two
This must be the soldier's version of the walk of shame, Rinoa realizes in a sudden moment of clarity, dragging all of these boxes one by one down to the garage, loading up the last car they will ever be allowed to borrow from Garden. They've already crammed Squall's fancy convertible with lamps and photos and books, all the fragile things.
There isn't even time to sort and label, not really. There is a deadline looming, and if they are not out of Balamb Garden by the time the clock ticks over, they will be taken off the premises in handcuffs.
It could be worse, she knows. She could be dead, and not just cast into exile. There are harsher prisons than Esthar, like D-District, the place of nightmares. It's almost ironic- their original self-styled exile is now their permanent one. She supposes it all comes full-circle eventually.
Esthar sent her into space, Esthar sheltered her from a would-be assassin, Esthar drew the worst of herself out, and Esthar is the only place that is not rioting against her, the only place that will have her as a resident. Strange, considering its history with sorceresses, with the Cry. She knows it won't be as easy once she's actually within their borders.
The bangle around her wrist presses painfully into her arm, and she wants nothing more than to stop, to set the box down on the edge of the fountain and adjust the bracelet. There are eyes on her everywhere, though, and the countdown stops for nothing. Rinoa shifts the box just a little bit in her arms, trying to alleviate the pressure, and keeps walking, her footsteps echoing in the atrium's silence.
xx
He packs with absent soldier's precision, shirts, pants, boxers, socks, all folded tightly and crammed into his large green duffel. There are certain things he will be allowed to keep, Lionheart, for instance, although he will never be allowed access to the paramagic bullets that make it what it is, this bag, assigned to him as a cadet and wearing around the seams. His medals, awards, the contents of his bank account (plus everything accrued in his retirement fund). The Council could have very well left him penniless, but it seems they have a heart after all, despite taking everything away from him.
He shoves his toiletry bag in amongst a nest of white shirts, and coils up a stack of belts.
A dishonorable discharge. His wife put in perpetual chains (the Odine bangle is never coming off), a formal dismissal from Garden. Will they only remember him for running away, like Seifer? Or will they still talk about his role in the Sorceress War?
His laptop has already been confiscated, sent down to the tech lab to be wiped of everything except, perhaps, the ubiquitous game of solitaire. His datapad has gotten the same treatment. It doesn't matter. There are computers in Esthar, boring, mundane ones without all the secure channels and remote uplinks. His cell phone is replaced with one approved by Xu, a sleek touchscreen device. They don't even reprogram in his address book, and Squall doesn't doubt that there's a tracking device embedded in this one, too, so that Garden will always know where he is.
His uniforms are in crisp black garment bags, laid across the last stack of boxes to be taken out to the car. They're letting him keep those. (For what? It isn't like he'll need to wear them again. He wonders if they'll let him be buried in his commander's uniform, when the day comes. He doesn't have a normal suit.)
All the furniture stays, stripped down and cleaned and repurposed for another SeeD's apartment. Another SeeD's life.
There is swearing somewhere behind him, Zell fighting with the hand-truck as he tries to negotiate the turn between the door and the living area. He'll be driving the truck to Esthar. There is supposed to be a SeeD waiting for them upon arrival at the presidential palace, who will bring Garden's property back.
Squall folds the garment bags in half and sets them in the remaining space in the duffel. He zips it closed, slinging the strap over his shoulder and hauling it out of the bedroom.
"That it?" Zell asks, as Squall dumps the bag onto the cart.
"Three more boxes." At least the last person he'll deal with as a SeeD will be a friend. They didn't take that from him. "Rinoa's got some bags, I don't know what's in them."
Zell nods, scratching the back of his head. "Okay. We'll take this load out and then be on our way, I guess."
Squall nods once, and turns back to the bedroom. They work in mostly silence, only saying the occasional instruction- it's heavy, put that one here.
Rinoa reappears at one point, and starts looking in all the cabinets, double-checking to make sure they haven't left anything behind. She fills a plastic grocery sack with the last few things in the refrigerator, a box of tea, a can of coffee. The bedroom gets the same treatment- Squall can hear her going through drawers with ruthless efficiency.
She's taking this remarkably well, he thinks, considering the circumstances.
"Done," his wife announces, coming out of the bedroom with the bag in one hand and her purse slung over her shoulder. She holds out a book to him. "I don't know if you want this."
He takes the battered paperback, a dog-eared copy of Battle Histories and Strategies, well-thumbed. He flips to the end of the book- it has a Balamb Garden library card stuck on the back cover. "Library book," he says. "I'll drop it off."
Zell clears his throat. "I'll take this to the garage," he announces, a little too loudly, but he's gone before anyone can object, the apartment door sliding shut behind him.
Squall looks around the apartment once. It looks so strange empty, stark white spots on the walls where framed photos have hung for nearly six years. It's a rarity that a SeeD marries a civilian and stays on the premises, but he was commander then. He didn't have time for the luxury of off-campus housing, of housework and mundane life.
He realizes that, tomorrow, he won't have to get up at 0600 unless he wants to.
"Okay," he says. "Okay, let's go."
xx
The last thing Balamb Garden takes from him is seven gil in late fees, which he pays in crisp bills.
He walks out of the library, hands shoved in his pockets, and nearly walks right by Quistis when she calls his name. He stops, and she is walking toward him, a white paper bag in her hand.
"Some food for the road," she says, by way of greeting. She's got this look on her face, not quite a smile, something sad and unsure. "It's cold cuts and things from the caf. I wasn't sure exactly what you'd want." Squall takes the bag. She's still looking out for him, even after all this time, and he is suddenly grateful that Rinoa chose to help Zell load the truck while he made his detour.
"I'm sorry," he blurts, for getting you fired when I was sixteen, for putting you through this, for everything. He doesn't deserve this kind of friendship. Not from her. Not after what Rinoa has done, not after he has enabled Rinoa to do it.
She hugs him abruptly, surprising him so much with the force of it that he nearly drops her gift. "Don't be," she tells him fiercely. "You two don't deserve this."
He hugs her back, ignoring the awkwardness that builds in his gut from this public display of alliance. She could get into so much trouble for doing this, for helping them in any way, and she doesn't care.
It's more than he could have ever deserved.
"Be careful," Quistis adds, once she releases him. "Stay out of trouble. Call me when you get there."
"I'll try," he replies. "Thanks." The word is inadequate, but it is all he has.
She leaves him then, turning sharply on her heel and hurrying down the concourse. He watches her go for a second, noting how the cadets part to let her pass. They stare at her, then stare at him. He turns away, aware that he's on video in the surveillance room, every movement being reported to Xu.
The clock is ticking.
When he gets in the car, slamming the door closed, Rinoa is watching him.
"She's more of a threat than I am," his wife says; she would know. She can feel the electric hum of Quistis' magic, and before they clamped the bangle around Rinoa's wrist to shut down her powers, he could feel it second-hand.
"It doesn't matter," he replies, and the words are harsher than he intends. "I can't do anything about it anymore."
"You could-"
"I don't want to talk about this," Squall interjects. He can feel the hurt in her; she has been under so much stress that it's only logical she would be angry, lashing out. The Council has spent weeks picking apart their lives, their relationship, demanding every intimate detail. Rinoa knows that the only reason she doesn't have a bullet through her brain right now is because Quistis fought her way back somehow, and then went on to testify to Rinoa's character. "Sorry."
Rinoa shrugs, and when he glances over at her, she is fiddling with the bangle, twisting it around her arm.
Squall can't help but think that it was easier when he could hear what she was thinking. He floors the gas and does eighty miles an hour out of Balamb, leaving the Garden truck in his dust.