[ It's painful, really, that when his eyes open, he's expecting to see Rinoa's face there: her eyes, round and wide, begging for tears that seem too shocked to even pull forward, like they might be ashamed to scroll down her cheeks, like they're not allowed. It's a strange feeling, to want to tell the ghost of her not to worry; this is what a SeeD does, he thinks, they do missions and sometimes they die and sometimes there's a peace in that. After all, if everything's been doomed from the start, then what more can he really do? Irvine's shaking hands, Seifer's scowling face--the events skip through like pieces of film reel, clocking each second as something destined and already organized, something that's been promised since he passed his exam, since he went to Garden, since he'd been abandoned at the orphanage.
And at first, the pain is tolerable, though perhaps only by virtue of shock; it lances through his shoulder, down his arm, through his chest, and he only has that one moment of clarity--to recognize that he's been hit, that the Sorceress has just shredded ice through him like he's paper, ripped into the worn fabric of his jacket and out the back--before he's panicking, stumbling, falling back; he expects the ground to reach him before Rinoa's tears even fall. Maybe it's the way she stretches her arm out to him that makes him feel guilty; or maybe it's that there's a distinct sense of relief, through the pain, that he can close his eyes and that this life can be through and that all the struggles become nothing at all.
When his eyes open again, there's rain on his face. He expects it to be blood, when his gloved hand lifts and he stares at his fingers in them, rubs them together, but maybe it's just that the puddle underneath him hasn't had time to soak through all the layers. Maybe he's already dead. Alarming as it is, there's just a sigh that escapes, from lips that press together. Even like this, I still have more to do?
His elbows dig in, and slowly, he brings himself to sit up. There's a hole in his shoulder that desperately needs closing--he can feel the way it aches, the blood that drips down his back, staining his shirt. Around him, it's a picture of chaos--this is not Deling, this is not even Balamb, this is nowhere he's been before but it's covered in viscera and debris and he doesn't know how he got here at all. His gunblade lies just out of reach; a hiss of breath, and he manages to catch his fingers around the handle, draw it in close.
In the distance, his squinting eyes see a city. ]
From here, you can: (a) offer Squall a bit of assistance, (b) help him as he stumbles his way into Midgar, (c) make up your own.
squall — final fantasy viii — ota!
And at first, the pain is tolerable, though perhaps only by virtue of shock; it lances through his shoulder, down his arm, through his chest, and he only has that one moment of clarity--to recognize that he's been hit, that the Sorceress has just shredded ice through him like he's paper, ripped into the worn fabric of his jacket and out the back--before he's panicking, stumbling, falling back; he expects the ground to reach him before Rinoa's tears even fall. Maybe it's the way she stretches her arm out to him that makes him feel guilty; or maybe it's that there's a distinct sense of relief, through the pain, that he can close his eyes and that this life can be through and that all the struggles become nothing at all.
When his eyes open again, there's rain on his face. He expects it to be blood, when his gloved hand lifts and he stares at his fingers in them, rubs them together, but maybe it's just that the puddle underneath him hasn't had time to soak through all the layers. Maybe he's already dead. Alarming as it is, there's just a sigh that escapes, from lips that press together. Even like this, I still have more to do?
His elbows dig in, and slowly, he brings himself to sit up. There's a hole in his shoulder that desperately needs closing--he can feel the way it aches, the blood that drips down his back, staining his shirt. Around him, it's a picture of chaos--this is not Deling, this is not even Balamb, this is nowhere he's been before but it's covered in viscera and debris and he doesn't know how he got here at all. His gunblade lies just out of reach; a hiss of breath, and he manages to catch his fingers around the handle, draw it in close.
In the distance, his squinting eyes see a city. ]
From here, you can: (a) offer Squall a bit of assistance, (b) help him as he stumbles his way into Midgar, (c) make up your own.