The War of Words

Disclaimer: FFVIII does not belong to me. It and its character's are property of SquareEnix and this is purely written for my own enjoyment. Thanks!

Prologue: When Life's Not Real

"And you should know that the lies won't hide your flaws

No sense in hiding all of yours

You gave up on your dreams along the way"

Fake It, Seether

He was so good at faking things these days. He ought to be, seeing as that was how he handled nearly everything. Seifer could look at what was pathetically referred to as his "life" and safely say that it was complete bullshit. Simply moments of existence that passed between drinks and cigarettes. Some hellhole of an apartment over an old fishing shop, where the light sometimes passed through grimy windows and made him squint. Usually even it didn't bother to intrude upon his bleak existence.

Ash fell from the tip the cigarette that he held loosely between his fingertips. Seifer could taste the bitterness of smoke vaguely in the back of his throat and see the wispy tendrils of it curling up to the rafters of the old shack. He shifted his feet, scarred black boots sliding over old wooden floors, and pushed himself to lie back on the narrow cot he slept on. Perhaps passed out upon, would be a better way to put it.

The weary gaze of green drifted over the beams and boards of the ceiling above. Slivers of light danced through, painting a fenestration of lines across his face. When it rained they let in the damp and cold, but he supposed for the price, he couldn't really complain.

The cigarette was limp in his fingers now and burnt down to the quick. Seifer gave it a forceful flick, sending it sailing easily through the stale air of the room. It bounced off the windowsill and rolled to a stop, rocking precariously before stilling. He eyed it and licked his lips, reclaiming the taste of nicotine on his tongue.

Outside that same window he could hear voices. Nothing distinct, just the chatter of regular people passing another day in their meaningless lives. Some days he would drag his tired body from the bed and join them, doing pointless odd jobs to keep gil in his pockets. He may have been disenchanted, but he wasn't bent on letting himself die yet. So he survived, just barely some would say.

Outside the sun rose higher in the sky, and the light shifted, gleaming against the metal blade of Hyperion from where it was leaning against a wall in the corner. Seifer's gaze was drawn to it, caressing, like an old lover. It was the one constant reminder of his old life, of his tremendous fuck up of a past. Some days he was tempted to hurl it in the ocean and pretend to forget. Those moments never lasted long.

He clenched and unclenched his hands, gazing at the callused palms. They weren't weak, even now. Seifer may not have many chances to wield his weapon again, but he was too vain to let his body go to hell from inactivity. Stubbornly he held onto that one piece of himself, though most of his old self-confidence had long since been trampled. He was good at faking it. His body was still toned, his muscles well disciplined. Now it was the work of physical labor that had them bunching beneath his clothing. He'd claimed a tan as well, something which had come and gone during his time at Balamb Garden; depending on whether the days were spent in classrooms or not.

The floor gave a hearty creak as he pushed himself to his feet. Reaching for his pack of smokes and a lighter low on fuel Seifer stuffed them into the back pocket of a pair of faded jeans. The white shirt he wore had seen better days, stained with grease and paint. It was tight across his chest and shoulders and he shrugged slightly, figuring he'd need a new one pretty soon. His blonde hair had grown longer, curling just slightly at the edges in an irritating way that reminded him he needed a trim. He brushed a hand across the stubble on his jaw, even though he'd shaved that morning, and made his way down the narrow staircase behind the rickety building.

It was an unseasonably warm day and he raised a hand over his eyes to ward against the glare of the sun. People milled around, paying him no mind. It wasn't that they didn't see him, or know who he was, they just pretended not to. Seemed a lot of people were good at being false, in some way or another. Of course, the people in the little town of Fisherman's Horizon didn't really concern themselves much with the outside world.

At first Seifer had been irritated to find himself here. To be honest he'd been much more suited to the life of a mercenary that that of a simple fisherman. And he was a lousy fisherman at that. In all honesty it had been his old posse, Fujin and Raijin, who had first convinced him to come here. He'd had no hope of being let back into Garden, despite being pardoned of his crimes, and he wasn't exactly welcome in other parts of the world with his reputation. Of course, Fu and Rai weren't here anymore. They'd since returned to Garden, seeing as they didn't really have anything much to do with the real bad shit that went down. They'd hesitated, but he'd pushed them to go, and it hadn't been that hard.

They'd visit him often, and he'd act like everything was just grand, though he was sure Fujin saw right through that. Raijin on the other hand, had the tendency to be a bit thick, and taking his friend at face value, happily professed how glad he was things were doing "good". Seifer smiled slightly as he made his way along the narrow road, not considering a destination. Maybe one day… maybe one day he could stop lying and things really would be good.

But probably not…