The Squad Leader is a Trepie. That's the second red flag.
Trepies aren't bad people, not really. Sycophantic, sure; misled, even; but they're just doing their best to emulate someone they view as a positive role model, and so in most respects they check all the boxes. It's the rest of it she worries about. One day, in a moment of self awareness, she might realize that it's the qualities of being fresh, young, naive; quick to judge; the enthusiasm to excel and apply oneself, that get under her skin. She knows the truth about what's underneath—untried, untested, unworthy (unwanted)—and she has been a step ahead of it all of her life.
The first red flag is that Xu doles out the assignments herself.
Since the trial, their relationship has been carefully neutral. Xu has her work cut out for her in taking on command of Garden, and Quistis is no longer focused on a cause Xu disagrees with. They've managed to avoid each other for the most part, until today.
Until Mayor Dobe decides that his town not being overrun by toramas is more important than pacifist ideals.
"Listen up," Xu rallies, walking a circle around their party. "Your assignment is to enter the city, neutralize the infestation, and rescue any survivors. The Mayor has fortified the town square but they're losing ground quickly. Check your junctions. Defensive magic is your go-to, people. Secure the square and be back here by eighteen hundred hours."
"Affirmative," barks the SeeD to Quistis' right. His name is Jube. Quistis gives a sharp nod. She'd basically begged Xu for this mission, any mission, and is feeling the whiplash of junctioning after a fast. She just wants to get going.
"Ursa is your Squad Leader," Xu adds, referring to the Trepie: a sandy blond young man who drops his passionate salute to look at Quistis for approval.
Never mind the Rank A SeeD.
She keeps her eyes turned forward and waits for the order to move out.
Ursa operates by the book. Quistis is impressed, mentally fact-checking Garden Code articles and lines as they wend their way into town. She finds no fault. His plan is decent, his grasp of command is sound. And then a scythe rises from the cobbles and cuts Jube down.
The torama prowls thirty feet away, settling its weight on its front legs as its pride mates emerge at its flanks. Ursa stands openmouthed, then fumbles into action, reaching for his weapon: a handgun tucked into a holster at his hip. Quistis summons Carbuncle. Like the scythe, the little Guardian Force emerges from a crack in the flagstones and turns a backflip, blanketing the two SeeDs in Reflect and Shell.
"That'll buy us a few minutes," she estimates, squaring up back to back with Ursa. Her whip is pliant, heavy in her palms. "Do you have Death junctioned?"
Ursa's trembling so badly she doesn't know if the shake of his head means no or panic. He fires off two rounds, striking one of the cats in the shoulder and earning an angry growl. Then he digs in his utility belt, looking for something, even as the cats advance.
"What are you doing?" she hisses, casting Aura over both of them. In the flickering golden light, his features are waxy, peaked. Whatever he's after, he's not finding. "SeeD!"
"I'm trying to revive Jube!" he shouts.
The wounded torama arches up on all fours. Beneath the static-cling sensation of her defensive magics, Quistis feels the attack building and grabs Ursa, diving to the side. The blaster attack misses narrowly. She pulls them both behind a statue and glances quickly over her shoulder, gauging the monsters' position.
Degenerator or Shockwave Pulsar? Either will take them out, as soon as they get close enough, but Degenerator will take longer. There are three of them that she can see, and the sound of distant commotion indicates more, as well as civilians. She won't risk civilians.
Degenerator it is.
She vaults to her feet and pivots to face the line of cats, cupping her palms. Geometry blazes forth, a neon tunnel that burns an afterimage into her retinas and crumples the central cat deep within the folds of time and space. The other toramas wheel and pace, agitated at this development.
A black well opens in the ground before her, the ghastly specter taking aim. Quistis stares through it, safe and secure in her one hundred junctioned deaths. The scythe passes through her harmlessly. She's already pushing her next attack forward.
Degenerator swallows a second torama. It spins away into nothingness.
Blinking hard, Quistis watches the third monster growl and lope off into the periphery, toward the square and the line of fortifications erected there: the rusted chassis of a pickup truck, a ladder; a few sheets of corrugated aluminum, all quickly stood up and bolted together. She's surprised the town got this far before retreating.
The torama slinks behind the makeshift wall.
Checking her six first, she redirects her attention to Ursa, who's scrambling over to Jube's prone body several yards away. Ursa's got a Phoenix Down clenched in his fist. Quistis grinds to a halt just behind him as he reaches Jube.
"We'll come back for him!" she shouts. "We've got to get to the people in there!
"I won't risk waiting!" Ursa drops the feather onto his chest.
The thing about curatives is that they are time-based. There's an ever-narrowing window in which to use them, and every second they grow less effective. The same is true for resuscitatives. She's always thought of Phoenix Down like a match held to flame. During that time while the spirit hovers, and the window for combustion remains open, there's still a chance.
Ignition. Jube sucks in a breath and sits upward.
Ursa's relief is palpable. He helps the newly-revived SeeD to his feet. They both look very young and scared. Have they ever even fought toramas before? Before the Lunar Cry, she herself had never seen one.
Quistis approaches, deliberately firm in her voice and bearing. "Good?" she asks. Both of her teammates nod. "Good. We've got to clear the square. What's our plan, Ursa?"
He swallows, opens his mouth to speak, and chokes. Jube sways on his feet.
Quistis grabs her canteen off her belt and holds it out to Ursa. "Drink, SeeD." When her hand is free, she seizes Jube by the arm and pushes his sleeve up, then her own, clasping her forearm against his.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
"Shoring up your defenses."
Switching magic always contains a degree of level setting. Like the sandcastles she used to get so frustrated over, a hand sweeping creation clean, grains of sand sliding into the holes left behind. She rocks internally as half of her junctioned deaths transfer to Jube. He shivers. She turns to Ursa, who wipes his mouth on his sleeve.
"Better?" she asks. "Give me your hand."
Ursa clutches her canteen with both hands. "I'm not junctioned."
Quistis narrows her eyes. "What?"
"I'm on a detox!" he blurts. "I'm sorry. It's what they said you were doing."
She takes a deep, stabilizing breath, pulse pounding in her ears. Trepies. Where do they even come up with this stuff? Her life is honestly not that exciting. Snatching her canteen back and hooking it on her belt, she tugs her sleeve back over her wrist. The words are building, and she's so angry she can't see straight.
Fucking Trepies. Fucking Xu.
She should be the one leading this mission.
She is the one actually leading this mission.
"Change of plans," she says crisply.
That day she sends a dozen more toramas into oblivion, rescues a woman and two kids, and leads triage efforts for the several wounded townsfolk. Jube isn't half bad either. His weapon is a crossbow and he saves her neck twice.
She leaves Ursa guarding the perimeter.
"Toramas use Death magic," she explains tightly. "Right now, Jube and I are the only ones who have a shot in hell at surviving this thanks to our junctions. You have about ten minutes before your Shell and Reflect wear off. Stay here and shoot any cat that comes out of the palisade."
"Will ten minutes be enough?" Ursa asks, trembling.
Quistis gives him a look.
When it's over, Mayor Dobe emerges from the town hall, looking for the leader to thank. Just having joined them, Ursa doesn't refute the gratitude, but is shy, chastened, and won't look at Quistis. Maybe he's rethinking his Trepie affiliation.
As their transport pulls into the garage at seventeen hundred, she claps an encouraging hand on his shoulder. "You can't undo what's done," she says. "But you can decide what it taught you."
"It was my second mission," he confesses. "I don't—I had top scores on every exam."
Her hand tenses of its own accord. Oh, Xu. She wonders who his Instructor was.
He's still not looking at her. "Is it hard like this every time?"
"No," she says quietly. "This one was easy."
What's hard is coming back to a Garden without Cid.
This is her first debrief without him. She already misses the smells of coffee, cologne, newsprint, shoe polish. Exhausted, she heads up to the third floor, walking behind Jube and Ursa. An anxious knot builds behind her eyes. Empathy, she considers, for Ursa. He'll accurately report a success, omitting the disappointing details. It comes with a sense of relief on two fronts. Not my failure. This wasn't her mission. But it still feels like hers. They all do.
Perhaps that's why she coached Ursa instead of berating him. And what gives her the courage for what she plans to do next.
Afterward she stays planted where she is, boots dirty on the plush carpet. "Commander," she says, "May I have a word?"
Xu looks at her sharply, then nods. The other two SeeDs exit through the vestibule.
"I'll give him credit," Quistis begins, relaxing her posture once they are alone. "Ursa did his best out there."
Xu doesn't reciprocate. Her response is dry. "I'm sure he would appreciate your opinion, Quistis."
"Here's the truth. It was a disaster." The knot between her eyes is now a full-on headache. "Jube went down ten feet into town. Ursa lost his head completely. It was his second mission. He wasn't even junctioned, Xu. I had to take charge."
Irritation causes Xu to drop her guard. "Oh, you had to, huh?"
"You would have done the same."
"Yeah, I would have, because I'm the Commander." Xu doesn't miss a beat, striding over to stand before Quistis. "I know my role here, SeeD. Do you?"
This is dangerous territory. Quistis doesn't break eye contact. Only her fists betray her nervous energy, pulsing at her sides. "Yes, and I want it back."
The dark eyes narrow. "Are you serious right now?"
"I want my Instructor position back, Xu."
Xu barks a short laugh of disbelief. She rubs the back of her neck, then circles back around to stand behind her desk.
"Someone has to turn out SeeDs who can handle themselves," Quistis adds.
"And you think that person is you?"
"I know it is." She steps forward. "Just like I know I can't take one more day of this—waiting around for contracts. I've never been good at just being a SeeD."
Xu's eyes gleam. "I guess not. Not even a fan club and hero worship are enough, are they?"
"That's not what I meant, and you know it. I need a challenge."
Xu rolls her fingers in a staccato. "You know," she muses, "I was shocked when Cid went through with his decision to demote you." She pinches out any guttering hope before it can flourish. "Dollet gave him the opening he needed."
Quistis is undeterred. "I made a bad call. I never should have given Seifer control over the squad."
Xu shakes her head. "It had nothing to do with Seifer. It was all Squall."
"Squall?" she repeats dumbly. A curl of unease spasms in her gut.
"Everyone saw you had it bad for him, Quis." Xu's voice is softer now. "Cid finally did too. The crush wasn't even the worst part. It was everything else. He was obviously your favorite."
Squall and Seifer overlap in her thoughts, two warring impulses following her reflexive embarrassment. Instructors don't, can't have favorites. It wasn't favoritism, getting a kick out of Squall's mannerisms, learning his tells, his go-to responses. Not favoritism, reminding him to follow through on assignments even though he was so conscientious about everything else. He was a good student. There was nothing wrong about enjoying those things about him. And even as the tender spot developed for him, she never crossed the line.
The closest she came was that night in the Secret Area.
A worse feeling follows, though, at her next insight: her own perpetuation of the same blunt-edged truth she received in Edea's kitchen only weeks ago.
Squall became the priority.
The morning he and Squall injured each other, she'd walked right past Seifer on her way to the infirmary. He'd stood outside the training center, mopping the blood off his face with a towel, and she couldn't be bothered to stop. Not when she was on her way to see Squall.
There's a sour taste in her mouth.
"Then this. . . behavior with Seifer." Xu's still going. "You walk around like you owe them both something, Quis. No one asked you to mind their business, least of all either of them. You're needed here as a professional. Not a big sister."
Quistis schools her expression, hiding the flicker of emotion at Xu dropping her nickname. The hurt threatens to fold her. If not for tonight, would she have ever learned the reason for her demotion? Xu doesn't know the truth of her childhood, but Cid does. Could he really have faulted her for the feelings she nursed for Squall? And how many times have she and Xu talked about their longing for family, real and imaginary? That big sister comment is dirty fighting. There's that feeling again, of. . . unreality: strangeness and coincidence linking hands and peering at her up close.
It's not what Quistis means to ask. What she means to say is, you're so right, more than you realize, and also tell me what I have to do. Tell me what I have to do to become an Instructor again, and I'll do it.
But what comes out is, "What happened to you?"
Xu's eyes are cold, but her mouth tightens—not quite a tremble. "I could ask you the same." The words are edged with bitterness. "You saved the world and you. . . you came back different."
Quistis will think about this later, but just now she's too tired and too raw to trust contemplation. "I have to go," she says, toneless, and turns on her heel before Xu dismisses her.
"Show me you're ready for it," Xu calls. "Then we'll talk."
The final volley only stings a little.
It's a lifeless picture, the one where she repeats this day over and over, fulfilling contracts, her skills underutilized, solving conflict through brute force. Quistis puts it out of her mind, sinking into her couch with a bottle of water and a blanket.
She only thought she wanted to be an Instructor, years ago, when life was simpler. It's so much more than that, now. And it's not the title that she misses. It's the work; the sense of purpose. The sense of helping others find theirs. Instructor is part of who she is. Without it, she feels translucent. Unmoored.
And small, after Xu's blunt assessment. In her first weeks at Garden, years ago now, they gravitated naturally toward one another. Both firstborn—or so Quistis assumed about herself. Competitive. Ambitious. How quickly they had established a mutual respect. A camaraderie rooted in advancement, pride, excellence. Perhaps that's why it hurt so badly for Xu to hold up the mirror tonight. Xu's been her measuring stick for a decade. When did Quistis stop trying to outmatch her?
She gravitated toward Squall and Seifer too, back then, only in different ways; and only just learned why.
Hyne. She cringes at Xu's mention of her behavior toward Squall. If it was so obvious, so inappropriate—why didn't Xu say anything? Why didn't any of them? Squall, fortunately, seemed oblivious, although with his recent perceptiveness Quistis is willing to chalk that up to grace and apathy.
It's useless to dwell. And yet she's caught in a spiral, alone in the little apartment. She hasn't felt stillness like this in. . . she can't remember. Life has always moved toward her, with the Next Thing so sensible and unavoidable that sometimes it felt like drifting instead of swimming. This. . . this feels like treading water, and her feet can't touch the bottom. What was the point of stopping Time Compression, of surviving it, of coming back—only to flounder?
Quistis settles into the cushion and throws an arm up over her head. Her knuckles smack against unexpected resistance: Hyperion, still stored behind her couch. She snatches her hand back, undamaged, and shakes it loose as though the mere thought of the naked steel was enough to cause injury. Idly she wonders when the sword fell; up until tonight, it had been leaning against the wall.
Suddenly it's a target for every ounce of her dour mood.
It's been a month since the trial, and she hasn't seen nor heard anything from Seifer. If nothing else—if the horror of what they experienced together in Time Compression doesn't faze him; if his anger at her intervention overwhelms any gratitude he might feel—she still has his damn sword. That first week after the trial, she fully expected him to contact her—meaning, waltz right into Garden like he owned the place—to reclaim it. When he didn't, she began to wonder if it would be Raijin or Fujin he would send on his behalf. Then she was assigned a mission, and another, and her life fell into its current monotonous rhythm. No time to think about existence, fate, destiny, choice, or Seifer Almasy when you're keeping new grads alive.
Except she still thinks about those things. Usually when she should be sleeping.
She wonders where he's staying, what he's doing with his new lease on life. While there's no evidence he's keeping company with Raijin and Fujin, the three of them have been inseparable for as long as Seifer's had Hyperion. (Maybe longer. For something she's never really given much consideration, her long-term memory is less than reliable; another pit to entrap her attention on nights like these.) Assumptions conjure an image of a shared motel room, beer and cigarettes, fishing off the pier, harassing the townsfolk. Balamb isn't even a question in that vision. Our home, she said to him before, her very spirit revealing itself in that moment, and it rings just as true now.
But pragmatism sets in quickly. Seifer isn't a SeeD—none of them are—and doesn't have a salary. Did heading the Disciplinary Committee come with a stipend? (She wouldn't put it past Cid.) He lived in the dorms at Garden before the War, and like her, he has no true family—not even adopted. Skillswise, he's got some advantages: charisma in spades; communication skills, with the proper motivation; strength; and a damnable resilience.
And a face and a crime known the world over.
Maybe I deserve all those things, he'd said.
A pardon doesn't promise reintegration. Employment, shelter, safety . . . none of those things will come easily to him.
The blanket slides off her lap as she reaches her feet. She wipes condensation-slick fingers on her sweatpants and ambles around to the back of the couch. The gun's grip juts a good yard above the couch's headrest and she wraps her hand around it. It's different from Squall's; a blunt-edged automatic instead of the classic revolver. At her manipulation, the weapon's weight slides toward her and she braces against it. The sword's tip gouges the wall at the baseboard.
It's so damn heavy. She's sure there's a protective case for it somewhere, probably in Seifer's dorm, but the idea of looking for either of those is a bridge too far. And with Xu's temperament of late, she doubts her dislike of Seifer would spare Quistis a reprimand were she found breaking and entering. Or even asking.
She rebalances the sword again and takes a swig of her water. She could take a day trip, return the weapon, then spend an afternoon on the beach. There's a nice little restaurant on the pier she's been wanting to try out. On impulse she thinks about asking Selphie to join her; then another deeper impulse reminds her this is probably a good trip to make alone.
If she's being honest with herself, she's hoping for more.
She wants a conversation. A confrontation. She wants to hear Seifer talk about what happened that night so she can be certain it did. Even knowing Squall had a similar experience, it belongs to him and him alone. There's a loneliness in it that she knows he understands, and if he were here she might try to quench it by discussing it with him. But there are other things between her and Seifer now, too: words admitted by firelight, words spoken out of desperation, and a question to answer: of all places and times, why that one?
Of all people, why the two of them?
And when she has her answers, she'll close the door on this chapter, and write herself a new one. She's ready to be an Instructor again, and she'll show Xu as much.
She's too keyed up to fall asleep right away, but when she does, she dreams that she's back on the beach, holding Seifer. She can barely lock her arms around him, and then all at once he's crumbling within their span, a sand sculpture winnowing away. And she's dredging up stories that never happened, precious, sun-warmed tales, trying to make him stay, but it's not working, and her sobs only make it worse.