FFVIII Chapter 2: Hidden in Plain Sight
The foreman switched on the floodlights with a loud clang, bathing the compound in bright light and signaling the start of the night shift for the FH Cargo employees. The freight yard was vast, empty, and silent. Only the steady hum of electricity, the distant whir of idling machinery, and the thud of steel-toed boots broke the silence as workers passed to their assigned locations.
The smell of salt mingled with oil and diesel fumes, and a faint metallic odor permeated the air. A light mist clung to the ground, casting a muted glow over the buildings and the shadows stretching across the pavement. Each employee wore the company's standard navy coveralls, with orange reflective strips stitched around the arms, legs, and torso.
The night shift consisted of multiple crew members handling different tasks to ensure smooth operations. This particular group dealt with cargo – a monotonous job involving unloading and reloading freight cars.
As the team approached the railway, the sound of waves slapping against the towering pylons grew louder, and the breeze carried a briny spray of mist that clung to their clothing.
"We're gonna need some tarps to protect the grain," a coworker muttered. Above, the sky was clear, but in the distance, storm clouds were gathering. Then, as if in reply, a flash of lightning streaked across the sky, followed by a distant rumble. "I just hope the rain doesn't come this way."
Static crackled over the radio as the foreman's voice cut in, muffled by the heavy machinery in the background. "Team four, who's operating the forklift?"
Ray reached into his utility belt, pulling out a black metallic radio. His voice was calm, indifferent. "Yeah–I'll be handling it."
More static. Then: "Is that you, Ray?"
Ray hesitated. "–Yeah," he said, releasing the button.
"Alright. Next time, don't forget to sign out those keys, okay?" the foreman's sharp reprimand prompted a chorus of exaggerated "Ooohs" from the group. Jimbo, one of their senior workers, smirked, tapping two fingers to his eye before pointing them at Ray.
Ray rolled his eyes, unfazed. "Roger that," he replied into the radio before clipping it back onto his utility belt once it went silent. Another jagged bolt of lightning ripped through the darkness, and a heartbeat later, thunder boomed.
"Alright, Karl, you're on tarp duty," Ray added, addressing a robust worker with a curly mop of brown hair. "Grab some tarps from the shed in case we need em. Remember, dry goods first, then the rest. Let's move."
After a brief exchange, the workers dispersed, moving with the ambling gait of those who walked the same route countless times. One crew headed toward the freight car, sliding open the giant metal doors with a creak and a groan before disappearing inside. Others continued down the pavement, their outlines fading into the shadows, flashlights flickering.
Seifer watched them go, his jaw tight. Most of the cargo laborers were washed-up old men with no direction. A minimum wage job with mindless work. Temporary. And he couldn't wait for it to be over.
A harsh glare suddenly flashed into his eyes, blinding him. Annoyed, Seifer turned, squinting and averting his face as he raised a hand to block the light.
"Get that thing out of my face!" He muttered sharply, forcing himself to resist the urge to smack Ray's hard hat off his head.
Ray smiled, flashing a crooked grin as he shut off the light from his hard hat. "Sorry bout that slugger. You looked a bit distracted, that's all. Thought I'd mess with you a little," he continued, giving him a quick, playful jab on his ribs, then stepping back. "Alright, funs over. Let's get unloading."
Seifer blinked, his vision still hazy from the glare, as Ray motioned him to follow without looking back.
Clenching his teeth, he inhaled deeply, reminding himself he needed this job—no point in complicating things.
And so, after a moment of hesitation–primarily out of spite–he shoved his clenched hands into his overalls' pockets and dragged his feet after Ray.
The scent of rain on the horizon grew stronger as the two followed the train tracks further into the yard. The moon hovered above the metal ceilings of the boxcars, its light framed by a thin collar of clouds lingering against the celestial sphere.
To the left, rows of white, rectangular dome buildings stood in formation, reinforced with metal frames and concrete bases to withstand violent storms. Floodlights illuminated the pathways between them, but Seifer's path remained in shadow. Blocks of darkness stretched behind the buildings, casting uneven patches onto the train.
His eyes wandered back to the train – dull, gray, lifeless. The only color came from the graffiti sprawled across the boxcars, its paint fading, bleeding into the metal. Stuck. Trapped. Just like him.
His gaze skimmed the graffiti to occupy himself – not out of genuine interest, but as a distraction. Anything to keep his temper in check and his mind occupied, lest he accidentally throttles the next idiot who called him slugger.
The first freight car they passed bore the words these tracks never end.
Hard to argue with that.
Even if he wanted to leave, he couldn't afford the ticket. And where would he go, anyway? His reputation as Sorceress Ultimecia's lapdog haunted his every step, trapping him in a prison of notoriety.
The next boxcar had P.H. here, scrawled in big red cursive. Seifer dismissed it immediately.
Yeah, nobody cares, buddy.
The following carriage was more challenging to read. The spray paint was older, and the letters cracked and chipped. Something about the body was gone, but the shadow remained. Some philosophical nonsense. A faded handprint for effect.
Tch. Typical.
A quick blur of movement caught his attention. Lowering his gaze, Seifer spotted a rather large rat with a glossy coat scurrying alongside the rails. Its tail twitched, its plump rear wobbling as it took frantic strides.
Ray kept walking, oblivious. Or maybe he didn't care.
Seifer's eyes tracked the rat until it darted over the railing, sending dust and pebbles before vanishing beneath the tracks.
His expression darkened. Unbelievable. Even out in the middle of nowhere, rats thrived.
The pit in his stomach felt emptier. His boots felt heavier. And his rage burned hotter.
Finally, Ray stopped at the last car, marked with a drawing of a constipated-looking cow. Its eyes were huge, protruding from their sockets. Beneath it, "I go nuts for Betsy" was scrawled in thick black letters.
Well. At least this one has character.
Grabbing the grimy handrail, Seifer heaved the latch bar upward and slid the doors open. The metal groaned against the rollers, a sharp, grating sound cutting through the damp night air.
Inside, the boxcar was packed with dairy products. Pallets of milk jugs lined the floor in neat stacks, their plastic misted with condensation. The faint, sour tang of old milk clung to the chilled air, making Seifer wrinkle his nose.
Against the insulated walls, wooden crates held rows of vacuum-sealed cheese wheels and butter bricks stacked with precision. His stomach gave a low, hollow growl at the sight of the cheese, its golden hues practically mocking him.
Seifer clenched his jaw, forcing himself to ignore the gnawing hunger and dryness sticking in his throat. How long had it been since he'd tasted a decent, sharp cheddar?
A rhythmic tapping against the doorframe pulled him back. Standing at the exit and watching with mild amusement was Ray, drumming his fingers against the metal. "Best we get the butter unloaded first. If we hurry, we won't need the tarps." He turned, already stepping away. "I'll grab the forklift. You good on your own?"
Seifer exhaled. "Yeah," he said, then, catching himself, softened his tone. "I'll be fine."
Ray nodded. "All right. Start stacking the shipment by the entrance. Don't pile them too high. I'll be back."
Seifer watched him go, his figure disappearing behind the domes.
Suppressing a sigh, he turned on his hard hat light and got to work. He started by unloading the butter bricks, cutting the coarse rope, binding them, and stacking them by the entrance.
The silence of unloading the cargo grew more suffocating the longer as the night dragged on. The constant hum of the refrigerator in the background and the hollow echo of his boots against the metal floor only deepen the emptiness pressing into him like an unspoken weight.
Even the approaching thunder felt distant – its low grumble forlorn and plaintive.
By the time Ray arrived for the sixth shipment, rain had descended on the freight yard, swallowing the compound in a thick fog. Seifer peered into the monochromatic wasteland, flexing his fingers against the creeping stiffness.
His gloves weren't doing much—not that he'd expected them to. They were worn thin, barely holding together, and missing two fingers. The refrigerator nipped at his exposed skin, but he ignored it. It wasn't the first time. It wasn't even the worst.
A memory of a training exercise in the mountain region of Trabia crept to the cusp of his mind: the cold, the storm, huddling in a cave covered with nigh a branch in sight. The faculty at Balamb had selected a few promising students to participate in this so-called training exercise, designed to test the resilience and fortitude of their students. Of the five selected, he was the only one to return—with some bullshit excuse that the others had been transferred to Galbadia Garden to pursue skills more suited to non-magic users. But Seifer knew better.
He'd been barely ten-years-old when they sent him on that training exercise. His control over fire magic was minimal at best. In truth, he could barely create a spark. But he learned quickly.
This was nothing.
He slammed the last crate onto Ol'Betsy near the entrance, his fingers digging into the wooden edges until they left a mark. Just then, Ray pulled up to the entrance, headlights cutting through the fog like a phantom, windshield wipers swishing rapidly.
"Hey, slugger! Got something for ya!" Ray hollered, stepping out of the vehicle. He wore a green poncho, the hood pulled up, and a visor shielding his face from the rain. Jogging toward the entrance of Ol'Betsy, he held out what Seifer assumed was another poncho.
"I know it's not much," Ray said, grinning. "But hey, you can't complain too much about a freebie. How 'bout you join us in the break room?"
Seifer took the poncho and suddenly felt a wave of weariness. His hand tightened–but for a moment. Something flickered beneath the surface: hesitation, frustration, and anger all welling up at once. Then, his grip loosened, and managing a brief smile, he muttered: "Yeah, sure. I'll catch up in a bit. Gonna check the service platform first."
Ray's grin widened, showing off that one missing tooth. "Oh – okay. Well. See you in a bit then. Stay dry out here."
And just like that, with one hand on the side handle, Ray jumped onto the wet pavement and climbed back into the forklift, tossing a wave over his shoulder while Seifer lingered, deliberating.
He hated the idea of owing anyone anything. But catching a cold over pride? He wasn't stupid. With a quick, almost irritated motion, he unwrapped the poncho and threw it over his head before he could second-guess it.
The downpour was heavier as he crossed the wet pavement. Fujin was probably getting off from work right about now. He almost scoffed at how she didn't have to wallow out here in the rain like him, but as much as he was loath to admit it, being a bouncer suited her.
He had once thought it would suit him, too. Beating up a rowdy customer? What's not to like? But then one got too mouthy, and he nearly took off his arm. It turns out the pub didn't want a bouncer – they wanted a puppet on a string to intimidate the riff-raff without getting their hands dirty.
They'll learn.
Stepping over the coupling, Seifer crossed the tracks toward a concrete platform where workers sometimes hitched rides to patch up damage to the rail or bridge further down the line. On either side, rows of locomotives and freight cars stood parked in solitude – just hulking metal ghosts with nowhere to go.
He had claimed the platform as his refuge a few days earlier—high enough to keep an eye on the shipping yard and out of the way enough that no one would bother him. Just how he liked it. Seifer climbed the steps, his breath rising in short puffs of vapor, his soaked poncho clinging to him like a sheath.
From here, he could see the ocean stretching before him, its waves rolling and crashing against the pylons below, while the steady staccato pings of rain tapped against the corrugated metal roof.
Frustration continued to gnaw at him, rising like bitter bile—thick with abject disappointment. There was nothing here for him: no glory, no title, no fleets of fame among the crates, rust, or rain.
He was a soldier, not a dock worker. Then, as if to prove it—more to himself than anyone—Seifer reached inward, and fire flared around his clenched fist. The heat illuminated, its flickering light briefly catching his eyes, reflecting something lost and buried deep within their bluish-green depths.
And then it was gone—extinguished, his breath catching in his throat. He didn't want to join his coworkers in the breakroom, listening to Jimbo's tired jokes, Karl's rant about management, or even Ray trying too hard to make him laugh.
He didn't belong here.
But he was also trapped.
He smacked his head back against a pole holding up the ceiling, fists clenching tightly at his sides. The sky was bleak and dark, pouring rain. He looked up at the hopelessness of it all, feeling the water fall against his face, the tightness in his chest swelling. Then, a deep, gnawing hunger tore through his abdomen, nearly doubling him over. He leaned one hand against the pole for support, almost retching over the side of the bridge.
"Tch. I got nothing, wretched stomach," he grumbled stubbornly. Just a few more hours before he could sleep it off—or wait. He suddenly remembered Raijin was due back from fishing, always with a few in hand to give to Fujin and Seifer. His stomach nearly groaned in protest at the thought of tearing into something to eat.
Just a few more hours.
He forced himself to straighten, ignoring the hunger pangs that continued their relentless assault on his body. It has only been a couple of days since his last meal. He could handle a few hours more.
The rest of the shift passed in much the same monotonous slog. Seifer kept unloading cargo, and Ray hauled the shipment to the warehouse. Thankfully, Ray didn't mention that Seifer hadn't shown up to join the others in the breakroom—and Seifer wasn't about to explain himself. Not like he owed anyone anything.
By the time they started on the next shipment—a mixed load of canned foods and alcohol—the rain had finally dissipated. Seifer's breathing hitched faster with each crate of alcohol he dragged over to the entrance, the glass bottles rattling like a damn reminder of how far his energy was gone. Even he had limits—but he wasn't about to fold in front of anyone.
When morning crept across the horizon, Seifer was more than ready to crash face-first into his bed and forget this night ever existed. One more crate to go. Then he saw it–a dented can shoved in the corner. It didn't belong there. But there it was. Unopened. Unclaimed. Like fate had gotten bored and decided to throw him a bone.
His mouth nearly watered at the sight of it. No one was gonna miss one pathetic can.
Then he heard Ray returning, the forklift engine revving loud and vibrant as it sped across the pavement. Without missing a beat, Seifer reached for the dented can and shoved it into his pocket before dragging the last crate to the entrance, dropping it onto the stack just as Ray pulled up. A thin line of sweat traced his forehead.
"That's some fine work today, slugger. You can head on back now—the shift's almost done. Sign out and get some rest," Ray said, nodding in approval as he inspected the now cleared-out boxcar.
"Don't have to tell me twice," Seifer muttered, jumping onto the pavement, barely managing to ignore how his legs nearly gave out. Then he remembered something. Turning back to Ray, he pulled out the poncho he'd stuffed into his pocket and paused. "—Thanks. This was handy."
"Ah–don't mention it," Ray mumbled, looking embarrassed. "The night crew takes care of their own, isn't that right?" he continued, pretending to take a few more playful jabs at his ribs.
Seifer would have instinctively smacked his hand if he wasn't so tired–and hungry. He did, however, manage a slight smile or what would have been considered a smile if his lips weren't drawn into such a tight line. Still, Ray was the type of guy who didn't let the little things bother him.
And so, after an awkward goodbye, Seifer started his trek back towards the office. The fog had lifted considerably, and the sky was vast, and blue, and clear, with night's rain already a distant memory.
The office for FH laborers was housed in a brown stucco building with large glass panels stretched across the front, tucked behind the administrative offices and the commodities exchange. The night foreman was already grumbling in the back complaining about something missing.
While he waited for his turn to sign out on the electronic timekeeper, the dayshift employees began to trickle in, snippets of conversation floating around about an Esthar project and in-transit inspection happening that day.
Finally, it was his turn. Just as he reached into his coveralls for his lanyard badge, the night foreman–a robust man with a thick handlebar mustache–hollered at him.
"Hey kid. I left my radio back at warehouse five. Go get it for me, will ya"
Seifer scoffed, his hand suspended over the card slot.
"I'm not your damn errand boy. Get it yourself."
He slammed his badge down with a hard beep.
"I'm out."
