Author's Note: So I'm really bad at fight scenes. Any suggestions for improvement would be much appreciated!
A Promise for Christmas
Chapter Ten
Rinoa saw Squall take off alone, and her heart leapt into her throat. She'd heard the reports over the radio and knew immediately what Squall was planning. Even as she followed the guards escorting them inside, her eyes tracked Squall's progress on the two-man machine until he disappeared from view.
Ellone's hand touched Rinoa's elbow, and she jumped. The older woman met her eyes, sympathy but firm command in her gaze. "You won't go after him."
"It could be a trap."
Ellone hadn't thought of that, but she shook her head. "Rinoa, you can't. You're the Sorceress. We can't risk you."
Her responsibilities as Sorceress had never meant less to Rinoa, and she fought a bitter war between duty and love. "I can't leave him on his own."
"He won't be alone."
Kiros stood in front of them, armed and armored, with a force of guards behind him. Ward, silent and huge, stood at his side, toting a ferocious-looking harpoon in one hand like it was a toy. Kiros saluted both Rinoa and Ellone, his dark eyes serious. "We're going in after him. Your Commander will be safe, Rinoa." He met Ellone's worried gaze evenly. "We'll protect him."
Ellone's smile trembled, but she laid a hand on Kiros' forearm in gratitude and trust. "I know," she said simply, and stepped out of their way. As they trotted down the hall towards the main exit, Kiros snapped out orders. The group split into two, with Kiros leading half towards the balcony, Ward in lead of the second half.
"The garage," Ellone surmised. Their guards urged them deeper into the Palace, where a secured room had been prepared for just this eventuality. "Ward would never make it into the air on one of those little flying machines."
"I could help them," Rinoa suggested belatedly as she matched steps with Ellone. "Spells and the like."
Ellone shook her head. "Our responsibility now is not to fight."
"Because we're women?" Rinoa scrunched up her nose in distaste even as her blood fired. Let anyone tell her she wasn't combat-ready!
Laughing, the sound feminine and resigned, Ellone let Rinoa precede her into the prepared lounge. "Because this is for Squall to see to. This time," she stressed quietly, "let Squall handle this. It's not Garden business, Rinoa. You understand that. It's Christmas."
It's personal, Rinoa thought, looking at where Laguna stood already, his back to them, staring hard at the bank of monitors along the far wall. The security cameras captured various angles, and from every view fighting was fully engaged. A radio was set up on the table, spewing terse communications between various factions.
Rinoa hung back, awkward, as Ellone moved gracefully across the room to embrace her 'uncle'. "Everything will be all right," she promised, resting her head on his shoulder in a wordless gesture of camaraderie and support. "Squall will be back."
Laguna's voice was uncharacteristically hoarse. "I hope so."
"Believe in him." Ellone leaned back, voice serene and firm. "It's Christmas, Uncle Laguna. What else can we do but believe?"
Rinoa's heart strangled in her throat. What else, indeed?
Squall disconnected the radio but left the ear piece in as he neared the factory. He wanted his full attention on the situation at hand and didn't need the distraction of hearing updates on the struggle at the Palace. He could do nothing about that now, and trusted that Kiros could handle things in his absence.
The factory was lit up like – ha, ha – Christmas, bright industrial lights beaming out from windows opening into the workspaces below. Squall maneuvered the hoverpod around the building, scoping out the layout. Typical industrial building, with very few of the aesthetic touches that enhanced every other space in Esthar. One main entrance in front, docking and loading bays in the back for land and air cargo transport. Several of those were open, presumably departure points for the Disruptors that had converged on the Palace.
Squall aimed towards those. He was glad for the Esthar-made craft, its engine a quiet hum that nonetheless shattered the relative silence. Sounds of war were distant, and even the relentless cheer of holiday carols that someone had left on from the parade was muffled. Squall shut off the engine and hopped off, Lionheart in hand as he made his way deeper into the factory building.
It was eerily empty inside. Squall could see the halls where hovercraft had lined up, awaiting their turn to take to the skies. Other models, either prototypes or otherwise unusable, sat in recessed corners under protective clear plastic. Several other types of hovercraft sat in display-like rooms with glass fronts – a four-seater, an all-terrain vehicle, an airboard with fancy touches.
Squall's footsteps made slight echoes as he crossed to the central work area. Huge machines, shut down for the holiday break, loomed ominously overhead. All lights were on, throwing the swept concrete floor into sharp relief and casting an otherworldly feel to the silent machinery. Squall made his way slowly through them, wondering where an evil mastermind would hide amid all this.
The sudden groaning rumble of engines firing up had him jolting, bringing Lionheart up to guard position against an enemy he couldn't see. Squall leapt back, spinning to pinpoint the location of the enemy. Instead he saw the last thing he wanted to see: machines moving to some remote control, extending drills and saws, conveyor belts starting, chutes opening, as if stretching muscles that didn't exist.
A voice boomed out everywhere. "Greetings, Commander Leonhart, and welcome."
Squall knew better than to disorient himself looking for the source of the voice. Speakers were embedded in the vaulted ceilings, the PA system established for employee safety. There would be a control room, no doubt overlooking the floor. Squall scanned the walls for such a room even as he tried to maneuver himself out of the tangle of machinery.
The voice continued cheerfully, "I never truly expected you to make it this far. You are more tenacious than expected. I'd normally commend you on your tenacity, but I'm afraid it's rather interfering at the moment. I do have a goal, after all."
He saw it. Set in a wall of monitors and screens now dark with disuse, the control room sat high on the east wall. Squall could see in the dimly lit room a single form seated at the control board. The Disruptors' leader must have hacked into the system, he thought, overridden normal controls to activate the machines. No doubt the man had a gruesome end in mind.
Squall didn't plan on dying. He kept an eye on the machines, gauging reach and distance of the nearest crane-like apparatus.
"You see," the voice continued conversationally, "we weren't actually prepared for your arrival. I would have liked to welcome you with a little more pomp and circumstance, but we didn't know you'd even be here this Christmas until it was almost too late." Here a pout moved into the voice, and Squall cocked his head in interest. The voice sounded male, spoiled, and young. "If you'd stayed out of it, Laguna would already be ours."
The nearest set of stairs was across a broad expanse of open linoleum. Squall would never make the dash without being spotted, and even if the machines couldn't reach to stop him, the man in the control room would have too much time to rabbit. Squall weighed his other options. The bank of elevators was similarly too conspicuous, and possibly even disabled.
The only other option, then, was to scale the machines, somehow. If he could get the right height and the right angle on those windows, Squall could break through the glass and have a straight shot at the head of the entire operation.
The man wasn't finished his monologue yet. "And as much as I admire you, Commander, on a personal and professional level, I'm afraid you'll have to go. I do have an agenda here." He laughed, the sound merry over the speakers. "I'd apologize, but happily I'm not overburdened by any sense of guilt at your loss. Good-bye, Commander."
Squall dodged as a goose-neck claw lift smashed into the ground beside him from above. He rolled, cursing as his feet tangled in the faux fur hem on the skirt. "Hyne damn it!" He'd forgotten about the getup, and clumsily regained his feet. He eyed the machinery with misgivings. He'd Junctioned Quetzacotl beforehand, just out of habit, but hesitated to use her. He didn't want to disable the machines entirely with a sweeping lighting attack; he need them operational if his plan were to succeed.
He didn't have much time to think. A second machine swung its massive head around, saws whirring. Squall ducked, came up hard against a moving conveyor belt. He leapt up, nearly lost his balance as it whisked him towards a huge hammer that promised to smash him into oblivion.
Sheathing Lionheart somewhat awkwardly back in the skirt, Squall gritted his teeth and gathered handfuls of material in both hands so he wouldn't trip. I look like an idiot was his only thought as he leapt on top of the uplifting hammer block, teetering and making the second leap to an adjoining crane arm.
He had to release his skirts to grab onto the loose wires. The crane shook madly, attempting to throw him off, and Squall's stomach heaved at the wild movements. He'd have given anything for a Float right then, but he didn't have time to find the spell and cast it. He had to keep moving, keep his enemy guessing.
He scrambled along the length as carefully as he could, and when he saw, in his whirling vision, a second crane loom in his path, he made the wild leap. For one second he was flailing midair, then he crashed stomach-first into the next machine.
Squall retched, clinging to the new metal frame. He hauled himself up, slid down until he found a foothold in the smooth exterior of the enormous drill-tipped crane. There were shouts and curses now, screaming through the intercom. Squall cocked an ear even as he fought his way up the slick, painted metal surface of the crane. The voice sounded outraged, borderline desperate. Something about the tone and cadence of unintelligible ranting again made Squall think young and spoiled, like a child denied a treat.
The crane swung around, as if trying to shed him like a dog sheds water after a bath. Squall gripped tight, focused on the window spinning past. He had time for one quick prayer—please Hyne—as he gauged distance and trajectory, then loosed himself off the arm of the crane.
He tucked into a protective ball, crashing through the window with a crystal waterfall of broken shards and cacophonous music. Small cuts from flying glass stung along his arms and neck, and Squall rolled through more glass, feeling as much as hearing the crunch beneath his body. He had Lionheart out and in his hand, combat ready, when he sprang to his feet, facing the Disruptor manning the controls.
He was young, young enough to give Squall a jolt. The man stared at him with crazy eyes, dark brown hair spiky around a lean, sulky face. Blood trickled from a minute cut in his left cheek. He abandoned the controls, putting the single rolling chair, the only available cover, between himself and Squall.
Curiosity overtook even Squall's dedication to duty. He kept Lionheart in defense, but the man appeared unarmed. "What's your problem with Laguna?" It never crossed his mind to use Laguna's full title. "You've gone through a lot of trouble on his behalf."
"He's corrupting our city."
Again with that phrasing. Squall very nearly sneered, but such an action was too blatant an expression for him. Instead he lifted an eyebrow. "You've been reading too much Propagandist fiction. Your wording is both patently unoriginal and insidiously vague. It lacks substance and focus." He scraped a look up and down, deliberately insulting. "Though I suppose I'm not surprised."
"Shut up!" The Disruptor—Squall blinked—he actually stomped his foot. "You won't talk to me like that! I'm not a baby, I'm not a child. You will respect me and my cause."
Perhaps the sneer wasn't too much for Squall. He felt his mouth twist in derision. The boy couldn't have yet hit twenty. He felt conflicting impulses inside of him. Pity that someone so young should have talents so wasted, and mild discomfort that he was, essentially, taking down a child.
He worked the sneer into his voice, a verbal slap at the ego. "I don't think you're in any place to dictate how I will or will not regard you. Though you did do a fairly good job of screwing up the parade. Which, by the way, was a bad idea. Screwing up the parade, that is. The parade itself is lamebrained enough without your help. It were me, I'd have gone after Laguna during the prep. Less chance of screw-ups." He smiled then, big and toothy. "Major screw-ups."
He fully expected the Disruptor to stomp his foot again. Instead he fisted his hands in his hair and yanked. "You weren't supposed to track me here! Nobody outthinks Chester Stormbanks, nobody!" Squall was momentarily distracted by the fact that he'd referred to himself in third person. "I'll annihilate you!"
"Definitely too much Propagandist fiction," he decided, goading Chester on. "Or perhaps it's those new Blood Run games. Too much virtual, Chester, not enough reality."
He shifted his feet, subtly easing closer as Chester smashed a fist into the controls. On the other side of the busted windows, machines spun and clacked and crashed. Squall calculated the risks and benefits and, though it stretched little-used muscles, grinned hugely. "Though once I get you to prison, you'll get plenty of reality."
"I'm not going to prison!" Chester rushed at Squall, screaming wild curses.
Squall had expected him to run away, not towards him. For one split second he was afraid Chester would impale himself on the end of Lionheart. Squall threw his gunblade aside and tackled the Disruptor.
They crashed to the floor, Chester flailing and screaming. Glass crunched beneath them, and Squall squinted as crystal showered into his face. He grunted as a fist plowed into his gut, narrowly dodged the elbow thrown towards his chin. Blood dripped into his eyes from somewhere on his forehead. The scent of it was hot and ripe, and blood slicked his hands, making it hard to get purchase anywhere.
More annoyed by the pain than impaired by it, Squall reared up and plowed a short-armed fist into Chester's face.
Chester's eyes rolled back, and he dropped with a thud and a tinkle of broken glass. Squall groaned and sat up on his haunches, checking himself over for major injuries. He shook his head making glass fly from his hair in a deadly shower. It seemed like mostly small cuts, but his ribs ached from contact with Chester's fist, and his forehead throbbed. He probed gently with a finger, wincing as he felt the long gash there.
On the ground, Chester moaned. Squall crouched, patting the boy down for weapons and checking for hidden weapons. He found a loose-leaf booklet and flipped through it. Inside was a sort of diary, written by a half-mad author, detailing the attack on Laguna and the particulars of procuring the necessary funds and equipment and manpower.
On the last page, dated that morning, was written a single page. Squall rose from his crouch, idly set one boot on the man's back to keep his immobile as he read.
December 25
The time has finally come. All details are ready, everything's in place. The Commander from Balamb Garden is here. No doubt summoned by someone with real brains in the Presidential Palace. Left to his own, Laguna Loire wouldn't know how to tie his own shoelaces, much less run a country.
He should be focused on increasing exports, or streamlining the information exchange process between developing countries. Instead all we hear in the news is hype about Christmas, Christmas, Christmas, and this Hyne-blasted parade. I'm sick of it, sick of him. I'll rid myself of him, and Esthar will go back to normal. Technology, progress, perfection. Those are the real goals, the real dream.
There is nothing good about Christmas. I hate Santa Clause. Dreams don't come true on Christmas. I can't erase it, I can't erase Santa Clause, so instead I'll erase the man who will stand in his place tonight.
When Kiros and the cavalry arrived, Squall had Chester trussed up in a rather impromptu set of restraints fashioned from the faux fur ruff of his dress. Kiros and Ward led the guards up the back stairs. Ward immediately went to the controls to disable the machines that were going berserk on the factory floor and endangering the soldiers left below as a rearguard. The silence as he killed the power was sudden and absolute.
Kiros looked down at the sobbing man curled in the glass. Tied up in sparking white stole, he looked pathetic and childish. "This is the one responsible?"
"He is. Chester Stormbanks." Squall tossed Kiros the notebook. Something raw churned in his stomach, and he turned away from the boy on the floor. "He documented everything. It's enough for Esthar law enforcement to put him away for a long, long time, I'd think."
"Commander." Kiros held the book closed in his dark hand. His eyes, steady on Squall's, held a wealth of emotion that made Squall uncomfortable. "Thank you."
Squall moved his shoulders. Gratitude always made him itchy. "It's what SeeD's for."
"No." Kiros shook his head as guards hoisted Chester to his feet and clamped real restraints on his wrists. His eyes stayed level on Squall's. "It's not just duty."
Squall understood. He nodded briefly. "I understand." He looked around him. "You need help here? Cleaning up?"
"We've got it under control." Kiros gestured towards the crews of guards moving through the factory floor and securing wayward machinery. The sounds of sirens from the open back loading docks neared. "You can catch a ride back to the Palace in one of the cars, Commander. Rinoa is waiting for you."
Nodding again, Squall saluted smartly and moved past the guards working to shove the worst of the glass under a table. Ward leaned against the doorway, grinning broadly. He patted Squall on one shoulder, careful of his size and strength.
As Squall passed down the stairs, Kiros' voice called out. "Oh, and Commander?"
Squall turned back. Exhausted dragged at him, pain fogging his mind as every bruise, every cut made itself known on his abused and battered body. Humor lit Kiros' dark eyes, and his thin lips curved into an amused smile. "You might want to change before you meet with the President for debriefing. Your dress is ruined."
Glancing down, Squall remembered that he'd come running straight from the parade.
He was still wearing his Mrs. Clause dress.
~6.13.10