(All right, here we go again.  This is a story behind Rinoa Heartilly being known as Rinoa Heartilly, not Rinoa Caraway.  Again, these random snapshots are in no particular order; last chapter happened at age five, this at age sixteen.  So it goes, I suppose.  Bear with me.  Reviews are welcome.)

"What is it that you can't understand about changing my name?"

"What is it that you can't understand about not being of legal age?" countered the clerk irritably.  "I need your guardian's consent if you aren't 18."  He looked past her expectantly.  "Next?"

"The only person behind me," Rinoa said through clenched teeth, "is the old woman who has been asking you for the past hour about the whereabouts of her dog.  Which is dead."

The clerk's mouth twitched faintly.  "Look.  I can't help you.  Just go back to your father, all right?"

"I am not going to be called by that man's fucking name!  I am not Rinoa Caraway!"

"Keep your voice down, for Hyne's sake," the clerk hissed.  "How many times have we been through this?  You've been coming in here since you were fourteen… just go back.  What would you do with your mother's maiden name, anyway?"

"I'm leaving Deling," Rinoa said quietly. 

The clerk digested this.  "For where?"

"Timber."

"…Why?"

Rinoa bit her lip absently.  "Because I'll die otherwise," she said eventually, her voice thin.  "Because… I need to do something real.  Because I can't stand being near him any more."

The clerk observed her without speaking for some time.  She didn't look at him.  Her face was pale beneath her dark hair, her forehead furrowed and thoughtful.

"He does care about you, you know," he offered after a pause.

"I know," she said tightly.  "But that only makes it worse."

"I'm sorry," the clerk said abruptly.  "But you can't change your name.  Not without his permission."

She raised her head to look at him and her eyes burned darkly into his. 

"Oh?" she said, almost lightly.  "I thought it might come to this."

She began fumbling in her bag, dredging out fistfuls of wadded bank notes – all small bills and loose change – and, as one compartment was emptied, another was half-plundered.

"Here," Rinoa said firmly, pushing the hair from her eyes and gesturing to the untidy pile, "is around 5000 gil.  My money, not my father's."  She raised her chin and glared at the clerk.  "Now give me the damned paperwork."

He stared at her unreadably for a few moments.  "How much money do you have besides that?" he asked finally.

Her lips twitched.  "Enough for the train ticket," she said, and there was now uncertainty in her eyes and the line of her jaw.

The clerk said nothing in reply, just continued observing her with a gaze that somehow managed to include the small sad pile of five years worth of baby-sitting money.

Rinoa's hand stole up to clench the ring around her neck, seeking strength.  There was none.

"Please?" she whispered, her confidence gone.

There was some slight change in his expression – it at once softened and hardened.

"All right," he said in a low voice, and he handed her the damned paperwork.

Fifteen minutes later Rinoa Heartilly exited the city hall, her chin high, and made her way to the train station with new determination.