Rating: R
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A/N: For the last month and a half, I've been occupied with my major exams. I wasn't able to update as quickly as I wanted to, and I know some of you have been waiting for this chapter. Thank you for your patience and sticking by it. I'm sorry for taking so long, and for any dodgy sentence structures and grammar.
Warning: There is a bit more violence in this chapter than in previous ones. It's not extremely graphic (probably no worse than your average fantasy novel), but if that sort of thing disturbs you, please skip the fight scene.
Lest We Forget
Chapter 7: Dread
"It's the nagging feeling at the back of your mind, the suspicions, the premonitions of doom, the subtle fears."
The security guard scratched his potbelly with one hand. He hated the graveyard shift. Fifteen years on the job and somehow, he always ended up back here every night at exactly 11.30 babysitting deserted platforms. Not so much life-threateningly scary as it was dangerously boring. For the 527th time in his life, he wondered if there was some rookie's pool he had lost all those years ago. Then again, he really should have joined the union. Sighing, he noisily propped both feet up on the uncluttered desk, praying that it wouldn't collapse on him like everything else in his sordid existence. His customary black torch lay abandoned on a rickety shelf, the only other piece of furniture in the stationmaster's office. After being attacked by something largely resembling a deformed rat a couple of years ago, he'd given up patrolling with a flashlight. He simply wasn't paid enough. If life was one big game of triple triad, he'd been left with crap cards.
His left hand tightened around the slender neck of an amber bottle containing Galbadian's Finest. The vintage wasn't that bad…just good enough to marginally resemble vinegar. It was all he could afford with his meagre pay, and the alcohol could be used to clean his gun. Besides, getting drunk fast was the thing, who cared what it tasted like.
After gulping down half the bottle, he could already feel things beginning to blur. He gazed out the glass window at the collage of shadows, eyeing the sharp edges, dulled planes and shades of grey like a discerning art critic. He welcomed the silence. It wasn't deafening or overbearing, almost natural, a fitting accompaniment to the darkness. The alcohol made his mind relax. It always did.
He started to hear a continuous high-pitched noise. It was getting louder. Hadn't happened to him before. The shadows were shifting. He really shouldn't have drank that much. He tried to stand still, but everything kept going in and out of focus. The window seemed crooked. The world was at an angle, and it was one he didn't like. The ringing in his ears hadn't stopped. The shadows were disappearing. A bright light was rushing closer. Someone was coming. He simply wasn't paid enough to die. He hid beneath the table, once again praying that it wouldn't collapse. The noise escalated and then stopped. Whoever they were, they were here.
***
With an ear-jarring rattle reminiscent of distant gunfire, the heavy metal door slowly ground to a halt. A wraith-like figure alighted from the gaping maw, landing lightly a few feet below. It stood motionless, waiting, a patch of grey camouflaged in the night's enveloping darkness. The small clouds of condensed breath that issued sporadically from the silhouette were its only signs of life.
Gravel crunched under the pressure of a boot heel. More spectres poured forth, joining their nocturnal companions. A cigarette flared up with a hiss that broke the monotonous silence. Indistinct metal objects twinkled evilly in its ruby glow, as if to parody the familiar constellations of the night's sky.
***
Trembling, the guard could hear the dull thud of muffled footsteps. Then…a grating sound, as if something heavy was dragged. It stopped. Everything receded into silence. It was another two hours before he got out from under the table, swearing never to drink again.
***
The drop of water lazily meandered down the side of the rusty pipe, slowly gathering speed and gradually growing in size. It hung, briefly suspended at the very edge, before plummeting into the murky depths of a large puddle inches below. Concentric waves rippled across the surface, rising and falling in an intricate dance. Seifer's foot dashed the swirling patterns as he stepped into the puddle, soiling his leather boots and spraying water everywhere. He paced back and forth, churning up the sodden layer of filth that had accumulated on the ground over the years. Littered with broken bottles and bursting trash bags, the narrow alley looked just about as bad as it smelled. He tried his best to ignore the murderously rancid stench that assailed him with every drawn breath, but failed…miserably. He had the feeling that even after numerous baths, he would never feel truly clean again. The thought didn't do much for his already foul mood. Grimacing, he massaged his stiff left arm, trying to make it regain sensitivity.
Leaning against a damp wall, Quistis crossed her arms and watched him carefully. Their rather conspicuous exit from the bar had resulted in an extremely tense flight through several back alleys, side roads and deserted parks. Every suspicious look directed at them had implied recognition. Every lurking shadow had spelt danger. Her fingers still ached from keeping a death grip on Seifer's arm for too long. Eventually, they had ducked into this particular alley, hoping to have lost any stalkers. Now, they merely waited.
Seifer continued his restless prowl, constantly glowering at the alley walls, at the shadows, even at the floor.
Impatient. Feral. Caged.
Veiled by the shadows, Quistis felt like a voyeur. Her eyes trailed him as he walked, observing how he hunched ever so slightly, and how he unconsciously favoured his right leg at times. Old battle wounds? She saw how his sun-bleached hair had grown marginally longer, and how his features had squared out. These little details, which she had missed earlier despite always priding herself on being observant, gradually revealed themselves in the faint light. She attributed it to adrenalin and fear heightening her senses. She noticed how the skin on his right cheek had darkened and discoloured to an angry bluish-purple, the ugly bruise no doubt a result of the night's earlier bar brawl. It made Seifer appear even more intimidating and sullen – the bully he had been in Garden all those years ago. Her gaze drifted upwards to the prominent scar arcing from his forehead to the right side of his nose, courtesy of Squall. Seifer and Squall, sworn rivals and her two most gifted students, again on opposite sides. Only this time, she was on the wrong side.
"No one followed us. Are you satisfied?"
Saving the world surely had to count for something. Fate should have finished with them. Hyne, she was barely over twenty and felt as if she was going on ninety. No wonder death had threatened an early arrival.
"We've already wasted half an hour of our pathetic lives waiting in this shit hole."
She was weary, tired of struggling to survive in a world that no longer made any sense. Maybe she should just turn herself in. Besides, her life had been destroyed the moment this nightmare had begun, might as well beg clemency from her friends.
The mocking laughter echoing in her mind only halted when Quistis realised Seifer had stopped pacing and was now just standing there, glaring at her. He looked peeved. Uh oh. Mentally reprimanding herself for getting distracted, she unflinchingly met his fierce gaze.
Seifer swore Quistis' eyes were sparkling in the darkness. It was…disconcerting. Fighting to regain his composure and still irritated by her earlier lack of response, he spat, "Give it up Instructor! Imitating a wall doesn't really suit you. Squall would probably be much better at it." His words were laced with enough sarcasm to wound a T-Rexaur, that is, if they were susceptible to that sort of thing.
Quistis though, merely felt annoyance begin to well up within her. Trust Seifer to be the only one able of making the respected title 'instructor' sound like a swear word. She arched one eyebrow, but decided to remain silent, knowing that it would infuriate Seifer even more. It was childish, but at least she retained control of the situation, or so she thought.
"I'm out of here!" Seifer finally exclaimed, exasperated and already striding towards the alley entrance. He would have left, and Quistis would have been forced to chase after him, but for one thing happening. He slipped on the muck.
She couldn't help but snigger. It soon transformed into a full-blown laugh as Seifer began cursing rather imaginatively. There were a few about Hyperion being wedged somewhere uncomfortable.
"Need some help Seifer?" Quistis mocked, unable to keep a straight face. She knew taunting Seifer Almasy was often considered a sure-fire shortcut to the afterlife, but it was too tempting. Something in her constantly rose to the challenge. Life is short. I might as well enjoy myself. She scrunched up her face and cooed in her best motherly voice, "Little Seifikins got stuck in the mud." Now, life had nothing left to offer. Seifer or SeeD could kill her and she'd die happy.
"Shut up and give me a hand," Seifer growled, looking like an angry lost child with his arm stretched out towards her, but there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
"No way am I letting you drag me down as well," she skipped out of his reach. "I wasn't born yesterday, you know."
"Could have fooled me," he muttered to himself, slowly standing up and examining his trenchcoat, which was now a disgusting brown in colour and smelt awful. Looking back at Quistis, he realised that her gaze was fixed on something behind him, something at the alley entrance. Not wanting to provoke whatever it was, he turned around slowly, praying all the while that it didn't choose that particular moment to attack, or better yet, that it wasn't even hostile. Knowing his luck, they were in trouble.
"What do we have here?"
"Looks like a little lovers' spat."
"She's a looker."
"You know he's not good enough for you. We'll give you the time of your life."
Carefully judging the distance between them, Quistis stared at the blocky silhouettes that gradually resolved into four men. Gaunt and wiry, they had the haunted look of people living on the streets. Something was not quite right though, but she couldn't put her finger on it. Trying to lull the thugs into a false sense of overconfidence, she drew closer to Seifer, as if seeking protection. He moved to shield her, and she briefly wondered whether he knew of her plan or if his actions were simply instinctive. With one hand clutching at his shoulder, seemingly in fear, her other was left free to inch slowly towards her whip, its movements concealed by Seifer's body. Adopting a terrified expression, she asked in a mock-tremulous voice, "What do you want from us?" Quistis hoped she wasn't overdoing it, but then again, their assailants were expecting easy pickings.
"Just some fun," one snickered, his face twisting into a leering grin. They revelled in her fear, fed on and were empowered by it. Two of them took a few steps towards Quistis, ignoring Seifer who had remained silent since the start. They were men and there were four of them. What could a scared girl and her cowardly boyfriend do? The odds were four to two.
Quistis' hand tightened on Seifer's shoulder and pushed him, forcing him to rapidly sidestep. Her other hand came up in a blur of motion, clutching the whip handle, the whip tip already accelerating past the speed of sound. With a flick of her wrist, it was sent arcing through the air towards the lead attacker, twisting around his neck. Struggling to breathe, his eyes bulged and his fingers groped frantically at the coils, trying desperately to loosen the whip's stranglehold. With another vicious twist of her hand, his neck snapped and the whip jerked back towards her.
The speed and ferocity of the attack had shocked the thugs into inaction, but they now recovered. Drawing out wickedly serrated knives from inside their jackets, the rest started towards her with murder in their eyes. The odds were now three to two.
Seifer firmly held Hyperion, the gunblade gleaming malevolently in the dim light. Letting his reflexes remember what his mind could not, he ducked under the sweeping blade of one thug and slashed violently upwards through cloth, skin and bone, painting a trail of red. The odds were now even. Hardly having a chance to breathe or feel nauseated, he dodged just in time, to turn what would have been a fatal thrust into a nasty scratch along one arm. The pain flared up almost immediately. His new assailant swiped at him again, clearly more skilled with the knife than his late partner. Awkwardly bringing Hyperion up to bear, Seifer just managed to parry it in time, but the movement left him vulnerable and he knew he wouldn't be able to block the next thrust. The alley was too narrow for him to roll out of the way, and he rushed to pull Hyperion back into position. The serrated blade swung towards him, about to perforate his flesh – but then it stopped, suspended inches away from his body. Seifer blinked and impaled the man, watching remorselessly as he gurgled and collapsed. The knife had fallen to the ground, still ensnared in Quistis' whip. She grinned at Seifer. Rolling his eyes and snorting, he suddenly caught sight of the last thug creeping up behind her. He couldn't do anything. She saw his look of horror and spun around. Ten inches of steel flashed downwards. No time to dodge. The remaining man's expression was triumphant, eyes wild with rage and blood lust, ready to avenge his murdered comrades.
Quistis flinched. Before the blade could pierce her though, her attacker stiffened, his face a flurry of pain and bewilderment. Blood seeped from his mouth, trickling slowly down his chin. He toppled forward, a standard issue Galbadian army sword protruding through his stomach. Quistis and Seifer gaped at the corpse, their minds unable to comprehend what had just happened. Panting slightly, Quistis eyed the newcomer wearily.
Although grateful for his interference, she wasn't about to forget that they were still in a darkened Galbadian alley, and he, was obviously a Galbadian soldier despite the plain clothes. It wouldn't surprise her if his motivation for killing the thug was so he could rape her himself. That was how the world seemed to work these days. She readied her whip, a bitter taste residing in her mouth as she contemplated her ingratitude.
The man didn't appear hostile, or even memorable. Actually, she had never seen anyone look so ordinary. Non-descript features, middle-aged, dark hair, average height…typical run of the mill Galbadian. She wondered if he was a clone. Hunched over the corpse with his hands clenched at his sides, he looked strangely vulnerable, like someone caught in the action of mourning. When he finally glanced up though, Quistis noticed that his eyes were riveting shards of cobalt.
Unconsciously taking a step forward in surprise, Seifer recognised him as the elusive stranger in the bar.
"You're an extremely hard man to find, Commander Almasy."
A/N: The next chapter will be posted in a week max, if not sooner.
