**Note: Hi everyone! Sorry for the lack of updates. I realize that a Cid chapter might be a little disappointing after a long wait, but I actually have a Seifer/Fujin chapter half-finished that I'd originally planned on including with this … but this really needs to stand separate from that. If I'm ambitious I'll get that one up in the next week (but since I'm not super ambitious, maybe give me two or three?).**

36: Sea Change

Martine definitely looked older, Cid convinced himself, as his eyes rubbered around the room to follow the Galbadian headmaster's pacing. Even in motion, Cid could spot signs of age on Martine's face—a few wrinkles furrowing deep around the younger man's viridescent eyes, gray hairs speckling his temples. He supposed that the idea of their world careening towards an apocalypse was enough to sprout a worried gray hair on anyone's head—he might look a decade older himself, too, if he didn't have an insider's perspective on this mess they were wrapped up in.

But having the advantage of foresight from Edea, Cid thought he actually faired pretty well in the aging department. All the heft and softness he'd accumulated through decades of indulging himself with plates of red meat (and glass upon glass of whiskey) actually made him look more youthful than poor, rigid Martine. Maybe even more youthful than Fury Caraway, too. No small feat, considering both men were almost nine years his junior.

How was it possible that someone who was always so fit could look so much older? That militaristic health regimen he followed was making him look more feeble than formidable, Cid mocked the man inside the safety of his own skull as he nursed his glass of brandy—clearly Caraway's choice of drink, not his own. He tensed irrationally when Martine jerked to a standstill at the window and relaxed again when he realized it was impossible his thoughts were witnessed. Even still, Cid kept careful watch as the epaulets on the larger man's broad shoulders rose and fell with the release of an annoyed sigh.

He always did have a terrible time masking his irritation; a trait from his younger years he that never outgrew.

Cid usually tried not to let himself think on Martine's younger years much. But sometimes when the man would make a movement or a gesture that mimed his younger self, it triggered a response that Cid couldn't fight—anxiety; a knotted stomach; a remembrance of failure. He was thankful it dulled over the years, but its phantom sharpness still pierced through the calm veneer he'd carefully cultivated. No matter how much time passed, Martine's mere presence in Cid's life only served as a reminder of the abject failure of losing Galbadia Garden, control of his future with Edea in tandem, and subsequently becoming a slave to the struggle of keeping Balamb and Galbadia on a collision course with what she'd prophesized.

The merging of Edea and Ultimecia was impossible to adjust to those first few years—she'd served as his guiding light and his confidant in this whole mess for so long, Cid wasn't sure how he could operate without her. It's not as if he had a play-by-play of the events that would set everything into motion; Edea saw most of the outcome but she didn't see every single detail—oh, the minutiae that no one romanticizes when talking of destiny and fates foretold. Cid often felt like he was shooting into the dark, and back then, every decision felt like it was of mortal consequence, and every failure felt like the beginning of the end of everything he'd been working for.

So much of his plan to get his cottage by the sea back, his wife back—his entire life back—came down to instinct and the ability to control the world around him, including managing the relationship between SeeD and Galbadia. It was the whole reason he'd worked tirelessly with Fury Caraway to get the Galbadian government to subsidize Galbadia Garden. It was quite the undertaking, and Cid was hopeful that NORG and the other council members would reward him with a position leading the entire Garden System. Nothing would be more perfect—whatever the role each institution needed to play in this theater, Cid would be directing the show.

Imagine his surprise when NORG had the audacity to call a surprise council convening and parade G-Garden's hot-shot new leader right in front of his face: the one and only Cylas Martine. The blue-blooded darling of the Galbadian army. A young, handsome hero of the Great Sorceress War, still fresh with the scent of victorious campaigns in Centra.

Cid thought it was more of a stink, really. A thick, malodorous smog that settled over all of his well-laid plans.

It wasn't all that troublesome when, initially, the other members of the council nodded along emphatically in agreement with Martine's authoritative presentation about the future of SeeD. Cid was just reminded that the average person wasn't all that perceptive. Sure, the man had the presence of warrior and the likeness of a god, but Cid's experience managing Balamb Garden surely overshadowed that.

Furthermore, he and Caraway had a deal. Using SeeD resources to kill the man who made Caraway a widower was no small task—the courts had already jailed the lush, and SeeD took a risk when taking the law into its own hands … not to mention that breaking into D-District to get the job done wasn't exactly a walk in the park. Caraway certainly owed him very large a favor, and the well-revered Lieutenant throwing his support behind Galbadia Garden, and Cid's managing of it, was the payment Cid was due.

But when Fury Caraway joined in the emphatic nodding? Well, it took every ounce of resolve Cid had to stiffen the dumfounded slackness of his jaw and keep it from dropping to the table.

Cid struggled solemnly through a claustral rage as the conversation continued around him. He wracked his brain for an explanation while Martine's voice echoed distantly through the heat of indignance that filled his head. Why would Caraway go against him like this, and how could the Council and NORG deviate from the vision Cid worked up with that bastard Shumi, all those years ago? Hell, Martine's stance on preferring natural abilities over Guardian Forces and paramagic enhancement directly contradicted the curriculum Cid had in place in Balamb and Trabia. Martine was entirely wrong for the position.

There were so many horrific comments on the tip of his tongue—the awful secrets about each council member that he'd made a point to collect threatening to come out. What could they do, fire him? It'd never happen. He was too important to lose. But when his anger hit a plateau the voices around him rose a decibel or so higher, Cid pivoted. Anger unchecked was an enemy, but anger with a direction and a purpose was the best weapon he'd ever wield.

So instead of speaking all his rage, Cid listened instead. He listened and heard the heavy-handed talk of Martine's heroism in the Great War, and how his close ties to Galbadia's military—and their deep coffers—could potentially 'revolutionize' the way Garden trained their cadets. He listened and identified the warble of insecurity when Garden's future without sustainable funding was referenced, and if he listened closely enough, he thought he even heard hope of a promotion to General in Caraway's future. Everyone at the table was motivated by profit or personal gain—Cid included.

With only a vote—and an already decided vote at that—standing between him and abject failure, there was no time for negotiation. The was only room for compromise with himself. Not getting his hands on Galbadia Garden was a giant blow to his ego, but Cid didn't want to put his autonomy with Balamb and Trabia at risk. The last thing he needed was some silver-spooned ingrate rolling out a fucking five-year plan and taking over the entire Garden System, and everything Cid fought to earn.

At a glance, some might say that Cid Kramer was outmatched by Martine with this fight. After all, Cid was merely a portly Headmaster with no valor or glory trailing him. When measuring their obvious qualities side by side, Cid virtually had nothing to offer. He certainly didn't have a pedigree, medals to flash, or battle wounds to tell stretched truths about.

But when it came to money and the fear of not having it, Cid was more than well versed. So much of the man Cid became was shaped by his lack of money and his adaptation to it over the years—he was sure he could turn that unparalleled experience and his resourcefulness outward. When Martine brought his revolution before the Garden System council, Cid vetoed it mercilessly, and he made it All. About. Money.

He could see the gears in NORG's brain twisting predictably as he soaked in the idea of an overhaul costing billions of dollars. He implored NORG to make Galbadia a pilot program before rolling it out Garden-wide. His grand plan was to push moderate change in the face of a bold revolution. He played to his fellow council members basest fears—feckless financial ruin.

Cid won the game in the end, much to Martine's chagrin. The committee deemed that Garden would be comprised of three independent institutions for the foreseeable future—Galbadia prime for Martine's experimentation, and Balamb and Trabia safely nestled in the old ways. Cid would serve as acting Headmaster of Trabia until a fitting leader was found, while also heading the search committee in tandem. Pity that no one ever seemed to measure up to his high standards. Even though Galbadia Garden wasn't in Cid's grasp, at least his footing in Balamb and Trabia was secure and a Garden System didn't exist for anyone to control.

Just because it was successful doesn't mean it wasn't stressful—those 90 minutes of Cid's life were some of the most stressful fucking minutes he'd ever endured. He swore to never let this thing get that out-of-hand again. Not that he had any control over it to begin with … or that he had control of anything, really. Should he have been so worried about the outcome? Wasn't it already fated, anyway?

"At what point should we consider this insulting?" Martine seethed as he stormed to the bar cart with heavy strides and rifled through the liquor that Cid already helped himself to. Luckily Martine didn't seem to notice his companion was lost in thought. "Called on at a late hour, harassed by those fucking morons at the gate—" he paused his grumbling briefly to follow Cid's lead and fill a small glass—"and then to make us wait."

"Fury's commanding an army. He has more important things to than be on time for us." Cid ratcheted down the smile that was attempting to sneak to his lips as he watched the man bristle at the thought of Caraway's time being more important than his own—the alpha male ego was such a fragile thing.

"He could've at least left us a decent whiskey," Martine grumbled as he plugged the bottle. "I thought he would've moved past this brandy stage by now."

"Since when has Caraway moved past anything?" Cid asked honestly, his eyes following the man as he continued to walk the perimeter with the glass already pressed to his lips.

"Good point," the Galbadian conceded as he twisted the butt of the glass against his palm. "But he might move on if people stopped encouraging him. I mean, someone needs to put a stop to this, right? This is a coup d' etat. It's … it's madness." The tone intended to spark debate, but Cid let the words filter through one ear and out the other. Now was not the time to start an argument—there were more important things at hand.

"Nobody's calling it that—"

"Because it sounds even crazier when you say it out loud!" Martine spun around and motioned wildly with his glass, spilling a few drops of Caraway's fine brandy on the hardwood floor. The well-worn boards creaked under his feet, leaving Cid imaginig the sheer number of times Caraway must have traced that very same path under the duress of command, or at the news of his dead wife. What was it like, he wondered, as Martine began to shake his head disapprovingly along with his pacing, to know for a fact he'd never see her again? The thought of understanding haunted him.

"Come on Kramer, where's that irritating sensibility you're always crushing everyone's soul with? I mean … treason? And as if that's not enough, assassinating a sorceress—your wife," Martine paused for emphasis there before taking a swig of his drink again. "It won't exactly be a walk in the park. What a time for you to grow a set of balls."

"Cylas, stress is no excuse to lose your civility," Cid snapped, unnerved momentarily by Martine's flagrant roasting of him. He'd always suspected that was what the younger man thought of him: meek, ball-less old Cid Kramer. "And thank you for the insight. Rest assured I'm well aware of the personal toll. Though I thought you, of all people, would know better than to mention it."

Martine bristled as he considered a response. The muscles on his cheek twitched when a sharp reply got stuck in his throat and he struggled to mask the anger that surfaced with a reference to personal tolls and past version of himself.

So, at least something about the rumors held a semblance of truth …

Watching the hulking, god-like frame of Martine, swimming in remembrance of tragedy in that ostentatious gilded blue coat didn't elicit any pity from Cid Kramer, though—even if the stories were true. After suffering through years of the man's arrogance, it was a welcome sight to find him looking a little gaunt and gray, haunted by ghosts of the past as he shuffled his feet along the perimeter of Fury Caraway's library and worked up a shameful, nervous sweat.

Cid had no clue what specific nerve he'd struck: memories of a dead family, or of a boyhood trauma? It could've been anything, honestly. There were so many mysteries surrounding Martine's role in the war, and it's not as if they'd ever been close and traded gossip over beer. The only truth Cid knew was that the man came back from the Sorceress War utterly transformed—the Headmaster Martine he knew now striking such a stark contrast to the adolescent Cylas Martine that Cid taught at the prep school in Esthar all those years ago—long before that fated Garden Council meeting.

The memory was still vivid in his mind, and still made his chest pinch with anxiety. Small-town Cid—fresh out of college and off to his first teaching gig—got lost on the Big City's new transportation system and wound up running 30 minutes late. There were too many stops, so many nauseatingly bright colors—it was a lot of overstimulation for someone who used to be a bundle of nerves.

When he finally reached campus, he raced to his classroom and arrived panting, with mussed hair and sweat stains under his arms. He frantically jiggled the locked handle of the classroom door, eliciting the arrival of a blond beast of a boy who merely smirked at him smugly through the glass. Professors here always locked the door if someone's late, he quipped. You understand sir, that we need to hold you to the same standard; we'd lose respect for you if we didn't, sir. The tone was earnest, but his shit-eating grin caused a rolling wave of laughter from the other students. Cid didn't bother telling the tale of how he'd gotten lost on the much-too-foreign Estharian transportation system—he'd encountered enough arrogant assholes in his time to know that he was being made a fool.

Fetching a senior-level administrator to let him into his own classroom was an embarrassing way to start his first day of teaching, and it made for an even rougher semester with the students in his class. Inevitably, Martine's antics only continued, and the other kids eagerly encouraged him and followed suit.

There wasn't even much Cid could do to discipline Cylas Martine. There wasn't a great number of years between them, so Cid's seniority didn't exactly earn him much respect. Aside from that, the money his family brought in to the school made Cylas beyond reproach. Cid could only sit back, take the ridicule, and only fantasize about taking a swing at the little shit and putting a permanent crook in the boy's pretty, aristocratic nose.

It was a hellish time in Cid's life that he didn't like to reflect on much—everything before Edea was a wash. Back then he'd spend his days getting emasculated by children, and would go home to his dingy studio apartment, tired and lonely, and do nothing but stare at the static on the television screen and wonder if all his uphill clawing for a place in the affluent world was worth it.

He was practically giddy when he heard that 18-year-old Cylas decided to return to Galbadia before the year was out to nobly follow in his father's footsteps and enlist in the military. And when news of the Great War came not too many years later? Martine was the first thing Cid thought about, and he looked back on the boy's enlistment fondly. Maybe there would be no need to exact vengeance—fate would likely do that for him.

Unfortunately, Martine survived the war, but Cid heard that he'd had a tough time of it and that gave him some comfort. Fury told him once that Cylas was a difficult cadet until the then-Major Caraway took him under his wing. From there he rose up in the ranks quickly, and during the war he was assigned to highly classified missions, saw dark things, and was forced to make difficult choices. Rumor had it that the man's wife and child languished in a bombing of a Galbadian satellite base in Centra after it fell into enemy hands, and that Martine had given the order himself. Crueler critics (who Cid admittedly gravitated towards) said that Martine stepped outside of his marriage long before the bombing, and that he made the decision easily—the stories ran that gamut.

Cid, for his part, hadn't heard a thing about Martine between that year in Esthar and the day the man showed up to claim the helm of Galbadia Garden. On the surface, it didn't seem like the stories could be true. Martine was the picture of ambition and when he was selected to lead G-Garden and oversee its coordination with the Galbadian Government. But when Cid looked deeper … well, he understood what it felt like to lack something you wanted so desperately, and he also understood more than anyone what it was like to love. And when he looked at Martine, he swore he could sense a close cousin of the hurt that rested within his own chest over Edea.

That lingering pain—that aching lack—being in your heart forever? Cid hoped all the rumors surrounding his counterpart were true. What perfect vengeance.

"That was out of line. I … I shouldn't have said it," Martine conceded with great difficulty. "But even I'll admit that you're a smart man Cid. I'd do almost anything Caraway asks, but this is going too far. We should talk some sense into him; try to persuade him to follow appropriate channels."

"There's no time for that." A baritone voice echoed behind them, and Cid twisted in his chair to find that Fury had finally shown up. "There's too much bureaucracy to cut through, and by the time the senators agree to take action, the sorceress will be readying the second Lunar Cry." He continued to walk towards Martine as he spoke, loosening his cufflinks and necktie as he made the journey. "Don't tell me, old friend, that the years made you forget just how quickly these things unfold."

"No. But I'm not sure it should be up to the three of us to decide, if the fate of the free world's at stake," Martine attempted to speak confidently, though it was obvious he regretted being caught questioning the man who'd practically handed him the life he lived now. "Especially since one of us apparently can't even read a watch."

"Touché," Fury chuckled as he shrugged off his coat, the labored motion signaling that he'd had a long day already, and that he knew Cid and Cylas were about to make it even longer. "I'd like to say I have an official excuse, but truth be told my daughter's been putting me through the wringer lately. She's gotten even more unruly since she met that cadet of yours, Kramer. Filling her head with notions of freedom and rebellion," Caraway grumbled as he plopped down in his chair. "Which she's choosing to exercise by dating an even more terrible boy than the last one."

"I'll admit that I'm not proud of how that happened. But once she was involved, the scope of the mission had to adjust." Cid politely folded his hands in his lap and leaned back in his chair. "She was always safe. The boy was professional and kept his distance."

"Boy?" Caraway scoffed as he motioned for Martine to fetch him a drink. Apparently, they all understood that being a little buzzed was the only way to get through this. "I don't know. Over six feet tall. Some scruff on his face. He looked like a man to me, Kramer. A man you sicked on my child."

"'Sicked' on her?" Cid shook his head doubtfully and locked his eyes with Caraway's as his lips curled into a small smirk. "Being a father even gives pragmatic men like you a blind spot, eh? Remind me to never show you the reports. Your little girl isn't so—"

"Uh …let's just skip the small talk," Cylas interrupted, knowing there was nothing but disaster on the other end of that sentence. From the corner of his eye, Cid saw their companion's hand slowly drop a drink beside Fury and pause for a moment, as if he anticipated the General would launch across his desk and murder his fellow Headmaster. From the look on Fury's face, Cid couldn't say whether Martine was right or not.

But when Caraway didn't make any movement, and Cid still had a pulse, Martine breathed a sigh of relief and edged the glass closer to the General with the tip of his finger. When it was reluctantly accepted, Martine finally moved to sit beside Cid.

"Don't be a fucking asshole, Kramer," Martine whispered through his teeth as he settled into the empty chair. The three of them sat in an awkward silence for a few moments as Fury took a few swigs from his glass to catch up with them. At a loss for what to do next, Martine immediately transitioned the conversation to some common ground—the assassination of Edea.

"So … If we're doing this—and again, I just have to stress how not on-board with this I am," he looked back and forth between them, making eye-contact with them both to emphasize his objection. "But if we are doing this, I need more time to work with my sharpshooter."

"How's he doing?" Cid asked, his eyes still fixed on Caraway, who he'd learned to never take his eye off after that entire Galbadia Garden debacle—if he got stabbed in the back twice, it'd be his own fault.

"Yes. Irvine Kinneas. He's … well, you were right about him all along, Kramer. He's got a good eye. It'd be quick. Painless." Martine struggled to be delicate, and Cid's concentration on Caraway broke. Even though Edea insisted things would work out … on the slim chance that they weren't … he wouldn't want her to feel anything. "He's the best, but I just need a few more months to see if I can't work the nerves out of him."

"That's actually why I wanted to see you both tonight. Some more intel came through, and we finally have a timeline. The sorceress' delegation is preparing for a visit in the late spring—a little less than eight months from now," Caraway cleared his throat and relaxed in his chair. "This is happening, so get your sharpshooter ready, Cylas. There's no room for error in any capacity."

"Eight months …" Cid whispered, his voice cracking a little despite his best effort to appear unfazed. "Alright … well, I'll work on getting a SeeD team together."

"Wouldn't it be better to use Galbadia Garden's forces? Kinneas knows them. Trusts them," Martine asked, leaning forward on his knees and lacing his fingers together. "Plus, I think prepping a team is a lot to ask of you, Kramer. Under the circumstances."

"No, no. I'll manage." Cid crossed his arms and shook his head. "If Kinneas misses there needs to be a team capable of taking the sorceress down."

"I'm with Kramer. Sending SeeD in without paramagic or Guardian Forces is like bringing a knife to a gun fight," Caraway stated plainly as he riffled through his desk and pulled out a box of cigars. He offered one to Cid and Cylas, who both declined. He shrugged at their refusal before lighting a cigar for himself and delving back into the conversation. "Speaking of guns and knives, how's it going with your gunblader? The one I haven't had the pleasure of meeting yet?"

"He's ready," Cid said distantly as he swirled the liquid in his glass and cast his gaze downward. There was no need for them to know that Squall Leonhart hadn't passed his SeeD exams yet, or any need for them to know that the only person truly qualified to be on the team was the young instructor Quistis Trepe. All of that could be sorted out later, when it was too late for either Martine or Caraway to do anything about it. "It's just a matter of finalizing the others. We have a lot of options."

"Is it still the plan to send them in blind?" Martine queried, and Cid recognized the precursor of an opinion along with it. A thorn in Cid's side until the very end. "Because I'd like to tell my man in advance."

"You know the protocol," Fury admonished, though it came without flair or even a degree aggression—obeying the chain of command was so deeply ingrained in Martine that it wasn't necessary. He nodded and bit his tongue as if he wholly understood how idiotic his own question had been. Now, if Cid had tried to tell him that advancing details on a mission of this gravity was against every rule in their joint rulebook? Well, Martine probably would've proposed rewriting the whole damn thing. "And I've already started making moves, so for purely selfish reasons, I'd rather my fate not be attached to whether or not a young SeeD can keep his mouth shut. A general who commits treason is pretty likely to lose his head if he's caught."

"Treason," Martine repeated before biting his lower lip, as the gravity of their situation sank in. Despite all of his bad qualities, Martine was, at the very least, a loyal man. The only thing that trumped his love of country was his allegiance to General Caraway. Overthrowing the president and seizing control of the government was a difficult pill to swallow. If any of the lore surrounding his time in the war was true, the man had already lost so much keeping Galbadia intact.

"Treason from one angle, saving the republic from another," Caraway shrugged in an uncharacteristically cavalier fashion. "I used to see the world in black and white, but the older I get and the more I see … well, it's just a hell of a lot of gray." He emptied his glass and stared at the remnant drops gathered at the bottom, and Martine fell deeper into silence.

In that calm moment on the precipice of change, some walled off part of Cid's heart tinged with sadness at the possibility of what would happen to everyone else in the days to come. To Caraway and Martine. To the kids back in Balamb Garden, or to Caraway's young daughter. But like much of Cid's empathy for anyone but Edea, the concern was fleeting.

The next years of Cid's life would probably be the worst he ever endured—there'd be stress, second-guessing, mistakes; the world itself would be on the brink of destruction and might even pass the threshold. He had no fucking idea what the future truly held. The only thing he was certain of was that Edea would return to him, one way or another. They'd either be together again by the sea, together in another life … or they'd all be nothing but dust on a barren planet.

"So … the end is finally near," Cid said the sentence aloud unintentionally and his companions nodded in solemn reply. Both mistook his disbelief that the wait was finally over for the sadness of a man who was about to lose everything he held dear.