Rip, Torn, Tumble

(straight into me)

~ Vain  9.4.2002

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I do not own Squall Leonhart, Seifer Almsay or any of the other characters in the game Final Fantasy VIII; they belong to Squaresoft and their respective creators.  The story and its concepts are mine.

Please be forewarned that this story contains spoilers, yoai, shounen-ai, mature themes, and violence.  Translation: stuff you won't see until you finish the game, fighting, swearing, angst, Seifer/Squall man-love, and a dab of NCS.  Get over it or go away. 

The only profit I get from this is emotional satisfaction, so please read and review.  Thank you.

~Vain

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Prologue

Little Things Kill

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"We are a killing society, awash with violence."

- Professor Austin Stuart

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His heavy boot made no sound as he crossed the office at a lazy, unhurried pace.  The thick red carpet had soaked up most of the blood and the others were in the hall making sure there would be no more resistance.  He wasn't all that worried; he was SeeD, after all.

The corpulent man behind the desk cringed back into his chair and let lose a whimpering noise that anyone else most likely would have found sickening.  The young man in leather simply shrugged it off and continued to advance on his "employer" silently.

The fat man, a self-styled dictator called Hokitawa, twisted inelegantly in his chair.  "Who are you?!"  His voice cracked with fear as the man-childe he had thought to be nothing more than a sullen intern walked slowly towards him.  "Why are you doing this?!"

This time the young man did sneer, a slight twitch of his upper lip, before his customarily unflappable expression returned.  He spoke with soft, clipped words and an almost imperceptible accent, the voice of an educated man, as he reached behind him to grasp the hilt of the enormous blade that was strapped across his back.  "You don't watch TV very often, do you?"  He sounded almost amused, but his storm gray eyes were flat and indifferent.  The blade—a gunblade, the other man realized belatedly—sang as it slid out of its sheath.

The pudgy man swallowed and his watery blue eyes danced in terror as his former intern stopped in front of his desk.  "Please . . ."

Squall leveled the gunblade at the man expressionlessly.  "It's just business, you understand.  Nothing personal."

And the SeeD High Commander pulled the trigger.

Lionheart jerked slightly with the powerful kick of release as Mr. Hokitawa's rather ample frame exploded out of the back of his plush chair.  Squall's eyes closed, the man's expression burnt into his mind.  He lowered the tip of Lionheart to the soft, bloodstained carpet and leaned heavily on the hilt, his pointer finger lightly brushing the trigger.  Pointblank range with a gunblade didn't leave too much left of a person, even one as large as Hokitawa.  He stayed that way for a moment, eyes closed; face slightly twisted in a dark frown, and silky hair falling into his eyes.

His radio beeped.  "Commander?"

He inhaled deeply and then sighed when all he could taste in the air was blood.

"Commander?"

The young man growled silently and yanked the small radio out of his belt with unnecessary violence.  "The mark has been eliminated," he said calmly into the transmitter.  "Pack up and let's go home."

There was a crackle of static, almost immediately followed by Quistis's voice.  "Yes, sir."

Leather gloved hands returned the small radio to his side and he looked around the vacant-feeling, blood spattered office where he had spent the past two weeks undercover with empty, expressionless eyes.  Then he turned sharply on his heel and walked out of the room without a backwards glance.

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