Like Knives

by Savae

[Post-Game / Squall / Slow Burn] When does one become greater than the sum of his mistakes? Reeling in the aftermath of all that could have been, Squall Leonhart—a year shy of thirty, weekend father, and disgraced SeeD—is left to examine a lifetime of failed attempts at happiness, all while trying to overcome the demons of his past. (Full Synopsis in Prologue)

26. Commander

25. Commander

I WAKE UP too early on Sunday morning. It's quiet, cold. No sun, just the weak, grey pre-dawn pooling meekly into the bedroom, its tepid light wrapping vaguely around the edges of my dresser, my bookshelf. I've found a way to somehow end up crooked in bed, legs splayed out as though I'd spent the night running away from an anxious dream.

Sometimes, I wonder what it might have been like, had my parents been around to hush the nightmares that would manifest all too frequently, back when I was a kid. I can almost picture my mother holding me, rocking me gently as I listen to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. Or my father, reading stories until my bad dreams vanish from memory, replaced with tales of brave knights, of heroes unafraid. If I'd had any of that, maybe I wouldn't wake up so easily now, full of worry for fading images of things I saw while I slept.

I curl back up and pull the blankets closer, drawing them tight around my shoulders in an attempt to cocoon myself from the outside world, and from the cascade of thoughts that have already started to flood my brain. I try to bargain with time; if I can just close my eyes and get a couple more hours, then I'll promise not to squander the rest of the day.

But, as these things so often do, the negotiations fall flat. Damn my consciousness for catching up with me. After a few more minutes of staring at the ceiling, I come to accept my fate. I roll out of bed, pull on my sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and head downstairs, sure to be quiet as I cross the hall past Harper's room.

She's been anxious all weekend too, afraid of hurting herself again, or catching a glimpse of her reflection (she's been too scared to look at her stitches since her bandage came off). I catch her averting her eyes from windows, turning away from the stainless steel fridge. Morning and night, she insists on brushing her teeth in the kitchen so she doesn't have to look in a mirror.

The stairs have been another source of apprehension. Her movement was especially slow on Friday as she walked them carefully, checking her footing with each step to make sure she wouldn't fall again. Yesterday, she regained a bit more confidence, but still, I could see her small hands gripping tightly at the railing as if it were a life preserver in a wild ocean.

Fear is a funny thing, though. It makes you rethink even the simplest tasks, ones you might have once taken for granted or written off as trivial. And so often, it's completely irrational. There's no trying to reason with fear, no easy way to overcome it. You've just got to push through. And that's always easier said than done. I really hope that as Harper grows up, she has a better time getting to the other side than I have.

I put on coffee before heading onto the patio. It's still chilly out, bits of frost covering the railing and lingering on the grass in my tiny backyard, but the bite of winter is no longer there. I light up a smoke, sit down at the patio table (for the first time in months), and watch the sun as it finally breaks over the Monterosas. There's something cathartic about it all, how even through so much cloud cover, the sky still brightens, turning into this pale grey expanse that feels so close and yet unfathomably far away.

It's kind of how I feel with everything right now, though. It's like I'm on the cusp of something, a turning point maybe, but I'm not exactly sure how far around the corner my destination is. Hell, I'm not even sure if the destination has been fully defined yet. I've spent so much time wandering aimlessly that it's hard to know what it could even look like.

I blow three smoke rings into the air, a target. It vanishes with the wind.

—

I LEAVE DELING Monday morning. The flight to Balamb feels like torture: eight hours spent in a tin can, packed into a middle seat next to an overheating mouth-breather and a self-absorbed woman who doesn't know the meaning of personal space.

Between trying to avoid being swatted by hair or getting someone else's sweat all over me, I'm already in a bad mood. It only gets worse when I turn the wifi on my phone and receive an email from Xu, with the subject line: "IMPORTANT: Recommended Course of Action for Leonhart, Squall James".

It's a copy of my formal reprimand. I debate whether or not I want to open it now, and spend the next several hours fuming at my circumstance, or wait and toil in my anxiety, wondering what the contents might be. It takes a moment of chewing my cheek, but I ultimately decide on the former. For pages and pages she goes on, outlining my history of fuck-ups, and all the corrective actions that have been taken, and failed. At the end, she recommends a three-point devaluation of my SeeD rank, a three-month unpaid suspension, and a six-month performance improvement plan upon my return to duty.

As shit as the reprimand is, it's still not as bad as I expected. I thought for sure she was gearing up to recommend my termination. This almost reads like her version of an olive branch. Perhaps she had softened in light of reason—the power outage; my kid, hurt and in the hospital. But that would imply that she's capable of empathy, and I'm still not entirely sure that she is.

God, I'm not looking forward to seeing her. But to be fair, I'm not looking forward to seeing anyone else, either. This whole trip feels a lot like an exercise in futility. I try my best not to think too much about it. Earbuds in, Low by Bowie on. I lean back into my cramped seat and close my eyes.

I wish I could just fall asleep at my own command. Life would be so much easier if that was even remotely possible. Despite Bowie's best efforts to help take my head somewhere else, my mind is still reeling. And the worst part is, I can't help it. Dozens of different scenarios play out on the back of my eyelids—the scrutinizing eyes of my peers upon my return, the sure-to-be stressful meeting I'll have to attend with the Headmaster.

Fuck my life.

—

IT'S LATE BY the time I arrive. Still, the air is warm, far warmer than it is back home in Deling. I stand outside the front gate for a moment, luggage in hand as my cab pulls away. I don't really know what stops me from going in. Maybe it's knowing that I'm about to come face-to-face with yet another round of disciplinary action. Maybe it's all that lingering trauma coming back to surface—the hurt from my lonely, long childhood, the strain of my command, the painful start of my spiral.

I take a deep breath and try to steel myself, but it's difficult. Even the inanimate parts of Garden demand dominance over everything. The building itself is just so wholly overwhelming, its gargoyle statues lurking over the main entrance, the omniscient third floor casting long shadows, even at night. The glow expelled from its halo is enough to blot out the stars, polluting the sky with its towering white light.

I still remember the first time I saw that halo. It was a night not unlike this one, quiet, warm. Starless. It made me feel so small. Of course, I was small then, barely five-years-old, my full height still well below the shoulders of the adults in my life. But that halo was staggering. Up until that point, I had only ever known of the lighthouse by the orphanage, its orbital glow a friendly beacon to ships passing by.

The halo was no beacon. It was more like a threat, and I often worried that it might be watching me. I knew it was crazy, but I could feel its heavy stare, bearing down like a leaden weight. I came to realize as I got older that what I was actually feeling was the weight of the institution itself. My responsibilities, first as a junior cadet, then a SeeD. A supposed leader. Commander. And even though it's more of a sick joke than anything, I somehow feel it now, too. It's like I'm five months away from thirty and yet somehow still five-years-old.

How I wish that goddamned halo would just come crashing down around the whole fucking thing.

—

DIZZYING, DISORIENTING, AND a little bit nauseating. Being inside of Balamb Garden feels a lot like existing within the confines of a hive. Everything is buzzing, but not in a good way. Everywhere I go, students and SeeDs alike offer me nods and sharp acknowledgements of "Commander!", and then quickly look away, their heads turning down to whisper amongst themselves. I only manage to catch bits and pieces.

"Why is he here?"

"I heard Xu lost it at him."

"Is he getting fired?"

"Something bad must've happened."

All these hornets, ready to sting. Clearly the rumour mill is still alive and well. I do my best to ignore them, eyes cast down on tiles as I head for the elevator, laptop bag hoisted over my shoulder. The walk feels like it lasts for miles. There's a pressure forcing its way into my guts; it feels like someone's fingers digging around, squeezing on my stomach, knotting up my intestines.

The buzzing stops when I get to the lift. I hit the 3F and Close Door buttons in quick succession and exhale. It's just four days, I tell myself. Four stupid, little, insignificant days. Barely a blip in the grand scheme of my life. By Friday afternoon, I'll be out of here, back at the airport, ready to board my plane home, and all this bullshit will fall into the rearview mirror.

When the elevator opens again, the pressure intensifies, and my anxiety spikes in kind, hitting near seven out of ten. I wish I had a cigarette, a shot, a joint, something. Instead, I settle for biting on the inside of my cheek as I try to stabilize my breathing.

The receptionist forces a smile and lands a sterile greeting. "Welcome back, Commander. It's good to see you." Yeah, I'm sure it is. I have to consciously prevent myself from rolling my eyes as I walk by and push through the double doors.

Instructors, administrators, high-ranking SeeDs—they all take notice as I step into the common area, looking me up and down, all their idle chatter falling near silent. Their sideways glances feel like pin pricks, pressing through my skin. Everyone knows something's up. How could they not? Their Commander, coming in after a suspension, with another massive reprimand likely on the way. I say nothing, feigning ignorance as I make a beeline for my mostly vacated office, and shut the door behind me.

It's like I'm hopping from island to island, searching for isolated spaces where I don't feel like some sort of spectacle. My office, as Garden as it is, has always been a refuge. As such, I've spent countless hours of my life here, escaping the prying eyes of SeeDs and staff, sheltering myself from Rinoa's disappointment. The white desk where I've worked until I've passed out. The black leather couch where I've nursed more than my fair share of hangovers. The walls that have housed countless conversations between myself and Irvine and Zell and Selphie.

I think about all the nights I've sat up here with Quistis, whether it was to vent about work, or collaborate on mission strategy, or mourn our losses, or celebrate small wins. Back then, I was oblivious to any of the feelings I might've had for her, too consumed by my spiral to see beyond it.

Quistis. God. The feelings have become impossible to ignore, but like so many things, it's up in the air. Does she feel the same? Is she as scared about what it means as I am? I've barely spoken with her since the night of my confession, save for updates on Harper, which I've provided only at her request. I just don't really know what else to say at this point, and it's never been in my nature to push.

I don't get much time to dwell. Barely a second after I set my laptop down on the desk, Xu marches in, her sharpened features and hardline stare domineering in spite of her five-foot-nothing stature.

"Commander."

"Michele." There's the slightest tweak of her brow over my use of her first name. I have to force down the smirk that wants to worm its way onto my lips.

She drops a pile of papers down on my desk. It's a printed copy of my reprimand. I flip through it. My employee file, my SeeD history, my prior infractions, they're all listed out in crisp, black ink. Everything's there except the sign-off required to seal my unpaid fate: a signature from the Headmaster. I stare at the vacant line for a moment.

"Obviously this is not final, but I am pushing to have an answer from Cid before you head back to Deling." She says the words as if she's discussing someone else's file and not my own. Her expression is stony, practiced.

"Okay." It's the only word I can muster.

"You're expected to meet with him Thursday at 0900 hours. One-on-one."

"Okay." Again, I have nothing else to say.

Xu pivots on her perfectly polished leather boot and heads for the door. Then, she stops. Something about her eases, a slight drop in her shoulders, a slow breath. She turns around again and looks me straight in the eye. "It's not too late, you know," she says.

I shrug. "Too late for what?"

"He wants to give you the benefit of the doubt," she tells me. "But you need to do a lot better, and soon. And not just for yourself. For all of us."

"Noted," I say.

She gives me one last look of don't-fuck-this-up and steps out.

—

DO BETTER, HUH? I mull the thought over as I stare off into the night sky, searching for weak stars through the light of the halo. The 2F balcony is quiet, save for me. But it suits me just fine. The small, mostly forgotten corner has been another one of my go-to escapes—another refuge—ever since I took command of Garden.

I flick the ash off the end of my cigarette and watch the ember take the long plunge to the ground floor. It burns out about halfway down. A handful of times over the course of my life, I've thought about making the leap, myself. It had always been a fleeting thought, though, not something I'd truly ever considered doing. Well, except for one time.

I'd gotten so far as to sit on the ledge, my legs dangling off the side, my dirty hair getting pulled around in the wind. It was four years ago, right after Rinoa left. I was drunk (of course), and I was upset, and I was certain that I was never going to see her or Harper ever again. I felt like I had royally fucked up my life. Fucked it up so bad that I thought nothing could fix it.

(Obviously in hindsight, my life was indeed still fixable; I've climbed up enough rope to prove at least that much.)

I don't exactly remember what got me back down from that ledge. A glimmer of hope? I'd like to believe that was the case. But more likely, I was worried about what everyone would think of me. I've always had some form of social anxiety—even now, I can't help but worry about what everyone is thinking or saying about my return to this place. And when I was staring down at the ground that night, wondering if the height would be enough to actually kill me, I'm sure I started to worry about the gossip and rumours that would be brought up in the aftermath.

I could hear people saying things like, "He did it to get her attention," or, "He got what he deserved," or even disgusting things like, "She drove him to do it."

I have no suicidal thoughts playing out in my head now. And as far as doing better goes—I guess that depends on the context of the situation. I want to do better for Harper. I want to do better for my family, my friends. I want to do better for myself. But Garden? It's getting harder and harder to fit it into any equation.

God, what am I going to say to the Headmaster? Sorry I let my kid take precedent over a bunch of pointless fucking meetings with Xu? Maybe I'm trivializing my job, but that's really what it boils down to. My priorities have all shifted. I know it's hard to understand when you live and breathe this place. I used to not understand, either.

I take a final drag off my cigarette and flick the butt over the edge of the balcony. It takes the long fall without me.

—

WEDNESDAY GOES MUCH the same way as Tuesday, with cadets and SeeDs and staff giving off sideways glances, and me pretending not to notice as I pass by. At least I can't hear what they're saying now. Everywhere I go, my earbuds are in, their chatter drowned out by Radiohead, by Bowie. I know I'm breaking some dumb administrative rule—"Be the eyes and ears on the ground"—but I don't care. If I'm going to get suspended either way, then I'm certainly not going to participate in some load of big brother nonsense.

I hole up in my office as much as I can, save for a few sporadic meetings where I sit awkwardly amongst the administrative staff, trying to pretend that nothing is amiss. The actual work part of the day goes by surprisingly fast. I get through the budget and logistics planning for Squad Delta's upcoming mission for the Esthariis, complete the reporting on Squad Gamma's performance in Timber. Hell, I even manage to get ahead on prep for a few upcoming small-team jobs, and assign final ranks to the newly minted SeeDs who just passed last week's field exam.

Of course, this level of proficiency comes when it's all but moot. The irony isn't lost on me. Still (and I'm not saying this to gloat), when I put my mind to it, I'm better at this job than anyone—and that's including Xu. It's the consistency part that's always gotten the better of me. Where she presents a steady, hard line, I fluctuate. And Garden has never been one for fluctuations.

Whatever. It's likely my last day before the Headmaster signs off on my suspension, that is, unless I can figure out a way to get out of it. I start to mull over what the bare minimum would look like in order for me to keep working. What shit would I have to clean up? Whose ass would I have to kiss?

Almost on cue, Xu pops in. I can see her mouthing something to me, but Radiohead's Just drowns her out. I pop my earbuds out, ask her to repeat herself.

She looks annoyed, but obliges my request. "I said it's time for dinner. Let's go."

I have no argument to that. I throw my jacket on and follow her out. She leads us down the elevator to the parking level, hops in her Audi, motions for me to get in. I've barely gotten the door shut before she's speeding off toward town, Nihil by KMFDM (an excellent album) blaring over the stereo. A black cigarette finds its way to her lips a second later; she takes turns between getting it lit and shifting gears, juggling her lighter, cracking open the driver's window. Once she's sorted and the car's finally in sixth, she offers me one. I take it.

"Still haven't quit?" she asks.

I shake my head. "You're one to talk."

Something resembling a smirk tugs at the corners of her lips. I take it as a win, lighting my smoke and rolling my window down an inch. In another world, maybe we could have been more than work acquaintances. You know, if I had never been with Rinoa, and if I had gone all in on Garden and my job. I don't think it would have been a particularly healthy relation, though. While we have similar music tastes and a few other shared traits, the bulk of this theoretical friendship would almost certainly have been founded on mutual stress, lots of drinking, and a near-total dependence on Xanax.

Oh well. Whether it's her loss or mine, I'm not sure. I contemplate it a little more as I haul on my smoke, puffing away until it's drawn down to the filter. I crush it in the ashtray.

The stink of cigarettes fades from the car, gradually replaced by the easy scent of ocean air. I roll the window down all the way. It's been years since I've taken in the Balamb breeze, or felt its warmth. I miss it. The winters in Galbadia last so long, months that seem to stretch on and on without so much as a glimmer of sunlight.

The Alcaud Plains pass by at a feverish pace. Xu's never been one for taking things slow. Some people would say she's impatient, but that's not exactly right. She's just obsessed with efficiency. If there's a clearcut path, or an order of operations, she's going to follow it.

I think that's at least one of the reasons why I drive her so nuts. I can never get my shit fully together to keep things running in the mechanical way she likes. It's only gotten worse over the years. She's become so fully integrated with SeeD, that it's often hard to distinguish between Michele Xu and the Garden Code of Conduct. And then on the flipside, there's me, all but uncoupled, on some divergent path she can't wrap her head around.

It takes her less than an hour to get to Balamb. She heads downtown, pulls in front of the bar we frequented back when I lived here. We head in, grab what used to be (and maybe still is for her) our usual seat in the corner. The server comes by; Xu orders two bourbon old fashioneds.

There are no words between us until the drinks arrive. She downs half hers in one go; I take mine a bit slower. I can tell there are plenty of things she wants to say to me, and I'm willing to bet that most of them are not entirely pleasant. It's fine. It's not like it's the first time I've been on the receiving end of her cutting remarks.

"I don't get you." And there's the opening statement.

I shrug. "I know you don't."

"Garden gives and gives and gives and yet…" She pauses, shakes her head. A dead laugh. "No one, and I mean no one, has gotten anywhere near the flexibility you've been given. You get to work from home. And not just on some pencil pushing gig. You're working from home on a job that should have never been allowed to exist outside of Garden's walls."

"Did you bring me here just to lecture me?" I ask. It sounds snarky, but it's a genuine question. She's clearly gotten herself worked up over the amount of energy she's put into my situation.

"It's not a lecture," she says. "It's a reality check."

"I didn't realize I needed one," I retort.

She frowns, that deep, angry kind of frown that forces two sharp lines between her brows. "Do you have any clue?" she asks. It's the kind of question I suspect a teenager would ask a parent after they didn't get their way (I don't dare point this out to her). She sits with my silence for a moment before pressing on. "We can't afford to have someone who's always got one foot in the door and one foot out."

"Whatever." I take another sip of my drink.

Her frown hardens; I'm worried it might be permanently cemented on her face. "That's all you have to say? Seriously?"

"Well, what do you want me to say?"

She throws her hands up. "How about some kind of acknowledgement? How about some accountability?"

"'Accountability'," I parrot. "And what exactly does that look like to you?"

She finishes her bourbon, and then spits fire. "It's not working, having you in Deling."

Not working? Why? Because I'm not across the hall for her to lay into whenever she may please? Because I have a life outside of working hours? Fuck that.

"I'm not moving back here, if that's what you're getting at," I tell her flatly. "I've got too much to lose."

"We need a Commander that can actually command, Squall," she says. "Garden can't run on half-measures."

"I'm not leaving Deling," I repeat.

"Well, you need to figure it out," she says.

There's an uneasy silence that follows. For a moment, it looks like she might be considering the right words to start off on another tear. Something else happens instead. The cement cracks, and her frown yields, just a touch. But that slight shift is just enough for me to see that she's actually concerned about me. She gives a shit about what will happen if I don't find a way to make things right.

I want to offer her some kind of reassurance. But it's Xu, and I know she'll see right through any empty platitudes I might have. So instead, I turn back to my drink, take another sip. The server comes back; Xu orders food for both of us. I don't have the energy to contest whatever she's picked off the menu. I'm in my head now, letting her barrage of criticisms swirl around and pool somewhere near the centre of my skull.

After a moment of mulling, I say, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just get yourself sorted out so we can move on from this." She says it all as if it's so easy, so obvious. I know she's frustrated that I can't see the path forward as clearly as she can. Her next words sound resigned. "Squall, your future here depends on it."

I look at her then, and give her a small nod. "I know."

—

DESPITE ALL MY anxiety leading up to this meeting, I feel surprisingly calm. I'm not sure why. Maybe I've gone through the scenario so many times in my head that it already feels played out. Or maybe I've just been pinned on high for so long that my brain had no other choice but to cave. I don't know. I guess it doesn't really matter, does it? I'm here. I'm getting through it. What more do they want?

The Headmaster's office is exactly as I remember, red carpet rolled across the marble floor, leading from the double doors straight up to his desk. From the skylights above, the warm Balamb sun pours in and settles over everything; its golden haze permeates the air. You'd almost think this place was inviting, if you didn't know the weight of the circumstances that brought most people in.

I stare at Cid as he sits directly across from me. He's looking older. It's much more noticeable in person than on our video calls. The brown in his hair has been almost completely overrun with grey; the lines on his face are deep. I don't think he's all that older than my father, but Garden, and the stress of daily life here—it ages people.

He shuffles through my file without so much as a word. I wonder how many times he's looked at it throughout my tenure as Commander. I bet for the first five or six years, he barely paid it any mind at all. But in my post-Rinoa life? That's when the infractions started piling up: meetings missed, entire days missed, bad calls out on the field, a multitude of hangovers, days where I've shown up to work still high or drunk. More recently, my very public reaming out of a high-paying client.

And that brings him up to now. Missing work for Harper is by no means a terrible offense, not even by Garden's standards. But it is the straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak, sitting neatly on the end of a trendline of declining performance.

His finger taps nervously on the last page of my file, ballpoint pen hovering next to the empty line that still awaits his signature. He hums and haws for a moment, and then sets the pen down.

"Squall," he starts.

"Yes, sir."

"I just… This was not the meeting I was planning to have with you. Where do we begin?" There's the smallest shake of his head. "I feel like we've given you everything you need, no?"

I nod.

Despite my agreeing, he still feels compelled to list out all the things Garden has done for me. "Working from home. Hours that accommodate the time zone difference. Good pay. Benefits. Pension. Three weeks' paid vacation."

He spells it out as if my happiness should be tied to whether or not dental is covered. I want to roll my eyes at all of it, but I know better. Instead, I try to meet him where he is. "Sir, I know you've gone out of your way for me. And I'm aware that despite all that, I've let you down. It wasn't my intention."

"I know," he says. "You understand the position I'm in though, right?"

"I do." I sit back into my chair.

"It is…difficult to try and explain why you've been afforded so much leniency where others have not," he says.

I get it. People have received harsher punishments for lesser crimes than my own. In that way, I've been privileged. And it's because of Cid, who, for all the shit he put me through in my youth, has always tried to have my back. I used to think it was his way of attempting to take on a more parental role with me. But his grace always came with the caveat that I'd stay with Garden, that I'd shape up and fly right for the sake of SeeD and my command.

It wasn't until Laguna that I realized that real fathers didn't have caveats. Real fathers simply had your back, full stop. It didn't matter who you worked for, who you were or weren't with, or how badly you might've fucked up.

In a way, I feel sorry for Cid. He's spent twenty-four years of his life with Garden; it's gotten to the point where all the lines have blurred. He can no longer separate himself from it. He is Garden. It courses through his blood; it's reconfigured his DNA. I've always felt like he's wanted this for me, too. I think he truly believed that with some persistence and a bit of extra grace, he could bring me back here, make me realize the err of my ways.

I stare at him again, just for a moment. He stares back. I wonder if I look like some sort of stranger to him. He just doesn't seem to recognize the full person I've become. And to be honest, I don't think he can.

He's the first to break. His eyes cast back to my file, his glasses falling a half-inch down his nose. "So. Where do we go from here?"

I shrug. "I'm not sure."

He sighs. I can tell he's tired; so many times, he's gone to bat for me, acted as the shield between my transgressions and Xu's subsequent fury. I hate knowing I make him feel that way. Regardless of what I think of Garden, my actions haven't been exactly fair to the man.

It takes him almost a full minute before he tries again. He clears his throat, forces himself to re-initiate eye contact. "Let me rephrase the question. What is it going to take for me to not sign off on this new suspension?"

It's a purposefully vague ask. He wants to see what I'm willing to give back to Garden in order to sidestep punishment. Will I put in longer hours, maybe take on an extra mission or two? Run an extracurricular course for the junior classmen? Move back to Balamb? (Fuck, he'd love that.) Anyway, there are tons of options dangling out in front of me. I just need to grab onto one. Give him the sense that I'm eager to make up for my mistakes.

"Well?" My hesitation is clearly too great for his liking.

This is so stupid. I shake my head. A snarled laugh passes through my lips. I know it's inappropriate. Put any other SeeD in my position right now, and they'd be shitting their pants, trying to throw whatever they could at the problem to make it go away. But there's really only one problem I want to make go away.

God, it's all so obvious. The path forward might as well be paved with golden bricks, and lit with fucking rainbows and a big neon sign that says, "This way!"

I have to bite my lip to stave off another laugh. There are tears in the corners of my eyes. This shouldn't be funny. And it's not, really. I'm just at my wit's end. I'm a nearly thirty-year-old man, and Cid's acting like I'm a child who needs to learn what consequences are. Doesn't he know that my entire life has been a whole goddamn series of consequences? He's had literal decades to figure that out.

"Squall?"

I look at him. Another laugh bubbles out.

"Squall, that's enough."

But the more he presses, the more I laugh. I feel like a crazy person. I have to slow my breathing down, wipe the tears on my sleeve. I think I've almost got myself back under control when another snort drives through my nostrils, and I have to start all over again. Cid looks pissed. And I get why: my entire future is on the line, and instead of taking it seriously, I'm laughing my ass off.

I just don't need this. I don't need lectures from Xu, or lessons in consequences from Cid. I don't need to be the subject of rumours, or the recipient of reprimands. I don't need this. The realization sets in, clear and stark as the blue sky beyond the window panes. I say the words under my breath, once, twice. "I don't need this." With every repetition, the smile on my face grows, widening to the point that it hurts.

"I don't need this," I tell Cid plainly.

I would expect some level of anger at that—an outburst, maybe—but instead I get confusion. Cid leans forward in his chair, his eyes searching mine for answers. He doesn't find what he's looking for, so he asks, straight up, "What do you mean, you don't need this?"

I hang my head, letting it sway back and forth ever so slightly as I try to think of the right thing to say. But how do I explain any of this? How do I tell him that I'm not the same teenager who took on this job all that time ago? Hell, I'm not even the same man who moved from Garden to Deling a couple years back. My smile fades into something apologetic. I give a meek shrug.

Disappointment sets in. Cid heaves out a long, slow breath, shoulders slumping. "What in Hyne's name has gotten into you?"

And there's the disconnect. Because something must be wrong with me if I can't be bothered to try working with him. I wish I could make him understand, even a little bit. "I'm sorry, sir," I say. "I just…"

But the words fade out. I have nothing.

He adjusts his glasses, gestures back down at my file and the empty signature line. "You know I'm going to have to sign this, right?"

I shake my head. "No, you don't."

He stops. The pen is hovering over the paper, mere millimetres from sealing my fate. He looks at me inquisitively. "And why is that?"

"Because I quit."