Thorne, Clumsy Sequel

I feel very strange writing Reeve. I don't know this guy very well at all. And no, he's not coming onto Vincent.

***

"So... Vincent."

He knew the right words now, though. "I won't do what you're going to ask me."

Simple. Reeve's shoulders twitched and he wondered if the words had been sharper than usual, more bitten off.

"Yes, I know." Reeve rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "Reno said you wouldn't. I thought I should ask though. You being who you were."

He waited. Reeve gave the plant a look of great and detailed scrutiny. When no other words seemed to be forthcoming, he walked over to the door and examined the frame. There was a long, loose splinter on the left side but it still seemed solid.

"The Turks that I was a part of," he finally said, "are gone. In some ways, that is for the best. It would be counterproductive to your plans of rebuilding if I was to cultivate and lead the division that Midgar probably has some of the worst impressions of."

He didn't bother to brace himself for argument. Reeve simply nodded and rubbed the back of his neck again.

"You're right, of course. It wouldn't work, anyway," Reeve said, more to the plant than to him. "People just want to move on. They don't want to remember what Shinra used to mean." He breathed deeply and then went on, walking over to the window. "It used to mean good things, you know. Most of it was bad but some parts... there were good parts. I'll miss them. We'll have to try and make them again."

It had never been a formal schematization back in his day, the careful assignment of labor and power. Maybe it had been that way in the majority of the divisions but the Turks were above that. Everyone already knew, no one spoke about it. No one needed to say it. Everything revolved around necessity, created by circumstances, the people falling into their places according to their abilities.

And now, in the wake of the end of the world that wasn't, all the lines that no one spoke of were blurring or gone. Tradition he had never known slipped away like so much smoke in the sky. Reeve watched the sky and he watched Reeve and thought about grey skies, low and cloudy, and the smell of gunpowder and cigarettes, and the warmth of a shared bottle of alcohol passed through many hands.

It wasn't enough. It had never been enough warmth for what they did on grey mornings, on rainy nights, in alleys and crumbling buildings and darkened rooms. But after a while, they hadn't minded anymore.

"It's for the best."

The words were soft, almost as though in response to his own thoughts. Reeve spread his hands in a familiar apologetic gesture as if to soften the blow of broken silence. "For the best. You're right."

For the best. It had never been about right or wrong. It had always been about doing what had needed to be done. Too many lines, too much blurring. Reeve was still talking, terribly earnest.

"---you should stay there. If only for the night."

He looked back at Reeve and the part of him that had never stopped paying attention-- the part of him that was born out of the group Reeve would have had him lead-- considered it, weighing consequences and advantages.

"You're already hosting at least three people in your own apartment. It would be better if I went elsewhere."

Reeve met his gaze steadily and suddenly smiled; somehow he could see this man more easily now, the part of him that must like cats and electronics and had slumped over a desk so many days and nights, seeing through mechanical eyes and his fingers deftly creating action many miles away.

"There. That's one thing I know that you don't." He walked away from the window, ruefully rubbing unkempt stubble on his cheeks. "Sometimes it's better to be crowded than alone."

Night was coming fast on day's departure. The smoke twisted and unfurled and made shapes of angels and demons and undefined things before it all became indistinguishable in the dark. "All right."

It felt unexpectedly good to say the words that were right for both of them, and he repeated them. "All right. Let's go."

Walking back was quiet again, each of them in their own thoughts and unwilling to intrude on the fragile peace of the night. Everything that had needed to be approached and crossed had been gotten over with.

Habitually, he kept himself one half step back from his companion in order to observe. Reeve walked with quiet purpose and straightened a little with every step. He thought he knew why when they climbed concrete steps and the door was pulled open while the key was still scraping and Reeve was presented with a scolding armful of half-clad blonde woman.

He didn't miss the look-over that Elena gave him when Reeve stepped inside and beckoned him in as well. Even wearing just an oversized button-down man's shirt that looked suspiciously like what Reeve had on, she looked more than capable of issuing the same challenge as she had thrown in the sewers of Midgar.

Catt. Vagrant Story, untitled. Close to the beginning...

Warning: Very, very, VERY rough. Expect errors. And the whole thing with the patrol of knights will probably wind up rewritten at some point or another; I don't really like it, myself.

A harsh knocking at the front door roused Callo from her already fitful sleep, and for the longest time she sought to just shut out the noise. Clamping her eyes shut, she turned over in her bed and told herself to ignore it. However, the second knocking seemed even louder than the first, and with some grumbling she got out of the bed, reaching for her robe. She pulled it around her shoulders and was in the middle of tying the sash when she heard a third knock, and snatched her dagger before stepping out of the bedroom and heading for the front door. Holding the dagger behind her back, she opened the door… only to find no one there.

“Who…? A knave, perhaps…” Fighting back a chill down her spine, she released a deep breath and shut the door. Turning around, she found herself staring at a man she had not seen in three weeks.

“A knave…?” Ashley said, raising an eyebrow slightly. “Agent Merlose, I didn’t know you thought of me so poorly.”

She realized she had backed herself against the door unconsciously, and could only stammer in surprise, “R-r-riot?”

Ashley glanced over her shoulder, as if he could see through the door and into the darkness outside. Then he returned his gaze to her, and nodded. “Aye, Agent Merlose. It’s me, in the flesh. I’m still alive, and the watchdogs haven’t caught me yet. Before long, maybe they will believe I am dead.”

By this time, what with his calm—if slightly unnerving—speech, Callo managed to regain some of her composure. “It’s been over a week since Duke Bardorba was killed, surely you know that they’ll hunt you until they—”

“The dogs may hunt but a fox can learn to hide its scent, and so far, I’ve done a good job of it.” Ashley stepped back. “There was a squad of knights on the road coming this way. I was seeking some sanctuary and you are the only person I can count on, Merlose.”

“Then… did you really…?”

“No. That was Sydney’s doing.”

“Sydney still lives?”

Ashley shook his head, and Callo watched his face, his eyes, very carefully. This man looked like Ashley, spoke like Ashley, and appeared in all likelihood to be Ashley, but she could not be sure. She had encountered too many strange things during her time in Lea Monde to take anything at face value, anymore.

“But no body was found in the duke’s manor.”

Ashley said nothing, but she heard a whisper of a voice in her head, I didn’t want to believe his death. I waited for days and he did not return. I trusted him, I believed in him, but the last thing he had said to me—

“Your scrying has improved,” Ashley said curtly, turning and entering her bedroom. “I hope that was all the evidence you need to affirm my identity, Merlose.”

Noticing she still clutched her dagger tightly in one white-knuckled hand, she followed him, a little angry with herself and her sudden visitor. “Look here, Riot, we might have been comrades during your adventures through Lea Monde, but you’ve been branded an assassin and in all likelihoods you are my enemy. This does not mean you have permission to enter my chambers as you please!”

“Would you rather I were invisible?” he asked, moving to the darkest corner of the room and leaning against the wood. “I could do that if you like, but you’d only be fooling yourself into thinking I wasn’t here.” He frowned. “The knights are almost on your doorstep, Merlose. Now answer me and answer me well: will you help me? If you say ‘nay’ I shall leave you peacefully and you will never see me again, but if you agree then let me know now so I can help us both avoid those hounds.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Like I said before, some sanctuary. I can hardly stand still in any one place for too long. It’s no longer merely the Valendia Knights after me, Merlose, it’s the bloody cardinal’s men.”

She paused, noticing just how tired he really sounded, and said softly, “There’s something else you need from me, isn’t there? Something you haven’t told me.”

He nodded, and tapped his forehead. “I need what you have up here, Merlose. I need your knowledge, your information. I need your connection to the Inquisitors to help me find what I need to know.”

Slowly, she nodded, and sheathed her dagger. “I’ll help you, then,” she said, quietly. “It’s probably going to be the death of me, but I’ll help.”

“Follow my instructions and you will not come to any harm,” Ashley said. “Now, listen to me…”

A few moments passed and before long, just as Ashley had predicted, there came a knocking on the door. A loud voice demanded that the door be opened in the name of the Knights of Valendia, and after the second knocking Merlose answered the door, holding her robe together and appearing to be in more disarray than normal. The armored men standing outside shifted in their boots when they saw her, and their captain nodded knowingly.

“Sorry for disturbing you, ma’am, but a dangerous criminal was seen on this road. We were wondering if anyone else had knocked on your door this night.”

Callo casually pushed some of her hair back and smiled pleasantly at them. “I’m sorry, good sir, but the only man who’s disturbed me tonight is the one in my bed. You caught us in an awkward moment.”

The captain smiled beneath his visor. “My deepest apologies, ma’am. However, we’ve been given the strictest orders to search and be certain that he has not hidden himself away in someone’s house.”

“Good sir,” Callo said, her smile slipping into a slight frown, “I am an Inquisitor of Valendia. Do you believe I know naught of the matters plaguing my country? If it’s about that bastard traitor Riot, then you can be certain he is nowhere near my house. I’d kill the man if he set one foot on my lands.”

“An Inquisitor?” This seemed to confuse the captain, and one of his men spoke up.

“’scuse me, sir, but the lady does speak the truth. She’s Agent Merlose, sir, and they say she’s been pivotal in the investigation surrounding Duke Bardorba’s murder, sir.”

Callo glanced at the knight who said that, as did the captain and the other men. Then the captain looked back at her, and with a sigh, nodded.

“All right, ma’am, we’re sorry for the troubles. But, if you see some sign of him at all—”

“Believe me, dear sirs, I will do everything I can to see him caught and punished for his crimes.” She nodded, watched as the group of knights started down toward the next house. The squadron of knights, which had once been ten men strong, suddenly became nine, and not a single one of them noticed. Before Callo closed the door, she caught a flicker of a shadow crossing the lawn and slipping through the threshold, and by the time she had the door shut and locked tightly, Ashley was standing beside her, in the darkness.

(Insert.)

“So,” Callo said, blowing across her tea before taking a careful sip, “explain to me what’s going on, and why you need my help.”

“Sydney is dead,” Ashley said simply.

“Aye, so you said before…”

“So I need to know about Mullenkamp.”

Callo took another sip, considering his words. “Mullenkamp. The priestess or the cult?”

“Both.” Ashley leaned back in the chair, holding his mug in both hands and staring at the dark amber liquid. “Sydney left me with the key of succession, the key of the grimoire and the key to the Dark wellsprings. However, that’s not all he left me.”

Callo tilted her head slightly. “The Dark… wellsprings? You mean, Lea Monde was not the only one?”

“No. There are apparently several.” He shook his head. “The holy grounds that the Cardinal’s Grand Cathedral is built upon are indeed a wellspring for the Dark, but a small one. Sydney says that is one of the reasons the Cardinal was after Lea Monde… they wanted to take that power from the Cult of Mullenkamp because they were afraid it might be misused… At least, Sydney said, those meaning to do well among the church wished it were so. However, many branches and many powers within the church have arisen and become corrupted. Thankfully, they know not of the other wellsprings, because they are far away…”

“Far away?”

“Beyond the borders of Valendia, at least, one in a country far to the east, another to the south… another on an island to the northwest… and others even beyond that. I know not how many there exist, but I can feel them.”

“And you need to know of Mullenkamp because…?”

“We thought Sydney had been the leader of the cult…” Ashley murmured. “However, he told me he had led the majority of the cult. There was one other, who might have also obtained his position, who held the minority of the cult in taking care of at least one of those wellsprings.”

“Another… like you?”

“Sydney wouldn’t tell me. All I know is that she has had far more experience with the Dark, and she sees herself as the temporary leader of the cult.”

“It’s a woman?”

“Yes. And she’s trying to bring Sydney back to the world of the living.”

Callo’s grip tightened around her cup. “Without a body, the dead cannot come back to the world of the living, and even then all that’s left is a walking corpse… We both saw that, we all saw that in Lea Monde…”

“The reason why Sydney’s body was never found,” Ashley murmured, “was because his body went to the Dark… just as Hardin’s did.”

“You weren’t there when Hardin died—”

“Sydney and I both knew when he died, however,” he said. “Their bodies were not to rot under the earth, but to go to the Dark and find peace along with their souls. However, that means there is a period of time in which both their bodies and their souls can be summoned from the Dark. I don’t know of all the details… but I do know that the ritual is a long one, and is draining even for one who is blessed by the Dark. The ritual requires the presence of many individuals, and must be led by an individual strong in the Dark. That woman is one such person, and with her following she can carry out the ritual.”

Callo said nothing for a time. “It is not natural, to cheat death so…”

“Aye, ‘tis not natural…” Ashley took a sip. “And that’s why Sydney asked me to make sure he is never brought back.”

Callo stood, walking to one of the windows and staring outside. The skies were still gray, the sun nothing more than a pale yellowish smudge on the horizon. “I thought,” she said carefully, “that you would welcome his return…”

“I made a promise and I will not break it.”

the world ended at 05:34 p.m., Monday, October 7, 2002.

Thorne, Xu/Quistis

At fifteen, the first SeeD trials are offered although most wait for sixteen, seventeen; safer ages that promise a measure more of strength and experience. Xu took hers at sixteen and made it but there is a scar that curls around her hipbone, a line that is dark now, but that Kadowaki assures her will fade with time. Others return bloody and disheveled, their mouths tight and failure nestling in the slumped set of their sling-set, bandage-wrapped shoulders. Something in their eyes says that this is not what the books and instructor-words ever helped to predict; something in their eyes says they never expected to take it beyond the paper tests and time-trials.

At fifteen, Quistis is SeeD.

She waited in the hold of a ship. Not pacing because that would seem too worried, she should not be worried over Quistis's ability to defend herself. Walking a line across the metal floor burns energy, precious strength to be saved for if something goes wrong on the field and rescue is needed. Already, this ability to hold herself in check is automatic, not only as a SeeD but as someone who has something that shouldn't be worn on the sleeve, having to be careful not to draw the wrong pairs of eyes.

She needn't have worried. Quistis comes back to the ship with smoke in her hair and ripped clothing and two startling patches of color high on her cheekbones in an otherwise pale face. But all her body parts are where they should be and that blood which is drying tacky on the uniform is spilled from unnamed soldiers. A bruise stands out on her cheek like a patch of shadow on snow.

Young. So young. She listens to the headmaster quietly congratulating those who passed and she cannot get over how young Quistis looks but isn’t. How young all of them are but aren't, even herself. When they walk out quietly, their faces still smeared all over with the marks of battle that hasty soap and water can't erase, she wants to hit something or someone but she can't think of what or who.

Sorceress. War. The words feel strange in her mouth, familiar and yet not at the same time. Each SeeD is given a briefing on the background of the Sorceress Successions and the power struggles and what their role is in this ancient-new mess. But no one really understands it, no one really knows what they're fighting for.

She wants to curl her fingers in the hollow of Quistis's shoulder and turn her away from this future but the headmaster's hand is already there and she is looking back at him with nothing but determination in her eyes.

They are who they are. They do this because they are the only ones who can. Because someday, they will be needed.

...It's not good enough.

But by the time she can collect this jumble of exhaustion-detritus, and surely it's only exhaustion, surely she's only tired and this breeds strange thoughts like larvae rising from the mud on the coastal plains-- by the time she can bring herself together, Quistis is by her side, asking her if she can use the shower first and it's time to get ready for the SeeD Ball.

Thorne. StoryBook Ending, filling some gaps

Once upon a time, there was a perfect world and it was where all the stories started. The world held only one prince and he was the perfect prince as well, because every day, he went out and saved the world's princesses. All girls were princesses because the prince saved them and a prince only saves princesses, that was the way it had always been and that was the way it would always be, now and forever, world without end.

Except there was one girl who wasn't a princess, even though she was the only real princess. Stories are strange like that. This one girl who was and wasn't a princess was the one girl that the prince loved most of all, the one girl who was closest to his heart and linked to him through blood.

A prince saves princesses. That's what princes do. But with only one prince and many princesses, the prince became weak and ill. This princess who was not a princess saved the prince and she did so by making him no longer a prince. A prince must save princesses; the princess stopped the prince from saving princesses because otherwise the prince would die, trying to fulfill his duty.

And then there was change.

But the world has no use for a prince who cannot save princesses and the world has no use for a princess who cannot be saved. The prince could not save her because he was unable to love her as a prince loves a princess, as a prince should love a princess. This hurt the prince terribly, for he did love his sister-princess but not in the way that things should be. Not in the way the world demanded it to be.

To stay in the world, things always had to be just so. A world needed princes and a world needed princesses. And of course, the princes and princesses were the bright and shining parts of the world, the parts which made it glow. But the light side is never alone, and there is always the dark to contrast the bright.

And there was a witch. For what is darker than a witch?

The princess made the prince into something else. And the world's people, angry at this turn of events and frightened for their unsaved daughter-princesses, changed the prince's sister, no longer a princess, into something else as well. Girls who weren't princesses could only become witches-- that was the way things were in the world. She was the witch, dark against the bright, she who could have-- should have-- been brightest of all.

The prince was no longer a prince for he could no longer save princesses, not even the one he wanted to save the most. The prince was something else entirely, something that had once been the best thing in a perfect world and was now only the most useless. Even the simplest things were lost to him, he could no longer love his sister, for by her witch-shape she was what the world commanded he hated, even though he was not truly a prince.

Caught between these two extremes, he began to change further, trying still to save his witch-sister, trying still to make a perfect world. He twisted and strained to shape a new world, where maybe witches could be saved.

As time went by, what remained of the prince was fading and the world was not yet complete. There were gaps in the world, strange places that needed to be filled with certain people. The prince, though racked with pain over his loss of the perfect world and his sister, tried to hurry. It was all right if parts of the world didn't make sense. He wasn't making it for other people, it was for his sister, for the witch. He knew that people would be used, but he tried to give it no thought as the End of the World ran at his heels and roared in his ears.

But the most important place was not yet filled because there was no new prince yet to replace the dying prince and to save the witch-sister.

And then there was a girl.

There was a girl who was exactly what she was and nothing more or less. Her grief for her loss made her complete in her resolve to die, when he showed her the witch, it was not the grief for his loss that made her complete in her resolve to live, it was the grief for the witch herself.

And that was the important thing. That was what the prince himself could not offer. The old world of his creation commanded that his prince-self hate the witch, the new world of his creation commanded that his dark-self hate everything. Guilt and past-love was not enough anymore, it wore thin and ragged around the edges like a cloak dragged through brambles or a dress pierced by spears.

His grief could not be solely for his sister; he still grieved his own loss of self and that had been by her hands. The grief and guilt and blame and hope all wove into each other like a crown of thorns, possessing no more end or beginning than a rose-ring.

He gave the girl what he could and he hoped. But the new divided nature of the prince were too much for him to withstand though, and the part of him that his sister had tried to save was already too weak to resist death. Nothing of him remained except a shade of memory within his sister, nothing more than a slight glow, a light and fragile slip that she stored as deep as possible, to keep him safe. He had a new name, now.

Girls that weren't princesses became witches. Boys that weren't princes became the End of the World.

And then there was darkness.

Thorne, Storybook Ending

She opens her eyes and finds herself in front of a familiar door, skirt rustling gently against her legs and her hair not even mussed. She's at the entrance to the Planetarium, the Observatory where things don't change.

Inside. Not Real. Not Real. Not Outside. She stares at the door for a long time before something finally surfaces in her mind.

"I don't like that story," she says after a long pause, and her own voice to her ears is very thin and small.

The grain of the wood swims before her eyes and she has to press both hands against the door to keep her balance. She closes her eyes because that's what she always does.

(It's all right, Dios says, and his voice is nothing but gentle. It's all right. Listen. Listen to me.)

And she does.

(You have to understand, Dios says. You have to remember. There's only one real story.)

Once upon a time, there was a perfect world and it was where all the stories started. The world held only one prince and he was the perfect prince as well, because every day, he went out and saved the world's princesses. All girls were princesses because the prince saved them and a prince only saves princesses, that was the way it had always been and that was the way it would always be, now and forever, world without end.

Except there was one girl who wasn't a princess, even though she was the only real princess. Stories are strange like that. This one girl who was and wasn't a princess was the one girl that the prince loved most of all, the one girl who was closest to his heart and linked to him through blood.

A prince saves princesses. That's what princes do. But with only one prince and many princesses, the prince became weak and ill. This princess who was not a princess saved the prince and she did so by making him no longer a prince. A prince must save princesses; the princess stopped the prince from saving princesses because otherwise the prince would die, trying to fulfill his duty.

But the world has no use for a prince who cannot save princesses and the world has no use for a princess who cannot be saved. The prince could not save her because he was unable to love her as a prince loves a princess, as a prince should love a princess. This hurt the prince terribly, for he did love his sister-princess but not in the way that things should be. Not in the way the world demanded it to be.

To stay in the world, things always had to be just so. A world needed princes and a world needed princesses. And of course, the princes and princesses were the bright and shining parts of the world, the parts which made it glow. But Greater Good is never alone, ad there is always the dark to contrast the bright.

And what is darker than a witch?

The princess made the prince into something else. And the world's people, angry at this turn of events and frightened for their unsaved daughter-princesses, changed the prince's sister, no longer a princess, into something else. Girls who weren't princesses could only become witches-- that was the way things were in the world. She was the witch, dark against the bright, she who could have-- should have-- been brightest of all.

The prince was no longer a prince for he could no longer save princesses, not even the one he wanted to save the most. The prince was something else entirely, something that had once been the best thing in a perfect world and was now only the most useless. Even the simplest things were lost to him, he could no longer love his sister, for by her witch-shape she was what the world commanded he hated, even though he was not truly a prince.

Caught between these two extremes, he began to change further, trying still to save his witch-sister, trying still to make a perfect world. He twisted and pulled and shaped a new world where maybe witches could be saved.

Thorne, cross-dressing madness of FF7 and FF8

I don't know what spawned either of these. I think I could probably blame a host of people, the foremost including Tenshi no Korin, Black Rose, and Pluto for their recent cross-dressing posts. This is drek compared to theirs.

***Ze FF7 snip***

It's the box sitting on the bed that makes him wonder at first, sizable and nice rich gold with a black scrawl of logo on the sides so bold that it grabs the eye and refuses to let go. He thinks he can smell a faint whisper of perfume in the air, an overlay of spice and flowers to the room that isn't natural but that might just be his imagination.

The top of the box has been pulled off and it's upside down on the floor. White tissue paper froths out in a drift like snow and there's a splash of red just peeking out on one side, like someone went rooting through the box as soon as he got it open, found what he needed, and shoved it back in. Well.

The bed's not made and that, at least, is normal. Gray coverlet in disarray and the pillows thrown up hastily against the headboard, all soothing to the eye amidst the feverish island of color in the middle. Cloud leans in the doorway, frowning. He rolls words around his mind and decides gaudy doesn't really fit, it looks too expensive to be gaudy. Extravagant, maybe. Lavish.

Trouble.

***And ze FF8 snip***

"Hey," Quistis says, kicking one bare leg high to the ceiling, apparently examining it in idle fancy, "hey. Remember back at the café?"

Of course, she nearly replies, but she's concentrating on that bare leg also, wanting to run her hand all down that smooth length. There's a bruise on the calf that's turning a dirty yellow color, getting better but not quite healed. She wants to touch it but doesn't; it's probably still tender. Of course I noticed, she nearly replies, of course you noticed, we're SeeD. We're trained to see things, watch things, stake out all possible situations, wonder and suspect.

She also knows that this is vacation, or as close to a vacation as they get, two SeeD, one so new with the bruises of her induction mission and test still fresh on her body, kissed by cure spells and healing as much on adrenaline and excitement at the impossible attained. So she swallows the textbook words and gives in, running her thumb on the gentle swell of ankle. "Yes."

She sees it in her mind. A tall, slim form standing outside the café, wrapped in a long dark coat with high leather boots that clicked sharply on the pavement. A faint gleam of sheer stockings on the legs, reflecting light from the battered neon sign above the door, a brighter gleam of some synthetic material for the dress. And last, the scratch and flare of the match to light the cigarette in the unknown's mouth, the swift illumination revealing a face with high cheekbones and carefully applied makeup, well done and skillfully applied but the brief light was telling and a man had looked sharply back at them from the shimmer and glimmer of feminine raiment.

Quistis rolls over on her stomach and she can almost see the thoughtful little crease between her eyes, the one that comes when she's thinking deeply but not hard. Her glasses are on the bedside table and Xu can never decide whether she likes them better on or off.

She feels like there's something left to say, she didn't give the right answer. "Dollet's funny. But people like to do what they want. And they can, here."

The words seem to roll off Quistis like water at first, but then she smiles and it starts slow but it works its way from her eyes to her mouth and then it manages to bloom on her own face as well. She can't help it. That smile doesn't want to live just on Quistis's face.

"You're funny," she replies and lays her head next to Xu's lap. It feels good to stroke her hair and stare at the water-marked ceiling. Seedy motel, all crickle-crackle around the edges. Seedy for SeeDs and it's not that funny but the smile stays anyway.

Quistis draws a circle on Xu's leg, tracing the edge of one ragged fingernail clockwise. She must have ripped it off during the mission, she normally takes such care. There's always the gloves that rise up her arms and cover the faint blue blossoming of veins cradled in each elbow.

"Like playing a game," Quistis says, still with that deceptive mildness. "I wonder..."

Thorne, FF8 yuri, Xu/Quistis

At twelve, they receive new uniforms and there's a whole week reserved for all cadets to stand fidgeting beneath the measuring tapes and pricking pins. In the weeks before, the ones who grow the quickest out of their childhood absently finger the stripe of skin between outgrown cuff and wrist. The more quick-fingered alter their own uniforms at night, even though Garden regulation rule 9-C forbids anything other than the strictest adherence to the uniform code.

(At twelve, Quistis's fingers are nimble with the silver flash of a needle and scissors, teeth worrying her lower lip in absolute concentration as she picks out stitches from a hemline too short for a girl entering the arms and legs period. She holds it up against herself, looks up with guilty laughter in her eyes and says "Don't tell, Xu, don't tell, please?" When she is measured, she stands still and graceful through the entire process. And when the cellophane wrapped package is left on the bed, she puts it on and twirls twirls twirls until Xu just has to twirl also and they laugh dizzily when the floor tilts up and throws them down.)

At thirteen, they receive their first weapons and there's another week of cadets trickling in and out a room, their eyes wide, reflecting the glint of steel and leather and wood. Now the cadets finger handles and blades, their heads bent over the vast array. The weapons dealer from Balamb looks on to offer a quiet word of advice or warning when someone looks like they're going to break Garden regulation rule 19-B and spill blood right there in the Garden.

(At thirteen, Quistis has already ingrained meticulousness into her nature, bound tight as the braided leather thongs criss-crossing the handle of her whip. She works oil into the leather thongs by lamplight and the oil shines clear on her fingers while Xu turns the pages whatever book Quistis's reading so she won't mess the pages. After that, she runs a soft white cloth over the entire length to take off the excess oil and then puts it away carefully by the bed where it can be reached in an instant.)

(When Quistis first brings the whip back, it's stiff and barely bends so she spends hours with Quistis in the Training Center with her own tessen for close combat and chakram for throwing, and watching the cock and snap of a thin wrist that will be red and sore later at night. It comes to her then with a strange surprise that Quistis will be-- is now--- dangerous.)

At fourteen, they junction for the first time and there's a week for the few worthy cadets to get knocked flat on their back in the infirmary as the first GFs slide into the soft, unprepared nest of their minds. The GF usage have a chapter of Garden code and regulation all to themselves. Everyone handles the junction in different ways, some of the cadets vomiting, convulsing, speaking strange tongues that might be languages from so long ago that the bones of the last speakers are only dust on the wind. Others faint and spend the whole week unconscious, asleep, or just catatonic. Everyone has headaches and the strange dreams and no one says anything if they slip up every now and then on familiar details like the name of a friend or parent.)

(At fourteen, Quistis doesn't hold Xu's hand when she walks her to infirmary on the scheduled morning since both of them already notice the other cadet's small pools of silence they fall into among scattered conversations. She's actually noticed it for a year now, and the difference of age at fourteen and seventeen is much greater than it was at twelve and fifteen or ten and thirteen. But it doesn't matter because after Quistis sits on the neat white bed and rolls one sleeve up for the injection of tranquilizer, she doesn't fold her hands in her lap and sit self-contained. When Xu brings her the glass of water and the pills that bear every slang possible-- luv-luv-G is the most recent one she's heard-- Quistis takes the glass but manages to trap her fingers and twine them together for the comfort.)

(Dr. Kadowaki uncharacteristically offers her the chance to do it. Or maybe it's better this way after all, the attack on the mind at least coming from familiar hands rather than the doctor who only needs to touch when there's pain to be stopped or the dead-ozone feel of a machine junction. When she holds it struggling in her mind, she feels phantom ice trying to pierce her from the inside out, frost-rimed words singing high and clear and deadly-cold. She feels like her mind is brittle, ready to break at a moment's instant and her hands find Quistis's temples and her mouth whispers the protocol words--- "Xu (rest of name here), transfer junction Shiva, Quistis Trepe." Behind her eyes, everything flares white and her fingernails are blue.)

(Quistis is one of the lucky ones, she sleeps for three days and then wakes up pale and unsteady and wanting to take a shower because her hair feels greasy, a prodigy even at this. Dr. Kadowaki makes her stay for the full week anyway, and Xu brings her books and half-melted ice cream sneaked out from the cafeteria--- violation of Garden regulation rule 47-E. Whenever she shows up, Quistis and Dr. Kadowaki are playing cards to pass the time and she pretends that Quistis's eyes really don't look momentarily blank and ice-rimed before they recognize her and light up.)

Catt. Cinnamon Sequel. Farewells...

"So, Seph," Zack asked, leaning back in his chair, beer can in hand, "were you able to find out anything?"

"Yes. Apparently, things have been happening in Junon that Heidegger didn't seem fit to warn us about." Annoyed, Sephiroth idly played with his drinking glass, eyes narrowing slightly. "He doesn't think the problem deserves the attention of SOLDIER… not yet, at least. As such, he's having several of the SOLDIER recruits transferred into Junon. He claims it's because the recruits have had more training than normal troopers and will thus be gaining useful experience when the time comes for them to join SOLDIER."

"Experience…? What?"

"The Junon branch has been receiving threats from a terrorist group," Sephiroth murmured, raising the glass to his lips. "So far, there is no sign of the group being able to carry out such threats… but unless Shinra manages to capture one of the alleged terrorists and questions him, then we have no way of knowing anything. And I do not like to be left in the dark about such things."

"Yeah. So…"

"I should be able to prevent Ruggard's transfer order from going through. He is far too close to actually becoming a member of SOLDIER to waste time in Junon. Your roommate, however…" Sephiroth dropped his eyes. "You know I do my best never to show favoritism… and if you wanted me to pull him out of this, I would be pulling rank."

He nodded. "I understand. But… you couldn't think of anything? At all?"

"Unfortunately, no. I went through his records, thought up of any excuse at all… but I know that none of them would have convinced me, and in that case, there was no point to bring them up against Heidegger or the rest of the brass." Sephiroth paused, setting his glass aside. "I'm sorry, Zackary. I can still see if I can't shorten the length of his stay in Junon… but I can't guarantee anything. And at the moment, what with all the terrorist threats in Junon, the military committee wants as many SOLDIERs as possible stationed here in case something were to break out."

"Paranoid, aren't they?"

"Well. It is the military, eh…?"

Zack sat back, took a sip from his beer, closed his eyes and thought for a few seconds. "Still, the actual transfer won't happen until…?"

"Tomorrow. All transfers are to report at the H-block at 1300 hours for transportation."

"…I'll still be on duty."

"Precisely. You should probably spend the rest of the evening with him." He opened his eyes to watch as Sephiroth stood, Mako green eyes staring into his own. "I'll do what I can on my end, Zackary. You do what you can on yours."

"Right… Thanks anyway, Seph. I'll give James and Tom a brief call to let them know."

"That shouldn't be necessary. My orders should have gone through by now, certainly." Sephiroth rolled his head back, one hand rubbing carefully around the back of his neck. "So pathetic… I've been doing this job for so long, and yet it still manages to give me stiff muscles."

"Heh… slacking in your practice?"

A small grin, a quick flash of teeth. "Of course not. But I haven't had much time today. After all, I was helping a good friend of mine out…"

"Yeah, yeah, I get what you're saying."

They stood silent for a few moments, somewhat awkwardly, as if one of them was meant to say something but neither of them were sure just who was supposed to say what. Finally, Sephiroth nodded and moved for the door, stopping only to glance back toward the apartment's bedroom before leaving. Zack ran a hand through his hair, heading toward the bedroom slowly. He had been trying to imagine what to say, what to do, the entire time since he had discovered Cloud was being transferred… and yet all this time, he couldn't think of anything. And while he had been hoping futilely that perhaps Sephiroth could stop Cloud from being transferred…

Opening the door into the bedroom, his silver eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness, he saw that Cloud was still lying in bed, still in the same position he had left him in. Carefully closing the door behind him, he moved closer, attempting not to make a sound or disturb Cloud in any way. But as he passed by the bed on the way to the bathroom, to brush his teeth before going to bed, a weak hand grabbed at his own, catching it and clutching it tightly.

He stopped, surprised that Cloud was awake, and looked down to see his young friend staring up at him.

"Please…" Cloud whispered, pulling lightly on Zack's arm. "Please… tell me this was a dream… I tried… to pinch myself, but… this is a dream, right?"

"Cloud…" He paused, then came to the bed and without stopping to worry about the taste of beer on his breath he leaned down and kissed Cloud, kissed him hard on the lips. His hands sought out the sides of Cloud's face, caressing, smoothing back the messy hair and gripping the strands between his fingers. Cloud's hands pulled him closer, his own hands gripping Zack's tanktop. When they separated, Cloud bit his lower lip and shook his head, eyes hopeless. "Cloud, it's not a dream… not a dream, even if we both wish it was… And we can't change that, you should know that better than anyone."

If nothing else, Zack thought it made Cloud's kisses burn with even more urgency, as the blonde pulled him closer and began to lay a long fluttering line along his collarbone, whispering as he did so, "Then can we… just for tonight, can't we just pretend?"

"Yeah…" He nodded, pulling Cloud's face up for another kiss on the lips. "Yeah," he whispered again, more quietly, "we can pretend just this once…"

And so that night it was just the two of them, just them in their apartment and the rest of the world could have ended right then and there and neither of them would have noticed. The rest of the world could have destroyed everything around them and they wouldn't have cared. Because that night it was just the two of them, together, for the sole purpose of becoming one person and everything beyond that was simply not worth the contemplation.

And it was warmth and hands and lips and limbs and awkward and clumsy and altogether beautiful, and when Zack felt Cloud curl against him afterwards, and they simply lay there with his arms wrapped around him, Zack couldn't help but feel a little bit happy.

He could almost forget that it might possibly be the last night they spent like this, and thus the only night they spent like this.

the world ended at 12:45 a.m., Wednesday, September 11, 2002.

Catt. Cinnamon Sequel. Zack observances and soup.

Shaking himself, he carefully got up and left the bedroom, making sure to close the door so any noise he made in the kitchen wouldn't disturb his friend.

Friend… companion… but so much more than that. Dammit, I hope nothing happens to him…

He went about preparing some soup, popping open a large can of everyone's favorite chicken noodle and pouring it out into a pan, then setting it on top of the stove to heat up. He went through the motions easily, having done this plenty of times before for the both of them, on the few times that Cloud hadn't been around to do it himself.

He always told me that his trip here hadn't been a happy one… He always told me that there were always problems along the way, no matter where he stopped, or how he managed to get from one town to the next. It hardly makes any sense; sometimes he can barely take care of himself now, how the hell did he make it to Midgar in one piece?

A nagging voice in the back of his head told him that maybe Cloud hadn't made it to Midgar in one piece, and maybe that was the problem.

Frowning, Zack stirred the soup in the pan and kept thinking, trying to come up with reasoning that might allow Sephiroth to get Cloud out of this stupid transfer… but nothing came to mind, nothing concrete. Simply reporting that he was a promising student who held a lot of potential would be worthless; after all, Tom was close to being inducted into SOLDIER, and yet they had planned on sending him off. And citing the fact that Cloud's grades had been improving wouldn't be much help, either; once again, several of the recruits he had seen getting transferred had had similar trends in grades, or had even better grades.

Still, Cloud's the one trooper in Omega that doesn't deserve to get shipped off.

He finally decided the soup was ready and cut off the heat, taking down two bowls and pouring out the soup, carefully, dividing it so that one bowl held a bit more than the other. He placed both bowls on the table, then went to one of the drawers and fished out some spoons.

I guess I should be thankful. Certainly, Junon is bad, but it's not as far away as, say, Corel. Or Rocket Town. Or, worse, Wutai.

Zack put the pan into the sink, turning on some of the cool water, and absently glanced up to see Cloud standing in the doorway, looking at Zack with very little expression on his face. Zack grinned, and gestured at the table with the still-saucy ladle.

"You're up just in time, Cloud-kun! Dig right in, and I'll get us something to drink." Dropping the ladle in the sink, he moved to the refridgerator, only to suddenly feel two thin arms around him, from behind, the warmth of breath and the dampness of tears soaking straight through his shirt. He froze, listening to the soft whine, and something about Cloud's voice cut straight through his heart. He carefully, very carefully, loosened Cloud's hold just enough so he could turn around and return the embrace, leaning back against the cool metal doors of the refridgerator and pulling Cloud close against him. He closed his eyes and just held him there, felt Cloud sobbing against him and unsure what to do, what to say.

"Shh…" In the end, that was all that came out, a simple comforting sound as he raised his hand and ran it through Cloud's hair. "It'll be all right, Cloud-kun… Things'll work out, you'll see, they always do…"

"…but not without you…" The voice was small, strained, impossibly young. "Not without Za-kun… I was never all right on my own… never… never…!" Hands fisted, clenching the front of Zack's shirt. "I hated Junon, Zack… hated it…!"

"Cloud, you're not as weak as you were back then," Zack whispered. "You're not so weak anymore… you've been learning, I've helped train you… You'll be able to hold your own…"

"But they… They hurt… hurt me, there, Za-kun…"

"I know, I know…" Carefully, Zack steered Cloud toward the table, made him sit down. "Now, come on and eat something. We need to talk about this, but I want you to eat, first. It'll help you feel a little better."

Cloud nodded, slowly picking up a spoon and dipping it into the bowl while Zack fetched him a glass of milk.

Dinner was dismally silent between them, just the scraping of the spoons against their bowls, some slight slurping on the soup. Zack didn't watch Cloud too closely, knowing the boy would probably be able to feel his eyes on him, but Cloud went about the eating very mechanically, as if he didn't really want to but knew he had to anyway. Zack waited until Cloud was finished with his own soup before gathering the dishes and dumping them in the sink, as well, and then without any warning he went to Cloud's chair and lifted the boy up. Ignoring Cloud's indignant noise of surprise, Zack grinned and set to tickling him, which brought a smile to Cloud's face whether he wanted it or not.

"That's right, you know I can't let you sulk all the time, c'mere and lemme--!"

"Ah! Stop…!" Cloud managed to squirm out of his reach and ran into the living room, only to get knocked by a flying tackle onto the couch. Cloud attempted to fight back this time but Zack wasn't quite as ticklish, and just kept grinning until he had finally tickled his friend into submission. For awhile, they simply lay there, Zack propping himself up on his elbows and grinning down while Cloud just kept smiling up, panting slightly from the exertion. Still, he looked happy and Zack could almost pretend that he hadn't seen the tears or the sadness in Cloud's eyes earlier.

"You know, Cloud-kun… this is all well and good, but some of us have had long, hard days at work, and some of us haven't had the chance to shower yet, unlike some people."

Cloud just kept smiling. "You could have taken a shower before dinner; I wouldn't have minded at all."

"Yeah, well, someone looked like they needed a good doze, so I was just going to let sleeping dragons lie." He paused, considering. "Though you look more like a chocobo…"

Face burning bright red, Cloud snatched one of the couch's pillows and smacked Zack on the head with it. "I do not look like a chocobo! I preferred the times you were calling me a 'kitten' to chocobo!"

Zack chuckled. "Fine, fine. Alright, how about this, then. Let me go and take my shower, and when I come out we'll have a nice, long conversation. And then…" He smiled a smile of a different sort, and Cloud sat up just enough to give him a kiss. "Good, since we're in an agreement, now…" Zack carefully got up, and headed for the door. "Why don't you get some more studying done, eh? It won't take me long!"

***

While Zack was in the shower, Cloud remained in the living room, attempting to read a book on strategy and failing somewhat at his task. He couldn't keep his mind off of the upcoming transfer, or the upcoming conversation that Zack wanted to have with him… even what with the promise of what Zack would do with him afterwards…

Please, Zack-kun… I feel badly enough as is… Please don't make this hard on me…

That was when there came a light knocking from the apartment's front door. Cloud looked up with some surprise, wondering who could possibly be disturbing them at this hour. Usually, not even Clemson or Ruggard came out to the apartments to bother them, unless there was something important going on. He almost thought it was surely just him, that he had imagined it, but before he could turn back to his studies, the knock came again, more insistently.

Putting the book down on the table, Cloud stood up and went to the door, opening it just a crack. "Hello?" he said quietly, only to find himself staring at a coat of black leather. He blinked, his eyes moving up slowly, taking in every inch of uniform until he eventually found himself staring into two glowing green eyes.

"Is Zackary Donovan in?" The voice was a smooth baritone, not terribly deep but not a high tenor, absolutely smooth and certain and, gods, it was just the way he imagined it--

Shaking himself, Cloud immediately averted his eyes, looking away. "Sir, he's in the shower, sir, it won't take him but just a few minutes longer…"

"Good. Would it bother you if I entered?"

Immediately, he stepped out of the way, holding the door open and waiting for the smear of black to pass through his peripheral vision before closing the door. He snatched his book up from where he had left it on one of the nearby tables and looked down at the book's cover, feeling spectacularly useless and even more clumsy than usual.

the world ended at 09:38 p.m., Sunday, September 8, 2002.

Catt. Cinnamon Sequel. Cloud ramblings at the beach...

Very short. But posted anyway. XD Deal.

***

The problem with finding something to believe in, he thought, watching the sand sift through his fingers, is that once you find it, you have to keep believing in it… otherwise it leaves you… He put his hand into the water, watching the cloud of sand around his hand fade away, torn away by the waves.

Mother had once told him that beaches were very important places, as when one stood at a beach, one could hear, more clearly than at any other part in the world, the breathing of the Planet. She had always been kind of a mystic like that, believing in the old rather than the new, but he loved that about her. He liked the way she told him about the old things, things everyone else had forgotten. He remembered cold mountain mornings, when she'd take him with her to go looking for certain herbs, and she'd tell him stories. He remembered all of those things, and he thought for a few moments that the memory made him happy.

Odd, how things changed when you weren't in a familiar environment. Odd, how it didn't seem right, how it didn't seem the same, even though the only things that had changed was that he didn't go home to an apartment anymore, and he didn't stay up at night waiting for his best friend anymore.

Best friend. Lover? He stood, absently touching a fingertip to his lips and licking, experimentally. He had been to beaches before but he found that different areas had different water. It all tasted different somehow, and unconsciously he licked again. Yes. He loved me. Didn't he? Didn't I…

A pause, a break in concentration, the sound of something behind him. He turned, eyes immediately scanning the area for any signs of monsters, or anyone else who could ambush him. But no… No, after a little bit of time, he didn't see anyone or anything. There was just the sand and the rocks, after all.

His back burned and he winced, stretching his shoulder and back muscles and fighting back any noises of discomfort as he did. He was still sore… but he was getting better. Hopefully, by the time he got to see Zack again, the bruises would be gone.

It was always humiliating… He always thought that his body had to be the ugliest thing… pale, easily burnt, easily bruised, easily marked…

I don’t see how he could have loved me… but…

He closed his eyes, felt the wind and it was cool, it didn't slice his cheeks like that knifeblade had…

You made me happy, Zack-kun…

A few moments later, and soon there was a pale figure dressed in a trooper's uniform walking slowly back up the beach, back toward the military and naval bases of Junon, completely ignorant of the black-caped man who was watching over him... silent, distant, but above all curious.

the world ended at 11:50 p.m., Thursday, September 5, 2002.

Thorne, Clumsy sequel

This is the sequel to Clumsy, told post-game from Vincent's perspective. I included the song lyric snatch I'm using because... I love it and I want everyone to hear the song.

if i don't make it known that
i've loved you all along
just like the sunny days that
we ignore because
we're all dumb and jaded
and i hope to god i figure out
what's wrong

i walked around my room
not thinking
just sinking in this box
i blame myself for being too much
like somebody else
i never thought I would just
bend this way

~our lady peace, 4am

***

It was Monday but the calendar sheet on the desk said Sunday of three weeks ago. He tore it off until the correct date showed.

Midgar was much the way he remembered it, metal and dirt and smoke, though from different sources now. There were differences of course; now the glitter of glass was replaced mainly by sheets of cardboard and plywood tacked or hammered awkwardly where the windows had been, previous glass being scattered and shattered on the ground. Most of the fires were out by now but smoke still lingered in the air, soot made black crescents on the wall and fingers had already dragged clean paths through for new graffiti.

Laughing children in dirty clothes ran in and out of the forests of fallen girders, their new playgrounds becoming the crevices created by twisted steel and rusting bolts and he thought there was something terrible about that, most of all.

Reeve's office wasn't really an office, but it served and someone had at least tried to make it a little better. There was a chair in startling good shape to sit in, only a small rip in the leather seat and duct tape took care of that. Only half the desk left, but it was the part that had the drawers still mostly attached, so that was all right. Someone had swept the rubble out and no more crumbles of cement and glass clung to the carpet and there was even a dented coffee machine sitting lonely and brave in the middle of the floor.

Someone had also found a plant that wasn't plastic and put it in the corner of the room to hide a chunk of missing drywall. He found the unanimously elected Head of Reconstruction Development crouched over it, emptying the last drops from one of the bottled water handouts into the soil.

"Who found it?" he asked, and Reeve started noticeably, then scuffed the toe of his shoe into the dusty carpet as though being caught out at something illicit.

"Elena," he said, and there's a little embarrassed smile on the corner of his mouth that said more than just the presence of the plant does. "She's the one who organized a lot of this. She's good at finding things and she said the place needed it. She's got an eye for... everything, I sometimes think." His mouth snapped shut quickly, a flush rose on his face, and he swallowed as though pushing back words that were bubbling up too quickly.

He'd never had that problem himself. If he didn't know what to say, he didn't say anything. Simple as that. It was easier that way, and when he didn't talk, then people didn't expect him to supply the right words to say in the first place. He didn't want to play that role anyway, he economized on words and doled them out as sparingly as they gave out clean water and canned food at the shelters in the slums now.

Silence suited him better the way his present clothing suited him, no blue suits hiding demons. He liked the way it tasted, he liked the way he could cut with it. He thought that was what it must be like to use a sword, a clean dividing cut that moved in one smooth arc and didn't kick like a gun. Silence worked better when it was right up close, like a sword.

Reeve's voice sounded different when it wasn't pushed through the megaphone of a cheerful toy, mechanical and far away but still sparking with whoever really controlled the dancing cat atop the mog. Reeve stood awkwardly, staring at him and twisting the bottle within his hands. One last drop ran out and made a darkened circle of color on the carpet. Red, it had used to be red, but now looked more like a faded pink through the ground-in dirt.

Nobody liked the boiled water. It tasted flat and lifeless, but better safe than sorry, better a lack of taste than rampaging disease. Something like that. Disease hadn't been a concern to him for a long time, much like words.

"So... Vincent."

He knew the right words now, though. "I will not do what you're going to ask me."

Simple. Reeve's shoulders twitched and he wondered if the words had been sharper than usual, more bitten off.

"Yes, I know." Reeve rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. "The Turks said you wouldn't. I thought I should ask though. You being who you were."

filling in some Anthy inserts

She never tells Dios a story without being prompted first, just as she never touches her brother, or anyone else for that matter, without being told to first. She does it, of course. She is the Rose Bride, so that's what she'll do, but it's never seemed necessary or right to touch first.

But she's never been out here in the day before, and there's always a first time for everything.

"Once upon a time," she says, "there was a prince and there was a princess. The princess was under a spell that caused her to take the form of something she was not. The only way the spell could be broken was if someone died for the princess, and it had to be someone she loved.”

She could almost feel the way Dios sighed, like wind on a spring day, warm and gentle.

"One evening the princess settled by a fountain..." Her voice trails off and here she hesitates, it wasn't a fountain, was it? It was a lake. "The princess settled by a lake and she took her true form. And a prince was watching her."

That, she knows, is true. Princes are always looking for princesses.

"The prince saw the princess shed her false form and take her true form and he fell in love with her. To keep her, he took her false form and gave her a ring." Another mistake, there is no ring in that story. She is getting confused. There is a promise given, but she's no longer certain what the prince promised. This prince meant to return, she thinks. Some princes didn't come back.

"He promised to do whatever it took to free her, to promise her his life. And that would be good enough to help her and he wouldn't have to die and the witch who placed the spell on the princess would die instead..."

It was a sorcerer, not a witch. But she can't stop the words and they fall from her mouth like raindrops.

"So the princess was glad. The prince... returned to his castle..."

Her head hurts a little. Odd, to feel a headache in a prefect place. But she keeps telling Dios his story. "And that night, there was a dance where the prince would promise. And the princess appeared and the prince danced with her all night, until midnight. At midnight, he swore his life and love to the princess, forever and ever until the ends of the word."

(Good, Dios says, and she thinks she can hear the slightest tinge of relief in his voice, good. That is the right thing. That is what princes do.)

She shakes her head and her hair feels looser than normal, not quite so secure in its pinned-up place on her head. "No. He was wrong. He made his promise to the wrong girl. He promised his life to the sorcerer's daughter who was pretending to be the princess and he never saw the princess watching him through the windows."

The problem with princes is simply that they are princes. You never hear of a king going on a daring quest; it's always a prince because they don't know any better. Princes don't think that they'll be killed by the very dragon or witch that they set out to rescue their princess from; they never think things out. They swear an oath to the wrong person and hurt the one they meant to protect in the first place. Sometimes their bravery carries them through, but sometimes it isn't enough.

Catt. Cinnamon Sequel. Mostly Zack and Seph...

"Okay, Seph, what's going on and why is Tom Ruggard getting transferred out of zeta?"

Sephiroth, who was sitting at his desk and apparently reading a report on his computer monitor, glanced up at Zack and then returned his eyes to the report. "The order came straight from Heidegger. And Ruggard's not the only recruit getting transferred; several of them are. I'm not entirely sure why, probably something to do with letting the recruits travel outside of Midgar, get used to operating in different settings." The silver-haired man absently tapped one of the folders on his desk. "Here's the complete list of transfers, if you'd like to see."

"It's not classified, huh…?" Zack said, picking up the folder and opening it, frowning when he saw the sheer number of transfers.

"Even if it was classified, would that stop me from showing it to you…?"

"Maybe, Seph; you're awfully good at keeping secrets…" Zack's eyes skimmed down the list, going down squadron by squadron. "Whoa, alpha's being totally switched with a squad from Junon… same goes for delta…" Worried, Zack skipped down a couple of squadrons. "Tom's the only one getting transferred out of zeta?"

"Yes. I'm still not entirely sure why they selected Ruggard to get transferred, but…" Sephiroth's voice trailed off, brow furrowing slightly as he continued reading.

Zack looked down a few more squads, alighting on one name that stood out starkly against all other names. "Omega… Omega squad's getting… Aw, shit…"

"Hmm…?" Sephiroth looked up at him again, concerned now. "Omega squadron's getting disbanded, and the troops transferred to posts better suited for their problematic behaviors. You've always known that omega's the problem squad, Zack…"

"That's not it, Seph," Zack murmured, closing the folder and kneading at his forehead with a hand. All of a sudden, he felt extremely weary. "It's that name… that last name down there on the bottom…"

Sephiroth took the folder, opened it up to the precise page, and skimmed the names. "Cloud Strife…? That boy's been struggling to stay in the program since he first showed up; I'm amazed he hasn't been bounced back into the regulars already. He's also reportedly not been spotted once in the dorms since…" He paused. "Zackary… If you're going to take in a recruit under your wing, I would appreciate it if you would inform me of such decisions."

"It just… kinda happened, really…"

Sephiroth sighed, shook his head and turned back to the screen. "Out of everyone, Zack, why did you pick Strife? The disciplinary administration's been keeping an eye on him for quite some time, and while his schoolwork's been improving, there's no other sign of his mentality gaining any sort of stability that would allow him to survive the induction processes anyway. He's an impossible case, Zack."

Zack felt his voice drop. "Seph… It's not just what you think it is."

If nothing else Zack had said or done had taken Sephiroth's mind completely away from the report, that one statement did. The older man looked away from the screen, sharp green eyes swiftly locking onto Zack's face. "It isn't," he said, his voice not necessarily questioning, but not necessarily encouraging, either.

"No. It's not. It's not just protection. Not anymore… Maybe it never really was. Hell, I don't know."

Something of a small, rueful smile turned up the corners of Sephiroth's lips. "You always did have the trouble of falling for the 'problematic' ones, Zackary."

"Nah. You know, before I met you, I had girlfriends and was contemplating marriage and making lots of happy babies and all that mess, but then you had to go and make out with me during the Wutai War and messed it all up--"

"It isn't my fault. Besides, last I recall, you enjoyed it."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, Seph… but that doesn't change my present predicament." Zack pointed at the folder. "As soon as Cloud-kun hears about that transfer order, he's gonna go haywire. He doesn't take to changes well, and I'm sure as hell not gonna stand for this. It's bad enough I didn't receive any sort of notification about Tom's transfer, and now this…?"

Placing both hands on his desk, Sephiroth nodded and stood. "I understand. I'm still not entirely sure what they're thinking… but there may be some hope for your two friends."

Zack perked up instantly. "What…?"

"I'm not guaranteeing anything, Zackary," Sephiroth warned him. "As it is, I'm going to have to be able to present some sort of proof, some reasoning, as to why either of the two should be allowed to remain here. In Ruggard's case, it will be somewhat easier because he was well on the way of becoming a SOLDIER. Strife, on the other hand…"

Taking a deep breath, he nodded and looked away. "Yeah… I understand. Well, could you please look into it and do what you can…?"

"Like I said, I can't guarantee anything. But right now I'll go and talk to some of the others about this… see if I can't find out anything. I'll stop by your apartment later tonight."

"Right… Thanks, Seph. When you care to take that stick out of your ass, you're actually not such a bad per--"

Sephiroth's soft chuckle cut him off, and the silver-haired man looked at him with more amusement than before. "Now, that's not exactly a polite thing to say to someone who's promised to help you. If I were you, I'd be halfway out of that door to spend time with my significant other in case things don't work out."

He had barely finished speaking before Zack really was outside the door, and without another moment's hesitation, he picked up his phone and started to call the head of the housing department.

"Miss Kang? Yes, I need to speak to you about a trooper's residency records… I can wait for a few moments, but this should be taken care of quickly."

***

The apartment was quiet when Zack entered, though he was surprised to see and hear the television on. Cloud watched it, occasionally, but the teen was generally very good about turning it off if he wasn't watching it. Besides that, it was past time for Cloud to be back in the apartment, so he was expecting to see that bright head of messy blonde hair peek out from around a doorway, a small smile in place. But, there was no sound of Cloud's light footsteps, no sound of anything except for an anchorwoman on the television.

"I'm home," Zack called out, as was customary, not sure whether to expect an answer or not. He wondered if Cloud was really in; maybe he had stepped out for a bit, or run to the grocery store, or something. Absently, he set his things down and moved over to the couch, turning the television off. He checked the kitchen first, surprised to see that Cloud wasn't inside, fixing dinner, and then he drifted over to the bedroom door, which was shut tight.

Ah, ha. Here he is.

Carefully, slowly, he twisted the knob, peering inside the bedroom. There came no sound from within, and as he stepped inside, his eyes fell across his roommate. Cloud was curled up on his side on the bed, curled up and unmoving. Breathing a soft sigh of relief, Zack came closer, sat down beside Cloud on the bed and looked at Cloud's face, brushed some of the blonde hair from his eyes. Yes, the tear tracks revealed it all; he had been notified of the transfer, and he had responded the same way Zack had feared he would.

At least this isn't the same as it was months ago, when I would have had to worry about you doing something more drastic…

He still remembered very easily what Cloud had used to be like, and the shadows of that person could still be seen in Cloud's actions, Cloud's movements. The way his eyes would often dart about whenever he first entered a room, as if assessing possible hiding places or escape routes, or how he kept his eyes lowered whenever meeting a new person, or perhaps, in the case it was required of him to look at a person's face, then the way he always managed to look just to the side of the eyes… He was a master at hiding, a master of hiding himself and his emotions, and he knew every which way to turn or twist his body to make himself appear as small as possible, in hopes of avoiding recognition by the eyes. But that wasn't the amazing part. The amazing part was that Cloud did it all unconsciously, never even realizing he was doing it unless Zack caught him, rapped him lightly on the shoulder and reminded him that he didn't have to be afraid anymore. After all, he'd slowly been acquainting Cloud to the world again, to people like James Clemson and Tom Ruggard, and the other members of squad zeta. He had been working at it, and slowly Cloud had become less of a creature of habit.

Still, if he got transferred to Junon…

If… It's still just an "if", right now, provided Seph can do something… By the Planet, if I'm not there for him, what will happen to him…? What will he do to himself…?

Shaking himself, he carefully got up and left the bedroom, making sure to close the door so any noise he made in the kitchen wouldn't disturb his friend.

Friend… companion… but so much more than that. Dammit, I hope nothing happens to him…

the world ended at 08:56 p.m., Monday, September 2, 2002.

Gogai, gogai...

Kashira, kashira, douzo kashira?

Just testing the new layout. Nothing else to see here... yet.

the world ended at 05:26 p.m., Friday, August 30, 2002.