Note: Random junk; long time no see, ff.net readers. So anyway, this is a pathetic, horrible story about Irvine Kinneas becoming a druggy a year after the whole "save the world, stop time compression" incident (aka the end of the game). Definitely not finished, but these are the first two chapters; I'll continue if I want or if you want or whatever. Who knows. – rhea@mayaku.org
i. the getaway
"So like . . . why don't we run away?"
An eyebrow rose as she rolled over, propped her head up with her arm on a pillow, and stared at him. "You can't be serious."
"Why not? It's not like we're superheroes anymore. It's been a year."
"We never were superheroes anyway," she said.
"The woman stopped offering me free drinks at the Dollet Tavern. It's like I'm old news. Well, wait: I am old news. We're old news. You, Squall, Rinoa, Quistis, Zell, and me. We're washed up. I mean, like, the other day she asked me what I have done in the past year and I couldn't give her any answer of substance," he paused for a second then caught his train of thought once more: "I want to run away, Sef. I want to run away with you."
Selphie squinted curiously at Irvine as she tried to gauge the seriousness of the situation. His brow was furrowed and his eyes were closed as he lay on his back, hands running over the sheets in a nervous manner. She decided to play it safe and make the whole conversation less serious, more them: more playful. "...So what if the girls aren't hitting on you anymore for being the world's savior. You have me right now and right here and I'll--"
"--Never mind," he said suddenly to cut her off, getting off the bed and picking up his clothes from the ground. "I was stupid to think anyone would understand."
"Wait, where are you going?"
He buckled his belt, straightened out his shirt, and started to head to the door.
"Irvy?"
The door opened and the door closed.
ii. high and dry
It wasn't as hard as it sounded. Running away, that was. Getting the guts to pack up and go was what it was all about; the rest was just one foot in front of the other until you hit a barrier you couldn't cross. The barrier would be your final destination then, the end of the road.
Irvine hit Deling City a week after he walked out on her.
The city was the place to be if you wanted to forget it all. It was like a jungle which ate you whole; it had an entire different side to it than the one he'd seen last time he stayed. It was a giant, forgiving jungle who took you into her arms of drugs and held you until you slept eternally. And, as he had told Selphie, the original defeaters of the sorceress were washed up, forgotten really, by the world's teenagers; no one called him on his assassination attempt in that city, his big failure, his crushing defeat, his failed redemption. They didn't care. They lived with the drugs and the music. What was the military? What was SeeD? What a Garden?
"A Garden? Oh man, my pops wanted to send me to one of those, but I ran away to here instead," the boy with blue hair said as he took a drag out of his cigarette.
"Fucking uniforms," a girl with mascara rings around her eyes cursed. "They make you look like everyone else -- they rip apart your style. But here, you know, in Deling . . . it's all different."
Irvine tried to imagine telling Selphie about this new world, but he couldn't. He didn't know if he wanted to, either. He was afraid she'd tell him that he was being a "chickenwuss," point out the murder rates and the statistics about what drugs actually did to you – the pin sized holes, the addictions, the risk of disease – and then lift up his sleeves and see where he injected once, twice, thrice?
(He'd lost count.)
Then again, he didn't tell her much anyway. Like how much he loved her or how only with her in his arms he felt at home or how Balamb Garden was nice this time of year, far nicer than the streets. Or like how he was addicted to heroin.