gunite
in
concoursec
002
Characters: Irvine Kinneas (gunite), Katara (watertides)
Location: "Dreamland," Deling City
Rating: PG-13/T
Open/Closed/Finished: Closed
Summary: Irvine's memories of the botched assassination attempt.
The noise of the parade is muffled inside the dark carousel. In the midst of the silence, it's eerily loud. They don't suspect what's about to happen.
" . . . it's in your hands now."
A hand is holding out the rifle; you take it without a word. It's in your hands. You stalk over to the other end of the carousel and seat yourself against a piece of equipment. Both the quasi furniture and the floor are hard, and cold. You draw your legs up, then rest the abomination against your shoulder. The rifle feels right in your grasp.
You hear them talking.
"Rinoa. Seifer's alive. He was in the parade with the sorceress."
(I saw, too.)
" . . . What does it mean?"
"Who knows. I may end up killing Seifer."
Your fingers twitch at the thought.
"You're both . . . prepared, right? That's the kind of world you live in. You've had a lot of emotional training. But . . . Of course, I'd rather it not happen . . . "
You wonder what kind of world she's talking about. All three of you don't live in the same kind of world. It's all different. All dissimilar . . .
(I'm not prepared. I don't want it to happen, either.)
But you know it's impossible to avoid it now, so you keep quiet. It's their conversation. You have no place in it. You shouldn't even be listening.
"It's all up to Irvine."
And you wish you hadn't been. Hearing those words drives you crazy. It's always all you, and you despise the burden they've forced onto you. All you want is to share the load. You don't want to be doing this alone.
Your anxiety catches up to you, and you can no longer hold it back. Your body begins to twitch at random intervals; you feel numb. You can't hide it. He comes over and notices, because He tells you as much.
"Don't tell me you're getting the jitters . . . "
If you were any younger, you know you would have burst into tears. You were always prone to crying when you couldn't help a situation.
"I . . . I can't do it."
Looking is unnecessary; you can feel His exasperation.
There's a loud click, and the carousel begins to ascend. The noise of the parade becomes substantially louder as you hit open air. You can hardly hear it. The rapid beating of your heart dominates your hearing, and your ears pick up little else. Off in the distance you hear the faintest sound of the gates crashing down and trapping the sorceress. You should be in position already, which you are not.
You're snapped out of your thoughts when He yells.
"Irvine Kinneas!!!"
(I can't deal with this.)
You lie. You dislike deception, but you can't offer any other excuse. The last thing you want to do is turn something precious into an excuse.
"I . . . I can't . . . I'm sorry, I can't do it.
I always choke like this . . . I try to act all cool, joke around,
but I just can't handle the pressure . . . "
(I can't tell you the truth.)
He lowers His voice. You take an inappropriate moment to admire that coolness, a trait you presently find yourself yearning for.
"Forget it. Just shoot."
Then it all comes crashing down, because that's another last thing you want to do. He doesn't realize the connotation behind what He said, but you do. You understand too well, and it intensifies the ache.
(I don't want to forget. You forgot.)
"My bullet . . . The sorceress . . . I'll go down in history.
I'd change the history of Galbadia . . . Of the world! It's all too much . . ."
You're spewing one lie after another. History is a trivial matter to you. You don't care if you go down in history, or change the history of your country, or of the world. None of it is too much. What's too much is the target, and her face that you can't see from this distance.
It's worse when you can't see it. Your mind puts an old, familiar face onto that figure in lieu of what you cannot see. A beautiful woman with kind eyes, coupled with a warm smile and consoling voice . . .
(You and everyone don't see it that way.)
You can't blame Him when He doesn't know it.
"Enough! Just shoot!"
But it eats away at your nerves and makes you angry all the same.
"I can't, dammit!"
(Damn it all!)
There's a split second of silence, and it's enough to get you breathing right. Your grip on the rifle is still lax, and you're tempted to throw it off the carousel. He regains His bearings as you try to yours. He speaks again, differently this time.
"Irvine, calm down. Everyone's waiting on you. I don't care if you miss. Whatever happens, just leave the rest to us. Just think of it as a signal. A sign for us to make our move."
He doesn't care if you miss. The moment he says that a great deal of your burden is suddenly gone. You notice He's contradicting himself from when He said it's all up to you, but you like this alternative better. You don't care if you're being selfish at this point; you've held it in long enough, and your behavior isn't what the mission is about. As for the rest of His consolation . . .
(If it's a sign, that means I don't have to do it. Is that what you're telling me?
. . . I'm not going to. I don't care what Garden wants.)
"Just a signal . . ."
Your fingers have stopped twitching.
(A signal doesn't kill . . . )
"Please."
(Okay.)
You turn around to face the sight of the parade. Kneeling down you take the sniper rifle and hold it steadily. You're in full control of your body again. The weight of the rifle is both unbearable and bearable, and your finger itches against the trigger. Your eyes narrow as you take in the sight of the sorceress and her knight, the boy with romantic dreams. Before long, all you see is her.
" . . . Just a sign."
It's past time.
(Damn it.)
You drop back towards the floor. To your left you can feel the pair of eyes on you, watching. You turn your head to look back with your arm raised in an apologetic gesture for your sorry failure. Squall doesn't look angry; you doubt he feels angry, either. It's consolation enough to help you talk.
" . . . I'm sorry."
You could repeat it over and over again, even knowing that it wouldn't change a thing. He tries to comfort you, but it's useless.
"It's ok. Your aim was perfect."
(-- I missed --)
And you know elite sharpshooters aren't supposed to miss, or hesitate to begin with. It's your hesitation that gave the sorceress ample time to prepare for your sniping. Her magical barrier was erected because of you. The blame rests on you.
"Just leave the rest up to me. I'm goin' in for the sorceress. Irvine, Rinoa, just be ready to back me up. Take care of Rinoa."
He takes off. You watch him descend from the carousel and rapidly approach the sorceress in her cage.
(Take care of Matron.)
Rinoa is still behind you somewhere on the platform.
Location: "Dreamland," Deling City
Rating: PG-13/T
Open/Closed/Finished: Closed
Summary: Irvine's memories of the botched assassination attempt.
The noise of the parade is muffled inside the dark carousel. In the midst of the silence, it's eerily loud. They don't suspect what's about to happen.
" . . . it's in your hands now."
A hand is holding out the rifle; you take it without a word. It's in your hands. You stalk over to the other end of the carousel and seat yourself against a piece of equipment. Both the quasi furniture and the floor are hard, and cold. You draw your legs up, then rest the abomination against your shoulder. The rifle feels right in your grasp.
You hear them talking.
"Rinoa. Seifer's alive. He was in the parade with the sorceress."
(I saw, too.)
" . . . What does it mean?"
"Who knows. I may end up killing Seifer."
Your fingers twitch at the thought.
"You're both . . . prepared, right? That's the kind of world you live in. You've had a lot of emotional training. But . . . Of course, I'd rather it not happen . . . "
You wonder what kind of world she's talking about. All three of you don't live in the same kind of world. It's all different. All dissimilar . . .
(I'm not prepared. I don't want it to happen, either.)
But you know it's impossible to avoid it now, so you keep quiet. It's their conversation. You have no place in it. You shouldn't even be listening.
"It's all up to Irvine."
And you wish you hadn't been. Hearing those words drives you crazy. It's always all you, and you despise the burden they've forced onto you. All you want is to share the load. You don't want to be doing this alone.
Your anxiety catches up to you, and you can no longer hold it back. Your body begins to twitch at random intervals; you feel numb. You can't hide it. He comes over and notices, because He tells you as much.
"Don't tell me you're getting the jitters . . . "
If you were any younger, you know you would have burst into tears. You were always prone to crying when you couldn't help a situation.
"I . . . I can't do it."
Looking is unnecessary; you can feel His exasperation.
There's a loud click, and the carousel begins to ascend. The noise of the parade becomes substantially louder as you hit open air. You can hardly hear it. The rapid beating of your heart dominates your hearing, and your ears pick up little else. Off in the distance you hear the faintest sound of the gates crashing down and trapping the sorceress. You should be in position already, which you are not.
You're snapped out of your thoughts when He yells.
"Irvine Kinneas!!!"
(I can't deal with this.)
You lie. You dislike deception, but you can't offer any other excuse. The last thing you want to do is turn something precious into an excuse.
"I . . . I can't . . . I'm sorry, I can't do it.
I always choke like this . . . I try to act all cool, joke around,
but I just can't handle the pressure . . . "
(I can't tell you the truth.)
He lowers His voice. You take an inappropriate moment to admire that coolness, a trait you presently find yourself yearning for.
"Forget it. Just shoot."
Then it all comes crashing down, because that's another last thing you want to do. He doesn't realize the connotation behind what He said, but you do. You understand too well, and it intensifies the ache.
(I don't want to forget. You forgot.)
"My bullet . . . The sorceress . . . I'll go down in history.
I'd change the history of Galbadia . . . Of the world! It's all too much . . ."
You're spewing one lie after another. History is a trivial matter to you. You don't care if you go down in history, or change the history of your country, or of the world. None of it is too much. What's too much is the target, and her face that you can't see from this distance.
It's worse when you can't see it. Your mind puts an old, familiar face onto that figure in lieu of what you cannot see. A beautiful woman with kind eyes, coupled with a warm smile and consoling voice . . .
(You and everyone don't see it that way.)
You can't blame Him when He doesn't know it.
"Enough! Just shoot!"
But it eats away at your nerves and makes you angry all the same.
"I can't, dammit!"
(Damn it all!)
There's a split second of silence, and it's enough to get you breathing right. Your grip on the rifle is still lax, and you're tempted to throw it off the carousel. He regains His bearings as you try to yours. He speaks again, differently this time.
"Irvine, calm down. Everyone's waiting on you. I don't care if you miss. Whatever happens, just leave the rest to us. Just think of it as a signal. A sign for us to make our move."
He doesn't care if you miss. The moment he says that a great deal of your burden is suddenly gone. You notice He's contradicting himself from when He said it's all up to you, but you like this alternative better. You don't care if you're being selfish at this point; you've held it in long enough, and your behavior isn't what the mission is about. As for the rest of His consolation . . .
(If it's a sign, that means I don't have to do it. Is that what you're telling me?
. . . I'm not going to. I don't care what Garden wants.)
"Just a signal . . ."
Your fingers have stopped twitching.
(A signal doesn't kill . . . )
"Please."
(Okay.)
You turn around to face the sight of the parade. Kneeling down you take the sniper rifle and hold it steadily. You're in full control of your body again. The weight of the rifle is both unbearable and bearable, and your finger itches against the trigger. Your eyes narrow as you take in the sight of the sorceress and her knight, the boy with romantic dreams. Before long, all you see is her.
" . . . Just a sign."
It's past time.
(Damn it.)
You drop back towards the floor. To your left you can feel the pair of eyes on you, watching. You turn your head to look back with your arm raised in an apologetic gesture for your sorry failure. Squall doesn't look angry; you doubt he feels angry, either. It's consolation enough to help you talk.
" . . . I'm sorry."
You could repeat it over and over again, even knowing that it wouldn't change a thing. He tries to comfort you, but it's useless.
"It's ok. Your aim was perfect."
(-- I missed --)
And you know elite sharpshooters aren't supposed to miss, or hesitate to begin with. It's your hesitation that gave the sorceress ample time to prepare for your sniping. Her magical barrier was erected because of you. The blame rests on you.
"Just leave the rest up to me. I'm goin' in for the sorceress. Irvine, Rinoa, just be ready to back me up. Take care of Rinoa."
He takes off. You watch him descend from the carousel and rapidly approach the sorceress in her cage.
(Take care of Matron.)
Rinoa is still behind you somewhere on the platform.