5. SeeD

IF I HAD to name the top five worst things I've said or done to Rinoa over the course of our relationship, they would be, in descending order: five, the time she went off about my drinking and I responded by going on a bender with Xu; four, the time I told her she was just like her father; three, the time I got her tied up in our mess with Matron and she inherited her power; two, the time I said I never wanted kids as she was about to show me the positive pregnancy test; and one, the time I blew up at her just two weeks before she gave birth.

She had been begging me for a date, for something to take her mind off the uncomfortable swell her body had become after eight long months of carrying Harper. She kept telling me it'd been too long since we'd done anything together, and that it seemed like I'd been avoiding her lately, and that she was afraid that I'd do the same to our child.

I told her to fuck off. And then she started crying.

God, if I could take that moment back. I was such a fucking idiot. I don't know what even came over me; it just felt like she was nagging, nagging, nagging at me to fix things I couldn't fix. I was a disaster. Garden, SeeD, command, everything felt like it was crashing down around me. Not to mention I was beyond stressed about the prospect of becoming a father. How was I supposed to take care of a child? I couldn't even take care of myself.

It's really no wonder that she left. I mean, there she was, someone who was willing to share this otherworldly bond with me, someone who'd given us a daughter, someone who'd given me seven years of her life, someone who'd loved me even when I didn't deserve it.

And what did I give in return? Me, spending my nights up in the office, leaving our bed empty. Me, drunk again because I didn't want to deal with the pain of knowing I'd sent another cadet out to die so Garden could cash another cheque. Me, yelling at her because I didn't think she could understand what I was going through.

I had no right to be shocked when the break-up finally happened. No right to be upset, no right to be angry. But I was all those things anyways, and it made the first months without Rinoa even harder. I was twenty-five-years-old, living alone at Garden, and spending all my free time locked up in a suite that was designed to house a family. The bedroom became a graveyard for all my memories with her, all these burial sites, and I was a madman with a spade. I stashed photos of us under the bed, threw them in the trash, hid them in the closet. I got angry enough to slam the door into one of them over and over and over again until the frame erupted into shards of glass. I remember letting it cut me up, but I didn't feel any of it. I didn't care.

Nothing mattered. Rinoa didn't want me, my kid didn't need me, I couldn't stand me. At one point, I remember asking the walls if I could just be see-through—I wanted to disappear and never be found again.

Disappearing would have been better than what I did instead, that fast and eager descent down a spiral staircase. Each step became more tenuous than the last, the wood creaking and moaning underneath me, then splintering, before finally giving in to my weight. Then it was falling past floors I didn't think I could fall below until I slammed into the concrete bottom, and suddenly I was lying there as this broken twenty-seven-year-old with nothing to show for myself other than a slew of new bad habits and a penchant for self-destruction.

I didn't know what to do. I needed Rinoa more than I ever did then, and I think part of her knew it, too. I called out for help.

I have to remind myself that I'm lucky. She could have looked down at me then and said, "Fuck off," and I would've listened. But she's just a better person than I am. So she threw me a rope instead, and I could either hang myself or climb. I didn't know which to choose until I saw Harper (for the first time in almost two years at that point), no longer a baby but a toddler, and I realized I'd lost so much time. I should've had memories of first steps and first words and all these moments in between, but instead there was only blank space.

So here I am, still trying to climb at twenty-nine. Trying so fucking hard. I don't know if I'll ever fully come out of this spiral. What if the rope frays? What if I make another misstep? What if my hands grow tired and raw and then just let go?

—

I HATE MY SeeD uniform. It used to be a point of pride to wear it, but now it just feels like it was made for someone who's not quite me. I put it on anyways, put my contacts in, take a couple of deep breaths, and try to turn into Commander Leonhart. It's a weird thing, looking at my own reflection and feeling almost as though I'm staring at a ghost. Am I fooling anyone? Will they believe that I'm still somehow this man?

I think about Quistis, the poster child, the prodigy, wondering what she's doing with her life, asking me if this is really it. I hate that I don't know. I don't want this to be the sum of my existence either, but the future doesn't seem to hold anything except more of the same. Can I find a way to be okay with that?

The question sticks to the back of my mind as I unlock the back storage closet and flick on the light. My gunblade stares at me from under a thin veil of dust, and I touch the case for just a moment. Sometimes I feel bad, strangely enough, for this inanimate object, sitting here, abandoned; it's helped me make it through training, it's helped me survive missions, and it's helped me endure a war. In a way, it's kind of like an old friend that you lose touch with. For whatever reason, you just drift apart, stop talking, and all you've got is that mutual past left between you.

I unlock another case instead, and grab my standard issue 9mm. I don't particularly like having guns in my house, even though I'm actually pretty good at shooting. I still remember the days training at the range as a kid. I'd pissed off Seifer more than once—he didn't like that I happened to be better than him. But I was always better at the more tactile things, hand-to-hand training and weapons. He was the source guy; his skills were impressive and innate, to the point where he could call up magic without any help from a Guardian (something I could never, ever do).

We've gotten closer in recent years, Seifer and me; I try to make an effort to visit him from time to time. He lives in some nondescript studio apartment in East Deling. Funny enough, he bartends of all things. Some people called him crazy for dropping off the radar the way he did, giving up on everything that he once was. I remember how pleased Zell seemed when he found out; it made me uncomfortable, like maybe he thought there was only honour in a militarized career, or that a regular job and a regular life was somehow beneath him.

I think Seifer just got tired of all the notoriety and headache that came with his past life. He'll be the first to tell anyone that he's fortunate—he served only three years for crimes committed during the war, a goddamned miracle considering everything.

I wonder what he'd tell me right now, as I'm stepping outside, sunglasses on, looking like a good little Garden puppet. He'd probably scoff that I'm still out doing this shit, call me an idiot, and tell me to just give it up already.

Oh well, too late now. I light up a quick smoke that I only get halfway through before my ride shows up. Another black SUV. Just what I need to get my mind in the game; I'm definitely not still thinking about the one that was parked in front of Rinoa's a few nights ago. Definitely. Not.

The driver gets out, salutes me, and offers a quick "Commander!" (which I fucking hate, but acknowledge with a nod nonetheless). There's just something toxic about the title, the way SeeDs are wont to spit it out like poison. And it's worn on me; there's a certain hurt that I cannot shake off, all the pain of past choices, like a thousand tiny needles, pricking up from under my skin. It takes more effort than it should to push the thought out of my mind as he gets back into the driver's seat and takes us onto Fifth, fast-tracking towards Parliament, past L'Arc de Triomphe, deeper and deeper into the skyscrapers that stand dominant over old Galbadia.

I feel a bit ashamed honestly, because I'm sitting here, knowing full well I've taken a safe gig. I've had survivor's guilt since I was seventeen, and it's only gotten worse the longer I've been in my position. Right now, I'm stuck thinking back to when one of our cars got tracked on the job a couple years ago. It was during one of my assignments, a major drug bust with lots of opportunities to get fucked over by gangs. Part of me knew it was too dangerous—call it a gut feeling—but I talked myself out of withdrawing.

I should have listened to my gut. Barely a minute later, all I could hear was panic, then word of open fire, and my own voice calling out the order to retreat. Too late. Multiple casualties. One SeeD killed while driving to the rally point, a nineteen-year-old girl who caught a bullet between her eyes. Her parents were devastated. I drank a lot after that one.

God. I could get lost in thoughts like that all day if I let myself. It almost makes me crave the Guardians, something to fill that space, to replace my memories with the cold wash of white noise. I haven't called on them since the war—a promise I made to Rinoa in a fool's bid to never forget another moment. And it's one I've managed to keep, stupid as it may seem right now. Maybe I've got some sort of complex; there's this little voice that says I deserve to remember every single time I've hurt someone, that every drop of blood, every tear should be etched into my mind until the day I die.

I shake my head, slow my breathing, and ground myself by concentrating on the grain of the leather seats, the stark look of towers passing by. We take a quick turn onto Galbadia Way and the high-rises break in favour of the Parliament buildings, all that gothic revival shaped from sharp, cold stone, the gargoyles that adorn the edges of the clocktower in the centre. I try not to think of the time a possessed Matron called similar statues to life. Rinoa, bloodied and full of tears, crying about how scared she was. Me, telling her to stay close.

Push it all aside—it's kind of how I'm living my life these days. But I can't get derailed right now, not if I want to do my job. I'm out of the car as soon as it's parked, and then it's a quick double-check of the gun holstered underneath my coat, earpiece in, phone location off. I'm more than a little bothered by the fact that it's all still so automatic, so programmed, even after everything.

"Commander."

The word rings sharp through my earpiece. Xu knows I can't stand anyone calling me that, so I hit her right back with a curt greeting of my own as I round up the steps. "Hi Michele."

I know she's probably making a face back at Garden, but she pretends to ignore me. "You're assigned to Secretary Robinson, who's here on behalf of Timber's provisional government."

I roll my eyes as I show my ID and head through security. I know exactly why Xu's on this channel, and not some lesser ranked cohort: she's keeping an eye on me. She's never really trusted me, even after all we've been through in the last decade. Part of me doesn't blame her; my track record's been less than remarkable. Still, I don't think Xu trusts anyone, and I can't help but call her out on it. "Bold of you to assume that I didn't read the brief. Appreciate the confidence."

"I give the confidence I think people have earned." Ouch. Whatever. Like she's some sort of angel. I've seen Michele Xu get plenty fucked up on all sorts of different things before. She's just always been better at hiding it than I am.

"I've got it," I half-hiss. I really do, though; this mission's easy as anything I've ever done, if I can even really call it a mission at all. Plus, I'm all nice and sober. She should count that as a fucking bonus.

I get down to the underground train platform where my client du jour is expected to arrive. Timber doesn't have it together well enough to have its own security forces, and the diplomatic steps toward independence have been painfully slow. It's bad for geopolitics across the continent, but it's great for SeeD; the provisional government is one of our biggest clients, and I'm pretty sure Garden's been a-okay with the pace, considering how many millions we've raked in as a result.

Secretary Robinson shows up twenty minutes and the second half of my cigarette later, and I identify myself for him despite the fact that this is the third time I've done his stupid little detail gig. But Robinson doesn't show any sort of interest in me, never has. I don't care, anyways; I'm not getting paid to be his friend. Actually, I don't think anyone could pay me enough to be friends with this guy. See, Robinson's kind of a weaselly little prick. I knew it from the first time I laid eyes on him. Remember when I said I've always been quick to judge? Well, this is one of the times I was right.

I think I was initially set off by the smug way he carried himself, like he was just too good for any human he came into contact with. It should be noted that at five-foot-eight, I'm not exactly tall, myself, but this guy is at least three inches less than that, which means he puts in a tonne of extra effort just to look down his nose at me. Too bad for him, I'm at a height where I can easily see that his hair's nothing more than a rug. Sometimes I wonder what he'd do if I ripped it off his head.

I follow him as he toddles through the maze of halls appointed with baroque furnishings and portraits of dead Galbadian Presidents, past a marble bust honouring Vinzer Deling like some sort of martyr, and down toward the eastern wing where all the big-wigs play. We enter a room adjacent to the President's office, and Robinson puts on a so-called friendly face as he spots his Galbadian counterpart (Minister of State Vogul, if anyone gives a shit).

My own counterpart is some Galbadian Secret Service agent with noticeably bad teeth. I watch from behind my sunglasses as he thinks he's picked at his nose without anyone noticing, and I'm grossed out enough to force my eyes to the floor, hoping to lose myself in the plush red carpet with gold trim. Some days, it's hard to be this neurotic, and other days, it's really hard to be this neurotic.

"Secretary, good to see you." Minister Vogul extends a plastic smile that she's painted up in glossy red lipstick and shakes Robinson's hand. Her blonde hair's pinned back tight enough that I have a modest concern for the blood flow to her stubborn, self-important brain. Based on how much they have in common in the swollen ego department, you'd almost think they were friends, but having heard these talks twice before, I can tell you with absolute certainty that these two cannot stand each other.

I can already tell I'm going to spend most of this day standing around, monitoring a meeting that has about as much appeal as a stagnant pond. Here's exactly how it'll go: they'll start off trying to be all friendly, but that's just surface-level nonsense. They'll talk about family first, get out the standard questions that polite company forces them to ask. After that, they'll sit on these too-regal-looking chairs, try their best to act all stoic, and pretend for hours that one side will make concessions to the other. Then Vogul will say that Galbadia can't afford to lose access to Timber's resources (they can), and Robinson will say that Timber will reach out to Esthar for military assistance (they won't), and the whole thing will ultimately remain at the same stalemate it's sat at for the last decade.

The only time I'm tempted to use the 9mm is on myself, after standing around for the third hour of these two airbag politicians going in circles. I have to remind myself over and over again about the bonus pay, about how much extra I can budget into Harper's college fund this month just for tolerating this pointless endeavour. I try to repeat the mantra in my head: Do it for her. It works, sort of. At least I don't blow my brains out.

I sometimes wonder what Rinoa must think of the mess this whole independence movement has become. I never ask, because that's more than the small talk I've been allotted, but I'm sure it drives her nuts. She and the Owls didn't fight for Timber to sit at this long impasse with the Galbadians. And she especially didn't fight for some arrogant twat like Robinson to be at the helm of it all.

Other times, I like to picture what it would be like if Seifer was still a part of this gong show. He'd probably try to find an excuse to let Hyperion solve whatever problem talking couldn't. He was never cut out for the politics of the situation, though—just the lapdoggery that came with being a so-called sorceress' knight. I guess that's why he's living his inconspicuous life now and I'm still here. Doesn't make the thought of him blowing up any less entertaining in my mind, though.

It takes another hour yet for them to finally wrap up. My eyes are dry from the contacts, my legs are starting to feel like a couple of dead pillars made up of pins and needles, and I think my brain's pretty well gone completely numb. The Galbadian agent looks beyond irate, his grotty crooked teeth clenched tight, like he thought maybe there would be some sort of action to come out of this meeting (or maybe he's just upset because he's mined his nose clean and is out of things to do). Clearly, it's his first time on this kind of detail; experienced SeeDs and agents alike know to come with low expectations.

This is the post-war world, though. It's all talk, and even though it's duller than hell right now, it is better this way. I don't ever want Harper living in a world that's wrapped up in fear, one that's become a cold, dark place where she has to worry about bombs overhead, or wonder about invasions from faraway, or face the wrath of a sorceress gone mad (that last one scares me more than anything).

I remember asking Rinoa more than once if she ever planned to tell Harper the truth, and every time, she said no. But there's this conflict that she struggles with, herself, a fight for her own identity in the face of this generations-long power that she possesses. I remember one time when she went to Esthar with me for a trip to see Laguna, and she spent over a thousand gil on Odine jewellery alone. To her, I think it feels more like a disease—she'd once gone so far as to call it a cancer that happens to be contagious.

On the way home from that trip, she told me to kill her if I ever thought she'd do harm to the world. At the time, I knew that was my burden to bear as her knight. Now, I'm not so sure. Am I even still her knight? I don't think so, but I am Harper's dad. What kind of pain would come to our girl if she were to know that her father had to kill her mother? Would she ever understand? Would she forgive me? Would I forgive myself?

"Thank you for your time, Minister." My mind is drawn back to the present as Robinson spouts off the words I've been waiting for him to say since I got here, and heads for the door.

It is a fucking relief to be out of that goddamned room. My legs have to get used to the idea of walking again as I escort him down the labyrinth of hallways, and I catch the stone stare of Vinzer one last time on my way out. Part of me wishes I could flip it off, or better yet, smash it on the floor, but I play my part and keep my hands to my sides. Of course Robinson says nothing to me the entire way back to the platform, but it's fine—he probably knows that's my preferred level of interaction. I wonder how it feels to be him, that sad longing to look and feel important, all while doing absolutely nothing, day in, day out. It's impossible for me to even fathom; the wiring doesn't work in my head. But maybe that's a good thing.

I'm absolved of my responsibility the moment he gets on the train back to Timber. I don't believe in Hyne, but if I did, I'd almost feel like thanking him. In lieu of reaching out to a so-called god, I patch in to Xu for an extraction. It feels stupid even calling it that; the whole thing is really more like a cab ride that I don't have to pay for. Her voice is abrupt and aloof as ever as she tells me in the most SeeD-like terms possible that the driver's on his way.

Xu's a lifer, though, as far as I can tell. She has no problem with being morally grey, and that's a sought-after trait in this line of work. I used to think I was like that too, that I was in this job for the long run, and for years, I was fine with that. Things have changed now, but I can't quite tell if I'm doomed to forever live in the skin of a SeeD, or if there's still a chance for me to shed it all away.

—

I FEEL JUST a little bit more human as I cast my uniform to a laundry basket in the corner of my room. It's like finally escaping out from under a leaden blanket; my lungs can expand, I can move freely. If I could, I think I'd set the suit on fire—all that wool and silk against the strike of a match—and bury the ashes in my tiny plot of a backyard, maybe erect a headstone. Here lies Commander Leonhart; he flew like Icarus incarnate, too high, too fast, until he burned and fell away, collapsing into a veil of smoke too thin to cast a shadow.

I give myself permission to breathe. For about five seconds, I've almost got this sense of relief, but after that—I don't really know. I think I feel a little lost. Part of me wishes that I could just be this tool that Garden has moulded me into, that maybe if I just tried on my past one more time, I could make it fit.

I know that life would be so much simpler if I could find a way to be happy in this purgatory state; the man I'm supposed to be—Commander, gunblade specialist, mercenary—is clear and defined, a precise personification of Garden. But like my uniform, it doesn't feel quite right anymore. It's just not what I want. And maybe I owe it to myself not to pretend otherwise.

I turn the shower on—hot—and try to scrub it all away, every thought, every feeling. I want to be a blank slate, infinitely malleable. I beg the heat to melt me down, urge it to shape me into something new, someone erased (of course, it's not quite that easy, but there's a bit of a placebo effect as the near-scalding water runs down my body and pools around my feet).

I step out, towel off. The steam slowly evaporates from the mirror, curling inward like a gasp and fading in a long exhale, and I catch my reflection once more. I look mostly the same as I did when I joined SeeD. A bit older, sure, a couple grey hairs that weren't there before, a few lines settling on my face, tone left a little less sharp in the absence of regular training.

But there's also this whole story tracing along my body, now, written outside of Garden: a scar from the night my knee met a coffee table at a drunken house party; both ears pierced after Rinoa had convinced me to get the other done; circles under my eyes that haven't gone away since she left. Two tattoos. One, Harper's birth date, sitting plainly on my left wrist. The other, a portrait of Griever I got at nineteen, drawn for someone far too proud for his own good. The ink is heavy as it snakes up my right arm and onto my shoulder.

(I never wear the matching ring or pendant anymore; the memories they call forth feel like bruises, sore and dark.)

Are these marks enough to make a man? It's all just superficial, but at the very least, it's a starting point. I'm still trying to figure it all out. There are things I know I don't want: to be a so-called Garden lifer, forever wrapped up in this world; to miss out on seeing Harper grow up; to spend years wasting away at the bottom of myself. It's easy to choose what to eliminate, though. It's much harder to know what I do want.

But there are so many things I want that I cannot have—being with Rinoa, having Harper full-time instead of part-time. It feels like torment every time I dwell on it. So then what? No love, no SeeD, just a rope to keep climbing up. Maybe there's an answer at the top, or even a hint somewhere along the way. But my hands are getting tired of holding on, the skin's all gone raw, and I'm worried that I might not ever make it high enough to find out.