Layer 005:
Darkside
The late train pulled into Balamb at eleven forty seven exactly, a fact that was met with some disinterest by Zell. Six passengers, himself included, stepped off the train--five passengers, himself not included, headed for the Hotel.
He wandered out onto the quiet streets, trying to reconcile what he saw with what he remembered. Everything seemed different, somehow. Nothing was the same--even the feel of the air, the scent of the sea breeze, the look of the stars; even the things that were supposed to be eternal, supposed to be the same now as they were ten years ago or fifty years hence--everything seemed different. It was as if something had been robbed from him--as if he had just lost his allotted share of youthful naïvety and this homecoming was his rude awakening.
He started walking, without ever really deciding where he was going.
From the Balamb entrance, Garden was visible. It seemed almost to glow in the distance, reflecting the light of a breathtaking night sky.
(Home,) he thought--but the word carried none of the connotations it should have. It was threatening--frightening. Between the time he had left and the time he had come back it had evolved into something completely different in his mind--an emblem of violence, of corruption, disguised in soft colors and soft lines. An illusion. A trap.
Drake had promised him that he could have a new life. He could do anything he wanted to do. But standing there, feet firmly on the road that would lead him back to his dorm, his job, his life as a SeeD, he couldn't think about that. It would be running away--taking the gifts he had been given and giving nothing back.
Drake was doing something good with what he had learned. He was helping people--taking the risks and doing all he could. Zell didn't understand how, exactly, but he understood why. It was one of the few things he did understand, any more.
He knew what he had to do. And the more he thought about it, the more right it seemed.
He turned his steps toward Garden.
-
Garden was never totally asleep. No matter what time of night it was there would always be students sneaking off to the Training Center--for actual training or other, less legitimate business--and there would always be Faculty roaming the halls, and there would always be the Adjunct Medical Staff waiting in the Infirmary for the rare night injury.
The AMS ran periodic trips to the Training Center, checking for those unconscious or too injured to make it to the Infirmary on their own. They were generally the only night traffic in the Entrance area.
And it was Zell's luck--good or bad--that they found him there as he entered.
Maybe it was only nerves, but the moment he saw someone coming around the main ring he had to fight the impulse to fide. A brief flash of (He'll fight me; he knows--) was only countered by the fact that there was nowhere to hide that wouldn't be terribly conspicuous from any given point in the hallway.
That, and Nida had already noticed him--and seemed, if anything, even more startled than Zell himself was.
They stared at each other for a moment, before Nida burst forward. "Dear Hyne, Zell!" he exclaimed, coming very close to grabbing his arm. "What happened to you? You couldn't have contacted Garden? You should have seen Xu and Cid--they were arguing survival possibilities, plotting retrieval missions--"
Zell took a step back, more surprised than he should have been by Nida's vehemence. All of his nerves were still screaming at him, and he couldn't think of anything more to say than an incoherent "Uh--"
Nida took the hint, and backed off. "...sorry. It's just after Siobhan came back--well, there's been a lot of talk going on." He glanced over him. "You all right?"
Siobhan was back. Zell couldn't decide how he felt about that. "...yeah."
Nida stepped past him, beckoning. "Come to the Infirmary. There's some standard tests we have to do--y'know, procedure. Then--" he stopped, and shook his head. "Well, if it wasn't midnight, I'd say you should go talk to Cid. He's been getting calls from your mother, you know...."
Zell swallowed hard, and followed Nida to the Infirmary. There were a lot of things he didn't want to have to think about--Cid and his mother were two of them. (They let me do all this....)
The Infirmary was designed to be things: functional, sterile, and comfortable--in that order. Needless to say, it wasn't at all unusual to see comfort sacrificed to one of the other concerns.
The Infirmary had always, always made Zell uncomfortable.
Usually it was more mundane concerns--it was too white, too clean, and it always smelled kinda funny. Today, it something else--something about the matter-of-fact way Nida was attending to him, the darkness outside the window contrasted to the white Infirmary lighting, and the warm reception from the AMS that in no way matched the cold dread he felt inside.
The physical given on return from a mission was routine--blood pressure, heart rate, the standard stuff. There was a special set of additional tests that had to be given when a SeeD returned from being captured or stranded--one that Zell had only had to go through once before in his life, and would prefer not to have had to go through again.
"We'll start by de-junctioning you," Nida was explaining, as he had carefully explained every step before. It had to be something in the AMS manual--always let the patient know what was going on. (Wish Fordham would have....) "I'm pretty sure you've seen these before," he said, holding up a small databank, packed with paramagical storage crystals. Several cords with electrode pads extended from it; Nida quickly swabbed Zell's temples with something and attacked them. "We'll just grab your stored magic and GFs and transfer another in. You'll be able to pick them back up tomorrow...."
There was a moment of extreme disorientation, a tugging feeling, and then the world righted itself. Having a machine Draw from you was utterly unlike having a person Draw from you.
The new GF transferred into his brain with a mental thunk, taking hold immediately. "Meet Kirin," Nida said, reading from the junctioning device and making some notes on a form. "Regenerative-type GF. Now I have to grab a blood sample...."
Siobhan had mentioned something about getting him back to Garden and de-junctioning him. She had said it would help him with his memories--but it wasn't. Thinking back, he couldn't remember anything more than he had at the Psychiatric Ward.
(Maybe she lied.)
He didn't register the pain as Nida drew his blood and applied the bandage. He was vaguely aware of Nida asking him questions--perfectly routine ones, utterly medical. It wasn't a debriefing--the Administration would take care of that--and so he answered with what he knew to be the right answers.
Sooner or later, the tests were over. "Check in tomorrow for your GFs," Nida reminded him again. "We'll see if we have any follow-up tests we need to do then. For now, you should get some sleep."
Zell nodded. There was a moment of silence.
"Welcome back," Nida said, extending a hand.
Nida stared for a moment before accepting the handshake. "...thanks," he said.
Somehow, it felt like the most false thing he had ever done.
-
Garden wasn't dark at night--not the first floor, anyway. The dorm rooms themselves were held to an 11 o'clock lights-out curfew, but the main hall was always lit. Except for the darkness he could see beyond the entryway, except for the darkness of the second floor above him, it looked exactly as it would during the day--but empty.
It was disturbingly quiet. The only noise was the hum of the air recirculation and the faint buzz of the lights--background noise, like the hum of blood past the ears. There was nothing to listen to beyond that and his own breathing.
It was surreal--as if he had walked into a dream that he only barely recognized as such. He kept expecting the world to make sense, and it wasn't doing so--
--in more ways than one.
He found himself on one of the hallway benches, without anything to think other than (Who is to blame?)
It had to be someone's fault--things didn't just happen as a result of dumb chance. People didn't learn to kill without being taught. But who was there to blame?
It was hard to know. You could blame the Instructors, the textbook authors, the weapons manufacturers--you could blame the politicians who made the world a place for violence, or the clients who paid them for it.
You could blame the SeeDs, who were willing to learn and to fight and to kill. Willing to murder.
He turned the ideas over and over in his mind, searching them for a first cause, for an original sin.
He didn't find one.
But he did find a thread running between them--the man who procured the weapons, who hired the instructors. The one who took the mission request, who assigned the SeeDs. Connecting it all was one man--sitting in his third-floor office like a spider, all the lines of the web leading directly to his door.
He didn't know what he planned to do when he made his way to the elevator. The new Faculty didn't guard it, not even this late at night, and the locks had never been reengaged--there was nothing to stop him.
As he ascended, his stomach began to settle--as if the elevator was leaving it behind.
He had never minded the elevator before. Now, with every second that passed, he felt more and more trapped. He was more aware than ever of the walls of the elevator, caging him in, keeping him there--
It seemed like far too long a time before the elevator arrived and the doors opened, letting him step out into the Headmaster's office.
It was dark, lit only by the moon outside. It looked full--maybe a shade just under, but large and bright in the night sky. It cast a pale tint on the room, gilding the silence.
He stood there for a moment, not knowing what he had come there for. The elevator doors closed behind him, loud in the absence of any other sound.
A moment passed.
The door to his right opened, and he spun around. Cid emerged, dressed for bed and looking quite tired. He smiled when he saw his visitor. Zell didn't smile back.
"Zell," he exclaimed, relief evident in his smile and voice. "You're back at Garden! When did this happen? I wasn't notified--we were about to dispatch teams to find you--"
"I just got here," Zell responded flatly, staring. Cid didn't look evil--he looked like he always did, homely and friendly and human.
"I see," Cid chuckled. "I wouldn't have expected to see you up here at this hour. ...I must admit, I was having some trouble sleeping, myself...."
The hatred crept into him like a foreign agent--like poison, like disease. He felt unbalanced--as if, any moment, he was going to fall headfirst into something, and he didn't know what or how to avoid it. "That's good to hear," was all he could muster to say.
Cid blinked owlishly, not understanding and probably guessing that he had misheard or Zell had misspoken. "Excuse me?"
"You shouldn't sleep well," Zell said, passing judgment without realizing it or consciously meaning to. "You don't know where you are."
Cid seemed taken aback. "Well, I--I'm in Garden. Home. Are you quite--"
"This place is full of killers," Zell snarled. Everything inside him wanted to advance--everything. He didn't know what prevented him. His fists clenched, his teeth clenched, his muscled tensed. "It's full of killers and you let them. --you let them kill!"
It was then that Cid began to realize something was wrong.
"You're not feeling well," he hazarded. "Perhaps you should go to the Infirm--"
"I'm fine!"
The third floor was abandoned. The only rooms up here were the bridge, Cid's office, and Cid's bedroom--no one could hear his outburst.
Cid was beginning to realize that, too.
He shook his head, moving for his desk and the phone that sat upon it. "Obviously something is wrong," he said, gravely.
Zell beat him there. With one move he swept the phone from the desk, ripping the cord out and flinging it against the wall. It shattered, and the sound stopped Cid in his tracks.
"Of course something is wrong," Zell snapped, slamming one fist down on the desk. "You're wrong! This is wrong!" (You use these people to kill--you used me!) "Killing is wrong, and you're the only one who doesn't get it!"
Cid was edging away, trying to put distance and obstacles between them. Zell stood between him and the elevator door, and no one would bet on his chances. "You're talking about SeeD," he said. "SeeD survives the only way it can. It was formed to fight the Sorceress, and if it hadn't there's not telling what--"
"Yeah, well, we've done that already," Zell shot back. "And it looks like they're still killing...."
"What else would you have us do?" Cid shook his head. "The life of a mercenary is all these people know."
"It's all you taught them!" (Kill for money--because sometime or other you decided that money was more important that peoples' lives--)
"It was the only way--"
"No!" (Don't defend yourself, you bastard, you know what you've done--!) "It was the only way you wanted, the only way--" he couldn't take it. The anger was flooding his senses, creeping in his ears with every word (Lie!) the Headmaster told him, with every thought he raised, every counter-argument that came to mind. "You're getting rich from killing people, and it's not the only way for anything!"
All he felt was heat and hate. He didn't feel the air as the ceiling fan moved it. He didn't feel the pain as he fists tried to clench tighter than human hands could. He didn't feel any respect for the man in front of him, or any affinity, or any understanding. Only hate--a palpable force, a cacophony of blood rushing past his ears and his thoughts screaming at him, a fire that crept over and through him so that all he wanted to do was run or flail or scream, anything to be free of this terrible rage--
"You," he spat, words more a vehicle for hate than a vehicle for meaning, "shouldn't be allowed to live for what you've done."
Cid panicked. Anticipating what was to come, he made a break back for his room. It was the wrong move.
Speed translated to instinct--and instinct, to action.
For the first time ever the fighting came as naturally as breathing, and easy as walking--tuck and punch and the impact was a beat like a heartbeat, central and quintessential and pure unblemished by any slight shadow of doubt or indecision or regret. It didn't matter that sliding into the rhythm was as easy and unstoppable as falling or that the cracking of bones and the wet sound of muscle ripping were nothing more than visceral stimuli tightening up the stomach and making every breath sharper, it didn't matter that the pathetic figure on the ground had been a living breathing person--one who had stood in front of Zell and given him advice (Lies!) and who had been respected and even admired in this institution of violence and murder--it didn't matter because he bled and screamed like anyone else, like a hundred soldiers might, like any monster, like a human.
It would have been easier to crush the windpipe or even snap the neck with a solid kick, but that seemed insufficient--it seemed like a weak response to everything that man had done or propagated upon the world. Maybe he couldn't take on all of SeeD, but he could strike a blow all the same--and he could make that one blow count for something, even if only in his own mind.
That man was lucky--luckier than he should have been--to be half senseless. Even so, there was terror in his eyes.
He knelt down and took that man's head in his hands.
And with one terribly wonderfully horrifyingly violent twist, it was over.
And for the first time ever, killing felt good.
-
No one noticed or stopped him on the way out of Garden. In fact, no one noticed or stopped him all the way back to Balamb. He slunk in the front gates, still shaking slightly with the aftershocks of murder. He didn't look up or down the streets as he crossed them. There was no need. Crime was a virtual unknown in Balamb--here, he was the only thing to fear.
The city was completely, utterly still.
He made it past his house without hesitating, and took a few steps down the slanting road toward the docks. Not even a quarter of the way there he staggered, collapsing against a light pole and sinking to the ground. He felt hot all over--feverish and dizzy. And he found himself staring at his hands as if trying to remember what they had done.
Fordham's image was the only thing that stood out in his mind, and it was crystal-clear. Looking at him, smiling that enigmatic half-smile. "You don't like killing, do you?"
He wanted to vomit. He would have, except there was nothing in his stomach--it was a gnawing, empty pit, turning over on itself and tying itself in knots. He wanted to collapse on the ground and close his eyes and let the world turn to black. He wanted to be back at Jennings, with the restraints in place. He wanted to be anywhere but there.
(I want to go home.)
For a brief moment, he turned the idea over in his mind. Just head home--sneak in the front door, up the stairs, fall asleep in his own bed--
--slink past his mother (adopted mother) and dodge her ever-so-well-meaning queries (how could she let me go to SeeD) and lie down in the warmth and comfort of everything good and right as if nothing had happened, as if he was the same Zell Dincht now as he had been when he left Garden for Esthar--kind and happy and innocent and a killer.
Shaking all the while, he stood up.
Memories--some regained at Jennings, some more recent--jarred him, goaded him to push himself away from the post which had so far been his greatest form of support. He swayed, looking around for some means of escape.
An alley caught his eye--something he had probably passed every day he had lived in Balamb and never given a moment's thought. It was dark--no lamps stood by to light it. It would have been the perfect path of retreat--except for one thing.
In the center of the path stood someone--someone he was sure he would recognize if his head was clearer.
There was silence for several long beats.
"It's not past your bedtime, Chicken-wuss?" asked an infinitely calm, measured voice.
He put a hand out to the lamppost, thoughts of violence and murder going through his mind--memories of violence playing over and over again. He felt as if he was at the very edge of action--teetering one way and another, with so very little to prevent him from simply lunging to kill. He had no immediate response.
"You look drunk," Seifer noted, with a certain edge of amusement to his voice.
"Siobhan told me about you," Zell responded--it being the first thing to come to mind. (Always bullying the younger kids--) "I'm a SeeD, now."
"Really." Seifer looked him over, somehow managing to miss every salient change he had undergone. "Hard to tell."
"You know what Siobhan told me?" Zell wiped his gloves carefully off on his pants, doing effectively nothing to get rid of the slick, sweaty feeling on his hands.
"No, but please, enlighten me," Seifer said, leaning forward slightly. Zell didn't notice the sarcastic smile playing across his face. He did notice that he was missing his gunblade--and, for about thirty seconds, that didn't make sense. (...of course. Balamb. People don't need to carry weapons... because there's no danger here. Except--)
"She said you're a puppy." Zell shook his head. "A little, whining puppy," he continued, adding a bit of his own improvisation. "You picked on me 'cause you thought it was easy--you didn't have the guts to pick on anyone else. Not the SeeDs." (Not the killers.) He jabbed a finger at him, sharply. "You--" (Damn you, I bet you knew--) "--you weren't the worst thing at Garden." (You didn't join SeeD so you could kill for fun.)
Seifer was silent for a moment. Then he gave the barest hint of a smirk. "You know," he said, "tomorrow you're gong to wake up with a hangover, and you're going to regret that you said all that."
Zell blinked at him, scowling. "Is that a threat?" (I don't take threats. You can't threaten me....)
"Not at all." The infuriating slant to his lips was--quite infuriating.
"I killed him," Zell rasped.
A few moments passed before Seifer knew how to respond to that. "Talkin' about somethin', Dincht?"
Zell staggered backward and sideways, crashing against the lamppost. (You should know. You've killed SeeDs before. Plenty of them. Tell me I did something right--) "I killed him. It was his fault, and I killed him. ...the... the headmaster."
The smirk disappeared from Seifer's face. This time, it didn't look as if Seifer would think up a response at all.
"'cause... it was really all his fault, you know. SeeD. And all that. None of it would have happened if it wasn't for him--" (And so it was really his fault I killed him. Kinda. ...really.) "He just... shouldn't have done all that." (Shouldn't have taught me how to kill.)
Seifer paused for the longest time Zell had ever seen him do so. At length, he shook his head. "You're going crazy, Dincht."
(I-- ...don't think so.) "I'm better now," he remarked. (Except that I'm not. Except that I feel worse than I ever have....) "They cured me."
There was another unusual pause as Seifer digested that. "...I think you should ask for a refund," he said, with all pretense of seriousness.
A sick feeling went through Zell, and he stormed forward a couple of steps before he had to stop to steady himself. "You don't understand anything," he snarled. "You're just as bad as Tanker, stupid mad d--"
Seifer punched him in the face.
It took him a moment to realize that. By the time he reacted, flailing out with his own fists, he was already on the ground.
Seifer approached, glancing down at him. Zell didn't try to read the expression in his eyes--he didn't want to know what it was.
"Go home, Dincht," Seifer said, ever-so-calmly. Zell blinked.
(Ow--my head.) "...no."
"I need to call a taxi for you?"
Zell shook his head, trying to remember where exactly he was and why it all felt so familiar.
"There's something wrong with you," Seifer noted.
Zell almost laughed. (Yeah--probably.) "I suppose you would know?"
Seifer leaned forward, and he might have sneered--Zell was having a hard time seeing it, in any case. "Trying to pick a fight?"
(No!) "...yeah, maybe."
"Get up, Dincht."
After a moment of experimentation, Zell discovered that he in fact could push himself up from the street. He stood up shakily, not entirely certain that the next second wouldn't find him on the ground again. Seifer looked him over, and seemed to come to the same conclusion.
"You don't look like you could kill ants, Dincht."
Zell's hands fisted. "What would you know?" he hissed. "You don't think I--I killed--"
Hitting the ground again, flustered and irate, Zell discovered that he had the ability to trip over his own feet without moving. He looked up, only to see Seifer shaking his head.
"You're pathetic, Dincht," he pronounced--but it wasn't at all condescending. Rather, he sounded almost... worried.
He turned and left just as Zell was figuring out how to work his legs again.
He disappeared down the alley, and Zell recoiled. He braced himself against the lamp post, breathing heavily. There didn't seem to be enough oxygen in the air.
Seifer would contact SeeD, and they would come hounding him down here. SeeD would come. With familiar faces and familiar weapons and he could either run now or wait to make a stand--
He shifted his weight onto his feet, swaying unsteadily. The road to the docks was clear, the docks themselves were empty. He didn't quite know where he was going or why, but downhill was easier to walk than uphill, so he let his own weight carry him down step by step until he could collapse against one of the dock trucks and close his eyes.
He didn't like killing. He couldn't--he wouldn't allow himself to believe that he did. It was wrong. Wrong.
SeeD would come and they would find him here. And he would fight them because SeeD was evil, because somewhere along the line someone had decided that money was more important than human lives, that it was all right to kill--all right to teach people from the earliest ages that it was all right to kill. He would fight them because he was a good kid, because Fordham had said so--he would fight them because Drake had cared enough to open his eyes and make him hate them for who they were--and he would kill them if he could.
The facts paraded in front of his eyes, like equations that wouldn't quite solve. He would kill because he hated killing. He would punish murder with murder. And it was the only thing that existed in his mind--the only answer. Impossible, detestable, absolute.
(Murderer.)
For the first time, he checked to see if there was blood on his hands. What would Fordham say?
(Murderer asshole mad dog rabid mutt killer--)
What would Cutwell say? He was a danger to society, he knew that--but SeeD was different, wasn't it? Hardly part of society. Hardly.
What would Drake say?
He closed his eyes. (I don't like killing I don't like killing don't like killing like killing I killed--)
He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember what Drake had said--all those things Drake had said that seemed like they should be easy to remember but for some reason they weren't--all he could remember was that smile, and the scent of tobacco smoke on an Esthar breeze.
(Drake would tell me to kill them.)
His insides queazed at the thought.
(...because it's the right thing to do.)
He opened his eyes, resolute. He wouldn't allow himself to falter. He wouldn't allow himself to wonder why it was that nothing seemed right any more.
