Fucking junkies and their fucking lost memories. Fucking innkeeper and his balding head. A full five days in to his excruciatingly and stupidly complex exam and Seifer was ready to pull out his hair. Or wait until he gets back to Garden—how many years would this fucking mission take? —and pull out Leonhart's hair. The guy was just asking for it. What kind of products did he use, anyway?

The few users the blond had been able to find barely remembered what they'd eaten for breakfast, much less who they had gotten the stuff from. They'd bought enough of the shit to erase their entire lives, then gone about them. Working the bar at the shadiest pub in town had yielded those results, but it was the security work he was doing for some gambling house that gave him his newest information.

Everyone had kept away from the ruined TV station after the Galbadians had abandoned it. A new one had been built following the restoration of communications after Adel was brought down, so it was simply an ugly landmark now, or so they thought.

For years, there were whispers that the place was haunted. If the wind blew right, something could be heard coming from the station. A few months ago, a couple of kids had gotten the idea to investigate on a prank. They came back a week later, void of any memory of the place—or any memories, for that matter. Just a few weeks ago, one of the other security guards had seen a middle-aged man sneaking in the direction of the station.

If this was a dealer—or the supplier—it could be that they were cooking it up or distributing the drug from there. It was worth a shot.

The last time he'd made this trek, he'd been full of confidence, ready to take down some bad guys and earn his rightful place in SeeD. At one time, Seifer Almasy was sure to be the second youngest SeeD ever, after Trepe. Now, he was one of the older cadets taking the test this year. The oldest person to make SeeD had been nearly 30—far enough away from his 23 years for him so still be normal—but this was Seifer's one chance. He wasn't full of that youthful confidence this time, though.

This better be where they're fucking hiding, he thought, looking down from the same spot he'd used to scout last time. There were no soldiers, no middle-aged men. The place looked abandoned, and, frankly, dangerous to enter. What did he have to lose? His life was at Garden now, like it or not, and his dream was so close. If he couldn't check out a dilapidated building and sniff out a drug ring, he sure as hell wouldn't ever achieve any dreams.

The door had once been locked up with chains, but those had been cut a long time ago and had started to rust, lying on the ground. A sign on the door warned anyone stupid enough to get this far that the place was condemned. Well, of course it was condemned. The place looked like a fucking haunted carnival attraction, and had the stories to back up that claim.

The door creaked and echoed throughout the bottom floor. Brilliant, Almasy, let them know you're here. There was a door on the other side of the elevator shaft. It was slightly ajar with a bit of light trickling in the dark interior. He peeked in, but the room was empty except for the odd broken glass and equipment. He'd found where they'd been making it, but no one had been here in some time. A few weeks or days, he couldn't be sure, but they sure as hell weren't there now.

Cursing to himself, he checked the rest of the building. The top floor was a disaster waiting to happen. The place had been abandoned once again, though, and there was no telling where they'd gone from what he could see.

He returned to the first, empty lab and took a look around. Most of it was filled with bare tables where they would have been working on manufacturing the drug, but there was a desk in the far corner. It was covered in dust, but he could make out the outlines where piles of paperwork had once been. So they'd conducted business here as well, or managed expenses, at least. He had no doubt that the bastards had made sure to keep this place a secret. It was probably their idea to market the place as haunted.

There was nothing at all in the desk drawers of interest until he noticed a small scrap of paper wedged between the joints at the back of the drawer. It had once been a receipt, judging from the paper, but he had no idea what exactly it could be for. He could just make out, "Tim."

Either someone named Tim bought or sold something, or this had something to do with Timber.

"Well shit." Seifer sent another curse in the General direction of Balamb, hoping Leonhart somehow received it and felt his annoyance. "Find them and take them down, he said. What the fuck do you expect now?"

Carefully, he returned to his shit hole in the wall hotel room. His orders had been to take down the supplier, not to go on a wild goose chase across the continent. He'd also been explicitly told not to leave his post until he'd taken them out. Before, Seifer would have been the first to suggest chasing the dirtbags all the way to hell if necessary, orders be damned, but now he couldn't afford to go looking for glory. He'd wanted to make SeeD, then do all the stupid heroic shit.

Sighing, he dug the burner phone out of his pack and dialed the number he'd been given.

"Tell Leonhart they got the wrong place and I am not taking responsibility for someone else's screw ups," he said before Xu could say anything. It would only aggravate his mood to hear more than a greeting from her. "Just get him on the line. I don't care what he's doing."

"What?" he heard a moment later. The commander sounded half-asleep. Perfect. If Seifer couldn't sleep yet, neither could he.

"They closed up shop at least a week ago and left. My bet's on Timber. Orders?"

If Squall thought it was odd that Seifer had asked for orders, he said nothing about it. "Just...Report back to Garden."

That settled it, for now. Face the music, then go track down the bastards. He was on a boat back to Balamb the next morning.