debi6988: Thank you for the kind review. I certainly plan on continuing this story through to its finish. Writing it in first person is more difficult than I anticipated - especially when Squall is very cut-and-dry about things and doesn't really like to think too deeply about things, albeit he sometimes catches himself doing just that. I look forward to finishing this story, and continuing on something new, too. :) But I've got awhile until then. I hope you continue reading!

xSummonerYunax: My thanks to you for the continued support. I hope you find this chapter as equally or even more enjoyable! It's a shorter one, but it's definitely one who's ending I'm happy with.

FINAL FANTASY VIII: THE NOVEL

CHAPTER XX: Selphie's Tears

It would probably be wrong to say that the reason I tried so hard to save Zell's life was only because he'd saved mine. As much as I wanted to tell myself that it was merely my duty to save a fellow SeeD and nothing more, I knew that there was another reason behind it all –maybe even an emotional one. Something had momentarily surfaced in my mind that was stronger than my aversion toward him, something that told me that I had to save him or else I wasn't even worthy of being alive after everything he'd done for me. It was an unsettling feeling and enough to get me moving.

Words would be exchanged between Zell and I that would be hard to forget. Staring death in the face as he did, he changed that day. He was still the goofy, annoying, hotdog-crazed fighter as before, but something in him undoubtedly evolved, as if his inner child had grown in age from seven to thirteen after feeling the barrel of a gun against the thin flesh of his skull. Coming face-to-face with one's own death can do that too a person I suppose, but

it was my blade that saved him from that fate.

Zell's fists had been bloodied, his face worn. When I saw him, I could tell that he thought he had been defeated: crouched down on his knees, hands intertwined behind his head, eyes drawn down at the ashen gray floor with the cold metallic brass of a QuickSilver pistol pressed against the base of his skull by a warden who stood towering over him.

When my blade made contact with the gun-wielding warden, there was a strange, deep gurgling sound that erupted from the wound. The pistol he held discharged as it hit the floor, sending a bullet wailing across the prison chamber in high-pitched whistles and abrupt clangs as it ricocheted from wall to wall. The warden hit the ground with dead weight and I knew he had died on impact. We were taught in Balamb that quick kills were easier on the psyche than drawn-out ones, and the instructors were right. I hardly felt any remorse. I was only surprised.

"I didn't think he'd go down that easy," I said, unsure whether the man was really dead or not, but the gurgling confirmed it – he was dead or dying.

"SQUALL!" Zell's voice rang out with such a persisting, natural annoyance that I knew he hadn't been mortally injured before I got to him. His eyes met mine, confused at first and then over joyous, tears filling his ducts and pouring down his dirty, prison-worn cheeks. He dropped to his knees once more, wrapped his arms around my waist and pressed his wet, tired eyes against my hip, crying as earnestly as I'd ever heard a guy his age cry. He thanked me over and over again, among other things, ignoring the fact that I told him to let go three times. I crashed the end of my weapon against his forehead. He stood up and wiped his eyes of tears, free from his hysteria. Quistis and Selphie rounded the corner, out of breath and sweating profusely. I had left them behind in a hurry, clearing the way toward Zell.

"Squall, why did you go on your own?" Selphie cried out in between breaths. She sounded worried, but I tried not to make much of it. And then, she asked something irritating: "Is Zell that important to you?" Her question was honest and innocent, but whatever facial expression I gave her at the time was enough to make her giggle schoolgirl-style with one hand covering her mouth and the other supporting her stomach.

It was a barrage of bullets that stifled her giggling, along with any hopes we had of making a quick escape. Zell must've felt in the moments before this that he had been saved, but it was clear now that he wasn't – none of us were. In those moments Selphie had crawled to me from behind cover and gripped at my arm helplessly, Zell had screamed and blindly threw empty canisters from behind cover, and Quistis leaned to me and whispered in question if I had a plan. I didn't. If bullets hadn't been whizzing past the tops of our scalps, I would've asked her why it was always up to me and why the ex-instructor couldn't contribute any ideas to our survival.

About thirty feet away, two figures walked down the stairwell across from us, moving slowly but with purpose. We advanced from our cover, seeing that the bullets had stopped and the soldiers had dropped dead. The figure who was leading the other tumbled down the stairs, dropping his shotgun mid-fall and sending it down after him. It was a Ulysses brand shotgun.

"Come on! Stop trying to act so cool!" A female voice called out angrily to the fallen shooter. It was Rinoa shouting, her face heated with irritation as she hurried down the stairs. "If only you had agreed with me earlier, we wouldn't be in this mess."

Her eyes met mine. They weren't as frightened as they had been in Deling City.

(I haven't forgotten your order, just stay close to me.)

A smile curled softly at the sides of her mouth. She said my name and I felt relieved. She carefully descended the remaining stairs and stood before us with Irvine behind her who was climbing back to his feet. Quistis shook her head at him and moved to Rinoa, giving her an up-down-up visual scan for injuries.

"Rinoa, you're safe." Quistis said, fascinated of this fact due to the circumstances. Irvine brushed off his beige coat and scoffed.

"Of course," Irvine said, "Courtesy of my escort."

Rinoa glanced behind her with a look of contempt and folded her arms. "My father pulled some strings with the military. He told them to get me, and only me, out," She said. She pointed behind her at Irvine without paying him a glance. "So this guy –he came and got me. Just me! Knowing you were all captured!"

Irvine shifted in place. "Ah, that's—," He started to say.

"Isn't that horrible?" Rinoa asked us as she stepped left in front of Irvine, blocking him from our view. Irvine stepped right and locked eyes with us.

"All right! I said I was sorry," He said, pleading with Quistis' eyes for forgiveness which were gleaming at him relentlessly. "That's why I'm here to help."

Rinoa scoffed, scrunched her face and spun around to Irvine with her hands studiedly on her hips. "Yeah, after I scratched you to death." Irvine shifted his weight again and pulled his black Stetson cowboy hat down, shielding his expression.

"Uh, a-a-anyhow, now's our chance," He muttered. Soldiers' voices emanated from above and below, but the voices were still far off, a few stories down and a few stories up.

The fact that Irvine wasn't someone who could be trusted yet disturbed me, but the idea of being chained back up and shocked until my skin smoked was far more of an unsettling reality.

"The basement door is buried in sand," I said. Irvine shrugged offhandedly and began ascending the stairs. He started to speak, but did not look at me directly.

"Of course it is," he said, "This place is buried underground."

"Buried?"

"That's right. The only way is up."

On the other side of the prison, soldiers ascended the stairs and fired in our direction. One collided with the brim of Irvine's hat and sent it flying. He ducked, cursed in what was now a heavy unfiltered accent, and returned fire. Three soldiers caught the buckshot and fell, dead as Sunday gloom. No groans, no shouts, just blood. Death had come for these men and Irvine was now the reaper, the shotgun his scythe. Irvine chuckled a bit, reloaded his gun with quick fingers and finished off the wave of men. Smoke wavered from the barrel of his piece as he sat it on the floor in front of him.

"That's it," Irvine said as he searched his coat pockets for more ammo. He did so in such a calm and reserved manner that I wondered if he'd been in this kind of situation before. He found two rounds, grabbed and reloaded his piece and kissed the barrel of his gun ceremoniously, the steel hot against his lips. "They have us surrounded… Those poor bastards."

He turned to face us and shouldered his loaded gun.

"It's my turn to boogie now, so ya'll head upstairs and make your escape. I don't have time to explain now, but the exit's up there. Trust me. I'll hold 'em up here."

2

Irvine Kinneas, who had never met his father and who had been beaten by his first foster mother before being dropped into a foster center when he hadn't even reached double digits, never expected to turn into much of a hero, or a role-model for that matter, but that's exactly what happened that day . . . or at least that's what I'd overhear him tell every woman we met on our journey since the D-District Prison incident. Irvine, at the ripe-ish age of 14, would have dated nearly every girl in that foster center (as much as a 14 year old can legitimately "date") before being transferred to a Garden where he'd begin training as a student. Early on, psychologists had told the caretaker that his "need" to date stemmed from his early foster mother's neglect. He had broken into his file and read it himself, although none of us were sure if that was true. And although the alleged beatings Irvine received were never severe enough to hospitalize or scar him, it was clear that these beatings would inevitably transform him into a future playboy –"breaker of hearts and bed boards," as Irvine would later recall to us.

Despite his past, Irvine did prove to be worth his weight as a mercenary. His bullets had stopped the guards and allowed us to ascend to safety where he'd meet us moments later. D-District was a hell that left us in pain for days, but that pain would quickly be put into perspective. The aches that pulsed deep within our muscles and that throbbed inside our heads were nothing compared to what Selphie would soon feel when she found out that her home and everyone there that she loved had been completely wiped from existence.

We had left the D-District Prison as a team, sweaty from climbing nearly 20 flights of stairs, bloody from fighting twenty-fold soldiers. The ultimate relief had been seeing natural light climbing in through the door ahead. Heat emanated from the opening and with it was the scent of sand and sun. Zell had been leading the way, frantic as soon as he saw the exit, with Selphie close behind him. Exiting that door had meant sweet relief –a relief and realization that we all were going to live. The team broke up into parties of three and stole two Galbadian vehicles, one a military transporter that was bright yellow (Selphie mandated that she ride in this one), and a lesser attractive, dull grey vehicle. The color of it had reminded me of my solitary cell and made me feel sick . . . and indescribably thirsty.

Zell and Rinoa were in my vehicle. As Zell drove, Rinoa told us all she knew about the D-District Prison. Its structure had been proposed by one of the late (and deceased) presidents of Deling City, who'd donated over half the funds needed for construction in return for unspecific privileges and rights to the area. The design was intended to make escaping impossible, coupled with an anti-magic field to prevent prisoner retaliation. In an attempt to make escaping further difficult, the prison was built in the middle of the southern desert of Deling City. The prison could be lowered into, or raised out of, the sand by controls located inside of it. The Galbadian D-District Prison had largely become a symbol of President Deling's fascist policies.

"And that's about all I know," Rinoa had said, followed by a soft sigh. She sat behind me in the back seat and Zell designated himself as the driver. Irvine, Quistis and Selphie were ahead of us in the yellow transporter. We were all exhausted, and the drone of the wheels against the sand and the hum of the diesel engine were a nice change from what had minutes ago been only gunfire and screams. As the road came to a fork, the yellow transporter came to a sudden stop, causing Zell to slam on the brakes. He hadn't been maintaining enough distance from them to otherwise not slam into their rear end. Rinoa had been knocked forward against the back of my seat, slamming her elbow into the roll cage next to her. She apparently had dozed off, but awoke with a quick and abrupt gasp. She shot Zell with upset and irritated eyes—I don't want you to drive, Zell, and it's your fault my elbow hurts like the rest of me now, the look said.

In front of us, Selphie flew from the passenger seat of that yellow transporter and climbed a large rock next to where she had gotten out. In the distance, two structures could be seen: one, the Galbadian Missile Base, the other, a train station. I wasn't sure what was wrong or why she climbed the rock in such dangerous hurry. I swung my door open and as I did, I could hear Selphie crying out in desperation at me.

"Irvine said they're gonna launch missiles at Trabia Garden and Balamb!" She yelled. "Trabia, that's my home, Squall! That's where I was transferred from the day I met you. We have to do something! They're hitting Trabia first! Irvine said we don't have alotta time!" Her words came quick and were hard to understand. Irvine slowly emerged from the driver seat with a bright red handprint on his cheek. He grimly nodded his head, validating her.

Everyone climbed from their vehicles and my resolve to head straight to Balamb Garden sank. Even worse, Zell affirmed that he'd do whatever I decided. Selphie was relentlessly opting to take the path left to the missile base – to infiltrate and stop the missiles from launching; Quistis lifted her head as she always had when instructing, waiting for my decision; Irvine pulled the brim of his hat down and held his tender cheek, silent; Rinoa crossed her arms, staring at Selphie with a look that had turned her frustration toward Zell into compassion for Selphie, who was now staring me down.

Let's go to the missile base and stop them, I wanted to tell her, but it wasn't realistic. It was more than just Selphie that I had to consider. There was Rinoa, an outsider. There was what Seifer said and what Irvine just confirmed – that Balamb was in danger, too. There were the lives that would have to be risked if we went to the missile base. It was getting into the base, too, and getting out of it, alive. These thoughts poured into my head, one after the other, until Selphie broke them altogether with another outcrying.

"I can't just sit around knowing that Trabia Garden is in danger!" Selphie said, more forceful than before. She sprung from the rock and landed roughly, kicking up dust and sand. The way she did it reminded me of our first SeeD mission in Dollet. She was just the klutzy messenger girl who tumbled down the hill with a notice for Seifer.

But now, unsure of how to answer, I watched her and began to realize how much more I knew about her since then. She always did what she felt was right in her heart, and maybe that was what we were dealing with now. Selphie shifted anxiously in place, started down the sand road towards the missile base in a hot fury, and then turned around. Her face was red and flustered, her small nose scrunched up, her brown hair tangled. She gazed at me with glossy eyes, seemingly on the verge of tears, waiting for my decision with as much camaraderie and respect as she could muster at my silence, until—

"Squall, please!" She nearly hissed. Her voice and the anger in it, however, was unmatched by the fear and rugged terror in her eyes. A dismal and despairing tone returned to her voice as she took a few steps in my direction, hands quivering, surprised by her own emotion, searching my eyes for the answer she so desperately wanted to see on my lips. "Please, Squall, please, decide who's gonna go to the missile base, before it's too late."

And as if to confirm her darkest nightmare, missiles launched in the distance. She dropped to her knees, weeping, hands briskly catching her tears and wiping them away from her face. I peered around at the others. Selphie's sobs cut the air. Everyone was silent except for her, and after awhile, I realized no one wanted to look at me.