fic: imperfect tense ch.6
Oct. 24th, 2007 10:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jukeboxhound_backupPast memories or Jenova’s voice.
Thoughts.
Imperfect Tense
Hades’
Betaed by Mad Violinist & artimusdin
6.
The Ragnarok was a monstrous construct of sharp angles and blood-red paint, looking more like a stationary predator than an airship.
Quistis could see that Selphie absolutely loved it.
The yellow-dressed girl was practically vibrating in the pilot’s seat, her small, tough hands hovering over the controls impatiently as she gave the instructor an impatient look. How the girl managed such energy at
“Where’s Squall?” she almost-whined, turning in her seat to scan the immediate passenger area for their missing commander.
“He’s talking with the hangar manager,” the cowboy muttered through a yawn. “Wants to make sure Ragnarok’s up for a flight to Esthar.”
“More like he’s scaring the shit outta people just trying to do their jobs,” Selphie quipped under her breath. Quistis coughed to hide her snort of laughter.
The ship gave a familiar slight jerk as the main hydraulic door was closed. Squall appeared a few minutes later, customary scowl in place. Where
Quistis wished he had told them exactly why he had appeared at their respective quarters (at four in the morning!) with the orders to prepare for a trip to Esthar. If it was a case of wanting to use them as a buffer between himself and Laguna,
“Set a course for Esthar Airbase,” Squall barked. Selphie grinned widely, shot off a mocking salute, and took to the controls with a gleeful cackle that Quistis refused to admit was slightly unsettling.
With Selphie absorbed in imagining vast quantities of mass mayhem, Quistis followed Squall into the passenger area. She took a seat beside him on the long bench opposite a dozing
“So, are you going to tell us why we’re going halfway across the world before sunrise?”
When Squall didn’t reply she sighed and leaned back, putting her arms behind her head and closing her eyes.
“We’re all worried about you, you know.” She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes. “You’ve been harsher than usual. Selphie thinks it’s because of Rinoa leaving—but it isn’t, is it? You’ve been this way since the Time Compression.”
The passenger area, designed for efficiency and not human comfort, was cold. Quistis was thankful for her SeeD jacket and high leather boots, but Squall looked entirely untouched by the chill. She wondered if it was really as simple as him just refusing to show any discomfort.
“Your secretary says you’re usually there before her in the morning, and still there when she leaves. She says she once found you asleep on your desk.”
Squall’s brows furrowed only slightly, but for someone like him he might as well have violently cursed aloud.
“We’ve all tried not to push you, Squall,” Quistis said bluntly, “but honestly, I’m getting tired of watching you run yourself into the ground. You might’ve saved the world, but you’re only human.”
His hand tightened convulsively on LionHeart’s grip. “Rinoa’s leaving succeeded a mutual agreement,” he said flatly, quietly, surprising Quistis that he’d bothered to respond at all.
The instructor didn’t make the mistake of leaning towards him or touching him in any way. “But it still hurt, didn’t it?” When his frown only deepened she shook her head. “Squall, that’s natural. Yes, you get hurt, but then you move on.”
“I’ve been having dreams,” he said suddenly, and he turned his head sharply to hold Quistis’ eye. “I’m being called by my Sorceress.”
Shock was a hard ball in her stomach. “Your Sorceress?”
Squall gave an almost non-existent roll of his shoulders. “I’m Rinoa’s Knight. But there are others…like Seifer.” Then, in a nearly inaudible murmur, he said, “He’s in pain.”
The name of Ultimecia’s Knight (it hurt too much to think of him having once been their friend, their crass-as-nails brother who said mean things and then told Zell that he’d protect them all from the monsters under the bed) made Quistis’ hand tighten briefly on Save-the-Queen. “And you think Laguna will be able to help?”
“No. Someone else.”
He folded his arms over his chest and stared unseeingly towards the other side of the Ragnarok.
xxx
But there are others…like Seifer. He’s in pain.
It made some sort of sense, or at least as much sense as these kinds of things could. Both Squall and Seifer were Knights, so it stood to reason that if Squall was having dreams of that poison-green darkness, Seifer would be too. The last he’d heard, Seifer had been with Fujin and Raijin in Fisherman’s Horizon, but a discrete search there bare weeks ago showed that they were long gone. Since the defeat of Ultimecia and Adel, Squall hadn’t seen or heard a whisper about those three.
That didn’t stop him from knowing, with the kind of instinct warriors often relied upon, that somehow Seifer wasn’t having an easy time of things. Squall was only concerned about having a fighter of considerable talent running unchecked with a potentially lethal instability…that was all. And if Strife was correct about the nature of Sorceresses, then Seifer was a liability that needed to be brought back to Garden immediately.
Quistis might protest that action on the grounds that Garden was a school, not a political prison, but what better security was there than a training center for mercenaries? The moment word got out that the Sorceress’ Knight was in custody, there would be demands for a war tribunal and possible execution. Galbadia would likely be the loudest in its bloodlust.
Which was, Squall thought, hypocritical and pointless. Seifer may have nearly destroyed the world at his mistress’ bidding, but without Ultimecia, there wasn’t much more he could do. He was a talented fighter, but still only a man, and Galbadia itself was hardly known for its humanitarian philosophy. Besides, if the Estharian reports on the monsters up north were true, why kill off such an asset?
Yes, he had fought, and yes, he had saved the world—but not because he wanted to. He was a mercenary, and money spoke.
He had his own personal reason.
And while he was on the subject of Strife (not that he’d ever really stopped thinking about the other man, or been able to suppress that little uncharacteristic voice in the back of his head screaming ohshitohshitohshit)…when the hell did figments of the imagination no longer become figments?
When had things become so mundane?
The flash of an old thought made Squall—who believed fate was little more than the long-term consequences of one’s own actions, not the cosmic plan of some stupid, overrated deity—wonder if he’d cursed himself. If he had…I can’t say that I regret it.
“We’re here!” Selphie sang, her loud voice echoing with jarring contrast in Ragnarok’s metallic interior. Zell awoke with a snort so suddenly he tumbled off the narrow seat.
Beside Squall, Quistis snickered.
Needlessly checking that LionHeart was secure and ready, the commander stood and braced himself against the wall for landing. All the SeeDs could hear Selphie talking with the airbase in the cockpit.
“Hey, Esthar, the sun hasn’t risen yet and the new day’s already starting! Get up off your lazy asses and let us down, I’m starving. Oh, Sir Laguna! How’s it been being president? Sucky?”
Laughter made tinny from the radio underpinned Selphie’s cheerfulness. “Yeah, you wouldn’t believe the paperwork all these old men come up with. I swear I wake up at night putting my signature on the walls. And Kiros never lets me drink anymore.”
Selphie grinned widely. “Man, you should see the stash me and the others’ve got back at Garden! I swear, though, you try to beat Squally and it’s like trying to out-drink a goldfish, but it’s funny when—“
Squall was already moving, gently but firmly pushing Selphie to the side.
“Is Strife with you?”
“Yes, but—“
“Ragnarok to airbase, SeeD Commander Squall Leonhart requesting permission to land for state business.” The commander switched channels to find a harried-looking captain, no doubt stressed from dealing with Selphie.
“Airbase to Ragnarok, permission granted,” the captain replied, rattling off coordinates.
“That was rude,” Selphie pouted at Squall, but she obediently typed in said coordinates. He ignored her, and stared out the windshield as the Esthar Airbase grew larger.
You’d better have some answers, Strife.
xxx
Laguna shifted from foot to foot impatiently, mentally willing the Ragnarok to just land already. The reflection of a sun just beginning to rise flashed on the ship’s metallic belly.
“They’ll be here,” Kiros told him softly, standing calm and composed beside the anxious president.
“I know, but something’s telling me to hurry up and get this over with,” he muttered. His eyes slid almost unwillingly to the small blond a few meters away, enormous sword slung over his back. He looked more like a statue than a living person, with his marble-pale skin and black-as-pitch clothing. He was staring upwards at the swiftly growing airship, apparently unperturbed by the action of the hangar assistants scurrying around the three of them and the steadily strengthening wind.
“I’ve never heard Squall or any of the others speak of this Strife,” Kiros commented, dark eyes following Laguna’s line of sight. “Have you asked your son about him?”
The president snorted. “Hardly. As brilliant as Squall is, he somehow managed to miss the human interaction classes.”
He’d only heard about his and Rinoa’s breakup three days ago, after Selphie let it slip. When Laguna asked if Squall had talked with anyone about it, the young woman gave him a strange look and rhetorically asked, ‘Those Estharian scientists manage to make T-rexaurs fly yet?’
Laguna felt more than heard the vibrations of Ragnarok’s engines, and he was forced to take a step back as the landing airship blew gales of dusty wind over the people beneath it. The ground shuddered as the great red ship touched down on the airstrip and taxied towards the enclosed hangar where Laguna and the two with him stood. As it came to a standstill and the deafening roar of the engines died, several lines and catwalks extended towards its body for regular maintenance.
Laguna motioned for Strife to follow him and Kiros, and the long-haired man all but ran for the ship’s exit ramp. But despite his excitement, a small part of Laguna’s mind couldn’t stop worrying—was Strife serious about a new Sorceress? What had the two younger men muttered to each other about on the vid-phone? Just how the hell did these two know each other in the first place, and if Strife was the kind of person with access to such serious information, why hadn’t Laguna, as Esthar’s president, ever even heard of him before?
If Laguna had had a better relationship with his son (not leaving him at the orphanage might’ve been a good start, the cynical little voice in his head sniped darkly) he would’ve likely pulled status as a father and demanded answers. But he couldn’t, and besides, his son was Squall—
—who was also the first person leaving the ship, slender and predatory with the gunblade on his hip. Laguna pressed out a smile.
“Squall! How was the flight?”
Cold eyes flickered over him.
“It was fine, thank you, Laguna,” Quistis was saying, following on the commander’s heels, and behind her were Selphie,
The attention of the group turned to track Squall, who’d given his father and Kiros the barest of nods before moving directly for the stranger.
xxx
The very tiny part of Cloud untouched by Hojo or Sephiroth quailed at the thought of meeting new people, especially if that new person had a rank higher than a janitor. The bit of Zack that hadn’t been purged by the Lifestream was relaxed and confident, and had Cloud allowed himself to he might’ve been wearing a very Zack-like smirk. Certainly it had always been easier to just pretend he was the first-class SOLDIER and adopt the man’s laid-back capability.
But the largest part, the part broken under torture and shakily put back together with fragile friendships and a healthy dose of desperation, figured that making a good first impression was the least of his worries at this point. That part always had been rather practical.
Being surrounded by the surreal nature of the Lifestream tended to distance one’s perceptions of reality. Knowing that Leonhart was someone even a SOLDIER-level fighter should be wary of was one thing; actually meeting the man in the flesh was something else entirely.
And, of course, Leonhart was taller. The Zack-part mentally sighed in exasperation.
The commander’s blue-grey eyes ran over him with cool assessment in such a way that Cloud had to resist smacking him in the face with Ultima. “Strife.”
“Leonhart.” Cloud returned the slight nod of acknowledgment, and as he did he could swear that he heard the girl in the yellow dress muffle a snort of laughter. The gunblader had a pleasantly smooth voice that vaguely reminded him of Vincent or even Tseng, albeit flatter.
There was something about him that set Cloud’s nerves on edge.
Leonhart looked at him for a moment longer, appearing to have an internal debate, and finally turned to the Estharian president.
“Laguna, we’ll need a private conference room.”
But Vincent and Tseng were never that presumptuous, Cloud thought wryly.
xxx
Seifer wandered a plane of glass that had no sound, smell, or feeling. His hands bled and so did his feet, and he could taste warm red metal in his mouth.
He walked on feet torn to ribbons across the plane of glass. Overhead, the sky twisted and writhed like a maggot-filled bruise, black and blue and the grey-green of necrotic flesh. This was the end of the world and the end of time, or at the very least one of the most terrifying things Seifer had ever seen.
Behind the rotting sky was a power greater and more terrible than Ultimecia had ever been. It was a vivid poisonous green and when he tried to look at it, his head flared with agony and his heart filled with the memory of every time he had been betrayed, ignored, or forgotten.
Seifer wasn’t sure how long it took him to realize that he wasn’t alone.
“Who the fuck are you?” but the anger in his voice was leeched away, leaving it tired and thin.
The man smiled, and it was a bitterly ironic expression. “Would you speak to a god with such irreverence, boy?”
Through the pain in his skull Seifer managed to glare, but it only seemed to amuse the man.
“Mother will kill you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Seifer snarled, hurt and furious and—yes, scared. But the man ignored him, his pale brows furrowing as his attention turned inward, as though disturbed by something Seifer couldn’t see.
The fury in Seifer’s heart drowned out the fear and pain, and somehow Hyperion was in his hand. He lashed out, the gunblade driven by his rage—
—but the gunblade was caught by another sword with a shriek and a shower of sparks. The man’s weapon was long and thin and pretty fucking intimidating. That odd, distant expression was still gracing the vaguely inhuman face, as though his mind were a million miles away. Seifer struggled and pushed against the other sword, sweat making his loose strands of hair stick to his own face, but the other was still locked in his head. Confusion warred with something else that made fear rise once more in the Knight’s chest, and then the man said softly, “Tell Cloud…that I won’t remain a memory.”
Seifer suddenly realized that the man had a single black wing, so dark he could see the reflection of the universe…but then he was falling, the katana had moved so quickly he’d missed it and it pierced his shoulder—
—and there was someone holding him down, and wasn’t Raijin supposed to dead?
Seifer twisted underneath the larger man until he was released, sitting up defensively. It took a minute to realize that the growling he could hear came from his own throat.
“SEIFER?”
Seifer stared at Fujin, not really seeing her.
Was the fuck was that?
Raijin took a step closer towards the bed. There were bruises blossoming across his exposed arms, and Seifer felt a pang of guilt.
Fuck, I’m going nuts.
“…What the hell?” he managed, wincing as his throat rasped.
“Uh, Seifer, you’re bleeding, yanno?”
Seifer gave Raijin an uncomprehending stare until a sharp pain in his shoulder made itself known. A gash had opened itself on his shoulder, just below the clavicle and a few centimeters from the joint itself. Now that he noticed it, the wound was suddenly just barely tolerable, and he gritted his teeth with the throbbing pain. Blood dripped down his arm and stained the sofa.
“That’s, like, really freaky, yanno.”
A shadow moved near the door, and the Knight tensed until he recognized it as the red-cloaked gunman—Valentine, or something pussy like that. He was giving Seifer the kind of look that made him irritable, one of those dissecting stares that pissed him off so much. Quistis was a master of that expression.
“What did you see?”
The man’s voice really couldn’t be described without words like dark and silky.
“The fucking world premiere of Leonhart actually giving a shit,” he snapped. “Remind me to tell you about my romantic dreams sometime.”
“SEIFER.”
How did women get across such sheer scorn with a single word?
“It was just a dream, for Hyne’s sake,” though he could taste the lie on his tongue even as he said it. It was more like one of those fucking hallucinations that hadn’t left him since Ultimecia’s death—hallucinations, or memories, that blurred then and now until Seifer wasn’t sure just when he was, exactly. Except, unlike the others, that dream had felt as real as anything else.
It also felt like that little seizure he’d had earlier, the one where a Sorceress’ voice had whispered darkness into his heart.
“That was no dream,” Valentine murmured, eyes flickering towards the sluggishly bleeding wound. He had weird eyes, Seifer thought randomly, redder than Fu’s and somehow more dangerous.
“Yeah, you would know. You look like the kind of asshole that lives in nightmares.” Seifer added as an aside, “Who let the vampire in the house anyway?” Didn’t vampires need an invitation to cross a threshold or doorway or something?
Raijin picked up a medical box sitting by Fujin’s freshly wrapped leg (Hyne’s balls, Seifer snarled viciously to himself, I hate feeling so damn guilty) and sat on the edge of the sofa to take care of Seifer’s wound. Fortunately Seifer was wearing his blue sleeveless shirt; he wasn’t feeling up to stripping in front of gothic strangers with creepy half-lidded stares.
“This was made from a blade, yanno,” Raijin observed after he carefully wiped away as much as he could and had a closer look. “A really sharp one.”
“Motherfucker’s sword was longer than an old woman’s tits,” Seifer muttered. “Must’ve been six, seven feet.”
Moving with a speed Seifer hardly thought possible, Valentine was leaning over him with the brassy claw clamped over the pierced shoulder. The Knight hissed, reaching for a gunblade that was on the other side of the room, but Valentine’s other hand held him in place.
“What did he say?”
There was a strange note under the gunman’s voice that made Seifer’s eyes narrow in challenge, something rough and inhuman and exactly how the blonde might’ve imagined a monster to sound if it could speak.
“The usual villainous bullshit—I should know, I used to be one, though I never counted an oedipal complex on my list of issues.”
“What else?” Valentine’s claw tightened, digging sharp nails into the flesh. Perversely, this inspired Seifer to share a wide, shit-eating smirk.
“Be a good boy and maybe I’ll tell you.”
Really fucked-up eyes, Seifer amended, now that Valentine was so close to his face that the blond could see individual eyelashes. Fujin’s were a smooth, natural red, but the man’s had a slight glow. Chemical, almost toxic.
“…Please.”
Seifer was tempted to retort with another smart-ass comment, but something about the way Valentine was looking at him wisely made him reconsider.
“I didn’t see much of the guy except for his fucking huge sword. He said his mama would kill me and to tell a cloud that he wasn’t a memory or something. Shit, what kind of pansy-ass threatens someone with his mother?”
Valentine abruptly released his hold on Seifer’s wounded shoulder, the tips of his claws stained dark, and withdrew towards the door in a brooding silence.
“Sephiroth,” he whispered, but didn’t offer an explanation. Wincing as Raijin began wrapping a clean bandage over the sword wound, Seifer wondered what horrible, blood-curdling evil he could have committed in a past life to deserve this one.
