Disclaimer/Note: I do not own Final Fantasy VIII, or any of the characters in this story (unless otherwise stated). I'm not making any money off this story; it is being written for my own sick twisted amusement. All original concepts in this story are original (duh) and belong to me. If you steal anything, then I will kill you. Several times. This story is a novelization of the game, taking place from slightly before the beginning until slightly after the end, and contains violence, language, angst, romance in varying forms, mind games, and psychological trauma/mental instabilities. Please enjoy.


Queen of All Time:
Chapter One -- Repetition

Nobody ever talks to me, not even when we go to the Rooms, or stand outside of them. The scary people just pretend not to notice me, and that makes me sad. Real sad. I don't like being sad, or lonely. I want to talk to people, and I want to smile, and laugh. If I could smile, or laugh, then I wouldn't have to cry all the time. Cold Eyes wants me to stop crying too; and Cold Eyes even told me that once. It meant a lot to me; that Cold Eyes was willing to talk to me. And Cold Eyes. . .Cold Eyes was even nice to me, when he

(she, it)

told me that. I was happy. Real happy. I almost thought that I could smile. Almost, but not quite.

Sometimes I wish that I were more like Cold Eyes. Because everyone talks to Cold Eyes, even when Cold Eyes doesn't want them to. And everyone wants to be friends with Cold Eyes, even though Cold Eyes hates them. All of them. Cold Eyes once said -- not to me -- that all the people in the Rooms were stupid, and. . .and then Cold Eyes used a big word that I didn't understand. I got confused, but I didn't ask what it meant. Cold Eyes went on to say some other things, one of which I think had to do with everyone copying each other. She

(he, it)

called it 'conformity'. I remembered that word. I thought it was a fun word.

Conformity: everyone is the same person. And they are all dying. But they're too stupid to realize it, and so they're all happy.

I wonder if conformity happens when no one in the Room is real. . .?

Cold Eyes felt tired, drained and lifeless. A kind of morbose depression was setting in today, biting through the lofty walls of defense to his nearly broken and half-corroded mind. Thoughts shifted lazily, a lethargic crawl, towards his subconscious, seeking some solace. Perhaps they thought a symbolic haven lay there, in the darker recesses of his psyche where the shadows overlapped and meshed till the once-ordered boundaries became no more. That was a possibility. However, had escape been their sole motivation, it was in his most humble of opinions that they should have been moving a bit faster. He wanted to see the little bitches run.

A listless sigh, and he turned his half-lidded gaze to the floor, one hand coming up from his side to rest on his hip. Something else was stirring, rousing itself behind his vivid eyes. It rumbled, it purred; it very nearly burbled. The thing -- a giant, a leader, a king; the God of what was left of this mind -- stretched, retractable claws grazing a dozen forgotten memories, and he held back a shiver. It was awake; hungered and annoyed by the unfortunate being that had the unpleasant task of disturbing it. The Beast was awake, and right now Cold Eyes didn't want to deal with the consequences of--

("Pay attention.")

There was a little boy next to him, scowling as he crossed his arms over his chest and pretended to ignore all three of them. Cold Eyes turned his head then, banishing the monster back to its confines -- the chains, the cages, the pretty metal collar that fitted loosely around its neck -- in the same movement. The hand on his hip slipped off, falling back to his side, and he redirected his gaze to the. . .' individual' standing before him.

("This is important. Do you mind?")

He heard thick sarcasm, got the impression that it was evident in the facial expression when the sound returned, now different, still the same. He said nothing to it, simply watched, waiting. The other -- a smear of white ink on dark paper; an intense hallucination -- shifted, glaring. A silence ensued, until after several long moments, it began again.

("Well?")

Cold Eyes considered answering, looking over his shoulder to the people who weren't quite there; walking talking living dying . . . could they hear, could they speak? Can they see, can they care? Hazy, like bloodied watermarks across his line of vision, and he thought he felt the hallucination reach out and touch him, so warm it was almost human. It was almost alive. Again, half-lidded eyes moved back to that. . .' person.'

"I'm listening," a soft mumble, too audible for his liking, and the white-shadow relaxed. It seemed to smile, pleased with his answer. Leaning back slightly where it stood, it surveyed him, empty eyes digging deep. It was taking in something as it continued, something vitally important to both existences; something so valuable and irreplaceable that it could not be named, that it was above all manner of definition. Cold Eyes thought for a moment that he might, at some point in the vague future, miss that elusively precious something.

("Good, because I hate it when you don't.")

"You're getting on a tangent. Stop it," Cold Eyes snapped, voice low, near silent and still too loud. A black and oily hand rubbed at his face, fingers straying towards his eyes in the act. He wanted to leave, to go. . .somewhere. Maybe the 'where' didn't matter; maybe he could figure it all out later. Just so long as it was real. He was tired. . .so very tired of being in those not-quite there places, with their not-quite alive inhabitants and not-quite right methods. He was so sick of being the only person who could speak and hear that he almost longed for company in his solitude; someone other than the bright phantom and the angry little boy to share the void with.

("And? I bet you don't even remember what we were talking about in the first place.")

". . .That's not the point."

("Something on your mind?")

Cold Eyes was silent, debating the question. There were several things in his mind, feeding on it, but he didn't think that his companion much cared for conventional technicalities. He shook his head once, the movement causing his dark brown hair to further fall over his pale features. Again it smiled, though this time the action was coupled with an odd noise. Cold Eyes was reminded of the strange burble The Beast made until he realized what the sound was. The 'individual' was laughing at him.

("You lie like shit and you didn't even say anything.")

". . .It was none of your business."

("Yeah yeah. . .Anyway, I gotta get to class; damn old bastard said the next time I'm late he's just gonna kick me out, and I don't feel like seeing that uppity bitch this early in the morning. I'll see you at lunch if you don't plan on chickening out.")

The white-shadow hit him hard in the shoulder as it walked away, and Cold Eyes waited until he was sure it was gone before reaching up to gingerly touch it with the opposite hand. There was already a bruise there beneath his dark jacket; a single mark encompassing his entire left arm. But the sickly injury was fairly old, and in need of renewing. Perhaps the bruises were a way of insuring his acceptance of the challenge, although that would have been more than redundant. . .

Because the Black Knight never -- ever -- refused to fight Fate's noble hero.