Disclaimers: All FF8 characters are respectfully copyrighted to their rightful owners, Squaresoft. No copyright infringement intended for the usage of their characters in this work of fiction. No profit is being made by this fan fiction; please do not redistribute unless otherwise stated so by me personally.
Warning: The story will eventually depict homosexual relationship(s). I don't write my characters as horny rabbits about to jump the sack, love at first sighters, or Shakespear-spouting lovers, but if you have a problem with being a mature and respectful reader about NON-heterosexual relationships, I suggest you STOP READING now. And really, don't be an idiot and flame me after I've warned you. It'll irritate me if you do, but I won't be losing any sleep over you. Possibly just some brain cells at your lack of comprehension.

Part Four:

Zell Dincht had been stuck in the infirmary for eight days, 6 hours and 10 minutes.

He found it surprising that they hadn't kept track of the amount of seconds while he had been out as well.

Zell had also received scathing lectures from both the doctor and Headmaster Squall Leonhart.

His teeth would still clench in anger at the memory of the little "chat" with the other man.

He was put out on leave for physical recovery, for two weeks.

And exactly three weeks, two days, and several hours, minutes and seconds later, he was sent out on his first mission since the "loss of control incident."

He managed to fuck it up.

It wasn't so bad, really, but he had allowed the spy to get away with information on the Garden's weaponry system.

Oh, sure, the information was outdated by at least a decade or so, but did that mean anything? No.

He received another lecture from Squall, no less cold, but at least this time around he had the explanation of his near-brush with death to get him off the hook.

He had believed the explanation himself, until the second mission rolled around.

And that time he fucked up....

He fucked it up big time.

Flashback

Okay Dincht, get in, get the shit, and get out. With any luck, ya won't have to kill anyone on the way in or out.

With the mental pep talk over with, Zell took a deep breath, composed himself, and allowed his training and instincts to take over to keep him on the guard.

Really don't like this damn mission. Too shaky and not enough precautions. If only we didn't need that fuckin' data right now.... Really don't like this. Reaaally don't like this. Coulda at least given me back up. Bet if the others weren't on missions, and the cadets too fresh, Squall wouldn't have given this to me to take on my own. Too important to botch up like I did last time.

His thoughts becomng too distracting and decidedly more bitter, he shoved them away and focused on moving faster. Emotions were as dangerous to his safety and to the mission as a troop of soldiers.

His leg muscles stretched and tightened as he ran silently and swiftly through the empty corrider, mind carefully blank of anything except getting the data and back out as quickly and efficently as possible. Going over the memorized directions and instrctions inside his mind, he turned accordingly around the corners he was supposed to.

All too soon, Zell made out the dull thud of boots against the tile floor.

Grimacing, he swept narrowed blue eyes around his surroundings, and he scanned the corrider for a possible place to hide.

As luck would have it, the corrider was completely devoid of any vent holes or large, obscure objects for him to take cover behind. Unable to avoid the confrontation, and he cursed his damned luck at being stuck in the one corrider that was empty.

Fuck.

For a split second, blue eyes stared into black ones, and then the contact was over.

Slower to react to the intruder, the other man barely managed a pained cry before Zell's gloved fist met his face. He went down with a heavy and loud thud; metal armor clanged loudly against the floor as the gun clattered noisily before it went still and silent.

Zell knew the man was effectively knocked out for the next two hours or so, before he'd wake up with a bitch of a headache and a minor concussion, if the way his bare head had slammed against the hard ground had anything to do with it.

"Kaine!"

His head snapped forwards. The loud yell was sure to rouse more people, and Zell propelled himself forwards once more.

He swiftly brought his fist around again, and it landed, causing a pained grunt. The man was a lot more sturdier than his comrade though, and he wasn't as slow to react.

Their close proximity hindered the guard from being able to fire his gun, but he managed to use the blunt end to butt painfully into Zell's right shoulder. Flinching from the pain, he ducked a severe swipe to his face and swept the man's feet out from under him. In a position similar to the other unconscious guard, Zell had to lean down and aim another blow to the side of his head.

Hard enough to knock out, restrained enough to not cause serious brain damage.

Zell knew how to kill, but only under the most dire of circumstances.

Like the one staring down at him from a gaping black hole.

Again.... fuck.

He slowly rose to his feet, making his movements submissive and unthreatening, his gaze drifted farther back along the barrell and he was torn between laughing in weak relief and cold dread at the guard who currently had Zell's life in his hands, a trigger away.

It was a kid.

Just a kid.

One with overly wide brown eyes that reminded him of a puppy, the long lashes making him seem even more obscenely boyish and young. And those overly wide eyes were large with fear.

The damn gun was even trembling slightly.

He opened his mouth to try and persuade the kid to let him go alive when there was that ominous little click. The one that would eventually lead to a lot of Zell's guts and blood all over the walls and ground.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

His own eyes widened slightly. He stared into the brown eyes, willed them to not apply more pressure to that sensitive trigger.

Don't do it. Don't do it. You're a kid. Don't kill. Ain't right. Just a kid. Don't do it man. Don't you fucking pull that trigger!

Zell knew a lot about fighting, even more about death. He'd done a lot of killing.

Once upon a time, it was just about making his grandfather proud, living up to the family honor. Once upon a time, Zell hadn't really put much thought about the lessons he had learned, the stories he had heard. It was all glory, glory, glory. Beautiful, wonderful glory and nothing was wrong with it.

And then, the happily ever after began to fade away. It had left Zell with the real picture.

War, blood, death, fighting, peace, honor, life, horror, terror, fear, pride, joy, rage, anger, innocence.

And he had read the books, known about the bloodshed and the deaths and brutalness of it all. But the books had been dry; a skeletal, a damn chapter review complete with bullet points and romanized numerals. It didn't tell you about the pain, anguish and turmoil that went with the notion of glory and honor. It didn't tell you about the endless pain that came from having innocence ripped from you and being shoved into the position as world savior.

Zell had lucked out, one of those people who took things in with a pinch of salt, a dash of lemon to rub gently into the wounds. And he had been able to heal, to look beyond the blood, the nameless faces of the soldiers and "bad guys" he had killed.

But then again, he had been somewhat prepared, for all his glorified views.

This kid wasn't. And Zell was betting his life that the boy had never killed another human being before, and that this was his turning point.

Don't do it.

"What the FUCK are you just standing there for ya damned idiot?!"

The shout was enough for the young guard to lose his focus on Zell, and Zell took that miraculous chance and aimed a high kick at the unsteady hand that gripped the gun. The boy whirled around with a yell, and Zell kicked the gun behind him. The sound of a gun being fired registered in his brain a second after he felt a sharp, fiery pain tear past his forearm. Just a graze, but the next shot wouldn't be as merciful.

And he was right, with barely a pause, more rounds were fired and thus ensued a chaotic dance with dodging bullets. Zell's attention caught up in not getting his ass filled with lead, barely registered when the other, younger, guard joined the party.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the kid about to launch his attack--physically.

Out of the other corner of his other eye, he saw as the other man--the one with the gun--became increasingly frustrated, his anger clouding his judgement.

But nothing, nothing, not Zell's usual inhumanly graceful speed turned sluggish and numb, not Zell's mind taking things in slow motion, not his screamed warning to stop or move, move outta the way!, could make up or explain why it happened.

BOOM!

"Lore--!!!" The dismayed shout from the younger guard's face flickered in denail, confusement, pain, terror and a million other things.

And Zell watched.

Watched as the young, boyish face contracted in pain: too soon, too fast, too young. He watched as the slender body jerked backwards from the momentum of the shot. He watched the trickle of blood that seeped from the mouth that was still open from the shout. He watched as more blood gushed forward from the shoulder wound.

And he knew, despite what fiction said, that there was a major blood vessel in the shoulder, that when severed would end up in death without proper treatment.

The boy would die.

But he couldn't help because another bullet whizzed by, and it served to capture his attention once more through his shocked and numbed vision.

The man was still firing. He was still firing even though he had accidentally taken down his own comrade. He was still firing even though he knew the younger man was bleeding; bleeding to his death!

Rage filled Zell and his vision was blurred by red, and he felt a suffocating hold over his body and with tears that threatened to fall, his fury grew rapidly inside him.

In a blur of motion he shot forward, hands moving, body gliding in the same furious dance that had caused his trip to the infirmary those few weeks ago. But now he was fueled by a helpless rage that howled wildly in his ears and pumped erratically with the thunder of his heart.

It was over in just a few seconds.

And with his chest heaving and breath drawn in short, gasping bursts, Zell stared at the scene before him in a mixture of horror and disgust.

He turned and began to run, his tears fell silently as his feet pounded dully against the cold, hard floor.

End Flashback

Zell had gotten the data and got out of the vicinty in record timing. He had even found another exit that led directly from the control room, which allowed him the mercy from having to go back ti face the nightmare he had left behind. Squall, and the doctor, hadn't been pleased at the sight of his bloodied and blank-faced state, but the mission had been a complete success--as far as Squall was concerned.

But Zell's nightmares had begun to increase in intensity, with new fuel for his mind to conjure. Faces and voices plagued his sleep, and whenever he awoke, he awoke to the sight of blood-stained fists.

He had become somewhat obsessed with both avoiding looking at his hands, and washing them frequently whenever he could.

So he continued on, mission accomplished and as normal as ever.