This chapter contains character death!
Death is one of two things. Either it is nothingness, and the dead have no consciousness of anything; or, as people say, it is a change and migration of the soul from this place to another.
—Socrates
Chapter Eleven
The commission report had been filed by one Kiros Seagill, Chief Adviser of the President of Esthar. There had been complaints for some time in Esthar of a radical group which compared the benevolence of President Loire to the tyrannical ways of Sorceress Adel. President Loire, in the early years of their insurgency—for this instance had been stretching for some time—had ordered the assassination of their leaders, with the greatest hesitation (a Galbadian sniper had been brought it). The group had used those assassination as the backing for some of their attacks on Central.
The President had been put under constant guard and surveillance, once again under great hesitation (and no doubt a whole shit load of complaints; Irvine remembered those guards, and remembered how annoyed Laguna had become every time he turned a corner or tried to lock a door and found more of those silent, stoic men standing there with impassive faces), for his protection. There were riots in Central and other, smaller Estharin villages. Several innocent people were killed, and the blame placed on the Esthar Volunteer Army. President Loire had disbanded the army, under pressure and much less hesitation.
Then, the attacks had begun. Advisers and their families were being blackmailed by the radical group; women and children in villages were being held hostage, and then killed even after the President negotiated their release. There were bombings of food transportation. The radical group began to breed the seeds of bigoted hatred in the Estharin people.
On one outing from Central, the President's convoy was attacked. President Loire had been grievously injured, as well as sixteen other officials. One Ward Zabac, also a Chief Adviser to the President, had been killed. The radical group and its supports had been flushed out of Esthar; they had fled the confines of the nations capitol area; north, into the holy Grandidi Forest.
Trabia had villages in the northern reaches of the Grandidi. Because of the seclusion from other areas, they relied on Esthar as their main source for food and supplies; in return, Trabia traded weapons stock and other such things to Esthar for their army, despite its disbandment.
It was the belief of the Estharin Advisers, Kiros in particular, that the next attack would be on the train line that ran between Central and the Trabian town in Grandidi. There was to be a transport of weaponry from Trabia into Esthar, as President Loire was making moves to rebuild the army as a compulsory fixture, and needed to strengthen the military base with supplies. It was supposed that the insurgents would do anything they could to stop such a transport, attempt to overthrow the government in a coup d'etat and return Esthar to its xenophobic mannerisms.
The missions itself was perhaps childish to an untrained ear. Entailed was the idea that several SeeDs—paid quite handsomely from the Estharin Treasury—would be placed on the transport train to arrest and/or kill any insurgents that attempted to hijack or destroy the train. However, there were several layers to this.
The first, and most obvious, was that the transport was a civilian train line. Because Esthar and Trabia were both so basically demilitarized, everything was handled by such lines; and the only line that went through straight to Central was a line that ran as civilian transport. There were to be no civilian casualties, except those of the insurgents.
The second, and perhaps more dangerous, was that there was nothing defining about the insurgents. They did no go about boasting their alliances, nor waving about machine guns and speaking of coups. Most of them were average work-a-days, and a select few were defectors from various military groups around the world. Because of this, they were unpredictable and considered hostile; these were men and women driven into a corner, and cornered animals had a tendency to fight harder than ones that could freely run.
Commander Leonheart, all of twenty-six years old and son of President Loire of Esthar, assigned fifteen young SeeDs onto the transport. Most were green, having seen only their final exam mission and perhaps one or two other, smaller ones. But two of them were no fresh leaves blown into the wind by their commanding officer.
The first was Selphie Tilmet. She was young, competent, and deadly with nunchaku and GFs. She was to man a group of six Junior SeeDs to cover the front half of the train, including the passenger areas and engine room.
The second was Irvine Kinneas, a bright and brilliant sharpshooter who had been trained in Galbadia and had become a SeeD late in his life; and though slower with magic and GFs, he was a force to be reckoned with. His group of seven Junior SeeDs was to watch over the carrier cars, to make sure the weaponry being brought in was safe and untreated and that there were no stow-aways on the train.
It was a basic mission. Enter, and arrest. It should have been easy.
But Irvine had learned, early in life, that those were damning words.
"Having fun?"
Selphie turned and smiled at Irvine, nodding enthusiastically. "The scenery out here is so pretty," she said, bouncing on her toes and humming tunelessly as she watched thick trees whip passed the train's windows.
"I'm surprised how little damage they did to the area. It's peaceful."
She looked up at him, taking in the somber lines of his face. Then, she grinned knowingly and elbowed him in the gut. When he looked down at her, she winked. "Missing Squally already?"
He only rolled his eyes, knowing it was worthless to argue with the younger girl. He leaned his back against the window, staring at the corridor wall stupidly. Selphie returned to humming and murmuring quietly to herself about the scenery and the train ride. A couple of their subordinates wandered by, saluting them tiredly.
It was a six hour train ride from pick-up to drop-off, and there had been an eerie silence for the two hours they'd been on the train. They wouldn't even break the line of the forest for another two or three hours, depending on the number of monsters impeding their path; then, it was a winding line down to Central.
"Think anything will happen?" Selphie asked of Irvine, though she stayed faced to the window. He shrugged.
"Maybe not." He smiled a little, stretching widely. "At least we're not in uniform for this mission. Though I have to admit, I don't really fit the part of an Estharin countryman; I'd've been better off as some sorta bastard Trabian."
"Well, you work with what you got." She ruffled his hair, and said, "At least it's not so long any more. Easier to tuck up and everything." He smiled a little, grabbing her hand and kissing her fingers. A quiet sigh left her lips in listless nostalgia, and then disappeared to the stagnant air.
After a while, she said, "You're antsy. You should call Squally."
"He'll chew me out." She cocked a brow at him, and Irvine sighed. "Why does everyone think everything I say is a euphemism?" When she looked ready to answer, he jabbed a finger at her and said, "Don't answer that."
Then, he wandered off, returning to the baggage car. It was cold there, and poorly insulated, but it was quiet enough and nobody really came in. Not even Irvine's men.
He pulled out his portable phone and quickly dialed Squall's private line. When he got the audio machine, he hung up, and dialed again for Squall's office line through the front desk.
Simione picked up, and was obviously perturbed that she couldn't see the caller. "Balamb Garden, Headmaster and Commanders' Offices. This is Simione, how might I direct your call?"
"Simione, it's Irvine." She breathed a sigh of relief. "Is Squall in his office?"
"He is, Instructor. Would you like me to patch you through?" Her voice echoed with the relief which had permeated her every step after Marissa Ganover and Leena Worthily's attempt to ruin Irvine's reputation had been thwarted. He replied affirmatively, and there was a quiet buzz as the call was transferred.
Squall answered briskly. "Why are you wasting my good money to call me when you're going to see me in a few days?"
"Well, fine. I was going to talk dirty for you, but if you're going to be so frigid about it, I'll call Seifer and talk to him." Squall let out a quiet sigh, and Irvine could hear the scratch of his pen dying off. There was a click—Squall must have picked up the phone instead of keeping it on speaker—and then dead silence.
"Hi," Squall finally muttered.
"Hello yourself, sexy. Missed me?"
"Not really," Squall said with a quiet, almost reluctant sigh. Irvine made a quiet noise of disbelief.
"What, is Rinoa in town? Are you gettin' laid?"
"You're horrible." But there was a laughing edge to those words. It made Irvine smile a little. "How's the mission so far?" Trust Squall to kill a mood.
"We've been on a train for two hours. How do you think it's been?"
"Everything under control?"
"Yop. Not an insurgent in sight. Selphie's convinced it's not for real; just a threat, yo. No biggie. We should be home right on time." He let that sit, before lowering his voice and huskily saying, "You waitin' up for me?"
"Not likely. But I promise to be appropriately up when you manage to barge into my apartments and jump into my bed."
"That's a good boy." There was another bout of silence, then Irvine smiled, and leaned back against somebody's luggage. "So. What're you wearing?"
". . . my uniform."
"Nothin' else?" Irvine was enjoying his little game, no matter its lack of subtlety. He wasn't paid to be subtle. He was paid to blow big fucking holes in things.
"You're a pervert."
"Mhm. A pervert who, I'm guessing, is going to be bent over your vid-comm desk as soon as I get back." There was a slight hitch in Squall's breath—inhale through the mouth, and his lips would part just a little. Irvine allowed himself a sly little grin. "Gah, getting fucked is sounding like a really nice idea right now."
"You better be somewhere where nobody can hear you," Squall hissed. Irvine assured him that he was, shaking his head slightly.
"Besides," Irvine laughed, "everybody knows."
"Random civilians don't."
"You might wanna make that announcement to Esthar at some point. Being the Once and Future King's Son and all."
Irvine was about to say more, when he heard a sudden bout of noise from up near the front of the next car. He furrowed his brow, slowly raising, and, ignoring whatever Squall had just said, quietly murmured, "I'll call you back."
He clicked the phone shut, tucked it among his things, and grabbed the Exeter.
And as he stepped into the next car, 'basic' was shot all to holy hell.
He awoke in a hospital room, listening to the slightly erratic bleep-blip of his heart. Everything felt torn and bruised; like he'd been thrown up against a wall and then stomped on by a good fifty-ton something-or-another for good measure after he hit the floor. He could feel bandages and broken bones, and tried to remember what had happened.
Kiros, Squall, and a wheel-chair ridden Laguna, were arranged around his bed as he slowly blinked open his eyes and looked around. Squall was on his feet quickly, sitting on the edge of the bed and brushing loose hair out of Irvine's face, smiling a wet, despairing smile. Irvine didn't like that smile; he grimaced and asked (with a voice that sounded like he'd just chain-smoked five cartoons and then given someone a blow job), "Okay, honestly. Will the ladies ever love me again?"
"You're a jackass," Squall growled, shaking his head and laughing thickly. "But, god . . . you're alive."
"What happened?"
"You don't remember?" Laguna asked. He sounded like he hadn't slept in about a month; or maybe he'd just been up, listening to Squall fret endlessly for long enough that it was about the same amount of stress. Irvine shook his head slowly, looking around at the three older men.
It was, surprisingly enough, Laguna who told him in a calm and even voice: there had, indeed, been insurgents on the train, just as they'd suspected. They had not hijacked the train or threatened to derail it. Simply, they had stood at the head of each passenger car, and had revealed that they were carrying bombs on their person.
The SeeDs had managed to get the passengers pretty calmed down, and a couple of the insurgents were even 'disarmed' (Irvine heard that as 'killed') without their bombs going off.
But two or three of the bombers, they hadn't been knocked out. They had blown their bombs.
"How many are dead?" Irvine asked hoarsely, already dreading the noise. Some of them would be SeeDs. Most of them would be innocent civilians. It was the sort of movement that sparked civil wars; Irvine, in childhood, had heard of such an act releasing Trabia from Galbadia's domination.
Laguna couldn't say, literally. He looked desperately to Kiros, who sighed, and continued on, explaining that, because the attack had been staged in the forest, it was hard to tell the exact number of casualties. Monsters had gotten some of the people. Those closest to the bombs would have been instantly torn asunder or incinerated.
They did know that six of them were SeeDs. The others hadn't been identified in the rubble.
That was three weeks ago, and they still couldn't find most of the bodies to be sent to family for proper burial.
"And . . . Selphie?"
He knew before the words had left his mouth.
He knew, he knew, he knew.
He was alive, because he had been stupid and had gone off for selfish reasons. The other SeeDs were dead. Selphie was—.
Quistis said, when they returned to Balamb, "This is our line of work. Our duty. Each and every one of us knows that we won't live very long. Selphie knew, going in, that she could have died. You know that." But that didn't erase the ache.
Zell said, in an attempt to be consoling, "She was lucky. Close enough to die fast, but far enough away that we could retrieve her remains and ID her." But that just made Irvine sick.
Squall said nothing. He didn't trust Irvine to be alone, though—or at least that was what he told Irvine and everybody who asked when he had Irvine's things moved into his apartments. They didn't speak of it. Irvine didn't speak of much of anything.
No more Selphie to commiserate horrible students with. No more Selphie for warm, soft hugs and genuine advise on things that she should, with every right, have been trying to sabotage. No more late night binge drinking and strip malls in Deling City and laughing about stupid stuff when the world just didn't seem to go the right way.
"I want you to talk with Kadowaki," Squall told him one night. "She's . . . good with this sort of thing."
"I don't need to talk to anybody," Irvine assured, trying to smile, as he crawled atop Squall's prostrate form and then kissed him with a hungry determination. "I'm fine."
So Squall didn't talk about it.
But their were dreams, and days when Irvine just couldn't seem to crawl out of bed and face the day. When he'd been like this, as a child in Galbadia Garden, it had meant he had weeks on end of detentions (until Martine decided discipline was not the answer with Irvine); now, there was nothing to distract him from the dreams of death.
And it was so stupid, that he was alive and the other fourteen were dead. It didn't make any sense. He should have been with them, scouring the train and looking for those men with those bombs (and he wondered how nobody caught them when they got on; bombs were bulky).
"I shouldn't be crying about this," he told Squall one very early morning, staring blindly at the ceiling and wondering why he couldn't sleep; he was exhausted. "I mean, I didn't cry when Mom died."
"Selphie wasn't your mother," Squall murmured into his pillow.
"But I—." I'm a soldier. I'm a SeeD. So is she. We know we'll die before we're supposed to. Why can't I stop crying about it? Why is this any different than anybody else dying?
It ached, like someone had taken a chunk out of his stomach and left him with this gaping hole. Like he had lost a piece of himself. He supposed, deeply, that he had.
One day, as he lazed about the nursed his afflicted soul, he thought that this must be something very close to what Squall felt at most times. It was no wonder the brunette was always so distant and reclusive; to become close left you with that ache, and Irvine thought, perhaps, that the ache would never go away. Squall held himself so far off, and then when he did manage to mingle in, he grabbed a hold as hard as he could, horrified of letting go. Horrified of that ache.
That night, as Squall trudged in looking for all the world as if he had just been blow to hell, Irvine looked up from his fingers and said in a stern, knowing voice, "I love you."
For a moment, Squall just stared at him. Then, he looked away, removing his uniform. There was silence, until Squall climbed onto the bed.
He wrapped his arms around Irvine's shoulders and straddled his legs, pulling the redhead close. Irvine clutched at Squall helplessly, eyes wide and slowly leaking tears. Squall didn't say anything for quite some time, before he pulled back and smiled very softly.
"I know." There was the silence there, packed with words: I love you too and I'm sorry and a million other things that tried to fill up the empty space in Irvine's heart, and nearly succeeded.
Squall was no Selphie. There would be no chipper energy and random hugs in the hallway, no heartfelt understanding of the difficulties of putting up with kids who didn't really know what they were doing.
But it was a start at least.