Atavism at Twilight
Disclaimer: The title belongs to a Mr. Salvador Dali and the characters are sex slaves of the mega-monstrous company known as Square.
Prologue… or is it?
Swallow your pride.
The sun hung suspended over murky waters, unaffected by the grim stars that had just begun to shine.
The memories were like a slit in his mind.
He pulled his vision away from the setting sun, focusing instead on the mechanical monstrosity which rose slightly above the crest of the hill, gleaming richly in the semi-darkness like a priceless jewel. And indeed, Garden was priceless. Just as hope was priceless, just as trust was priceless – all elements of virtue which he had traded for the price of one dream.
He could feel invisible maggots writhing under his skin. White, twisting, gnawing… grasping for any vein of emotion which still presented itself within an empty man. A morbid smile tugged at his lips.
"And what of destiny, Edea…?" He mused.
He couldn't return to face their judgement. He couldn't accept that his dreams were dead. Eighteen years old and already a tyrant of the ages… naive ambitions for glory had made him into a villain, turned the wheel of fortune out of his favor… from legend to shadow; from hero to fool…
The smile disapppeared.
Swallow your pride.
He was a fool.
Turning his back to the Garden, he made his decision.
He walked away.
*
The persistence of memory.
Kneading her forehead with her knuckles, Quistis squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the splitting headache that constantly came back in painful waves despite her best attempts to get rid of it.
She was so tired.
In the darkness her frail form could have been easily mistaken for a husk. Strong Quistis now weak… pallid hands dipped into moonlight, gaunt and long… the weight of a shadow…
The bleeding of mindflesh.
Outside, the wind rattled the windows. But noises had become inaudible to her, as the venom of unsaid words and regrets crossed the gulf from uncertainty into certainty, and as a fog was lifted from the paradox of her life before.
Fragmented.
Broken pieces of glass.
Her hair was a vision of white gold in the moonlight. Unreal. Like an apparition that faded with the morning sun.
The persistence of memory.
Eyeing the knife, she then looked at her wrists.
*
The Sun Rose.
The Sun Set.
But when all was said and done…
A promise was kept.
Chapter 1
I don't quite remember her face.
It used to be long. Oval with high cheekbones, happy and with twin sparkling blue eyes kept hidden behind a stern exterior.
But I don't quite remember her face.
As a child she was quite the optimist and peacemaker. Always the boss, always the middleman, or as the feminists would have me call it, middle 'woman'. It was amusing to watch her at times, and I distinctly remember deliberately picking fights with Squall just to see what she would do. I would watch her take control with all the exuberance of youth, hands on hips, eyes narrowed in a disapproving gaze which hid the smile… she would reprimand us as Matron would, with over-exaggerated hand gestures and kind eyes.
I admired Quistis then. But I guess as children we don't have the sense to know any better, and so with the blissful ignorance of childhood began a friendship forged between two very opposite poles. Oil and water. Life and death. "Friends to the end."
It's a wonder what the mind allows you to so conveniently forget. After entering Garden my admiration and respect for Quistis degenerated into mild distaste, and with the help of my new friends I was soon able to forget her completely. She had no place in my world of swords. A twelve-year-old boy, my dreams for greatness and valor had already begun to take shape and Quistis could never be the fair maiden who I was destined to save. She reeked of perfection, and I hated her for it. Hated her ability to resolve any situation with the snap of her fingers, hated the attention she commanded, and hated the way she rose so quickly above me in the ranks. So I forgot her. Forgot she existed until the day she became my instructor.
We were always on opposite sides, she and I. I the troublemaker, she the peacemaker, I the evil knight, she the world savior, I the student, she the instructor… We saw through the same lens, but the image was always different.
To this day I wonder which one of us changed first. Wonder when she stopped being the girl whose face I don't quite remember and became the bitter woman who I will never understand. Or perhaps it was I who first made the turn, I who finally saw the people around me for the hypocritical fools that they were and I who underwent the change. But I don't remember.
I don't quite remember the girl that she was. Then again, I can hardly recall myself from the days of my childhood. My only recollection stems from vague, ungraspable snippets of dreams. And what proof are dreams anyway?
We were all different before Garden. While Garden gave us integrity it was like an awakening to a new type of dream. The type void of rolling hills and meadows, azure blue skies and lakes – the type filled with nothing but truth behind a façade.
Why reflect on Quistis Trepe all of a sudden? My instructor, the woman I abhor, and the girl who was at one point my friend?
Because in a few minutes, she will be dead.
*
Snuffing out his cigarette with the heel of his boot, Seifer Almasy peered over the edge of the banister, looking for any sign of the night watchmen that were patrolling the corridors. He knew that the next shift wasn't for another hour or so, and that to make a move beforehand was impetuous and unprofessional, but his patience was wearing thin. Narrowing his eyes, he made his decision and moved swiftly down the staircase.
There were two guards to his left, each carrying a simple pistol and a communicator device in their left breast pocket. One was languidly leaning against the wall, sleepy eyed and fatigued, while the other paced back and forth up the corridor, seemingly awake and alert. Retrieving a metal ball from his backpack, Seifer stole further down the staircase then, at the right moment, threw the metal ball a ways down the corridor where it hit the floor with a loud 'clang'.
As expected, the alert guard was on it immediately, giving instructions to the other guard to hold position while he went to investigate. The moment the alert guard was gone, Seifer smiled to himself then stealthily jumped over the banister and slipped past the other guard.
Morons, he thought, careful not to make a sound as he stole through the shadows. It was almost too easy.
He found himself right outside her door, hand on the doorknob, ready to enter… but yet, hesitant. "Think about the money," he muttered to himself, trying to strengthen his resolve. "It's not like…"
Not like I'll regret this?
Pursing his lips in a thin line, he fought against the lingering doubts and finally opened the door.
He could just make out her breathing form on the bed right in front of him. Streaks of light from behind him had cut through the darkness and lent a little bit of color to the otherwise gray room. Unaware and peaceful, Quistis Trepe breathed in and out of dreams.
There was something about the darkness that made him raw. Something about the time, the place, the moonbeams prancing behind the windows and the knife in his hand which ate at him, made him remember. Who was it really that was sleeping before him?
Quistis's eyes fluttered, gently, like the wings of a butterfly.
Curling his lip in disgust, Seifer closed his own eyes and tried to see beyond her beauty. But when he opened them the world remained the same. He was still in the same empty place, where time stretched to eternity and blood made bitter the wine of life.
He moved closer to the bed.
Pressing the cool blade of the knife against his own skin, he looked down at Quistis. Smoothing back her hair, he transferred the knife from his skin to hers, positioning it alongside her jaw line. Miraculously, she didn't wake, and Seifer took that as a sign that what he was about to do had been ordained by fate. If he wasn't destined to save Quistis, he was destined to kill her. That had to be it.
Cupping her chin with his other hand, he tightened his grip on the handle of the knife.
"Sweet dreams instructor." He whispered. Closing his eyes once more, he slid he knife across her skin.
But all it met was air.
Exhaling loudly, he stumbled back. He couldn't do it. What the fuck was wrong with him? He hated her! He hated her very existence. Why couldn't he kill her?
You hate Quistis Trepe, but you don't hate Quisty
"I nearly killed her once, for Ultimecia." He snarled to noone in particular. "Why should it matter now?"
You know why.
He turned to look at Quistis's stirring form.
The dream is different now.