All For One

by Luna Manar

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I

Don't Be Afraid

--

"Maybe this world is a broken mirror,

reality in reverse.

Maybe it's just a shadow

of a parallel universe…"

--

            It was cold and it was wet. Dark, sweaty dampness, nighttime in the underground nation of the world's mightiest nightmare.

            Galbarira. The lone survivor. A champion in a world of tragedies. Home of the rich, the poor. Home to everyone. Even those who despised it.

            Home to the Pride. Home to the Prey.

            There she is.

            Eyes trained on the Prey, sized her up, judged her. She was pretty, young, endowed. She wore a dress. There was a man with her. Not tall, not impressive. Her spouse, perhaps? The eyes narrowed, cold and crystalline in the shadow. The man was no threat. Not to the Pride. And she…she was perfect for them.

            The watching blue blinked once, twice, and backed further into the alley. The decision was made. It would be done. He motioned quickly to his next-in-line, who brought up by his side in an instant.

            "Go," was all he said to him. "Make it quick."

            The shadow of his cohort vanished into the blackness, and footsteps could be heard here and there. The Pride's leader, satisfied that his job here was done, turned and melted into the darkness, oblivious to the sudden screams and shouts that lingered behind him.

            Like beasts, they were his monsters. His allies. But he had to keep them fed, had to keep them hungry. Else, they would turn on him. It was the way of things. He led them. He did most of the killing. He let them do their dirty work on the women. That was not his concern. His only responsibility was to find the Prey. Let the beasts have their sex hunts as they would. The Pride's leader did not care.

            If it made them happy, so be it. It meant survival for another day.

            The Pride was possibly the strongest of its kind, the greatest faction in the alleys. No other faction was stronger, smarter, or healthier. The other factions brought down the weak, the sickly. The Pride took the big game—the wealthy, but not too rich—and they flourished. They held up residence in the basement of an abandoned building that had caved in on itself, but their abode was comfortable. They lived as brothers, working together, preying together.

            He was just their superior.

            He lived on his duty. There was no other job for him. Seek out the Prey. Let the Pride bring them down. Make the final kill when they were done—if it was necessary. It generally wasn't.

            But he enjoyed his job. Killing was far more artful, far less atrocious than rape. No, that was a practice for the shallow, who could not control their own petty desires. It was sick and it was a game he did not play. He preferred killing. Swift kills, savage kills, torturous kills. He knew them all, knew how to kill in every method, knew how to make his prey suffer or how to put them down painlessly. It was his business. As long as there was blood on his hands, he was in good times. It was a living.

            He walked away from this hunt, however; the girl he had chosen for them was very frail-looking, and she was small. He doubted she would survive all of them. There was no need for his presence.

            A simple curtain acted as door to their home, and he ducked through it and the 4-foot-tall hole in the wall it covered. There was no light inside. He needed none. He knew the place well enough. Three steps inside, and he turned right, ducked again through another flap that protected his room from the outside.

            In total darkness, he found his bed of hung blankets and an old mattress, and laid down. It had been a tiring night. Three kills, one victim who escaped. The Pride had been unusually voracious today. 

            He turned onto his side. He supposed it did not matter. As long as they came to the den satisfied, there was no problem. Animals. So easy to placate. He closed his eyes, brushed copper-brown hair out of his face and removed his gloves.

Ice blue gaze hidden beneath heavy lids, he slept.

*

He ate and drank the Prey's blood for breakfast—their blood was silver. Coin silver, hard and cold, the embodiment of survival for he and his Pride. They preyed only on the silver-bloods; lesser factions took the copper-bloods, or sometimes even the cold-blooded, who had no money at all. But the Pride knew better than to prey on the gold-blooded: those who reigned within the Law, the bread that the factions broke for a living. It was dangerous to kill a gold-blood. Gold-bloods attracted attention. Any who killed them would be hunted down and arrested, taken to prisons where they would be systematically tortured and killed in far worse fashions than they had ever inflicted on their own victims.

The factions were merciful compared to the Government. They did their work in private, did not humiliate their victims in front of the public. Most of those who lived in the factions, had a family history with the Government, histories of unspeakable things that had been done to them by the Government, things that had made them come to the factions seeking refuge.

He straightened the dark brown jacket he always donned before going out—an old, but functional thing, lined at the collar by a white mane of animal fur, that which had earned him the title of Lion, and his faction that of Pride. No one inside his family—the Pride—called him Lion, however; he disliked the name. Only those from the outside called him that. He didn't care. Let others name him what they wished. It only mattered that his brothers called him by his true name.

"Squall, yer up early."

He half-turned as he was adjusting his belt—he adjusted everything before he went out—to eye his next-in-line impassively. The quip was typical of the man, and not to be taken too seriously. He didn't answer.

The man pressed the one-sided conversation. "It's still light out. Where y'think yer goin'? A single's bar?" Raucous laughter echoed in the den from dozens of throats.

The Lion finished straightening his white shirt, then turned and backhanded the joker with a vengeful paw, sending the offending jaw reeling and the body into a pile of bent hubcaps. To his credit, the next-in-line, one by the name of Seymour, kept his balance and steadied himself, wiping at his bleeding lip with a rueful leer in the Pride leader's general direction. The den had suddenly gone quiet.

The Lion only scowled back with a dangerous intent, a shadow of his hair gracing his forehead, making him seem that much more menacing in the gas-lamp lighting of his underground home. "Better fix that cut before you bleed on somebody," he rumbled tonelessly, a dark sound, like backdraft from an all-consuming fire. Without further comment, he turned and left the den, bound for a destination that it was only his business to know.

*

The Lion wasn't particularly tall or stocky, hefty or lithe, handsome or ugly. He appeared typical enough to most people; a credit to his ability to roam about on the evening public streets without being noticed as an outsider. He kept himself relatively clean, scentless, and presentable; all things that most faction leaders scorned. It served his purposes. People were not afraid of him when he walked down the street, for he seemed as though he was one of them. Perhaps a little rougher than most, but still acceptable by any public standard.

He was indeed strong, healthy, about two inches shy of six feet. He was solid and well-muscled, pleasant to look at if one had an appreciation for his kind of appearance. His expression was preoccupied, his gait honest, attitude polite and even courteous. He even had "friends" in this world of relative light; no one could have guessed that he was in fact a predator whose face would be the last thing that some of them would ever see.

It didn't bother him. Everyone had to die sometime. Even he would, he knew, and someone would replace him as leader of the Pride. He was a known master of killing in his territory. Death was his god. He lived by its creed. It protected him as much as it threatened him. It was the only real law, the only real truth.

He ignored children who raced past him in play, gave the pretty women he passed not a glance. Like any predator, there were times where he would live amongst his own quarry without the notion of killing, for it was not the foremost thing on his mind, and unimportant to his current goal. He needed a few things: oil for the gas lamps; clean drinking water for the Pride; a new bedding pad would be nice.

He spent the money as his own, bought the items he and his Pride required, and bid the shopkeeper farewell and good night. The odd thing about it was that his business was honest. The money, he considered to be his own by right of spoils. He honestly hoped each shopkeeper had a good night, although should he meet them in the darkness, he would have no second thoughts about their doom. Such incidents had happened before. Those particular killings were unpleasant for him, but he weathered it, considering it a cost of duty.

How he wished he could have dealt with such unpleasantness tonight.

As night finally blackened the burnt-out cities, the familiar howls and shouts of hunter and victim cried out through the alleys, the Lion and his harmless burden on their solemn way back to the responsibilities of the den, an unusual laughter reached his ears. Well, not all that unusual, but it was a sound that forecast danger in any case. The Lion resolved to move quickly, remain unseen until he had reached the relative safety of the den.

The Galleon. The only other faction that rivaled the Pride in size and ferocity. They were different from the Pride, though, mortal enemies; the Galleon were arrogant demons of the alleys, pack-runners, wild dogs that laughed and howled their presence to the city when they made a kill. Very unlike the Pride, who went about their business covertly. In some ways, they were more feared than any other faction. The Pride, while just as deadly as the Galleon if not more, did not generally keep their prey alive after it was caught. Victims were systematically brought down, raped, then slaughtered and robbed of all belongings. The Pride did not leave messes. It destroyed the useless bodies.

The Galleon was different. Even larger than the Pride, if not as well disciplined, the Galleon left remnants of their kills lying about. They kept their prey alive as long as they could still torture them, and then well-ripped the poor creatures apart when they were done. Their laughter inspired fear in all who heard it. Their leader—the Lion's only equal in power—was a heartless, intelligent brute that called himself Sailor. He led the Galleon's loud, disorganized hunts, and participated in the fun once prey was caught.

Squall hated him.

The Lion despised Sailor far more than he despised the Government. Sailor was worse than the Government. Sailor had been in charge of the Galleon since the day the Lion had joined the factions, ten years ago. Both he and Sailor had been fourteen at the time, although Sailor had already been living in the factions for well over five years. At the time, the Pride did not exist. Nor had the Lion. He had been a member of the Galleon, with no title. Just Squall as his identity.

Squall had run with the pack for four years. He'd become next-in-line to Sailor himself, and had frequently challenged Sailor for leadership of the Galleon. He didn't like Sailor. He'd never liked Sailor. Sailor was bigger than Squall, half a head taller and broader. Squall's fights with him had always been futile. He'd never beat Sailor, and never gained leadership of the Galleon.

But Squall left the Galleon, suffered as an outcast, alone in the alleys. He'd been a "lone wolf"; cast out and doomed to die on his own. It was assumed he'd either starve to death or be killed by one of the factions.

But he had changed during that time. He'd ceased to be a dog of the Galleon, and had grown, through starvation and misery and loneliness and fear, into his own one-man faction. He'd killed a gold-blood, and never been found. Not even the Galleon had found him for two years after that slaying, although he had continued to kill and plunder. The next time he was seen, he'd been stalking in an alley, reportedly with blood on his lips and a jacket with a white lion-fur collar on his back. Since then, he had become known as the Lion. He'd remained as this silent killer for three years.

When he finally returned to the open again, he was no longer alone. He had confronted Sailor again that night, in the deepest catacombs of the alleyways. He'd been weathered, hardened by that time.

And as the Galleon had closed in on him for the kill, the Pride had risen up behind him, appeared from the shadows and corners, trapping the whole of Sailor's faction in a narrow corridor that would allow no escape.

Where the Lion had found his Pride, no one was certain. But though the Galleon outnumbered them two to one, the Pride were efficient predators, far more skilled than the dogs under Sailor's reign. They'd each been taught or chosen by the Lion himself, proven their worth to him as fighters and hunters. Hence the war that ensued was devastating, moreso to the Galleon than the Pride. The Pride, then 20-strong, had lost 3 members; the Galleon lost 30.

The Lion himself had taken Sailor, though the end result of the fight had been a stalemate. His faction drawn and quartered, Sailor escaped the fray with the twelve survivors of the battle, and the Pride had staked its claim on the south alleys.

The Galleon was back, and larger and stronger than ever, but they were still disorganized and impetuous, and the Pride ruled a larger territory. Still, even the Lion knew better than to wander about the area alone when the Galleon's cries could be heard. There were nearly forty in the Pride, over fifty in the Galleon, but the balance of power remained in the Pride's favor. The Galleon was ruthless about their territory; anyone not a member of the Galleon who was found in their alleys was fair game. The Pride were more lenient about such things; smaller factions were allowed to hunt or, sometimes, take up residence, in designated sections of the Pride's territory. However, if other factions broke those boundaries, the Pride was merciless in its retribution.

And such was Squall's reaction when he found three of the Galleon's dogs harassing a young woman not too far from the Pride's home.

His decision was immediate, his movements were swift and deadly. The things he had bought were set down on the pavement; he stepped into the shadow of a wall; came to within a few feet behind the first intruder; and soundlessly snatched the man back into the darkness, breaking his neck in a instant. The other two had only a chance to see the Lion before he'd maneuvered behind them as well, dispatching one as he had the first, the last with a knife to the small of the back; the Lion heard his victim cry out, then tore upward with the single blade, a movement he'd practiced countless times, cleaving the spine in two halves lengthwise.

All three men lay on the ground dead. There was little blood, even from the man whose back had been sliced open. The Lion sheathed his unsoiled weapon into his belt, and turned to stare at the girl who now cowered in a corner between a dumpster and the alley wall.

She seemed unharmed. A pretty girl, probably silver-blood, Squall guessed. What she was doing here was anyone's guess. But though she shied away from him as he approached her, she did not appear particularly afraid.

He stopped, feet away from her, considering. She was in his territory. By all rights, she belonged to the Pride, now. There was nowhere for her to run. He did not rape people. He should kill her now and be done with it.

Still, there was the matter of the Galleon dogs being within the Pride's alleys…

"You wanna live?" It was a simple question, one he figured she wouldn't answer.

She surprised him again when she did. "Last time I checked," she murmured, voice shaking, but clear—and utterly disdainful.

He sneered at her snide remark—who was this girl to speak to him in such a manner? And curious, that she seemed to have no fear of him at all. He leaned closer to her, such that she backed herself more tightly into the corner to avoid touching him. "You know where you are," he growled quietly. "You're better off dead than you were with them. Take the hint."

He backed off, watched her for a split moment, then turned, picked up his groceries and started off toward his den. He listened as he walked. Nothing, nothing, nothing—gravel.

He stopped, and listened to the footsteps stop behind him. So she was no longer in the corner. His free hand fingered the knife at his belt.

"I was wondering," he heard her call from behind him, "if you knew how I could get out of here…I got chased in here by those thugs."

His shoulders heaved slightly, a brief sigh. "I'm not that much different, lady. Hurry up and get lost, or I'll kill you, too." He said it with honest nonchalance. "You don't belong here."

"I know that! And I don't think you'll kill me," she retorted. "You just saved me."

His lip curled. He didn't have time for this. "I killed them because I didn't like them. Now get out," he advised, "before I start disliking you."

"If I try to get out," came the immediate argument, "someone else is going to catch me. They'll have their fun with me and then they'll kill me. If you're trying to scare me away, it's not going to work. I'd rather die. You seem pretty good at killing, anyway. At least I know it'll be over quickly. So I guess I don't have much to be afraid of."

The Lion had been about to turn and kill her as he'd warned. He'd been ready to send the knife through her eye and be rid of her bothersome banter. But something stopped him. This talk, this logic coming from the girl…it sounded like something he might have said, himself. Curious, he thought. She was no fool. She knew her situation. She also knew better than to flee in blind panic. But what else could be done with her? Give her to the Pride? No. Their hunt was over for this week; the Lion's rule was that one night each week, the hunt would be on, and even then, he himself would not participate except in the killing.

She was intelligent, this girl. She deserved a say—whether or not that would affect his decision was questionable, but it could help him.

"If I were to try to kill you now, what would you do?"

"I doubt I could do anything," she spat back. "Like I said—I'd rather die than be screwed over."

"Do you have somewhere to go?"

This caused her pause, as if she hadn't expected him to ask. "…No," she said finally. She didn't elaborate. Nor did she need to.

Again, he put his bought items down, and approached her. She watched him with understandable wariness as he slowly circled her, scrutinizing her from all angles. She was a few inches shorter than him, slim but strong-looking. Her hair was jet-black, though in the darkness, the Lion's sensitive eyes, trained by years of living in the night, could see a slight change of shade near her bangs, which were colored some dark hue—red, violet, blue perhaps. The lighter color, however, was natural, possibly a reddish tinge or caramel streak that was often seen in women of her appearance: narrow, black eyes, a rounded face and pale skin.

He finished circling her, and stood in front of her again. She stared at him expectantly, seeming to understand the decision he was making: he was no savior of hers. His considerations were not for her health, but for his own. He could decide to give her to the Pride—his faction—he could let her go on her own, or he could kill her. She was an item. In this place, she belonged to him, now. He could see she understood that. If she feared it, she did not show it.

Just as well. Fear had no use in her situation.

"You're part of the faction that lives here," she observed. "Those men weren't in your faction, were they? That's the real reason you killed them."

"That's right," he answered simply, and continued to evaluate her. He was becoming more and more interested with her by the moment. She was calculating, observing him in return, his actions and reactions, drawing conclusions from what she saw and heard.

He was considering not killing her.

But letting her go or giving her to the Pride would mean the same outcome. Rape and death. That seemed a waste in this case. He reached out and took her firmly by the chin, turning her head to either side, speaking as he did so. "You want someplace to stay?"

She waited until he was through looking at her, had released her face, to answer. "Will I be safe?"

"I can't promise you'll be safe."

"Will I be killed?"

"No."

"If I said I didn't need your hospitality?"

"Then I kill you." He nodded once, offering her the option: "Either you come with me, or you die now. Just tell me what it's gonna be." It wasn't a threat, or even a warning—it was simply a choice that he presented her. Her decision would determine his next action. If she chose to die, he would kill her and move on, and his conscience would not bother him; it would have been her choice. If she chose to go with him, he would have more thinking to do, but there would be no waste—of that, he would be certain.

"Then…" She hesitated, made herself finish. "I choose to die."

Something in him fell; he'd been half-hoping she wouldn't make that choice. It would have made his life interesting for a few days, at least. But little came of it, and he drew his blade, stepping toward her again. She backed away out of instinct—again understandably—but he caught her by the wrist and slid around her, so that he was holding her prone from behind. She was frozen in his grip. Her eyes closed. She prepared for death.

This was yet again interesting to him. He was used to a struggle. Curiosity tugged at him. If given the option, how would she wish to die? He had time on his hands to experiment, and so offered the choice: "Fast, or slow?" His knife was at her back.

"Ah…" Her eyes opened again, as she visibly fought back her fear, shaking and forcing hard breaths. "As long as it doesn't hurt, I, I think…"

"Death always hurts," said the Lion, gravely.

She was quiet, for a moment he allowed her. Her breathing calmed a little. "Then…through the heart. How's that? Not too slow, or fast…best and worst of both worlds."

Funny. Also something he would have chosen. The tip of his knife pressed against her back.

Again she closed her eyes. Then she did something very strange. She did not struggle, but instead her one free hand reached up to grab hold of his restraining arm across her throat. She clutched his arm tightly, and bowed her head.

"Let go of me," he told her.

She sounded suddenly afraid. "I don't want to die alone. You'll kill me, and then you'll leave me. I'd rather you stayed."

This made little sense to him.

His confused silence apparently amused her. "What, you've never killed someone and they held onto you while they were dying? Where do you think the term 'death-grip' came from?"

Interesting questions. He couldn't recall. He supposed it didn't matter. This discussion was becoming pointless. He pressed the blade into her back, felt the flesh give way to the steel. The moment the pain registered in her mind, her hold on his arm tightened. He stopped. "Let go of me," he instructed her again.

Her answer was quiet, shaky. "I…I can't. I don't know if I can make myself."

His eyes narrowed. Her reactions interested him more and more. "You want the company of your killer?"

"…Who else do I have?" Pain was creeping into her voice. The knife in her back remained still.

The Lion felt blood trickle over his fingers. The sensation excited him, made his muscles ache to finish the job, thrust the knife into her and let her blood paint his hands while she struggled with her last breaths. Somehow, he found it hard to believe he would find much satisfaction in killing this girl, though. He found her interesting. He wanted to know what she would say next. She answered his questions. Perhaps he should ask more until his curiosity had been appeased. "You feel death?" He lightly pressed the blade a hairsbreadth deeper into her back.

"W-what do you mean?"

"This knife," the Lion rumbled softly, barely tilting the blade as he spoke of it. "You know what it's for. You know what it means. But you're not running, or fighting. You're not paralyzed with fear, either. You ask me to kill you rather than let yourself become prey for the factions." Further he pressed the blade, until it brought a sharp intake of breath from her. But his movements were careful, even gentle. He made certain the knife slid in smoothly, so that she would feel as little pain as possible. He drove deeper, but stopped short of piercing her heart. "You say you don't want to die alone. You'd rather have your killer here with you. So here I am. What do you want?"

Another surprise. He had expected her to tell him she wanted the pain to stop, she wanted him to get it over with, or to let her go. Any of these answers would have earned her the final push on the knife that would send it through her heart. Her answer, instead, saved her life. "I want t-…to know, who you are."

"Why?"

"B, because…" She was fighting to stay calm. "I don't understand. You're giving me a…a, a choice, and…I didn't think…that people in the, the factions…that they were like you. I thought…I thought they were more like those thugs you k…killed. You…you must be…interested in me, otherwise…you would have already killed me. You're…you're a killer, but…you don't want to kill me, I, I don't, think." It began to rain. First softly, then harder. Cold settled in the alley. Time settled with it.

The Lion closed his own eyes. She was a little off. He did want to kill her. He was high off the idea of killing her, wanted to feel her blood flow over his skin. But he didn't want her fear. He didn't want her to struggle or scream. None of these things charmed him as they normally did. He noticed his own quiet, slightly heavy breathing.

"You're a killer," she repeated, "but somehow…I think you're okay." He heard her swallow thickly. "You're not evil, it's just…your nature."

He could not take any more. With a grunt, he pulled the knife from her back, and let go of her, watched as she fell to the damp ground. His hands were stained with her blood, but it was being washed away by the cold rain. Both people were drenched.

His desire for the kill was stronger now than ever. He could see her bleeding, felt the rain washing away the warmth on his hands, and wanted more. He needed the warmth back. He wanted to stab his dagger into the soft flesh of a human body again, and again, until there was no life left to drain.

But he could not do that to this girl. He'd had the choice of killing her or letting her live. He'd chosen to allow her life. So he put away the knife, still stained with her blood, and crouched next to her trembling body. She was crying, silently.

She had said she wanted to know who he was. That implied she wanted to live; what was the purpose of knowledge if not to live with it and use it? What would she do if she learned to understand the factions? There were no women in the factions. But this girl was unique. She impressed him. The prey, fascinated by the predator, but not afraid? And he was fascinated by her.

He leaned closer. She was speaking. "If…if you want me…I'll go with you. But only you. I'll die before you give me to your faction."

She was terrified. Not of anything in particular, he noticed, but simply for herself. There was no way she could guess what he would do to her, or if he "wanted" her as she had implied. He did want her, but right now, at least, the interest was not purely sexual. He wanted to study her. He wanted to know if it was possible: could he have found the first (perhaps only) woman to be worthy of the Pride? And if so, how would she be part of it? She could not join their hunts.

But the idea fascinated him. Could she survive in the Pride? She had said herself she had nowhere else to go. Perhaps this was her only chance at survival. The prey living amongst the predators. What a paradox!

And, best of all, he vowed, if she did not prove to be worthy, he would kill her, and this time he would give her no choice. He would take it slowly, immerse himself in her blood, and it would, he knew, be the most satisfying kill he would ever make.

There was no thunder. Only cold and wet. Squall scooped up the crying girl, and went about his business.

*

The looks he received upon carrying a girl into the den (along with the usual groceries) were nothing short of incredulous. Dripping with rainwater, he ignored them, dropped the goods off by the door, and continued on his way to his room. The den itself was poorly lit with oil lamps, and once the Lion had pushed the flap to his room out of the way, he was assaulted by darkness. He maneuvered blind, accurately enough, depositing the bleeding, trembling girl upon his stack of cushions and padding that served as his bed. He reached up to a wall shelf, snatching a scrap of matches from the edge, and quickly lit the nearest oil lamp on the same shelf. He shook the match out, turned around to find this next-in-line standing in his doorway, staring at him like a drunken frog.

Squall's look darkened, and he slung rainwater from his eyes. He did not like his privacy being so boldly infringed upon. "Problem?" Was his only word.

"Not exactly," Seymour sniffed, still gawking. "Just makin' sure you know what you brought home with ya. Looks like some girl took a likin' to ya."

"Not likely," Squall muttered absently, already half-ignoring Seymour's commentary. Discarding his jacket, he tossed it carelessly over the girl, who had now quieted and appeared to be in the drifts of exhausted sleep. "I just tried to kill her. You got a stick on you?"

"Just so happens." Fumbling in his pocket for a moment, Seymour produced the requested cigarette, tossed it across the room. Squall caught it deftly, used the flame of the oil lamp to light it, and warmed his chilled body with a breath of smoke. He sat down on the edge of his "bed," seemingly oblivious to the girl who lay behind him.

He motioned for Seymour to come in. "Sit down somewhere," he said, waving his cigarette at the general circumference of the small room.

Seymour did so, snatching a pillow from the corner and tossing it to the cement floor, then lowering himself down to sit. Seymour was a stocky fellow, dark-skinned, and heavyset without being overweight. Thick-boned and brutish, he fairly outweighed Squall. But he hadn't Squall's killer instinct, or his love for blood. It was well known that the Lion's bloodthirstiness and deadly skill were enough to keep him in command; he lived up to the reputation. Pride members were not exempt from the Lion's jaws if they misbehaved or got in his way. Seymour knew this as well as anyone; he was the closest thing Squall had to a "friend." Now he eyed Squall wryly, before proffering his hand to the sleeping girl. "So, Lionel, you got the hots f'this one or what?"

Squall took another drag, betraying a humorless, open-mouthed smile that was almost a laugh. He shook his head slightly. "You wouldn't believe me if I explained it to you."

"Oh, yeah?" Seymour lit himself one, leaned back on one hand. "Try me."

It seemed at first that the Pride leader had not heard him, and Seymour was about to repeat himself when he got a disappointing answer. "Nah…nah, leave it alone. I don't feel like explaining myself."

"Eh, suit yerself." The next-in-line blew smoke in Squall's face. "I'm tellin' you though, that's a damn bad idea if I ever saw it. You gonna get questions, and soon enough you gonna have to answer 'em. She yours?"

"Maybe. If she is, it's not your business, so keep out of it."

"Just askin'."

The two sat some more, not saying anything.

Seymour noticed the girl was bleeding. "You weren't kiddin' 'bout tryin' to kill 'er, were ya?"

"No."

"Seems that's not all there is to it, or she'd be dead 's roadkill."

"She asked me to kill her."

Seymour's eyebrows shot up. "Say 'gin?"

"I came up on a couple of dogs. Killed them all, but she was still there. I figured it'd be stupid to let her go, and stupid to give her to the Pride, so I was gonna pop 'er off, figured I'd get it over with." Squall was relaxing a little. "Gave her the choice of coming here or letting me kill her. She asked me to kill her."

"Get yer head outta yer ass!"

"I'm serious."

"You didn't, though. I can see, she's still breathin'."

"Told me if I wanted her, she'd go with me, so long as I didn't give her to you losers."

"That's a rough one, Leo. You ain't much of a romantic."

"I thought it was a fair deal."

"I may not be psychic," Seymour was laughing, "but I can tell ya when you are lyin' out yer dick. Be honest," he prompted. "Tell me why she's here."

"You're not touching her."

"Did I say anything about that? Come on, Leo."

"Quit calling me that." Squall smashed the used-up butt on the floor, smothering it. "If I tell you, you're gonna keep your damn mouth shut."

"All ears, no teeth. What's up?"

The Pride leader sighed, clasping his hands together and staring at the floor in thought. "I wasn't lying before, but…there's something about this girl. She's not an idiot, for one thing. Another, she's got a pretty good sense of where she is…and she wants to 'understand' me."

The cackling laughter this brought about nearly made Seymour drop his cigarette. "Understand you?! Damn, man, you got yerself a shrink, there?"

"You don't get it," Squall spat, suddenly angry. His tone of voice shut Seymour up fast. "You know me. I don't do things for kicks. She's worth something. I've got this feeling about her. She's important, Seymour. To me, anyway."

"So y'gonna help fix that bleedin' stab wound, or ain'tcha?"

"What?"

"You stabbed 'er, y' dumb shit! You think she's gonna do jack for ya if she's bleedin' all over the place? Damn! Whatchu been sniffin' t'nite, Leo?"

"I've had just about enough of you," Squall snapped, standing up and starting towards his next-in-line. Seymour got up, backpedaling. "Get out! And shut yourself up!"

Another moment and Seymour was gone, leaving the door flap wavering in the lamplight, causing tides of shadow to ebb and flow across the room.

Squall turned to stare at the girl. Seymour was right, of course. She'd been injured, badly. She needed time to rest and heal, just like any other living thing. For some reason, Squall had neglected to think of this when he'd carried her here. He'd been so preoccupied with her curious behavior…and his odd feeling about her. She was special. She was different. Something about her wasn't right…or wasn't wrong.

Perhaps that was it. She was a silver-blood. She lived under the Government, or she had at one time. But she didn't act like a silver-blood. She acted…he wasn't sure how she acted. Unique.

He came to kneel beside her, observing her idly as he thought. He noted her hair color: black as pitch, with dark violet-red colored bangs and two natural caramel streaks on either side. Indeed, a pretty girl, if rather strange.

She was still bleeding. Thinking about this, he placed his hand over the wound, feeling the pleasant warmth of blood beneath his fingers. Again he had the distant, wistful urge to kill her. The thought was seductive, the fantasy of the action sensual in his mind. Like desire it rose, and, like desire, he ignored it deftly. It was as common an arousal as that of his body, and just as easy, just as torturous, to live with. It wasn't a task in this case. More and more, he was convinced that this girl must be allowed to live, at least for now.

She stirred beneath the damp coat he'd flung over her, and he snatched his hand back as he would from a venomous alley viper. As he watched, she fretted in a light sleep, murmured unintelligibly, and woke with a start. Her eyes opened, blinked a few times, and finally focused on him.

There was no fear in that gaze. In fact, it seemed her fear faded the moment she saw him. The more he watched her, the more fascinated he became. She was so puzzling.

"You…you're still here," she said quietly, her voice weak and tired. "I'm not…dead?"

The Lion tilted his head to one side, briefly, a sideways nod. "Not yet."

"Thanks for the reassurance," came the dry reply, followed by a far more parched string of coughs.

She was thirsty, he realized. She needed water. He searched his mind for where he might find some in the immediate vicinity, then remembered the bag he'd dropped by the door. Chances were it was still there. Quickly, soundlessly, he got up and checked, lifting the flap to his room enough so he could see. Sure enough, the bag was still there, and he went to fish through it, bringing out one of many plastic containers of bottled water he'd bought earlier that evening. He brought it back with him. He set it beside the girl as he came to kneel next to her again. "You need this?" was all he asked.

"Yes, thank you…" With apparent discomfort, she reached out to take the offering, fumbled with the top until she got it open, and drank from it gratefully.

It felt odd to him, what he had just done. The only people he ever provided for were those in the Pride, and even then, he only brought them supplies, what they needed and what he needed to survive. He had never tended to an individual life outside his own. It was bizarre—he knew when he needed something, when he was thirsty, or hungry, or injured—but since he could not feel what this girl needed, he had to guess, and as her coughs had proven, he needed some kind of reminder. With himself, no reminder was necessary.

He was used to killing. He was not used to actively trying to keep someone else alive. But if he wanted answers, he knew that it was necessary in this case. He would have to learn quickly.

She had finished the water, and was staring at him again with tired eyes. "What is your name?"

The question caught him off-guard, and earned her only a confused look.

"Your name," she repeated. "I have nothing to call you. I'd rather not call you 'killer.'" She laughed slightly at some joke. "That's a dog's name."

A dog's name. The Lion scowled. "Squall," he said quietly, as if he wanted to keep his identity secret.

"Squall…" She tested the word. "Interesting name…where'd you get it?"

He regarded her cautiously. "I've always had it." It wasn't like a name was something you could buy. Names were either given, or they were earned.

"I see…well, that's okay. It's fitting."

Why did he need her approval? Squall scowled.

"My name's Riona," she announced, wearily laying her head down on the jury-rigged mattress. Her eyes closed, and she quickly drifted off once more. "Nice to meet you…Squall."

*

The next few days felt like a bizarre dream. Squall did not sleep in his room. Instead he "borrowed" Seymour's; kicked his next-in-line out of the tiny quarters in order to use it for himself. Seymour, grouchy at having his abode confiscated, subsequently evicted the third-in-line, the only other Pride member who boasted his own personal sleeping area (which was even smaller than Seymour's). The third-in-line was therefore forced to bed down in the den's main living area with the rest of the Pride, he in turn rousting another, younger man from one of the old couches, consequently instigating complaints and spats here and there over sleeping spots and causing the general mood in the air to thicken into a cantankerous fog. The place indeed became something of a proverbial lion's den, intermittent bellows and growls echoing off the walls.

Squall still took them out for the hunts, still did not participate in it himself. In fact, he hardly thought much about anything at all. Time seemed to pass in a blur when he was outside the den. Away from Her. Away from…what was her name? Riona.

She was so perplexing to him, and his mind was fascinated with the puzzle. She was in understandable pain, though she seemed to be getting better, slowly. She was lucky there had been no infection. He'd brought her a cloth and water with which to wash the wound herself, brought her food when she needed it, taken her outside when she needed to relieve herself. Along the way somewhere, he'd realized that he was, in effect, taking care of her.

No one questioned him. No one dared, though he knew that his own actions must be confusing to the Pride. He'd openly forbidden them to go near Riona; she belonged to him, and no one else was to touch her. At first it had seemed obvious—the Lion had found a woman he particularly liked, and was unwilling to share. But when it became obvious that he was not sleeping with her, tensions in the Pride began to rise. Even Squall felt it.

Still, Riona did not attempt escape, nor did she make any demands. She was not a burden on the Pride in that sense, nor did she require much to begin with. Beyond that first day, Squall had said little to her, lacking any particular questions, though thousands of curiosities festered irritatingly in his mind, like thought-provoking mites.

A week passed. Two. Aside from Riona's odd presence, life remained unchanged for the Pride, and the discomfort she invoked was far from enough to cause any sort of uproar. The Lion remained his usual, brutal self, and life went on.

One night, when Squall and his Pride returned from one of their hunts, he found Riona standing up in his room, looking over the contents of the shelf above his sleeping place. It was the first time he'd seen her standing on her own since the night they'd first encountered each other. She heard him enter and turned around. Her eyes held in them that calculating look that he had seen when she had first realized just what he was, and had said so, back in that damp alley.

By some mutually understood, unsaid law, they both waited until the Pride had passed his room and into the main den before either of them said a word. Then Riona spoke.

"When you go out with them," she started, then paused, thinking over her words, "it's to find people out on the streets, isn't it? You plunder, rape and kill. Then you come home…here." She looked away from him, stared through the wall as if it were a window.

He gestured at nothing with one hand. "We're a faction," was all he said.

"Right. It's what you do. How you survive…" She sounded saddened. "But why rape? Why not just kill and be done with it?" She glared at him, suddenly, her narrow eyes accusing him.

He shook his head. "I don't know," he muttered honestly. "I don't do that. I just find people."

Riona's gaze softened a little. "And kill them," she appended.

"Yes."

"You like to kill?"

This question was a dangerous one. Yes, he liked to kill. More than liked. It was a passion. He adored it. But to tell her that? He suspected he shouldn't. But he would not lie, either. That would be just as pointless. Instead he stepped closer to her, reached out to take her by the shoulder.

She batted his hand away. "Don't touch me," he hissed with snake-like fervor.

He responded by reaching for her again, and caught her arm in his powerful grip when she tried to knock him away. Here he stopped. He did not move. He simply stared at her, and held her still.

He could feel her pulse drum beneath his fingers, repressed a tremor of bloodlust. "What I do has a purpose," he told her quietly in a near monotone. "They do what they do because they're driven to do it. I let them, because it makes them my allies. I survive. You," his voice rose to a snarl, "are here by my charity. Otherwise now, you would be dead." He let go of her, and backed away. He watched her. She stared at him uncertainly, rubbing at her arm where he had gripped her. "How I think and what I feel, are a part of what I do."

"But you're different."

"What?" He shook his head, lifted his arm slightly in a motion of confusion.

"You've got a sense of value. You kill, but you don't rape like the others. Why?"

He frowned, remembering. He had participated, once. Only once. Never in his life had he felt so sick with himself as that one time. One girl, one struggle…it had been enough. He would not force himself on anyone like that again. "I'm not a part of it. It's foolish."

Riona was silent for a short time. She appeared to debate something with herself, then blurted, "I told you if you wanted me, I'd go with you. You let me live, and brought me here. If you didn't do it because you wanted me, then why did you?"

So this was the question she had been waiting to ask him. He had seen it in her eyes, before, and could see her tension ease a little after she had spoken it aloud.

"You're different," he answered vaguely. "You might be able to survive here."

"Survive?"

"Stay with us. Become one of us."

"No."

"Not one of them," Squall corrected, motioning behind him in the direction of the main den. "One of us. One of the faction."

"How?"

"…I don't know. I think it's possible."

"And if I can't?"

He shrugged. "Then you'll die."

Apparently, she had expected this answer. No fear touched her face, only stern resolution. She dared to come closer to him, staring fiercely into his icy eyes. "If that happens," she whispered sharply, "don't throw me to your men. Kill me yourself."

He nodded, slowly. "I would have, anyway." This said, he turned to leave.

"There's something you should think about, Squall," she called from behind him.

He stopped. "What's that?"

"You've killed a lot of people who were just like me."

When he was certain she would say nothing else, he left the little room, turned down the hall to walk to "his" tiny chambers.

Somehow, that last thing she had said to him actually made him feel a little better.

*

The essence of the dream became everyday. Riona's wound finally healed, for the most part, and she was eventually allowed to roam the den as she pleased, without being harassed by any of the men. They took to ignoring her as she took to watching them.

Squall moved back into his room, which made the rest of the Pride quite happy. He made a separate pile of blankets and cushions for Riona to sleep on, and reclaimed his own bed. She slept in the corner opposite him, and they generally spoke little. This was fine by him. Almost like having a pet; she was there, he fed her, cared for her, but otherwise she served no other real purpose beyond having her around. She seemed to warm up to the treatment well enough. Still, he found her interesting, talked with her on occasion. She was a reasonable person, intelligent, realistic. He liked her, as much as he could like anyone. The only real difference was that she was female.

Which could be a bother at times. The Lion killed women. He did not live with them. His Pride preyed on them. Yet here she was. It was a temptation on some nights when he had trouble sleeping. He would watch her, all the while fighting his need to kill. When winter rolled in, and cold beset the den, the need for warmth transferred into the need for blood—made worse simply because she was there, helpless to defend against him should he attack her.

One night he found himself by her side, staring at her, with a fury of intent in his mind. But he could not bring himself to so much as touch her. Not yet…

She woke up when he sighed, sat up with a start when she saw him. The two faced each other, almost eye-to-eye.

"You were watching me." It was an unnecessary comment.

He answered it anyway. "You're interesting."

"Do you do this every night?"

"No."

"Just tonight? Why?"

"I felt like it." He made certain his answers conveyed the fact that he was not about to tell her what had truly brought him over to her.

"You're not telling me why," she spat in her frustration. "But you have another reason. I can see it in your eyes, Squall. You want something. Tell me…what is it? …Is it…me?" She looked suddenly afraid.

His eyes, which had apparently betrayed him, looked to the floor, and his face followed his gaze. His head bowed at her question. "Not really," he murmured. Then amended, "Not exactly."

"Then what?" She sat up straighter. "Talk to me. You never say anything. You've taken care of me, even though I know I mean nothing to you. You never give a reason. Why? Why can't you tell me?"

"I have no words to tell you."

"I've known you for a month, and I don't know anything about you." Riona shook her head, scolding him with but a look. "Not a damn thing. You think I'm going to stay content just staying here and doing nothing?"

"You have a place to stay."

"It's not enough to just stay alive," she fired back. "I have to live. I want a life, not an existence. If you think you can keep me here like a fancy pet, you're out of your mind."

"There is nowhere else for you to go!" He snatched at her arm, grabbed it, and held her still. "What you want means nothing. Nothing. Are you too stupid to understand that?"

"Maybe, but at least I'm not so dead inside that I've lost my will to care!" Riona wrenched her arm away, backing against the wall and glaring at him in the darkness. "Not like you."

He did nothing in response, said nothing. He only stared blankly. The will to care? About what?

"Like me," the girl continued shakily. "I…I do care, about you. You matter to me."

His frustration with her had faded. His confusion heightened. "I don't understand."

"I've been watching you," she explained. "I've been watching the others, too… Remember I told you I wanted to know who you are? Because I thought you were different. You are different. You're…you're the only one out of all of them who gives a crap about what's right and wrong. You…you have it in you to care. They don't."

"I'm not different from them."

"Yes, you are!" She covered her mouth, realizing she'd almost shouted. When she continued, it was with constrained fervor. "You can kill and not feel bad. Why? Because it's necessary. You've even made yourself like doing it. It's your one joy. You can't rape people. If you did, you wouldn't be able to live with yourself, because it's just wrong. There's no excuse. It's not necessary for you to survive, so you don't do it. Every time I mention it, you look so jaded I can tell you don't like it. You're strong enough to have maintained a heart…through all this." She motioned about his small chambers. "Even though you live this way…this terrible life…you still have a little decency in you. I…I admire that. That's why you matter, to me."

Still, he couldn't completely understand her. She said she cared. Care as in what? Value? Enjoy? There were too many definitions. But she was right about everything else.

The need to kill became yet stronger in him. His mind absorbed her shape, analyzed every way he could kill her right at that moment. He found himself discarding, however, anything that would not require extreme precision and…care. Yes. She was special. If he killed her, he wanted the death to be unique. He wanted it to mean something. And he wanted her to know he was going to do it. He would not surprise her.

This talk about her not staying bothered him. He didn't want her to leave. He had no problem with dispatching her, but losing her—that was different. He could not allow that to happen.

"I want…" she began, interrupting his thoughts, but did she not finish.

Squall's curiosity plagued him until he prompted her. "What?"

"I want…to mean something to you. Since I came here…you're the closest thing to a friend I have." She cowered a little, as though expecting retaliation for her boldness.

She got none. Only an answer. "You mean something."

"Then tell me something else," she whispered. "Tell me…what if I didn't fight? What if…I wasn't afraid? What if you didn't have to use force? Then, would it be wrong?" She watched him take this in. "Would it mean anything? Would you want it?"

"Would you?"

She smiled at his almost sarcastic response, and answered with another question that was quite serious, and more of a statement than a query. "Why does it matter?"

Squall thought, came up with no answer, or no way to word it. He looked uncomfortable, silently consulted the floor for advice.

Riona pressed the questions further, offering answers to go with them. "Is it because if I didn't want you, it would be wrong? Is it because you need me to wish it, first? Because if you did that, you'd do it for me, not to me? As much as you would do it for yourself?"

"Yes!" His answer stopped her escalating voice, irritated at her for speaking so loud, feeling suddenly trapped with nowhere to go. It had been a true answer. But it wasn't the whole answer. Would you do it for me, as much as for yourself? He scowled at her spark of a smile, dousing it. "You've said too much." He was about to say something else, but the thought left him.

She wasn't perturbed by his underlying warning. "Really? And if I were to offer myself to you, now? Would you still say I've said too much? You can't kill me, because I'm no threat to you. If it's something you wanted, too…then there's nothing you can do except say yes."

He stared at her, dumbfounded. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. "And your reasons?"

To which she simply shrugged. "Just part of understanding you."

Understanding. Oh yes. Understanding a very dangerous side of him. He wondered just how well she realized that. But…if the offer was real…

He stood slowly, reached out and took her by the arm, pulling her up with him. Ignoring her startled cry, he hauled her over next to him, caught her in both restraining arms before she could attempt escape. He held her there, in front of him, looking her over. She stared back at him fearfully.

He stood still for a short time. Then, deliberately, he stepped into her, pressing his body against her. He did not give her room to struggle, nor did she try. But he did nothing else, simply watched her reaction, letting her understand the entirety of what she was suggesting. He let her understand what she faced—what she was offering herself to. A man far stronger than her, aggressive, dangerous, even cruel. Her soft blue, worn-out dress and his leather jeans were not enough to hide this fact from her, not when held so close.

"This is what you're asking," he rumbled in her ear. "Are you afraid of it?"

She trembled in his grasp, but still, she did not struggle. "No," she said finally. "The only thing I'm afraid of…is that I'm wrong."

He had not been so close to her since he had held her at knifepoint in the alley. This time his excitement was for an altogether different reason. Thoughts of killing faded into the background of his mind, leaving only natural desire. Desire that was doubled when she suddenly wrapped her arms around his midsection, burying her face in his chest with a whimper of some unknown emotion. It was a familiar grip, like when she had held onto his arm in the alley. But this time, it was not uncomfortable. Rather, the touch was inviting, and her small, almost inaudible cry added to the intensity of the sensation.

His head tilted back slightly; eyes closed, mind reeling from the contradiction between his emotions and reality. He could not have harmed her in that instant if he'd wanted to. For reasons he knew not why, her embrace set off a torrent of conflicting sensations inside of him, all so strong he was momentarily paralyzed. She obviously sought some sort of refuge in him, although surely she knew he would kill her the instant she gave him fair reason to. In denial of his own logic, he felt suddenly, viciously protective of her. Indeed, no one would harm her, unless it was him. Then only if she allowed it, or if it was necessary for him to do so. As long as he had no reason to kill her, she was safe with him. Perhaps she knew that. But he hoped she did not.

He felt himself tremble. He said the only thing that came to mind. "You have no reason to be afraid."

Her answer was a stronger hold on him. Life seemed to flow from her. He could sense it in the warmth of her body, the pulse of blood in her veins that he could feel easily through her tight grip. What is this? He couldn't explain to himself what he was feeling from her, or from himself. Everything tingles…

He hadn't thought, simply because the idea had never been relevant, about whether or not he could ever fall victim to seduction. Now he was sure, that was exactly what was happening, only he could find no reason for her to wish to seduce him. Unless she planned on killing him. But he knew she had no weapon. From everything he could tell about her since the day he met her, she was barely capable of killing at all. So the notion was at once dismissed. There was no danger here. Nothing but this strange and inescapable offer…this request…that Riona had made.

Riona…he was even beginning to think of her by name.

His eyes opened again, and the killing fire had gone out of them. Instead burned lust, implacable, vicious, but not violent. His world had become devoid of violence, for the time being. There was no malice in him at all, in fact, no force necessary in his motions; she let him take her down, press her against the blankets and settle into her. She did not fight him at all—in fact, encouraged him, willingly stayed close to him rather than attempting escape.

When it was over, and he pulled away from her long enough to rest and catch his breath, he couldn't help thinking through a haze of fatigue, that she had been right. This, he would do. Not to her, but for her, and there would be no killing, no forcing himself on her against her will.

And in this, he realized that he had just engaged in what was quite possibly the best and worst mistake he had ever made.

*

Days passed slowly after that night. Little about life actually changed, save Squall felt a little more comfortable in general, not quite as intense as he had in the past month. Still, upon finding out that one of the Pride members had witnessed part of his "fun" the previous night, he had an entertaining enough time throwing the nosy boy around for a few minutes, breaking a few of the poor fellow's ribs and painting him black and blue in the process. Half-dead and begging for mercy, the fool had finally appeased his leader enough to save his miserable life, and crawled away to the dark recesses of the den's more decrepit areas before Squall had the chance to change his mind.

This outlet of aggression left Squall in a relatively good mood for the next week. He felt in full control of himself and his Pride for the first time in months. His nights were restful, and though he and Riona spoke little, he felt that the tension between them had eased. She had even smiled at him once or twice, something he'd never seen her do before.

Things were going well for him. Hence he had no real objection when Riona asked him if he would take her outside for the sake of allowing her some time out of captivity.

His one condition had been that they wait until early morning, when most of the factions were asleep and there would be little danger in the alleys. Judging this as fair, Riona agreed, and after a night spent talking to each other in whispers about meaningless things to keep themselves awake, they stole out into the cold blue dawn.

Squall was characteristically watchful, wary of every corner and shadow, but he didn't feel that there was too much to worry over; few people roamed the alleys in the morning, and those who did, he could generally take care of himself.

He took her in a square loop, down open corridors that would have looked identical to each other if he hadn't been living in them for years.

Riona spoke with him as they walked. "Have you always been the leader of the Pride?"

"Pretty much."

"Doesn't look like anyone else messes with you guys. You must be the top dogs around here."

Squall looked a little put off at this remark. "That's not the exact term I would use," he growled. Riona swore that if he'd been a cat, his ears would have laid flat against his head, so disgruntled did he appear. Thinking of this, she recomposed her words.

"Top cats, then?"

"Something like that." He appeared to regain a some of his inadvertently maimed dignity.

"So what does that make you," she grinned, "the alpha male?"

"You're talking in dog terms again."

"Sorry." She thought as they rounded another corner. "I really don't know anything about cats. I know people call you the Lion, and that your faction is the Pride, but I don't know why, exactly. Don't real lion prides have a lot of girls in them?"

"Not the point of it." Squall glanced at her. "Point is we're a group, and no one pisses with us. Like you said, we rule this area."

"Oh…" Another short time of thought and wind over the rooftops. "What is that card game that your men are always playing? The cards look like they have monsters on them."

At this, Squall snorted disdainfully, making a show of rolling his eyes. "Tarot cards of some kind. Dumbasses think they mean something. It's bullshit, but if it makes 'em happy, then whatever." He made a dismissive gesture. "It's not any of my business."

They came back to the entrance of the den. Riona stopped short of going in, and turned to face her escort. "Squall, there's something else I want to ask you."

"What's that?"

"Is there anywhere you go to be alone, sometimes? You know, where no one else can find you, if you're ever feeling bad or need to think things through?"

"My room, usually." He looked off to the side, shrugged his fur collar closer about his neck.

He looked uncomfortable, like a bird with its feathers fluffed against a chill wind. Riona pressed her question anyway. "Nowhere else?"

"Well…" There was a long minute where he considered not answering, just going back inside where it was warm and leaving the question unsatisfied. But, he supposed, not answering now only meant he'd have to answer later. He may as well. "Yeah, there's a place."

"Take me there." Riona wrapped the blanket she'd taken with her tightly around her shoulders.

"Why? It's freezing out here."

"Please? Just this once, I promise."

Squall sighed his indecision, glanced around, down each stretch of the alley. "All right," he finally relented. "Come on."

It began to snow before they reached their destination: a wide, square dead end, accessible only through a very narrow space between two buildings. No windows faced the depression, so anyone who might end up there was never seen or heard through the stone walls.

Riona visibly fought a chill as she entered the place. In a few places, bones littered the ground—she had no doubt that these were human bones—and on one wall, a dark stain that could have been blood etched out a cryptic message: ALL FOR ONE, ONE FOR ALL. Beside it was a common symbol of the factions, a square slashed into two triangles by a single diagonal line.

Squall watched her stare in grim fascination at the place. "This is it. Nothing much to see." The comment was a cover-up, for his intense wish to leave this place. It was a killing ground, his killing ground. He had dragged dozens of people into this crevice, alone, to deal with them personally. This was not a place he did his usual jobs. This was where he took those poor fools outside his faction that he had found roaming the area at undesignated times. If he felt especially bloodthirsty, he would often kill all but one if there were more, then simply disable the remaining trespasser. The unfortunate he'd chosen to keep alive would be brought here. Here, a predator toyed with its prey before he killed it, torturing the victim with terror and pain before finally allowing it to die. What he did here was his own personal evil, not to be witnessed by anyone else. This is where he learned what killed people quickly, what took longer, what caused the most pain and what was relatively painless, how deep to thrust the dagger before a vital organ was hit, how to twist the knife so that it killed instantly, or, using the same weapon, how to disembowel a victim while leaving them alive to suffer the agony. One or two bodies had been left here long enough to rot away, eaten to bones by rats and dogs. Most of them had been dragged elsewhere after death. Nevertheless, this place was not where he wished to have Riona. Even now, simply being here kindled phantoms of bloodlust in him. A hunger for the sight of red began to build behind his eyes, which narrowed in a heartless scowl in reaction to the sensation. He shot a stare at Riona. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

She turned and stared back at him, but did not move.

"Come on," he said again, starting to get nervous at her odd silence. His eyes fixed on her. He felt a wild spark inside him. Instantly, it was back, all of it, as it had been that night a week ago. Burning need to kill caused him to tremble, his gloved hands clenched and opened anxiously. "This place is dangerous, Riona," he murmured quietly, but he knew already that it was too late. It would not be long before his instinct overcame his logic.

She kept watching him, and nodded slowly, as though his reaction had been predictable, even hoped for. "I can't leave here, Squall," she told him softly, a hint of sadness creeping into her voice. "Ever."

His breath nearly stopped in his throat. What was she talking about? They had to leave. If she wanted to live, she had to go back to the den with him, where he could collect himself, where they weren't alone, where there was no danger…

He stepped over to her, lightly grasping her shoulder. "Riona, it's not safe here."

"Oh," she almost laughed, not quite looking into his eyes. "It's safe for you, Squall. Just…not for me." She met his gaze, then, and her sad smile told him all he needed to know.

Squall's body went numb with shock. No, she wasn't safe here. She wasn't safe because here, he could kill her, quietly and in private. She had known that from the beginning, which was why she had asked him to bring her here.

She had not come here to go sight-seeing. She had come here to die.

"I didn't understand it before," she whispered gently to him, reaching up and touching his cheek with her fingertips, "but I do now. Ever since I met you, you've looked at me in this way…at first, I couldn't figure out what it was. Now I know…since the day we met, Squall, you've wanted, more than anything else, to kill me." Her smile faded as his face melted into an even darker scowl. "But it's not because you hate me," she went on. "It's because you love me."

Squall continued to stare at her impassively. What she was telling him was almost incomprehensible. But she had ways of making things make sense to him, so he listened.

"Your one joy in life is killing," Riona spoke as she stepped in close to him, leaning against him, embracing him and running her hands along his back beneath his jacket, just to be able to touch him one more time. "It's what you do. It's what this place is for, isn't it?" She half-laughed again, watching his cold eyes flicker from her to the blood-writing on the wall and back. "Because it's your passion…and because you love me, you want to do this for me, to show me that side of you…the best of it. But just like that night, you won't do it, not unless I want you to. If I ask you to, then coming from you, a master of killing, it's a gift to me, instead of a punishment. I want you to know this—" She pressed her hand against his chest, pushing back enough to look him in the eyes. "I came from a home that would be better called a dominion than a family. The way you treat your Pride is tender compared to the way my father treats his wives. There, money is the only item. Even survival means nothing compared to money, and respect is something for the leaders of business. I feel that you at least have your priorities straight." With a heavy sigh, she stared at her feet, not moving her hand from his chest. "I can't live the way you do," she said in a tiny voice, "and I can't live the way I used to. I can't leave, Squall, because that would mean leaving you, and I wouldn't have a chance by myself. But here…for the first time in my life, even though I was captive in your den…I felt grateful." Her smile returned half-way and she looked at him again. "And this is how I want to end it. This is the last thing I want to know." Water threatened her eyes. "I can't go on like this, with you, and I can't leave you and live with myself. So I want to stop while I'm still happy." She shook her head, barely maintaining her pained smile. "And I want you to do it."

Her hand kneaded his shirt up in her fists, stopping the nervous motion only when he placed his own warm hand gently over her shaking fingers.

He listened to her whisper. "End my life here, and let me die happy. Do it with all your passion, and stay with me until I'm gone... That's all I want," she concluded finally, biting her trembling lower lip. "Please…"

Squall's dispassion had turned to intensity as he listened to her. Somehow, her logic made sense. Was this true, what she said—was he in love with her? Is that why his need to kill her ran so deeply, though it affected him in such unusual ways? Was love, then…not just a thing told to children in storybooks? A meaningless emotion that had no logical basis? Was it simply…a need to be who he was, but for another? A need to give himself and his soul to someone, in the only way he knew how?

He wrapped one arm around her, pulling her closer to him, while she cried silently and rested her head against his chest. His other hand slipped silently to his belt, where his dagger slept at his hip, hidden from view. His anxiety had left him. He breathed easy. Easy…that is how it would be. However she wanted him to kill her, he would make it easy. For her. For himself.

There was no escaping this. She'd walked into his arms, asking him to bring death to her. In effect, bared her throat to him. His need for the kill could not be stopped now. He let it come. There was no reason to fight it. It was what he needed. It was what Riona needed. She truly wanted it. Not as an escape—but as a means of fulfilling both their wishes. She understood what no one else could: what he wanted to do to her was not a punishment, but a gift. And because she understood that, he knew she must be right. She was right. He was doing this because he loved her.

Slowly, softly, Squall smiled. He pulled the knife from his belt.

Riona heard the blade come out of its sheath. She started to shake, natural fear overwhelming her. But he did not stab her. He only held her close, for a while, arms wrapped about her in warm comfort. When she managed to look up at him, he smiled at her. Such a smile—so gentle, it was a wonder it was coming from Squall. A smile that showed not only fondness, but appreciation, gratitude. She returned it, damp-faced.

Squall brushed lightly at her tangled black hair. Softly, he once more gave her the option: "Fast or slow?"

She had been ready to answer. "Slow," she said quietly. "I want time to be with you."

Squall's intricate visions of fancy ways to kill her had long since vanished. That was not needed, here. Too easy to make mistakes. No, it would be simple, he would make the kill perfectly done in every way. For her, he would not give anything less.

His free hand stroked her neck gently, then tilted her head up to look at him. Her eyes were pleading, frightened, but strangely peaceful. "Don't be afraid," he murmured to her.

The hand that held the knife curled around behind her, and in another moment, Riona jumped as the touch of steel pressed gently against the side of her neck.

Squall let the blade hover over the artery for a few seconds. Another breath, and the first cut was done. The razor-edge of his knife glided cleanly through Riona's skin, slicing just deep enough to start a rivulet of red trailing across her flesh. He held her still when she startled at the pain of the steel's bite. She coughed. He steadied her. Then she relaxed into his arms again, and he held her for a few moments more, calming her as the life began its slow drain from her body.

When his shirt began to stain from her blood, he took her left arm in his hand, followed it down until he was able to intertwine his fingers with hers. She was able to watch him make the second, and final, cut down the length of her wrist, and he let her squeeze his hand at the stinging pain it no doubt caused.

It was done. Easy, slow. Aside from the pain of her cuts, she would feel almost as if she were falling asleep. A slow, breathless sleep of weakness and exhaustion. That way she would welcome death, and the rest it would promise her; and he would be her assurance, her comfort. He would keep her safe and protected close to him. Squall put his knife away, not bothering to clean it. Carefully, he helped Riona over to the one un-dirtied wall in the place. He took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders—for it would not be long before she would begin to feel very cold, indeed. He sat down with her, letting her lean into him and cling to him as blood trailed down her neck and arm in streams. He held onto her, letting his presence comfort her, knowing how strange it was, what he was doing, and had done. Such a bizarre gift to give…but her gift in return had been to allow him this experience. It would be the best and most memorable kill he would ever make.

Riona startled him by reaching out to grasp his arm with her uninjured hand. Shaking, she pressed her bleeding wrist into his hand, and held fast, streaking him red with her blood. He watched her do this with shocked fascination, staring at his arm even after she'd released him. Then he felt her hand against his cheek, and it, too, became painted with the scarlet life. Her fingers trailed down his neck, and he shivered at the warm liquid left behind on his skin. And was this her gift to him—satisfying this terrible, morbid dream of his, however twisted it may have seemed? She must have understood it existed for him nonetheless. He caught her hand as she started to retract it, stared at her in near-paralytic astonishment.

She said nothing to him, only smiled at his bloodstained face. Then she closed her eyes and curled up next to him, content with his arms around her.

The chill of the alley ceased to have meaning. Squall was aware only of the girl in his arms, slowly dying, quietly awaiting sleep. Every now and again, she would shiver, as if shaken by a tremor of pain or momentary fear, and look up at him for reassurance. Each time, Squall would hold her closer, knowing in his own silence that he was her guardian. It seemed to comfort her, for she would smile, and relax against him. He'd keep as close as he could, so she would know that at no point would she ever be alone. She had nothing to fear from death in his arms.

He had become friend and companion to death, bringing it with him wherever he went like a cherished familiar. He knew all sides of death, and knew that "gentle" was a word rarely used, but often appropriate to describe it. Riona would not suffer death's often cruel wrath. As death's agent, he could show her the softer side of his passion. Death could be beautiful. He would not let it frighten her.

She would be safe there, in death's silence. His silence. He would be her sentinel until it came for her, as it came for everyone. As it would come for him, some day.

Somewhere within the hour, Riona lost consciousness, and Squall waited, holding her protectively against his chest, feeling her pulse fade away into nothingness over the course of time. Soon it was gone, and she died, still warm in his arms. He hadn't cared to count the minutes, only knew that he had watched her last breath, and that she was gone forever.

Despite that he knew she was no longer aware of him, he stayed with her for a while, thinking to himself, still holding her as if he could yet save her from fear or pain. He did not mourn—there was no reason to grieve. She had gotten what she wanted. So had he. His only wonder was what he would do now that she was gone. What else was there, now that she was no longer alive, that was of any interest? It was a feeling he had not been expecting. Her life was over. He was still here. He was lost without her.

In the stillness of morning, the Lion felt suddenly, terribly alone.

*

Somehow, he left the wall, and eventually the alley. He vaguely remembered laying Riona's body reverently on the cold ground, covering her with his jacket before standing and walking away. He was still stained with her blood. He wished he could wear it forever.

He returned to the den, returned to his home. He felt tired, like he had been running all day long. He needed to sleep…all he wanted to do was sleep. He wasn't interested in anything else.

An alarm clicked somewhere in his mind as he approached the entrance to the den. His personal thoughts on hold, he glanced about him, and drew his dagger. Something was not right. There was an odd smell…

Gas. Squall grimaced and backed away from the den. Suffocating amounts of gas. Coming from the den. What had happened, here?

"I see you're still hangin' around here."

Squall whirled, dagger ready. He already knew who it was. Sailor.

Sailor stood facing him, arms folded and a triumphant leer on his face. Dirty blonde hair and an outfit made of brown leather, a scarred eye and tanned face made him unmistakable. He was much taller than Squall, by a few inches, broad-shouldered, and powerfully muscled.

He waved casually in the direction of the den. "Oh, they're dead," he assured the Lion. "One of my men followed you and your little lady to your precious hideaway. Even a lot like yours drop like flies to chlorine explosives. Paid a pretty sum f'those things. Worked like a charm, though. Your Pride didn't have a chance. Say…where's the chick, anyway? Wouldn't suppose, ah, that's her blood you're wearin', is it? Squall, my man. Didn't know you had it in ya."

Squall's eyes narrowed. His grip on the handle of his dagger tightened in fury at the accusation. Here was Sailor. So where were the rest of his wild dogs? Where was the Galleon?

As if in answer to his unspoken question, the rooftops and the ends of the alley became alive with people, snickering and jeering at him from the shadows. Daggers gleamed like wet fangs in the rising sunlight.

Squall jerked his head at the nearest group of dogs. "That your posse, Sailor? Or did you need a few chaperones just to come and see me?" He smirked at Sailor's subsequent frown. "Just can't handle me yourself, can you? Like you couldn't three years ago, when you tucked tail and bolted with the Pride snapping at your heels. Stinking mutt. You're still a sorry coward."

Snarling from the shadows, the Galleon threatened to converge on Squall, to silence his shameless insults to their leader and their faction. But Sailor made a sharp motion that held them.

Sailor pulled his own dagger, turning it around in his hand, murderous scowl locked in on Squall, who returned the look with added defiance.

"I still gotta bone t' pick with you, Squall. This time, I ain't gonna need no posse. Jus' you an' me, prettyboy. Ain't no one gonna interfere."

Squall realized then that no matter the outcome of the impending fight, he would die today. Sailor's Galleon lay in wait around every corner. Even if he killed Sailor, the Galleon would take him down, and he'd become another dead body torn to pieces by the brutal fangs of the wild dogs.

Good a day as any, I guess.

Without any warning or word, Squall twisted and closed the distance between himself and Sailor, and the contest began.

Like the equivalent animals, Squall and Sailor dueled with each other like Lion and Ridgeback, circling, striking, grappling, snarling. They had both been killing with their weapons for years. Now it was master vs. master, two champions fighting for supremacy. Squall promised himself he would not allow Sailor the privilege of triumph.

The morning rays cast violet shadows in the alley as the two combatants fought, shadows that rose like terrible monsters to the full height of the buildings.

Sailor tripped. Squall was on him in an instant. In the next, his knife was through his opponent's heart. To be sure, he twisted the blade, and tore it out. Sailor fell lifeless to the cement ground. It was over.

But not over. Squall did not stay to gloat his victory. He did the only thing he could do in the brief moment of confusion Sailor's death would cause.

He dropped his knife, and ran.

He knew where to head. Open ground. People, public, anywhere that the general population could see him. He cleared the alley in a few seconds, turned and dashed past a few dogs that had previously been lying in wait for him, but were now frozen, dumbfounded by their leader's sudden defeat.

The spell did not last long. Squall heard footsteps behind him. Dozens of footsteps, everywhere. The rooftops, the alleys—he passed the ambushes moments before they could react.

He had killed their "alpha male," as Riona had called it. Now, he had to face the pack. He was the hunter become hunted. He was the prey.

He had nothing. Only the hope that he could make it into the open…

Someone grabbed at the back of his shirt. He stumbled. Then they were on him.

A mob of dogs, all of them kicking, trampling, stabbing. They picked him up, collectively threw him into a garbage heap, dragged him out again and slammed him against the wall of a building. Someone punched him, then another fist, and another. He was knocked down, and felt a thousand hammering fists and feet pummeling him with vengeful ferocity.

He couldn't fight. He knew it would be over soon. At least they were too lost in their rage to keep him alive, torment and torture him. When he felt the blades, he welcomed the spilling of his own blood. He opened his eyes one final time, managed to see past the storm of fists and knives and feet and faces, and out into the lightening sky of day.

So death had finally chosen to release him from his loyal servitude. Riona, he cried out in his mind. Wait for me! I'll be with you again, soon…

Something struck his head, and Squall blacked out before he had the chance to feel his heart bleed.

*

His eyes fluttered open. Blearily, he glanced at his bedside clock. What time was it?

4:30 AM. What the—"Goddamn…"

Slowly, Squall pushed himself up on one arm, shaking his head to clear it. He was sweating. Too hot. It was too hot in here. He quickly discarded his nightshirt, flinging it to the floor with something like annoyance. Then, forgetting his own discomfort, he turned around, leaned over Rinoa, who was still lying with her head buried in the pillow. He was about to shake her awake when her shoulders jerked, he felt her body tremble.

Gently, almost cautiously, he rested his hand on her shoulder, his eyes turning up in concern. She got up beneath his hand, and immediately wrapped her arms around him, holding onto him as though her life depended on it and choking painfully on tears that were suddenly coming down in torrents.

He held her tightly, whispering to her in his mind, knowing she could hear him in her heart, knowing also, somehow, that she had awakened from the same dark delusion he had. It's all right. It's over. It was just a dream. I'm right here. He wished he felt more certain of himself; he wished he could believe his own thoughts. Just a dream…

Just a dream? But it was so clear! He knew everything. The Pride, the alleys, Sailor, the Squall that he had dreamed he had been—he remembered them all, still in perfect clarity. It did not feel like a dream to him. It felt more…familiar. Like recollection.

Squall held Rinoa and rocked her for a while, until his chest was soaked with her tears. "It's over," he repeated aloud when she had finally managed to quell her sobs. "We're back here, in Garden. There's nothing to be afraid of. It was a dream…"

Slowly, Rinoa lifted her eyes, drawing on Squall's confidence to still her shaking. "I-I know." She shook her head, stared at him, taking in his scar, his expression, Griever—all the things that set him apart from that other Squall she had seen in the nightmare. All the things that told her that this was reality, and not the dream. So few things that could separate the two images—not the eyes, or the voice, or the way he looked at her now. Those were all the same. The same as the Squall who had taken her life…or had given her death. "But it seemed so… It felt…real."

"I know," he answered softly, gently brushing tears from her cheeks. "…I know."

"What…what was that, Squall? That wasn't…it wasn't 'just a dream.'"

"I don't know." Sighing, Squall looked past her, out the window, into the black sky and Balamb Garden's humming rings that glowed through the foggy universe outside. He stared out into the sea of grey, still trying to shake the dream. "…It felt like it really happened."

"What…what if it did?" Rinoa hardly dared the question.

He looked away from the window, searching Rinoa's face. "What do you mean?"

"If it wasn't a dream, then what was it?"

"It was…" Squall hesitated, then managed the answer he had, for an instant, been more than ready to give, before he'd had the chance to think about it. "...a memory." His hand went to his forehead, which he leaned into his palm, squinting with the effort of justifying to himself this thought. That's stupid. A memory? How is that possible…?

            A hurricane of conflicting thoughts and emotions roiled inside him, and he made no effort to mask his brief turmoil. It all boiled down to one unspoken pledge: 'I'd never do that.' Taking her hand, he pressed it against his chest, over his heart, which still pulsed anxiously with adrenaline. "I feel it, too. It's still there…it's still in me. It's not fading away, Rinoa. It's not like a dream."

            "Squall…" Rinoa lowered her gaze to her hand, clasped beneath his. "I can still think the way she thought, if I try. I know everything about her. What she felt, it's almost like… Squall! If that's true…it really…happened. You…" Trembling, Rinoa tried her best to collect herself, but only managed tears. She pulled her hands away, putting them to her face, hiding her grief from his eyes that could see through to her soul. "I just can't stand it. It's so horrible…" She let her shoulders, suddenly heavy with a massive burden of half-beliefs, lean into Squall's side, their weight becoming his load to carry.

She knew he felt helpless to console her, and was relieved that he found the courage to try. He brought her near to him, walling her in from the terrors of the outside. For a time, her fears were eased in a bed of soft flame within her heart. Her soul rested. But only for a time.

            "If it was a memory," she muttered quietly, "what could it be? A past life?"

            "Another reality?" Squall suggested. "If it was in the past, wouldn't Galbarira be recorded somewhere? I've never heard of it. And it sounds a lot like 'Galbadia.'"

            "You know what—I don't actually care, right now." Rinoa nuzzled in the arch of Squall's neck, again closing her eyes to speculation. "I just want everything to be okay. But…there's a part of me that still thinks like Riona. Like an afterimage."

            "What does that part think?"

            "She…she wants to…talk to…'Squall.'" She said his name awkwardly, uncertain if it was him she was truly speaking of. "More than anything. It…she knows what happened to him. She wanted to find him. Or, I wanted to find you—oh, it's so confusing!"

            Gently, Squall pushed Rinoa back, just enough so he could see her face to face. His eyes impassive, he blinked once, slowly; his way of getting her attention so that she would listen to him without interrupting. "If it was a memory, then that would mean you and I have met…" His eyes narrowed in somber thought. Before…

            "And here we are," Rinoa concluded, her mind still taking in this new shock that she could barely fathom, but could not disbelieve. "We're here. And we remember. How?"

            Squall searched Rinoa's teary countenance for confirmation of his own feelings, but he had no answers. "We both know I'd never…" He shook his head instead of uttering aloud a crime he felt in his heart was his own. "And you'd never wish suicide like that." Though he did his best to pretend nonchalance, the dream had left him shaken and frightened. The haunting, primal fears and emotions of the Squall in his memory still crawled chillingly under his skin. He could remember that Squall's cold, one-sided logic, his disregard for human life. Even the lust for blood still teased the back of his senses with devilish insistence, though he was far stronger to stand against it than he had been in his nightmare.

            Squall tried and failed to force back a notion that had been waiting to surface. If we are the same people…and I… Like a man who had killed for the first time in his life, he stared down at his hands, half-expecting to see them still stained with Riona's—Rinoa's—blood. That was another oddity, the difference in her name. It was slight, but noticeable. His name had remained unaltered. And in the depths of his soul…had he remained equally unchanged? If it's real…what have I done! He looked up from his empty hands to find Rinoa watching him. His eyes begged her forgiveness. "Rinoa…I'm—"

            "Don't."

            He stopped, mouth still half-open, and his breath escaped him in a wordless rush. Rinoa reached out to him, placing her hand over his. Her narrow eyes had become suddenly commanding, and her firm grip on his hand, fingers winding between his, forbade him to argue with her.

            "Don't you dare be sorry."

Squall knew without question that Riona and Rinoa were one and the same. He still remembered the "dream Squall's" emotions for Riona—so identical to what he felt as Rinoa hugged him, now, the feelings could not be for anyone else. The love was pure, unchanged and undiminished, now or as it had been in the dream.

But what he had done in the dream as a result of this feeling—! It was almost unthinkable. But not quite. Perhaps that was the disturbing part.

Placed in the same situation, with the same lack of knowledge, the same mindsets, experiences, it would have happened all over again. Squall was certain of it.

            So one way or another…that person is me. Somehow, all of that happened. If it didn't, it would have. He shivered, bowing his head and resting his brow against hers, staring distantly into her dark eyes to seek calm in her soul.

Reluctantly, gently, Squall eased Rinoa down, and she waited until he'd pulled the covers over her shoulders and laid down beside her to speak again.

"Maybe we can talk to Edea," she suggested, "or Cid…it may be important."

            "Probably."

Rinoa barely heard him, but gratefully took the offered refuge of his arms, cuddling as close to him as she could. "I don't want to go back to sleep."

"I love you," he murmured, breathlessly. "I can't apologize for that…or take back any mistakes it might cause me to make." Squall closed his eyes, concentrating on her arms around him and willing himself to relax. For a moment, his mind turned desperately back to the persona of his dream, seeking the darker perspective, the mind that had fallen into welcome sleep just as he had awakened from a haunting nightmare. "I…I found you, again," Squall whispered tonelessly. "If this is real…if any of it is."

Rinoa sighed, letting his voice lull her heavy heart. She was afraid to close her eyes, so vivid was the memory of watching from some unnamed place while the Galleon tore Squall apart. She cowered close to his chest, staring fearfully at the talisman of Griever, which rested, jaws open in its everlasting roar, beside her on the pillow.

"I know who I am…" Nothing will hurt you. Breathing deeply, Squall threaded his fingers through Rinoa's black hair, stroking the strands gently. He searched himself for courage, and found it, deep within the love that continued to surge inside his heart, fueled by the memory of his greatest crime. "Don't be afraid."

Her eyes drifted shut, remembering the words from the dream.

'Don't be afraid.'

The voice, the words, were the same.

Suddenly unafraid, Rinoa let her consciousness go, falling once more into peaceful sleep in the arms of her beloved killer.