Pleasantly Depressed Ch 20 – "Of Paperclips and Acorns"
by Skandranon
Back and forth. Back and forth. Grrface scampered to one wall, fell over himself at the last minute and slammed into it, blinked and murred in surprise, then picked himself up and scampered back the other way. Repeat.
Squall could relate. He'd been ordered to his quarters unless under constant supervision. Four weeks now, of constant solitude in a building that housed hundreds. Getting stares as he walked the halls, from students wondering why their commander had suddenly acquired an armed escort everywhere he went. Whispers and rumors trying to puzzle why he'd dropped out of teaching all his classes. Why he never trained in the Center anymore. Why he took meals in his room, instead of with the other Orphans as he normally did.
Only a few of the rumors connected it to the death of Irvine Kinneas. Most of the talk about that centered on his grieving fiancée, now almost a widow. She was a brave little thing, they said. She tried to keep up a strong appearance, and go about duties as usual, but those that knew her well had learned how to predict when she was about to collapse to the floor weeping.
Technically, he might not be dead. The Timber Quarantine was absolute now; nothing went in, nothing came out. The last few stragglers had escaped it, and now anyone still inside was considered a hostile rebel and left to starve. Irvine hadn't been with the SeeDs that went through the Customs, and there was no way he could survive long in the barren town without supplies. But he might not be dead yet. Just trapped.
Not that it would matter in a month.
They were already writing it into the history books. The Quarantine of Timber. How an entire city was blocked off from the rest of the world to prevent the Grey Buel Rebels from spreading their biochemical terrorism to other regions. How civilians had been sacrificed to save countless more. How the Quarantine had worked, and the Rebels had been stopped completely. The books failed to mention Irvine, other than including him with the rest of the dead in a little blurb about "sacrifices to serve the common good".
Squall didn't know how to feel about it. He didn't trust his feelings these days. If he felt anything at all, he took one of the pills Kadowaki had given him that made everything fuzzy and grey.
The feathery touch on his hand was Grrface whining to be petted, and he watched as his hand scratched the bright fur.
Shiva?
Yes?
Just checking.
If he walked out the door, there were two men waiting to follow him. They changed regularly, and weren't keen on talking, so he hadn't bothered to learn any names.
They'd taken away his gunblade, and his daggers and pocketknife and kitchen knives and razor and pens and belts and pistols and nail file and toothbrush and don't ask him why they took the toothbrush, he didn't know. The magazines because they had sharp edges, the clothes hangers and paperclips, his bed frame and couch because of the metal springs. He had to fill out a form to use shampoo because he might try swallowing it. They'd overridden the lock code on his door, and he was checked on at random intervals.
He got asked forty times a day if he was okay, but no one had bothered to ask how he felt about Irvine.
"Prftgka?" Big black eyes gazed up at him.
He pulled the kitten into his lap and stroked its chin. "I'm fine."
"Grwajedek."
"Yeah. I'm bored too."
The fluffy ball wriggled under his shirt and popped its head through the collar, tickling his neck with its whiskers. "Nyakrekregrwoo."
"We'll go out to the Quad later. I don't want to deal with the bodyguards until I have to." He talked to Grrface now as if the critter could understand him. He figured it didn't matter if he got just a little more insane. And the critter liked to pretend it could talk back, so it kept both of them occupied.
Paws kneaded his chest with the claws carefully withdrawn. Claws were bad; they led to cursing Squall and being tossed across the room to land on the beanbag. Not that that wasn't fun. "Kchdsedaa."
"Yeah, I don't like it either. But it's for my own good."
Grrface snorted to show what he thought of that.
"Well what do you expect me to do?"
The moomba slithered out of his shirt and did a flying pounce on his pillow, sinking his teeth in and shaking it savagely.
"I can't do that. They'd just lock me in the brig, and then you couldn't play with me."
Grrface was enjoying his game too much to respond, so Squall left him to it.
Shiva?
Yes?
Just checking… how are things in there?
Normal as one can expect. Bored?
To death. I'm thinking of an animal…
Belhelmel.
Dang.
Guessing games don't really work when you're connected telepathically.
He had a deity and a moomba to keep him company. More than he was normally used to. And he had never been lonelier.
They just left him there to starve to death.
He's probably dead already. The survivors say things were pretty intense.
He could survive it. He's one of the Orphans. He's in there alive, somewhere. Waiting for a rescue team that will never come.
They couldn't risk it. The Rebels, remember.
Fuck the Rebels. I'd go in there and kill every one of them to ensure they didn't get out. Then the barricade could be taken down and Irvine could be found.
Before Shiva could even say Don't you dare think of it, an idea hatched.
I could, couldn't I.
No. Squall, no. You're under supervision. You're sick.
The moomba had noticed the change in demeanor, and came trotting over to see what was up. "Mrowmekha?"
Squall ruffled its fur with more enthusiasm than he'd felt in a while. "What do you think, Grrface? Do you think I should go save Irvine?"
"Rrrrjen?"
"I'll take that as a yes."
"Shashametra!" The kitten fell over itself with excitement and tried to climb into his shirt, but the brunet shooed him aside.
"Sorry, fuzzball, you can't come with." He grabbed his coat from the floor and pulled on his boots.
Squall, NO.
You'd do it for me.
…That's different.
No it's not.
You're unstable.
I'm not doing anyone any good here. I'm going. You can come, or I can unjunction you and risk the consequences. Your choice.
…I'll come.
He checked himself over, and nodded. He'd have to pick up supplies on the way. Turning back, he gave the moomba one last affectionate scratch on the ears. "Be good. Go hide in Selphie's room and cheer her up."
"Grawooken."
He marched to the door and jabbed the panel. It slid open to show a pair of fellows surprised to see him out and about before 2 pm. They recovered quickly, though, and stared down at him dispassionately with weapons at the ready. If he went crazy on them, or tried anything, they'd be ready to restrain and subdue him.
Squall smirked.
Irvine bit back a curse, lest the sound attract unwanted attention. He glared reprovingly at his finger, which insolently kept bleeding.
Second time I've done that. Concrete is bloody hard to dig through.
He stuck the finger in his mouth to suck out any dirt and continued on with the other hand. The broken flecks of concrete rubble took some time to get through, but finally he reached his goal and pulled it out by the roots.
Spitting out the gristle, he tore into the dandelion's stem and chewed away. Sharp and bitter, but good eating. Helped prevent against warts too, according to the old medicine woman that lived in Wannig, not that warts were much importance to him.
A diet of weeds and dog meat wasn't the highlight of his life, but it kept the belly full. The real problem was water, since the rebels had poisoned what was in the pipes. Thankfully it had rained few nights ago and he'd managed to fashion a water trap out of a window drape.
A clanking from down the street had him ghosting into the shadows to listen. Human feet, moving fast, but not in his direction. Stumbling. Not everyone was doing as well as him.
Satisfied with his small meal, he took to the rooftops as soon as it was clear. The view of the sunrise was lovely, and from here he could see the barricade, twenty feet high and stretching in both directions for a mile before curving out of sight.
Wonder what Selphie's up to now. The root was even bitterer, but it was where all the nutrients were, so he gnawed. Is it June? I think it's June. That would mean the Childbright fundraiser's coming up. I won't be there to lug boxes of canned food for her. Maybe she'll get Squall to help her.
I hope he got looked after. Heck, they probably found a cure by now and he's back to his grouchy self. Two streets down a cat walked across the littered asphalt, busy hunting its own supper. Bet they're throwing some party for him to celebrate, and thinking, "Gee, we wish Irvine was here. No wait, he would hit on all the ladies and leave none for us. That darn selfish horndog."
Sitting up here, he could almost imagine he'd scaled a tree back in Galbadia to eat apples, after riding across the plains all day on his favorite chocobo. Dandelion almost tasted like acorn, actually. The same bitterness that told you it was good for you. And across from him on a limb would be some rodent or bird, squawking for him to get out of their bloody tree, dang it!
He glanced in the direction of the imagined bird, and all he saw was empty air, then beyond it, another building. Off in the distance was the sound of machines instead of crickets. But if he squinted, it was almost the same.
Except for the gunfire. Hyne, that was nearby. Better take a look see.
A wind up, and a running leap cleared the gap between buildings, and Irvine sprinted off towards the sound. He'd traded out his boots for tattered loafers a while back, and they were perfectly quiet on the concrete roof. Another leap, and he was a block closer. And then the battle was below him.
He settled into the edge of a heating vent to take in the show. Looks like the Rebels were turning on each other in desperate times. Their last bit of ammunition wasted in sporadic shots that missed the target completely. Amateurs.
He just hoped they took the dead home before eating them this time. He hadn't enjoyed watching that.
A bullet pinged off the wall and sliced through his cheek. He threw himself backwards and scrambled away from the edge, hand clamped to block off the blood flow. They really are amateurs. Couldn't hit a cliffside unless they were aiming away from it. Better get out of range.
A hasty retreat to the homestead and careful inspection of the wound with the shiny side of a hubcap. Need to wash it out. Gun wound will leave powder and lead splinters.
The angle didn't allow for a bandage, so he let it be, but watched until it congealed into a wet scab.
Ah well. Now to visit the garden.
He snuck across town, inching around every corner, though at this point there was no need. He'd probably already seen all the people he'd encounter today. The city was pretty much deserted. Ten blocks put him at an apartment complex with its front door torn off. In the middle of the building was a cramped courtyard with a few bushes and a tree, and most importantly, grass.
And among the grass were growing wild strawberries, which he'd had his eye on for a few days.
Well hello there. Five ripe ones this morning. Much better on the taste buds than roots and mangy meat. He popped one into his mouth and sighed blissfully. Ah, much better.
Next up was the roost. Four more blocks put him at a church. He navigated the scaffolding to get to the roof, where the pigeons had their nests. As always, they were not pleased to see him, and warbled and fluffed their pinions.
"Ah come on, I'm not gonna eatcha. If I want pigeon I hunt the ones down by the fountain. They're plumper." He flicked one off its nest and palmed the pair of eggs inside. "Thank ya kindly, be back in a few days." With a wink he was back down to the ground floor, and sucked the yolk raw lounging in the pews.
He asked his belly if it was still hungry, and it answered "Duh". So on he went to the park.
The "park" was an insult to his rural senses. A smattering of trees locked into steel cages, set in a square around benches and a few flowerboxes. But the trees were hickories.
Ignoring his urge to climb the trees for pure nostalgia's sake, he scooped up the few nuts that had fallen to the cold stone ground. Don't have to worry about nutterbugs infecting them here, so they're all probably still good. Hickories were a hassle to crack and dig the meat out of, but oh were they tasty. He pocketed them for now, though. They would require being smashed with a large rock or cinderblock to open them, and the noise was sure to attract attention.
And now to return to his homestead deep in the archive section of the library, and nap in the dusty armchairs, and daydream. Ah, the ever dangerous, ever challenging life of a SeeD.
Author's Notes – Heh, you thought he was in trouble, didn't you? Nah, Irvine's just dandy. Everything he ate in this chapter is really edible, and has been eaten by yours truly during my woods romping days. Ah, nostalgia.