky. The floor was smooth and polished. Identical flags emblazoned with white trefoil designs against black fields were suspended all along the room's stone walls.

White and black...the colors of Galbadia. Where the fuck am I?

The trumpets let out one last wall of sound, and then fell silent. All around Seifer, people stopped dancing and turned attentively toward a corner of the room where a small stage had been erected. Unthinkingly, Seifer followed suit.

A young man, his long hair billowing behind him despite the blue bandanna wrapped around his forehead, emerged from the crowd to mount the stage. As he grabbed hold of the microphone, a chill ran down Seifer's spine. He recognized the young man.

Oh, shit. Not again.

The crowd remained respectfully quiet as the young Vinzer Deling took a deep breath, his dark eyes glittering. He wet his lips and began to speak softly.

"My fellow Galbadians, we have come together today to acknowledge what may very well be at the same time the worst and best day of all our lives. It is a day of mourning, for in our long struggle for our freedom, we have lost many brave comrades. But it is also a day of rejoicing, because we are, once and for all, free. Never again will we be forced to bow beneath the heel of oppression. Never again will our national honor be defiled by a foreign force. Never again will a king hundreds of miles away use us as though we are his slaves."

His voice rose as he spoke, increasing in volume and force until he was almost screaming. "Mourn for your fellows who have given their lives for our cause. But never forget that it was our cause that they sacrificed so much for. Never forget that their deaths were not in vain. Never forget that, after all the hardship, all the toil, all the grief we have gone through, we have at last achieved what every single person whose death we mourn today wanted above all else! Mourn for those who have died. But rejoice for that which has been born! Rejoice for your country! Rejoice for the birth of the First Galbadian Republic!"

As Vinzer finished speaking, he stepped down from the stage, and the hitherto-silent crowd burst into thunderous applause that made Seifer feel physically ill. He observed them with what would have been, had he had control of his own body, unveiled disgust.

How can they all be so naïve? he wondered. Don't they know that this son of a bitch is lying to them all? Don't they know that he's even worse than the Dollet king was?

And yet, in the eyes of the people around him, Seifer could see nothing but pure, frank adoration for the long-haired revolutionary.

That, in itself, would have been bearable. However, at that moment, Seifer caught a glimpse of his reflection—or rather, the young James Melbourne's reflection—in the smooth stone floor...and saw the same look of devotion, of blind loyalty, on his idol's face.

He wanted to scream.

Nineteen-year-old James Melbourne, on the other hand, had no such impulse. Instead, he was picking his way carefully through the crowd, intent on getting a chance to speak with his friend and leader. After narrowly dodging a dancing couple as they lurched awkwardly toward him, he hastily moved away from the center of the dance floor and slid under a tall archway at the ballroom's edge. There, he paused to catch his breath, grateful for the brief respite, and scanned the crowd, trying to spot Vinzer Deling.

"Wow...that was some speech."

The voice was clear and bright, like a bell, and definitely female. James spun around and his eyes fell on the source.

Dark, almost black, curls cascaded over her smooth shoulders. A thin strap, looped around the back of her neck, held a tight-fitting red dress in place over her body. Blue eyes twinkled in their sockets like a pair of faraway stars. One corner of a small, very red pair of lips twisted upwards in an ironic half-smile.

"Ah...yeah," James stammered in response, his eyes traveling over every curve of her body. She looked a few years younger than him. Seventeen, maybe? "Yeah. After a speech like that, Deling's a shoe-in for the presidency."

Seifer's mind groaned. A shoe-in? For Hyne's sake, Commander, stop talking like such a damn moron.

The half-smile remained on the woman's face as she replied, "Well, I'd think so, considering the fact that he's the only person on the ballot."

"Right, right, right," James said quickly, his face turning a brighter shade of red.

"He wants to talk to you, by the way," she continued, turning away. "He's offering you a post in the new Galbadian Army."

"Oh! Really? That's...that's good," James said as she started to move back onto the dance floor. "Hey! Hey, wait!"

She stopped and glanced over her shoulder, a bemused look on her face. James crossed the distance between them in two long steps and held out a hand.

"I'm James," he said breathlessly. "James Melbourne."

Her lip twitched as she took his hand. "And I'm Elaine," she said, mimicking his tone as she spoke. "Elaine Leonhart."


Timber had a long history of resisting authority.

From the winding cobblestone streets that seemed to go everywhere and nowhere, to the confused jumble of unrelated buildings, to the erratic, undisciplined movements of the people themselves, everything about Timber spoke of a profound disdain for central planning of any sort. A hotel was nestled in between a pair of weapons shops; a bar sat in the middle of what seemed to be a mostly residential area. True, when Galbadian soldiers passed by, people shrank submissively into the shadows; but they did so with the cold, bitter flames of hatred in their eyes, staring back at their oppressors like snakes waiting for the opportunity to strike.

Even the city's blue-and-yellow flag, by featuring a prominent wheel in between the spokes of an old-style capital T, seemed to symbolize the profound importance of the individual to Timber's culture; for what could represent innovation better than the wheel, the great invention that had been the product of many years of trial and error by primitive individuals in a bygone age?

As Squall, covered securely in a cloak that hid his face, casually joined the stream of people entering the city under the watchful eyes of the a pair of Galbadian officers, he understood, for the first time, exactly why Timber had served as main center for revolutionary sentiment against Galbadian imperialism. The people of Timber had never allowed authority to gain much of a foothold in years past; why would the Galbadian occupation have changed that?

And then Squall was inside the city, and all philosophical thoughts were driven from his mind.

This isn't the time for thought. It's the time for action.

As soon as he was sure the guards had stopped watching, he ducked out of the crowd and into a dark alleyway off the main thoroughfare. After a few seconds, a second cloaked figure darted into the alley. The figure pushed her hood back, and a mass of raven hair tumbled out of her shoulders.

"See?" Rinoa grinned. "Told you it would be easy."

Squall scowled. "It was too easy. Why didn't those guards stop us?"

Rinoa sighed. "Squall, they're not worried about the people that are entering Timber. They're worried about the people that are leaving. Now, if you'll follow me..." She started to walk back out into the main street.

Squall didn't move.

Rinoa stopped and cast a glance over her shoulder. "If you don't hurry up, I'm going to leave you behind!"

Squall folded his arms. "I told you I'd come with you as far as Timber. We're here."

Rinoa turned fully around, a stunned expression on her face. "Oh."

She reached up and started to fiddle unconsciously with her mother's ring, her lips trembling slightly. "So, then..."

"So, then," Squall repeated, staring at her flushed cheeks. His heart was beating unusually rapidly.

"So I guess this is goodbye."

"Yeah." Squall averted his eyes; for some reason, he found it difficult to look at her at that moment. His gaze fell on a newspaper that lay on the ground, half-buried in the mud. He briefly took in what little he could see of the front page. "The Timber Maniacs," the masthead read. Beneath that, a single headline: "Terrorists captured aboard train to Timber..." He blinked.

What?

"Squall, I..." Rinoa's voice sounded oddly choked, but Squall didn't dwell on her words. He was too busy dropping to his knees, frantically grasping at the newspaper. The mud released it with a loud sucking sound, and he quickly scanned the top story. As he read, his face turned pale.

"Squall? What is it?"

Wordlessly, Squall tossed the newspaper in Rinoa's direction. She caught it effortlessly and flipped it over to read the front page. Then, she gasped in horror.

"Oh no..."


The sun was beginning to set as the train coasted out of Timber Station, bound for Deling City. Rinoa risked a glance at Squall, who sat on the bench across from her, deep in thought.

They were in one of the train's smallest, least expensive cabins; it had been necessary to avoid unwanted attention. As such, the cabin sported no furnishings other than a pair of long, bench seats running parallel to each other along two walls. The window was open, letting in a strong breeze that prevented the room from becoming stiflingly hot.

Rinoa sighed and leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes and trying unsuccessfully to go to sleep. The events of the past few hours washed over her, almost overwhelming her. She tried to fight them off at first, but at last gave in. At least then she wouldn't have to sit through this intolerable silence. Perhaps it had been a mistake to force him to bring her along...

"I'm going after them, Rinoa."

Rinoa started, surprised by the first words Squall had spoken in half an hour. After reading the story in the newspaper a second time, he had collapsed against a wall and sunk down to sit in the mud, closing his eyes, presumably to think. After a moment's hesitation, Rinoa had followed suit, carefully sitting next to him and drawing her knees up to her chest.

As the minutes had dragged on in silence, her eyes had been drawn irresistibly to the newspaper, and she had found herself reading the story once again.

"The Galbadian Army captured four members of a terrorist group known as the Winhill Liberation Army (WLA) on board a train from Dollet to Timber yesterday afternoon. Currently, the government believes two members of this group, a male and a female, are still on the run after eluding the Army's attempts to capture them.

"'Any information on the whereabouts of these two criminals will be greatly rewarded,' said Captain Wayne Biggs, the officer in command of the regiment that captured the four terrorists. Captain Biggs, who had a near-fatal run-in with the two escaped terrorists, went on to describe the male as 'tall, dressed in black, with somewhat long dark hair,' and the female as 'shorter, with long raven hair and brown eyes, dressed in blue.'

"The four captured terrorists have been identified as follows: Quistis Trepe, 18; Irvine Kinneas, 17; Selphie Tilmitt, 17; and Zell Dincht, 17. They were convicted for acts of terrorism this morning and will be executed in Deling City Square in two days.

"The WLA is suspected in at least two dozen acts of terror over the past year, including the recent Dollet Communications Tower bombing..."

Rinoa hadn't been able to read any more. She had thrown the paper down and leaned back against the wall, whimpering that it wasn't RIGHT, it wasn't JUST, it wasn't FAIR.

And then, Squall had spoken.

"You're what?" Rinoa gasped, staring at him as though he was insane. "Squall, what the hell do you think you'll be able to do?"

"I'm going," Squall repeated, standing up and looking at her with fire in his eyes. "I owe them that much."

Rinoa watched in silence as he started to walk away. Then, she sighed. "Squall...wait."

He stopped, turned, and folded his arms. "You're not going to change my mind, Rinoa."

"I'm not trying to!" Rinoa protested, rising to her feet and straightening her cloak. "But if you're going on this insane little mission of yours, I'm coming with you."

Squall scowled. "No, Rinoa, you're not." He turned to leave.

Rinoa reached out and grabbed him by the arm. "Yes I am!" she insisted.

Squall spun around, his eyes flaring dangerously. "You'll just get in the way!"

Abruptly, Rinoa released his arm and backed away, her hands shaking. She clenched them into fists to try to control them, but it was no use; they kept shivering like little mounds of jelly.

"Is...is that really what you think?" she asked quietly. "That I'd just be holding you back?"

Squall eyed her coldly. "Honestly? Yes. You'd be putting yourself in unnecessary danger. I won't allow that."

"Well, fucking FINE, then!" she shrieked, violently kicking the nearest wall. "Go and get yourself killed, Squall, because that's exactly what's going to happen if you try to take on the entire fucking Galbadian government alone. Hell, you'll probably end up hanging right alongside Quistis, Zell, Irvine, and Selphie. But that's alright with you, I take it. You'll be a martyr then, right? Giving your life for the cause; how fucking heroic!"

As Squall turned and started to walk away again, a thought ran through Rinoa's mind, sparking a moment of hope. She called out after him, thinking quickly.

"You do realize you'll have to board a train to get to Deling City in time, right? How the hell do you think you'll manage that without them arresting you on sight? Your description's all over the papers, Squall. You won't make it out of Timber."

"I guess I'll just have to find a way," Squall called back, not slowing.

Rinoa rushed after him. "But I have contacts! The Owls can get us aboard a train without the government being any the wiser."

Squall stopped and turned, eying her skeptically. Rinoa quickly elaborated. "You know it's true, Squall! Remember what Seifer said about the Owls having operatives everywhere in the government? With out us, you're screwed. But with us, you've got a good chance of making it to Deling City alive."

Squall's brow furrowed as he considered. Rinoa held her breath, hoping that he would give in to reason. At last, he spoke.

"Fine. Take me to your...'contacts'."

Rinoa sighed in relief and stepped in front of him, leading him back out onto the street. They followed the cobblestone paths through the city square and past the bustling train platform, arriving in front of a large pub. She pushed open the door and stepped in, uncomfortably aware of Squall's absolute silence.

The pub was almost empty; a single, large man wearing a blue cap that fell low across his face was sweeping the floor. He looked up, and his eyes alighted on Rinoa. He opened his mouth to speak, then glanced suspiciously in Squall's direction.

"Oh, the forests of Timber sure have changed!" he announced clearly, then paused, as though waiting for a reaction.

While Squall glared at the man, Rinoa rolled her eyes. "But the owls are still around," she intoned. "Cut it out, Watts, you know it's me."

"Yes, sir, but I don't know HIM." Watts jerked his thumb in Squall's direction.

"Well, you do now," Rinoa said firmly. "Watts, meet Lieutenant Squall Leonhart of the WLA."

"OH!" Watts exclaimed. "Welcome to Timber, sir. Come this way, sir. Please, please, this way, sir!"

Watts dashed over to a small metal door in the back of the pub and flung it open. "Zone and the leader are back at the base, sir."

Squall and Rinoa hurried through the open doorway, and Watts slammed it shut behind them.

"So," Squall said as they started to walk down the new alley they found themselves in, "he's a Forest Owl, I take it?"

"Yes," Rinoa confirmed, relieved that Squall was finally speaking. Her relief didn't last long, though, because Squall immediately lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

Rinoa led the way around a corner and through a rusty metal gate, arriving at the base of a tall building with a long set of stairs wrapped around it. Grabbing hold of the staircase's railing, she explained, "This used to be a TV station, before the Galbadians took over. They shut it down when they discovered it was a lot harder to control TV than to censor a newspaper. The only mass communications media left in Timber is the newspaper, 'The Timber Maniacs,' and the government keeps a close watch on everything they print."

Squall nodded in understanding, but said nothing as he followed Rinoa up the staircase, beneath a large television screen covered with static, and up to a corroded old door at the end of the stairs. Rinoa took a deep breath and knocked on the door, waiting for a response. Inside, she heard a pair of voices stop talking. Suddenly, an eye-level slot opened on the door, and a pair of brown eyes peered out.

"Rin?" a muffled voice gasped. The eyes disappeared briefly, and the door swung open.

Rinoa smiled. "Yes, it's me, Zone."

A dark-haired man poked his head out, a huge grin plastered all over his face. "We were really worried," he explained as he pulled the door completely open. "When the leader got that story in for publication, he turned pale as a ghost! We were sure they'd get ya, Princess. I'm so glad you're alright!"

"Um...Zone?" Rinoa asked tentatively.

"Huh?"

"Are you going to let us in or what?"

"Oh! Yeah, sure." Zone stepped back from the door and allowed Rinoa and Squall through. "And who's THIS guy?" he asked as Squall passed, his eyes narrowed.

Rinoa sighed. "He's a friend."

"If you say so, Princess," Zone said, unconvinced. Rinoa shook her head and took in the familiar surroundings.

Dark carpet covered the floor, and heavy curtains hung over all the windows to keep prying eyes out. An enormous bookcase covered one wall, filled with large, heavy books. In the middle of the room was a red couch, large enough to seat four or five average-sized people. Across from the couch was an oak desk, and behind the desk sat a man.

He was in his mid-forties, with long, dark-brown hair and bright green eyes, and had a boyish grin on his face. On seeing him, Squall stiffened.

"Squall," Rinoa said, eying him apprehensively. "I'd like you to meet the editor of the newspaper 'The Timber Maniacs', the man who leads the Forest Owls."

"We've met," Squall said shortly.

"I should say we have!" the leader of the Forest Owls replied, his grin widening as he stood and extended his hand. "Miss Heartilly, this kid is my son."

As Laguna Loire's foolish grin grew ever wider, Rinoa glanced at Squall in amazement. She was startled by the incredibly dark look in his eyes, the swirling tempest that rose in those blue-gray pools whenever he felt some strong negative emotion. She didn't know why, but she could tell that Squall was not at all happy to see his father.


Squall could feel Rinoa's eyes burning into his cheek. She probably felt like she was somehow responsible for his foul mood. And, in a way, she was.

He knew she had been right to insist on going to the Owls for help. He knew that, without that organization's remarkably long list of allies, they would never have been able to slip aboard a Galbadian train under the assumed names of "Rachel Hemingway" and "Steven Lane." He even knew that he would most definitely need her help once they arrived in the Galbadian capital.

But seeing Laguna Loire again had been nothing short of horrifying.

He had known that Laguna was the editor of "The Timber Maniacs," of course. He had also known that Laguna was somehow involved with the Forest Owls. But to think that he was actually the leader...

It made sense, he supposed. The Forest Owls were pursuing an insane, hopeless struggle against the Galbadian government and were refusing to use violence in the process. It sounded just like something Laguna Loire would come up with: idealistic, impossible, and idiotic.

The last time Squall had seen his father had been in a chance meeting three years before. At that time, he had still gone by the name "Squall Loire." After escaping from Frank Meliora, the Imperial Governor of Winhill, Squall had lived like a street urchin, eating other people's scraps and stealing his way through life for nearly a decade. He had wandered from town to town, and at last had ended up in Timber. There, he had seen Laguna Loire stepping out of the main office of the Timber Maniacs publishing company.

Laguna had told Squall of all that had happened since the day Raine died. He told Squall how Rhys Caraway, overcome with guilt, had pulled a few strings and had managed to get Laguna released from prison. He told Squall how he had gotten a job with the Timber Maniacs and, within a few short years, had become the editor-in-chief of their newspaper. He told Squall of his ongoing search for Ellone, who had seemingly vanished off the face of the planet.

And then, he had tried to convince Squall to join the Forest Owls.

Of course, I saw them for what they were, Squall thought bitterly. A bunch of fucking cowards, unwilling to do what had to be done to win their freedom. How ironic, considering that I'm on the run from the WLA precisely because they WERE willing to do what had to be done. Way to be a hypocrite, Squall. Why can't you just pick a side? Your hypocrisy could cost Quistis, Irvine, Selphie, Zell, maybe even Seifer their lives...

Before Squall had a chance to follow this thread of thought any further, the train jolted to a stop, and a calm voice announced over the intercom:

"We are now arriving in Deling City. All passengers, please exit in an orderly fashion. I repeat, we are now arriving in Deling City..."


James Melbourne stared at the telegram in his hand, his fist clenching. It was short, to the point, and infinitely devastating.

"Commander Melbourne STOP. I regret to inform you that the alliance between the Forest Owls of Timber and the Winhill Liberation Army, while beyond a doubt mutually beneficial, must come to an end STOP. We cannot continue a relationship with an organization that makes use of terroristic tactics, no matter how close we may be in terms of our goals STOP. We hope that you will understand STOP. If you ever decide to reject your current choice of tactics in favor of more peaceful measures, we will gladly renew our relationship STOP. Yours in Liberty, Laguna Loire STOP.

Dammit. Melbourne ripped the paper in half and tossed it into the waste basket beside his desk, struggling to remain calm. Dammit. All those months of work...ruined because of a stupid little girl and her morals. God-fucking-dammit.

He ran his finger through his hair. Rinoa Heartilly. If only you'd never come here. Then, we—

Wait.

A vague memory surfaced in his mind, beginning as a vaporous wisp but quickly congealing into something more solid.

Heartilly. Heartilly. Heartilly. How do I know that name?

Of course.

He reached into his desk, leafing through the files, and pulled out an old, weathered record—a single. He read the title on the cover: "Eyes on Me."

Written and performed by Julia Heartilly; produced by General Rhys Caraway.

Melbourne bit his lip to stop himself from laughing.

Well, maybe all those months of work won't be wasted after all.

He grabbed a short-range radio from his desk and spoke into it. "Lieutenant Stark? Wake Almasy and tell him I want to see him in my office. Immediately."

A/N: In a way, you could say the plot is thickening, because I'm starting to delve deeper into what's happened in the past to bring Squall, Melbourne, Deling, Laguna, etc. to this point. Or, you could say that I'm just spending way too much time explaining everything, and I should really get back to the main plot now. So...what do you think? Peace,

--Against Everything