Disclaimer/Note: I do not own Final Fantasy VIII, or any of the characters in this story (unless otherwise stated). The bit-characters (such as Philip Grien and Anthony McCoer) only partially belong to me. 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 Three – Tension


"Who's he?" a disinterested question, apathy taking the form of a little boy, his pale hands lost and hidden in the folds of the woman's dark skirt. His eyes were wide, puffed and bloodshot from too many tears; gaze unfocused, as though he saw the world through a fever-tainted nightmare. He looked sick, pathetic and unnatural. The child -- a blurred smear of deathly color and false life -- had that crazed looked about him, almost as if someone had reached out and taken him by the collar of his grungy yellow t-shirt and beaten every last semblance of sanity from his frail little body. "Matron. . .?"

"Nobody. You don't need to know," the woman answered him, bringing attention to herself. She had no face, only a soft featureless oval framed by long black hair. The flesh was turned down as if she could see the boy without eyes, just as she had spoken with no mouth. Around them the hazy green of ivy and old leaves decayed, drifted to the ground on the ghost of a long dead breeze. She placed a gentle hand on the boy's head, and he looked up to the tattered 'Nobody'.

"No. . ." it whispered, voice choked and hoarse as it took a slow step back. It stumbled, strange sword falling from shaking hands to clatter loudly on the stone path. The fear was nearly electric in the air, tension emanating out from the 'Nobody' like the blood that poured down its ashen face, partially hidden by portions of matted brown hair.

"You don't belong here. . ." she told the 'Nobody', her voice sad and seeming so faraway. It gave the impression that her face would have mirrored the tone had it been able to. One of her hands was petting back the little boy's messy hair, the other hanging limply at her side. "Please. . .you must leave."

. . .Griever.

The 'Nobody' did not turn as it tried to run away, as it tripped on the stairs leading out from the garden, knocking the door open as it spilled onto the wooden floor inside the house. It pulled itself the rest of the way in, scrambling back in desperation, still staring at the two. The door fell shut again, conversation playing back to 'Nobody' like a broken record, skipping parts and falling into place with ease.

("You don't have to worry; that boy won't go anywhere. . .")

Griever.

("I know. Poor thing. . .")

Griever!

The illusion shattered then, cold eyes snapping open in pain as those claws found purchase within his mind. A sharp inhalation escaped him, something akin to a gasp clawing its way out of his throat, body hunching over the porcelain of the bathroom sink. His knuckles popped under the bandages as his grip on the edge tightened, skin paling to pressure white beneath heavy bruises. The Beast -- the lord and king of his subconscious -- screamed at him, the soundless noise rattling through his skull as teeth tore into the memory, ripping through the boy and woman in its ravenous hunger. His knees felt weak, and he started to fall. . .

("Am I. . .all alone?")

Squall slowly opened his eyes, thoughts fuzzed and uncertain. He was lying on the bathroom floor, tiles cool against the scar tissue covering his back as he blinked up at the ceiling light. The question 'why' loomed foremost in his mind, but was still lost in the pounding migraine that had followed. He did not remember what had happened, only that he had removed the black towel from the mirror to survey the damage done to his face and then. . .nothing. No black period, no void, no waking dream or bizarre hallucination. There was simply nothing between seeing his reflection and finding himself on the floor.

He groaned, using the counter to pull himself up to his knees once he had managed a sitting position. A moment later found him struggling to stand. Those coldly vivid eyes brushed passed themselves in the mirror, caught and focused briefly before moving on. He did not remember the woman or little boy as The Beast settled itself into its drowsed sleep-state once more, a low rumbling purr at the back of the brainstem as if to signal its satisfaction.

Squall did not like Philip Grien. Philip Grien was an egotistical elitist asshole who talked too much. But Squall sat with him in the cafeteria anyway, and had done so since the summer exams had been held. And that was where he was currently: seated at the 'Elite' table with others like Philip Grien as he boredly listened to them complain about Garden regulation, and how much they disliked the student body. Particularly the students who had been skipped ahead, or given any other such 'special' treatment.

The victim of the moment was their youngest instructor, Quistis Trepe. One of the members of the group tossed down his fork in irritation, glaring at the others as he spoke up in her defense:

"You guys. . .just drop it. She's not that bad, and I'd rather have her teaching me than the Bherlzen Beast." The Bherlzen Beast being a nickname for the old, grouchy woman teaching Advanced Chemistry to new SeeD candidates. At the comment, a boy with a pinched, rat-like face on Grien's left snickered, his bony hand coming up as though to hide the reaction from them.

"Yeah, I bet. . ." Philip scoffed, tilting his head up and to the side as he tapped Squall's arm with the back of one hand. "Hey, Leonhart; did you hear about McCoer's test score for the exam? He totally bombed it."

Squall gave no sign of acknowledgment, though he did notice that the young man who had first spoken was now looking down at the table guiltily.

"Geez, McCoer, you'll never make SeeD now; you're always too busy thinking about her," another of the assembled boys, this one with a plain face and high falsetto voice, piped up. "I mean, come on! Are you really gonna throw away your entire career, all for one woman?"

Squall stood abruptly, lunch tray in hand, and when Grien looked up at him questioningly, he only offered a light shrug and quiet, "It's almost time," to which the young man nodded. Grien and one of the others got up with him, disposing of their trays and heading to the Garden entry for their team assignments.

Quistis was standing in front of the downstairs directory when they arrived at the entrance corridor, Grien waving to Squall as he went to his own third period teacher. Only twelve students had passed the written exam this year, and the mortality rate to death or simple failure on the field exam was at an impossible high. It would not be surprising if none of them passed. . . Hush, the ice whispered to him, comforting. You will succeed in this. . .

Quistis called his name like laughter, beaming when he stopped in front of her. She was excited to be here, he knew that. This would be her first time grading the exam, though Squall was uncertain of whether that was a good or bad thing. She took a moment to examine the clipboard in her hand, one finger trailing along a list of names and numbers until it found his, tapping it lightly.

"Let's see now. . .You're with. . .Zell Dincht," she said, blinking a little as if adjusting to the idea. "Well, he's a rather lively fellow--"

He's not lively, just loud.

"--Zell! Over here, Zell!" she shouted to his teammate who, as he turned to look, was standing over by one of the many plants along the side of the corridor, mock fighting with a fern. Upon hearing his name, the boy grinned, straightening his arms as he performed a cartwheel that ended in a backwards round-off flip in their direction. He was shorter than either of them, with blond hair spiked up in the front and almost childishly wide blue eyes that seemed to scream of raver-punk, as did the blatantly obvious tribal tattoo that was etched down the left side of his face in black ink.

"Woah! I'm in a group with you?" he rubbed his palm on the leg of his uniform, then extended it eagerly to Squall, who let out a soft sigh before looking to Quistis. Zell seemed to falter, but it was only a moment, and then he was talking again. "Man, you look like shit! I heard that you got in a fight with Seifer this morning; heard he whooped ya pretty bad, too. That's were you got all those, right?"

". . .We weren't fighting. We were sparring," it was a small lie, an easy lie, and only one person in the entire world would have known that it was not the truth. They had not been sparring, or even dueling; not this time at least. He had wanted to kill Seifer that morning, and that was why he had stopped him in the hall on the way to second period, had told him where and when -- ten minutes, training hall, mountain course -- to meet. It was done spur of the moment, which was an odd enough thing for Squall to do that Seifer had not questioned him. But it was needless to say that it had not quite gone the way he had not quite planned for it.

"Yeah, well I betcha--"

"Ah, boys?" They both stopped, mouths closed as they glanced over to hear her out. She hid a smile behind her hand, double checking her clipboard. "That Seifer you're talking about? He's your squad leader, and he's right over there."

Fate's noble hero, the blinding shadow with his long jacket and heavy sword, came to them as though he knew he had been mentioned, sauntered over like a king among fools. Stark, blurred and vivid, Squall looked away, brought a hand to the butterfly-stitch between his brows. He had not bothered to fix the gauze after he had taken it off in the bathroom earlier, had just settled for the small bandage instead. It was good enough for the white knight, after all.

"You've gotta be kidding me. . ." Zell groaned, one hand on his hip as he slapped the other over his eyes and leaned his head back. A dark glare was shot in his direction by the large young man at the knight's side, and when the little teen took no notice of it, the hallucination had to bring an arm up as a barrier.

"Well, this is definitely going to be an adventure in tolerance. Good luck," she was talking to the newest arrival, hugging her clipboard to her chest.

And here it comes:

". . .Instructor," the wait at the beginning was calculated, just long enough for him to get a sweetly acidic tone with her. "I hate it when people wish me luck. Save those words for a bad student who needs them, eh?"

She returned the tone in her expression, nodding a little to show that she fully understood. "Alright then." There was a brief pause, too short even for thought but present nonetheless. "Good luck, Seifer."

"Is this everyone?" an older man in a red vest had walked over, pushing his thin framed glasses higher up on his nose as he surveyed them. His appearance had forced Seifer into an angry silence, those sharp green eyes still fixed on their instructor as though his will alone could cause her to drop dead right then and there. The older man -- Headmaster Cid, the ice pressed -- smiled benignly, almost as if he were seeing his favorite grandchildren on holiday instead of getting ready to give a group of mercenary soldiers their obligatory pep talk. He cleared his throat with a small cough before beginning:

"As I'm sure you've heard, this exam will involve twelve members from Squads A through D. . . You are heading out on a real mission and the battles, obviously, are for real. Be careful," he stopped for a moment, looking at them with thoughtful amusement. "Life and death, victory and defeat, honor and disgrace; each of these go hand in hand. There's only one way or the other. You will either come back with all the glory of SeeD, or you will not come back at all. All of you are aware of the dangers involved in becoming SeeD. But are you sure? This is your last chance to step down."

Cid was leaning forward, peering into the faces of his students questioningly. Squall turned his head slightly to glance over at Seifer, found his action greeted by a smirk, and quickly averted his gaze. The knight was laughing at him; it thought that he was going to 'chicken out'. Gritting his teeth, he tried not to let it show. He was not afraid of dying, but the prospect of failure seemed insurmountably terrifying right now.

"--fail, and these members will get the job done. They always do. Well, that's one less worry on your mind now," Cid crossed his arms over his chest, taking a deep breath. "The pride of Balamb Garden is SeeD. Learn from them, obey their commands and accomplish the mission through cunning and teamwork. Prove that you are worthy of becoming a member of SeeD. Best of luck to all of you. Move out."

He nodded to the assembled teachers, who reclaimed the authoritative positions over their respective groups. Quistis motioned for the three of them to follow her as she led them down the hall towards the Garden parking lot at a brisk walk. It hurt to keep up with her, but Squall could feel the white knight watching him and stiffened. He moved faster, carefully hiding the limp in his long strides. The last thing he wanted was to miss the exam because they had sent him back to the infirmary.

"The three of you make up Squad B. I'll be the instructor in charge," Quistis was saying, or babbling, Squall could never tell the difference with her. She opened the back doors to one of the SeeD cars, motioning for them to get in. "Try to remember that teamwork is of the utmost importance while you're down there. It'll affect your grade more than anything else."

"Listen up, shit-for-brains! 'Teamwork' means doing what I tell you, when I tell you, and staying the hell out of my way. That's a Squad B rule; don't forget it!" the hero warned, baring his teeth menacingly at Zell, who brought his fist up as if to punch their newly appointed leader. Seifer just laughed, shoving the small blond to one side as he got in the transport vehicle. Zell slammed his hand against the inside of the door as he got in, grumbling. Quistis just rolled her eyes, climbing in after Squall.

The trip to the Balamb City harbor was not a long one, barely more than a fifteen minute ride over the Alcauld Plains which surrounded the Garden.

"Squall."

He was trying not to pay any attention to the sound of his name being spoken, half-lucid gaze currently focused on a dent he had found in the bottom of the SeeD transport. The spot was located between his feet; his legs spread slightly to accommodate it, head down and face obscured, elbows on his knees. On the floor to his left was the little boy, sitting cross-legged on the metal and propping his forehead up against Squall's calf. It was a small dent, only noticeable to him because he had been staring at it since he had sat down.

"Yo, Squall."

The white knight, in all his victor's glory, his not-vain affirmation of perfected humanity and moral engineering; was lounging directly across from him -- assuming, that is, that it was possible to 'lounge' on a metal bench affixed to a wall -- in his seat, right ankle resting on left knee as he bounced his weapon of choice off one shoulder. Fate's noble hero had not spoken since they got inside; instead favoring him with a sidelong glance and smirk every so often.

Arrogant bastard.

Beside that vibrant hallucination sat their instructor, who was going over something on the clipboard in her lap yet again. Those papers were probably their grading sheets, the thought of which caused Squall to hold back an involuntary shudder. He hoped that they were not being tested quite yet. Otherwise, they were going to fail before ever reaching the battlefield.

"Hey, show me your gunblade, will ya?" the voice belonged to Zell, who was currently seated next to him and being incredibly annoying. Squall closed his eyes, sorely tempted to just smack the living hell out of his companion. "Come on, man; please? Just a peek?"

Squall ignored the request.

"Tch, fine. . ." he rocked back in his seat, thumping against the wall of the transport loudly. A tremor ran down Squall's hand, made his fingers jerk at the sound as he fought down the sudden impulse to reach out and strangle the little brat. "Yeah, yeah. . .why you bein' so selfish?--"

Why are you being so stupid?

"--Scrooooooge!"

Moron.

"Just leave him alone, Zell. Squall isn't a very. . ." Quistis searched for the word as she cleaned her reading glasses. "Ah, sociable person."

"So?" Zell leaned back from both of them so that his shoulder was jammed into the sharp corner of the transport. It could not have been a very comfortable position. "Come on, Squall; s-say somethin', will ya? W-what's on your mind?"

The stutter in the boy's voice -- because Squall certainly thought of Zell as a boy, regardless of the fact that they were the same age -- prompted an automatic response:

". . .No--"

"Nothing!" Quistis cut in, finishing in unison with him. He shot a dirty glare in her direction, but she had looked away to cover a girlish giggle with her hand. His eyes caught on a twitch and silent curse from the pale apparition before both were hidden away under that confidently relaxed mask that the knight always wore in mixed company. Squall allowed some of the stiffness to ease out of his shoulders, content with the knowledge that his rival agreed with him: she never could play any of their games right -- the thought wholly childish and possessive.

Sienna-blue met vivid green then, filled with life and dreams and so much more, crashing the ideals he found within against the wall of morbid realism that Squall had built up over the years. The white shadow did nothing, was apparently unruffled by the obvious illness -- soulless sicknesses bleeding out through the skin, staining hands and clothing -- housed within his companion. Squall narrowed his eyes slightly, felt the pain between his brows as a harsh reminder of their battle, and stopped. He finally looked away, fixed his sight on the dent between his feet again.

The ice rushed to him, frigid hands brushing across the scar in hopes of numbing that pain, softly caressing his mind. He repressed the urge to shiver at its touch, settled instead for just closing his eyes. Its lips brushed across his thoughts, tainting them with the chill frost that followed it everywhere. It. It. That word, that thought, stretched first and foremost in his consciousness. It. The ice seemed to recoil, to draw into itself when he thought of it like that. Not it, it would say, would hiss if only the words had some sibilance. Never it. I am 'she'. I am 'her'; do you not remember? Another moment would pass before the acknowledgment, that brief nod telling it -- her, now -- that he understood.

He was pulled from the mind he had retreated into when he heard the knight shift, the sound followed by the thump of the hero's heavy blade against the bottom of the transport as he leaned forward. The knight began to speak -- though not to him -- and Squall paid little notion or heed to the words, listening only to the tone of voice. It sounded mocking, jeering; something playful in that bullying manner. And like any child Zell rose to the bait, shaking with anger and indignation as he tried to make a comeback. It apparently did not work because now the hallucination -- that fever dream which compelled the knight in existence -- was laughing, head down as though to give the boy some last fleeting glimpse of honor before ripping it away.

"So scary. What, you gonna hit me? Ooo, I'm shakin' now," Seifer went on to say, the sarcasm thick enough to choke on. Zell either did not notice or did not care, it was hard to tell -- because he stood, bouncing on his toes. The butterfly steps sounded loud and clunky on the transport floor as his fists came up to chin level, as if readying for a fight.

"You're damn right I'm gonna hit ya, jackass! Nobody calls me 'chicken'!"

Seifer was about to response to that threat, but Quistis sighed and hit him in the shoulder with her clipboard, and he stopped. "Knock it off. Both of you," she ended that with a glare. Zell gave the white knight the finger and fell back into his seat. Fate's noble hero just laughed, laying the Hyperion across his lap as he ran a hand over the flat of the blade.

". . .Instructor?" Squall asked after a long pause, looking up. She tilted her head to one side, a tiny sound of acknowledgment escaping her. He took a deep breath before posing his question, careful not to look at the other two young men in the transport. "Who was that girl in the infirmary this morning?"

"Was someone else in there? I must not have noticed," she replied thoughtfully, gazing up at the ceiling as if perhaps the answer had been written up there by some wayward student. "Why? Is there a problem?"

Squall shook his head, and went back to examining the dent between his feet. He heard the apparition across from him snicker.

"This is great. . .fuckin' great. I've got a six-year old Chickenwuss and Mr. Puberty in my squad. Better look out now, Galbadia!"

Quistis put her head in her hands, as Zell made another crude, angry gesture aimed at Seifer.

"Shove it, dickface!"

"Can't you two get along just this one time?"

"No." They answered, glaring at each other. Oh yes, it would be a very long fifteen minutes to Balamb City.