Disclaimer: I don't own Final Fantasy 8, or Neil Gaiman's work.
Fool's Gold
By giggleplex
Chapter 7: New Age
She seems so cool, so focused, so quiet, yet her eyes remain fixed upon the horizon.
You think you know all there is to know about her immediately upon meeting her, but everything you think you know is wrong. Passion flows through her like a river of blood.
She only looked away for a moment, and the mask slipped, and you fell. All your tomorrows start here.
- Neil Gaiman, "Strange Little Girls" (New Age)
She was an absolute mystery to him.
She had beaten him; beaten all of them as a woman which was unheard of. She rarely spoke but was gaining an adoring following, just as he had in the past. She was utterly androgynous and yet was beautiful in a way that no other girl he knew was beautiful.
And above all, she was inspiring a mystery in himself: he often wondered why he watched her, smelled her shampoo as she walked by, and listened to her distant conversations to other people. She was a mystery, because she mysteriously was the catalyst for his unspoken obsession.
He wondered if she was into some sort of backwoods voodoo and had cast a spell on him. But she was certainly not the sort to believe in superstition. From the top of her immaculately smooth head to her polished black boots, she was the image of pure practicality.
Despite all of this, it took him a long while to connect her success with actual physical power. She still appeared delicate. He saw her power in her presence, and growingly careless charisma that was outlined with an impossibly sweet disposition.
She had gone from nothing (or perhaps more than he was willing to admit to himself at the time), to absolutely everything.
He found himself alone more often then not. His temper was becoming shorter with his peers, and they were avoiding them with increasing ease. However, whenever he found himself in the desolate quiet of solitude, his thoughts always scampered back to the enigmatic Quistis Trepe.
He had learned her schedule. Occasionally, he would see her in the Garden hallways in between his own lessons. He couldn't help but remember which corridors she traveled at which days at which times. Sometimes, he wouldn't even realize that he would seek out those hallways.
Just the sight of her put him at an indescribable euphoria. He had perfected his outward countenance of uncaring simplicity. She did not notice him, and he took that to be an ease of his conscience. As long as she did not see him, there was nothing to worry about.
Eventually, he discovered her room. Out of window of his own double-dormitory, he would see the light beyond the blinds flash on for a few minutes very late in the evening. Her window was across the courtyard, but it seemed miles away.
For weeks, he could not sleep until he witnessed the light flicker on—and then off again. That brief flash, as brief as a few seconds or a few minutes, became a day more significant than the actual days at Garden. It gave him peace enough not to dream at night.
Usually, he could predict to look out his window at around 11:30 PM on most nights. The light was usually prompt in it's scheduled shine, and he knew that she was in her bed no later than midnight every evening.
It was 12:14 AM and no one had returned.
His unease showed in restlessness. He drummed his fingers and tapped his foot, grateful that he no longer had a roommate to worry about. Then, he didn't even remember to think about his lack of roommate.
It was 12:20 and she still had not turned on her light.
He ran a hand through his hair. His hands seemed very cold on his scalp, but not as cold as the rain outside.
Seifer began to wonder where she went each night that kept her up so late after curfew. He was sure she was somewhere else—it would be too much of a coincidence for her to mysteriously wake up at the same time each night. Did she mull around the training center for hours? Did she sneak out to Balamb with some of the SeeDs?
Did she have a boyfriend that she saw each night?
He wouldn't have considered his musings concern, but they were suspiciously similar.
With his final thought, he felt a stirring in his bones. Seifer could not help but rise from his desk, give one intense look toward across the courtyard, and make his way out the door. If she was out that late and an absolute pet of every instructor at Garden, then no one could accuse him of violating curfew.
It was eerie, walking down the deserted hallways that were usually congested with giggling, gossiping trainees. Seifer could almost imagine that the world was desolate, and always had been, but he spotted scuff marks on the walls and floors to prove that people had traveled those paths.
He almost lost himself, in the lack of sound.
It was so quiet, he felt deafened as his ears were eerily unaccustomed to such absence of stimulation. He was gliding on his feet.
Seifer made his way to the large open entrance hallway. The lights were dimmed as a way of conserving electricity, but the fact that they were still on assured him that his presence there was not a transgression of any Garden rules.
He knew that the training center was the only place besides the dorm that was open that time of night. He was almost struck with the grueling efficiency in such an opportunity. If there were trainees out of bed, they might as well contribute to their growth as efficient warriors. It was not difficult to understand that there was little humanity in the way Garden cared for its children.
But—surely she was not in the training center at this time of night?
Seifer rested his arms against the stone railing that led to the east side of the building. The fountains still sung monotonously, with the ever-trembling water pouring luxuriously out of the gaping mouths of elegant fish sculptures. Even the lights that illuminated the fountains were turned off. It was rather eerie for him to depend more on his recollection and sense of hearing to give his mind the suggestion of a fountain. The water was dark, and the world underneath the pathway would have seemed solid if not for the occasional flickering reflection of light.
He suddenly recalled that this was around the same area that Xu confronted him, at one point. Seifer frowned.
He still refused to admit to her emotional logic. It wasn't his fault.
Turning away from the shadowy pool, he continued toward the training center with a rapid stride, trying not to think too much.
The green of the training areas was sickly to his hazy, sleep-deprived awareness. It shined like the neon sign of the Balamb tavern. There was a certain element to its beckoning that suggested it was not there to open you with welcome arms. He sniffed, and wiped his dry nose with the back of his hand. The quietness of Garden was rather intimidating.
The hall of the training center had lights that buzzed with a different tone than the enveloping belly of Garden. It was still just as cold.
Seifer was just about to push open the doors to the main practice grounds, when a stray light caught his eye. Adjacent to the battle simulation room were a few decrepit, private practice rooms that most instructors did not favor because of their size. Seifer had only been in them a few times, but mostly with the intention of doing something that he did not want the staff to know he did.
The waning light that shined through a thin slip of wire-webbed window blinked, and Seifer knew that someone was there. Without so much of a sigh, he walked as if in a trance to the window. His neck craned on its own accord.
His eyes widened, just in time to clearly see a body twisted in a backwards "c" shape, and jump into a deadly and delicate and beautiful kick that would have knocked a grown man off of his feet. His psychological interpretation was focused entirely on the overall shape of the creature through the glass.
Then he saw her face and was embarrassingly awed all over again. She was there.
While her back was turned toward him, and her body taught in concentration, he pushed open the ill-closed door and slipped inside.
She made no motion that suggested she noticed his presence. She held two knives that looked somewhat out of place in her long fingers, but the deadly movements she danced were easy to interpret as the excercises of more than a delicate amateur.
The lighting was dreadfully sparse, but it gave contours to her face that even he could not have imagined. He could see the curves of her biceps as well as the womanly curve of her hips. He could see the shadows from her abdomen muscles through her sweaty t-shirt.
She spun. His head was spinning . . .
She must have been dizzy, but not as dizzy as he was.
Her long arms and legs flowed like waves with perfect flexibility and perfect strength. This was more than the stilted katas taught to SeeD trainees. It was a dance that could only be called her own, to an unearthly song that only she could hear.
He could not hear her breathe with any difficulty. Her movements flowed with the fluidity of practice and ease. She looked calmer than he could remember.
Could he remember her?
When he looked at her under the sparse lights and saw her dance the deadly dance, something caught in his mind like a widespread tree in the torrent of a flooded river. She was no one he knew.
She would not wear a felt cap and cry on his shoulder. No one who could move like that would ever admit fear.
She would not stare at him through ungainly glasses, over a pointy nose. No one who could move like that would ever appear so awkward.
She was no one he knew.
He could see her, and he suddenly recalled all past incarnations of the enigma with the knives and the curves and the sweaty t-shirt. They seemed little more than parts, than pieces, than leaves, than petals, than seafoam—to what was before him. Each year before was a candle, and while the flame passed from wick to wick—she was a brazier and no longer the lone candle that catalyzed the journey of light.
And suddenly he leapt back—
A knife trembled in the particle-board behind his head. It did not shake for long; it was a strong weapon.
His head slowly turned toward its source, and Seifer suddenly realized that he should never have stepped inside the room uninvited.
Her eyes were ice, and he felt sweat kindle on the back of his neck. All he could see was that deep icy blue; the shade of polar waters. She could have killed him. He did not know who this girl was and he waltzed right in to a scene that he had no right to witness.
He earned no right to encounter such tantalizing beauty.
She was fuming. She still had not said anything.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, automatically falling into a default attitude of indifference and self-confidence. The back of his neck was still sweating.
But . . . it was not in him to apologize. He opened his mouth, knowing that he just needed to say 'sorry' and the worst would be over. He closed it before he could intone a syllable. With those eyes boring into him, scalping his soul, he could not say anything. Seifer had never apologized in his life, and he would not start then.
Finally, she seemed to tire of her silence and unspoken fury. She swung her remaining knife around a finger. It flickered like a weakened strobe light, and it was impossible to ignore.
She wore baggy brown pants that hid her legs but aided her overall impression of complete self-sufficiency. He wondered, vaguely, if she had blonde eyelashes.
"Tell me why you're here." She demanded.
And suddenly his daze was broken. He had come there to find her, and to assure himself that she was alright—and she still continued that charade of unfounded anger? He found himself tense without much reason for it.
But it was impossible not to feel some of her attitude seeping into his.
"Maybe I want to be friends with you?" his tone was lofty. It was automatic.
"Oh please, Almasy," she rolled her eyes "why on earth would we want to be friends when we're so good at being enemies?"
Enemies, huh, he thought to himself.
"I wouldn't really consider us enemies." He retorted.
"Is that so." She was examining her knife as if he wasn't worth her time. With a stroke of anger, he realized that she could very well be ignoring everything that he would say.
His fists clenched. He couldn't forget her, but there she was, forgetting him when he had yet to leave the room.
It was sickening. Disappointing. Infuriating.
"I insulted you once, big deal." He drawled, channeling his anger into an acidic tone "Now you think the entire fucking world is against you."
She didn't even flinch, but she did look up. Her eyes bore into him like icy spotlights.
Her tongue swept between her teeth, but her mouth did not open. He couldn't help but stare as her cheek bulged.
"Let us speak frankly, Almasy." Her words were so even it was difficult to determine any emotion they carried "I've seen you in your invincible paradigm, your lofty platform above all of us. You think yourself beyond the scope of human understanding, but I do think I have you figured out."
She smiled, as sweet as she would have at a well-tempered child. If anything, this made him angrier.
"You surround yourself with adoration. You need a physical or verbal reminder of your supposed superiority every second of the day, because not-so-deep down, you suspect that you aren't quite as perfect as you'd lead yourself to believe.
"Your friends are impressive in their own right, but not too impressive. You don't want anyone to outshine you in anything you waste time with—namely weapons and women. Once they do start to get a little too good at fighting or a little too successful with girls, you alienate them as quick as you can.
"I think you'd call me an enemy, only because while I was never exactly your friend, you know I can beat you in any weapon's contest you propose. My superiority in this sense is enough for you to despise me."
Abrupt silence proceeded.
For once, Seifer Almasy did not have a suitable retort.
She was . . . wrong! He was not so weak as to be perpetually second-guessing his own . . . he wasn't so arrogant as to consider genius one of his conceptual possessions . . .
He didn't view people as possessions either! He wasn't so bad, so self-centered and so much of an egomaniac as to be considered a sociopath.
And dammit, he wasn't trying to justify himself to his own mind! That was absurd.
But he hadn't ever thought about himself as a good person, or at least a better person. He had accepted his own moral faults with good face, or at least he had at one time. What was he doing, justifying them, brushing them off and attempting to write off his personality as something not inherently rotten, but simply misunderstood?
Okay. So maybe he was arrogant. He was human . . . maybe not humane. He was arrogant, but he had a right to be!
Who was she to—
She had insulted his fighting ability! A woman insulted him without remorse over something she couldn't possibly understand! Instructor Valentine had just held her to the lower expectations of her own gender; she had no real basis for her insult. Observation.
Damn her.
She was held to lower expectations only because she was a girl, and she was gloating over him. Who was arrogant?!
"You're out of your mind." He stated.
"I'm that right, hmm?" she took his unhelpful reply as a way to prove that her theory was correct.
He glared at her. He glared at his obsession. She was annoying him, and he wished that she could go back to the sweet shadow that he had supposed her to be, and not a poisonous, smirking, snake of a woman that was staring at him in controlled amusement.
He wanted to make her snivel and cry and do anything besides stand up for herself.
"Fine!" his jaw clenched. "I propose a damn 'contest'!"
"Oh?"
That haunting look of false confusion was infuriating.
"You've got a lot of nerve talkin' to me like that!"
"I'm sorry if I offended you," her smile was fading "I only meant to give you a little constructive criticism."
"I'll fight you."
She took an eternity to answer. Or perhaps, with the blood pumping in his ears and his fingertips warming up in anticipation, what seemed like an eternity was only a few moments.
"Finally." She said softly.
"What?!"
"Nothing, nothing." She trailed off in seeming disinterest again. "State your rules."
"You'll fight me?"
"Despite your ineloquent words, I accept your challenge."
She turned slowly, and bowed, throwing out a weary hand in a gesture of mocking. Her hand swept invisible slashes toward the weapons rack on the far wall from where she was standing. Seifer had barely noticed it before, but now looked at it with increasing interest.
It was nearly ten feet wide, made of thick wooden planks that looked to be recycled from a more utilitarian use than the display of practice weapons. The boards were drilled with randomly interspersed holes that had been carefully gutted from rusty screws, so that the entire material would not be useless. It was shabby, but built carefully.
The weapons themselves had been each carefully wrapped with padding and fastened with zip-ties, to blunt the edges of the blades and soften the blows. They were equipped for practice bouts, rather than true combat. However, under the white cotton padding, the steel and wood was dark with age. Seifer knew that there was only one way that weapons could spend such years—in Garden at least. He wondered where they came from and how they came to a young orphan trainee like Quistis Trepe. He wondered, subconsciously but calculating, how many people they had slain.
"Choose your weapon. I am afraid that while my collection is small, I really have no intention of waiting for you to go get your favorite toy-sword from your dormitory. It's actually past my bedtime."
He looked at the heavy weapons with an indescribably expression. Perhaps his lightweight blades and whips were like toys compared to her collection. He knew it was past her bedtime, and while it worried him at one point, he was not quite ready to give her up.
"Oh and you might as well choose mine." She smirked.
"You can't have mastered all of these?" he said, disbelieving.
She smiled and said nothing. "No, I couldn't have."
He knew there was something she wasn't telling him. However, she looked so damn sure of herself in her sweat-dampened SeeD uniform and her slight smile that he could tell had nothing to do with happiness . . .
Seifer pondered. No, there truly was no way she had mastered all of them—no SeeD let alone trainee could have such a wide understanding of so many weapons at one time and not sacrifice a bit of proficiency to all. The best she could be was a "Jack-of-all-trades, master of none," he rationalized.
He walked over to the weapon's rack, a little impatient at his caution. What had he to lose anyway? They were alone, it was late. There were murderous weapons. He was alone with a girl that he secretly obsessed over. She had finished first in direct combat out of all of the trainees at Balamb. But was there really much to lose?
He decided that he would make an easy choice of a weapon that he knew well, and therefore knew how to defend against. His pride contorted the other half of his indecision into something tangible.
"You choose mine." He demanded.
She raised her eyebrow and looked toward the weapons appraisingly. He half expected her to say something in her story-book voice of smart sarcasm. Instead she allowed herself only a few slim seconds of reason before answering.
"Very well, take the gunblade."
He silently cursed. A gunblade? They were atrocious, impractical things that no one had considered for years. Just about all they had as a virtue was their archaic flashiness, for nearly all were forged at a time when weapons-makers thought more about designs than wars.
They were also notoriously difficult to control. He forced himself to breathe.
"You take the whip."
"A whip?!" She turned and displayed a thorough look of disgust. "Is this some sick fantasy of yours Almasy?"
It was a good idea, thought a traitorous part of his mind. But no.
"I don't have whips." She stated.
"I do." He reached to his side, where a curled length of chain ended in a sickle-blade. He drew it from it's clasp at his belt. He unfurled it, savoring the feel and adoring it like only a soldier could. Then he threw it at her feet and it sat unmoving, like a quiet snake.
She still regarded it with disgust. He felt as though he had won that battle, however brief, and hid his look of triumph while reaching for the silently saluting gunblade.
"I hope you don't mind: I always carry it with me." He called over his shoulder.
He knew that her insatiable anger was so deep and so ingrained that she could not and would not deny him in this request. She had demonstrated that her arrogance could know no bounds when it came to her superiority over him, and he would take advantage of that. It was in his nature to do such things.
Seifer was unsurprised that she did not answer him directly. He realized she was already zip-tying another slip of padding on the end of his chain whip when he had stepped back with the gunblade in hand.
They did not speak for a while. Seifer helped himself to a chance to stretch. He bobbed over each knee a few times and pulled his arm around to hold in unusual positions for counted time intervals. He tried to look as though he wasn't watching her.
After equipping the whip with enough cotton to make it a matter of child's play, she waved it experimentally through the air. He could tell she found it to be heavier than she had first suspected. Everyone thought so.
He rose from his stretches and picked up the gunblade once more. Quite suddenly, he realized that this was his proposal for a fight and therefore his responsibility to finish the declaration.
"Best out of three, standard duel rules. You lose if you step out of the training area, or are forced to yield. Does that work for you?"
His voice didn't shake, and felt more assured than usual. He congratulated himself silently.
Quistis Trepe, whose glory was wasted in that dusty training room, simply looked bored and showed no signs of objecting. She lowered herself into a standard athletic position, holding the long chain in two hands with the sickle ready.
"Are you waiting for my approval?!" she yelled, suddenly furious in a far more violent way than ever before. "Get on with it!"
It was she who made the first move. She drew her hand back, and leapt forward suddenly and swiftly. She ran delicately on the balls of her feet, but was a great deal quicker than he expected. He drew up the borrowed gunblade as she swung forward with the barb at the end of his well-worn silver chain whip.
The blade was heavier than he gave it credit for. She had the upper hand in swiftness as she threw forward the end of her weapon, and it wrapped tightly around the end of his weapon, rendering it quite useless and in her approximate control.
He was so struck with this turn of events, the sudden shock from her attack ran up his arm with enough force to make his grip slip a little. Seifer took his eyes of his opponent and focused solely on keeping his only means of defense in his hand.
He did manage to wrench out of her clumsy hold that seemed more of a case of luck than calculated use of momentum. Unfortunately, she turned, pulling the chain behind her back and delivered a swift kick to his abdomen. It was completely unblocked.
Seifer was suddenly winded, and faltered. It was just the hesitation Quistis needed to elbow him in the face. His head shot back over his limp neck and he felt his lip swarm with warmness in what would undoubtedly be a swollen face.
She dropped on her haunches, kicked his feet from under him and he was forced to drop entirely. He fell, side first, onto the unforgiving floor in a daze.
He saw stars, but he was not dreaming.
"Pathetic." A calm voice pronounced from somewhere above him.
He tried not to groan.
"Get up." She ordered. Her breath was only slightly hitched.
He gave himself a moment before rising slowly once more. Somehow, he managed his natural elegance in his psychologically disjointed state. At least, he showed grace while rising to his feet.
His hair had mussed at some point during their brief bout. His bangs swept over his eyes. The blonde hair that he showed so much pride in was so delicately fine that it trembled every time he breathed. His opponent had no such distractions. Her hair was little more than a light, shiny fuzz over the curve of her bare head.
He could not even describe what he was thinking at that point. He raised his weapon, with a bit more confidence this time.
She swung the whip around in wasted motion, as a means to taunt him. But Seifer was aware of the weaknesses of such excesses in battle.
Counting her swings and keeping his muscles taut and ready to spring, he leapt forward to initiate the second scuffle.
He could sense her anticipating an obvious upsweep of the gunblade, but instead he managed to wrench the natural path of the weapon at the last second. Pain shot up his arm.
But he had the satisfaction of seeing her falter.
He caught her across her collarbone. The blow sent her flying back and reeling. He did not expect her to be so light. The whip swept out of her hand in a limp pile at her feet.
She let out a strangled sound of pain. Her face suddenly wrenched into the deepest expression of fury he could expect from her as she glared at him, her bony knees askew.
He tried to ignore the throbbing in his elbow. He was determined to win that bout—physically and psychologically.
His steps were heavy as he came to stand above her. He folded his arms and smirked smugly.
"Get up." He taunted.
She sprung to her feet, and without any further warning, she pushed his shoulders with a jerky shove and he stumbled back. There was murder in her eyes.
He kept himself from falling, but was not ready to block her fist as it collided with his nose.
Seifer felt something snap. Pain and blood overshadowed his desires and intentions.
Instinctively, he dropped the gunblade in order to block her next blow toward his face. Both of them were without the weapons they had chosen for each other, and reverting to a far less choreographed method of hurting each other.
She was strong, and quicker than he was. He could taste his own blood, but somehow, he could not fight back. She was too beautiful.
Perhaps it was the pain, or maybe it was the frighteningly furious look in her normally cool blue eyes—but suddenly, Seifer forgot why he was fighting her
She twisted, readying a roundhouse kick and he caught her ankle—
Why was he doing this?
—She twisted out of his grip deftly and came at him with her elbows. She was panting heavily and he was seeing stars—
He was seeing her for the first time. She was hurting as assuredly as if she was weeping.
—She continued to attack him with quickness he could only envy. But he could not fight back. She was hurting him—
He wanted her to stop hurting.
—He wanted her to stop hurting.
Without any grounds, or any provocations behind his own cluttered thoughts, he pushed her gently back. She stopped.
Both stood there, transfixed. Neither of them could suddenly understand what had made them come to that point of cruelty and rage. The silence of the abandoned training center was a deep buzz that shook the insides of his ears.
She coughed.
Suddenly, she looked as if she were about to cry.
Seifer was ready to die if her eyes began to tear up. He was sure he would catch on fire from his own shame.
Her mouth pursed and her eyes narrowed. She faltered.
He stepped forward. He could see that she did have blonde eyelashes.
She stared at him, those almost-glowing eyes glazed with accusation.
She did not say anything, but he knew that whatever she accused him of was right.
There were no names, only regrets.
And he leaned forward . . . He felt but could not see . . .
He thought he heard wind chimes.
And for a moment, everything was perfect
It had been something he had unknowingly waited on for years. It was almost unbelievable. Reality came to be such an absurd thought that he became completely out of touch with concern, and visions of consequence.
He could almost hear violins rising in a beautiful chord. His adrenaline was pumping in euphony.
It was as if fate had finally fallen off his shoulders, as if bursting like a balloon. Whatever ethereal substance had inflated that balloon cascaded over his shoulders in a rush of glory.
He no longer had the distinct feeling that something was amiss.
He no longer worried that his fascination with Quistis Trepe was abnormal. If anything, this felt far too normal; more normal than the intoxication of the sea breeze, of his sleeping self, of pain and of sorrow.
Electricity swept through him without hurting him. It burned but was beautiful.
He was no longer uncomfortable.
He was lip-locked with the most incredible, infuriating, beautiful, intriguing creature in the world. He was kissing Quistis Trepe.
She was there. She was on the same plane as he. The most incredible girl he could think of was only thinking about him.
He felt whole—surely . . .
He opened his eyes, and the world pulsed red-hot.
Her expression was such that it was impossible to believe that her fury had ever faltered. Those eyes . . .
. . . Those eyes were burning. Literally.
Flash.
He remembered pain and a blue, blinding flash of light. His face was nearly numb with pain and suddenly he was no longer kissing anybody.
He lost consciousness for a second, but suddenly opened his eyes and she was standing over him.
There was blue fire dancing like long curly eyelashes, after the consummation of a massive release of energy. Her eyes were literally burning. But there was no red or orange sparks to be seen, only the cold, steaming fire of deep deep blue.
He closed his eyes. Then she was screaming.
He gained the realization that she was speaking to him a few minutes later, when he could ignore the pain on his face. It felt like he was burning.
"It is one thing for you to accuse me of being a whore behind my back." Her tone stilted to a lower tone. "But I will not accept you treating me like one."
He sensed her walk away. He couldn't see anything.
She left him there, burned and broken and faced with an emptiness that permeated his entire sense of reality. He was alone. He was done. He had failed. He had just alienated the only person he decided to keep.
She was gone. And it made sense, when he realized all he had done. That hurt most of all.
They found him in the morning, with second degree burns on his face that required spells to heal correctly, a broken nose, and a sprained left arm.
It would take him some time to find himself again. She was gone—she had taken the SeeD exams and had transferred suddenly to Galbadia. Many openly remembered her with fondness. None of them knew why she had left.
Seifer knew, but said nothing.
And nothing seemed to interest him. He could not help but feel he had lost something more precious than anything. He regretted his fears and his failure.
He took up the gunblade, so that if she came back, he would be able to beat her if they dueled once again. Or at least, give her a fair, honest fight. He meant to show her kindness in some sense of efficiency that she seemed to value.
A few weeks later, he heard she passed the SeeD exam and she would never come back.
The Wanderer couldn't help but curse out loud.
He could almost feel time drain away. He was jumping at nonexistent sounds in the quiet hallway. He was lost . . . again.
Each second was partially wasted with his frustration and continuous realization that it truly wasn't the time to be lost. He felt that he should be moving quicker. It was difficult to take that the hospital was fairly small, and that it was impossible to run, but he was struck with the same feelings of rapid-heart paranoia as he would on a battlefield.
But there were no landmines, no enemy fire. There were only deserted hallways with equally deserted doors and the ever-present buzz of those damnable fluorescent lights.
He caught himself lunging again. With a wrench, he opened up another promising door, but it was nothing more than a janitorial closet.
The stretcher's wheels squeaked ominously as it slowly rolled to a stop. The body on the vehicle was still ominously still.
He felt a sudden urge to throw back the makeshift sheet, just to check if there was tangled blonde hair and a strong chin underneath. His fingernails were biting half-moons into his palms as he stared at his burden.
Perhaps all of that time wasted had somehow led to a switching of bodies? Had he packed up the wrong man? Had some ethereal force drained away the physical anchor, the only anchor that the Fool had left?
He caught himself making a high, distressed sound in the back of his throat when he exhaled. Without further ado, he snatched up the handles on the stretcher and continued down the hallway at a barely controlled jog.
Identical doors flashed by. Some had numbers, some did not—not that it meant anything to him. He did not know the secrets and significance of those numbered plaques, so it was just as if they were unlabeled as well.
The faint patterns on the linoleum tiles had a hypnotizing effect in conjunction with the identical doors. Occasionally he would find himself in a corridor whose lights flashed on haphazardly from motion sensors. The stretcher's wheels squeaked when he turned. The buzz of the lights and the sound of his rapid heartbeat were deafening.
In more of a fit of frustration than sense, he suddenly stopped, spotting a door that was slightly grayer than the rest. Vaguely, it seemed familiar. For a split second, he wondered if he could find Dr. Marshall outside.
The stretcher skidded to a halt. He lunged toward the door and wrenched it open.
For a moment he saw light. True light. The light that pokes between the clouds after a spring storm. He couldn't remember being so happy to see the sunlight—he found a way out—
He should not have hesitated, despite his relief.
"Well, well, well. I'd be very interested to hear why you are trying to escape the hospital with a dead body!"
His path was blocked by a small woman, dressed flamboyantly in bright green. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she was looking at him with the same sort of disapproval that a mother would an erring child.
Her eyes, the same green as her girlish dress, looked as though she knew the answer to her rhetorical question.
The Wanderer realized that the situation was far beyond the necessity of politeness.
There was truly no time to spare with trivialities and chivalry.
With a hiss, he drew up his hand as if to brush her away so that he could make his abrupt escape.
However . . .
"I wouldn't if I were you."
The cold shaft of a pistol pressed into the back of his neck. The Wanderer's eyes widened to display bloodshot whites. He hadn't suspected anyone was behind him.
In reality, there was no longer any choice. He let go of the stretcher and raised his trembling hands in terse silence.
The woman's face contorted from motherly wisdom to childish petulance. She hmphed and stomped her foot.
"Aww, Irvy! I could have handled him myself, ya know!"
"Wasn't willin' to take that chance, darlin'." Came the lazy, central Galbadian drawl from behind him. The pistol did not waver.
The Wanderer had run out of ideas, panicked or otherwise.
Author's Notes - For as long as I spent on this chapter, I'm sort of disappointed by how it has turned out. Eh, what can you do. It was so crisp in my mind and my bumbling words could only take away from the image of Seifer kissing her, then Quistis retaliating with her limit break. I meant to have another flashback of the SeeD exam, but I think that's a little too much. We're getting towards the end, people :)
I hope you guys don't mind a lot more of the nameless Wanderer panicking, the old orphanage gang confused, and Seifer slowly becoming more confused and consequently, more insane.
Oh, and I'll try to bring the real-time Quistis in next chapter.
I should have more time to write these next two weeks, as my bf (best friend AND boy friend) is off venturing in Osaka/Tokyo. I'm all lonely so I should be ready for some drama and romance, but don't hold me to it because I have monstrous cases of writer's block at times.
Anyway, tell me what you liked so far and what you would have done differently. With luck, I'll be able to re-edit the story this summer to make it fantastic. But your help would be very much appreciated!
And let me know if I should make room for a sequel!
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