Disclaimer: Amazingly, no, I don't own FF8. I only own who I have created, i.e. Selax Ranner and others yet to be introduced…

This is my first Fan-Fiction, so, um…

ENJOY!

It had lain in the sand for three thousand years. Three thousand years after its civilisation had crumbled around it, one lone prophets words from the walls of an even older temple are unearthed, at last, by a wandering traveller who is also a budding archaeologist and treasure hunter. Ancient text, made smooth by the raging sand storms that sweep the Centrina continent, is slipped into his satchel, padded by cotton wool.

The man smiles, today has been a good day.

Later, the text will be deciphered…by the highest bidder, of course. He can tell that the highest bid will be enough to put himself in retirement. Or buy him a new home with a sea view. Perhaps both.

One thing is certain, he thinks, is that the artefact will change is life.

He has no idea, of course, how morbidly true that is.

He has made the phone calls. Certain…Gentlemen - and ladies, of course, in this day and age – have placed bids on the object. There is only one more prospector to see his prize, his triumph, from the desert. He can just imagine his name, Selax Ranner printed on the front of the tabloids, but for his price range, being anomalous is the only way to go. None of his finds will ever be credited to him, but to rich people-but the bundles of cash that pad out his existence make it all worth it, and bury the pangs of sadness.

Yes, Selax likes his existence.

Mr. Ranner eyes the clock beside him, and smiles. His highest bidder is coming to view the tablet. He shuts his eyes, and leans back in his chair

"Three, he mutters under his breath, …Two…One, and…"

The lights cut out, he can tell, even through closed eyelids.

The Acquaintance walks through the door, and settles himself in a chair.

"Keep you're eyes closed. You know who I am, what I want, and what my bid is."

Selax grins. He pushes a briefcase forward that resides on his desk, towards his client, but his hand never leaves the top of the case.

"I am afraid sir, you have been out bid. Do you wish to -ahem- raise the stakes?

'Sir' was not pleased. He did not come here to barter. He came to take, by any means possible. But he was reasonable, well more than his other 'partners' were, and gave Mr Ranner one chance.

"I do not sir. I wish you to take my offer. Now."

Selax laughs and shakes his head.

"Hah! You've got attitude kid, but I'm afraid the answer is no-"

'Sir' pullshis katana out from between Mr Ranner's ribs, where it is suddenly protruding and slides the brief-case from under the mans steadily cooling finger tips. A small click of the clasps, and the case is open, showing the deceased treasure-hunters pride and joy. The tablet.

His Employer will be pleased.

'Sir' turned to the corpse.

"I was, Mr Ranner, hoping for some challenge.

Your first mistake was to show me the case.

The second was to tell me that others had seen the prize. They must die too, now.

The third was that you didn't except the money. Always except the money."

He pauses from lecturing the body, and bends over the still form. He shuts his glassy eyes with one hand. He always leaves the corpses with their dignity. 'Sir' feels this alone sets him apart from other assassins for hire.

"We will meet again in generations to come, Mr Ranner, I am sure of it."

Briefcase in hand, he walks out the door, to disappear, wrath-like down a corridor.

"Next time, however, I hope you will have learnt you're lesson."

Tonight on Cross-Fire, the sudden aggression of Galabadia, and the resulting political crisis, and how it could have been averted. Also, The Dollet school bombings, where the victims cause of death is still unknown. But first, we plot the time it took, and the catalysts, for Dollet to descend in anarchy"

Squall levelled the remote at the T.V.

People spend too much time reminiscing, he thought angrily, if they spent as much time and effort whining and moaning as they did helping to solve the problem, we would not be IN this situation.

The amazing thing is, this is old news. Six-month old news. But the T.V. companies are showing this as what's happening today. And why can they do this? Because the major T.V. production companies are connected with Galabadia and Timber for the most part, and the new 'Vizier' is putting pressure on them, and before you know it, you have a situation worse than even before the Second Sorceress War, where people don't know anything. Even I don't know what's happening with the war…and I'm supposed to be the Commander of Ballamb Garden. Even with all our spy equipment… We. Know. Nothing.

Pulling himself upright, he pulled his shoes on and walked to his office door. He caught his reflection in on of the many windows in his office. Ugh.

His messy brown hair covered his storm-grey eyes, which were ringed with black bags. 3 years after defeating Ultamecia, and he was reduced to the walking corpse that he was. His friends were faring the same. Anyone with any amount of power was loosing sleep to the political nightmare that they were caught in.

Now the Galabadian Garden has closed itself off to Trabia and us. Irvine tried to contact us, but it was apparent that it was getting harder and harder for him to communicate with us. Any phone call he made was bugged. Any letters we received were tampered with. And then…silence. Nothing.

Selphie was devastated-she came to Ballamb crying her eyes out. She said that she was lonely-she wanted to be with the 'Orphanage gang' again.

I let her in. it was against all protocol, against all advise I had received about handling the Garden in times of crisis, about favouritism. But…no one had the heart to turn her away, not even me.

He is now probably dead. Selphie and Zell are still waiting, hoping that he is still alive. Funny, Zell hated him at first. Me, well, I assume he's dead. Simple. Its like he's disappeared off the face of the earth, and, well, death is usually the cause of disappearance.

I'm only thinking practically. I use facts, not hopes and dreams, no matter how much it hurts. I won't lie to myself…

Faint yells. From downstairs. 1st floor. Squall was dragged roughly from his revere, mostly by his training. The entrance, he decided, was where the noise was coming from and he turned for the lifts, moving on auto-pilot, unaware of the mired of tiny orders ingrained in his mind from constant training. In fact, it was only when he arrived at the lifts that he realised where he was going.

I have got to stop doing this.

Sighing, he entered the lift to see what was going on.

Perhaps then, he could sleep.

"Whadda ya mean I can't go in, I mean, I'm one of the Hero's!"

"No can do sir."

"Listen, I can't explain it to you right now-just let me the God Damn in."

"No. I can't sir"

"You do know who I am, don't you?"

"No sir"

"This is gettin' repetitive. Now lis-"

Squall found himself face to face with a man assumed dead arguing with a security guard.

Ivrine Kinneas.

Suspiciously, he walked forward.

"Ivrine…?"

Both men swivelled round on their heels

"Squall!" yelped Ivrine.

"Commander!" squeaked the guard

"Jefferson", Squall said, nodding at the guard, "…go get Xu"

Both men waited until the lower ranking SeeD scuttled off.

"Squall, you look like shit."

"Thanks, Squall muttered sarcastically. It was true. He needed more sleep, but the world wasn't going on hold just for him. "But enough about me…you have some explaining to do"

Well, thats it for me. Review please. Tune in next week for, ummm, stuff. It gets much better in the form of action. With blood, rebel groups and back stabbing.

Yay.