Complete Me, Miserable
Chapter Four: Out of Desire
THE DISTANT ROAR of a T-Rexaur shook the darkening afternoon; several cadets shuddered visibly, and darted in to huddle together behind Instructor Glasgow. The steel-eyed man chuckled grimly, not bothering with any reassurance. His weapon was a punjab, a length of ironwood bladed on either end with something like an elongated war axe; the steel flashed in the dimming light as he idly whirled the weapon over his head.
�Don�t worry, children,� he rasped, grinning wolfishly. �We�ll be sticking to the outer levels today. Wouldn�t want to feed the damn things, not on such tender meet.� And with that, he strode into the final airlock, not looking back to see if they would follow.
Squall stared after him, eyes blank, fingering the hilt of his gunblade. He�d begun this exercise near the center of the group, but as he hadn�t scattered at the roar with the rest of them, he was now isolated. Seifer stood alone as well; he�d positioned himself proudly near the Instructor, and had followed him to the airlock immediately. Now he toe-tapped idly at the entrance, waiting for the steel-eyed man to cycle through.
Squall rolled his eyes. Seifer was always one to be first. Not because he believed in his own ability. No, the blond worshipped a far more insidious god: appearance. He wanted the fame and renown that went with the appearance of nobility. It didn�t matter to him if the reality of it was somehow left along the way.
�Hey, Squall,� Zell murmured, edging over to stand nearer his roommate. Squall shrugged in reply, keeping his eyes down, wondering why Zell was with him and not Seifer. It was obvious where the martial artist would prefer to be. �You feeling better?� the shorter blond continued, lips barely moving as though he was trying to speak without anyone else finding out.
�Whatever,� Squall said after a long moment of staring at his boots. They needed polishing. But then, he wore leather because it acted as a kind of flexible body armor, protecting his skin without hampering his movements. So it didn�t need to be pretty to do its job. Just like him.
Zell stared at his lowered head for a moment, peering close as though to read Squall�s thoughts. Then he sighed. He scuffed his shoe at the dirt. He sighed again. He ran one gloved hand through his hair, bared fingertips catching at the silky strands. He sighed one more time.
�Zell, shut up,� Squall said in his usual monotone.
�Sorry,� Zell muttered, hunching his shoulders resentfully. The airlock cycled, and Seifer stepped inside, proudly ushering in Fujin and Raijin; the instructor had only gone on alone to make sure that no cadets were slaughtered upon first exiting the lock. This was unlikely, but had happened at least once or twice. Enough to make the faculty cautious.
Zell was staring longingly at the closed door. Squall shifted his feet, sighed, and spoke. �You should go with him.�
�What?!� Zell exclaimed, jumping back and clutching at his chest. Squall puffed out a breath, ruffling his bangs, to show his annoyance. Zell giggled, and relaxed into a more normal posture. �No, seriously, what do you mean?�
�Seifer,� Squall said boredly, looking off into the trees with the vague hope that a T-Rexaur might have broken free. But no such luck.
�You know I can�t,� Zell said sadly. His shoulders slumped, and he stuffed his hands into oversized pockets. �I want to . . .�
�This is stupid,� Squall stated bluntly. �You want each other.�
�Yeah, but what can I do about it?!� Zell cried, throwing up his hands.
Squall just stared at him.
�Oh no you don�t,� Zell growled. �No running out of words just when we�re getting to the good stuff!�
Just then the airlock chimed.
�Whatever,� Squall said, striding through the crowding students with ease; now that Seifer and his posse had gone through, everyone rushed to be the next in, but Squall had little trouble finding a place to stand. The Lion of Balamb already had something of a reputation. Well, enough so that he was given a generous three feet of space on all sides, as though he might leap upon anyone venturing nearer and tear out their heart with his teeth.
Just because he had occasional fantasies of doing just that didn�t make the fear and loathing justified. Or painless.
The other cadets were chattering softly, waiting for the All�s Clear chime; beneath their noise he heard the sudden dull slap of blade rending flesh. His head came up, a hunter scenting prey. Then the blade missed, clanging on a metal strut or another blade, the sound loud enough to silence the others. A hush fell over the small crowd. A scream sounded dimly through the reinforced plascrete.
Squall cocked his head, curious. The only four beyond the airlock were the least likely of anyone in Balamb to shriek when injured. Himself excluded, of course, but that was due more to a natural inclination to silence than any great ability to endure pain.
�What�s going on?� Zell murmured, slithering through the statue-still cadets to stand next to Squall once more. Squall hushed him with a wave of his gloved hand; the other gripped the hilt of his gunblade.
The door slid open on chaos.
Instructor Glasgow was dead, his broken body huddled at the feet of an eerily silent T-Rexaur; Fujin knelt beside the door, and she glared them back into the relative safety of the airlock with one eye gouting blood. Squall was pushed back out of sight as the cadets shuffled in an ebbing tide; one younger girl screamed, and the T-Rexaur�s massive head came up.
It spotted them, and roared.
The roar of a T-Rexaur accomplishes three things: it announces one beast�s claim upon a kill. It warns off any other predators. And it sends its prey into a screaming panic.
One boy lunged for the emergency close bar; he was knocked aside by several others attempting to hide in what was essentially a small, bare room. Rather like a T-Rexaur lunch box, really. In the confusion, Squall slipped forward through the crowd, breaking free just as the door slid shut again on a resounding clang.
Now he could see what was going on, and it awed him; Raijin was hanging back, obviously waiting for a clear shot at their instructor, while Seifer held the beast off. And he was actually holding it off. Hyperion was blacked with blood, and slung scarlet streamers through the dust-choked air as Seifer leapt for the throat of the beast again and again.
Squall left him to it, turning his emotionless glare to Fujin. She glared back at him, her red eye as menacing under approaching unconsciousness as it ever managed. Squall nearly smiled.
�I have three Cures,� he said flatly, nearly yelling to be heard above the noise. Fujin�s uninjured eye narrowed; from anyone else, that would have been a lunge for his throat.
�SAVE,� she ground out, nodding to Seifer. The tall blonde was covered in blood, and Squall realized that she was right: some of it was probably his own. Squall gave her another look, attempting to convey his admiration, before circling warily to stand next to Raijin, Lionheart�s wicked length held defensively before him.
�Squall!� Raijin panted, barely glancing at him before turning back to stare at Seifer�s battle. �We have to get to Inspector Glasgow, ya know?�
�Phoenix Down,� Squall said quietly, absorbed in the flow of Hyperion through flesh.
�I don�t have one, ya know? Do you?� Raijin asked; he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he spoke, obviously wanting to join in the fight. Only an order from Seifer could have kept him back in relative safety. Squall could almost wish for someone who would listen to him so faithfully.
He nodded his head in response to Raijin�s question, eyes fastened on the action before him. Seifer feinted in, ducked a fang the length of his femur, and drew a line of blood across the snarling maw. Squall shifted his grip on Lionheart, and he leaned forward eagerly. The T-Rexaur bellowed again, shifting its weight in a dust-raising dance.
Seifer had stepped back, probably to regain his breath, and Squall started, head coming up again as his attention focused entirely on the battle, blocking our Raijin like so much white noise. Time seemed to slow. Squall recognized that shift of the hind legs, and could only watch in horror as the beast stepped back into a move reminiscent almost of a ballet. Even Raijin went silent, as it�s great tail came about, howling through the muggy air, headed right for Seifer�s head.
He ducked, of course.
Squall�s heart began to beat again, and he left Raijin�s relieved chatter behind, creeping around the clearing to the fallen instructor. Of course Seifer could take care of himself. He didn�t know why he�d ever doubted that.
The fight continued as a distinct distraction at the edges of his vision; he catfooted through the tall sawgrass at the edge of the clearing, once again praising himself for his choice of leather uniform. Zell�s calves would already have been ripped to ribbons. Beneath the noise of the battle, his own small rustlings went completely unnoticed, as did the approach of anything else. But no one ever really expected to encounter another, lesser carnivore at the edge of a T-rexaur feast. Not this soon after a kill, anyway.
He got to within three feet of Instructor Glasgow�s body before he noticed it.
The body had streaked the clearing in a single broad stripe of blood, which had pooled in small depressions and soaked the sandy soil. The chest had been broken open, ribs splintered like so many matchsticks, gleaming white among crushed and lacerated organs. Both legs were broken, bone jutting from flesh at thigh and knee and one ankle. One arm was missing.
A Raldo had it, and was gnawing restlessly at the ball joint.
Squall blinked, let the roar of the wounded T-rexaur wash over him, steadied his gunblade. The Raldo was eating his instructor.
He wasn�t sure of proper Phoenix Down application procedure in such a situation. They hadn�t thought to cover this in class.
Time was slow, like someone had cast a spell over the world; he stalked forward on shaky legs, gunblade held low before him in position #3, horizontal defensive block. The Raldo was oblivious, or uncaring. A shred of flesh dropped to the sand.
The T-rexaur roared, screaming with pain, and Squall lunged forward; his gunblade kicked up sparks in the sand, coming down in a smooth arc as he leapt over his instructor�s body. The gunblade connected. The Raldo screamed, a horrible shrill shriek, and dropped the arm to lumber back. It was bleeding, a thick ochre ooze, and he hounded it back into the trees, drawing stars and spirals in the stone-like carapace.
He only stopped when the trees were too close for him to swing his gunblade effectively. The wounded Raldo was mewling, hopefully drawing any other predators that might be lurking about. The Raldo was dragging itself into the cover of the underbrush when he resolutely turned his back on the creature and walked calmly away.
Something shook the earth.
He staggered but didn�t go down, steadied himself with an outflung arm and ignored the impact, dashing quickly to Glasgow�s side as the ground stilled beneath him. He fell to his knees in the sandy earth, aware that he was kneeling in blood but unconcerned as he dropped his gunblade and rifled through his stores.
Phoenix Down.
He had only the one. If this didn�t work, or if someone else went down today, they were screwed.
Nothing else for it. He drew out the feather, letting the gentle glow drift down to join the instructor�s chest.
For a moment nothing happened.
A column of light shot straight into the sky, and drifted down a singing trio of glittering feathers that bathed the scattered flesh and bone in the same unearthly radiance. He caught just the edges of it, feeling a sense of peace wash over him as he scrabbled away, trying to save the full potency for Glasgow. He stopped several feet away, outside the circle of light.
He could hear the subtle sounds of flesh and bone knitting together, weaving sinews in a wet, sick series of sounds like chewing. And over this was the peculiar music of the Phoenix Down, and over all the clatter and stomp of Seifer�s battle. He was glad. The other sounds gave him something else to concentrate on. He felt sick. Aroused.
The light bled away, and Squall stared at the still form before him; Glasgow was whole, and breathing, but just barely. Blood still stained the sand, and Squall realized with something like despair that their Instructor wouldn�t be able to just leap to his feet and lead their battle against the T-rexaur. Glasgow was down, and would be for some time.
Squall cast a Cure on the man, enough to steady his breathing, and settled his gloved hand at Lionheart�s hilt once more.
�Seifer!� he heard Raijin scream, and he fought down a brief agony of indecision and left Glasgow writhing weakly in the sand. Seifer was in trouble. And that meant they were all in trouble. Fuck if, a T-Rex . . .
Seifer was down, holding together the pieces of his thigh, the blood beginning to pool beneath him; Squall faltered, breath rasping, and darted aside to approach from an angle, still staring at Seifer�s upturned, grimacing face. The T-rexaur was moving, its roar echoing through the Training Center, but Seifer smiled. He fucking smiled.
Then the T-rexaur was lunging forward and Squall flung himself between them, ignoring Seifer�s shouted warning, Lionheart swinging up to spark off flashing teeth. Solid impact, and the beast screamed, lurching to the side, and Squall stumbled back far enough to cast his second to last Cure on Seifer. The T-rexaur recovered with a stumbling run, its massive head darting down and Squall ran forward, heart pounding in his chest, his blood singing in his head, Lionheart held down and to the side and as he reached striking distance he brought the gun blade up and around, steel smashing through flesh and bone, shattering fangs and bursting through one eye, the T-rexaur�s screams almost distant as he pulled the trigger with the blade deep in the creature�s brainpan. He wrenched himself free to slice in from above, the shock of impact traveling up to his shoulders, forearms corded from the strength of his grip, teeth bared as he fired again and again and it was all so far away. And there was only the singing of his blood, and it was over, and the wind was hot on his face as he fell back and circled the beast half-warily, everything else forgotten.
The T-rexaur made a sound like a wail, stepping forward only to stumble back, and Squall matched its every step, eyes intent, until it sighed and seemed to buckle, flopping gracelessly to the dirt with a resounding thud, tail whipping up to fall again, the whole thing almost comical and then it was dead.
It was very quiet.
He stood there for a time, staring blankly at the ravaged face as the T-rexaur began to fade to dust.
It was always over so quickly.
Then the others were yelling, and the other students had gotten in and someone was casting spell after spell on Instructor Glasgow and Seifer, and he just stood there. All of the noise and panic far away. Lionheart dripped blood to the dust. The T-rexaur�s body wavered, shifted as though something were missing internally, and sank into the earth, its bones falling to ash that would blow away on some wind long before Squall returned.
It seemed wrong, somehow.
�Squall!�
He shivered, stepped back, and turned to face Zell; the blond was wearing a confused expression of joy and terror, his face dead white with two hectic spots of color in his cheeks. He looked feverish, really. Squall groaned internally, letting Lionheart�s tip fall to rest on the ground, pushing sweat-damp hair out of his eyes. Zell stopped before him, panting lightly.
�Squall, I . . . Thank you,� he whispered, uncommonly serious, his eyes very bright. And Squall knew what Zell was thanking him for, knew it with every bitter depth of his heart. But he shrugged. Tossed his head. Sheathed Lionheart though the blade was still gummy with blood.
�Welcome,� he murmured, forcing a tiny grimace that passed for a smile, and stepped forward, ignoring Zell�s pleading gaze, just walking past him and showing nothing of what he felt.
Nothing at all.
It was almost worse that getting rid of Seifer hadn�t even occurred to him.
HE STEPPED INTO the communal shower, toiletries clutched in his arms, towel already around his waist. Most of the shower heads were being used, and so steam billowed throughout the cavernous room. Vague, distant laughter echoed from the shower room, ricocheting almost eerily off the tiles.
Another long day, he mused as he stepped further into the room. And it wasn�t even over yet. There was still his nightly confrontation with Seifer to get out of the way.
Maybe the older boy would be tired . . .
Yeah, right.
The boys in the shower were mostly younger cadets, though there were a few in his year. None of his training partners from the night before were there; most boys his age didn�t shower twice a day, or more, depending upon mood. He settled his things on a bench near the far left, padding barefoot across the plascrete flooring with his shampoo held before him like an offering.
Squall took the showerhead nearest the end of the row, of course, trusting in distance from the others and the thickness of the steam to prevent detection of his . . . wounds. If they were discovered . . .
Not something he liked to think about.
He turned the spigot cautiously, not thinking about the disastrous training session, or Seifer�s smirking thanks, or Zell�s pathetically grateful eyes. Thinking about none of it. The water came out freezing, as always; he let it beat against his chest, stiffening his nipples, until it warmed, and then stepped entirely under the spray. Perhaps he was obsessive about bathing, but the world disappeared when he was blinded and deafened by the cascading water.
He was usually ignored; that was simply the way of things. He rarely paid them attention. Not that he was busy thinking. No, rather the opposite. He was busy not thinking. And so the breaks in the laughter and chatter didn�t register in his silent oblivion.
Squall continued his usual bathing ritual: shampoo, then conditioner, then soap, then body wash just for the smell. While he was engaged in lathering his hair, the younglings were padding to benches and retreating to their dorms. While he was conditioning, and then rinsing, the few older students were arguing amongst themselves. While he was lost in the smell of his childhood, they were closing in for the kill.
His first warning was a body blow that flung him into the wall; he bounced, spattering blood on the tile where his lip split. He hit the floor hard, blinking soap out of his eyes as he rolled instinctively to the side. He was hit by a Silence, and the spell tumbled him away from his corner, bathing his vocal cords in fire and paralytic pain. It almost didn�t matter. He�d never been in the habit of calling for help.
�We�ll have lots of fun with mister snowman . . .� A high voice sang the broken lyric, giggling between phrases. A shiver ran down his spine. �Till the other kiddies come around . . .�
Footsteps approached his fallen form, soft beneath the water-spray.
�We�ll make you scream,� one of them whispered tenderly into his ear. �You�ll scream. Only there won�t be anyone to hear you.�
He felt a smile curl his lips even through the pain.
They obviously hadn�t done their research. He�d never been known for loud expressions of emotion.
�More to the point,� the boy continued. �We�ll make you bleed.�
Squall shook his head sharply to clear it, jerking against the punishing grip that held him immobile, large, water-slick hands crushing at his elbows and biceps. Of all the times this could have happened . . .
A foot caught his ribs, flinging him back against their hold and he used the momentum from the blow to tear free, losing skin to a ragged fingernail, struggling into a crouch and then to his feet, backing away from the closing pack. There were five of them: two in his class, one a year behind, and two who would graduate this year if not the next. The oldest was Lars Kinnington. The others, Squall didn�t know.
They fanned out to surround him, a pack of wolves in their hunger, naked and dripping and erect. The blonde and the red-head were grinning foolishly. The others merely glared. Squall set his aching shoulders, readying himself, bracing his bare feet on the slick tile. His showerhead still rattled a steady roar. The loudmouth lunged.
He sidestepped, ducked a blow, spun between two seventh-years and into the open. A hand caught at his ankle, his heel skidded on the tile, and he fell into a painful roll. A second hand appeared before his face as he came to his knees; he grabbed the arm at elbow and wrist, and slammed the forearm against his knee as he gained his feet.
The boy screamed.
A flying tackle smashed him into a wall head-first; lights burst behind his eyes. Hard fingers scrabbled at his slickened skin, sliding over wet muscle down his back and sides.
He squirmed, lashed out with an elbow and felt cartilage snap. Another scream, his head slammed into tile. Blood spattered into pooling water. His head was pulled back again; he got an arm beneath him, flung himself backward to tumble down the other cadets. He fell from their arms to the floor, and rolled smoothly to his feet.
They gathered themselves, one dripping blood, another on his knees in the corner holding the pieces of his arm. None of them were still hard.
The Silence burned in his throat.
Shiva screamed to him from behind glass.
His lips pulled into a snarl, and he charged into them before anyone else could act.
This of course was how he always fought: speed, strength, shake off the pain and drive ahead like a fucking tank.
There is no pain in this world.
His shoulder in a taut stomach, ribs snapping beneath the blow. Elbow to his temple, lights flaring again and one asshole screaming, �Don�t ruin his face!�
Squall felt his back hit the wall; he looked down for a moment, seeing his friends in stark relief against his cream-pale thighs, red stripes on white. He smiled to himself, a bitter, momentary flicker. He didn�t feel anything. Let them come.
The Faculty came first, of course.
Squall was never sure afterward how they�d found out, if a younger cadet had overheard the plan and gone for help, if there were some sort of monitoring system in the showers, if there were a spell cast solely to alert them of danger. However they knew, the cloaked figures poured into the steam-clouded room just as a seventh-year started forward.
His attackers froze, the broken one sinking to the tile to cradle his arm. Squall felt his shoulders relax marginally; only then did the pain in head and ribs send his world swimming. He staggered, and steadied himself against the wall as the Faculty members rounded up the boys in eerie silence. The broken one was sobbing faintly. He watched them leave, shackled arm in arm, with absolute unconcern masking his features.
Blood ran down his neck, streaked his chest near one pink nipple, dripped to the floor. The sound was lost in the rattle of his showerhead. One of the Faculty approached him.
�We will need a report of this attack for our records, cadet,� the figure said, genderless, tall, hooded and hidden withal.
�I don�t care to press charges,� Squall said, his voice icing over as Shiva clawed through the Sleep spell. Her power surged into his voice, steadied his limbs, stole away the pain. �It doesn�t matter.�
�They will be expelled,� the figure went on to explain, its voice as dead as Squall�s own. �We need the reason on record.�
�Tomorrow?� he asked. The world was far and dim, and he steady as stone against the wall.
The Faculty member paused; in anything else the words might have been compassion. �Report to Dr. Kadowaki before classes. Have her determine your physical status and take down your statement.�
Squall stared at the mask for a moment. He swayed.
�That will be all, cadet,� the figure said, voice monotone. �Return to your dorm.�
�Understood,� he said, waiting until the figure turned away before allowing himself to move. He didn�t entirely trust the retreating form, feeling a prickle of foreboding run down his spine as the tall figure glade off through the curtaining mist. Something unnatural lay there . . .
A spike of pain lanced through his skull, to the very center. He staggered again, and went to one knee, a hand flying to his temple. The pain faded slowly, and he stayed down until he could breath again, panting shallow breaths against a stomach that threatened to rebel. His ribs felt like they were trying to crush his lungs. His arm was shaking. He cast a Cure, his last, let it burn through him. He was shaking.
When he knocked on Zell�s door, intruded on their . . . whatever to mock Zell�s choice in music, it was out of some misguided craving for human company. He felt . . . unmoored. As though he were unraveling with every second that passed, with each naked step down the empty halls. Vulnerable. Zell and Seifer were something . . . solid. Familiar. He could talk to them for just a moment, less than a minute, let the familiar pain roll through him and feel even again. Like everything was back to normal.
He left them discussing band names, slipped back into his rooms and fell onto his bed. He curled loosely around his drawn-up knees, still fully dressed, his hair wet against the pillow. He didn�t care. Wasn�t sure he ever wanted to be naked again. Why would they . . . Why? He was shaking. Zell�s music blasted dimly through the wall, covering the sounds of their fucking. Tonight Squall was glad. Wasn�t sure if he could bear to hear, to be reminded. He�d never . . . He wasn�t even sure if he wanted that anymore.
It was better not to think. Shiva held him close, her lover�s embrace as sexless as the snow, gathering him in and shielding him from the hurt. He shuddered, drew his coat tighter about himself, burying his nose in the fur collar. Even below the music he could hear them. Even . . . He shifted the pillow over his head, not remembering Zell�s gratitude or the feeling of steel ripping through bone, not thinking about Seifer laid out on the sand with his thigh gashed to the bone. Fujin had lost her eye. He�d nearly been raped in the showers. But he didn�t think on it, wouldn�t whisper the thought. Seifer had Zell to hold him, even if neither would call it that. Squall had . . .
Squall let Shiva pull him closer, blocking out the thought, not even feeling the cold anymore as she lured him into sleep.
A/N Title taken from Jeff Buckley�s �Last Goodbye�.