Chapter 3
Some quiet trickling of water in a corner somewhere.
Dollet was never the most upstanding town, Seifer reflected. Fully of seedy elements and guises, it had its dark alleyways and whorehouses, its crooks and mercenaries, its black lies and red tape; it seemed like it existed only out of the necessity that some dark force loom over a peaceful horizon. On that assumption, there was of then of course no better place for a man like him to be. No better place to wait, to keep out of prying eyes…
Some quiet trickling of water in a corner somewhere.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Glancing at the merchant sitting across him, Seifer saw all of Dollet's trickery and deception take shape in one insignificant human being. The pot bellied merchant leaned forward, red-eyed and contemptuous.
"Don't give me any of that shit."
"You gave me an impossible task. Garden's security is near impenetrable."
"If I could mimic your overconfident tone Mr. Almasy, I would. And as I recall, you said breaking in was mere child's play."
"So I underestimated the freaks, big deal. I'll just try again."
The merchant clenched his jaw. His beady eyes darkened.
"I want her dead. By whatever means, for whatever sum of money; I want her dead."
Seifer was silent for a moment, mulling over his options. Unconsciously, his eyes traveled down to a photograph clipping which sat on the Merchants desk. It was of a young boy in his mid-teens, grinning widely for the picture, with the infamous Balamb Garden hovering in the background.
Some quiet trickling of water in a corner somewhere.
You committed an act of theft Quistis…
Seifer looked up and nodded once, understanding. Understanding the rage…
You took a son from a father…
Understanding the insane anger…
Son from father…
Understanding.
Sliding the chair back, Seifer lowered his eyes and gave the photograph one last cursory glance. Unconsciously, his hands closed around the pendant hanging on his necklace. Just then, he heard it again.
Some quiet trickling of water in a corner somewhere.
The sound of his own tears? Or the dripping of blood as a mother's throat was slit moments after her son was born into the world?
Or maybe it was both, trickling down through cracks in the past.
*
Timothy Atkins was his name. I remember him well. He was an intelligent, inquisitive boy; sometimes too arrogant for his own good but generally well liked by his classmates. Tall but not too tall, and with all the features of a handsome young man just waiting to come to fruition. I knew naught of his parents or of his background; students are sent to me innocent as lambs, with any evidence of their family's past transgressions wiped clean. And that's exactly what Timothy was to me. Just another student, just another boy wanting to be a SeeD.
So I taught him how to kill.
That's my job. To train the next generation of SeeD's so that they may serve as arbiters in a world trying to define the boundaries of justice. I, Quistis Trepe, am nothing more than a vehicle through which the teachings of combat and tactical ploys are passed down. More and more I realize that I am nothing but a tool, and I loathe myself for it.
I taught him how to kill. And then, I killed him.
The official report called it an accident. And indeed, that's what it was, or what I would like to believe. A tragic accident which sent each and every student in that class home to dwell upon the consequences of the path of life they had chosen.
Timothy had been having trouble with this one boy, Rint Fersboy, over a girl whom they both had adored for the past year. During a routine field exercise, both boys had apparently seen a window of opportunity to put the other out of the picture for good, and so what resulted was a savage sword fight. I remember watching them exchange blows with intent to murder. Two fifteen-year-old boys sweating blood on some twisted battlefield, dueling for some childish affection with the clang of swords.
I hadn't believed then that they would actually cross the line. I had no idea their rivalry went that far, cut that deep. Not until steel passed through the base of Rint's neck and as all warmth was leeched from the dying boy's skin by the cold metal of the sword. I had stood by, helpless as time constricted, and as his hands had grasped clumsily for the object. But there had been no cry of pain. Just a soft murmur.
It would be a nightmare I would live through again and again.
I had lunged forward then, striking out with my whip to pull Timothy away from Rint. I had aimed for his hand, but the leather cord wrapped itself around his neck instead, and without realizing it, too shocked, too horrified to think straight, I had pulled the whip back. His neck had snapped instantly, twisting at an unnatural angle; in front of nighttime demons and a field filled with his comrades, Timothy Atkins fell to the ground beside his fallen rival, dead.
It then began to rain.
I was scarred that day. Not like Squall and Seifer had been scarred, but scarred with the image of two bloodied boys, draped over one another, the whites of their eyes prominent against the darkened landscape… just two more of Garden's sacrificial lambs.