Right Between The Eyes Ch.1

They found him just after five in the morning on a Sunday, running away from a man they'd deemed too rich who wasn't anymore.

"Is he dead?" Hayner asked.

The thing lay under the only tree growing on this side of the river, which wasn't really a river in the winter so much as frozen black glass. A shard of bone, pinkish-yellow with the stains of blood veins, pierced the air and its head lolled back, mouth open and wide with a tongue hanging out like a panting dog.

Mostly-whole pieces of cloth stuck to the thing, and resting halfway on the ground and halfway on the breast of the jacket was a clump of hair torn from the scalp.

Five in the morning and the bones of his shins stuck into the air like giant splinters, one arm still attached and head lolling back.

"'Course he's dead, chickenwuss," Seifer muttered. For once, Hayner didn't object to the namecalling. "Never seen a dead body before?"

"He's – " Hayner laughed, high and insincere, before he dry-heaved. Like a giant hiccup, and the stupid fucking speakers – speakers in the street meant for fuck all and why they kept them maintained but left bodies in the road, he couldn't know – were playing Christmas music for once, instead of being used for dystopic threats from any gangs in charge that day. O Holy Night.

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

Funny because the sun was rising and he did the next thing, though the woman's voice, high and soaring, pissed him off.

Fall on your knees –

He fell onto all fours, his hands splayed on the ground in front of him, coughing. He felt his throat tighten and convulse, felt his stomach heave emptily, trying to puke up food he hadn't eaten for days. The stench of the rotting body hung heavy in the air, somehow wet and sickly sweet, like finding long-dead animals in the road. Bile rose in his throat.

O night, o night divine –

The speakers were abruptly cut off with the loud snap of static and silence punctuated his empty puking. He spat out water that tasted like stomach juice, hot and acidic, but nothing else.

Do you remember when the only time you felt like puking was car sickness? He laughed to himself inwardly.

"Jesus, Hayner! You're such a fuckin' baby."

The sound of Seifer's steps, and the flap of his light coat (now stained dirty with mud and blood and oil) were always what let Hayner know where he was. Right now he was next to him, hands in his pockets, staring at the top of Hayner's too-blond head.

His dizzied mind slowly steadied itself, like he'd been spinning in circles until he fell down. When he stood up, the ground tilted to the side and he halfway tripped sideways before gripping his head. The world righted itself.

"Sorry, Seif," he muttered. "I guess we can't all grow up surrounded by corpses."

Bodies left out by the river, whose banks were solid concrete and whose forest was broken brick. Next to the river lay a train track which no train could ever run on again.

Seifer's arm, tanned and sweaty, came around Hayner's shoulders, gripping his upper arm. "Stand up straight, pansy," he sighed. "'Sides, the corpses thing's only been the last – ah, fuck. What's the year?"

"Ten since." It was depressing he had to think about it first.

"Right. It's been all corpses and gang bangers since ten. Before that it was fucking peaches, chickenwuss. Even for those of us who didn't have rich-ass parents."

There was a fedora next to the body, too, now that he looked at it with curious detachment. It was nondescript, brown, stained with blood spatters, but nowhere near as awful as the discolored rotting skin next to it. They couldn't see his face – assuming it was a he, girls were worth more alive, after all – and Hayner wondered who it had been, and why he had died.

The post-apocalyptic part of Hayner's mind told him that with a little sun-bleaching and a nice rock for sharpening, those shin bones, sticking up curiously parallel and pink with blood running through tiny fissures, would make – good spears. Arrows. Harpoon-ends.

He felt sick to his stomach again thinking that; he felt dizzy like the ground was tilting after spinning around.

"Didn't have rich-ass parents," Hayner grunted. "Rich-ass friends. Besides, don't act like you were some freakin' street urchin."

The speakers crackled on again.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas –

"Ha!" Seifer laughed and shook his arm around Hayner's shoulders. "Goddamn! Stupid fuckers! Merry Christmas, chickenwuss. Let's go find someplace to crash."

"What was wrong with where we stayed yesterday?" They'd slept on trash bags outside what used to be a bakery.

"Got shot at, moron. I got the feeling we weren't wanted." The cheerful bells on the speakers rang in Hayner's ears and he shook Seifer's arm off his shoulders.

He shoved his hands in his camo-pants pockets, wiggling his toes in his boots. The sunlight glanced over the bones, glinted on bloated glistening flesh and tattered clothing; he considered looking through the guys pants for cash. But nah. It wasn't worth it. "This sucks," he said generally, blinking.

"Can't argue with you on that one." Seifer squared his jaw in his head.

Hayner had never seen someone so dead before. Just shot, or bloody, yeah, freshly out of the land of the living, but the body was so fucking dead it hurt him to look at it.

Seifer started walking before he tore his eyes away from it; Hayner ran to catch up with him.

This place hurt to look at; everything was dead brown dust. The city didn't even have a goddamn name anymore, changed with whoever ran it. The buildings were tall and they crumbled if you looked at them too long. At night, there were lights, at the very tops of the buildings where the Rich Men lived, and lit on the street corners by generous people with dying cigarettes, cast off in the lanterns. Or the clothing of the whores, who didn't have any other hope of getting noticed.

Ah, you got good at hiding in a stagnant place like this.

"Hey! You two!"

"Wha-"

"Hey! What'd you do to that guy!"

"The hell!" Seifer turned around and shouted, motioning to Hayner. Hayner met him halfway, back-to-back, looking in the opposite direction of the voice – for where to hide, for streets to run down, for other guys coming for them.

Seifer tensed against his back. "What do you want?"

"I'm telling you, I saw them stand around his body for a good ten, fifteen minutes – you tell me that isn't suspicious – "

"I said okay, didn't I? Besides, it's them or nobody. I'm not goin' back to him empty-handed."

"Seifer – " Hayner started, but was quickly shushed. They were gang cronies, had to be.

It was safer in gangs like it was safer in wolf packs. But Rai and Fuu had been killed fast back then, and Seifer refused to be somebody's underling – just on principle, stupid fuck that he was.

"That guy'd been dead for days, anyone could tell that." Under his breath, he added, "Lamer, you still have the knife you lifted off that old guy?"

It was unnerving, not being able to see your attackers. Hayner breathed faster.

(He had learned to ignore the insults.)

"Aw, that's so cute, he thinks we care."

"Xigbar, please stop playing the role of textbook-villain. It's getting embarrassing to go out on patrol with you."

He searched his pockets, ran his hands down over them, over his vest, down into his boots.

Some creepy, old Rich Man had propositioned him the other day – thought he was a male street-whore. And, hey, they weren't uncommon.

(Hayner remembered finding out whores were real. Not things in books, movies, TV-shows. That there were people like the kid next to you in math class who would grow up to go out, and stand on corners like they were waiting for their mothers to come pick them up from a soccer game – only waiting for a stranger, someone who just wanted a quick fuck. That Angela from AP English would let perverted old businessmen between her thighs for enough money because the world had run out of oil and the cars had all stopped running and she couldn't get a job. Remembered seeing a girl on a curb and being forcibly dragged away from her by Seifer.)

The Rich Man had proved himself useful only in that he'd had an old knife on his belt that Hayner'd been able to nick before bolting.

But – but he didn't –

"Hayner! You stupid ass, hurry it up!"

"I don't think I have it – "

"You lost it!"

Cut a hole through his big pocket how hadn't he noticed –

"Watch carefully, Zex. Doesn't take your fancy-ass tools to knock out a couple of punks."

It was a concert hall. It was beautiful, grand, tall and broad and golden.

Elaborate pillars framed the stage, adorned with cherubs at the top – like in a church or something – an organ in the back corner, the well-lit floor beautiful wood. The seats were plush and red, wooden, too, with golden number plates and green carpet, and dark here. There was a balcony. It reached all the way around the top, and it rained shadow down on the first few rows of seats where they were being held.

"Like that, dontcha, boys? Haven't seen something pretty for a while, have ya?"

"Don't talk to prisoners." The one with the grey hair pursed his lips. "I already feel like enough of a henchman." He sighed. "I miss the music here."

"Hayner! Hey, Hayner!" Olette kept trying to push her wet hair out of her face; it kept falling back in. "Have you started on your English project yet?"

"Oh. Yeah, actually. Isn't it just like, drawing pictures?"

She nodded tugged on her top, which was hanging funny after she put it over her wet bathing suit. This close to summer, school didn't feel like school anymore. It was coasting. He loved no finals. "We're supposed to represent the theme visually. What are you doing?"

"Oh. Well, it's about like, how we shouldn't let other people make decisions for us, right? So I'm just gonna draw a bunch of people trying to like – I dunno, push someone off a cliff and he'll be like 'no!'."

Olette scrunched up her nose and made a face at him.

"What?" he asked.

"Lame," she said. "That's so freshman, Hayner."

Yeah, well, Mr. Prettyboy not-a-henchman, he missed the school. Imagine what nostalgia could do to your worst memories.

Their arms were hastily bound with old dishcloths, behind their backs. Hayner's bare arm, his shoulder, kept touching Seifer's, brushing and sticking from nervous sweat.

"Seifer, I'm sorry." He hadn't thought of the knife since he'd lifted it from that guy; it hadn't come in handy at all. And now it was his fault this quickly.

"Don't talk to me," Seifer hissed, and made the effort to jerk his bound arm away from Hayner's, though his captor steadied him roughly. His eyes traveled to the was-a-stage, still glistening with dead luster, where a desk was laid out like a stage prop.

(Hayner imagined it was a school play and he was a high school freshman and the Olympics still happened every four years. Fuck, this didn't feel like the future.)

"It can't be so bad," he insisted. "They won't gain anything from killing us, right? So they won't."

"Ha! Why, 'cause it's Jesus's birthday? Good luck with that one." Seifer sneered. "Maybe they'll just sell you to the highest bidder, ya fuckin' waif. You're probably worth more like that. Me, I'm lucky if I get stuck as a transporter or something. Thanks a lot, chickenwuss."

A man sat at the desk, his hair a synthetic pink, his chest unfairly muscled – the kind that comes with careful working-out in a gym, toning this and that, not from scrounging food and running away from guns and trying to catch up to Seifer. He was clicking at his computer.

"You know who he is?" Seifer asked him.

Hayner looked at him like he was mad. Did he know who that was? Fuck, everyone knew who that was! Vain asshole flaunted his power – posters up everywhere – flaunted that he'd killed Xemnas and nobody could do anything about it.

So why would he ask – oh.

Hayner wasn't good at the dystopia thing. He had the mind of a high schooler whose biggest experience with violence was hearing about the war in Iraq on TV.

"No," Hayner whispered back. He pinched his lips to keep from smiling, not because he was happy, but because that nervous tightness in his chest wouldn't leave.

There were times he couldn't help but wonder now if he'd soon be one of the dead rotting bodies that made kids like him puke in the street. He didn't want to die, it wasn't fair. He was supposed to grow up and go to college and get a major in communications and a minor in art history.

"Damn, me neither," said Seifer, who'd made it a point to show him Marluxia's picture the first day they started together. "Probably some small-time mob boss – "

"Boy, ya really are a couple of ignorant streeties, aren't ya?" the eyepatch one made it a point to ask them. "Never heard of him?"

"What's a streetie?" Hayner asked honestly.

Eyepatch barked a laugh. "You! Stupid kids, too useless to be let into a gang for protection – "

"We don't fuckin' call ourselves that," Seifer spat. His hair had started going limp, and strands of dirty blond hung out from under his hat. "Streeties," he laughed and shook his head.

"Not like we have weekly meetings," Hayner added with a smirk. Seifer snorted, though Hayner knew it was just a sign of solidarity – laugh at your partner's remarks because you stick together.

Fuck it. He didn't care what some asshole like Seifer thought of him anyways.

And then it was the man's voice, a thousand things together: like going to the principal's office, your father asking you to bring down the laundry sternly, your teacher telling you not to draw on your notebook in class, the cold superiority of an older sibling's friend, smug cruelty from a stranger on the train, and the bitter velvet of a jaded street whore.

"Much as I enjoy watching cretins discuss vernacular, I don't suppose you'd like to join us in the light any time soon? Zexion."

"Why's he always talk to you?" eyepatch muttered.

"Because he knows I hate him," said the other one.

They forced both of the boys down the carpeted isle, down until they were right in front of Marluxia, whose chin was placed on his hand, eyes casually perusing the screen in front of him.

"Well," he deadpanned.

"You asked for his murderers," the calmer one told him, looking straight up at Marluxia. His eye glittered. "We brought you murderers."

It was just that broken worlds were meant to happen hundreds of years in the future, and there would be robots everywhere, and cyber-terrorism, and people in air ships flying around. Where did all of the cool stuff go?

Their leader laughed to himself a little and shook his head. "These? Come on. Kids? You can do better than that, Zexion."

Zexion's eyes narrowed and his grip on Hayner's arm tightened. "Are you saying I would ever lie to you, Marluxia?"

"Still," the pink-haired man continued without regard. "I suppose…" He stood, and he was wearing only a long-sleeved black shirt, and black pants, and black shoes. He looked like a freakin' theater major. And his boots tap-tap-tapped on the stage floor as he walked closer and leapt off the stage.

He smelled sickly sweet, and like shampoo – no fair no fair, said Hayner's mind – and he came far too close, leaning in towards them.

His eyes were a dark, his eyelashes long. His face was disgustingly pretty, and clean, though there was a small scar at the outside corner of his eye, soft and pale. He had a strong jaw, and his straight nose ended in a perfect point, leading its viewer on to well-formed lips in a pitying smile. He was beautiful and Hayner didn't like him; it was strange to see this face moving after seeing so many posters.

"How about it?" he asked softly. "Did you kill one of my friends?"

"You think you're clever, don't you?" Seifer jerked in his bonds. Eyepatch jerked back to keep him in place. "Come on. How long you been in power? A week? Two weeks, a month? How long you think it'll last, either? Not much longer than – "

Marluxia had been in control for upwards of a year.

The man snorted and laughed. He switched his eyes to Seifer. "Asserting your power? Pretty cocky if you've been accused of murder. I'm afraid I don't have any courts to try you in – it's all me, honey."

"Any moron could tell we didn't do it," he said darkly. "Use your eyes. Hayner was puking from the freakin' sight of that thing."

Hayner puked at the sight of a dead body. Hayner couldn't even keep track of a knife he stole. Hayner couldn't survive on his own. It was Hayner's fault Roxas left and Olette left and Pence died.

Fuck, people really die? He missed thinking like that.

"Mm, yeah," Marluxia smirked. "I'll give you that. So that's a no on the murder?" Like it was that easy?

"You don't get anything out of killing a guy but trouble when you're like us. 'Course we didn't kill him."

Marluxia's lowered eyelids and raised eyebrows made for skepticism, and he smiled at them. He brought two fingers under Seifer's chin and raised his face up like he was inspecting meat. "Nn," he said nonchalantly. "You'll do." He released Seifer's face harshly and turned to Zexion. "Put out the message we've caught Luxord's killers," he instructed. "I don't care what you imply we've done to them, just make sure it circulates. We need to lull him into a false sense of security -" he took a step back and cupped his hands around his mouth and nose, closing his eyes and breathing calmly. "And get Luxord's body. Burn it, submerge it, bury it under the building, feed it to vultures – I don't care. But don't let him rot out there." He lowered his arms and looked Hayner in the eyes. "Sets a bad precedent."

"And the kids?" Zexion's one visible eye narrowed. He called them kids when they couldn't have been much older than they were. He was probably still in high school when the crash happened.

"I don't care," he said. "As long as they aren't running around outside. Aren't I generous?"

Hayner, who hadn't spoken to the man at all and was feeling pretty safe in his obscurity, shot Marluxia a death glare like he was looking at his math test. Marluxia laughed at him, too. "Don't look at me like that," he advised poisonously. "It's not my fault what happened." He spread his arms out, indicating the stage, or the theater, or the world itself. "Mankind evolved to deal with disaster," he said. "We all found our little niches. I wonder if it's easier to blame me than to have nobody to blame at all?"

---------
"But we didn't do anything, Seifer!"

"Obviously. Asshole's just making a power play and using us as an example. Don't think about it."

"Excuse me for not wanting to be some pink-haired flaming queer's bitch."

"Stop it. Shut up, lamer. You can't think of 'em as human; you'll go more nuts than you are now. Think of it like…like a storm. Yeah, I like that. Some natural disaster came down n' crushed your house. Don't blame the storm; just get out of there with your skin in tact. Got it?"

"I hate this. I hate you. Hate him."

"Ah, calm down. We'll be dead soon anyways. Don't feel bad, chickenwuss, the knife wouldn't've helped even if you had had it."

-------------
They were not dead quite so soon, naturally. In all likelihood Seifer hadn't expected them to be at all (not that Zexion or eyepatch had felt like sharing), but he'd told Hayner that to – to what? Make the reality seem less bad? Unlikely. To guilt him for not having the knife – or for just being useless in general.

Maybe it was just Seifer being Seifer. The way he was when they were ten years ago and had barely hit puberty. He was just screwing with Hayner's head and letting him think they were gonna die to see the look on his stupid blond face.

Ha. Asshole.

This was a theater, though; the only place they had at their disposal was a green room. Damn, it sure was a nice one, though. All windows. It looked into a courtyard filled with greenery, exotic plants, birds – a menagerie, maybe, wouldn't put it past extravagant men. There was a glass dome over the top. Like looking into a rain forest and you were trapped here.

They were forced into the room with little ceremony, a wink and a "be good" from eyepatch, whose name they still didn't know. Zexion held the door open for a while, watching them stumble in. He caught Hayner's eye.

"We – " he started, hand tightening on the door knob. "I was an environmental science major," he said. "Wind power was gonna be everything." A shiver passed through his body, shaking the sheet of hair on one side of his face. "Please don't look at me like that."

He locked the door.

There was a crushing weight on Hayner's stomach, trying to crack his ribcage in half, like something inside him had ruptured and black ooze was seeping out into his belly, his throat, his arms. He felt weak; his knees shook. He wanted to fall on his knees and vomit again. O night when Christ was born, he thought bitterly.

It was bad before – you went to dumpsters, old car parks, dismantled what you could – sold the parts, got any dirt you could and grew shit for food. Ate grass but – God, that was the thing. No more cars. No smoke. No factories or street vendors shouting, but – the sky was blue every fucking day, unless it rained, pure clean rain without any acid. The world had gone cold turkey on fossil fuel and was going through withdrawal.

It was quiet sometimes. Really, actually quiet. Computers didn't hum. The electric buzzing of televisions was gone. The grind of coffeemakers gone. At least out there you were free.

"Yo, lamer," Seifer muttered. "Back-to-back, see if you can untie me and I'll return the favor."

They weren't the only ones in the room, he noticed now, as he leaned his back against Seifer's. There were a lot of girls in the room, too. He didn't know what it meant that he couldn't feel anything about that – two guys and about thirty girls their age in the same room. Pretty girls. He didn't have the energy to wake up his libido.

"Quit wigglin' around," he commanded the older blond, ignoring the curious looks. Seifer's palms were sweaty, his bare shoulders warm, and he smelled like cotton and tropical dirt. Hayner felt around for the knot of the dishcloth between his hands; it was bumpy, scratched his fingers as he dug them in between the cloth and pried it apart.

Like shoelaces.

"Ah," Seifer said, bringing his hands forward and rubbing his wrists. "That's better. Turn around while I do you; I gotta talk to you."

"What?" Hayner turned around on instinct, though his hands were tied behind his back. Seifer leaned forward and brought his hands around Hayner, untying the rag. He whispered words in his ear, awkward and warm and moist. "Come on, chickenwuss, a bunch of teenage girls in a room? Either they're gonna be sold or they're this guy's personal harem. I don't care how innocent they are, they might try somethin' and that'd only piss Marluxia off. Act gay." He smirked against Hayner's ear. "Comes naturally to you, anyways."

He gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the old, angry flame burning in his gut; that stupid, childish fury. He wanted to kick and scream and throw things and break pencils when Seifer acted like this. Why'd he have to add that last thing? Sometimes the guy was fucking tolerable. Sometimes he was nice and Hayner felt like he had somebody – and sometimes he was the stupid fuck from Twilight Town days who did nothing but push Hayner's buttons.

"Fuck you!" Jerking away from Seifer, he wriggled at the loosened knot around his wrists and freed his hands. "I get it, okay?"

"Get what?" Seifer looked at him seriously, and his eyes glittered.

Hayner thought colors were things. Not like blue was sadness. Like…black was Olette's hair after going swimming at the beach, purple was Hayner's handkerchief, red was his shirt – so they were good colors.

And blue was – Seifer. He associated the two things. He'd never gotten close enough to Seifer, before, to see what color his eyes were – so now that he had he had a special feeling for them. Seifer's eyes – blue eyes, anyone's eyes – were hope. They were something better. They were Someday. When the world was older.

"Get what," Hayner spat back at him. "I'm a fucking burden and you don't want me around and you'd do better on your own! I get it you think I'm some f- charity case!"

The girls were really looking at them strangely now, standing awkwardly behind the grey chairs or the several dining tables, next to the green couch or by the white cracked walls – with eye-bolts in for chains, the walls. They seemed almost not-there, they were so quiet, but he felt embarrassed to be arguing in front of them all the same.

"What, you want me to just abandon you?" It was like they were performing on a stage.

Hayner took a long, deep breath; it shook on the way back out. Angry. Like Roxas if you asked too many questions.

"Whatever," he sighed. He was sick of the arguing. "Let's just – I dunno."

Seifer came closer and Hayner wound his arms around his own stomach to hold all his insides in. He glanced outside, at the giant window, the big fancy tropical plants (a power play?) and the sky which was white with clouds, the light dirty and pale.

"You don't get to be mad," he grumbled. "You're the one who lost the knife."

"I'm not mad at you," Hayner said, even though he was. Mad at Seifer for being the taller one, with the better muscles, for not losing his hat still, for knowing what to do, for Hayner listening to him.

"Um," it was the first girl under thirty to speak to him in over eight years. Her hair was red and her eyes were hope. "Sorry to – bother you? It's just that that guy's been trying to get your attention for like, three minutes."

They looked where she pointed (she wasn't dressed like a whore, not in her pink skirt and shirt, her sneakers), and sure enough was the only other male occupant of the room.

A thick wire cable was welded firmly to a shackle around his ankle, bolted to the wall. The cable itself couldn't have been much more than – four feet, five feet long?

"Fuck," Hayner whispered hoarsely.

He wasn't actually wearing a shirt. He had brown hair and blue eyes and Roxas face. He was grinning.

"Jeez, finally!" he laughed and waved them over. "Can you guys come closer? I'd go over there, but, well…" he lifted his cable and it made a 'clank' noise, almost like it was a chain.

Hayner Conway felt like he hadn't been able to sit down and catch his breath for ten years. Dammit. Ten years?

"Lamer," Seifer said, eyes trained on the boy. "Forgive my foggy mem'ry, but that kid – "

"Roxas," Hayner groaned. "I mean not exactly but that's creepy. That's – I don't want to talk to him."

Seifer pinched his lips funny and strained the dirty dishcloth in his hands. The not-Roxas was looking at them, cast sharply against the white wall and the green next to him, the red-headed girl coming over, smiling and curious.

"I get that," was all he had to offer. "But sour bananas for you, Hay." He grabbed Hayner's arm and yanked him the ten feet over, to stand and look at the boy – surprisingly well-washed, considering he was chained to the wall.

"What're you guys doing here, huh?" he laughed. "I'm Sora. Haven't seen another guy in – well, a while."

Seifer and Hayner exchanged glances. "We're – " he hesitated and looked at the taller blond. "Decoys," was his suggestion.

"Or substitutes," Seifer added.

"Wow. That's major suck," Sora made a face and leaned against his wall. "What for?"

"Accused of killing someone named…" swearing quietly, Seifer crouched down, playing with the hem of his jacket.

Hayner crouched down next to him and inwardly cursed himself for following. "Luxord," he said. He looked Sora in the face.

"Okay, first thing, you cannot survive off of the money from Struggle tournaments your whole life, Hayner." Roxas picked at the discarded sticky wrapping of his Rocket Pop.

"Why not? There're professional Struggle players!"

"They make most of their money doing lessons, moron," he told Hayner. Feigning dejection, Hayner slid off the bed and bonked his head on the bedroom floor.

He cried, "No! Roxas, I will be a true Struggler! I will suffer for my art!"

"You just want to beat up Seifer for the rest of your life."

"No. That's just a bonus."

Roxas sighed, watching the plastic fish scroll around one of those kiddie lanterns, casting shadows on the wall. They rolled around like a conveyor belt. "I wish you'd quit fighting with that guy," he confessed. "It's just making us all kinda unhappy."

"Yeah, well," Hayner scoffed. "Maybe I'll be as mellow as you once I start crushing on guys."

Roxas rolled the popsicle stick between his fingers. "You said you were fine with it," he muttered eventually.

"I am. If I avoided making fun of you for it that would be weird. Deal with it." He smirked. "Wuss."

"What about you?" he asked.

"Ah," Sora frowned. "I, uh, kinda let freed a ton of people in this room." He coughed. "Three times? So the third time I got…caught." Waggling the chain. "And this happened."

The redhead sat down next to him and put her arm around his shoulders. "Cheerful bastard," she accused him. He grinned at both of them, and it did strange things to Hayner's stomach.

To see hope there. To see Someday. To see We Will Win in anyone's eyes but Seifer's.

"Sounds like major suck," Hayner told him.

Sora laughed and wiggled a little, sitting different on his butt. "Nah." His eyes trained on his feet, tracing the line of the shackle familiarly. "I got it under control." He looked at the redhead girl. "Riku will come," he said. "We have a plan. You'll see. Riku'll be here in no time flat and I will be outta here, Kai." He smiled to himself now, and hugged his knees.

"He needs to get some stuff together. Until then I'm just going to sound naïve when I tell people he's coming for me," Sora sounded painfully grounded. "Hey, you guys know any camp songs?"

"What is this place?" Seifer ignored the guy's question. It was actually familiar to Hayner – like being in a big city; you couldn't give money to every homeless guy. You couldn't placate all the stupid children. You had to walk past some of them.

"Dunno, really. I think Marluxia sells some of these girls off to the Rich Men, but most of them just stay here. You think he's trying to raise a purer generation?" Sora laughed. "He does like pretty things."

"What do you think he'll do with us?" was the next thing Seifer asked.

Shrugging. "Sell you? Have you work as underlings? Messengers? I hear they need messengers."

(Since they didn't have cars or email anymore.)

He tapped his forehead. "Hopefully you stick around long enough, though," he said in low voice, conspiratorially. "I've got a plan. I know this guy up north – he's working on the problem. Building ships. Sail boats, sure, but he's also making hot air balloons. Maybe even – " laughing – "Maybe even modify them, you know? So the balloons don't just float around. Like smaller blimps!"

He tilted his head to the side, staring out at the rising sun behind thick white clouds, just like ten before. "It'll be okay," he sighed. "People just need to stop freaking out long enough for it to be okay."

They stayed eight long, peaceful days in that green room. It felt surreal.

Hayner Conway could breathe. God. He could breathe now. But it was choked and foggy, and too inside. Teased through two layers of glass with the blue hope sky.

The girls kept to themselves, mostly, because it was a large room and they were scared to mess with Seifer. They spoke with Sora – frequently. Sora who would inform them of the date and how everything was going to be okay.

Sometimes, Hayner would look at Seifer and Seifer would look back, and they'd know what the other was thinking: it's so sad. He really believes this.

It was easy to hope for a future of flying ships and sail boats and no electricity. Hard when you lived the reality, not closed off in a little green box.

The night of December thirty-first, Hayner and Seifer claimed the spot under the big window, staring out into the greenery which barely ever moved. Seifer was on his back, arms behind his head, staring up. Hayner on his belly, staring down and playing with a piece of shriveled lettuce from lunch.

"No flying ships," Seifer said. Everyone was asleep, draped across the couch, on the floor, curled up together.

Hayner missed being friends with girls; they hugged you.

"No," Hayner agreed.

"But maybe – something," Seifer looked at him seriously. "Eventually. We'll get out of here at least."

"You think?"

"Yeah." Seifer wasn't so much of an asshole late at night, when they were tired and sick of fighting. "Fix the earth. Live on farms and shit. No cities. No towns. Just once a month meetings so we can mate and not have incest."

Hayner smirked. "Tease," he muttered. And then he added, "…someday."

That was when Seifer shifted awkwardly, brought his arm out from under his head and raised it perpendicular to the floor, his pointer and middle fingers extended in a 'V'.

"Godspeed, momma Earth," he said sleepily, staring at the blue light outside. And Hayner wondered how very locked their locked door was.

He raised his hand up too, to face the window, and smirked at Seifer.