Panting, Squall dodged as the T'Rexaur tried to tear his head off.

So close this time he could smell the fetid exhalation, the rank warmth like a smothering, choking hand. It roared with rage when it didn't connect, the massive sound a concussive force all its own.

He spun with it, into it, slicing in backhanded motion at the swiftly descending head. The baleful eye disappeared and the creature screamed again and yet again, rising upwards in an agonized tsunami.

Squall watched dispassionately; as the tender junction of infantile arm and belly was exposed he lunged for the only kill that was possible to reach. A deceptive pirouette, both hands to the hilt and the final twist that would bring him out and away from under the crushing bulk. Heat scalded his hands, heart blood in a wave.

The body swayed, staggered; the massive head shook from side to side as gobbets of froth spattered. Over. It was over. It didn't even have a chance to realize it was dead.

It was only a heartbeat, two. Maybe three. Then with a shudder the 'Rex dissolved back into holographic mist, taking the blood with it.

It took too long to recover; he felt it in the lock of his jaw, the grip of his hands. It took hard, conscious effort to straighten out of the crouch, to convince muscles trembling on the edge of the next action, the next reaction to relax far enough to obey. However smooth it was, it was too slow.

Breathe. The first mantra of everything, the only thing. Breath, oxygen, power to move, power to think. Over the hammer of his heart he could finally hear the water again, the stream he'd crossed earlier with its position fixed as both hazard and way of escape. The convenient breeze chose this moment to drift across his face to dry the damp sweat there. Everything here was diffused with easy light; no hard shadows trick the eye, no wind to skirl dust in his face. Perfect fighting conditions.

Victory smelled like green leaves and sweet loam even though the trees here had never seen sunshine. The small clearing made larger in the last frenetic moments smelled of crushed vegetation and rot and his exertion, yet he imagined that underneath everything else he could smell the machinery. Imagination, of course.

Squall brought the gunblade up and saluted the empty air. The best that money could conceive, plan and build. They should have given it a skylight. He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging the crested spikes that had formed.

"Score. Three hour restriction. Visual."

The numbers hovered in the air, noting everything about him that had once mattered. Only seven so far but all of them rated peerless, all parameters exceeding requirements. A few more perhaps and maybe he could shake the feeling that had driven him here and denied him sleep.

It wasn't Rinoa really, although if he was going to be honest with himself the conversation he'd had with her today was at least part of his insomnia. Self-directed bitterness touched his lips even as he waved away the glowing report. Not everything had quantifiable measurements.

It was almost a month to the day since she'd left Garden to visit with her father. They'd talked a few times since in carefully opaque conversations but today... today they'd both finally admitted that she just wasn't coming back.

And yes, there was grief there, and guilt, with his fingers tightening on the hilt of the weapon. Technology could give him everything it seemed. A place to be, an enemy to fight, a exclusionary focus of self-interest. It could faithfully transcribe the look in her eyes across the thousands of miles of separation. And yes, there'd still been love there, he was sure of it. Beneath everything else, there'd still been love.

And she deserved more. So much more than the disappointment and the words that he started and could never seem to finish. He just wasn't enough. Could never be enough.

So let it go. He closed long eyes, tilting his head back into the perfectly controlled air. Let it go. Let it be just another ache, just another misery in a life stretched too far. What was the difference anyway? Pain was, after all, just pain.

The worst part was, for a while, even he'd believed. That she was the one, that love that would make everything right again and save him, save them all maybe. Happily ever after, just like the stories. His reward for all the terrible things he'd seen, for all the terrible things he'd done.

Never that easy. It wasn't her fault and it probably wasn't even his. It didn't make the pain any less or soften the anger of another hope that died, strangled by his failings.

The bushes rustled menacingly on the right and his grip on Lionheart tightened. His lean body began to thrill again with a hard-wired anticipation, rewarded as a blue hexadragon slithered into view. The heavy body was deceptively slow, low to the ground. The blunt head snaked forward, its tongue testing the air.

It was late, the training center technically deserted, so he'd told the controlling computer to up the ante and bring the skill level of the monsters closer to his own need for slaughter. He was so far beyond the student exercises that he might have laughed if it wasn't something closer to tears. So much death, in so short a time, dealt with such brutal necessity from his hand. It was a friend to him now, perhaps a truer friend than most. A voice he'd learned to understand intimately during those long weeks and now whispered almost incessantly in his mind.

Looking at the creature that was programmed to scent living blood, created specifically to need only him, he didn't know what he felt but it trembled deep in the muscles of his belly. It would never question, never care about ethics or morality. It couldn't. It knew only that he lived and that was enough. A reason to continue, a reason to kill. Sometimes.. sometimes that was all he needed too.

He saluted the creature with an upraised gunblade. He flowed into the attack, letting memory and instinct be both guide and barrier. The fighting was all that was left now; the blood and the rage and the pain merging into a sensation stronger than any drug. He carried no potions here, junctioned no cures, no healing magic, no saving graces. He wanted this feeling to be without boundaries, wanted it without any restrictions on his skill or desire. He would win or he would die; there would be no more middle grounds, no more fallback positions.

In the back of his mind, Shiva stirred at the bloodlust and spread her beautiful fingers. Her laughter thrilled like ice wine but he refused, letting the cold wind crest only in his mind. Ice teased with a trickle of power through his flesh, the power to move faster, be faster, be everything he needed, an offer of everything he still wanted.

No. He knew every one of her tricks, the sweet taste of her deceits. Tonight he needed heat, and fury. Frost sparked in his hair and gentle malice slicked the back of his throat but his refusal was absolute. She subsided then, a quiescent goddess only half aroused from slumber.

The dragon was hard to kill but he had gone so far beyond what was human that the outcome was inevitable. He collected a few more bruises and a thin line of blood that trickled down his side, but eventually it too lay in a simulcra of death. It took with it another measure of his confusion and for that at least he was grateful.

Another illusion dissolved, leaving him alone. He rolled his shoulders to ease the strain of hours of wielding Lionheart. Its shimmering length beguiled and damned him, the outward display of a perfection he would never achieve. He raised the blade, admiring its beauty even as it reflected his expression back.

Blue flames flickered along its length, so far modified from its original utilitarian blade that it seemed like something out of legend; not the weapon that had kept him alive through a War that he hadn't wanted to fight. Perhaps it would indeed be legend one day; he'd already tripped across love poems on the student bulletin boards dedicated to it. Although, from the gist of them, it was hard to tell which of his weapons the students were praising.

The memory brought a faint but real grin to his face, if only briefly, and he let the gunblade dangle again. Lionheart was just the outward reflection of what he'd done to himself, even if he was the only one that seemed to realize it with all its final implications. Rinoa had perhaps guessed some of it, for she had been closest to him at the end and had stayed for as long as she could bear in the aftermath.

The grin wiped off his face as if it had never been. The truth was he'd wanted to be there for her, be everything the story said he was supposed to be. But it was also true what they said about good intentions. He'd sacrificed so much of himself at the last... couldn't tell if there was anything left. Because as much as she'd wanted to save the world, save everything, there were only jagged shards of his life left. Shards that gentle, caring Rinoa couldn't handle without cutting herself to the bone.

Yet she'd still tried, another veteran of the War, same as he was. She'd picked up piece after piece, trying to fix what she could see, tried to put it back together in a shape that made sense. Finally he'd told her to leave, to take some time away to visit her family. She'd protested but he'd insisted, knowing that she couldn't stay.

Eventually she'd gone and silence had descended. One week had drifted into two, into three and then five and then this afternoon's call had sealed it. He'd wished her well, wished her safe and happy. Technology gave him the love in her eyes but he couldn't say even now what she'd seen in his.

Because it wasn't fair, was it? To have suffered so much and still be denied the promised reward. Although - truth. She wasn't anyone's reward to give, certainly not a prize to be won and then displayed like a trophy. But while the rational part of his mind knew it, something terrible wailed just out of hearing. If Rinoa had tried and failed to mend what had broken... then there was no hope of redemption anymore. No hope at all.

He lifted Lionheart.

Some pain could be laid to rest, if only for a night, and he was nearly tired enough to sleep. More blood was needed; imaginary blood to wash away his real sins.

He moved into the trees, the undergrowth rustling faintly, and was gone.