7

CHAPTER 7 – COMPRESSION OF TIME

Down and down Squall fell through the void. It might have been for minutes, or even hours on end. He could no longer tell; any sense of time or spatial awareness had been stripped from him. Onward he plummeted as if into a dreamlike trance, his surroundings having congealed in an incomprehensible morass. He shut his eyes tightly, dreading the inevitable moment of impact. His grip on Edea's hand was no different; once again, just as when he was a child, she remained his only constant in the face of the unknown. His friends were gone, taken from him by the time compression just as Ellone had been all those years ago. And as he reminisced, he recalled his promise to Rinoa. He'd sworn he would be there to meet her should things go awry.

That's it… focus…

It was all he could do to retain any semblance of stability, to keep himself grounded where the world itself refused to comply. He pictured in his mind's eye the great field of flowers trailing into the distance. He envisioned every minute detail of the orphanage, from the lighthouse to the ivy-strewn trail leading up the front steps. He imagined himself standing among it all, basking in the sun's embrace, free from the troubles of the world as he'd always felt there. When he finally mustered the courage to open his eyes, so it was.

His feet stood firmly planted on the path to the house. There the flowers stood just beside, marvelous as ever, trailing out into the sunset. By some miracle, he'd been deposited halfway across the world. As he swiveled his head to face the orphanage however, all was not as it seemed.

What in the hell is this?!

The house was practically unrecognizable from how they'd left it that very morning; Squall couldn't even fathom how it managed to remain standing in its current state. Several of the support pillars at the front stood sheared in two. Others were missing entirely. Entire sections of the building's front wall had been ripped clean from the stone without a trace. Still other segments looked so polished and pristine as to be completely foreign; it was as if someone had taken a power washer to only a few select patches of the wall, and deliberately left the rest of the house unfinished.

"So, this is time compression."

Squall at last turned his head away. Edea stood beside, her hand still clasped with his; he hadn't even realized she'd landed there with him in his state of befuddlement. He released the hold just in time to notice another discrepancy: the annex to the path's right-hand side was completely gone. Without it, his view of the lighthouse was left unimpeded. It too looked on the verge of collapse. Still, it kept standing despite the huge chunks missing from its foundation.

"I don't understand," he said to her. "Why does the orphanage look like this? How did we even get here?"

"It's like Dr. Odine said," she spoke quietly. "This place… everything in this world, is but a reflection. A jumbled mixture of how this land appeared – and will appear – across all eras of time."

He recalled as much from the doctor's briefing the day before. Only now, as he bore witness to it with his own eyes, could he truly believe such a thing possible, let alone picture it. The holes left gaping in the orphanage's framework were just as likely from a time it hadn't yet existed as from one where it stood no more. Even the flower garden, now that he took a closer look at it, lay peppered with dead spots where none grew.

Who could ever want to live in a world like this?

"Edea!"

He looked back to the front door. Out came Cid, followed closely by the White SeeDs. Together, they bolted down the steps and over to their position.

"What's going on?" the headmaster asked frantically. "How did you get here? What happened to the world? Why is… Seifer?"

Squall turned back again. Sure enough, there his rival stood just behind him and Edea; his presence had gone completely unnoticed, silent as he'd been. He still said nothing. There was no need; the shame and guilt written on his face spoke for him. He lowered his head down and to the side, not daring to meet his nor anyone else's eyes.

"Ultimecia's time compression has been achieved," Edea summed up for her husband. "To restore the world back to its natural state, we must now find her, and defeat her."

"And where exactly should we start looking?" Squall muttered.

He peered out over the dilapidated grounds to the northern shoreline. Or rather, towards where he expected the shoreline to be. What he saw instead rendered him just as speechless as Seifer. There was no water in sight beyond the lighthouse. Solid, level ground extended out to meet the Galbadian mainland. Apparently the lay of the land had reverted to a state in which the island had yet to break off from the rest of the continent. Things looked no different to the south; on the terrain stretched into the distance, far past where it should have.

Utterly insane…

"Never mind that!" Cid exclaimed. "Where are the others? What happened out there, anyway?"

"Headmaster, might I suggest we move this back inside?" Reiner recommended. "Who knows what might be lying in wait out here? Or if the compression process is even complete?"

"I'll… stand guard," Squall volunteered, still scanning the horizon in every direction. "In case the others show up."

He recognized the chances were slim. He, Edea, and Seifer had likely only ended up in the same place due to their proximity at the moment of time compression. Myriad were the number of places the others could have potentially wound up. They might have even still been back in Esthar; Cid and the White SeeDs had apparently remained in the same location, after all. Still, he desperately hoped to be proven wrong.

Rinoa… I told you I'd be here, waiting…

"Very well," Cid replied, nodding to him. "Let's head in then, Edea, Seifer. Watch your step, though!"

The six of them trotted off towards the front door, leaving Squall to his devices. He was prepared to wait however long for his friends; time was no longer of any consequence. It was only as they reached the steps that it struck him: there was still at least one more burning question to account for. And unlike so many at hand, there was every likelihood Edea knew the answer.

"Matron!" he called out to her. She stopped and turned back around to face him. "About Quistis… that power she was using against Adel… is she…?"

He let the question hang open ended between them. He dared not finish it. How could he, knowing what it meant for Quistis' life going forward, just as Rinoa's? Edea simply nodded back.

"I had my suspicions," she admitted. "Ever since you all returned from the research center and told me what had happened out there. I didn't want to say anything, but… there was just no other way that sorceress could have passed from this world. Each fragment of Hyne's scattered power must continue to persist in the world, after all. Until…"

She trailed off for a moment, seeming uncertain of what she wanted to say. Squall already had a hunch.

Until Ultimecia ends up with all of it in the future?

"She and Rinoa came to me when you showed up again a few days ago," she continued. "I gave them both whatever advice I could, and they went to work training out back. I have to say, I'm impressed."

So was Squall. More than that, it gave him some degree of optimism to offset the despair. With their GFs gone, a second sorceress in their retinue was more than welcome to help level the playing field with Ultimecia.

As long as those two didn't end up separated from each other, anyway…

"Thank you, Matron," he said to her. "For being there for them… for all of us, whenever we've needed you."

"And I always will be."

She turned to Seifer, still idling on the steps beside her.

"For all my children. No matter what."

The young man predictably had no verbal response. He stared back at her unflinchingly, his expression deadpan as it had ever been since their arrival. All it took was one tear to come streaming down his cheek for the dam to burst. He threw himself at her, tightly wrapping her in his arms. She reciprocated as promised. Squall watched the scene unfold without comment. Despite every terrible action Seifer had taken, and whatever war crimes he was complicit in, in the end, he'd been no less Ultimecia's puppet than Edea. She'd exploited his loyalty to the woman who'd raised him, a force every bit as visceral as the remorse he showed now. His punishment could wait; the upending of his romantic dream and the loss of his closest friends was surely more agonizing than any Squall could think up.

She gingerly released him and, with the help of the White SeeDs, escorted him the rest of the way up the steps and into the orphanage. The door shut behind, leaving Squall standing by his lonesome in the wilderness. And wilderness it truly was; however familiar at a glance, there was no comfort nor security to be found amid the perverted scenery which surrounded him. Every which way he looked, he found something new to further compound his growing unease.

Best not to stray too far.

He opted to bide his time by the flower field, praying for his reunion with the others to come at any moment. He knew not how long he stood there for; the setting sun remained frozen in place on the horizon, not daring to descend any further. His wristwatch was likewise of no use; its display had ceased ticking on at precisely the moment of time compression. He kept vigilant through it all, no matter the futility. There was still that small inkling of hope he'd see the lot of them come running onto the scene when he least expected. Whether from the direction of Galbadia or Centra, he couldn't have cared less.

Finding them again was only the first step on the road to victory, however. Ultimecia's whereabouts were just as elusive, and would perhaps be even more difficult to deduce. That she was now supposedly within their reach, in a place no longer separated by the veil of time was all they had going for them. Were they to scour the entire planet for her? Just how long would such an ordeal take to complete? How much longer would they be forced to exist in this disjointed, irrationally constructed reality? How many more people would die before they succeeded? And most importantly of all, was there even a chance they could realistically succeed?

Whatever passed for one now lay upon Quistis and Rinoa's shoulders. There was nothing more he, nor any of the others could do on their own. Perhaps it was a waste of his time to even be hung up on thinking about it. Perhaps his part in this story had in fact come to an end. Even so, he longed to see Rinoa again with his own eyes, to be sure she'd passed through the transition safely as he. He peered out to the flowers again, lost in his own fantastical daydreaming. He brought his hand up to his heart as he did so. Only then did he realize he was without a pulse; regardless of the intensity of his emotions, his heart reflected none of it. He held his breath, and waited several tense moments for any trace of a flicker in his chest. Nothing came. Logically, he should have been either dead or dying.

Just as alarming was his seemingly infinite breath support. He continued holding his mouth shut. He plugged his nose for good measure. Even after nearly a minute, he felt no different. There came no burning need for air, nor any fear of suffocation. And as he finally let go with an exaggerated exhale, none came out of his mouth. Only then did he understand he'd never actually been breathing to begin with. All this time, he'd never once felt a wisp of air blowing across his cheek, let alone sucked any in through his nose or mouth.

Is… is this also what it means to exist in this world?

His hopes suddenly felt all the more hollow, just as he did. He truly was nothing more than a reflection now. Squall Leonhart, the man, lived no longer, nor would he ever again should they fail. But could he even find the will to go on now? To persist as an ageless phantom, neither living nor dead, in a world more hellish than any he could have imagined before? Who could possibly have the strength of mind to do so? He dearly hoped Rinoa would; she'd arguably suffered through worse already for the months she'd spent imprisoned in her own mind. And as he continued staring out at the flowers, pining for her to appear from the blue among them, he realized now that it was he who longed for reassurance. For the comfort only she could give him, and the affirmation that he was still the man she loved, no matter if his heart refused to beat for her.

"Hello there."

The voice, low, gruff, and unfamiliar to his ears, caught him off guard. He swiveled to face it, and nearly jumped out of his skin as he did so; its owner stood mere feet from his shoulder. With a yelp, he backpedaled, his hand shooting for his gunblade out of instinct. He'd barely drawn it from its sheath when another sword flew out at him, parrying the blade before he could flip it upright. The two weapons clanged together, their edges grinding against one another. Squall held the stalemate as best he could. He placed both hands on the hilt and bent his knee to give himself leverage. No matter his efforts to break free however, his opponent's right arm alone possessed the strength to keep forcing him down.

A tattered red cloak concealed nearly the man's entire body. Besides the one arm, his eyes were the only other part of him left exposed through a narrow slit in the fabric. Even that much was enough to put Squall on edge, however; there was nothing natural about his skin's pale grey complexion, nor the strange red markings which framed his eyes like streaks of blood. More eerie still, his eyes had no pupils; Squall might have assumed he were blind had the parry not been so quick and precise. He wore a headdress with two jagged black horns extending out from either side, and a grey tassel shooting straight up. Topped off by his height – he was easily as tall as Ward – his sudden appearance would have been liable to scare anyone straight.

"Well, now," he spoke again; the pure white void that was his stare made it impossible for Squall to read his focus nor intentions. "That looks like quite a prize, indeed."

"Wh-who are you?" Squall stammered, still fighting to push off his sword's weight. "What do you want?"

"That blade would be a nice start," he replied with a snort. "So eager to draw… the least you can do now is prove yourself worthy to hold it."

He released the parry and stepped back. There came no attack until Squall had straightened himself out and righted his gunblade; apparently, his challenger was not one for dirty tricks. Still, it was a fight he wanted no part of.

"Hold on a minute!" he tried to reason with him. "What are you-"

The sideways slash cut short his plea. His quick reflexes ensured it stopped there, however. Several more followed in rapid succession. He blocked all of them as best he could, backpedaling his way towards the house. To his benefit, the time compression had rid the trail of its overgrown ivy. He could scarcely afford to direct his attention anywhere else but the tip of his opponent's blade; following his eyes would obviously be of no use.

The man in red continued using his right arm exclusively. His left remained tucked within the confines of his cloak, its silhouette bulging through the fabric as he held it tightly shut. Even as Squall proceeded to push back, he deflected each strike just as easily with only one hand. His skill was unquestionable. Just as evident were his intentions: he was toying with him. Had this man wanted him dead, he would certainly have finished the job by now. As eager to bring the duel to an end quickly as he was to make a point, Squall swung the gunblade back further for a decisive blow. The amount of force exerted would doubtless leave him open in the aftermath, but it made no difference; his opponent would have no sword left to counter with at all.

His opponent brought up his sword to block, as expected. Squall pulled the trigger with honed precision at the moment of impact. Together their blades clanged. The produced vibration trembled up the hilt as it had already so many times. To his bewilderment however, it was no more intense; the explosive round had seemingly refused to detonate. The crimson swordsman's weapon remained intact. And indeed, Squall's confusion paired with the time it would take to recover from the strike was all he needed to capitalize on the misfire.

He swept down at his legs, catching the fore of his steel toed boots. The force immediately threw Squall off balance; he stumbled in place, throwing one hand out at the ground to keep himself from tumbling over. By the time he righted himself, the tip of the blade had dipped to just below his chin.

"You know how to defend yourself, I'll give you that much," the man complimented him as he kept the sword hovering menacingly before his throat. "But you don't make a move like that unless you're sure it's going to connect."

You have no idea how sure I was.

He retracted the blade and backed up, once again laying bare his motives: this was as much for his own amusement as testing Squall's mettle. And yet, unlike Seifer, he carried an almost palpable sense of honor and dignity about him. Who he was and why he'd come to the orphanage still eluded Squall. Even so, he clung to the hope he could be reasoned with.

"There's no reason for us to fight," he insisted. He manually rotated the gunblade's cylinder to another round, just in case.

"I beg to differ," the man rebutted him. "Where there's a sword worth adding to my collection, there's always a reason. Now, let us be done with any more idle chatter. If you've something to say, speak with your blade. En garde!"

He leapt in for another strike. Squall parried again, and the dance recommenced. The man still continued to rely upon his right arm alone. Were his end goal truly to take the gunblade for himself, he seemed to be in no hurry. Whether out of generosity or complacency, his lenience was Squall's only window of opportunity to do something about it. He refused to let his only remaining means of self-defense be stripped from him. Why it had misfired remained a mystery; he'd made sure each of the six chambers were loaded ahead of their approach to the Lunatic Pandora. A dud round was the only explanation he could think of. Whatever the case, he had no other recourse but to try again.

Fighting to take control of the battle, he managed to push the confrontation back along the trail. Perhaps the man was even allowing him to take the lead. This time however, he made sure not to telegraph the slash as blatantly. He still poured as much strength into it as he could, leaning into it with his lower body for extra momentum, and pulled the trigger. The red man blocked it just as before. Only now, the sword buckled and gave way. Its blade flew through the air as Squall's own cut through the open divide.

The man reeled back in alarm. His pupil-less eyes visibly widened as he retracted his arm, bringing the broken weapon up to examine. While not the cleanest cut he'd ever made, Squall was satisfied with the results. He righted his gunblade, holding it out defiantly. Hopefully, he'd need no further persuasion to withdraw from the fight.

"Hmph," he finally snorted, tossing the ruined hilt away towards the flower field. "Of course. Grabbed the wrong one. My mistake."

His hand dipped back inside his cloak. When it reemerged, it drew out another sword. Squall, now at leisure and an appropriate distance to do so, looked it up and down carefully. Its dimensions and general design were virtually identical to the one he'd just chopped in half: a wide fanned pommel at its base, with a double edged blade which gradually narrowed as it neared the tip. Most striking was the steely blue color with a snake-like streak of black trailing through the middle. It was an elegant if unconventional looking weapon. And more than that, one he could have sworn he'd seen somewhere before. The niggling familiarity prodded at the back of his mind. However hard he racked his brain, nothing came to him.

"Now, let us try this again," the cloaked man taunted him.

Let's not.

Disinterested as he was irritable, Squall simply slid the gunblade back into its sheathe without a word. Unless he somehow held ties to Ultimecia, any further sparring with this man would only be a waste of his time and energy.

"Do you surrender?" he balked. "If so, I'll be taking that to replace the one you just broke, if you please."

"Take a look around," Squall bluntly deflected with a sweep of his arm across the deformed landscape. "Do you really think a broken sword should be your biggest concern right now?"

"You mean… this isn't how the land is supposed to look?"

Squall didn't even know where to take the line of questioning from there. How could this man possibly have assumed the garbled mishmash which surrounded them to be a product of nature, or even intelligent design?

"It's the work of the sorceress," he said, hoping that would be enough.

"The sorceress? You mean…"

The man paused, and turned his attention out across the field.

"So, then… this is still the same…"

He trailed off, muttering indistinguishably to himself. Squall allowed him the moment's peace; perhaps now, he would be willing to listen to reason.

"Well, whatever manner of sorcery might be at work here, I can assure you it isn't her doing," he finally said. "She has already been dealt with."

"What… what do you mean?!" Squall reeled.

"And here I thought there wasn't a soul in this land who didn't know by now. Your king has been slain, betrayed by the sorceress. I tell you this as one of his last witnesses. May he rest in peace in the halls of his forebears. As for his assassin, the council and I have personally seen to her punishment. She is of no further threat to this kingdom, nor its people."

King? Council? What the hell is this guy talking about?!

"The sorceress from Galbadia," he clarified.

"I know not of where you speak," the red man confessed, bowing his head. "I am a stranger to these lands. I have traveled long and far from my home to arrive here."

Truly, the man spoke as if he'd come from another planet. The account he'd given stood in total incongruence with anything that had happened in the last several months. Despite it all, he didn't seem to be playing dumb, or otherwise deliberately trying to mislead him.

Maybe he's just plain crazy?

"If you've still any doubt of your king's passing, perhaps this will be enough to convince you."

His left arm at last emerged from the opposite side of his cloak. It held another sword within its grasp, this one significantly bulkier. Even at a quick first glance, its shape was a far cry from the other two Squall had yet seen him wield. His jaw fell open as he pulled it all the way out and presented it to him. His eyes bulged as they traced the scimitar's blade from its tip to its ricasso. For just an instant, he swore he felt his heart flutter again.

"Do you believe me now?" the man asked.

He could never forget that wicked curve, like a steel-cast crescent moon, still so clearly etched into his faintest memories. There was no doubt about it. This sword was every bit as familiar to him as the one in the man's left. He'd seen them both that day, upon this very trail, in the hands of another unfamiliar swordsman. Or had it really been another man at all?

Could he be…?

"Who are you?" he finally found the courage to ask again. "Where have you come from? Why are you here?"

"You first," the man countered, retracting the scimitar. "Tell me all you know of this enchantment."

Squall grimaced. He was a stubborn one, whoever he was. Whether he would even be able to comprehend all that the state of the world entailed, there was no point trying to hide it from him. The promise of the closure he sought was incentive plenty to play along for now.

"It's called time compression," he began, searching for the right words to explain as he went. "Essentially, everything around us is a cobbled together mix of how the world looked – or will look – at some point in time. Past, present, and future, all smashed together."

"You know this?" the man asked; a single eyebrow raised up through the slit in his cowl.

"It's a world of the sorceress' making," he continued, unabated. "And us… we're all just walking reflections of who we were at the moment it came into being. Not even really alive, in a sense. Put your hand on your heart if you don't believe me."

He made no effort to do so. He stood still as a statue, his swords hanging limply at either side. Without pupils, Squall could hardly read his reaction. He assumed the gears were still turning; it was a great deal to process, despite his efforts to simplify it. Eventually, he raised the scimitar but slightly, and turned his empty gaze to its blade, gleaming in the eternally setting sun.

"I am… but a reflection?" he broke his silence at last. "So then, that is why…"

"What's going on out here?!"

Squall spun on his heel back to the front door. Out Edea came running with Brent just behind. He opened his mouth to call out; there was still too much risk in letting her come so close. He stopped himself when he realized there was no better person to confirm his suspicions. Likewise, were this the same man from 13 years ago, he surely wouldn't try to attack her here and now. She ground to a halt at Squall's side, and looked the mysterious cloaked visitor up and down.

"Who are you?!"

The intensity with which she'd shouted the man down caught Squall off guard. Her eyes frantically darted back and forth between the two of them as she awaited an answer.

"Matron," he half-whispered to her. "Those swords… is he-"

"No one of importance," the man finally spoke. He swiftly returned both weapons to his cloak, one after the other, and pivoted away to the north. "But if this world exists at the whim of another sorceress, she must be brought to heel just the same. It seems my journey is not yet over. I apologize for my imposition, young man. I will bother you no more."

With that, he started off towards the mainland, not even bothering to retrieve the shattered sword's pieces from the flower field. He strode with purpose into the distance, the ragged red fringes of his outfit swaying behind with every step.

"Is that him?" Squall finally spit out his question to Edea. "The warrior from all those years ago? He really came back, just like you said he would!"

She didn't meet his eyes. She just kept staring out at the swordsman as he marched ever onward to Galbadia.

"Matron?" he prodded her.

"It's finally here," she muttered, at last turning her attention to him. "Go with him, Squall. Now. Forget about me and the others. Help him find Ultimecia, and defeat her."

The look in her eyes cut through him like his gunblade had through the man's discarded sword.

"But what can I do?" he replied. He had no heading, nor any means of defending himself against the sorceress' magic.

"Whatever you can. That's all any of us can ever do. It's all I could do since that day, 13 years ago. And now… finally, my part in all this can be over. But yours must go on, Squall, just like his. Now, go, and make me proud. I'll be waiting for you here when it's finished."

No matter his reservations, he didn't have it in him to say no to her. There was also his own curiosity to contend with; he still longed to know the full story behind the man to whom he owed his life. And if anyone else could stand a chance against Ultimecia, it was someone with a proven track record. To that end, he would be more than happy to point him in the right direction.

I suppose he is down a sword now, anyway.

"We'll stay on the lookout for the others," Brent assured him. "Just take care of yourself. We're all counting on you."

Squall nodded to them both, performed the SeeD salute, and took off after the man in red rags shrinking further into the distance.

Looks like it's time to repay the favor…