[co-written with irishais]
No one lets him have anything, and yet Seifer takes anyway, everything he can, trays and plastic cups and cheap silverware (plasticware, really, but still brutally efficient with enough force behind it), medicine cups, handfuls of pills—anything that can become a weapon, used to his advantage in a way the clinic hadn't prepared for. They were never prepared for him.
They should have left him in the deep-dark hole in D-District's basement, stark-raving-mad with his rage.
Seifer has always taken everything he can—no one ever gave him anything in his life before this hell on earth. Now is no different. It will never be different, not here in the Monterosa range with the beautiful landscapes, the sunny yellow walls, the armed guards and doctors and nurses who all think they know better than him with their condescending smiles, their insincere questions, their information that they pulled off of computers, phones, newspapers, books, anything but straight from the source because they don't care what he has to say, they only care that he is a monster—
He has always played his role. Dreamer, knight, beast.
This time, he goes straight for the shiny bright weapon at a janitor's hip, ripping off the keys from his belt to turn and assault the intern with the white coat, the big square glasses, the syringe.
The big brass key on the stolen ring makes such a lovely squish as it tears through the kid's eyeball—Seifer shoves, twists, feels the goo squish and dribble down onto his hand. He laughs, hysterically feral.
He rips the key out, bathing in ooze, blood—laughing laughing laughing he plunges it back in deeper, beating against the skull with flayed knuckles—
Do it, do it, rip his head open and tear into his brain, kill him, make him pay, and he doesn't know if that's his voice or hers.
Does it matter?
He doesn't think it matters anymore.
A different syringe is stabbed into his neck; Seifer's still laughing even as the diazepam kicks in, dragging him back down deep into the dark pit, where he's safe, where he belongs.
(Later, when he is in a straitjacket in a padded room to atone for his crimes, Seifer hears through the nurses' grapevine that the kid is maimed, blinded, mutilated—thousands of gil spent on his doctorate only for his career to end right where he thought it would begin, strapped down to a table in a psychiatric ICU, screaming about the monster that tried to kill him.)
They drug him, they release him. Seifer shakes it off, Seifer rampages—time loses all meaning within these yellow-vomit walls. Did it ever mean anything?
Was he ever anything but this?
Seifer takes and takes and takes and they keep tackling him, pumping him full of drugs that make him separate from the world, drugs that knock him out and subdue him, drugs designed specifically to destroy what shreds of his soul still live beneath all the pain, all the rage.
Let me out! he bellows and roars—this is supposed to be better than a lifetime in D-District's general pop? At least there, his meanness had made sense, placing him at the top of the pack. At least in prison, he had run the damn place, once everyone realized he wasn't just some kid who had blindly followed orders.
(call me a young revolutionary)
—
They give him everything, and yet Squall wants none of it, each offering irrelevant, all empty gestures and cheap platitudes that he finds his way to ignoring, even as he is confronted in this too-white room. Everything feels clinical and cold, a well-calculated tactic, and he wonders if this is supposed to ease his mind. This is the downside of belonging to an institution: he is not prepared for what they want him to be.
Once he'd found himself in here well after hours (an advantage of being Commander), staring at the rows and rows of pills, and he didn't think twice, let alone once, as he swiped a bottle of benzos from the shelf and made away to his apartment. The drugs are his refuge, the only way he's able to hang on, but they always stay out of sight from Rinoa's prying eyes. He doesn't want them, he needs them in order to turn off his mind so he can just. Stop. Thinking.
The tungsten feels like a spotlight shining on him. He looks up at the woman sitting across the room and he swears for just a second that he sees a hole in her face, her well-practiced empathy spewing out from a black, blank void. These sessions are all so goddamned pointless. Hollow, even. She smiles a sick, sympathetic smile to let him know that she is listening, that she is here for him if he wants to talk, but all he wants to do is go back to bed with enough meds in his bloodstream to float away from it all.
Squall pushes and pushes and pushes, trying to keep them all at bay, but they in turn keep trying to console him, to tear down these comfortable walls that he has carefully lined with razor wire. So instead he lies and lies and lies, going through the motions during these so-called counselling sessions—Garden-mandated, of course, a monthly check-in to make sure he's still sane—and he says and does all the right things to get through to the other side.
Once upon a time, he had fooled himself into believing that he'd actually changed. He thought maybe he even felt happy once, but if this life has taught him anything, it's that happiness is a fleeting pursuit, like trying to catch fog.
Nothing lasts in this world.
So here he is, seven years too many invested into this job, still disconnected, still as checked out as ever. It's not really all that surprising, at least not to him; it's never been in his nature to be anything less than a neurotic mess. The problem now is that he's sitting right on the borderline in more ways than one. He wonders how long he can go on like this, mixing chemicals with command.
"Commander?"
Her voice sounds hazy.
"Commander?"
More insistent. Still far, far away.
"Squall?"
He nods. "We're good. I'm good."
He is not good. He thinks of what he has to do in just a few short hours, the thought of seeing his ex-rival sending his mind into a frenzy. He has heard the rumors and read the reports: four dead in D-District, an unceremonious transfer to a medical facility in the Monterosas, and then an encore performance by way of a life-altering attack on an intern, followed by a visit to a padded room where they locked him up like a madman.
Seifer Almasy, by all accounts, is a walking, breathing, raging disaster.
But Squall knows it could've just as easily been him instead. If he hadn't passed the SeeD exam, if he hadn't met Rinoa, if he didn't have some sort of structure to hang on to, then what? It's almost a sick turn that he has been afforded everything he thought he ever wanted, all this power (too much power), all this autonomy (still not enough autonomy), but everything comes at a cost.
And what stops a man from his own descent? Squall knows right now he is at the height of Garden's command, but it just means there's only more room to fall. He tries his best to hang on, to hold it all together, but the cracks are already starting to show. And they're all watching, waiting for that one wrong step, hanging on that one bad move to send him spiralling.
—
Days turn into weeks and into months, into years, and Seifer is stuck here. Trapped like he was in the castle, like he was in Ultimecia's thrall with syringes and pills taking the place of puppet strings and Hyperion's bright keen edge. Trapped in a place so sterilely, blandly pretty that it's dangerously easy to forget that all the staff carry tasers and plastic handcuffs, that beneath all those pastel-yellow walls and white blinds, this place is just another prison. He's here with a fresh-healed wound on his forearm, where they'd strapped him down and shoved a tiny chunk of Odine tech among the nerves and veins and muscle that keeps him from blowing this whole place sky-high. He's here, sitting at a scuffed table that's been discreetly bolted into the floor, because it's visiting hours.
Seifer's never had visitors, none that matter, none that he remembers. They've left him here to rot.
So, it surprises the hell out of him that Squall Leonhart is suddenly sitting across from him, jarringly out of place in his uniform and as sneaky as a cat. There are medals on it now, bars and stripes that have some rank-and-file meaning, honors, distinguished acts. Bravery, valor. Whatever.
What is he now? Still Commander? Maybe he made it all the way up to Admiral. He doesn't care enough to ask.
Seifer wonders if it's worth playing this game of silence-chicken a little while longer, but decides he's bored already, and flicks the edge of the open folder just within his reach. Besides, the longer he sits here, the more Squall stinks like a fucking ashtray, and all it does is make Seifer want to set fire to anything he can reach. Maybe even himself.
They've doped him up for this meeting, a fresh injection of something sickly green jabbed into his arm before they frog-marched him into the visitors' room and chained him to the table. If he thought about it, he could probably remember what drug of the week it is, but he doesn't have it in him to care. So, he's here, and there's a folder, and no matter how hard he tries, Seifer can't set it aflame.
"This is a joke, right?" His voice is dull. It's supposed to be an off-the-cuff quip, but there's nothing left in him to propel it, not as the sedative surges through his veins like a tsunami.
Squall's gaze doesn't even waver—it's practiced, serious. Somewhere between seventeen and twenty-four, he's become a fucking adult. Fantastic.
One of them had to make it out largely unscathed. It's only fair.
(He doesn't miss how flat and blank Leonhart's stare is, though, behind that serious gaze. Unscathed might be pushing things.)
There's blood still stuck under his thumbnail, dried deep brown. Seifer picks at it with his index finger, leaving the flecks on the papers before him. He doesn't trust paperwork. There was too much of it after the war, after the trial, signing his life away again and again—he'd pick it up and read the fine print, but they've got him cuffed to the table and Seifer doubts there's enough slack in the chains to pick up the pen.
He bends his head instead, trying to sniff out anything that might make this a worse idea than it seems on the surface. It already seems pretty fucking stupid.
"So, what? I just sign these and I get to go back to haunting the halls of Garden like nothing happened?"
Room, board, food, access to weapons strictly monitored, lifetime of servitude, blah, blah, blah, we'll burn you if you even think about screwing this up... it's all there, in precise legalese written by a cadre of lawyers who have been covering mercenary ass for so long they've got it down to an art.
"Cid is even willing to let you take another field exam at some point, if it works out."
"You mean if I don't snap and burn the place down."
Squall shrugs.
Seifer signs.
Hell, anywhere's better than here. Even Garden.
—
Seifer is escorted back out, flanked by nurses armed with tasers, chains keeping his hands together to prevent him from gouging out the eye of another staffer. He shoots one more glance back at Squall before he disappears through the door, and Squall can't help but notice the glassiness in his eyes. He's seen that same drugged out look before in his own.
He thinks back to one night in particular, when the weight of his world had become too much and the stress of command grew to something he thought maybe only a bullet would resolve. It was a night where the pills and a bottle of vodka didn't quite mix and he had to explain to Rinoa that he was good (I'm good), even though he was throwing up in the bathroom not even twenty minutes later.
Squall's fingers twitch, begging for something to keep him straight, and he wishes he'd had one more smoke before coming in here. It's just so uncomfortable, this manufactured environment created solely for the demented and the damned. Rest and Recovery Center. He's sure no one ever recovers from being locked in these walls. If he was in this position, he would rather take his chances back in D-District. At least it's honest imprisonment, not some façade of better help.
This sterile room, the bolted-down table, the uneasy cheer of sunny yellow walls and the smell of bleach—it's all such a twisted play, some subliminal bullshit devised by a psychiatrist to subdue, to give an air of tranquility, to shove happiness down everyone's throats and stop them all from seeing red. But Squall can see right through it, and the longer he's in here, the more likely he'll become a permanent resident, too.
He has to get the fuck out of here.
He beelines for the exit, cigarette already in his mouth with his lighter ready to fire as he charges down the hallways. This whole thing has him fully stressed, and he can't stop questioning the entire arrangement Cid's written up. It'd be nice if the Headmaster could've at least tried to convince him that this is the right thing to do, but he knows the man owes him nothing, and it's not his place to question orders, even now.
He instead tries to make himself believe that they're helping Seifer escape this place, that they're all here to give him a second chance at a life that he had once sought. But Squall isn't even sure if Seifer's convinced that Garden will be better than here. Second chance? This isn't some sort of redemption story. There is no privilege to being bound to this life.
Squall pushes the doors open with a little too much force, and then it's smoke lit, deep inhale, and just the slightest amount of relief to get him through to the helicopter ride out of here. Maybe if he asks nicely and says "pretty please", the nurses will give him a little of whatever they're feeding Seifer.
It wouldn't take much to make them think that he's fucking crazy, too.
—
It all happens a lot faster than he's expecting, and still takes a strange, decaying amount of forever.
"Where are my clothes?" he asks, as they drop a pair of hard plastic sandals on the floor in front of his feet, and a nurse crouches to make sure he can still remember how to wear them. "I had real clothes when I came here."
(Did he? He doesn't remember. Maybe he's thinking about the orange jumpsuit from D-District. Maybe he's remembering wrong. It's been three years since he'd left that place.)
Give me my clothes, he wants to beg, but Seifer has never begged for anything and he's not about to start now. Instead, he lets them pull and prod and shove a fresh shirt over his head that isn't covered in other people's blood, his blood, his sweat, his stink. It barely helps, like a bandaid on a bullet wound. All told, Seifer Almasy isn't the striking figure he went into prison as—he is shaggy-haired, scraggle-bearded, scarred a thousand times over, both inside and out, and so, so full of rage.
"Shut up, Almasy. You're lucky we're not making you walk out of here naked."
He sneers, and shuffles to his feet, and holds his breath until they've dragged him out the door.
Outside, it is beautiful. The sun is shining, the sky is clear, and Seifer is pleasantly surprised beneath the lingering end of the sedative to see that they have even rolled out the proverbial red carpet for him, in the form of Nida Warren in the cockpit of a helicopter.
(Run, that little voice in his head insists, run before they lock you back up.)
But all he can do is shuffle down the cracked sidewalk that leads to the parking lot, to the helicopter, to Nida scowling as he waits for his passenger, not bothering to disguise just how openly he loathes this mission, even with his CO sitting right there behind him.
It's a refreshing change, really. He takes a deep breath of fresh air, filling his lungs before they shove him up into the chopper. Turns out to be the smart choice, because Leonhart smells worse than he does.
Seifer grins at Nida, and bends his neck so he can tap the side of his own nose, limited by the four-point restraints. "Nice work. I thought they wouldn't be able to put your face back the right way."
"Shut it, Almasy." Warren's front teeth look too shiny and new to be real, his nose the work of an excellent plastic surgeon, and Seifer can't even see the scar that should run up from his chin to his left eye socket. Then again, SeeDs have always gotten the good insurance, a perk of the job.
(It would feel so good to smash in that arrogant, judgmental face again right now just for the pleasure of feeling something break beneath his hands. Seifer'll be the first to admit that he hadn't enjoyed it properly the first time, fighting wildly for escape in the narrow warren of Timber's forest trails.)
Too bad Squall double-checks the restraints pinning Seifer to his seat before he can give into the impulse. It would, perhaps, be bad form to consider breaking Commander Leonhart's teeth right out of his head so soon after being granted conditional freedom.
Doesn't stop him from thinking about it.
He opens his mouth to say something about how Nida can't keep out of his reach forever, but is interrupted (rudely, even) by a sharp jabbing into his bicep, straight through the plain pastel blue of his shirtsleeve.
"Hey!" Seifer snaps, but the needle is in and out in a flash, contents deposited, no fighting back now. The sensation that runs down his arm, to his fingers and up toward his shoulder, is familiar. Ten seconds from now, he'll be unconscious, gone for the next eight hours while the world goes on without him.
(Probably safer to fly that way.)
"This wasn't part of your fucking contract," he spits, head lolling to the left as he glares at Squall in his shiny, fancy uniform.
He doesn't even get the dignity of a response—not that he would be awake to hear it, the world going dark as the helicopter lifts into the sky.
—
Squall hates that it's come to this, but he stays quiet and does his job, double-checking the restraints to make sure Seifer doesn't cost their insurance another couple grand in dental work. The incident between Seifer and Nida still sits fresh in Squall's mind, and he remembers the sound, knuckles against jawline, that sickly crack and a loud "fuck!" as Nida spat away blood and a few front teeth.
Squall can't afford to have his ex-rival attacking their best pilot again, especially not in midair, but he wouldn't put it past him—Seifer would happily let them all crash into the ocean if it meant having the final say in a perceived enemy's fate.
He looks to the facility escort just in time to see the needle come out, and he can't bring himself to look away as the tranquilizer hits flesh. He hears Seifer yell out "Hey!", surprised and yet not, but it's too late. All that fire is once again doused, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he goes limp, like some kind of plaything, discarded and slumping down as the helicopter ascends.
"This wasn't part of your fucking contract," he slurs out, and Squall lets the words curl around him like smoldering ash.
He says nothing.
Instead, he watches as Seifer's head drops under its own weight. These past seven years have not been kind to his ex-rival; there are marks on his arms, marks on his neck, mapping out all the needles he didn't want to have jammed into him. His too-long hair and the beard that's grown in (because no one trusts him with a razor) don't help him look any less maniacal, either, especially not when he's strapped down to his seat like a wild animal.
Squall wonders what he would look like, if the roles were reversed. Would he look this deranged, this untameable? He's almost ashamed of the fact that he's clean cut now, his hair combed into place and his uniform freshly pressed. The contrast is stark, and yet he thinks they're probably more interchangeable than anyone would like to believe. Staring at Seifer is like staring into a fucked up fun house mirror.
What he wouldn't give for even half a Xanax right now.
The Monterosas fade into the distance as they fly east toward the darkening night sky. He wonders if everyone feels this same unease that's permeating his thoughts right now. The flight back to Balamb is hours long; it gives him a lot of time to sit with the revolving door of questions and anxieties that turn and turn on repeat.
Maybe he should just jump out of the helicopter and just put himself out of his misery already. There's got to be at least ten-thousand feet between him and the ocean, more than enough time to reach terminal velocity before hitting the water's surface. And how beautiful would it be, he thinks, to just go splat.