Layer 004:
Revelations
(Blood.)
Blood was the one identifiable thing on the screen, and it was everywhere. It coated the floor, spattered the walls, and congealed in small, grim pools wherever it had a chance to. It formed a gruesome inkblot test amidst the detrius, dotted on rocks and weapons and things Zell didn't even want to guess at. He wanted to flinch away, but couldn't seem to make himself.
"This picture," Fordham explained, unmoved, "was taken during the excavation of the ruined D-District-A Galbadian missile base--whose destruction, you are no doubt aware, was recognized by most political commentaries as 'a provoked independent action taken by members of SeeD against a threatening agency.' Provoked but unordered, Mr. Dincht. A countdown to self-destruct was initiated, but there were significant numbers of wounded in the lower parts of the base and a number of mechanical failures prevented escape. Sixty-nine people were never accounted for--the nature of their deaths made it... difficult to count remains."
(They wanted to blow up Garden. What were we supposed to--)
"Self-defense, Mr. Dincht, is one thing, and gruesome enough in its own regard. Perhaps it is justifiable, perhaps not. Violence in response to violence is a questionably morality, at best. But let's move on."
Zell was almost certain he didn't want to.
The next picture up was a split-screen between two photographs--one, a row of people in a hospital, bandaged or in casts. The other, a city street--Deling City, from the looks of it, neon lights and street lamps combining to give it an eerie glow. It was night--a clear night that made it exceptionally easy to see the bodies.
At least these were recognizable as bodies.
"This is what a riot looks like, Mr. Dincht," Fordham explained cooly. "Specifically, the Deling City riot incited by Sorceress Edea's attempted assassination--"
"That wasn't our fault," Zell protested.
Fordham pursed his lips. "But you were party to it," he said. "The first thing you have to do in order to solve a problem is to admit that you have it, Mr. Din--"
"You mean admit I am it?" He spat the words out. They left a bitter taste in his mouth anyway.
Fordham looked at him--that cool, impossibly disconcerting stare. "Do you believe that?" he asked.
After a moment, when it became obvious that no answer was forthcoming, he went on.
"It was quite a spectacular fight," he said, cueing the pictures forward, allowing each one only enough time to sink into Zell's mind. A mother holding a young child, each one riddled with bullets. A soldier with his faceplate smashed in, jagged edges of plastic digging into his cheeks, his lips, his eyes. A man with a briefcase, head back at an unnatural angle, collarbone protruding from ripped flesh--
He tried to look away, but his eyes weren't obeying his commands. "Stop it," he requested, simply.
Fordham looked at him again. "It's important to face the truth of what you've done," he said.
(What I'VE--)
Cutwell appeared in his peripheral vision, bearing a small syringe. There was a sudden sharp pain in the side of his neck as something was injected, and Cutwell quietly left again.
"Mr. Dincht," Fordham said carefully. "I want you to look up."
Zell did, thankful for any chance to look away from the horrors on the screen. The lights seemed to have gotten brighter while he wasn't watching.
"I want you to count the lights for me," Fordham said.
(Didn't I already--) "Seven."
Fordham pursed his lips. "There are seven lights in the outer ring, that's correct. But you're forgetting the smaller one in the middle. There are eight lights, Mr. Dincht."
(What the?) He looked again. His vision blurred. "But it--it looks like seven."
Fordham sighed. "This is to be expected," he said. "Don't worry. It will all come to you in time. Look back at the screen."
He was still staring at the lights. They blurred, all seeming to run together-- "Maybe there's just one," he said. "It kinda looks like there's only one."
"The screen." Fordham's voice was strong, insistent. Zell looked back at the screen.
"I don't wanna see this," he protested.
Fordham was implacable. "It's important that you do."
"Why?" (It's sick... this is sick!)
"Because it's important that you begin to realize the weight of what's going on here," Fordham answered. "It's important that you begin to see people as people--not as enemies."
The man on the screen was another Galbadian soldier, lying mangled and mutilated against a gutter. The picture was of high enough quality to see the fuzz of blonde hair on his chin, and the thin silver chain around his neck.
"It's important," Fordham continued, moving to another picture, "to understand who they are--that any given person might be a living person's husband--" a picture of an Estharan scientist, crushed under the weight of crumbled Crystal Pillar "--mother--" a woman in a dress, thrown back against a Timber wall, slouched and broken "--child--" a boy in a Trabia Garden cadet's uniform, only recognizable where the flesh and cloth hadn't burnt "--or friend." A body--most of one--being fished out of an Esthar bay, swollen, grotesque....
Fordham switched the picture, one last time.
(But that's--)
"Identify this scene," Fordham said.
The scene was grainy, low-quality as if it had been plucked from a security camera that hadn't been upgraded since its building was established. However, it was clear enough to identify the outskirts of South Side--and what was going on.
"That's me," Zell said, more to himself than anyone else. "And that's--"
"Jeshua Drake," Fordham identified. "Your mission's contingency officer. Tell me, Mr. Dincht. What happened on the first day of your visit to South Side?"
"I don't remember," he protested. "You know that! Why do you keep asking me all this?!" He felt uneasy, slightly sick. Something tugged at the edge of his mind, serving only to stoke his uneasiness.
"You'll allow me to refresh your memory."
Fordham hit a button on the controller, setting the picture moving.
It was a nondescript room, file cabinets and metal shelves and equipment lockers placed neatly in rows. He and Drake slipped in like graceless shadows, stealing from spot to spot and utterly unaware of the camera watching them from above. They scanned over the shelves quickly, Drake pulled out a set of lockpicks and opened one cabinet after another, gesturing. Some words were exchanged, but the camera didn't have any audio receptors to pick them up.
At last, in the farthest row of lockers from the door Drake seemed to find what he was looking for, and--triumphantly--lifted the IDA out of its place. He turned to the door, and hesitated.
Zell began to get uneasy. It was as if he knew what was about to happen, but didn't really--it was as if he knew they were--had been?--in danger, but couldn't for the life of him remember why.
He watched himself hiss something to Drake, and dive under a row of shelves attacked to the wall. It was a lame hiding place, and it showed--but it was better than Drakes options: effectively none.
Three Desperados, in combat torso armor and wielding automatic weapons, came marching in the door the next moment.
There was a moment of surprised pause, and then their weapons were trained on Drake. One of them said something--even without sound, Zell could tell it was "Surrender!"
Drake put down the IDA--slowly, carefully. Zell could see himself--a faint blur under the shelves, a shadow inside a shadow--crawling painstakingly toward the door and where the Desperados stood. Instinctively, he knew/remembered that there would be no way to launch an effective attack--he was on his hands and knees, and there wasn't enough room to lunge from underneath the shelves. He would probably be shot or taken hostage as he crawled his way out from under them--whatever he was going to do, it was probably going to be something very stupid.
He reached the end of the shelf just as Drake straightened up, IDA on the ground in front of him. There was a tense moment.
It took him three beats after the first soldier hit the ground before he knew what had happened.
His hands darted back under the shelf as the remaining Desperados turned, trying to see him so that they could fire. He reached out once more, quickly, grabbing the fallen man's collar to bring him quickly in so that his head rammed into the leg of the lower shelf, knocking him senseless and probably breaking his nose. Now that he looked, it seemed his left ankle--the one closest to the shelf--was bent unnaturally--he had probably broken it as an opening move.
The two others backed away, circling around to fire at him without their comrade getting in the way. He pushed the man's body away and scurried out from under the shelves, pulling the felled man up with him as he stood as quickly as he could. The man was physically larger than Zell was, and it looked to be a struggle, but before the Desperados could counter it he had backed himself into a place where he could effectively use the unconscious one as a human shield.
Drake had managed to squeeze between a pair of lockers, and wasn't looking too much as if he would join in the fray. It could have been a standoff there, if the desperados hadn't moved. Or they could have radioed for backup, which would have forced Zell's hand. But, for whatever reason, they made the mistake that was to cost them dearly.
One of them approached, the one behind keeping his weapon to bear in case of any opportunity. Like a snake, the closer man's hand shot out, grabbing his comrade in an attempt to wrest him away from Zell.
Zell shoved, pushing the man offbalance and causing him to fall with the third soldier on top of him. The one soldier left standing stepped in closer, and Zell got a foot up into his stomach--
(Wait. Why didn't he fire?)
He kicked again, knocking the gun out of his hands. Behind him, the Desperado he had pushed was getting to his feet, a rod in hand. It had apparently been clipped to his belt--he hadn't noticed it before. Zell spun, but wasn't quick enough to dodge or deflect the first swing--it scored a glancing hit to his temple, and he reeled. A second swing hit him squarely across the back of the neck, and he went down.
The Desperados went to their work quickly, Drake forgotten. One produced a thin cord from his belt pack, looping it several times around Zell's ankles before going in to tie it. The other went to put the rod weapon back, fumbling the latch with his gloved hands. Zell stirred--
And then the scene burst back into his memory, clouded and faint, but certain.
He could remember as he kicked out--remember the hazy, dreamlike quality to it all, remember the way he floated just on the edge of sense and consciousness. He could remember as he twisted, not sure whether to punch or grapple--he could remember as, more by chance that design, his fingers closed around the Desperado's throat and clenched so hard and so fast that the skin split, leaving nothing but a bloody trail and a crushed windpipe.
By all rights, he should have died then. The remaining Desperado should have shot him there, and that should have been the end of it. Instead, grappling with the rod latch, he went in to kick Zell in the head, to knock him out again. It was going to be his last tactical mistake.
Zell caught his foot, twisting and pulling. Something snapped--the man opened his mouth in an exclamation of pain as he tumbled, hitting the ground awkwardly and probably bruising one shoulder. Zell rolled back to his hands and knees, lunging for the Desperado's throat--and, with a ferocious twist, snapped his neck.
The blood from his first kill was pooling by his side, and the second Desperado's neck was discoloring. Zell was pulling himself up with the aid of the shelves when Fordham stopped the picture. All he was aware of, however, was how those two neck kills had sounded--the ripping sound of flesh and muscle tearing, the wet-clay noise of breaking bone.
Three armed to one unarmed, and he had killed two and taken one out of commission. Killed them. And been very, very good at it.
It felt as if someone had stepped on his grave.
It felt like more than that--it felt as if someone had done a full Balamb Reel on his grave, punching in his stomach for the grand finale. It felt like he was being judged and condemned and laughed at and threatened all at the same time, as if he had been reduced to the image on the screen, nothing more, nothing less, just moving and fighting and killing....
"No," he said, dizzily.
"I know you don't want to accept it," Fordham said. "I wish you didn't have to. But only by accepting it can you move past it."
"No," Zell said again. "No; it's impossible, I--"
Fordham frowned. "Denial won't do you any good," he said sternly. "You know what you just saw. You were a mercenary, Mr. Dincht. Can you honestly say it was outside your capacity?"
Zell shook his head in protest, stricken momentarily dumb. He had no words to say, and no breath with which to say them.
(Impossible....)
"He won't accept it," Cutwell said. When had she come back? "We'll have to try something else."
"Nonsense." Fordham looked over. "It's--"
"I wouldn't do that," Zell protested--begged. "I couldn't. I wouldn't."
"You followed orders, Mr. Dincht," Fordham said. "You wanted to be a good SeeD. You followed orders very well. Isn't that right?"
"NO!" He jerked--he wanted to be out of there, to fight, to get himself away--
--to fight. Like he had just seen himself--
(No no no no NO)
He jerked, twisted, shook the bed. He was trapped--trapped, and panicking, like a rookie, like an idiot--
"Let me go," he growled. "Or I'll--I'll--"
"That's not going to help, Zell," Fordham said. "Be reasonable, now. Calm down. You'll only hurt yourself."
"Why are you doing this to me?" He might have howled. A feral howl like a wild beast. He didn't know.
"You're a danger to yourself and others," Cutwell said matter-of-factly.
Fordham sighed. "Mr. Dincht, you've trapped yourself. You've trapped yourself in a life you don't really want and can't deal with, and now you're beginning to realize it. We're here to help you."
His face was burning, and he could feel tears on it as well. Hot tears, tears like scalding water burning their way inside of him.
"We're here to help you get better. Don't worry. Everything is going to be okay."
He choked--heaved and choked on his own bile. Someone placed a hand on his forehead, another blazing pressure. Cutwell swore.
"Hyne, Doc," Fordham was holding both of his hands, now, a pressure that should have been comforting but wasn't. "What did you do to him? Five CC's, not twenty."
"Sorry, sir," Cutwell said, sounding slightly pained.
Fordham let of of his hands, now he was working at the buckles at his ankles. "You're going to ruin everything." It sounded like he said that, but Zell couldn't be sure. Maybe he hadn't. All he was sure of was the feverish nausea that filled him, from his heart to the pit of his stomach.
He gagged.
"Help me," (aaugh) "Help me! Get these straps undone!" (That was Fordham, right? Fordham--)
"I don't know," (Cutwell) "this may have gone too far--"
The world was turning the most fascinating array of splotchy greens. "I feel sick," he had a blurred impression of saying.
He was falling--half of him was falling. The other half was still strapped down, but the straps were coming off. He didn't want them to, he felt as though he was falling apart, bit by bit plummeting into some dark pit from which there was no return, no hope, just an all-consuming dark--the straps were what kept him to the solid world, and now they were disappearing one by one--
"Shit, shit, shit! Another strap disappeared. "Hang on."
"Come on, Doc," Fordham urged. "Pull him through. You're going to be fine, Dincht, you--"
"No." He slurred the word, he knew he did, but he couldn't hear himself do it. He was reeling, attached to reality by one wrist and not wanting to let go. "No, I feel really, really sick--"
He fell.
He hit the ground, hands on his shoulders and back steadying him as his own palms bruised themselves against the floor. He shook, heaved--and consigned the meagre contents of his stomach to one violent expulsion. Gasped, heaved--and fell.
This time, he knew not where he landed.
-
He didn't want to wake up, but he did anyway.
He woke up feeling not quite as sick as he had, but decidedly under the weather in any case. His head was swimming, his stomach was queazing, and his vision was blurring--but he didn't feel as if he was going to die any second, which was a marked improvement.
...he wasn't in the same room he had been in.
He blinked upon realizing that. He was on a low bed--comfortable, and surprisingly so--with cords attached to his wrists and ankles that allowed him some range of motion, but not much. A thick sheet was tucked in around him, augmenting an overstuffed pillow. This room was small--the size of a bedroom, at most. There was a small chest of drawers against one wall, and a door across from him. Next to the door was a chair--in which sat someone he almost, but not quite, recognized.
He was sandy-haired and freckled, with a build that might have been lanky had he been taller. A pair of glasses were perched on his nose, and he occasionally had to push them back up as they fell. He was a mousy man--someone who looked like he had all nervous energy and no real bite.
"...Drake?"
Drake jumped. He looked up sharply, and steadied himself on the chair arm. "...Zell," he chuckled nervously. "Make some noise next time, or you're going to kill me...."
Zell blinked. "Wh--"
Drake motioned him to be quiet, and stood up. Crossing the room, he stood at the side of Zell's bed. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Fordham just said you might like to see me. That's all."
"You know Fordham?"
Drake nodded, an odd little smile on his face. "Yeah. Yeah, you could say that."
"So you--did they show you all that stuff? The slides, and the video--"
Drake's expression immediately became pained. "No," he said, voice getting the slightest bit husky. "And you'll never know how sorry I am that you had to go through that. But--"
"I saw myself on that mission. I don't want to be that."
"Of course not. Zell, you--"
"I killed those people. I don't even know how many people I killed, and it was just one mission. How many people did I kill, Drake?"
"Zell--"
Something scratched at the back of Zell's mind. "How--that mission. What happened? ...how did you get here?"
Drake caught his breath. There was an uncomfortable pause.
"I... I set you up," Drake said, sounding hurt, of all things. "I set you up to be captured, and to be brought here. But Zell--" he knelt at the side of the bed, eyes earnest. "You would never have come if I asked you, and--you're a good guy, Zell, and I didn't want to see you slaving away for SeeD for the rest of your life. I wanted to help you get better, just like I did. I'm sorry I had to do it like this. I know you might not want to trust me any more--"
"No," Zell said--surprised himself by saying. "'s'ok. I just feel so sick...."
"But that's what we did, Zell. That's what we were. SeeDs. Mercenaries. We killed people for money, and now that we can see that--" He shuddered, gripping the edge of the bed. "I think it's good to get a little sick, thinking about that."
Zell pulled back, tucking his chin under the covers. "I want to get out of here," he whispered sullenly.
"You will," Drake assured. "Don't worry. They'll release you soon, and you can go and do anything you want. You can have a new life, Zell."
Zell watched him, watched the odd little caring half-smile on his face and wondered about the possibilities. "What do you do?" he asked.
"I still work for SeeD," Drake said. "I go on the missions, and set people up like I did for you. I try to help them."
"Isn't that dangerous? If SeeD finds out, they'll--"
"They won't be too happy, no." Drake shrugged. "I want to help people, Zell, and I have to take some risks to do it. But I want to help them badly enough that I'm willing to risk getting hurt to do it. You ever felt that way before?"
"...yeah," Zell said, thinking back.
"...it's wrong," Drake said. "You see that, don't you? It's wrong. Somewhere along the line, someone had to think that this was okay--that you could do things like this, that you could pay for people's lives. And someone had to think that it was all right to take that pay--that some Gil in the pocket was more important than a living, breathing person." He breathed unsteadily. "Everyone in SeeD thinks that 'cause that was what they were taught to think. It's not their fault--it wasn't your fault, Zell, but everybody is so damn corrupted--so corrupted and evil--"
There was an uneasy moment.
Zell's hand shot out, seizing Drake's wrist before it got to the end of the cord. "What happened to Siobhan and Tanker?" he demanded. "Where are they?"
"Back at Garden," Drake said. "Two or more years of active duty and you really do buy into the whole SeeD thing. The Ward hasn't had much luck reforming people after that amount of time."
"So you're just gonna give up on them?"
"Zell--" Drake bit his lip. "I don't know too much about these things. I just bring people in, Fordham and Cutwell and the others take care of them. But we want to focus on the ones we know we can get through to--people like you. The Ministry of Charity only gives the Ward so much money. They can't stretch it forever, and rehabilitating veteran SeeDs is just too hard. Think about it. If you had to choose between bringing around five rookies or one vet, what would you do?"
Zell hesitated, and released Drake's wrist. "I... guess you're right," he said.
There was a long pause.
"I'm glad I was a rookie," he said, curling up under the sheets.
Drake smiled wanly. "So are we, Zell," he answered, patting the pack of his hand. "So are we."
-
Fordham came in some hours later--well after Drake had left--clipboard in hand. "How do you feel, Zell?" he asked, a warm smile on his face. "...it is all right if I call you 'Zell,' isn't it?"
Zell stared up at him, uneasy. "S--sure."
"I'd like to apologize for today," Fordham said, smile thinning. "It's not a pleasant thing. No one here enjoys it. But sometimes, you just have to face the truth all at once and then deal with it. You can't get past it by being squeamish about it. That's no better than trying to run from it, and nothing gets better if you run from things."
Zell had nothing to say to that.
"Drake told me about your conversation," he said. "Do you understand what he said?"
Zell nodded mutely.
"That's good." Fordham nodded. "He's a smart kid. Passionate, too. He knows what he's doing, and why he's doing it. It's one of many admirable qualities about him."
(I don't know what I'm doing.) The thought came to Zell completely unbidden. (Or why....)
"You're an extraordinary person, Zell," Fordham said. "It's amazing how much you've been able to absorb and accept today. You should be proud of yourself."
Zell glanced away. "...yeah," he said, more for the sake of agreeing than because he agreed.
Fordham was in the process of checking something on his clipboard when the door opened, and Cutwell came in bearing a small paper cup. Fordham glanced up, and took it from her. "Is this the sleeping draught?" he asked.
Cutwell nodded. "His body is exhausted. He needs sleep, and a good meal when he wakes up."
Zell blinked. He hadn't noticed until then how hungry he was.
Fordham nodded, and Cutwell turned and left. Fordham handed Zell the cup. "Cutwell isn't the most sociable of people," he said, "but she's a good doctor. I'm inclined to trust her, if she says you should sleep now."
Zell looked at the cup dubiously, and pulled himself up just enough that he could down it. He made a face--it was remarkably bitter. Fordham took the empty cup back from him, depositing it in a wastebasket somewhere off to the side.
"I feel sick," he said.
"I know. That's a natural response. Once you've had a good sleep, though, you should start feeling better."
"I think I might have nightmares."
"Not real ones." Fordham made another note on his clipboard. "You know what a nightmare really is, Zell?"
Zell shook his head. "No." (Not really. I really don't.)
"A nightmare is waking up one morning and finding out that you can't live with anything you were, any way you've acted, anything you've done. We've all been there before. That's why we're here."
Zell stared. "You were?"
"I was in the army," Fordham said. "Esthar Foot Corps. I served under Adel. That would be... oh, almost twenty years ago, wouldn't it?" Fordham gave Zell a reassuring smile. "I know what it feels like," he said. "I remember the day that I really opened my eyes and looked at the newscasts, paid attention to what every other nation in the world was saying. I remember how utterly sick I felt. That's why I joined this institution, Zell. I wanted to make a difference in the world--to stop other people from making the same mistake, living the same nightmare. That's why I understand what you're going through. That's why I want you to trust me."
Zell pondered that for a moment. "It's hard to believe," he said.
"I know. It always is. But once you're confronted with the facts like this--"
"I believe you."
Fordham smiled, and opened his mouth to respond.
"--I trust you," Zell added, before he got the chance.
"Thank you, Zell." Fordham's smile became even more sincere. "That means a lot."
"I want to get out of here."
Fordham nodded. "You've made a remarkable recovery," he said. "You really are an extraordinary case."
"So I can leave?"
"Not yet." Fordham made a note on his clipboard. "Tomorrow, maybe. We'll see how you feel tomorrow."
Zell looked away.
Fordham reached out to the wall, flipping a small switch. The light in the room got a bit brighter. "Zell, I would like you to do something for me."
"Yeah?"
"Look up for a moment."
Zell looked up, squinting into the light fixture. "Uh huh?"
"I would like you to count those lights for me. How many do you see?"
"Don't need to count 'em," he responded fuzzily.
"That's very good, Zell. How many are there?"
"Eight," Zell said. "Seven on the outside, and one in the middle."
Fordham smiled, noting something down on his clipboard. "You're a good kid, Zell," he said.
"Fordham?"
Fordham looked over. "Yes?"
"What if I'm not really a good kid? What if all I can really do is kill people?"
Fordham looked troubled. "I don't believe that," he said. "Not for a second. Do you?"
"I dunno." Zell blinked, feeling the effects of Cutwell's sleeping potion. "I dunno what else I would do. I like getting into fights, I think. Doesn't that make me a bad person?"
"There are a lot of ways to handle aggression," Fordham said. "Fighting is only one of them. Do you like running, or any sports?"
"Yeah," he said. "I guess so."
"Channel your energy into those things instead of fighting," Fordham suggested. "You'll probably find that you don't really like fighting after all. You don't like killing, do you?"
"No," Zell responded. "I hate it. It's sick."
"There, you see?" Fordham patted him on the shoulder. "I do think that you're a good person, Zell. You've proved it to me. Just prove it to yourself."
Zell muttered a sleepy affirmation.
"Get a good night's sleep, Zell," Fordham advised. "You have a new life ahead of you tomorrow."
Mind still on the horrors of the day--and of many days past--he closed his eyes. "'night," he muttered groggily.
"Pleasant dreams," Fordham wished him as he closed the door.
(But I do like fighting,) Zell thought, disgruntled--angry at SeeD, angry at the world, angry with himself. (More than I like running. I just... don't know what to do....)
Before he knew it, he had drifted off.
