Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Defining Love ❯ Chapter 44

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

By: DB2020

Defining Love

Chapter Forty-Four

Seifer cursed his lack of foresight. Leonhart had been gone for nearly five weeks, and he hadn't thought to make a sex tape beforehand. He had been a fool to dismiss the idea simply because his modest partner would never agree to it.

As his foot tapped a rapid beat against the floor, he forced his eyes to focus on the report in front of him. Lewd thoughts ran through his head, perpetuating the stiffness in his pants that had been there all morning. A hand was a poor substitute for sex. Countless cold showers had left him in a constant state of sexual frustration.

Blessed with good looks all his life, he had never had a shortage of sex. Any dry spells were on account of extraneous circumstances. As a fisherman, it had been easy to cope with morning wood and days of no relief, but he had been out at sea and his head hadn't been filled with arousing images of Leonhart.

“Fuck,” he grumbled darkly, giving his work up for lost. Leaning back in his seat, he swiveled around to stare out the window. The urge to have his rival was maddening, and it grew in exponential increments. He was becoming desperate to bind the sultry brunet inside his arms, to feel the warmth of firm flesh. Leonhart's scent had faded from his bed pillow, and he had begun to seriously consider snatching the pillows from Leonhart's own bed. He wasn't quite that desperate, just horny enough to plot the scheme in his imagination.

Needing a distraction, Seifer decided to call Lore. The kid had become something of a pet project. The boy had a rudimentary knowledge of weapons and tactics, but there was definite potential that was a shame to leave untapped. Under his guidance, Lore showed a promising aptitude for fighting. If things continued as they were, he might indulge the boy's request to start using a gunblade.

When the boy answered, Seifer grumbled a coarse greeting. It was the closest he came to amiable.

“What do you want?” Lore asked, sounding occupied.

Seifer checked his watch. It was one o'clock. The kid was still in school. “I'm taking off work early. How about some practice?”

It was no longer just sparring. Lore came to practice rather than challenge Seifer. Seifer was a surprisingly patient teacher and Lore was a quick learner, but their tempers still flared. More often than not, they ended their sessions with harsh words and pernicious glares, but they were okay to start all over again by the next day.

There was a hesitant pause. “Right now?”

“No, I'll pencil you in for next Saturday,” Seifer bit out sarcastically.

“I'm in class.”

With blithe disregard to the boy's schedule, Seifer muttered, “Your point being?” Another difference between him and Leonhart were their attitudes towards school. Seifer had shown up to take exams, but had skipped all other days. Leonhart, who could have just as easily skipped and aced the exams, had had a penchant for keeping perfect attendance. No doubt, this goody-goody trait had been passed along to Leonhart Jr.

Scoffing, Lore pointed out, “I can't just leave. Besides, I have soccer practice later.”

“Well if Daddy wouldn't approve, then suit yourself,” Seifer goaded. He knew he had struck a nerve. Lore had developed a pet peeve against his comments about being a mama's boy.

The silence that followed was full of hesitant debate. Seifer grinned, knowing he had convinced the kid to play truant. He wondered what Leonhart would think of his bad influence?

“Screw it,” Lore declared, unable to mask his excitement. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

Seifer's grin broadened. “Make it ten.”

“Asshole,” Lore muttered.

Seifer could hear the kid smiling. “Chicken-shit,” he returned succinctly.

This concluded the conversation, their insults acting as a sort of parting. It was the sort of banter that served to bind their understanding of each other. It lacked true maliciousness, and could almost be considered affectionate. It was not affectionate though. They still annoyed the hell out of one another.

Seifer was almost as eager to see the kid use a gunblade as Lore was to wield one. Over the past few weeks, his expectations had risen. He was hopeful that the boy would have a talent for it. There were too few gunbladists in the world, and even fewer who had any real skill. Lore certainly came from the right gene pool.

In all their sparring, the boy had never once mentioned enrolling in Garden. Seifer intended to bring it up as soon as he could judge the kid's potential for the blade.

With every step, the team of seventeen drew closer to the other side of the island. It would take an estimated six days to reach the shore.

Irvine had mellowed by the forth week, when it had become clear that no matter how sexually frustrated any of the men might be, their eyes held nothing but respect for the commander. He remained on guard, shadowing Squall every spare moment, but he no longer leveled a gun on anyone that approached the commander's tent.

Dannis was another issue. Irvine and the redheaded fighter clashed heads on a daily basis. They exchanged heated words and were precariously close to settling their score with violence.

The rest of the team found Dannis and Irvine's display entertaining. When they settled around the campfire, they listened to the remarks exchanged and placed bets on when the gunman would snap and pull the trigger. Dannis was the hothead, but Irvine took it personal.

Squall would have reprimanded the two, but Dannis was actually doing him a favor by occupying the gunman's attention.

For the past week, the temperature had been unbearably hot. The group stayed close to any streams they found, refilling water nearly twice as often as before. Many of the men had opted to alter their fatigues, and Squall didn't protest the minor breach in protocol. Sleeves were torn off and some went shirtless, but the alterations did little to combat the fervid heat.

Squall's core body temperature generally ran a degree or two lower than average. The heat didn't usually bother him, but it had a sickening affect on him this time. He felt nauseous through the early parts of the day. By noon, after walking a few miles, he could hardly remember the feeling of his upset stomach.

On a few occasions, he had excused himself and actually been sick. To the team, he simply looked a bit paler than usual. Unfortunately, Irvine's sharp eyes could not be deceived. One morning, the gunman had approached him after he had upheaved his meager breakfast.

“You're sick,” Irvine observed, keeping his distance as the brunet buried all evidence.

Squall didn't respond. Anyone with eyes could tell he had been sick. If there were any cause for alarm, he would have consulted the gunman. The heat had simply gotten to him. He was thirty-five and practically retired. His body had grown accustomed to a soft bed and air conditioning. The rough living had taken its toll, but his body could handle the wear. If he continued to be sick, then he only needed to hold out a few more days, a week at the most.

Irvine pressed the issue, asking, “Are you okay?” He kept his tone casual. Expressing too much concern would cause the commander to close up completely.

“Fine,” Squall said. Uncapping his canteen, he took a swig and rinsed his mouth out. After spitting the water out, he stood up.

Irvine winced at the commander's response. That single word spoken with trademark stoicism had been the bane of countless inquiries. He might do better interrogating a brick wall.

Together, they returned to camp. Squall didn't need to order Irvine to secrecy. Discretion was understood. Unless he became seriously sick, there was no need to inform the others. When they were so close to the other side of the island, he didn't want trouble within the ranks.

Six days was the official count down, barring any unexpected surprises. As the sun set and the winds shifted direction. Salty seawater gave the muggy air a cool tang. It made them all jittery to know they were closing in on their target.

With the exception of the T-Rex, the mission had gone smoothly. Time had been wasted hiking the ridge and zigzagging their way down again, but time was all they lost.

Mercenaries were superstitious by nature, and all of them waited with bated breath, anticipating some major attack before their final day. It was the way of the world. Nothing went smoothly. A perfect mission was a failed mission.

Even Squall kept on high alert, turning sharply at noises in the jungle that he wouldn't have paid attention to before. If there were monsters worse than a T-Rex, they would have already encountered them, yet there was a pervading unease.

When Dannis and Irvine settled their nightly bickering by glaring at one another across the fire, the others began talking about their tattoos. It was a subject they had already rehashed several times over, but they came back to it to keep their minds occupied.

Squall thrived on silence, but the others grew uneasy when the jungle became mute at night. It was noisy in the middle of the night, but just after twilight, the shadows surrounding their camp seemed to absorb noise.

To combat the oppressive quiet, the men talked. Squall listened absently. The chatter was relaxing in its own way. The team had learned not to engage him in conversations. Sometimes he heard what they said, and other times his thoughts drifted.

That particular night, his thoughts were far away. He felt worlds away from home, but his thoughts kept a strong connection. Thinking about Seifer, his mind pulled forth memories from their final moments together. Unconsciously, he set his hand on the side of his neck, where the ex-knight had marked him. His fingers squeezed, as though massaging a sore muscle. A shiver ran through his body. Tumbling deeper into the sensation, his head filled with images. He was greedy for the arrogant man's company, and more so for the feel of heated lips and strong arms.

It was then that Squall noticed the lapse in conversation. Attention fixing on Irvine, he realized the gunman was watching him. Not just Irvine, but everyone else as well.

“You okay?” Irvine asked.

The commander seemed to be shivering, but the heat was ungodly.

Blushing, Squall ducked his head and stood up. Making for his tent, he mumbled over his shoulder, “Fine.” He wasn't fine though. It would be another night with a throbbing ache burning inside him.

Lore made his way to Seifer's office on the fifth floor. He knew the training center like the back of his hand. Every corridor and room was mapped out in his head. Despite being the youngest person there, he felt that he belonged.

Weeks ago, when he had first visited, the place had been under construction. He'd been embarrassed and self-conscious, imagining that all the workers eyes were on him. Seifer had yelled at the crewmen, though he never could decide if it had been on his behalf or if the ex-knight didn't want slackers on his payroll.

He knew the names of various trainers, though he never worked with them. Seifer had offered to let them teach him once, but the man had repeatedly interrupted the session, not agreeing with whatever direction the trainer gave him. After that, it was always Seifer he met with.

At times, Lore suspected that the ex-knight actually enjoyed teaching with him. In the end, he could only conclude that they were both searching for a distraction.

As he entered the outer office, Lore found the secretary's desk empty. The door to Seifer's office was open, so he went in on his own.

In Seifer's office, Lore found the missing secretary. She leaned over the blond's shoulder while gesturing to something on the paper Seifer held. Her blouse fell open to reveal an ample amount of her chest. If the ex-knight were to turn his head, his eyes would be level with her cleft.

Lore glared at the display, immediately suspicious. He didn't recognize the woman. Maurine was Seifer's usual secretary, a competent middle-aged woman capable of putting up with an egomaniac like the ex-knight. This woman had dark blonde hair that fell in wavy curls. One tendril currently brushed against Seifer's shoulder. She appeared to be in her early twenties. Her small round face was attractive. She was beautiful, in a high maintenance kind of way.

When Seifer said something to her, his eyes still glued to the paper, she leaned a fraction of an inch closer. Her arms tightened against her sides, pushing her breasts together so that they swelled.

Lore blushed, but was less affected by the woman herself than he was with how he read the situation. Clearing his throat, he announced his presence. Seifer didn't bother looking up from the paper.

The secretary gave a start and straightened. “Please wait outside,” she said. “Do you have an appoint-”

Seifer raised a hand and cut her off. “The kid's fine,” he announced.

After a moment of study, the woman's eyes widened in recognition. She seemed on the verge of speaking, but instead hastened from the office with curious glances at Lore.

Lore knew that look of recognition. She realized he was the president's grandson.

Seifer finally looked up.

“I thought you were taking off work early,” Lore said accusingly.

“I am,” Seifer returned, eyeing the boy with curiosity. The kid was pissed about something, but he couldn't take enjoyment if he didn't know what he had done to earn such an angry look.

“Who was she?” Lore asked, gesturing out the office door.

Quirking a wry brow, Seifer pointed out, “The secretary.”

“No shit,” Lore muttered. “What happened to your other secretary?”

“She called in sick,” Seifer said. Standing, he loosened his tie. “Would you like to bring her a bowl of chicken soup, or can we get going?”

Standing firm, Lore brazenly asked, “Are you sleeping with her?”

Brows rising in surprise, it was a moment before Seifer realized what the boy was upset over. Laughing when he finally understood, he sat back down and let his amusement run its course.

“I'm not joking,” Lore hissed.

“I know,” Seifer assured. “That's why it's so funny.”

“She was all over you just now,” Lore declared, loud enough for the woman to hear outside the office. “Don't deny it.”

Smirking, Seifer held his hands up and gave a look of mock innocence. “I can't help it if I'm too sexy for women to resist. But the thing to remember is that she was the one trying to get my attention. Trust me, my standards are higher than her.”

With crossed arms and a sulking expression, Lore said, “She's very pretty.”

“Easy there, jailbait,” Seifer muttered. “If you're looking for someone to hook up with, try your own cohort.”

“That wasn't what I meant,” Lore declared, growing flustered. He couldn't keep from blushing at the ex-knight's implication.

“Hyne, you're innocent. When was the last time you got laid?”

Flushing darker, Lore glared. “Screw you!”

“Don't tell me,” Seifer began, green eyes gleaming with mischief, “you're a vir-”

Lore cut the ex-knight off. “If you say it, I'll kill you.” Turning, he stalked from the office. Over his shoulder, he called, “Hurry the hell up.”

Seifer doubled over with laughter, unable to contain himself.

Gorton burst into the camp, gasping for air. “Commander!” he cried, choking as he inhaled sharply.

Squall dropped the rag he was using to oil his gunblade. Sheathing the weapon, he stood and crossed the campground to reach the freckled faced young man.

Irvine joined Squall while the others crowded close.

“Report,” Irvine prompted. The young man would have plenty of time to catch his breath after he told them what the trouble was.

“T-Rex,” Gorton said, gesturing wildly with his hands. “It came out of nowhere. Dannis told me to come back. He's drawing it away from camp.”

“Where?” Lieutenant Shripe asked.

Pointing into the thicket of plants he had just rushed through, Gorton said, “Three miles east.”

“Where is the rest of your group?”

“We split up. There was fruit the others wanted to pick. Dannis and me were getting water.”

Irvine looked to Squall. In the time that Gorton had spent running back to camp, it was unlikely that Dannis could have outrun a T-Rex. Facing it alone was suicide. The grim expressions on everyone's face acknowledged that Dannis was probably already dead.

“Kinneas, Shripe, and Felix, you're with me,” Squall ordered. He gave no further direction, but started forward.

Irvine glanced over his shoulder at the group of stricken faces. “You heard him,” he barked. Felix and Shripe were already suiting up. Not waiting for them, he ran after the commander.

Squall ran as fast he could on uneven terrain. Precious time was wasted in climbing over obstacles and circumventing trees. A pang of panic coursed through him. The odds were against Dannis surviving, and more so against him reaching the boy in time.

Fearing that the foolhardy young fighter had acted brashly because of him, he pushed himself to go faster. He had issued a challenge when Dannis persisted in knowing about his scar. Dannis had jumped at every chance to fight, taking a lion's share of kills. Squall had assumed that the boy's eagerness in battle a response to his rejection, and he had hoped it wouldn't go any further.

Urged forward by concern and the weight of responsibility, Squall began to despair reaching Dannis in time. He needed to move faster.

Gritting his teeth, he accepted the reality that he wasn't fast enough. A desperate and foolish idea came to mind. Coming to a dead halt, he decided to take a shot in the dark. Even if he hadn't fully processed the consequences, he knew that there was no other option.

Squall touched the tips of his fingers to his forehead and shut his eyes. Reaching inside himself, he summoned Diablo. Seconds later, the dark winged demon fluttered in the air and came to settle on the ground in front of him. Jaw clenched, he steeled himself for what came next. Regarding the demon sternly, he stared into burning red eyes. “I need your help,” he said.

The demon rolled his head and flapped his wings. There was no need to make a request for help when he was bound to follow his host's every order.

Swallowing thickly, Squall stood his ground and tapped his fingers against his forehead once more. He unjunctioned Diablo, releasing the tether that connected them.

Diablo jumped back and crouched low. Casting his head up, he emitted a guttural growl and seemed on the verge of attacking.

Squall kept very still. Other GFs would have disappeared, returning to where their slumbering bodies were stored throughout the world. When they were junctioned, they were only spirits.

Diablo was different. He was not a spirit and his corporal body was not safely detached. When he answered a call, he came in flesh and bone. Once unjunctioned, he needed to be stored in the lamp or junctioned to someone else. Otherwise, he was free to run rampant.

Across from Squall, the demon was now unbound. If Diablo desired, he could attack. Squall had beaten him once, and could do so again. But he needed the creature's cooperation. While junctioned, he couldn't keep Diablo summoned for very long, and this was what he required.

As precious seconds ticked by, Diablo tested Squall. He stalked back and forth, trying to provoke a fight. Squall stayed perfectly still.

Red slits narrowed, becoming thin gashes on a black face. A wrinkled black snout gave a snort while sneering razor teeth clacked. One taloned foot stepped forward, followed by the other. Diablo approached slowly, his bulky frame eerily graceful.

Squall struggled to keep from drawing his gunblade. The instinct was strong, but his resolve was stronger. His expression remained unchanged and his gaze resolute. The demon towered before him, standing twice his height.

A claw-like hand reached out, the space between them a scarce two feet. The hot press of a rough, leathery palm met Squall's pale cheek. The creature's hand was larger than his head. Dangerously sharp nails ghosted the skin behind his ear and along the side of his neck. If the demon applied a little more pressure, it could easily slice open his jugular. When his pulse quickened, the gleam of amusement in glowing red eyes told him that the change had been noted.

Just then, shouts reached him from behind. Irvine was first in sight. Lieutenant Shripe and Felix soon after the gunman.

“Squall!” Irvine shouted. He stopped short, a look of awed horror on his face. Leveling the demon with his long barreled rifle, he cried, “Get away!”

Not moving, Squall kept his back turned to the gunman. “I asked for his help,” he explained, the calmness in his voice hiding his uncertainty.

“You unjunctioned it?” Irvine asked incredulously. “Are you insane?”

“Commander,” the lieutenant spoke up, “it'll as soon kill you as help you. Back away.”

Irvine assured, “I've got a clear shot.”

It was insane, and it was also the only way. “Stand down,” Squall ordered. Dannis was a hotheaded recruit who deserved to lose a few fights in order to gain some humility, but there was a vast difference between defeat and death. The boy might be fine on his own, able to ferret away into a secure hiding place, but a T-Rex would rage and stampede until Dannis came out again. There was also a chance that the T-Rex would attract other monsters, making a hunting party. Swift action was best, and this is what Diablo could provide.

Irvine shook his head, though the commander couldn't see the gesture. “Sorry,” he said. He took his shot, not willing to follow an order that clearly put Squall's life in danger.

The shot aimed true, but Diablo shielded himself with a swift reflex. The bullet struck the hard outer shell of black bone, ricocheting off his elbow.

In the next second, Squall's vision tilted as he was swept clean off his feet. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, but he realized what was happening before he drew the weapon. Diablo had picked him up, holding him in one arm like a child might hold a doll.

There was a torrent of wind that blinded Squall for a moment. He felt the jolt as Diablo leapt into the air. Large wings flapped in heavy convulsions, and he knew they had risen high. Squirming against the creature's hold, he struggled to see down below. A clawed hand pressed the back of his head, pushing his face against the corded muscle of the demon's neck. A bullet whizzed by, and he realized that Diablo was trying to shield him.

Moments later, the creature's hold eased and he was allowed to look below. They were out of range. He was too consumed with concern for Dannis to care that Irvine had defied his order. He would have done the same if anyone he cared about had acted so foolishly. The lieutenant was right. Though Diablo had decided to help, he might just as soon decide to drop him and let him fall to his death.

Squall thought to tell Diablo where to go, but the roar of the T-Rex reached them. They were already close. The demon's speed was deceiving. The wind was harsh against his face, blasting his hair in disarray, but he was tucked against Diablo's chest and couldn't feel the full force of air.

Directly below, Squall spied the T-Rex's trail, visible only in patches through the canopy. The monster had flattened a wide trail, making it easy to track. It led southeast, away from camp.

Dannis had enough sense not to draw trouble to the team, but Squall cursed the boy's stubborn pride that didn't let him ask for their help. Seifer would have done the same, taking the fight on alone. If Dannis were truly like Seifer, then he wouldn't be killed so easily, but it was only a matter of time. A T-Rex with a vendetta could not be outlasted.

Dannis had taken refuge inside the crevice of a warped tree trunk. It was a temporary solution. The T-Rex batted against the trunk like ram, each smash rocking the tree violently. The leaves and branches shivered, and the base began to lean to the side. The T-Rex would soon uproot the entire tree.

When they were directly overhead, Diablo dropped a wing and maneuvered in spiraling circles. Just before they breached the canopy, the demon folded his wings. The dropped was sudden. Squall's stomach gave a weightless lurch. Anchoring himself, he wrapped an arm around Diablo's thick neck. With a final glimpse of blue sky, his vision became a blur of green. He wanted to look below, but branches snapped around them as they plummeted like a bullet. Something caught his cheek, making a shallow cut. He complied when the demon pressed his head down and covered his face with a large hand. Squall's heart thrummed a rapid beat, thumping harder as they neared the ground.

Diablo favored aerial attacks. Using the force of the fall, he aimed at the dinosaur's head, just like with the last T-Rex he had fought. A single well-placed blow could stun the monster and buy time.

Squall anticipated the impact, but the force still came as a surprise. Diablo struck down hard, landing squarely on the T-Rex's back. The force rent through Squall's entire body, knocking the wind out of him. The T-Rex roared in pain and stumbled sideways.

Diablo jumped into the air and landed several yards away. Squall tumbled from the demon's hold, managing to land on unsteady feet. He drew his gunblade and faced the dinosaur. The monster had already recovered and was charging towards them.

Rocking to the balls of his feet, Squall raised his blade and prepared to sprint. Diablo launched forward to meet the raging beast, oblivious to the concept of teamwork. Changing his stance, Squall crouched low and waited for the opportunity to join the fight.

Steely blue eyes made a quick study of the small clearing. The air was thick with magic, heaviest with sleep spells. There were lingering tendrils that threatened to make him yawn, but he fought the magic's hold.

“Commander!” Dannis shouted, slipping out from the tree's trunk. Slinking around the clearing, he gave the T-Rex a wide birth as he edged towards the slim figure of his commanding officer. For a distracted moment, he stared at the commander in awe, his mind replaying images of the man flying in on the wings of a demon. The vicious thrashing of the T-Rex quickly reclaimed his attention.

Squall's mind spun in fast revolutions, forming a plan. The T-Rex was clearly immune to sleep spells. Wary that the creature might be a higher level than the other T-Rex, the smartest tactical maneuver was retreat. They wouldn't be able to run very far, but maybe far enough to meet with Irvine and the others.

It wasn't until Dannis was closer that Squall noticed a limp. Blood soaked one of the young man's pant legs. At his right thigh, a broken branch piece protruded from torn fatigues. Until the wound was healed, running was not an option.

Stopping a few yards short of the commander, Dannis turned towards the bloodthirsty dinosaur and took a fighting stance that favored his uninjured leg. Holding his broadsword aloft, he struggled to keep a centered balance.

Diablo seemed to be dancing. Leaping in high bounds, he clawed and kicked the T-Rex. If the dinosaur lashed back, he would spread his wings and fly just out of reach. Squall had the distinct impression that Diablo was teasing the monster.

While Diablo kept the enemy occupied, Squall's focus shifted to Dannis. The boy couldn't fight in such a state. Adrenaline could give a fighter a strong edge, but it would not win the fight. There were traces of a cringe on Dannis face. Pain meant that the adrenaline has already run its course.

Stabbing his blade into the ground, Squall approached Dannis. “Sit,” he ordered, appearing wholly oblivious to the violent clashing of talons and claws directly behind him.

“Commander,” Dannis protested.

Having little patience in such a situation, Squall promptly kicked the boy's good knee out. Dannis tumbled backwards, landing with a cry of pain. Ignoring the large redhead's injured plight, Squall knelt down.

Dannis gazed in mystified anger as the commander knelt between his legs. Propped back on his hands, he sat up, suddenly feeling too close to the smaller swordsman. The commander was practically in his lap.

“This'll hurt,” Squall warned, his tone bereft of emotion. Not waiting for a reply, he set a bracing hand on Dannis' muscular thigh and took hold of the protruding branch with his other hand. He pulled hard. There was a sickening squelch as the shard came loose.

Crying out, Dannis clutched the commander's shoulder. Blood gurgled from the wound, spilling out fast.

With a silent apology, Squall plunged two fingers inside the wound and felt around for splintered pieces. There was only one, so far as he could tell, and he managed to pull it out cleanly. The boy was bruising his shoulder, but it was some consolation to know that Dannis had that much strength left.

Tapping bloodied fingers to his forehead, Squall conjured a healing spell. Speaking the words soundlessly, his lips moved and torn flesh healed in an instant.

Relief was slow. Even after his wound was healed, Dannis still felt the pain. There was no time for pain though. Over the commander's shoulder, the T-Rex had broken past Diablo and came stomping towards them. The use of magic had reminded the T-Rex of their presence.

Squall felt the earth quake and realized they needed to move. Before he could roll away and grab his sword, Dannis surged forward and tackled him to the ground. There was a loud whooshing sound as the dinosaur's tail sliced the air above their heads. The swipe missed Dannis' by mere inches. Squall was safely pinned beneath the boy.

Wondering if Diablo had finally abandoned him, Squall craned his head back. Though his view was flipped upside down, he saw Diablo's dark form sweeping after the T-Rex. He pushed at Dannis' shoulders until he the boy climbed off him.

Sword in hand, Squall prepared to join the fight. Diablo sensed this and cast a surveying glance his way. The demon retreated, jumping back in high leaps until he stood next to the commander.

If Squall could have seen himself, he would have found the sight comical. Beside Diablo, his stature shrunk. Despite this physical difference, he stood his ground, the fierce steel in his eyes matching Diablo's glowing red slits.

Dannis didn't understand how the commander controlled Diablo without verbal directives, but it was clear that the demon was following orders. Standing at the commander's other side, he tightened his grip on his broadsword.

“Go right on my mark,” Squall said under his breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dannis nod. He didn't dare to give Diablo any direction.

The T-Rex paused for a moment, seeming to comprehend that its scattered prey had united together. Gouging the ground like a bull, it crouched low. Its massive tail rose into the air, swishing back and forth with a fluidity that was almost taunting.

Steely-grey eyes studied this display. This T-Rex was not the same as the last. It had a greater awareness, which was dangerous. Blind rage was one of the weaknesses that made such creatures conquerable. It was no larger than the other T-Rex, but its hide was a mottled black and brown.

Squall's eyes flickered around the clearing. Such a wide expanse was a rarity in the dense jungle. He wondered if the T-Rex had driven Dannis here on purpose. Among dense clusters of trees, a T-Rex's massive size became an impediment.

“Draw back into the woods if you get a chance,” Squall advised.

“Sir?” Dannis intoned.

“It's not a retreat,” Squall hissed. “Its tail will be no use with trees around.”

Dannis nodded, pleased that they weren't retreating.

Diablo made the first move, jumping to the left side of the clear. For a moment, the T-Rex's head swung towards Diablo, but it abandoned the demon and charged towards Squall and Dannis.

“Now,” Squall said.

Running to the right, Dannis forced the T-Rex to choose again between targets.

The dinosaur's sharp teeth gleamed in a sly grin. In a swift move, it ducked low and pivoted around.

“Drop!” Squall shouted at Dannis. As he followed his own direction and fell to the ground, lying as flat as possible, he tapped his forehead and cast Protect on the redhead.

The tip of the T-Rex's tail sawed the air a foot above Squall's backside. Dannis was closer to the monster, but he saw the boy drop and roll out of the tail's way as it came around.

Pushing up from the ground, Squall regarded the T-Rex warily. He sensed the creature's consciousness. It had some knowledge of tactics, and would not let them edge any closer. It would keep them at a distance, using its tail as an impenetrable defense.

Squall didn't doubt that he could slip closer, but he didn't want to underestimate the monster's close range abilities. He would have to rely on magic.

As if agreeing with the commander, Diablo cast Demi.

Hoping to find a weakness, Squall rapidly conjured spell after spell. Lighting seemed to have the most diminishing effect. Dannis used fire, having a smaller reservoir of spells to choose from.

The fight dragged on. Squall and Dannis were pressing their luck each time they dodged the T-Rex's tail. The monster seemed to know this, and never tired of swiping at them. Diablo was able to dart in close, but the T-Rex kept ducking and letting sharp talons scrape against its tough hide. There were visible gashes in the monster's backside, but no blood. The hide was too thick to penetrate.

Squall used the last of his lightening spells and moved on to ice. He targeted the monster's legs, hoping to freeze them in place and give Diablo an opening at a vulnerable point on the dinosaur's body.

Squall's tactic finally paid off. One of the dinosaur's feet caught for a moment, not shattering the ice. As it pulled harder, Diablo lashed at its head.

There was a deafening roar when Diablo struck one of the T-Rex's eyes. Diablo retreated before gnashing teeth clipped his wings. For a brief moment, the T-Rex was stunned and blinded.

Dannis rushed forward. Squall's heart skipped a beat, fearing the monster would recover.

Sprinting after the redhead, Squall yelled for Dannis to move back. Diablo growled and jumped towards the center. The T-Rex seemed to have anticipated this very reaction. Its tail whipped the air, crashing against Diablo.

Arms rising to block the hit, Diablo was unharmed, but still thrown back to the edge of the clearing. The T-Rex moved quick, choosing the next target. Dannis barely had time to realize the danger before the T-Rex's tail came at his head.

Reaching the boy's side, Squall dropped his shoulder and knocked Dannis to the ground. The tackle had its own damages. Squall felt as though he had run into a brick wall. Dazed for a moment, he barely managed to turn in time. Gunblade held out, he gripped the dull side and set the sharpened edge outward to meet the swinging tail. The force threw Squall into the air. The jarring shock vibrated through his arms painfully. His right wrist shattered, and he lost his grip on his weapon. As he watched his blade fall away, he felt dismay fill him. There was a sickening realization that the landing would be harder on his body.

Dannis watched in trepidation as the commander took a hit for him. As though he weighed no more than a rag doll, the blow tossed the slim man back ten yards, crashing against a tree. There was a resounding crack that was most certainly the commander's head hitting the tree's trunk. The commander fell limply to the ground, disappearing into a thicket of vines and plants.

Before Dannis could even react, a piercing cry sounded from the other side of the clearing. Turning sharply, he saw a flash of black bolting towards the T-Rex. Diablo began to thrash the dinosaur, gouging and clawing with a fury.

Dannis ran towards where the commander had fallen. He didn't know how the man maintained such a prolonged summoning, or how Diablo remained unleashed when the host was unconscious, but none of that mattered.

As Dannis neared the tree that had caught the commander mid-flight, he heard a sickening crunch from behind. Glancing back, he felt his stomach tighten as he saw a geyser of blood spurt from the T-Rex's neck. Diablo didn't relent for a moment, even as the T-Rex gave a final pleading roar and collapsed to the ground.

Unable to watch the carnage, Dannis looked away. He had slain his share of monsters, but shredding a corpse to pieces was enough to make him sick.

Near the tree's base, the commander lay in a lifeless heap. Eyes widening at the sight, Dannis felt rising panic. Dropping his blade, he hurried closer. “Commander Leonhart!” he cried, hoping for some faint flicker behind closed eyelids.

The man was curled on his side, dead to the world. Porcelain features were impossibly white, except for a smear of blood on a delicate brow. Dannis couldn't be certain if it was the same smear from when the man used bloody fingers to cast spells or if there was a wound.

Taking a moment to compose himself and gather his concentration, Dannis prepared to cast a healing spell. Before he could say the words, Diablo let off a screech.

He turned, finding the blood soaked demon had taken flight and was headed his way. Realizing the guardian force couldn't possibly be junctioned, Dannis rushed to retrieve his sword.

He took his stance in front of the commander's defenseless form. There was no doubting the angry gleam in the demon's eyes. He ducked the first swipe, but Diablo was quicker and managed to knock him aside with a second swing. He staggered to his feet and rushed back towards the commander. Before he could reach his unconscious leader, the demon scooped the man up and jumped into the air.

Yelling after the demon, Dannis feared that all was lost. Diablo didn't go very far, just far enough to clear the battleground. Dannis was in hot pursuit, never losing sight of his commander.

There was an unmistakable gentleness in how the demon set Squall down, laying him on a bed of plants. Folding his wings, Diablo seemed to grow smaller. The illusion struck Dannis as curious. It was as though Diablo were composing himself so as not to frighten the commander when the brunet opened his eyes. Such a small act did nothing to counter the sight of inky rivulets that dripped from the creature's black skin. Diablo was covered in blood.

Jogging nearer, Dannis warily approached, afraid that the demon would take flight and set down miles away instead of a few yards. Red eyes cast him a warning glance, but Diablo seemed otherwise indifferent to his presence.

Extending a clawed hand, Diablo let it to hover a few inches above the commander's head. There was a faint grayish glow that radiated from the demon's palm. When the glow dissipated, Diablo moved his hand elsewhere, sweeping for other injuries. He ran his hand down over the man's face, then neck and collar. The arms were next. Diablo paused over Squall's right wrist. The glow came again, resetting and mending small bones. Diablo moved on to the torso, pausing once more to heal what Dannis assumed were cracked ribs.

When Diablo reached Squall's abdomen, the demon gave a start. Wings bristling, he let off a low hiss. Dannis gripped his sword tight and edged closer, fearing that the demon would turn on the commander any second. He thought to summon his own GF, but it would be like attacking someone with a drawn bow. The arrow would let loose anyway. Diablo's claws were inches from any number of vital points on the commander's body. A stupid move on his part might get the man killed.

Diablo pressed his hand against the commander's stomach, touching the area as he growled. There was no healing glow. His head tilted curiously, an action that would have been comical if not for the unsettling way red eyes narrowed. Hand brushing against Squall's black fatigues, Diablo extended a single claw and sliced through the shirt like it was butter.

From his place a few feet away, Dannis saw the commander's mysterious scar exposed. The demon had taken an interest in it, not unlike himself.

Suddenly, Diablo's eyes glowed brighter, widening. The demon leaned in close, black snout sniffing along the commander's stomach.

Dannis thought the creature might be preparing to eat the commander. “Get back!” He took a step closer, unwilling to just stand and watch.

“Squall!” Irvine shouted from a distance.

Dannis' kept his eyes focused on the demon and the commander. He could hear the approaching party. Though he hated to admit it, Kinneas would be better able to deal with Diablo. A bullet was quicker than a blade.

Before Dannis even called out to signal Kinneas closer, a gun fired. “Watch it!” he yelled. The bullet had flown by at a range too close to his shoulder for comfort. He didn't trust the gunman's aim.

Diablo didn't even flinch at the warning shot.

Irvine sprinted closer, panting heavily. Taking aim again, he sent another shot at the demon.

This time, Diablo balked. Throwing his head into the air, he jumped back, narrowly avoiding the bullet. Edging away, he began to pace back and forth while emitting a feral growl.

Dannis took the opportunity to approach the commander. He used a phoenix down to revive the man.

Dazed blue-grey eyes opened slowly. Fixing on Dannis, Squall's eyes gained awareness. Sitting up abruptly, he looked about until spotting Diablo. Becoming rigid, he remained seated on the damp ground and stared at the demon. Diablo had ceased pacing and locked eyes with the commander.

A series of shots rang out loudly. Irvine targeted the demon with a vengeance.

Diablo escaped into the air, screeching his curses at the gunman.

Squall tilted his head back and watched Diablo disappear. The demon had fulfilled his request. Letting Diablo go free was a small price to pay.

Irvine jogged closer, his eyes scouring the sky. Falling at Squall's side, he threw his arms around the troublesome commander. “What's wrong with you?” he hissed in reprimand.

Understanding where the gunman's anger came from, Squall accepted the scolding. He set a hand at the man's shoulder, complacent in the embrace.

Irvine interpreted the commander's silence as a sign of well-being. Setting the brunet at arm's length, he scowled. “Next to Quistis, you're supposed to be the smart one.”

Squall gave a faint shrug.

Seeing the commander's nonchalant response, Dannis felt heated embarrassment at how worried he had been. He glowered, hating that he was now indebted to the pretty-boy. “I didn't need your help,” he muttered sullenly. It was shaming to have someone go to such lengths to save him.

Amusement filled stormy blue eyes. Squall suppressed his laughter. He would expect such an indignant remark from Seifer. The ex-knight would have hated him for playing the part of the rescuer.

“What is this?” Irvine murmured, reaching out and wiping the blood off Squall's brow. He fretted like a mother hen, refusing to allow the commander to stand up until he had checked every inch of the man's body.

In the end, Squall grew weary and cast an unnecessary healing spell on himself. He gave the gunman a look that said, “Happy now?”

Irvine wasn't happy, but he was satisfied that Squall would live. Taking the swordsman's arm, he kept Squall at his side.

Dannis retrieved the commander's gunblade, and they set off towards camp. Squall couldn't keep from scanning the sky every so often, hoping for a glimpse of a black winged creature. Dannis wasn't the only one who felt indebted.

Lore was surprised when Seifer led him to the door in the back of the equipment room.

The equipment room nearest the arena's main battleground was full of a variety of weapons. Other equipment rooms had more specific items. Boxing equipment was near the boxing ring, guns and bows near the shooting range.

In this room, swords and quarterstaffs were mounted on the walls. The staffs and wooden practice swords had free access, but the real swords and other bladed weapons were locked behind a bulletproof casing. There were more weapons than Lore could name. He recognized the katals that Kiros used. There were throwing knives, maces, spears, and what looked like Frisbees with razor edges.

Normally, Lore would select a staff and head out to the arena. This time, Seifer bypassed the quarterstaffs and motioned for him to follow.

There was a large steel door at the end of the room. It had a spin wheel in the center and a lock panel. Lore had always it assumed it was a safe for the more expensive and/or dangerous weapons.

“The gunblades are in here,” Seifer explained. He keyed in the pass code and turned the wheel like a ship's captain.

“Are you serious!?” Lore exclaimed, unable to contain his excitement. If the ex-knight were showing him the gunblades, then it could only mean one thing.

“Don't piss your pants,” Seifer muttered.

There was a loud clicking noise. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges. Bright fluorescent lights flickered on as soon as the door opened all the way.

Lore's jaw dropped as he followed the ex-knight through the door. The backroom was larger than the outer room. Gunblades lined the steel walls to his right and left. Farther back, there were locked cases like safety deposit boxes, and he knew they held more gunblades.

His father owned six or seven blades, five of which the man never used because they were from the war. He had never seen so many gunblades at once. More than that, he hadn't known there were so many different kinds. It was as though the ex-knight had gathered every last gunblade on earth and stored them here.

“What can you bench?” Seifer asked, his eyes scanning the walls as he searched for a model the boy could handle.

“One-fifty easily. One-eighty if I try,” Lore responded.

Seifer nodded approvingly. “How much do you know about gunblades?” He would have assumed the kid knew everything considering it was Leonhart's weapon of choice, but he also would have assumed the boy had practiced with a blade before. Being wrong on the second account, he realized he couldn't assume anything about Lore.

“Not much,” Lore admitted, almost ashamedly. “I know they're like swords. There are two handed and single handed. They're also like guns. Automatics, semis, revolvers, and different calibers.”

“That's something then,” Seifer commented.

Lore couldn't help but grin at the sound of approval in the Seifer's voice. He turned away before the ex-knight could see his expression.

Seifer strode to the wall on the left side of the room. After passing several columns, his eyes expertly able to distinguish each gunblade and mark its specific features, he made a selection. He handled the weapon with care and turned it over in his hands while examining its handle and weight. He explained, “There's no law that says you have to stick with the same model, but you generally want to pick what's best for you.”

Pausing, Seifer glanced up from the weapon in his hands and locked eyes with the dark haired boy. He continued, “Your dad and I both use a heavier blade. It suits me just fine because I can wield it with one hand. Most people need to use two hands.” After another short pause, he stated, “Leonhart is an exception when it comes to choosing a blade that is physically compatible. He's small. Normally, someone his size couldn't even handle a single handed blade with two hands.”

Lore's pride swelled.

When Seifer saw that blue-green eyes were wide with reverent awe, he added, “He's stubborn and foolish.” With a sardonic expression, he explained, “If you think he's fast when he fights, then you should know that he could be twice as fast if he opted for a lighter blade.” He never understood Leonhart's choice in gunblades, but the man's abilities never seemed to suffer for it.

Clearing his throat, Lore clarified, “What you're saying is that my dad is still faster than you using a weapon just as heavy as yours?” A gloating smirk lit his youthful features.

“And his hits are weaker than hell,” Seifer rejoined.

The model Seifer held was similar to Hyperion. Hyperion had been his pride and glory during the war, and was currently stashed away in his apartment. Though he thought the kid might prefer a Revolver model like the ones Leonhart favored, he felt certain that Lore would excel with a model closer to his own.

Not feeling his usual inclination for insults, Seifer stayed on task. “You won't be firing the gun anytime soon, so it's mostly about the blade itself.”

“Is that a two handed one?” Lore asked, eyeing the weapon in the ex-knight's hands.

With a grumble of confirmation, Seifer offered the gunblade out.

Hesitant, Lore looked into jade-green eyes for confirmation that he could touch it. Seifer gave him a small nod. He stepped closer and gingerly wrapped his hand around the handle. His hand molded perfectly against the smooth curves and finger grooves. It was like slipping on a fitted glove. Wrapping his other hand around his first, he lifted the blade. It was heavy.

Seifer reached out and grabbed the sheath. The cover gave a low hiss as it slid from polished metal. The boy tensed at the sight of the gleaming silver blade. “Not all two handed blades are the same weight. You can go heavier or lighter.” Seeing the uncertainty in the boy's eyes, he added, “You have to get a feel for it. Learn the basics with all of them first.”

Lore nodded. The blade itself was roughly three feet long, an additional six inches extending from the gun's hilt. The width wasn't more than a foot at its widest section.

Seifer slipped the sheath back into place. Returning to the same wall, he lifted the gunblade mounted above the empty space where he had taken the other one. Slinging it over his shoulder, he made for the door.

“Let's go,” Seifer called over his shoulder. “It's time for you to become a man.” With a dark chuckle, he hinted at his earlier insinuation that the kid was a virgin.

Though Lore glared at the blond, he followed excitedly.

Lore was attentive to every word of Seifer's instructions. As their session progressed, there was a notable absence of taunting and snide comments. One of the first rules Seifer had explained was that he couldn't lose his temper until he knew what he was doing. A clumsy swing driven by anger was likely to hurt himself more than an opponent. The man refrained from behaving like a jerk in order to let him concentrate. Later, he would realize that it was the first considerate act he had ever witnessed in the ex-knight.

Having been there since one o'clock, it was nearly midnight when Seifer called an end to their session. Lore had done little more than practice stances and swings. They hadn't actually sparred, but Lore had enjoyed their time so much that he had to consciously keep from grinning. His anxiety over using an actual blade had disappeared. He had been confident that even if he messed up, the ex-knight was watching too closely to let anything happen.

As they walked back to the equipment room, Seifer asked a question that had been nagging him for the past week. “Why aren't you enrolled in Garden?” The kid definitely had the gift for the gunblade. The boy's swings were controlled and accurate, something that took months of training to achieve.

Lore appeared surprised at the notion. “Why would I be?”

Seifer gave the kid a reproving frown. “You don't take something this seriously unless you're interesting in taking it further. It's obvious you want to be a fighter.”

“No,” Lore refuted. “I'm not a fighter.”

Roguish features darkened with confusion. Seifer continued to frown as he studied the boy's innocently relaxed expression. “Bullshit,” he said.

A mixture of confusion and surprise entered blue-green eyes.

Seifer saw that there was also doubt in those eyes. “You wouldn't be here if you weren't a fighter.”

“I'm not SeeD,” Lore insisted. His firm tone masked his uncertainty. He had always held a secret desire to follow in his father's footsteps, but it was impossible. Becoming a mercenary would place him in his father's shadow, and there was no chance of measuring up. There was too much expectation involved. His father had never encouraged him to enroll in Garden, and he had never raised the subject. He was meant for a common life. College came after high school, not covert missions in remote parts of the world. His greatest aspiration was to play soccer on a college team.

“Why not?” Seifer pressed. “Why aren't you SeeD?” It was a waste, and he didn't like it.

Becoming flustered, Lore didn't know why the ex-knight was pushing the topic. “Because, I can't. I'm not my dad.”

Speaking strictly as Leonhart's rival, not a lover, Seifer declared, “No shit. If you were a carbon copy of Leonhart, I wouldn't suggest enrolling. The world doesn't need another candy-ass hero.”

Lore was too surprised to defend his father. He stared, bewildered eyes unable tell if Seifer were serious.

“You can't tell me there's anything you're more interested in.”

“Soccer,” Lore stated.

Seifer's eyes took on a sharper edge. Even if it were a lie, it was insulting to imply that a sport was more important than fighting. “Soccer?” he queried in a disdainful tone. “Then why are you here instead of at practice?”

Lore appeared abashed. Seifer had cut straight through, striking a nerve.

“We're done,” Seifer said, a note of finality suggesting that it wasn't just for the day.

“What?” Lore intoned. “What do you mean? Done for good?”

“Yes,” Seifer confirmed. “I'm not wasting my time teaching you if you're just going to end up kicking a ball around a soccer field.”

“Then why did you teach me this whole time?” Lore lost his grasp on his earlier excitement. The experience of holding a gunblade turned sour.

“I thought you planned on being a cadet,” Seifer said. It was the truth. “Fuck it if you're not using it for something. I get why Leonhart never showed you how to use a gunblade. If you're not going to take it as far as you can go, you don't deserve to touch one.”

Eyes narrowing, Lore proposed, “What if I did become SeeD?”

“Then we could keep going,” Seifer reasoned. “But I'll be damned if I let some punk touch a real weapon when he's half-assed about it.” Seeing turmoil in the kid's eyes, he added, “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” It was an ultimatum, but he felt justified in giving it. He wouldn't have been so invested in teaching Lore if he thought all his lessons would go to waste.

Lore's heart sank as Seifer walked away. Glaring, he resented both the ex-knight and himself. He hadn't realized how eager he had become to learn from the man. Someone like the ex-knight could never understand how he felt. He could practice using the gunblade as a hobby, but if he specialized in the weapon and became a mercenary, he would constantly be compared to his father.

Lore couldn't stop brooding over what Seifer had said to him. He retreated to the presidential palace, seeking his grandfather's company.

At breakfast the next morning, Lore asked his grandfather's advice. They sat together at a small table in the president's private quarters. “Do you think it's weird that I never tried to enroll in Garden?”

Laguna gave his grandson a wide-eyed look of innocence. “Yes, it's a little strange,” he answered bluntly.

Taken aback, Lore stared in surprise. “What? You never said so before.”

Laguna shrugged. “You never asked me before.”

Groaning, Lore's shoulders slouched in defeat. “Seifer won't let me learn how to use a gunblade unless I decide to be a fighter.”

“Seifer?” Laguna remarked with surprise.

Nodding morosely, Lore explained, “He was training me, until he got pissed for no reason and told me not to come back unless I decided to dedicate my entire life to fighting.”

Laguna hummed knowingly. “I see,” he murmured. A warm expression tugged his lips into a smile. He hadn't expected the ex-knight to comply with his meddlesome request.

“You don't agree with him, do you?”

Humming again, Laguna nodded. “It's a serious thing. You don't just wake up one morning and decide to take up the gunblade. You won't find any trainer who would consider putting in their time and effort to train someone that wasn't dedicated.”

“I am dedicated,” Lore refuted. “But that doesn't mean I don't have other priorities.”

“I think your father would agree with Seifer,” Laguna admonished, drawing a rueful look from the boy. “It's a way of life, not a sport.”

It was then that Lore realized he had been treating his training as though it were soccer practice. His father's skill with the gunblade could not be trivialized like that. “Something like that…” he began, not knowing what he wanted to say. Frowning, he gave his grandfather a pleading look. “Does it have to be all or nothing? I want to learn how to fight, but I don't belong in Garden.”

Bewildered, Laguna returned, “What do you mean you don't belong?” He had never heard such a false statement. By breed alone, his grandson was built to be a fighter.

“Dad doesn't want me to,” Lore said.

“He doesn't?” Laguna gave his grandson a penetrating look.

Fidgeting, Lore revised, “He never said I should. If he thought it was a good idea, wouldn't he have said so?”

“Your dad is wary of putting ideas in your head. He's not going to encourage you to do something unless he sees that it's something you want to do. Have you ever asked him about enrolling?”

Lore shook his head. He had just assumed his father would reject the idea. “He wouldn't want that for me,” he concluded. “He wouldn't want me living in his shadow.”

Hazel-green eyes sharpened. “Squall's not a coward,” Laguna stated. “He certainly wouldn't have a coward's reason for advising his son.”

Lore felt the sting of his grandfather's words. It was a harsh reprimand. “You mean I'm a coward?”

Expression softening, Laguna reached out and tousled raven lock. “No,” he assured. “I'm saying that it would be cowardly if you didn't try something just because you thought you'd have a tough time.”

Lore swallowed thickly, not at all comforted by his grandfather's assurance. In that moment, he realized the true nature of all his excuses. There was fear and self-pity, and a tiny amount of resentment towards his father.

“I gotta go,” Lore said, slipping from his seat.

“You just got here. I didn't see you last night when you came in,” Laguna protested.

“Sorry.”

“Where are you going?”

Lore already had his cell phone out. Over his shoulder, he answered, “I have to see Seifer.”

Pleased and dismayed at the same time, Laguna watched his grandson rush off.

Squall hadn't anticipated earning Dannis' favor. Given the young man's reaction after their second T-Rex encounter, he had expected to receive twice as many glares as usual. It came as a surprise when Dannis turned over a new leaf. The boy followed at his heels, parodying the gunman. The friction between Dannis and Irvine heightened as a result.

Dannis feigned ignorance to his past contempt. Somehow, he was the same recalcitrant cadet, but it was clear that he had come to accept the commander as his superior.

Squall didn't prefer this change to the stony glares and borderline insubordination, but he wasn't complaining. Unfortunately, Irvine's overbearing protectiveness had cycled back to day one. Squall was lucky if he had two minutes alone. Dannis wasn't the sole cause for Irvine's close watch. His reckless behavior in unjunctioning Diablo had reinforced the notion that he needed to be guarded.

There was something else in the gunman's behavior that had changed since the incident with Diablo. Squall perceived a strange sharpness was in the gunman's eyes. At times, when Irvine watched him, it was as though the man were searching for something.

The team found the new dynamic highly amusing. New bets were placed on whether Irvine would kill Dannis before they reached the beach.

A heavy rain delayed their progress by a day, but it brought cooler temperatures. Squall's nausea passed, and his final few mornings were pleasanter for it.

When the sea was all they could smell in the air, they knew the mission would be over by morning. They spent one last night together.

Dannis speculated on future missions, automatically assuming he would accompany the commander on all sorts of adventures.

When asked directly about his next mission, Squall didn't answer. He didn't know what the future held. The island was surprisingly tame and would serve as a viable docking point. No extermination would be needed, which meant plans for the new garden facility could launch immediately. He imagined that he would be back doing paperwork and strategic planning.

Torn on his prospects for future excursions, Squall felt the rift grow between two halves inside him. It was a deep gulf, both sides running to the very core of his being. All his life he had been a fighter, but sixteen years ago he had also become a father. There was a free spirited joy he felt while fielding missions, but there was also a hollow ach that reminded him that something was missing. Homesickness set in at the start of every mission.

By the morning of his thirty-ninth day on the island, he longed to see his son again. There was Seifer too. His chest tightened when he thought of the arrogant ex-knight and his body yearned for the man. Cold dunks in the streams had done little to abate the heat that gathered inside him.

Even as he opened his eyes to a dawn light, his first thoughts were of Lore and Seifer. Sleep had come sparingly, and he suspected his thoughts had been centered on home the entire night, causing him to toss restlessly.

As they tore down their camp for the last time, Squall couldn't keep his thoughts inline. Everything kept coming back to Seifer, Lore, and Laguna. It was with a frown of confusion that he realized his thoughts strayed predominantly towards Seifer. He didn't understand how the man had become a vital part of his life back home.

When he thought of Seifer, there was still the same unyielding attraction. Nothing had changed in the past few weeks.

The closer the team trooped to the beach, the more Squall's thoughts fell away into daydreams. Without the pressing need to concentrate, his fighter half stepped back and allowed for an undeveloped side to push forward. The side that demanded attention was not the father, but a new side.

“No,” Squall thought. “Not new.” Simply undeveloped and unheard, until now. The feelings it evoked were murky and heavy, a sort of convolution of deep running waters that he couldn't identify or understand. They were the feelings he attributed to Seifer, everything he felt for his childhood rival.

Stormy blue eyes widened in dawning understanding.

A fighter, a father, and now a lover. Cheeks tinged a faint shade of red, Squall cast a cautious glance around, almost afraid that his thoughts could be read by the others. No one noticed his brief lapse. Turning ahead again, his step faltered for a moment. Piercing violet-blue eyes were watching him again.

Giving the gunman an icy look, he buried his thoughts deeper inside his head and refocused on the mission at hand.

They reached the beach by mid-morning. There was nothing else to do except wait for their ride. Though no one was breaking out bottles of Champaign, the mission was essentially over. It was anti-climactic, but there was a collective sigh of relief.

Squall had denied the men permission to go swimming. He eyed the bluffs a quarter mile down the beach, knowing they meant troubled water and an untested riptide. The men had settled on building sandcastles and collecting driftwood to spell out vulgar slang words. It was the sort of childlike mischief and enthusiasm that told Squall his team was in high spirits.

While the others were occupied, even Dannis, Irvine drew Squall aside. They moved behind a row of sand dunes, out of earshot.

Squall waited for the gunman to speak. The calculation and keen attentiveness in the man's regard over the past week had worn at his patience.

Irvine tipped his hat back and inclined his head to the blue sky. Piles of white, anvil shaped clouds lined the horizon at sea, but it was a spotless sky above. Taking a deep breath of salty air, he released it on a heavy sigh. Dropping his gaze to meet the commander's stormy blue eyes, he asked, “Is there something strange going on with you?”

Quirking a brow at the question, Squall studied the gunman. There was worry in the man's expression. It aged the pretty boy gunman's face, putting crows' feet where there had been none. He answered with a shake of his head.

“No morning sickness?” Irvine pressed.

Eyes widening, Squall made no effort to hide his surprise. “Morning sickness?” he repeated, finding it to be a curious choice of words. There was a hidden agenda in violet-blue eyes, but he didn't know what it was. He shook his head again and said, “It's cooled down.”

“You still think it was the heat?”

Truly perplexed, Squall remarked, “What else?”

When Irvine dropped his gaze, his eyes disappeared behind the shadow of his hat. There was a long, drawn out minute of contemplation.

Squall remained silent, using the time to gather his emotions and set an indifferent mask in place. A silent alarm went off in the back of his head, telling him the gunman was working up the nerve to say something troublesome.

Seeming to have his thoughts in order, Irvine met Squall's eyes again. “Are you pregnant?” he asked, his deadpan tone painfully forced.

The question didn't sink in immediately. Squall's already impassive expression became even more relaxed. His eyes didn't widen or narrow, but they held wonder. He was too shocked to speak.

“It was morning sickness, wasn't it?”

Hearing the term used again, Squall finally reacted. He blushed at the implication. Before he could refute the trigger-happy cowboy, Irvine continued.

“Diablo did something. I saw it when I caught up with you. Dannis told me more.”

“He healed me,” Squall said, struggling to make the simple statement. Though he had been unconscious, he had been apprised of the missing details during the walk back to camp.

“Not just that,” Irvine said. “He had his head against your stomach. Dannis said something surprised Diablo. That there was something of interest about your scar.”

A wave of trepidation washed over Squall. “Why wasn't I told of this?”

Irvine looked away. “If you knew, would you be able to concentrate on the mission?”

Squall felt a surge of cold anger, but it passed quickly. Irvine's eyes were honest. It had been an executive decision, and the right one. Even in his current state of shock, he understood that much. It was impossible that he was pregnant, but he wouldn't rest easy until he saw Dr. Odine. Such a concern would have weighed heavily on his mind, distracting him at critical moments.

“I'm not…” Squall trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. “I'm not,” he declared after a moment, turning his unfinished sentence into a statement. He couldn't bring himself to say the word “pregnant”. It had become a vulgar word to him, no better than the curses some of the men were trying to spell out in the sand. He had heard it spoken with contempt and disgust by too many people.

“You can't know for sure,” Irvine returned.

Studying the fear and concern that filled the gunman's eyes, Squall sighed. “I do know,” he reaffirmed.

Voice strained with concealed panic, Irvine argued, “You don't know. Even Odine doesn't know for sure. What if it's Seifer? What if it can happen again because of him?”

There was a flicker of uncertainty in Squall's eyes. Seeing this, Irvine's fears were confirmed.

“You can't know for certain,” Irvine reiterated.

Squall knew that there was no convincing the gunman. “Not a word,” he said, his stern tone making it an order.

Scoffing, Irvine muttered, “Yeah, because the first thing I want to do is broadcast this to the world.”

Squall gave the gunman a sharp look. It was a look that said, “You know what I mean.”

Holding his hands up, Irvine conceded, “Mums the word. Just promise me that the first thing you'll do is see Odine.”

Squall nodded.

TBC…

Author's note: 0_o

Craziness. Everywhere is craziness. I love that a story can take so many unexpected turns, ending up in better places than I ever planned.

I don't want to give anything away, but it's hard to say nothing when I know how different everyone feels about the whole male pregnancy aspect. For those of you who are turned away by the thought of reading about a nine month pregnant Squall, don't worry. And just for the record, I always intended to come back around and give a little more focus to Squall's pregnancy (there are outstanding issues that Seifer has only gotten hints of). I know some reviewers were getting impatient and upset that I seemed to have left it behind completely (like when I changed the story summary).

On a happy note, I got a beta reader! I've never had my stories beta read before, so yay! Thank you Takayu! I'll be reposting this chapter once it's been polished by Takayu.

Thank you all for the reviews on the last chapter. I look forward to what you have to say about this one.