Three
The soldiers came in the middle of dinner. They didn't even knock, they just barged right on in and started shouting things at Selphie's parents and siblings and the next thing she knew, she and her two younger brothers were dragged away from the table and out into the cold Trabian snow without jackets or shoes.
"What's the big idea?!" she demanded. "It's freezing out here!"
One of the soldiers backhanded her, his knuckles striking her hard across the cheek. It hurt so much, Selphie was left without words and too stunned to fight back. Her wrists were cuffed behind her back and she was separated from the boys and herded into the back of a G-Army vehicle, along with six other girls wearing identical expressions of terror.
The news about what was going on in Galbadia was all people in town talked about, but Selphie never believed the fighting or oppression would reach Trabian shores. Galbadia seemed a far away and imaginary place, like some mythical land of evil in a fairy tale she once heard. Now that it was happening here, it was more of a nightmare that Selphie didn't know how to wake from.
If not for the pair of soldiers in the back with them, Selphie would declare mutiny and attempt escape, but those guys were scary looking and they had guns.
Selphie was too angry to cry like the other girls. She wasn't so indifferent to the news coming out of Galbadia that she didn't understand what or why this was happening, but she wasn't special or magically talented in any way. As far as she knew that's what Galbadia was looking for, and there was no reason for them to be kidnapped in the middle of dinner, and no reason at all to take the boys, too.
By dawn, they arrived at the southernmost port in Trabia and were taken to a tent and expected to passively submit to blood tests and physical exams that no one wanted to explain. Selphie was hit again when she asked what it was for and this time, her ears rang with a tinny sound and her eyes watered and she tasted blood on the back of her tongue.
"Take this one to the lock-up," a soldier said and lifted Selphie up by her hair. "Seems she needs to be taught how to follow directions."
"Lemmie go!"
Selphie fought her captors, heedless of the danger or the guns or what awaited her for her resistance. A needle plunged deep into the meat of her arm and the world went fuzzy. When she woke, she was somewhere warmer, lying in a bed of pine straw and dirt and her wrists bound behind her back.
She sat up, gazed around, and tried to ignore the throb of pain behind her eyes. A tall fence stretched around a twelve-by-twelve pen, topped with coils of razor wire and threads of electrical wire, like the kind used to keep animals from escaping. In the distance were mountains, but they were not Selphie's mountains. There was no snow, and the rocks were all the wrong color.
Several other women sat gathered in the middle bound the same way. Their hair was stringy and their faces smudged with dirt, and they stared blankly into the distance as if they'd lost all hope.
With difficulty, Selphie pushed to her knees and shuffled her way over to them as much out of curiosity as for comfort. Only one looked up when she approached, her dark brown eyes hard and wary. Selphie ignored the warning in her expression and settled down next to her as the others cast their eyes aside.
"Hi," Selphie chirped. "I'm Selphie."
"Shut up," the young woman hissed, "unless you'd like a bullet in your head."
"Where are we?"
"Somewhere near Dollet, I think," the woman said. "Keep your damn voice down."
Dollet? That wasn't the answer Selphie expected. Southern Trabia, maybe, and it was hard to believe she'd been unconscious long enough to transport her to the Galbadian continent.
"Holy chocobos," Selphie breathed. "So, why are we here?"
"I assume it's because in your case, you won't keep your mouth shut," the woman said.
Selphie frowned at the woman and huffed at her rudeness.
"What's wrong with asking questions?" Selphie demanded. "Anyway, what's your name? And why are you here?"
"It's Xu," the woman said. "And I suggested an alternative place a G-Army grunt might want to stick the barrel of his gun besides in my face."
Selphie blinked at the woman. Xu. Did she know a Xu? She wracked her brain, but came up with nothing but a vague impression of a rocky beach and slate-blue water.
Xu quietly explained that their disobedience earned them a stay in a Galbadian labor camp – a place for insurgents and dissenters, now that D-District was too full to house more. They would be fed once a day and taken in for "deprogramming," which according to Xu meant getting yelled at and knocked around if they didn't agree with Deling's politics.
"I refuse," Xu said flatly. "I didn't struggle my whole life, just to have some dimwit fascists tell me what I'm supposed to believe in."
Selphie scooted so that she sat shoulder to shoulder with the older girl. Xu cast her a narrow sideways glance, scrutinizing her in silence.
"So, Selphie, how are we getting out of here?"
The sitting room of the Dolletian Palace sure was fancy. And Caraway was late.
Irvine shifted uncomfortably and gazed at all the opulence around him. Porcelain vases and hand woven rugs and marble statues. He didn't understand the point of beautiful things that served no purpose. He appreciated things that were aesthetically pleasing, and he understood owning an item or two that pleased the eye, but he didn't understand living in a place that was essentially a private museum, full of things no one was allowed to touch.
The couch he sat upon was upholstered in expensive silk too delicate and fine for Irvine's common derrière, but the fine lead crystal glass he sipped from held water no better than the plastic ones in the barracks. Irvine was sure the cognac in that glass cost more per bottle than the average soldier's annual income.
Caraway invited him to lunch, an honor reserved only for the General's most esteemed associates, and Irvine couldn't help but wonder why he was here. He was a good shot with a rifle, but he was no high ranking officer, nor a politician. Sure, they liked to parade him around at parties and claim he was their secret weapon against the rebellion and they showered him with praise, but Galbadia didn't promote based on skill. They kept their most skilled operatives where they were.
Which begged the question, why was he here?
Over the years, Irvine learned the only way to survive was to play the game. He presented himself as an easy-going guy and didn't quibble when they told him to point his rifle and shoot. He would do the same now. He would nod his head and smile, play the eager young prodigy, assimilate himself into their culture, learn, study, and use what he could to his advantage.
When he was younger, he believed the world's struggles could be solved if all the political leaders were locked in a room until they agreed upon terms of peace. At heart, Irvine was more a pacifist than he would have anyone believe, and he solved his own problems with discussion and not fists or weapons, but the more he saw and learned of the struggles going on outside, the less he believed it would be so easy. Vinzer Deling was not a man who saw value in negotiation and Irvine saw no other end to this but war.
And Irvine had no choice but to be a tool in that war.
Irvine waited almost half an hour before Caraway showed up. He greeted Irvine warmly and offered his hand.
"There's my star sharpshooter," he said and Irvine was forced to give a bashful smile and shake his hand. "Thanks for waiting."
"Not a problem, sir," Irvine said. "I was just admiring the art."
"Impressive, isn't it?" Caraway said. "If there's one thing I can say about Dolletians, it's that they have an eye for beauty."
"That they do, sir."
"Come, lunch awaits and we have important matters to discuss."
Irvine followed him to a private outdoor deck, where an impressive culinary spread awaited them, plates edged in real gold laden with foods he couldn't identify. The irony of a twice-orphaned kid, dining on North Trabian caviar and stuffed lobster and chocobo pate while the people of Dollet fought over scraps of moldy bread hit a little too close to home.
He was used to food prepared in bulk, in industrial kitchens. Things that came out of cans labeled "meat product," and over-processed and over-cooked vegetables preserved in chemicals. As he sampled the fare, he decided he much preferred the meatloaf at the barracks to the pate, and powdered egg scramble to the pungent caviar. He ate everything without complaint and pretended the lobster was delicious when really, the texture and flavor was strange and nearly unpalatable to his unrefined taste buds.
The only thing he really enjoyed was the second glass of cognac, which he technically wasn't old enough to drink, but maybe that was just the thrill of the forbidden.
"I'm wondering if I can ask you for a favor in confidence," Caraway said as he helped himself to a second serving of lobster. "It's a personal request, not a professional one."
Irvine wondered what Caraway could possibly need from him. Unless it was an off-books job, Irvine didn't have much to offer.
"Try me," Irvine said.
"I've noticed you and my daughter have become friendly."
"If by friendly, you mean less hostile, then yeah..."
Caraway smiled. "Rinoa can be difficult. She inherited my tenacity, to be sure."
Irvine waited for him to continue, positive they were to be set up on another date, in spite of how badly the last one ended.
"Today is Rinoa's birthday," Caraway said. "She doesn't have many friends, especially here. I'd like for you to take her out and show her a good time to celebrate."
"Here?" Irvine wondered. "Don't mean to be contrary, sir, but this is a war zone, isn't it?"
"You'll be perfectly safe," Caraway assured him. "I've arranged for a car and a secured location for dinner and dancing among loyalists and friends. All you have to do is accompany her."
Was this guy for real?
"With all due respect," Irvine said, "I can't say Rinoa's interested in dating me, especially if you're encouraging it. Seems to me like she's the kind of girl who wants to decide these things for herself."
Caraway smiled and sipped his cognac.
"Rinoa is still young, and she has a lot of ideas and opinions about things she knows nothing about," Caraway said. "And I said nothing about romance. I just ask that you accompany her, though I'm not opposed to an eventual relationship. When you are both of age and you have reached an acceptable rank to deserve her."
Irvine refrained from laughing or rolling his eyes, but he wished he could do both. The way the man said it was like his daughter's love life was a business arrangement.
"Why me, sir?"
"Because she hasn't insisted I keep you away from her," Caraway said, "and because I trust that you'll be respectful."
Dumbfounded, Irvine sipped his cognac and stared passively back at Caraway.
"I'll do my best, sir," Irvine said.
"Good," Caraway said, matter decided. "There is one other thing, son..."
Seifer unfolded and refolded the letter in his hands and stared out at the slate-blue sea from the deck of the lighthouse. The letter, addressed to Cid, contained only three words: We're coming home.
He didn't know how he felt about that, after this many years apart. He understood now, why they left, but those lingering feelings from childhood – the abandonment, the betrayal, the grief – those things were hard to forget, and he wondered if Matron knew what had become of Cid. Surely, she didn't know, or else she would be here to pick him up and put him back together.
The letter was unsigned, but Seifer instinctively recognized Ellone's handwriting, even with nothing to compare it to. He wondered what she would look like now, if the idealized and childish memory of her lived up to reality. He wondered, if he asked, if she would release him from the bond that he sometimes resented and sometimes didn't know if he could live without. Even if his impressions over the years were few, and communications were even fewer, it was as much a part of him as his extremities.
No one ever explained why she chose him, or why it left him feeling so empty when he was alone. As he stared up at the sky, he felt her more acutely than he had in years. He supposed it was because of the letter that he was more aware of her. Anticipation heightened the little used connection, and he wondered if she felt the same.
Footsteps on the stairs broke him from his thoughts, but he didn't turn toward the sound, knowing full well who it was. Squall was the only one who sought him out here. The rest preferred not to face his ill temper and left him to his own devices, but Squall was the lone exception, unfazed by Seifer's moods or mouth.
He stashed the letter in the pocket of his threadbare coat as Squall came into view and slipped onto the concrete wall and straddled it.
"Let me guess," Seifer said. "You wanna go off and play boy-hero."
Squall shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not."
"You don't think it's weird?" Seifer asked. "Esthar sending out supposed big-wigs to recruit? Seems fishy to me."
Squall nodded and pushed his bangs out of his eyes.
"They're right, though," Squall said. "It's only a matter of time before Galbadia's on our doorstep. I bet they'd be really interested in Quistis. Fujin too. Not much we could do to stop them if they wanted to take them away."
"We can sure as hell try," Seifer fired back. "They'll take 'em over my dead body."
Squall's expression didn't change, but Seifer knew him well enough to detect his skepticism in his subtle shift of posture.
"Six of us against an army?" Squall asked. "No weapons or training, just some parlor tricks and sheer defiance?"
Squall had a point, but Seifer preferred not to acknowledge it.
"What makes you think Esthar's gonna be any different?"
"Whatever," Squall said with a shrug. "I didn't say I was going. Zell and Quistis are pretty sold on the idea."
Seifer kicked the rail and shoved a hand in his pocket to rub his thumb over the creased edge of Ellone's letter. He almost put it into Squall's hands, but for now, that was a secret he wanted to keep to himself. Maybe just to prove them wrong when Ellone and Edea showed up, after years of believing them gone for good.
"I'm not gonna stop them if they wanna go," Seifer said. "Fewer mouths to feed or people to worry about, if you ask me."
"You haven't even considered it."
It was a statement of fact, not a question.
"I know my place," Seifer said.
Squall fell silent and Seifer shifted under his cool, appraising stare.
"Why was it you?" Squall asked.
Seifer, taken aback, looked at his younger sibling and realized, Squall knew all along and never said anything. Squall was far more observant than the rest, and at least he had the good sense to keep his mouth shut about it.
"I've known a long time," Squall said. "She's my sister, but she picked you."
Seifer nodded to himself and rubbed his thumb over the letter again like it was a talisman.
"I've been asking myself that question my whole life," Seifer said. "I don't know any more than you do."
"What if they never come back?"
"They will."
Squall rolled his eyes but let the subject drop. They sat in silence for a while, the crash of the waves below the only sound. Seifer closed his eyes and thought about the future and what he envisioned wasn't pretty.
This place wasn't much. It was a shit-hole, if he was being honest with himself, but it was home. They were safe here with their secrets, making the best of the situation they were in, but when Galbadia came knocking, they would be forced to make their choices. The idea that the six of them could defend this shitty little homestead was laughable. Galbadia, as inept as they were rumored to be, would overpower them by their sheer numbers, and if they were lucky, they would all die in the stand-off. Otherwise, they would be rounded up and held as dissenters or be forced into service as so many others in Timber and Dollet were being forced to do.
That was no way to live, and even their hand-to-mouth existence in Cid's care was preferable to their other options.
For the first time since Seagill visited, Seifer saw how it might be the lesser of evils. A way out for the others, a way to circumvent a worse fate.
"You should join up, kid," Seifer said. "No sense in sticking around here."
"What about you?"
"Maybe fate has another plan for me."
Squall scoffed but didn't comment.
"The others should go, too," he said. "I'd rather you guys join the side that isn't trying to force their rule on the rest of the world than stay here and get yourselves killed."
Squall nodded thoughtfully and folded his arms over his chest.
"She won't blame you if you go, too," Squall said.
"Someone's gotta look out for Cid," Seifer said with a smirk. "Someone's gotta make sure he's got his booze and crossword puzzles."
Squall laughed softly and pushed to his feet. He stepped up to the rail and angled his hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun. Seifer settled back and let his eyes drift shut again and tried to picture what Ellone looked like now. He was eighteen, she was twenty-two. Not a girl anymore, and try as he might, the images in his head were those of the fourteen-year-old girl who left him to fend for himself.
That was unfair. Seifer doubted she was given much choice in the matter.
"A ship," Squall said over the din of the crashing of waves. "See it?"
Seifer sat up and followed Squall's gaze to the horizon, where not so far away, a ship with rearward sails angled toward the coast. That strange tug in his chest became a steady ache as he rose to his feet and joined Squall at the rail.
Ellone. Seifer knew it with every fiber of his being.
"Well, I'll be damned."
Rinoa keyed in the combination to her father's safe – her mother's birthday of all things – and turned the lock. It gave a satisfying click as the door sung open and she reached inside to retrieve a bundle of cash and the pistol her father kept there for emergencies. She slipped both items into her jeweled handbag and closed the safe with a triumphant smile.
One would think a man as smart as her father would use a less obvious combination for his most important documents and items, but that was to her benefit. It was his own fault she was doing this, after the conversation she overheard between himself and Irvine Kinneas over lunch earlier. It was one thing to set her up on a date with the young sharpshooter, but it was another to orchestrate her life down to the minutia, he deserved it. She was no thief, but her actions were necessary. She could no longer let her father make her choices for her, and she could no longer sit idly by and do nothing.
Downstairs, her father chatted over glasses of expensive cognac, and in spite of herself, Rinoa smiled. Irvine wore a tailored tux and in his hand was a black stetson. He appeared taller, and his long hair was in a neat braid and he looked so much more the part of the young upstart than the last time they crossed paths.
"Well don't you look like a proper gentleman," she said. "Nice hat, though I don't think it goes with your outfit."
"You can take a boy out of the country," he mused with a lopsided grin. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you," she said politely. "Are you ready to go?"
"Whenever you are," he said.
Rinoa turned to her father and on impulse, threw her arms around him and hugged him a little too tight. They had their differences, but he was her father. Their lives were about to go in separate directions, and who knew when they would see one another again? Or how he would see her when she stood on the other side of the line?
"Have a good time, sweetheart," he said and pressed a rare kiss to her cheek. "Happy birthday."
She thanked him and smoothed her hands over the sky blue silk of her dress.
"Kinneas, I expect you'll take good care of my daughter."
"Of course, Sir," Irvine said. "She's in good hands."
Irvine offered his arm and Rinoa took it, and her stomach filled with butterflies. Not because her date was handsome and charming and on his way up the political ladder thanks to her father's attentions, but because there were a lot of things that could go wrong. She counted on Irvine's hidden subversive streak to get her where she needed to be, but if he resisted her plan, she would have to take matters into her own hands and force him.
She sat through a five course meal of delicacies and local cuisine, and though her anxiety urged her to drink to take the edge off, she refrained as Irvine indulged. He told her tales about life in the barracks and about awkward moments that came from inserting a simple country boy into the world of the elite. In any other circumstances, Rinoa would find his stories of silverware misidentification humorous, but she was too keyed up to do more than offer a distracted smile or two.
It was too bad what she was about to do would make him a fugitive. She'd grown to enjoy his company over the last year or so. The more she learned about him, the less of the girl-crazy pervert he seemed. Under all that easy flirting was a serious, thoughtful young man that shared her frustration with the world as it was, but was in no position to fight back.
Irvine wasn't to blame for his circumstances any more than Rinoa was. It wasn't his fault Caraway forced notoriety on him, nor that he was a fish out of water among the politicians and military officials. It wasn't his fault some sharp-eyed recruiter saw potential in him and the G-Army exploited it. He was as much a pawn as Rinoa when it came down to it.
Well, no more. Whether he liked it or not, her father's plans to return her to Deling City following her birthday festivities would be thwarted, and he could either join her or be dragged along for the ride.
"You all right?" he asked as he led her to the dance floor. "You haven't bent my ear about sexism in politics or the plight of the downtrodden all night."
"Can't a girl just have a good time?" she asked.
"Well, sure," he said, "but you didn't say a word when I commented on the waitress' boobs, so call me crazy, but I'd say you're pretty deep in thought."
Rinoa scowled. "I should kick you for that."
"I said it to get your attention," he said. "Imagine my surprise when you didn't take the bait."
"I should make you go apologize to her."
"If you like," he said. "But I'd rather find out what's got you looking like you sucked on a lemon all through dinner."
"Wrong time, wrong place," she said. "Let's just dance, okay?"
Rinoa allowed him to lead her through a series of waltzes and a foxtrot, declined an offer to dance from one of her father's subordinates, and returned to the table. A glance at the time told her it was almost time to go, and she willed herself to have the nerve to go for it.
Irvine escorted her to the car and she slid into the back seat, feigning ignorance when the driver turned for the road out of town instead of the main street back to the Palace. Outside the window, she saw the faces of the oppressed huddled together on street corners and the soldiers standing guard over the square and the evidence of bombing south of downtown and her eyes burned with tears she wouldn't let herself cry.
It wasn't right. Someone needed to stand up and put a stop to this. Even if all she could do was fight for the side of the oppressed, then she would do it.
As the car passed out of city limits, Rinoa slipped her hand into her purse and retrieved the handgun. She slid forward and pressed the barrel to the back of the driver's head.
"Stop the car."
"Rin, what the hell are you doing?!" Irvine cried.
"What does it look like?" she asked as the driver pulled onto the shoulder. "I'm not going to Deling City."
"Now wait a second," Irvine protested but Rinoa cut him off.
"You're the one who said one girl with courage and conviction could make a difference," she said. "Well, I'm making a difference."
The car came to a stop and Rinoa ordered the driver to hand her his phone and his car keys.
"Now, get out of the car," she said calmly. "Irvine, you're driving."
"And where are we going?"
"Timber."
