Purgatio

by Marcus1

Email sponger42yahoo.com for Location of Most Recently Updated Purgatio Website

9. Constrictio

Chapter Nine:

Constrictio

The moon was rising, argentine yellow in the fair purple haze of the gathering evening. No clouds graced the indigo darkness of the vault above. From the ground rose an almost visible wash of dun-colored warmth as the deepening evening absorbed the heat of the day. Abruptly, the stillness of the reflected dusk was scattered in a thousand gray-green droplets as the sturdy talons of the large russet chocobo splashed down in the mirrored surface of the tiny roadside pool.

The speedy beast was striding steadily southward, along the widening floor of the valley. Soon, the bird and its two riders would reach the gray expanses of the tidal flats that glistened wetly under the new moon at the mouth of the mountain basin.

Rinoa held back a sigh. She couldn't help but press just the tiniest bit closer to the back of the rider before her. How much longer can we be here like this? How much longer can I not think about anything? But that, in itself, was a thought. Even as the frown creased her features, Rinoa ducked forward to bury her face in that silly furry ruff with which she had become so familiar. Something by the side of the dirt path the bird was striding down caught her eye. "Hey, is that…?"

Suddenly, the chocobo swerved and warked loudly in protest as Squall jerked the reins.

Rinoa clung to the knight riding before her as the speedy beast shifted its track. "Squall! What are you—?!"

One black boot in front of the other. One more step, one more stride forward. He had to concentrate now to make it happen—when had he fallen so out-of-shape? He would have stopped to scratch his head, but besides taking too much effort, the gesture would mean a fate worse than death, so instead, he concentrated on pumping one more gasp of air though his burning lungs, one more swing of his leaden arms.

Then, from behind, his ears discerned the sound of another set of approaching footfalls—besides hers. From some hidden reserve, he rallied the strength to turn his head for a look…

"WAAAAARK!!!"

"AIEEEE!!" Laguna barely managed to fall away from the heavy talons of the giant, russet, beaked beast bearing down on him. The chocobo flashed through the space he had just occupied.

As it passed, Laguna saw a blue-clad rider waving her arms in apparent frustration with the bird's driver. "Squall! You almost hit him!"

"I know."

"Go back!" The voices were growing fainter as the bird raced away.

The shock of brown hair shook before her eyes. "No way."

Leaning forward, Rinoa took advantage of her position, and shouted loudly—and painfully—into her knight's ear. "Squall Leonhart! That is a direct order from your sorceress! Now go back, and pick up president Loire!"

The chocobo was circling around. Laguna didn't know if he had the strength to dodge it a second time. Well, perhaps it's for the best… He looked back and shuddered as a red-faced figure crested a rise in the trail only a few hundred yards back. It waved its pudgy arms at him, and the mouth worked, but no sound came out. How the hell can she run so far…? He shook his head, and turned to face the oncoming beast. Run down by a chocobo? Anything rather than face that horrible, horrible, …alien! He raised his arms in surrender to the fates.

A moment later, Laguna was rubbing those same appendages, as they had nearly been jerked out of their sockets by a, surprisingly strong, slender set of arms which now rested on the hips of the rider before him as she angrily chastised the chocobo's foremost rider.

"You could have at least slowed down a little!" Rinoa shook her head as the bird's path described a second large arc and it resumed its previous heading.

Before Squall could reply, a long despairing wail reached the ears of the three riders.

Laguna saw the slightest flicker of pity cross Rinoa's face as she turned her gaze back toward the figure who had collapsed on the path behind. "Poor Mary." Her brows drew together slightly. "I wonder what her question was?" The look disappeared in a flash as her eyes fell upon the sweaty and disheveled figure of the President of Esthar. "Mr. President. Always a pleasure." Though she was sitting, twisted nearly fully around on the back of a running chocobo, Rinoa managed to give the impression of a curtsey.

"Uh… likewise, um, sorceress." Laguna nodded and tried to smile through a look of perpetual confusion that was becoming—he thought—altogether too common for him. "Uh, Hi, Squall." He nodded toward the back of the knight.

Squall grunted something unprintable.

…

The curling bow wave spilling from the snow-white prow of the yacht described the perfect curve of a question mark before folding over on itself and spilling, in a wash of glass marble bubbles, across the calm surface of the tropical ocean. A v-shaped pattern of rolling swells from the absolutely clear water displaced by the passage of the luxurious ship spread out behind the vessel for as far as they eye could see. The waves stretched and rippled languorously away from the crystal and aquamarine wake of the ship's propellers. The aquatic evidence of the boat's passage was all that moved. The sky was a motionless painting of wispy fair-weather mares tails and jet contrails, the rest of the ocean was a mirror of blue diamond, and the black gunblade could have been attached to a bronzed statue for all the motion it made as Seifer held the weapon pointed directly at the man's heart, millimeters from his chest.

"Really, Seifer, darling. There's no need for that." The sorceress purred as she glided up and placed two long-fingered hands on the knight's shoulders. "I'm sure Mr. Norg was simply trying to emphasize a point. He didn't really mean to say he'd kill me," she smiled ice, "did you, Norg?"

Still, the gunblade did not waver, though the man on the wrong end of the weapon was nearly purple and quivering with rage.

One ruby nail trailed up Seifer's neck and made its way gently along the line of his jaw. "Do be a dear and put the gunblade away for now."

Even as the weapon was slowly lowered, Norg was shouting again. "You're insane!! You've seen the reports from the Galbadian spies!! You know what Eshtar has the capacity to—you know what they will do when they find out!!"

Sera dismissed him with a wave of her hand. "Of course I know what they will do. I wish to see this thing first hand."

"NO! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!" Norg was screaming so loudly and shrilly that Seifer could not help but marvel that the body's vocal cords did not tear. "The Lunatic Pandora is MINE, sorceress!"

Seifer felt the slightest tug from deep within his mind. In the blink of an eye, Hyperion appeared in his hand again, and Norg fell silent as the cold cutting edge of the blade was pressed into his neck. Seifer's arm and shoulder kept him from ducking away.

The sorceress allowed herself a theatrical sigh. "Norg." She spread her hands and took a step toward the man. "Norg, I've explained this to you so many times, yet you still fail to understand." Placing both her hands onto the man's temples, she gazed directly into his alien eyes. "You are mine." Sera tilted her head to the side slightly. "So everything that is 'yours' is also mine." With her final word, the sorceress slashed one long nail across the man's face, leaving a long trail of white down one cheek. The white gouge quickly filled with dark red blood, droplets of which began to roll down the man's chin. He did not move a muscle. "This is your final warning, Norg. Either you will accept my control, accept my plans, and do what I say, or I'll have Seifer encourage you to find a new body—and I will alter your future as I see fit—without you."

Slowly the flush drained from the man's face. His stare gradually fell from that of the sorceress. He swallowed, and his throat chafed against the blade held to his throat. "I hear…" A muscle in the man's face twitched. "…and obey, sorceress."

Sera nodded to Seifer, and Hyperion once again vanished. "Good." She smiled a narrow-eyed smile. "I'm glad we finally understand each other." She clapped her hands without feeling. "Now, enough about the Crystal Pillar. I have news, instead, about the Sapphire Dream."

The bow still clove through brilliantly clear water, the sky still shone the same robins-egg blue, the clouds remained white and still, but something darkened around the group of three standing out in the open sunlight.

Sera continued. "It seems our agents—or at least some of them—have managed to retrieve the artifact, however, they've made some unusual requests that they want filled before they'll release it to me."

"So, sorceress, things are not quite in hand as you make them out to be?" Norg dared the tiny jab.

The sorceress tossed her sparkling albino hair to the side with a shake of the head. "Not at all. In fact, things worked out just as I had planned. My contact on the mission to retrieve the object performed admirably. If things had not gone as planned, someone… else… might be in possession of the Dream right now." Her index finger rose. "But, as you have seen, everything always proceeds according to my plan."

"So again, I am to play the errand boy?" Norg almost spat the words, but he modulated his tone of voice just in time.

The sorceress turned to the tall blond knight. "Forgive me, Seifer, dearest," she brushed his cheek with her lips before placing both hands on his shoulder and resting a few strategic body parts against his side, "but the Shumi does have a knack for incognita that you seem to lack." She turned her head toward the man. "Yes, Norg, you are going to get her what she has requested." Sera blinked. "Her demands are not unreasonable at all—considering the circumstances." She shrugged one shoulder slightly. "Besides, you two have already done business on a previous… errand—as you put it."

…

Laguna was becoming distinctly uncomfortable, not only from riding in just about the worst spot on a chocobo that one can choose to sit, but also from the decided lack of conversation between his fellow riders. Early on, Rinoa had done her best to make small talk with the Estharian President, but the difficulty of twisting around in order to speak, and the way in which she kept drifting off on her own thoughts eventually precluded any further conversation. Neither Laguna nor Rinoa felt inclined to attempt to discuss anything of any real importance, and so, conversation had died a lonely death. Squall—of course—had been no help at all.

As the purple dusk had slipped quietly into black night, the path had turned east where the valley terminated in the flat mud of expansive tidal flats. As the stars began to twinkle rainbows in the dark void, bird and riders strode toward the rising moon while the deepening darkness bleached it from blond to albino. The tide was out, far out. From across a slick field of wet, dark sand, the ocean glimmered like a sliver ribbon in the moonlight. The steady footfalls, the day's warmth radiating from the black sand, the quiet rush of far-away night waves all took their toll on the riders, and soon both Rinoa and Laguna were dozing. Rinoa soundly asleep, with her arms wrapped steadily around Squall, Laguna dozing fitfully, waking periodically to steady his perch on the chocobo as his balance shifted. Only Squall and the bird remained awake.

It was the lack of motion that woke Rinoa. "Squall?" She mumbled sleepily as she raised her head from the depression it had created in his jacket's ruff.

"Hwazza…?" Laguna, still half asleep, rubbed his eyes.

"The Galbadians are coming," Squall said.

Squinting into the weak light of the false dawn, Rinoa could see that Squall had brought the chocobo to a halt on the top of a small cliff. During the night, the tide had come in, and the ocean now washed tiredly against a tiny strip of still-dry dark sand at the base of the cliff. The wide wet beach of a few hours ago was now submerged.

"I see them," Laguna gaped widely, then, remembering himself, assumed a rather sheepish look.

Rinoa could see the lights bobbing along the low coastal cliffs as well. Sleep still clearing from her head, she counted at least a half-dozen vehicles before the flashing headlights disappeared behind a dark mass of seaside forest.

"It's an advance scouting group. At the rate we're going, they'll catch up to us within two more hours." Squall brushed a bit of hair from his eyes.

"Do you think we should stop and fight them?" Rinoa closed her eyes. I really don't want to use my… powers… right now—not unless I have to.

Squall shook his head. "No. They wouldn't engage us directly. They'd just bog us down until the bulk of their forces could arrive." He frowned at Laguna. "Besides, my gunblade is gone, and I don't think he's armed."

"No, Laguna not have thunder stick." The president tried to make light of Squall's disrespectful form of address. His humor withered under the knight's stare.

"So, what should we do?" Rinoa prompted. He wouldn't have stopped if he didn't have some sort of plan, that's the way he is.

"We're too heavy, we should dump some dead weight." Squall scowled meaningfully at Laguna.

"Squall..." Rinoa frowned at him, the expression emphasizing the warning tone in her voice.

Squall shrugged, avoiding the eyes of his sorceress. "Actually, since he is the President of Esthar, I thought Mr. Loire might have some resources we could make use of."

At the knight's words, Laguna brightened. "He does indeed." The president smiled. "I think I have just the thing to save the Knight of Galbadia from his own military." Unable to resist the jabs, Laguna smirked slightly.

An extra squeeze from arms still wrapped around him and a pleading look kept Squall from rising to the bait. "Alright, then, what do you propose we do, Mr. President?"

"I say we just keep on running straight—away from the Galbadians," Laguna suggested.

"If we do that, they'll catch up to us in—." Squall began to repeat himself.

"I heard you, Mr. Leonhart. It's been taken care of." Laguna tried to crack a roguish grin, but the earliness of the hour killed it. "Trust me."

Squall's head whipped around to face forward quickly, but not before Rinoa caught the lines of tendons that appeared in Squall's neck as his jaw locked into place. "Have it your way." He managed to sound civil enough as he urged the chocobo ahead, but Rinoa caught the edge bitterness buried within Squall's voice.

The group rode on in silence.

…

"Bravo leader, this is Watchdog, timer is at zero-zero, begin your attack run."

"Roger that, Watchdog. Bravo flight beginning run."

"Bravo leader, target is confirmed, strike is confirmed, switch to channel zero-one-three, transfer indigo. Watchdog out."

Squall had taken to periodically checking over his shoulder—it was this motion that kept Rinoa from dozing off, despite the seriousness of the situation, as Squall marked the progress of the pursuing Galbadian vehicles. They were easily visible now, as the moon paled in the face of the approaching day. The sun would crest the horizon ahead in short order.

"Bravo three, Bravo one, tighten up left, continue terrain masking."

"Bravo flight, this is Eagle Eye, targets at your twelve-o-clock, you have friendlies at eleven-o-clock, don't run them over."

"Eagle Eye, bravo one, confirm target. We'll try not to."

"Those jeeps mount .50's." Squall said. "They're going to be in range of us in a few more minutes."

"Don't worry about it." Laguna had been seated with knees tightly locked against the chocobo's sides, arms folded across his chest, and head hanging forward. He now stretched and turned his head from side to side. "By that time, the sun will be up. They won't be able to see to shoot."

"That won't last for very long." Squall frowned.

Laguna waved a hand. "With the dawn comes a new day, with the new day, new hope."

"Whatever." It was meant to be a growl, and so—not surprisingly—that was what it came out as. Squall tried to urge the chocobo on a bit faster, but the bird refused to increase its pace. Rinoa could tell—just from the particular set of his shoulders—that Squall was about to say something. He was interrupted.

"Lima leader, lima five, away one! Away two!"

"Lima leader, lima three, away one! Away two!"

There was absolutely no warning before the five jets were gone. A quick flash of black, a wash of heat from the compressed air pushed down by their passage less than a hundred feet overhead, and then a roar like the end of the world as the aircraft rocketed down the coastline. Squall landed on his side even as a surprised Rinoa fell on top of him. He rolled across one shoulder and ended up on top of the startled sorceress as he shielded her body with his own. The knight's protect spell washed across them only milliseconds before the sorceress's.

Laguna seemed not at all perturbed the by noise, however, he was surprised when the chocobo exploded underneath him with a terrified "WAAARK!" shaking off the president, and then dashing off down the edge of the sandy beachside cliffs. By the time Laguna had extracted himself from the tangle of briar bushes in which he landed, the delayed fuses on the cluster munitions dropped by the Estharian attack aircraft had burnt through. The pop-popping noise of bombs exploding amongst the Galbadian vehicles rolled across the quarter-mile of beach that still separated them from the knight, sorceress, and president.

At last realizing what was happening, Squall rolled off of Rinoa, who proceeded to spit out the dust and grass she had inhaled after being dragged to the ground. "Are you okay?" Kneeling, he offered a hand to help her stand.

"Yeah, just a little squashed... what happened?" She coughed.

"I guess that guy must have arranged an air strike on the Galbadians. I thought we were being attacked." In the space of a second, Squall managed to glare at Laguna's fallen form, look back at the clouds of dust that had engulfed their pursuers, squint into the rising sun at the sound of approaching helicopters, and then turn his attention back to Rinoa. "…sorry."

"Oh no, don't you start that." Dusting herself off with one hand, Rinoa raise the other to wave a finger at Squall.

Three helicopter gunships roared overhead, cannon roaring as they fired into the clouds of smoke masking what was left—if anything—of the Galbadian scout group. Squall ignored them. "What?"

Rinoa didn't spare the approaching VSTOL jet transport a single glance as she shouted to be heard over the noise of a half-dozen rocket pods busily turning the beach cliffs a quarter-mile to the west into gravel. "Don't start referring to Laguna as 'that guy' or 'that man'."

Laguna had managed to clamber to his feet and, not taking the time to remove the prickers embedded in his clothing, he pulled a small cylinder from a pocket, yanked out the pin, and threw the object into the grass a few meters from where he stood. Seconds later, dark green smoke began billowing from the spot where the canister had landed.

Squall looked like he was trying to fight down a scowl. This was a new battle for him, and so, unsurprisingly, he failed. "Why not?"

At last, Rinoa did look over to the transport, which—landed—was now disgorging a platoon of Estharian marines. "I'll tell you later!" She shouted over the roaring engines of the transport, the thuttering of helicopter rotors, the blast of exploding bombs, and the shriek of another squadron of strike fighters circling high overhead. "I think we'd better go." She pointed to Laguna who was waving excitedly as he ran toward the approaching troops.

…

Midshipman Thomas Ferguson did not really know what to make of current events. He was excited to finally be getting closer to the action, but at the same time, he was feeling a little anxious about the carrier group's proximity to Galbadia. Then again, the president himself was on board!

Rounding a corner of one of the ENS Super-Carrier, Regulus's passageways, Thomas stopped and saluted as two officers walked past, each trying to talk and gesture at the same time. They returned the salute automatically and didn't give him a second glance. He allowed himself a quick breath of relief before continuing to stride purposefully down the narrow passage. I'm not supposed to be in the service bays right now… but, the president of Esthar… It wasn't like he was breaking any major rules, Midshipman Fergison reasoned with himself. And the chance to see—maybe even meet the president. How proud would that make his parents when they read his next letter? What would Ashley think of that? It took quite a bit of self-control for Mr. Ferguson not to whistle and skip down the bare, pipe-lined hallway.

"I guess ma was right after all." Thomas whispered to himself as he turned yet another corner on his way toward the cavernous lower hangers of the aircraft carrier. It was his mother, after all, who had—well, she didn't force me to go for carrier duty… However, Midshipman Ferguson had dreamed of serving on a destroyer—for a while.

"Tom, I do not want one of my boys running around on one of those tiny rusty bathtubs. Are you sure you don't want to take your brother Jim up on his offer?"

"An accountant's assistant? Really, mom, what a dead-end. I want to serve my country! I've already gone through training and everything, I can't back out now."

"I know dear, but I don't think I could stand the worry—you on a little toy gunboat and all… aren't there… aren't there any other—any bigger ships that need you?"

Thomas grinned ruefully. Well, you sure weren't going to meet anybody important on a destroyer, that's for sure. "Knight Leonhart, Sorceress Heartilly, and President Loire. All at once! Man, oh man!" Rounding the final turn, still shaking his head, he emerged into the hanger, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Before him, two men stood facing each other, though they both wore different clothes than the TV usually showed, their faces, their stances, their movements, were unmistakable. Thomas did his best to keep from making a noise. Then, something happened that made him gasp. Suddenly, Midshipman Thomas Ferguson wished very much that he were aboard another ship, or back in boot camp, or anywhere but here, because, before his very eyes, Squall Leonhart's fist connected with the face of the President of Esthar.

…

"I can show you to your quarters now, if you'd like." The sailor's voice, though kept low, seemed loud in the stillness of the empty briefing room.

"Um… just a second." Rinoa twisted in her seat to face him. "Could you give us a minute?"

"Certainly, Ms. Heartilly, I'll wait outside, just come and get me when you are ready." The man was unsure of whether to bow or salute, so he settled for a befuddled expression and fled the room.

Turning back to the silent knight, the pleasant look upon the sorceress's face faded into somberness. "Squall, what are you thinking about?"

Two fingers resting against his brow, Squall shook his head the slightest bit. "…Everything." He turned his face toward Rinoa. "Rinoa, god, there's so much I want to tell you, I don't know where to begin…"

Something deep within the sorceress's calm brown eyes softened, the tiniest line in the set of her chin, or perhaps in the angle of her eyebrows changed. Her lips parted as she seemed about to say something. Instead she drew in a quiet breath. At last, she did speak.

"Yes I do." Squall voiced the words with her. His gaze broke from her own for a second, then returned, all confusion gone. "I do know. And I'm going to tell you now, here, in this nasty little room on this cold metal ship, I… this… this isn't the right place, but I know this has to be the right time." He shook his head slightly again. "I have to tell you now because I'm afraid if I don't…" He fell silent as Rinoa placed one finger to his lips.

…if I don't, there might not be another chance… don't say that, Squall, please. Her eyes pleaded with those of her knight.

Before the universe could act to prevent it, before Fate could conspire to stop the words, Squall drew breath and spoke. "I love you, Rinoa Heartilly. I know, somewhere…" His own hand gently guided hers over his heart. "…somewhere in here, I have always loved you. And with everything everywhere, I know that I will always love you." And there was nothing more for Squall Leonhart to say. Ever.

Except for one thing.

Before chaos could weave one more strand in it's immense web, before stars could explode, and moons crash to earth, Rinoa answered the unspoken question. "I love you, Squall Leonhart, forever. Forever." And both knew it was true beyond anything in all of space or time.

Because it was true, Rinoa forgave him. She forgave how his muscles turned to steel, forgave the tightness of the embrace into which he escaped, forgave the tiny shaking of murdered sobs. She knew and forgave him for ever believing Seifer, for ever doubting himself, for everything. Someday he would not fight his feelings for her, someday he would let her see them, but as the warm tears squeezed from under closed lids, Rinoa already knew, and forgave.

Still, she could feel that last shred of composure fraying, so—because she loved him—she saved her knight. She pretended not to see him desperately patching his façade of strength as she dried her own eyes, pretended to believe that there had never been any tears in those eyes, never any change in that expression.

They sat, in the mean little room, on the foam-and-plastic chairs, under the fluorescent lights, holding hands, neither brave enough to look at the other for what could have been eternity—had it not been much, much shorter.

At last, not really knowing why, Squall spoke again. "Rinoa… the fate, it…"

"Squall, wait." Rinoa turned to him, still looking down. "I know everything I need to know right now." She shook her head, almost sadly. "If we… if we start talking now, I don't know if we'll ever stop and…" She drew in a breath. "There's something I need you to do first."

"Anything." The reply was instantaneous and utterly sincere.

At last, Rinoa did look up—in the same instant as Squall's own gaze rose. "Go talk to him, Squall." Neither knight nor sorceress could blink. "Please, go talk to your father."

…

Underfoot, the stained metal decking of the hangar aged just a bit as the two men stared at each other. One of Laguna's eyebrows rose, the other lowered.

Squall was carved from stone—or rather ice, or even something much colder. Laguna suppressed a shiver at the frozen hostility that seemed to radiate from the younger man. He didn't know what to say, so he just remained silent.

They stood in the nearly empty bay for an eternity. Overhead, the clanking of the carrier's catapult echoed against the bare metal walls, punctuated by the periodic roar of jet engines as the ship flung her fleet defenders into the bright blue sky to meet the Galbadian aircraft that would undoubtedly be heading toward the carrier group, now that their attack on the forces pursuing the Estharian president had revealed their position.

At long last, the silence was broken, not by spoken word from either man, but from an overexcited Lieutenant who appeared out of nowhere.

"President Loire! President Loire!" The seaman skidded to a halt before the president of Esthar, almost-but-not-quite forgetting to salute before blurting out his report. "Sir, after we lost Satellite surveillance over Galbadia, we re-started our high-altitude spy plane over-flights. At thirteen-hundred hours Estharian Standard Time, our last flight over Galbadia revealed that the Lunatic Pandora was no longer anchored in the Desert District."

"Uh-oh," Laguna said.

"Sir, we've just gotten ground confirmation of the information we received from our last flight; the Lunatic Pandora is moving east, out over the ocean. It looks like it's heading for Esthar, Sir." The man paused only long enough to take a half breath. "Cabinet Member Kiros Seagill has requested that you return to Esthar at once, Sir."

Laguna nodded. "Yeah, I probably should do that." He turned to Squall. "Ready to go back to Esthar, Squall?"

Squall scowled and kept silent.

"Oh, no, Sir. Sorry, but the Regulus only carries one U-23, Sir. That's the only bird with long enough legs to get you all the way back to Esthar—even with in-flight refueling, and the 23's only have room for one back-seater. We were planning on putting the knight and sorceress on the Naso—she's a T-class destroyer; the fastest ship in this carrier group, plus she has a better chance of avoiding the submarine blockade the Galbadians are sure to be throwing up right now—trying to keep this battle group from steaming east." Talking far to quickly, the man carefully avoided looking toward Squall. "They'll get to Esthar within three days."

"Uh, well, okay. Tell them to get the jet ready. I'll be up in a few minutes." Laguna thought he saw something move out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned, he saw only Squall.

"Right away, Sir." The Lieutenant saluted and dashed off.

Laguna frowned, there was something peculiar about the man standing next to him. "Squall? You heard that? That's okay with you, right?"

Something happened, and Laguna found himself staring at the floor. Like watching a movie in reverse, the signals from his shocked nerves reached his brain and he felt force of the stinging blow. The President of Esthar staggered.

He should have stood back up with a hurt expression on his face. He should have frowned and looked sad and asked why the heck Squall had hit him for anyway. He should have put on some goofy expression and gone through a couple of Lagunaisms and maybe thrown in some gallows humor to boot and just been even more funny and silly, but he didn't. Instead, The President of Esthar straightened, and turned back toward Squall Leonhart. "Okay. I probably deserved that." He placed a hand to his jaw, which—despite how it felt—didn't seem to be broken. "Do you feel better now, Squall?"

"No."

"I didn't think so." Laguna turned. "Hey you! Get out of here!" He shouted at the young man who had started toward the pair upon seeing Squall strike the President.

Squall finally answered the president's question. "No Laguna, it's not okay with me."

Laguna sighed in a very un-Lagunalike manner. "I didn't think it would be, Squall, but I don't have a whole lot of choice."

"You had a choice before." Squall spat.

"I know." Laguna looked down.

"You had a choice when you sent Ellone back, when you stayed in Esthar, when you—" Squall was cut off.

"I know, Squall, I know what you are talking about." Laguna didn't look up. "I know I had a choice, I know what I did, I know."

"And so what? You think that means that you don't have to hear it again from me? You think I'm saying this for your benefit?" Squall shook his head. "No! I want you to hear this, and an want to hear everything from you!" Squall clenched his fists. "Not once did you ever visit, ever write, ever even let me know that you fucking existed. Even Ellone wouldn't tell me about you. I grew up without a father, and I always thought it was just fate."

Laguna laughed; a short, ugly, barking noise.

Squall gritted his teeth, he felt like hitting the man again, but instead he kept talking. "I thought you were dead. I grew up alone, when I didn't have to, and I want to know why, -- !" Squall had tried to say it, and found that he couldn't. It doesn't matter, you're not really my father anyway. I have no father. "I just want to know why!"

"Why?" Laguna's head slowly rose. "Alright, why." As his gaze met with Squall's angry stare, he shook his head slightly. "I can't tell you all of it now, Squall, I'm sorry, but I can say this; what would have happened if I had taken you and Ellone to Esthar with me? What if you had grown up as the son of the President of Esthar? Would you ever have known about Seifer? Would you have learned the things you've needed to know?"

"I wouldn't have needed them." I wouldn't have needed… but what about Rinoa? How would I… Squall's hand rose to his forehead.

From the entrance of an elevator to the upper deck, someone shouted. "Mr. President, the aircraft is ready for launch.

Still facing Squall, Laguna held up a hand toward the man even as his head tilted to the side just a hair. "Would you have met Rinoa?"

"Yes." Squall whispered.

"You're so sure. How can you be so sure?" Laguna folded his arms.

"It was meant to be." Absolute conviction.

"Squall, I can't give you the answers you want. I'll never be able to justify what I did to you, we both know that. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left you and your sister with Edea." Laguna shook his head along with Squall.

"That's not good enough." Squall saw Laguna whisper the words even as he spoke them.

"I know, and I know." The older man sighed.

"Mr. President, we need to get you airborne." The man had started walking toward the pair.

Laguna took a step toward Squall, his voice dropped slightly. "You may have been the last to talk to The Fate, Squall, but you were not the only one to do so." He tapped an index finger to his temple. "I know everything, Squall. She told me all of it. No one should know so much about their own lives as I do—as you will." He shuddered. "It is good you have someone to share it with." With that, Laguna turned to leave. He found himself restrained by a grip of iron.

"That's it?! That's all you're going to say?" Squall looked incredulous.

"That's all you need to know." Laguna pulled away from the knight's grasp.

"No. I need to know all of it!" Squall demanded. "You must tell me."

"I'm sorry Squall, I have to go." Laguna did not turn as he spoke.

Squall's face was locked into a snarl. "No… father… don't walk away from me, again." The words were bitterness, malice, sarcasm, all warped into a twisted sentence, but he had managed to say it. Father. And somewhere, buried underneath all the hurt and hatred, all the anger and agony, was the tiniest hint of sorrow, of pleading.

Laguna froze. Ever so slowly, he turned. "I'm sorry. I have to go." On his face was nothing but absolute resignation to what was to come. "It has to be this way, son."

…

With the heavy combat gloves on, removing the thin silver bracelet from the dead girl's wrist was proving more difficult for Carl "The Snake" Egger than he had first anticipated. Still, despite his difficulties, he was having the time of his life. "And I thought prisoners 'mpressed into military service was just cannon fodder." He chuckled to himself. But no, he was not just cannon fodder. They had given him a gun. They had sent him on a train. They had put him—and nearly three hundred other former maximum-security-prison inmates in charge of guarding one of the most impressive pieces of military hardware ever constructed—the captured Balamb Garden. Carl shook his head as he tugged harder. "SeeDs, hmmph. Fuckin' pussys if ya ask me." He still couldn't believe how easily the first wave of attackers had fallen—after descending on the open decks of the gardens via ropes dropped from those stinking jet transports that had run off—all of them cut down by the storm of disorganized gunfire from the former inmates. Suddenly, a thought occurred to Carl, and a bit of a leering grin began to spread across his face. He left off trying to remove loot from the body and--.

Before Carl could make another move, one of his brighter comrades decided to ensure that the corpse he was looting was really and truly dead. About the same time as the muzzle of the man's gun swung toward the immobile SeeD's head, all hell broke lose as the corpse before him suddenly screamed "NOW!!" while simultaneously kicking the man's gun away and burning off the top half of his body with a Firaga spell.

Distracted by the shout, Carl failed to notice Isis's trident until it was protruding from his chest. Before removing her weapon from the already-dead man, Isis paused a moment to adjust the silver band encircling her wrist. The pause might have cost her life, had the attacker, she failed to notice approaching her from the side, not been sent flying by a blast of dark ammo.

Irvine tipped his hat to the pig-tailed student's wave even as he eliminated a convenient line of under-armored Galbadians with a load of pulse ammunition. Beside him—and kept there by the frequent non-too-gentle shove from Selphie, the Headmaster shouted; "GUARDIANS!!"

Three-quarters of the mixed force of SeeDs and students complied with the order—including both Irvine and Selphie—and quickly faded from the battlefield to be replaced by a herd of angry monsters. The GF's slaughtered a good portion of the remaining Galbadians as the soldiers attempted to fall back from the re-animated SeeDs far enough to allow the extended range of their firearms to give them some advantage over the mercenary force.

Irvine chuckled as he reappeared. "Greenhorns! Looks like all that great strat-e-gizing was a waste of time."

Rather than nod, Selphie cast about worriedly. "Irvine, what'd you do with the headmaster?"

"Now wait a minute darlin', I thought you were gonna keep an eye on him while I was summoning." Irving scratched his head.

"No, you big oaf! I'm more compatible and—" Shoving the tall sharpshooter aside, Selphie caught a glimpse of Cid's back disappearing into the darkened interior of the hallway leading from the Quad to the Garden's interior. "—ooh! Never mind!" Pushing past Irvine, she dashed after Cid. "Headmaster! Wait!"

…

Like a turbulent river roaring between two iron cliffs, a tiny channel of the sea rushed through the gap over which the zipline hung. Tiny beside the enormous bulk of the Regulus, the Naso pitched in the heavy swell rolling out of the East. The heavy cable to which Squall clipped his harness seemed to stretch away into nothingness as it descended toward the destroyer. Though the two ships were as close as their captains dared bring them, the Naso's deck was so far below that of the carrier that the cluster of orange lifejackets of the seamen waiting to receive him seemed no larger than a cluster of brightly-colored insects.

Squall was prevented from further observations by a shout. "Go!"

Without a second thought, he leapt from the stable carrier deck into the empty space between ships. As the Naso pitched in the swell, slack was taken up in the cable, tossing Squall high in the air. The destroyer rolled toward the carrier as it fell into the trough of the wave, and Squall plummeted toward the angry water. Quick hands on the cable's winches saved the knight from a dip in the ocean, and a half-dozen sailors caught him as he whizzed into the crowd of receivers. Squall allowed himself to be dragged by his bulky lifejacket, away from the edge of the destroyer's decking while he was unhooked from the zipline. A grinning face replaced the whirling waves and sky of a moment before. "Exciting ride, huh?" The man slapped him on the back before turning to the receiving line once again.

Squall was on his feet by the time Rinoa alighted, and moved quickly to ensure that he was the one to catch her, detach her harness, and lead her away from the perilous edge of the ships decking—much to the disappointment of the male crewmembers manning the zipline. Once the cable was detached and secured, the Naso pulled away from the Regulus.

Squall offered a SeeD salute while Rinoa mirrored the Estharian's own gestures of respect as they quickly processed through the naval honoraries that their status as dignitaries required. A few moments later they were lead out of the wind and confusion of the open decking and into the relative calm and brightness of the ship's chartroom by the first officer.

"President Laguna has requested that I bring you up to speed on the current situation regarding Esthar, Galbadia, and the Lunatic Pandora." The officer spoke while making his way between tables covered with local nautical charts. "You'll have to excuse the roughness of our strategic map, but we usually don't do this type of analysis in here." Arriving at last before a smaller table with a creased world map laid across it, he indicated the chart. "Okay, let me start with an overview of the situation."

"Look, we're really not—" Squall began, but a squeeze from Rinoa's hand stopped him. Well, okay, whatever. Squall shrugged slightly as the first officer turned to him. "Never mind. Go ahead." He settled himself in for a long, dull lecture.

"Very well then." The man turned back to the map. "As of two hours ago—the time of our last spy plane over-flight—Galbadia had heightened troop activity here, here, and here." The man pointed to the Independent Republic of Timber—still denoted on the outdated world map as an occupied territory, the Deling District of Galbadia, and the Mare Lela Peninsula. "I'll start with the actions you already know about." The man tapped his finger on the Mare Lela Peninsula. "Several days ago, the Galbadians dispatched a full brigade of mechanized infantry to this location—the same force the Regulus carrier group and thirty-fifth marine division interdicted earlier today when they extracted President Loire and yourselves. We assume their intention was to capture both of you, and President Loire—though we don't have any confirmation that the Galbadians knew the president was with you."

Squall and Rinoa both nodded.

The officer continued. "Moving on; it appears that the capitol of Deling is now under the control of General Delphi Matchgar—head of the Galbadian secret police. The fighting within the city seems to be over—at least our photos don't show any new fires, so that's what we're assuming for the time being. I could go over what we know of the battle that took place in the capitol, but I imagine you saw some of the activity in Deling during the recent upheavals within the Galbadian government, and probably know more than we do."

Squall nodded again, but Rinoa shook her head. "No. I didn't know anything about it. What's happened?"

"Well, about two weeks ago—shortly after the Galbadian news services reported your disappearance from Deling city—widespread civil unrest broke out in the southern provinces of Galbadia." The officer waved his hand at the area he was talking of. "Shortly thereafter, a full-scale civil war swept across Galbadia, with most of the violence centered in or around Deling City."

"What?" Rinoa was shocked. "How can that be? What happened?!"

Squall swallowed. Uh-oh.

"It's… it's… hard to take in." The wind and swell had abated, and the Naso now steamed through calm air sitting under a low, gray, overcast sky. Rinoa leaned against the retractable stern railing, which ran around the helicopter pad at the rear of the destroyer, both arms—along with one of Squall's—wrapped around herself. "Things are happening so fast now." She shook her head. "And I thought it was crazy after the assassination attempt."

"Timber invaded. The Lunatic Pandora activated. Balamb Garden…" Squall hung his head.

"And Galbadia…" It came out as a sigh. "I had such high hopes… even with—what we knew."

Slowly Squall turned to face his sorceress. "I'm sorry, Rinoa." From somewhere, he mustered the courage to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry for what I did…"

"Don't be, Squall. It wasn't anything you did. It wasn't anything we did." She shook her head gently. "Someone else has been controlling us from the start of this thing." One of her hands had drifted over Squall's, it tightened slightly. "God! I wish I knew who was behind all this! I wish I could see what they are planning!"

"It looks like they're planning on destroying Esthar. That man…" Squall's jaw tightened. "Matchgar… I met him, I knew he couldn't be trusted… I should have seen this coming." His brow lowered. "He's picking up where—" Squall suddenly choked on the name. Easy, easy. Forget about it. Nothing's changed, she isn't any different than before. "—Ultimecia—left off. The Lunatic…" Squall trailed off as Rinoa shook her head—more violently this time.

"No… no. That's not it. That's not what they're planning…" Her lips pressed together tightly. "And it's not Matchgar who's behind all this."

"Are you sure?" Squall blew out a short breath. "Of course you're sure. Silly question."

"No, it wasn't." Rinoa unfolded one arm. "I… I couldn't feel them before, I couldn't tell anything before… but now I can." Her hand balled into a fist. "It's so close I can almost say it. I can almost see what they want—almost." She slammed her hand down on the railing. "But I can't! I just can't!"

"Hey…" Squall's tone was worried. He wasn't used to dealing with other people's problems. "It's not your fault." He slid his free hand over Rinoa's fist. "Don't beat yourself up over it."

"Literally, huh?" She smiled faintly. "This coming from the guy who tried to kill himself."

Once upon a time, that would have been a joke. A long time ago, it would have been a silly phrase from a silly girl. But Rinoa was no longer a silly girl—if she had ever been. That façade had disappeared long ago, the veneer of lightheartedness and gaiety driven away by the harsh realities inherent in witchhood. Squall's reaction was different that it would have been—once upon a time. "Touche." The corner of his mouth quirked up in a wry smile.

Twenty feet below them, the wake from the destroyer's turbine-driven propellers churned the flat gray ocean a frothy green. Rinoa stared at it is she leaned against the railing. "So what do we do now?"

I don't know. "Shall we hold a five-minute planning session huddled in a corner?" It had been meant to come out as light-hearted. "Go back to Esthar? Run away from whoever is doing this?" He shook his head. "Do you think that's what they're trying to make us do?"

Rinoa bit her lower lip. "I don't know. I just don't know."

…

It was that time of morning when the mist had just begun rising from the forest floor. Early enough for it to be long before the sun would send it's light shafting down to illuminate the ethereal tendrils of vapor with a golden glow, but late enough that those who had not slept during the night now gave up any notion of rest.

For the hundredth time, Zell paced off the distance between the camouflaged netting of the small communications tent and the clearing at the edge of the runway. The soft gray-greens of the disguised netting, the sharp, rough smell of early morning campfires took him back to those few weeks of wilderness survival training long ago. Just as quickly, the hard concrete strip bisecting the forest brought him back into the present. For the thousandth time, Zell rubbed the empty space encircling his wrist and stared off into the dim, misty morning forest—just as he had stared off into the pinks and oranges of the setting sun, and then into the deep brightness of the pinwheeling stars.

Turning, Zell caught himself up short as a figure stepped from the dimness of the trees. "General Caraway, Sir." The SeeD saluted.

"No need, Zell, no need." The older man waved off the gesture. General Richard Caraway looked at the Seed, he then turned to take in the path worn clear of vegetation by the SeeD's nocturnal activities. "You know, you've done more for me than I can ever repay, Mr. Dincht." The general shook his head. "If you are… apprehensive… well, there's no need for you to accompany me on this mission."

"No, Sir. That's not what I'm concerned about." Zell's tone made it clear that what he was concerned about was none of the general's business. "I am going."

"I understand." With nothing more to say, the general turned back toward the tree-covered encampment where his troops—nearly three thousand strong in this division alone—were preparing for the coming assault. He paused on the edge of slowly brightening darkness. "Zell…"

The SeeD looked up.

At last, the general had time to say the words he had never expected to voice toward a SeeD. "Thank you." His mouth turned down at the corners slightly as strained pride pushed his jaw forward. "Thank you for saving my life." Then, the general disappeared into the dimness.

Zell had already returned to rubbing his wrist absently. "No problem." He muttered without giving the words any thought at all.

…

From the thick soupy whiteness emanated the choppy sound of spinning rotor blades. Standing on the open weather deck that jutted out a few feet from the Naso's bridge, Squall peered into the heavy fog blanketing the cold ocean. Stepping around the docking control console, he leaned over the metal piping that acted as a railing and stared down at the calm water several stories below. Even the dark surface of the ocean below him was partially obscured by the dense mist. Aft of his position, the ship's hull and superstructure quickly disappeared into the stiflingly close vapors. The stern was completely hidden from view. Squall turned as he heard the hatch leading to the deck open.

Rinoa smiled gently at her knight as she stepped out into the damp marine air. After walking over to join him at the railing, she motioned into the fuzzy blankness. "The captain thinks there are at least three of them out there."

From across the silent water, the beating of the helicopter's blades changed pitch as the aircraft was put into hover mode, preparing to lower it's dipping sonar transceiver.

"Tailing us?" Squall frowned.

"He doesn't know." Rinoa grimaced slightly. "They may just be trying to get in close before firing."

Sonar Operator William Duncan chewed nervously on a fingernail already gnawed down to the quick as he squinted at the cascading waterfall of colored digits washing across the display before him. He blinked once—it was a hard, measured gesture having nothing to do with the moistening of his eyes. He ceased biting at the nail as his hand balled into a fist, the side of his right index finger squeaking quietly against his teeth as he bared them. It can't be! But it was. "Sir, I have a definite fourth contact bearing twenty degrees off our stern."

The officer of the watch in the CCIC automatically snapped. "Range?"

"Not sure yet sir, no estimates on depth, speed or heading either." William wiped a hand across his cold brow. Just like all the others.

"Mr. Duncan, any chance of getting a firing solution any of the first three contacts?"

The operator shook his head. "Not without going to active sonar, Sir. They're keeping right at the edge of our range."

An intra-ship telephone jangled for attention, interrupting the captain of the Naso from his re-checking of the first navigator's calculations. Stepping over to the device, he lifted the headset from its cradle. "This is the captain." He knew the call would be for him. After a few seconds of listening to the voice on the other end of the line he shook his head. "No, do not clear baffles."

The navigator who had been going over the charts with the captain stared hard at the maps plotting instruments laid out before him as he pretended not to listen to the conversation.

"I'm well aware of that. Maintain current course and speed." There was another short pause, then the captain turned away from the navigation officer and lowered his voice. "The Galbadians must have caught on to our little secret and they're not taking any chances. Number one, the only thing that is keeping them from attacking right now is their belief that we aren't aware of their presence. I'll be on the bridge in five, don't do anything to tip them off before I get there, understood?" With that, the captain hung up the phone and turned to the navigator. "Mr. Meisel."

"Sir?" The man looked up from the nautical chart he had been scrutinizing.

"I know you do good work, Mr. Meisel. I know you are confident in your calculations," The captain addressed the navigator without moving from his position beside the intra-ship phone. "but I have to be absolutely certain about these numbers. I wouldn't be down here double-checking your work myself if this wasn't absolutely crucial to…" The captain trailed off, then shook his head. "I want you to re-plot a solution from scratch. Go over it twice, then plot one more. Make sure your numbers agree precisely."

The sailor resisted the urge to spread his hands. He had already done all that, twice. "Yes sir."

"Very good. Get to it." With the words, the captain turned back to the phone and placed the receiver to his ear. "This is the captain. Connect me to the hangar." A few seconds later: "Chief, how close are you to finishing those modifications?"

…

The sharpshooter was panting hard. "How in the blue blazes can an old man run so damn fast!?"

"Irvine!" Dashing down the hallway beside him, Selphie was about to admonish the SeeD's disrespectful reference to the headmaster of Balamb Garden, but was stopped short by the scene before the pair. Emerging into the central walkways of the garden, Selphie and Irvine watched in horror as Cid Kramer bellowed a battle cry and hurled himself into a group of Galbadians—all twice his size, and half his age.

Stunned motionless, Irvine's mouth continued to move. "What—!"

Selphie was not listening. Instead, as a half-dozen swords, rifle butts, and other impromptu bludgeons descended on the headmaster's unprotected head, she suddenly doubled up, her face eyes screwed up with concentration. A split second later, she straightened, pulling the striking bars of her weapon apart in a manner that formed an enlarged letter 'Z'.

"—the hell—"

The air around the headmaster rippled and sparked as the weapons falling upon him were diverted from dealing solid blows by the invisible Wall which had suddenly appeared around the old man.

"—is he doing?!" Irvine finished shouting, raised the Exeter to his shoulder, and swept away the gaggle of Galbadians with a double-load of shotgun ammo, the scattershot passing harmlessly around the protected headmaster. "Trying to kill himself?"

Rather than reply, Selphie grabbed the tall sharpshooter by his sleeve and began towing him toward the headmaster. "Come on!"

Cid, seeming not to notice the assistance lent him by the two SeeDs, pulled spear tip of the Bec de Corbyn from the unfortunate soldier who had happened to step into his path, and—without pause—dashed deeper into the garden's hostile interior.

"That was quick thinking thar, Darlin'. You're limits're the best." Despite the seriousness of the situation, Irvine refused to give up his affected drawl. "You know, I shore do love yer slot."

Sprinting madly down the walkway, Selphie vowed to get Irvine back for that one—as soon as she had a chance to catch her breath.

…

He knew he was nearing the breaking point. He knew that he wasn't in the best condition to fight. Oh, certainly he was—if not well rested—at least pumped up on adrenaline enough to be alert and quick-witted, he was in good physical form—loose and limber without being too relaxed, but mentally, he was unprepared. Well, not so much unprepared, as preoccupied. "Hah!" Zell drove his left fist forward into an imaginary enemy's midsection. His knees bent as he powered in with his right arm, delivering a jaw-shattering uppercut. Without pause, he dropped sideways onto his left hand, kicking his right leg out and pivoting on his arm and left foot, sweeping the fictitious sparring partner off his nonexistent feet. "Huah!"

Although he often preferred action to thinking or talking about things, so serious was Zell about his combat skills, that he always, always made sure he was fully prepared for every battle—in all respects. Only this time, I'm not. With a grunt, Zell shifted his weight onto both arms, while hammering his feet into the ground—thus backflipping from the cracked tarmac into a fighting crouch in the blink of an eye.

Despite the perfect execution of the move, despite his good form over the past fifteen minutes of warm-up sparring, something still nagged at the stocky martial artist. As he let his fists drop to his sides, the small crowd of soldiers that had gathered to watch the legendary warrior warm-up applauded appreciatively. During his practice, Zell had been oblivious to the group he had attracted. Shocked by the applause, he took a single step backward. "--The hell?"

Before the spiky-haired blond Seed could say anything else, the CO of the squad that had broken from their duties to watch, dashed up and began screaming at her charges to get back to work.

Turning away from the quickly-dispersing crowd, Zell shook his head. "Damn!" What am I doing?! How could I miss all those people gathering? What is wrong with me?! But Zell knew what was wrong.

"Balamb Garden has been destroyed."

"Only two transports escaped."

"That… that's less than forty people…"

"We all assumed most of the students and SeeDs escaped."

"And the garden was most definitely not destroyed."

Not knowing, and not really caring that he had left his equipment lying in the middle of staging area three-bravo, Zell wandered distractedly into the early-morning shadow of one of the massive heavy-lift transports, recently uncovered in preparation for the coming attack. Forgetting to stretch out, he dropped heavily into the seat of a small tow vehicle parked beneath the aircraft's wing. Elbow resting on the dashboard, Zell propped his chin on his palm, his other hand absently sliding across his bare wrist. Isis… are you…

He had been sorely tempted to return to Balamb after he stormed out of the underground bunker in Timber, Zell still wasn't quite sure why he had not. "I just couldn't leave Squall and Rinoa to fend for themselves. Somebody had to look after those guys." He muttered to himself.

The way Quistis and that crazy old hag had been talking… the Ergheiz combat gloves Zell had neglected to remove creaked as his hands tightened into fists. …she's going to force those guys into doing something terrible to Squall and Rinoa. I just know it! He gritted his teeth silently. It always starts out simple—oh, we're just going to watch them, and make sure they're safe—and then the next thing you know, everyone's shooting at everyone else and nobody wants to talk and… "Fuck!" Zell jumped to his feet. "This sucks!" He pounded his fist into his palm agitatedly. "Dammit! I'm tired of all the bullshit!" Zell looked around for someone to hit, but was forced to settle for kicking angrily at the tires of the tow vehicle.

Of course, it hadn't gotten any better after he decided to go back into Galbadia. He had lost track of the number of people he had knocked out, tied up, and… well… knocked out some more—since he had no disguise—to keep from alerting the authorities to his presence. With each step he took toward Squall and Rinoa, he seemed to travel another thousand miles from the garden. Even now, though he was still striving to make contact with his friends and eventually return to… wherever the B-Garden SeeDs are now. …he didn't seem to be getting any closer to either goal. There's always too many complications!

The one aid he had received had come from the outbreak of civil war within Galbadia. With the chaos the fighting brought, it became much easier for him to elude the Galbadian police as he made his way to Deling. Slightly mollified, Zell took one last half-hearted kick at the scuffed tire. I guess there were a few other coincidences that helped me out… Realizing—with more than a little disappointment—that storming the presidential mansion might give Squall and Rinoa the wrong impression—especially in the middle of a war—Zell had decided to try a little bit of intrigue instead; breaking into—what had looked at the time to be a minor Galbadian government building—and stealing some sort of security clearance and a vehicle had been the general fuzzy sort of plan that Zell had cooked up. But the building had held a lot more than just a few bureaucratic offices. The SeeD smiled at the memory.

After unceremoniously blowing in the door of the building with a shot of Thunderaga, Zell had been surprised at number of black-suited, armed Galbadians that had poured into the foyer from some unknown location within the building. Of course, he had defeated them all without even breaking a sweat. After such a long period of skulking about the countryside trying to avoid detection, Zell had welcomed the chance for a real stand-up fight. Letting himself become lost in the memory, Zell leaned against the side of the tow vehicle.

…

"This is getting ridiculous!" The blond martial artist grunted as he dragged the unconscious form of yet another dark-suited Galbadian clear of the doorway from which they kept emerging. Dumping the body unceremoniously onto the growing heap of still forms, Zell straightened. "I'm running out of room, how many of you guys are in there?" Not surprisingly, the unconscious man made no reply.

The room was—except for the increasing number of bodies—fairly barren. A few desks were scattered about in a semi-organized fashion, standing on a tile floor that glinted dully in the light of the overhead fluorescent bulbs. A shaft of sunlight peeked into the room from the door the SeeD had blasted open upon his entry into the building, directly across from it, the room's only other door's hydraulic hinges were just swinging it closed after the last batch of well-dressed but poorly-prepared men had burst through. The latch was not given time to engage as the door was suddenly flung open once more by another pair of suits.

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Zell shouted as he dove at them.

Just like the dozen suits before them, the two men reached for firearms concealed under their jackets. And, just like the dozen agents before them, both were knocked senseless before they could draw their weapons.

The SeeD looked down at the two new bodies. "This isn't any fun." He cast about for a place to store his latest victims. His brow creased. Not only is this no fun, but it's taking too long! Sooner or later some backup is going to arrive. With these losers pouring in both entrances, I'm really going to run out of space fast.

Zell was still looking for an open space when the door was again thrust forward—into the prostrate body blocking its swing. Seconds later, the room resounded with a solid thud as people trying to gain entry threw themselves at the door, forcing it forward a few inches.

"Forget this!" Zell growled. Dropping back into a crouch, he raised one arm toward the vibrating door and blasted it into oblivion with an explosion of Holy magic.

The quivering dread in Lee Kasich's voice quieted his exclamation to the level of a whisper as the dead telephone receiver fell from his nerveless fingers. "Oh no!" As the building's lights dimmed, he felt the terror that had been stirring in his gut jump into his throat. He was just about to dive beneath the security checkpoint's desk when the blast hit. The door leading up to the surface level was torn from its hinges as a wall of white heat rippled across the room. Thrown backwards by the force of the magical discharge, Lee tried to cover his face with his hands, but he was unable to block out the blinding light of balls of non-elemental magic careening through the room. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged. He was sure he was going to die.

Contrary to his belief, Agent Kasich did not die, although—upon opening his eyes—he immediately wished otherwise as his eyes locked with those of an angry armed mercenary. "Ahhh!! P-p-please d-don't kill me!!" was what the agent meant to say, however it came out as simply: "EEEEEEK!!"

"Shut up!" Zell shouted. What is wrong with these people!? "What is this place?"

The man lying on the floor was shaking violently. "P-p-please d-don't kill me!!"

"Who are you people?" And why do you all suck so bad? Zell stomped a foot for emphasis. "Tell me, and maybe I'll let you live."

Somehow, the man on the floor turned an even paler shade of white. "W-w-we're the, the G-G-Galbadian secret police. T-t-this is p-post f-f-four-b—AAH!" The man cried out and flinched away as Zell's fist turned a floor tile to dust an inch from his head.

The blond man bent forward and growled at the Galbadian. "I don't care what this place is called!" Zell was beginning to enjoy himself. "What makes you think I want useless information like that?!" Hmm… this is kind of fun… Zell put on his most menacing expression. "I guess you don't have any more information for me…" Heh, heh, no wonder Seifer… Suddenly, the SeeD's scowl became genuine. No! This is just the sort of thing that son-of-a-bitch would do. Zell straightened. The man on the floor was saying something, but Zell wasn't paying attention. Well I'm not like him! He took a step back, away from agent Kasich.

"W-wait!" The man shouted in a panicky voice. "D-don't blast me! Didn't you hear what I said?! They're holding General Richard Caraway downstairs! They're going to execute him in a few minutes!" The man was hysterical. "T-that's good information, right?! You're going to let me live, right?!"

Zell frowned as he took a second step backwards. Caraway… that's Rinoa's father! For a split second, an image appeared in Zell's mind of the same frightening sorceress Rinoa that had visited their cell on the night of the assassination attempt commanding the death of her hated father. The corner of his mouth quirked up just a hair. "No way." Zell shook his head. That's ridiculous. Even I can tell that Rinoa doesn't hate her father that much.

"You're not?! Oh god!" Lee moaned.

Zell's attention was drawn back to the agent by the exclamation. Realizing that the man had mistaken Zell's musings for his death sentence, the mercenary was about to reassure him when he realized that agent Lee Kasich had fainted dead away. The SeeD frowned before turning toward the hallway leading deeper into the complex. "Hmph. Now who's the chicken-wuss?" He shrugged and trotted off.

…

Those grey-green eyes sparkled with just the slightest bit of mischevious skepticism. "Uh-huh, sure, Zell. I bet that's just exactly the way it happened."

Zell nodded enthusiastically. "Yep! That's how I rescued General Caraway."

One pigtail dropped onto a shoulder as she tilted her head to the side to match her single raised eyebrow. "Twenty-seven Secret Police Special Agents?" Isis's smile devastated the excitable martial artist. "Riiiigt."

"That's how it happened! I swear!"

"You're not embellishing just a little bit?"

"No! …Well… maybe a little tiny bit…" Zell looked down as his feet gave just the slightest bit of a guilty shuffle. "But… but… don't you think it was still pretty, ur… well, at least a little bit… um…" Suddenly, the spiky-haired SeeD found his proximity to Isis stifling, he could feel the hot blush as it fought its way up his neck.

That wondrous smile left Zell hanging for just a moment before she spoke. "Daring, dashing, courageous, heroic?"

"Um…yeah?" Zell's smile was hopeful. Oh no! Am I bragging too much… I didn't mean to… I just want you to…

"Of course it was, silly!" Isis took advantage of their closeness to dart in and beep Zell's nose with her own.

Electricity tingled over Zell's skin at the touch.

Isis's eyes closed just the tiniest bit. Her voice dropped to an almost-whisper. "Tell ya a secret…" She winked conspiratorially.

"…Yeah?" Zell was trying very very hard not to faint like the sort-of-mythical Galbadian he had 'interrogated.'

Suddenly, the spark of mirth disappeared from the eyes. "I wish I could have been there to see it, Zell." Their gaze dropped from Zell's for a moment, then rose again. Now they held just the slightest hint of sadness. "I… I wish I had lived long enough to have this conversation with you, Zell."

"WHA--OOF!!?" The daydream shattered with such force that the SeeD slipped from his propped-up position to land on the hard pavement with jarring and painful surprise. Zell slowly levered himself to his feet, trying not to think about the words of the conversation his mind had conjured up. "Dammit! I'm going crazy! That's not going to happen! I won't have it!" Above him, the high-pitched whine of the transport's APU's spinning up helped to take his mind off the disturbing thought.

Zell looked around. All of the camouflage netting had been removed from the eight high-lift military transport aircraft that Caraway's forces had sequestered at this out-of-the-way abandoned airstrip. The airport had been inactive for so long that the forest had encroached on the area around the single paved runway. Now, saplings had grown right up to the edge of the tarmac. A swath of this young forest now tossed wildly in the shimmering exhaust blasting from the engines of a transport as its engines warmed up in preparation for taxiing.

Still shaking the remnants of unsettling thoughts from his head, Zell noted, thankfully, that his assigned aircraft was still loading. "Come on, Zell, focus." He thumped his palm gently against his forehead for emphasis as he jogged toward his gear—still lying in a pile in the middle of the staging area. What would the guys say?

They wouldn't believe it, of course. Not Zell, no. He doesn't get distracted like that. He's an intense fighter—he doesn't waste time talking…or thinking. That's what they would say.

In the noisy cargo hold of the airborne transport, Zell shrugged to himself. Yeah, that's pretty much how everybody sees me. That's pretty much who I'd like to be. He certainly tried his best to act that way. That's for sure.

In front of the others it was easy. It was simple for Zell to remember who he was supposed to be. He could stay calm, or get excited, but—either way—he was never at a loss; he never drifted off on his own thoughts, he was always ready for whatever came next, even in front of Isis. That morning in the Balamb hotel was as fresh in his memory—here, sitting seventh from the starboard rear seat, aboard the Galbadian flying transport, less than three hours out from what might well prove to be the most difficult mission of his life—as it had been seconds after his encounter with the pig-tailed student.

Her presence flustered him. He had wanted to see her, it was true, but when she just appeared out of nowhere, walking in from one of the airy terraces of the sea-colored Balamb Hotel, Zell had experienced a welling of anxiety unlike anything he had ever felt before. Fortunately, Squall and company had arrived on the scene before… Before what? What is it about her that bothers me so much? and Zell had quickly slipped back into the persona with which he felt most comfortable. The change had not gone unnoticed, however. Zell would never forget the look in Isis's eyes as she had handed him the Combat King magazine. He could no longer recall the words she had spoken before departing, but he could not blot from his mind her last half-questioning, half-disappointed glance.

That expression had been notably absent during his second encounter with Isis. Stumbling all over himself—and nearly losing her favor over a hotdog Well, dammit! I really like hotdogs too! Isis had seemed pleased, somehow, that the "Man of Steel"—or so the magazine clipping, Zell had taken from a Fighting Monthly edition, called him—wasn't quite as gung-ho crazy as everyone made him out to be. As she had told him when he had decided to forge ahead and ask her about it; "I prefer the real truth. You know, honesty."

Zell sighed to himself. But I'm not really sure if I want to be that honest. "Rrrgh!" He leaned forward on the webbed bench serving as seating for himself and several dozen other commandos and jabbed the air with a fist.

"Wow, you look ready for this." A Galbadian seated beside Zell observed.

The SeeD's nose wrinkled as he forced an aggressive smile. "Yeah! Bring it on!"

…

"Sir, confirm that. I've got a double, six-bladed, submerged contact at those bearings. Probability is high that it is the Deathclaw." The Galbadian sonar operator tapped a command into his console, and a flashing box appeared on his display, tagging the submarine as friendly.

"That's it. Six fast-attack boats. If that destroyer doesn't know we're here by now, they're about to find out." The captain of the M-class attack U-boat, Tokapeb, stepped over to conn as he spoke. "Bring us up to firing depth. Load and flood tubes one through six."

His orders brought a chorus of "Aye, Captain's" from the bridge crew.

A moment later, the WO spoke up. "Tubes flooded, fish charged and ready, Sir. Firing solution plotted on the surface contact."

"We have reached firing depth. Leveling out at twenty meters." The pilot pushed his control yoke gently forward to center the bubble.

The captain pressed his lips together before speaking. "Tubes one through six, open outer doors, fire when ready."

At the nose of the Tokapeb, six recessed rubber-coated hatches slid open almost noiselessly. No sooner had the doors opened, than jets of pressurized impulse air blasted six oblong shapes from their resting places. All six of the torpedoes' electric motors engaged simultaneously, and the water resounded with the high-pitched whine of their screws tearing through the sea.

An organized form of pandemonium broke out on the bridge of the Tokapeb. Reports were shouted too quickly for their originator to be identified, but each bit of information was absolutely critical to the survival of the unmasked submarine, and its captain was well aware of this fact.

"Torpedoes away! All fish normal!"

"Contacts zero-one, zero-two, zero-three, zero-four have all fired torpedoes! Contact zero-five has launched a missile!"

"Reload all tubes!" The captain had to shout to ensure he was heard. "Increase speed to two-thirds, maintain heading and depth."

"Hostile zero-one has gone to active sonar! High probability that we have been detected!" The sonar operator's voice rang clearly above the reports from other stations as his earphones picked up the unmistakable sound of the destroyer's active sonar pulses hammering through the water. Suddenly, his voice rose an octave. "Splashes… Torpedo in the water! Directly astern, range: two-five-zero meters!"

The captain—as well as the rest of the bridge crew paled at the shout. "Increase speed to emergency flank! Hard right rudder! Deploy countermeasures!"

"We're cavitating, captain!"

As the Tokapeb's twin screws thrashed through the water, the sleek submarine tilted to the left as it drove through the evasive maneuver. Two-hundred meters behind it, the torpedo's active sonar acquired the submarine for an instant—only to lose it and lock, instead, onto the noisemakers deployed into the massive knuckle of turbulent water left by the submarine's maneuver.

"Torpedo is falling astern, Sir, contact—SHIT!" The sonar operator reflexively knocked the headphones away from his ears as a deafening noise blasted from them. The circular cascade display of underwater noise in front of him shorted out as the sonar receivers overloaded. A shocked silence fell across the bridge as an ethereal melody resounded through the submarine's hull from the water surrounding it.

What the hell is that? The captain couldn't help but look up to the barren metal piping running across the inner hull of the sub as it resounded with the unearthly song.

…

A stunned command deck crew stared at the spot where Siren had just vanished even as the boom of the surface-to-surface missile exploding after being hit by the ship's PATRON point-defense system rolled across the still-misty water. The general quarters klaxons ended their alarm as the knight returned to this dimension.

The Naso's captain was the first to speak after Squall reappeared. "Sonar, report!"

"Passive is fried, sir. Active shows all torpedoes running dumb in our wake. That… thing out there really did a number on them."

"The submarines?"

"Still six of 'em, sir. All maneuvering, most have gone down below the thermal layer. I think they're trying to sort out what just happened to them."

The captain nodded. "Let's not give them a chance to figure it out. Tactical, fire the F-calon missiles." Without waiting for a response, he turned toward the sorceress and knight. Keeping his voice low, he spoke. "That was very impressive, but I'm afraid it won't be enough. We need to get you two off of the ship before those subs move back into firing position."

Rinoa bit her lip. "But what about…" A gloved hand on her arm silenced her protest.

Squall nodded to the captain. "Understood."

"I've had my chief mechanic modify our second helicopter to carry extra fuel, and I've been trying to bring the ship as close to the southern tip of Galbadia as possible ever since we picked up the first sub." The Naso's captain frowned. "It's going to be very close, but you may be able to ditch pretty close to land…" He turned away from the couple for a moment to order another maneuver as three Fastitocalon ASW rockets roared clear of their launching tubes.

"Squall, we can't just…" Rinoa began, but quieted as the captain turned back to them.

"We would try to fly you back to the Regulus carrier group, but we lost contact with them three hours ago. They were also under heavy attack." He frowned. "I'm sorry, I wish I could do more."

"Captain Payette, thank you." Squall locked gazes with the older man.

The captain of the Naso looked down for a moment, rubbing his forehead with his right hand. "Knight Leonhart, Sorceress Heartilly," he drew breath. "protect Eshtar, protect our families." The man's eyes wandered—for an instant—out over the ocean, looking east. "Because, I fear, after today, we will no longer be able to."

There was no point in wishing the captain luck, so Squall simply saluted. Rinoa looked very unhappy with the situation, but she did allow herself to be towed off the bridge by her knight—after wishing the captain and crew luck.

…

"Sir, the passive is gone. They say we'll have to dry-dock to fix it." The sonar operator sat, staring nervously at the darkened screen. He knew, that without the sonar, a torpedo or other unpleasant object could be closing in on their tiny metal air bubble at this very second—despite the quiet, deep running and constant evasive maneuvering.

"Alright, go to active. Increase speed to full. Bring us back up." The captain rubbed his knuckles in an unconscious nervous gesture. This was not how you fought submarine warfare, but he had no choice.

"Sir, we're rising." The pilot called out.

"Good, take us to periscope depth." The captain turned away.

"No, sir, I mean, we're rising, even though we're at five degrees down bubble. Speed is dropping too." The pilot tapped at his control console, but everyone could tell the sub really was oriented downward by the slant of the decking.

"Have we been hit? Damage report!" The captain hadn't felt any impacts.

"No damage, sir."

"Captain, rise rate increasing! Speed dropping! Controls are not responding!" The pilot was sweating profusely now as he pushed the control yoke as far forward as it would go, but still the submarine did not change its course. "Depth at five-zero meters!"

"Flood all tanks. Increase to flank speed. Dive! Forty-five-degree down bubble!" The captain shouted.

"No response sir! We're going to broach! Depth at one-zero meters!"

"Up scope! Find out what the hell is going on out there!"

Even before the captain finished the order, the periscope operator was sliding the device upward on its hydraulic lifts. Pressing his face to the eyepiece, he peered through the lenses. What he saw made him gasp with shock.

…

"Watch your step, miss." The copilot stretched out a hand to help Rinoa aboard the helicopter, but failed to grasp her arm before she pulled it away.

"Squall. We can't do this—we can't just let these people die for us." Rinoa had to shout over the roar as another volley of anti-sub missiles blasted from their launchers.

"Miss, please! We need to get airborne!" The helmeted man stepped forward.

Squall's grip on the sorceress's shoulders was gentle but firm—not that it would have made any difference, if she truly wanted to escape. "Rinoa, we have to go. There's nothing we can do for them."

Dark brown hair shook before the knight's eyes. "No, Squall. I… I'm responsible for this, I'm responsible for them." She turned to face him. "I think I might… I have to try to do something!" Her eyes were pleading.

Squall closed his eyes. "Rinoa, you are not responsible for this…" He opened them again, saw that his words had not changed—could not change her mind, and sighed. "As you wish." He released his hold on her and held a hand up to the advancing airman. "Give us one minute."

"Sir, we really don't have…" The co-pilot began.

Squall held up a finger, silencing him. "One minute."

The man slumped back into the open hatch of the helicopter resignedly. "Ah well, we've all gotta die someday…" he muttered to himself.

The knight turned from the airman and toward his sorceress. Rinoa had walked to the rear of the destroyer, she now stood, staring out across the deceptively calm surface of the misty water. The Naso's other helicopter—about a kilometer away—could be seen bouncing in the air slightly as it released another torpedo. However, he sorceress was not looking at the helicopter. She had closed her eyes.

Breathing deeply of the cool briny air—damp with the spray from the Naso's thrashing screws—Rinoa let her thoughts slip quietly beneath the turbulent wake of the destroyer. Down through the bubbles of the cavitating propellers, down past the stilted rays of cloudy light penetrating that dark green environ, fell the sorceress's touch. Standing on the landing pad of the T-class destroyer, Rinoa shivered as she felt herself the temperature changes of the thermal layers hundreds of feet beneath the ship. With closed eyes, she saw the sleek dark shapes of the submarines as they wended their way through the steps of a spectrally silent dance in the crushing cold depths. Rinoa felt the surge of energy from electrical cells powering their quiet motors, she touched the destructive potential stored in the explosive chemicals of torpedo and missile warheads, but she did not understand the ways of these things, and so her invisible eyes turned to the minds of the living breathing people inside the machines of steel and rubber. But from this too, she shrank, remembering the horrible sensation of twisting the will of another. Still, she sensed their fear, felt their anxiety, was brushed by their excitement as hundreds of souls moved their machines into position to snuff the lives of others. With increasing distress, her touch traveled across the cold valves, levers, conduits, seeking something—anything to stop the coming violence.

Suddenly, Rinoa's consciousness was rocked by an explosion of light, noise, and pain as a ship-launched torpedo found its mark. She felt the instants of terror a hundred souls experience as the water rushes in to quench their lives. Yet still she could find no way to stop the remaining U-boats. In her frustration, the sorceress's mind reached out to the unyielding hull of one of the submarines and—to her surprise—it reacted to her touch. She pulled harder, and the submarine followed her command, and suddenly, an idea occurred to her.

The deck crew's shadows were painted on the walls of the ship's superstructure in sharp relief, by the strobing blue-white light of the sorcery crackling around Rinoa, as they stood and stared with open mouths. Squall resisted the urge to shield his eyes from the blazing witchcraft, which poured from the figure before him and tunneled into the frothing water around the rear of the ship. His attention fixed on his sorceress, he was taken by surprise by the collective exclamation of wonder by the mechanics who were still—more or less—at their posts.

Tearing his eyes away from Rinoa, Squall, too, felt the urge to gasp at the sight of a surfacing Galbadian submarine. The oblong cylindrical ship breached the surface of the water stern first, it's propellers churning away at the unresisting air. A long length of hull followed the rudder and screws out of the water, and then—impossibly—the conning tower, forward dive planes, and the prow of the submarine all left the ocean. The dark ship hung suspended—as if it were some monstrous fish, dragged from the deep by it's tail—seawater cascading in great white gouts from it's slick decking and hull. Blue-white lightning bolts danced across the U-boat's surface and arced between it and the ocean. Difficult to make out though the waves of witchcraft, something that looked like a hatch popped open on the surface of the submarine.

…

"All hands abandon ship!" The captain cried, pulling away from the periscope. It was incredible, it couldn't be real, but somehow it was. Somehow, his seven thousand ton submarine was being suspended nearly fifteen feet above the ocean's surface. It had to be the sorceress, there was no other explanation. If she had the power to pull his ship completely clear of the ocean, there was no doubt in his mind what would come next—he just hoped that most of his crew would escape before it happened.

…

Rinoa's arms were shaking with the effort of her concentration. She could feel the great flood of power—once so frighteningly and immeasurably vast within her—starting to ebb. Sweat trickled across her brows—drawn together with effort. They were leaving, she could feel them go as the submariners left their stranded ship. But it was only one ship, even as the thought crossed her mind, the sorceress's power reached out, seeking a second, and then a third submarine. Her strength was nearly gone now, but still there were more submarines! She had to remove them all, she had to find a substitute for her waning energy! A tiny bit of Rinoa's consciousness searched for the power within herself to carry on. Even as a second submarine's stern was lifted from the water, she was sapping her own life force to draw strength for her witchcraft.

As the aura of sorcery surrounding Rinoa grew brighter and brighter, Squall's anxiety likewise increased, for his sorceress—standing in the middle of that halo of energy, seemed to be growing dimmer and dimmer. Suddenly, the magic light flared blindingly, burning holes through his very retinas, before dimming away to nothing. Absolute nothing, for Rinoa was gone.

Squall screamed as the ghostly premonition broke. "NO!!" He lunged forward through the brilliance and wrapped his arms around his sorceress, drawing her away from the edge of the ship, away from the water. Like a light bulb switching off, the crackling sorcery disappeared at the knight's touch. Three-quarters of a mile away, the Tokapeb dropped from the sky like a stone, sending a huge wave washing over her crew as they swam frantically away from their bewitched vessel. The Galbadian submarine Navarro—nearly halfway clear of the water—also dropped back into the ocean with a resounding crash. Squall saw none of this.

The knight's concentration lay solely on his sorceress as he cast Curaga spell after useless Curaga spell on her still form. Automatically his fingers pressed under her chin, finding a weak, but steady pulse even while his other hand hovered over her white lips. Squall was only mildly reassured by the brush of air—not warm, like it should be, but deathly cold—from her exhalations. A shiver of dread rippled through his chest as he saw how transparent Rinoa's skin was—if he looked hard enough he felt he could have seen her delicate bones beneath the sallow flesh. Squall was only vaguely aware of the rotor blades beginning to turn above his head as the helicopter pilot prepared for takeoff. Carefully cradling Rinoa's head against his chest, he slid one arm under her legs and the other behind her back as he lifted the still form of the sorceress.

Both airmen—pilot and copilot—were silent as Squall climbed aboard the helicopter, carefully assisting him as he laid Rinoa onto an airborne stretcher, covering her with a thermal blanket. Stunned by what they had just witnessed, neither said a word as they climbed into the cockpit and ran through their preflight checklist.

At last, looking up from his clipboard, the co-pilot shot a glance at the pilot. "Did you see…?" He needn't have asked, but he felt something needed to be said.

The pilot drew the corners of his mouth tight and nodded mutely. After a moment, he pulled gently back on the flight stick, easing the now-hovering hellicpoter clear of the Naso's stern. At length, he spoke into the microphone. "I know. Whatever she was doing, it didn't work… but god damn!"

The copilot muttered just quietly enough that his mic failed to pick up his words. "Just what the hell is she?"

Squall dared to turn away from his sorceress for only a second as he retrieved an elixir from a satchel he had previously loaded aboard the aircraft. When he turned back, her eyes were open, but they stared without the usual sparkle. "It won't do any good." The brown all but washed from their irises, they looked up at him. "It only works for para-magic."

"Rinoa! Thank god!" She listlessly accepted Squall's awkward embrace as she lay, staring up at the vibrating ceiling of the aircraft. "Thank god you're okay."

Squall felt a cool tear on his cheek—where it met with his sorceress's. "I couldn't lift them all, Squall, but you should have let me try."

The pressure of his skin against hers changed as his head shook by an iota. "It would have killed you." He did not release her from his delicate embrace.

Rinoa's eyes finally closed and she whispered. "But it might have saved one or two more lives."

But I don't care about them! Squall's lips barely moved with the words. "I would rather destroy this whole world, than let you die, Rinoa."

Rinoa's eyes stared sightlessly out the window above as she gazed at the spinning rotors. "I know that, Squall, and it frightens me so."

To Be Continued…

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