"Okay, what the fuck is going on?"

"Seifer, sit down," Doctor Kadowaki calmly stated, setting down her clipboard on her desk as the blond stomped into her office. "I'll explain everything in a minute."

"Explain? What? The fact that there are … that there's one Squall, then another, and then … that guy, whoever the hell he is." He let out a bitterly hysterical laugh. "Don't tell me my coffee was the source of this shit, because I'm not buying it."


Tired and confused, Seifer grit his teeth as he plopped down on the stiff chair, rubbing his temple while he tried very hard to collect his jumbled, frayed thoughts into a chain of coherency. The old doc neutrally rose from her seat and collected a file from her bookshelf before she handed it over to the other—pages turned, brows furrowed, and knuckles drained of color as Seifer scanned over the document, the indignation and perplexity all too apparent on his face that darkened with each passing second. He did not notice the cup of hot coffee set in front of him, nor did he pay any mind to the clinical white of the room that he hated so much: All he perceived was the disgusting words written on the papers—the papers that made no sense to the point where it made complete sense.

"What. The. Hell."

"That's pretty much the brief overview of this scenario," said the medic, pushing her glasses further up along the bridge of her nose. "President Loire's team of researchers combined several theories into this axiom: The multiple …" Doctor Kadowaki sat back down on her chair as she chose her words carefully. "Squalls are actually facets of his being. They make up who he is, though they are very different by nature, as you have seen."

"Bullshit: You're basically saying that those fifty million … Kittyharts are … Squall?"

A sigh. "That's right. So far, we don't know what the cause is, not even the cure. Further observations are being made about this phenomenon, but other than that, there isn't much we can do."




The gunblader emitted a gruff sound of disdain as he closed his eyes, feeling all too awkward, all too exhausted, in the cramped, little chair that squeaked under his hunched state. For a while, he did not say a word, and instead tossed the file back onto the desk while the doctor quickly scribbled away at her clipboard before she ripped out a page—he did not even feel the paper being placed into his open palms, never mind notice when he stood up with that persistent lady leading him out to the doorway, her hand patting his back in clinical comfort. That bottom message burned into his mind, and his forehead pounded from a major migraine. Shit like this was the last thing he expected when he finally came home after three long months of Galbadian torture.

"I prescribed some medicine for you so that it'll help out with your stress and possible chronic headaches. I'm pretty sure the Balamb pharmacy has this in stock."

"Y-Yeah." God, how his head hurt. He just wanted to leave and sleep like the dead.

"And Seifer," she added, knitting her brow in seriousness. "Don't worry too much; everything will be solved rapidly."

" … I hope so."

He sure as hell did.

But too bad things were going to be a tad more than different …