*****
24
2:00 – 3:00
"Baby, I'm an Anarchist."
*****
The words Squall had said to Quistis earlier still stung. She'd tried to swallow the callous remark and its implications, but its claws had sunk into the lining of her esophagus and refused to go down, ripping pieces of her spirit as more effort was applied.
And so it sat there yet, a lump in her throat which was gradually eroding any self-confidence or happiness she possessed.
Quistis Trepe knew it was in Squall Leonhart's nature to be unnaturally cold at times, but she also knew another thing about him: he was never cold to Rinoa Heartilly. Never. She knew that Squall would never say a remark like that to Rinoa. She knew that he would rather impale himself on his gunblade, speak in front of large groups, or even kiss Irvine Kinneas than dare hurt her in any fashion.
. . . She knew that he loved Rinoa and not her.
Of course, she'd always known this. It wasn't an epiphany brought on by today's lunch, the salad hadn't brought a new light on the subject; there had never been any doubt of his feelings after Timber and the botched kidnapping of Vinzer Deling. Maybe there had been for a moment during that mission in the D-District Prison when he'd told her that Rinoa was so naïve, maybe then there was a flicker of hope. And maybe that hope would've been more if she hadn't seen the way he reacted every time the girl was in trouble.
However, she had seen.
Looking out into the sea of Junior classmen she was supposed to be teaching, Junior classmen who were throwing spitballs and practically bouncing off the walls, Quistis sighed and then cleared her throat, swallowing even more self-esteem before speaking.
"Jason, sit in your assigned seat," she paused and glared as a boy rushed to his seat, "Class, today we're going to be talking about Shiva; one of the first Guardian Forces a person is able to obtain . . ."
*****
Irvine Kinneas had searched his entire room and it wasn't there. The only other place he could even think it would be at was with Selphie Tilmitt. That was also the last place he wanted to go. He, someone who was generally fearless, was afraid he would fuck it up by acting awkward or even worse: She wouldn't know where the Cowboy hat was either.
Still, he had to ask Selphie. It could be something as simple as she took it for the day when she'd come in to see why he wasn't coming for breakfast or had taken it as a joke like she did on April Fool's. He was really freaking out about nothing, anyway – she wouldn't think it was weird if he was looking for his hat, the whole Garden knew it had a lot of sentimental value attached to it, and she wouldn't catch onto his plans for tonight if he played it cool with his trademarked style.
No, she wouldn't suspect a thing.
He walked down the hall about six doors and stopped outside the one he usually waited outside every morning to walk her to wherever. Irvine was about to knock when he heard muffled voices from the inside.
"It's sooo big, Zell!" Selphie sounded genuinely excited.
"Yeah, I hope we don't get in trouble for doing this. I mean, the faculty is—"
"We won't get in trouble, chickenwuss. You ride hover boards all the time, this isn't that much different," she cooed.
"Sef, that's a minor infraction! This is huge," said Zell.
"Well, it is big. I will give you that. Man, Zell, how did you get it this large?"
Irvine, whose mind was beginning to jump to perverted conclusions, angrily yanked open the door and was face to face with . . .
. . . Selphie and Zell, both of whom holding spray cans of red paint and wearing t-shirts with an anarchy symbol on the chest. A large anti-sign over the letters cafeteria was adorning the left side of her dorm.
"Heeey, Irvy," Selphie said, not skipping a beat and adjusting the brim of his hat which was on her head, "Want to help overthrow the Hot Dog Nazis with Zell and me?"
He couldn't really say no to her. Plus, she had his hat.
*****
Squall had just sat down on his bed after about an hour of training in the Training Center when there was a knock on his door. He glanced at the clock before standing up, the neon red letters throwing a 2:59PM at him.
*****
Author's Note: Sorry for not updating frequently. AP Statistics, Calculus, AP French, AP Literature, Chemistry, and AP US History are requiring all my writing "skills". I am also totally loathing this story at the moment because this is not my good prose, man. This is my "must break writer's block so I can get to the good shit" prose. Boohoo. – selphie@balamb.com
