A/N: I'm changing several things about the FF8 world, namely RPG material that needs to be tampered with in order to make the story more interesting (i.e. minor character age changes, more cities, more detail, etc.) Don't be alarmed. Just open your mind and enjoy if you can.
{Sand rains down and here I sit, holding red flowers in a tomb... ~Alice in Chains, "Down in a Hole"}
Luke didn't ordinarily smoke; he tried not to make a habit out of something so noxious, but there was an ashtray in the room, and he had a pack with him. He now sat, holding his head in his hands and shirtless, in a small chair inside the stifling interrogation room 3A of the Galbadian police department. He didn't have a watch, so he couldn't tell how long it had been since he'd arrived, but truth be told, he had no idea what he'd say when they started to question him. His first thought was that he looked, more than anything, guilty of the crimes. He was the only one with fingerprints at the scene, the only one who appeared to have come in or out of either residence before the police, and the only witness of any kind. On the other hand, they would have a very difficult time labeling him insane, and his level of grief was undeniably high. But, as he thought bitterly to himself, people who appeared more shaken than he had been convicted in the past. Telling the police that he was collected by nature wasn't going to help, and it was really a lie.
The heavy door opened and shut again with such a loud slam that Luke dropped his cigarette. He simply stomped it out with his boot in lieu of retrieving it, and looked up as a short, portly man sat down across from him. He appeared to be about forty; he wasn't an attractive man, and his hair (or what was left of it) was plastered down to his forehead with a sort of mousse that the first word that came to Luke's mind in description was "aggressive". However, his speech was sharp, clear, and very to-the-point.
"May I ask why you have removed your shirt?"
"It started sticking to my skin. It's hot in here. Can we get this over with, please?"
"Yes," he replied, fingering the record button of a small tape recorder. "My name is officer Larry Birken."
"Whatever. Let's get this over with, then, Officer Larry Birken."
He pressed a stubby finger against the record button, clicking it on. "Please state your name for the record."
"Shane Lucas Greyhaim."
"Is that your full name?"
"Yes."
"Where were you at midnight on the evening of Wednesday, September thirtieth?"
"Asleep."
"At your home?"
"Yes."
"Apartment 212 in the Frederick St. complex?"
"Congratulations, you've looked me up in the phone book. This is ridiculous," he sighed, allowing his head to dangle. "As if I'm not tired."
"This is protocol. Why did you go to Ms. Jackson's home?"
"Because she called me and told me a man had been outside her house for two hours."
"This is alarming to you because?"
"Wouldn't it be alarming to you?"
Birken rubbed a pudgy hand pointlessly over the top of his head. "Let me rephrase the question. What is your relationship with Ms. Jackson?"
"She was Barry's girlfriend for three years."
"So you were friends with her, also?"
"Yeah, I loved the woman to death."
"That will do, thank you. What did you find when you arrived?"
"The door was locked. I knocked and nobody answered, so I kicked the door in, and I found her in the sitting room. She'd been shot three times in the head with what looked like a high-caliber pistol. There were no signs of forced entry."
"Why did you leave the house for Mr. Greyhaim's?"
"Because she told me she hadn't heard from him all day, and I was worried about him. I called him three times and he didn't answer."
"So you went home, got in your car, and called the police department."
"Yes. I talked to this bitch who didn't seem keen on doing anything about it."
"That will do," Birken said again, more sharply than before. "What did you find when you entered Mr. Greyhaim's home?"
"Basically the same thing. His door was unlocked, though."
"All right. Thank you," he clicked off the recorder. "Not a very convincing testimony. You are aware that all evidence points to your involvement in this crime?"
"No, because you have no evidence that I did anything except what I just told you. You can't convict me just because I was the only witness."
"I'm aware of that."
"I assure you that I wouldn't kill the only two people in the world that love me. What I saw is what happened from my perspective."
"Touching," he replied listlessly.
"Fuck off," Luke replied simply. "If this is it, I'm going home."
Birken stood up. "I'm afraid-
"Look, unless you want the entire department to question me, I'm ready to get some sleep. Today ranks up there as one of the shittiest days of my life."
"Stay in town. We'll be contacting you again."
"Whatever."
Luke threw his sweat-soaked shirt over his shoulder, not even bothering to put it on. Birken obviously disapproved from the look on his face, but for all Luke cared, Birken could have asked him to get on the table and dance: he was leaving, regardless. He threw the door open and walked loudly through the hallway toward the door; there were very few officers in the building, but those present were staring at him.
"Nice tattoo."
He wheeled around to face a young woman with shoulder length brown hair, more than a head shorter than he. Her attractive face held something of a smirk, and she was clothed in a dark brown jacket that nearly touched her shoes. The look was completed with a tight-looking blue shirt that bore the insignia "DCPD", written in gold across the chest. The shirt was obviously intended for a small man.
"Don't worry about them. They stare at all the criminals," she threw her head out toward the other policemen walking about, drinking coffee and eating breakfast.
"What do you want?"
"I'm Detective Kara Manson. I'll be working on your case."
"Detective Manson, huh?"
"I've heard all the jokes, so don't even."
"I was just getting your name," said Luke evenly. "I'm disappointed. I really wanted to work with Fat Bastard on this."
"He's just a cop."
"I was being extremely sarcastic. Look, I want to go home. If you people need me anymore, you'll have to call me."
"I will. Did you tell him everything you saw?"
"Yeah, just ask him if you want to know. He seems to think I all but came in here with the blood on my hands and the gun in my back pocket."
"I know, but you must admit that it looks an awful lot like you're guilty. Especially to an idiot like Birken."
"And you believe I'm not?" he raised an eyebrow.
"I have a lead. No, I believe that you're innocent."
"Whatever."
She slipped him a piece of paper with a neat, black scrawled phone number. "That's my cell number. Call me if you hear anything else, though I'll probably be way ahead of you. And by the way, you do have a bit of red liquid on your shirt. That might've been what alarmed Birken. Initially."
He turned once again and headed outside. The sun could not have picked a worse day to shine, and it seemed that his eyes had a lovely sense of irony. The autumn leaves on the trees planted all about the city ceaselessly fluttered downward toward the busy streets, packed with weekday morning traffic. Deling City was, without much doubt, the largest city in Galbadia, though most people thought that the recent christening by the disliked President was sort of a joke. Most still called it Lydeia, as it had been before, though all the maps, periodicals and the like had been changed to reflect the President's audacity. Though Deling City had a bad reputation abroad for its hated President and astronomical crime rate, what Luke saw was just a typical Thursday morning at rush hour.
He walked out to his car, parked haphazardly against the curb in front of the station, only to notice a small slip of paper placed underneath the car's one working wiper. A parking violation ticket. Though it was plain that his charcoal-black El Camino was blocking the adjacent lane, it was the signature on the slip of parchment that made his blood boil: L. Birken. Luke rolled his eyes as he jammed the ticket into his pocket and got into the car; it made perfect sense now. Birken had hated him before they had even met, because he had received a traffic ticket. Manson was right; he really was "just a cop".
He fumbled around for his keys, trying to keep his mind relatively blank and just get himself home. His hands came across several familiar possessions as he felt around, most importantly a loaded and armed M93R handgun, which should probably not have been on the floor and in plain view. He clicked the safety on instinctively, tossed the weapon aside, and rescued his keys from beneath the cold metal barrel of the pistol. He jammed the key into the ignition, turned it sharply, and let his head hang between his outstretched arms resting on the wheel.
Reality. Dreams. What is there to separate them, excluding the human mind? If such were indeed the case, Luke was having a terrible nightmare. This entire ordeal seemed much less real than a number of nightmares he'd had in the past. Cars sped past him, people chatted over doughnuts at breakfast across the street at the coffee shop... but he was outside of that, absorbed in a turbulent world of inexplicable numbness and helplessness. By the time he reached the Frederick St. apartment complex, he was teetering on the verge of tears. He made a point of waiting until he reached his apartment to allow himself to cry, but as he sat down on the sofa, he didn't feel much like crying anymore.
Twenty-nine year old Andy Vasher wasn't a big man by any stretch of the imagination; in fact, most people would say that he resembled a rat. He was short, painfully thin, rather unattractive, with a long face and unruly brown, wiry hair, and possessed the thinnest pair of lips known to man. However, his physical qualities did not detract from his professional ones: Vasher got the job done right. This, of course, was why Forne liked him. His team made no mistakes.
"No complications?"
"No," Vasher voiced, "Tymorre got there before they did. Worst that could've happened was a bit of loose dust."
"Good," Forne replied. "It's a shame."
"It is. Very unfortunate. Kyam didn't enjoy it."
"Of course not; he's a soldier, not a monster."
"Yet he sometimes works for monsters," Vasher's thin lips contorted into a smirk. Forne was unamused.
"You'll be meeting him at five o'clock today. Make sure you're there, and make contact with B-Garden. We need word on Almasy."
"Done. He's headed out for a field exam today. Being dispatched to Dollet to help fight off the Galbadians."
Forne remained stationary. "I see. All right, keep plainclothes on him for the rest of the day, and switch them up regularly. I doubt he'll skip town, but if he does, be ready for him."
"Of course."
He read the reports in silence, taking in their contents with a quiet sort of disinterest. Nothing worth noting, as usual, though the two gunblade specialists would be dispatched on their field exam, and that was always worth a look. Cid Kramer took a sip of his coffee as he looked over the list again, leaning back in his leather chair. Zell Dincht, the very essence of exuberence with all the outstanding qualities of an irritating prick. Cid would make a point to calm him down. After Zell, it was just Squall and Seifer, two sides of the same coin. He could see the potential between them; if only they could relate to one another. Perhaps the exam would give them that opportunity.
"Come in," he called toward the door in response to a knock.
"Sir."
"Ah, hello," Cid smiled. "What can I do for the GM faculty?"
"We have expressed our concerns over Instructor #14 with you," the squat, uniformed man began, "and at this point, we will request action."
"I don't really know what you mean," Cid's brow furrowed. "What brought this on?"
"We feel that her influence on Leonhart and Almasy is less than authoritative, to say the least. I suggest moving them to Aki's group, and dispatching the other cadets accordingly."
"I have spoken to you on many occasions about this, and you will accept my point of view on the situation," replied Cid firmly. "Quistis may not be right for that specific group, but I see no reason to dismiss her entirely from-
"That will be all," he replied shortly. "We are not a non-profit organisation."
"Yes, I'm well aware of that."
"She is not beneficial to the flow of funds, and therefore must be removed from the system."
"I will speak to her later. You may leave."
The faculty member excused himself without a word, leaving Cid in his chair, angry with himself and the Faculty. Try as he might, he just couldn't see them as human; they worked as machines in answer to their master's every whim, and thus, Cid couldn't control them at all. He was especially sensitive toward Quistis Trepe on behalf of his wife...and he didn't want to think about that. Instead he turned his attention to the morning paper. The headline: a double homicide.
'We have no suspects as of yet,' commented Officer Larry Birken, who is reportedly heading up the investigation. However, his statement was later discounted by another officer from the same precinct ...
Seifer tossed the paper into the trashcan; he didn't much like to read about Deling City politics, especially from the newspaper.
"Ready to go?"
"Yeah, I just gotta grab my- what the hell are you doing here?"
Zell Dincht sneered. "Like I wanted to come. Quistis sent me to get you. You're ten minutes late."
"Yeah, I know that," he snapped, smoothing down his hair and pulling on his jacket. "Tell her to hold up."
"It's not her decision," Zell replied, irritation heavy in his voice. "The sub leaves in about half an hour, man..."
Seifer grabbed his gunblade and headed toward the door. Zell jumped out of the way in alarm. "I'm headed that way now. And don't ever come here again."
Zell muttered something that sounded an awful lot like "Burn in hell", but Seifer wasn't listening. He had rushed out of his dorm so quickly that he seemed to have forgotten his bravado, which was a necessity for spending any sort of time with dear Instructor Trepe. Of course, it had never occurred to Seifer that his disobedience could get her sacked until several days prior, so he had conveniently decided to lay off for a while. He enjoyed tormenting her, but it'd be no use if she got fired.
"You're almost fifteen minutes late."
A pair of stern blue eyes looked at him reprovingly from behind elegant eyeglasses. As usual, she wasn't pleased with his performance. This was, of course, what he intended. Always.
"What, been timing me?" he snapped. "Let's just go."
Seifer looked around. "Where's Squall?"
"In the car, waiting," Quistis replied silkily.
"With the air conditioner," Zell added, prompting Quistis to roll her eyes. "We ready, Instructor?"
"Yes. Seifer, let's go."
It was after three in the afternoon when Luke finally awakened. He cursed himself for falling asleep; if he'd slept past five, he'd never have forgiven his own stupidity. A nice shower was what he felt was necessary at the moment, and such was what he decided to do. He slipped into the bathroom of his apartment, undressed, and cranked the water to as hot as it would go; the apartment complex had a subnormal water heating system, and as a result, Luke's showers didn't ordinarily last longer than ten minutes before it became like bathing in an arctic lake. It seemed much less than normal when the icy twinge on his back told him it was time to get out. He stepped out into his room and, after toweling off, put on a casual pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. He tucked his gun into his belt, leaving the grip barely visible contrasting against the black of his shirt. On the subject of contrast, his residual self-image of a tall, lean, imposing man couldn't have contrasted more with the dark, brooding figure that he saw in the mirror. He sat down on the bed and picked up a pencil; drawing always took his mind off of things, and he had gotten pretty good at it. He tried a sketch of himself, using the image in the mirror as a base. It took him about half an hour to draw out, and it reflected his mood; the picture made him look like an overgrown bird-of-prey scrawling something in an arcane language. Nonetheless, he simply tossed it aside, and headed for the door.
"He just left. Looks like he's cooperating."
"Good," Forne's voice boomed over the comm. "I'll be waiting."
{Sand rains down and here I sit, holding red flowers in a tomb... ~Alice in Chains, "Down in a Hole"}
Luke didn't ordinarily smoke; he tried not to make a habit out of something so noxious, but there was an ashtray in the room, and he had a pack with him. He now sat, holding his head in his hands and shirtless, in a small chair inside the stifling interrogation room 3A of the Galbadian police department. He didn't have a watch, so he couldn't tell how long it had been since he'd arrived, but truth be told, he had no idea what he'd say when they started to question him. His first thought was that he looked, more than anything, guilty of the crimes. He was the only one with fingerprints at the scene, the only one who appeared to have come in or out of either residence before the police, and the only witness of any kind. On the other hand, they would have a very difficult time labeling him insane, and his level of grief was undeniably high. But, as he thought bitterly to himself, people who appeared more shaken than he had been convicted in the past. Telling the police that he was collected by nature wasn't going to help, and it was really a lie.
The heavy door opened and shut again with such a loud slam that Luke dropped his cigarette. He simply stomped it out with his boot in lieu of retrieving it, and looked up as a short, portly man sat down across from him. He appeared to be about forty; he wasn't an attractive man, and his hair (or what was left of it) was plastered down to his forehead with a sort of mousse that the first word that came to Luke's mind in description was "aggressive". However, his speech was sharp, clear, and very to-the-point.
"May I ask why you have removed your shirt?"
"It started sticking to my skin. It's hot in here. Can we get this over with, please?"
"Yes," he replied, fingering the record button of a small tape recorder. "My name is officer Larry Birken."
"Whatever. Let's get this over with, then, Officer Larry Birken."
He pressed a stubby finger against the record button, clicking it on. "Please state your name for the record."
"Shane Lucas Greyhaim."
"Is that your full name?"
"Yes."
"Where were you at midnight on the evening of Wednesday, September thirtieth?"
"Asleep."
"At your home?"
"Yes."
"Apartment 212 in the Frederick St. complex?"
"Congratulations, you've looked me up in the phone book. This is ridiculous," he sighed, allowing his head to dangle. "As if I'm not tired."
"This is protocol. Why did you go to Ms. Jackson's home?"
"Because she called me and told me a man had been outside her house for two hours."
"This is alarming to you because?"
"Wouldn't it be alarming to you?"
Birken rubbed a pudgy hand pointlessly over the top of his head. "Let me rephrase the question. What is your relationship with Ms. Jackson?"
"She was Barry's girlfriend for three years."
"So you were friends with her, also?"
"Yeah, I loved the woman to death."
"That will do, thank you. What did you find when you arrived?"
"The door was locked. I knocked and nobody answered, so I kicked the door in, and I found her in the sitting room. She'd been shot three times in the head with what looked like a high-caliber pistol. There were no signs of forced entry."
"Why did you leave the house for Mr. Greyhaim's?"
"Because she told me she hadn't heard from him all day, and I was worried about him. I called him three times and he didn't answer."
"So you went home, got in your car, and called the police department."
"Yes. I talked to this bitch who didn't seem keen on doing anything about it."
"That will do," Birken said again, more sharply than before. "What did you find when you entered Mr. Greyhaim's home?"
"Basically the same thing. His door was unlocked, though."
"All right. Thank you," he clicked off the recorder. "Not a very convincing testimony. You are aware that all evidence points to your involvement in this crime?"
"No, because you have no evidence that I did anything except what I just told you. You can't convict me just because I was the only witness."
"I'm aware of that."
"I assure you that I wouldn't kill the only two people in the world that love me. What I saw is what happened from my perspective."
"Touching," he replied listlessly.
"Fuck off," Luke replied simply. "If this is it, I'm going home."
Birken stood up. "I'm afraid-
"Look, unless you want the entire department to question me, I'm ready to get some sleep. Today ranks up there as one of the shittiest days of my life."
"Stay in town. We'll be contacting you again."
"Whatever."
Luke threw his sweat-soaked shirt over his shoulder, not even bothering to put it on. Birken obviously disapproved from the look on his face, but for all Luke cared, Birken could have asked him to get on the table and dance: he was leaving, regardless. He threw the door open and walked loudly through the hallway toward the door; there were very few officers in the building, but those present were staring at him.
"Nice tattoo."
He wheeled around to face a young woman with shoulder length brown hair, more than a head shorter than he. Her attractive face held something of a smirk, and she was clothed in a dark brown jacket that nearly touched her shoes. The look was completed with a tight-looking blue shirt that bore the insignia "DCPD", written in gold across the chest. The shirt was obviously intended for a small man.
"Don't worry about them. They stare at all the criminals," she threw her head out toward the other policemen walking about, drinking coffee and eating breakfast.
"What do you want?"
"I'm Detective Kara Manson. I'll be working on your case."
"Detective Manson, huh?"
"I've heard all the jokes, so don't even."
"I was just getting your name," said Luke evenly. "I'm disappointed. I really wanted to work with Fat Bastard on this."
"He's just a cop."
"I was being extremely sarcastic. Look, I want to go home. If you people need me anymore, you'll have to call me."
"I will. Did you tell him everything you saw?"
"Yeah, just ask him if you want to know. He seems to think I all but came in here with the blood on my hands and the gun in my back pocket."
"I know, but you must admit that it looks an awful lot like you're guilty. Especially to an idiot like Birken."
"And you believe I'm not?" he raised an eyebrow.
"I have a lead. No, I believe that you're innocent."
"Whatever."
She slipped him a piece of paper with a neat, black scrawled phone number. "That's my cell number. Call me if you hear anything else, though I'll probably be way ahead of you. And by the way, you do have a bit of red liquid on your shirt. That might've been what alarmed Birken. Initially."
He turned once again and headed outside. The sun could not have picked a worse day to shine, and it seemed that his eyes had a lovely sense of irony. The autumn leaves on the trees planted all about the city ceaselessly fluttered downward toward the busy streets, packed with weekday morning traffic. Deling City was, without much doubt, the largest city in Galbadia, though most people thought that the recent christening by the disliked President was sort of a joke. Most still called it Lydeia, as it had been before, though all the maps, periodicals and the like had been changed to reflect the President's audacity. Though Deling City had a bad reputation abroad for its hated President and astronomical crime rate, what Luke saw was just a typical Thursday morning at rush hour.
He walked out to his car, parked haphazardly against the curb in front of the station, only to notice a small slip of paper placed underneath the car's one working wiper. A parking violation ticket. Though it was plain that his charcoal-black El Camino was blocking the adjacent lane, it was the signature on the slip of parchment that made his blood boil: L. Birken. Luke rolled his eyes as he jammed the ticket into his pocket and got into the car; it made perfect sense now. Birken had hated him before they had even met, because he had received a traffic ticket. Manson was right; he really was "just a cop".
He fumbled around for his keys, trying to keep his mind relatively blank and just get himself home. His hands came across several familiar possessions as he felt around, most importantly a loaded and armed M93R handgun, which should probably not have been on the floor and in plain view. He clicked the safety on instinctively, tossed the weapon aside, and rescued his keys from beneath the cold metal barrel of the pistol. He jammed the key into the ignition, turned it sharply, and let his head hang between his outstretched arms resting on the wheel.
Reality. Dreams. What is there to separate them, excluding the human mind? If such were indeed the case, Luke was having a terrible nightmare. This entire ordeal seemed much less real than a number of nightmares he'd had in the past. Cars sped past him, people chatted over doughnuts at breakfast across the street at the coffee shop... but he was outside of that, absorbed in a turbulent world of inexplicable numbness and helplessness. By the time he reached the Frederick St. apartment complex, he was teetering on the verge of tears. He made a point of waiting until he reached his apartment to allow himself to cry, but as he sat down on the sofa, he didn't feel much like crying anymore.
Twenty-nine year old Andy Vasher wasn't a big man by any stretch of the imagination; in fact, most people would say that he resembled a rat. He was short, painfully thin, rather unattractive, with a long face and unruly brown, wiry hair, and possessed the thinnest pair of lips known to man. However, his physical qualities did not detract from his professional ones: Vasher got the job done right. This, of course, was why Forne liked him. His team made no mistakes.
"No complications?"
"No," Vasher voiced, "Tymorre got there before they did. Worst that could've happened was a bit of loose dust."
"Good," Forne replied. "It's a shame."
"It is. Very unfortunate. Kyam didn't enjoy it."
"Of course not; he's a soldier, not a monster."
"Yet he sometimes works for monsters," Vasher's thin lips contorted into a smirk. Forne was unamused.
"You'll be meeting him at five o'clock today. Make sure you're there, and make contact with B-Garden. We need word on Almasy."
"Done. He's headed out for a field exam today. Being dispatched to Dollet to help fight off the Galbadians."
Forne remained stationary. "I see. All right, keep plainclothes on him for the rest of the day, and switch them up regularly. I doubt he'll skip town, but if he does, be ready for him."
"Of course."
He read the reports in silence, taking in their contents with a quiet sort of disinterest. Nothing worth noting, as usual, though the two gunblade specialists would be dispatched on their field exam, and that was always worth a look. Cid Kramer took a sip of his coffee as he looked over the list again, leaning back in his leather chair. Zell Dincht, the very essence of exuberence with all the outstanding qualities of an irritating prick. Cid would make a point to calm him down. After Zell, it was just Squall and Seifer, two sides of the same coin. He could see the potential between them; if only they could relate to one another. Perhaps the exam would give them that opportunity.
"Come in," he called toward the door in response to a knock.
"Sir."
"Ah, hello," Cid smiled. "What can I do for the GM faculty?"
"We have expressed our concerns over Instructor #14 with you," the squat, uniformed man began, "and at this point, we will request action."
"I don't really know what you mean," Cid's brow furrowed. "What brought this on?"
"We feel that her influence on Leonhart and Almasy is less than authoritative, to say the least. I suggest moving them to Aki's group, and dispatching the other cadets accordingly."
"I have spoken to you on many occasions about this, and you will accept my point of view on the situation," replied Cid firmly. "Quistis may not be right for that specific group, but I see no reason to dismiss her entirely from-
"That will be all," he replied shortly. "We are not a non-profit organisation."
"Yes, I'm well aware of that."
"She is not beneficial to the flow of funds, and therefore must be removed from the system."
"I will speak to her later. You may leave."
The faculty member excused himself without a word, leaving Cid in his chair, angry with himself and the Faculty. Try as he might, he just couldn't see them as human; they worked as machines in answer to their master's every whim, and thus, Cid couldn't control them at all. He was especially sensitive toward Quistis Trepe on behalf of his wife...and he didn't want to think about that. Instead he turned his attention to the morning paper. The headline: a double homicide.
'We have no suspects as of yet,' commented Officer Larry Birken, who is reportedly heading up the investigation. However, his statement was later discounted by another officer from the same precinct ...
Seifer tossed the paper into the trashcan; he didn't much like to read about Deling City politics, especially from the newspaper.
"Ready to go?"
"Yeah, I just gotta grab my- what the hell are you doing here?"
Zell Dincht sneered. "Like I wanted to come. Quistis sent me to get you. You're ten minutes late."
"Yeah, I know that," he snapped, smoothing down his hair and pulling on his jacket. "Tell her to hold up."
"It's not her decision," Zell replied, irritation heavy in his voice. "The sub leaves in about half an hour, man..."
Seifer grabbed his gunblade and headed toward the door. Zell jumped out of the way in alarm. "I'm headed that way now. And don't ever come here again."
Zell muttered something that sounded an awful lot like "Burn in hell", but Seifer wasn't listening. He had rushed out of his dorm so quickly that he seemed to have forgotten his bravado, which was a necessity for spending any sort of time with dear Instructor Trepe. Of course, it had never occurred to Seifer that his disobedience could get her sacked until several days prior, so he had conveniently decided to lay off for a while. He enjoyed tormenting her, but it'd be no use if she got fired.
"You're almost fifteen minutes late."
A pair of stern blue eyes looked at him reprovingly from behind elegant eyeglasses. As usual, she wasn't pleased with his performance. This was, of course, what he intended. Always.
"What, been timing me?" he snapped. "Let's just go."
Seifer looked around. "Where's Squall?"
"In the car, waiting," Quistis replied silkily.
"With the air conditioner," Zell added, prompting Quistis to roll her eyes. "We ready, Instructor?"
"Yes. Seifer, let's go."
It was after three in the afternoon when Luke finally awakened. He cursed himself for falling asleep; if he'd slept past five, he'd never have forgiven his own stupidity. A nice shower was what he felt was necessary at the moment, and such was what he decided to do. He slipped into the bathroom of his apartment, undressed, and cranked the water to as hot as it would go; the apartment complex had a subnormal water heating system, and as a result, Luke's showers didn't ordinarily last longer than ten minutes before it became like bathing in an arctic lake. It seemed much less than normal when the icy twinge on his back told him it was time to get out. He stepped out into his room and, after toweling off, put on a casual pair of jeans and a black t-shirt. He tucked his gun into his belt, leaving the grip barely visible contrasting against the black of his shirt. On the subject of contrast, his residual self-image of a tall, lean, imposing man couldn't have contrasted more with the dark, brooding figure that he saw in the mirror. He sat down on the bed and picked up a pencil; drawing always took his mind off of things, and he had gotten pretty good at it. He tried a sketch of himself, using the image in the mirror as a base. It took him about half an hour to draw out, and it reflected his mood; the picture made him look like an overgrown bird-of-prey scrawling something in an arcane language. Nonetheless, he simply tossed it aside, and headed for the door.
"He just left. Looks like he's cooperating."
"Good," Forne's voice boomed over the comm. "I'll be waiting."