When copying sneaky ninja people, one must take extreme caution about the uniform.

Of course, though, nothing is conventional for Seifer Almasy, and nothing is really conventional when one wants to rescue the very famous Commander Leonhart from making the biggest mistake of his life. This does not include the fact that Sir Knight's only source of transportation is a sad, somewhat creepily domesticated gigantuar that sticks painful thorns into his ass every few milliseconds, and that he has not had a haircut in two years. Oh, and one must not forget that stepping out of Time Compression just a mere five minutes ago has got him crazy already.

But back to the ninja clothing; the almighty Sorceress' Knight finds the stretchy mass of black thingies not very pleasing, in terms of outfitting oneself. He had somehow nabbed it out of the dark air—no reason provided—an hour ago, but he still could not put the attire on properly, and it grate his nerves that the important part of his plan was simply not to be fulfilled. Thus, with a heavy heart, he chucks that shitty garment over the random cliff he stumbles upon, and instead, streaks dirt—probably animal droppings—onto his cheeks, like a very intent, wild native. His game face is to show that he is for real.

And that, fine, he will just use the ninja subterfuge to get what he wanted.

Not that he's very good at it. But Seifer Almasy is Seifer Almasy, and Seifer Almasy decided that Seifer Almasy's mission is to enliven the romantic dream he had for years—or however long Time Compression plus his previously sorry life added up to. So he just grits his teeth and rides Senor Prick all the way to Galbadia, hoping that his meditation and blood loss can bring his plan to life.

Because Seifer Almasy is going to rescue—kidnap seems like a better word—Squall Leonhart.

Because Seifer is going to crash a wedding.

A very big, fat, obese, disgusting wedding.

—that is pretty damn crowded, Sir Now-Seriously-Retarded finds, glaring at the hordes of the sick, cheering bastards who lined up outside of the ever so popular palace in Deling City. How is he supposed to run up, grab the Snowman, and tell the guards to kiss his bloody ass—in the most literal meaning—when personal space is taken from him? Not to mention, the security is just plain ridiculous—he might as well admit that he had fifty guards in his boxers.

He begins to miss that ninja uniform pretty badly, standing here, trying to blend in with his ridiculous height and sharp looks, ever faithfully present even after an eternity of torture. Seifer is never one for patience, and the long wait for Squall and that turd-princess to show up is now more annoying than having to tell his gigantuar to go back and hide in the nearby bushes—not that it actually listens, judging by the additional two hundred and fifty-three thorns in his buttocks. And is he surprised to see Prudie, Chickenwuss, and Messenger Girl out there on the first float, trying to be boss? Nah; he already had a heart attack on the way here due to meeting some weird U.F.O. thingy that attempted to nab his ride. Nothing really surprises him.

Until he comes.

Squall.

Or should he say, Commander Leonhart, with his little wifey in tow, all high and mighty on the grand float that slowly snakes down the open path; Seifer's tongue is heavier than that of a cow's when he sees the distant figure, and his throat goes dry, making him anxious as he searches those fingers for the final ring of doom. When he sees only the worth-more-than-bazillion-times-my-balls engagement band, he lets out his breath and wracks his mind for that brilliant plan he created while floating about in black nothingness for the longest while. But it doesn't come to him immediately; thus, once again, he chokes his poor brain for solution A.

It still doesn't come.

Seifer is confused.

Confused enough, that is, to have anger issues two minutes later, glaring at the back of the colorful globe of light that just passed by; it seems as if Squall and Rinny-kins want to do go all altar-traditional to the max, if the mass congregation of politicians and clergymen a good couple of meters away had anything to do with it. That gave this insane maniac time to devise another hysterical strategy, and what better way to test it than—ironically—go up to the interior of the clock-tower?

But as he sees them nearing the altar, and Seifer is hysteric. Fuck the plans. Fuck Rinoa Heartily. Fuck the guards. Fuck ninja skills. Fuck subterfuge. Fuck marriage. Fuck strategies. And fuck his bloody, painful ass. Fuck all of this shit.

So, like the idiot he is, Seifer runs out.

Leaps into the air.

Trashes the floatie.

Grabs Squall.

And dashes like hellfire is on his heels.

He isn't sure if he's sorry, but he jams Squall on top of his pet gigantuar before he himself jumps on, kicking Prickly Prick madly as a sign to hightail out of here. They'll have to save the removing-thorns-from-your-genitalia-and-asscheeks tutorial for later, because this place is the embodiment of chaos, and eradicating guards and security on top of a giant cactus isn't the best way to go. Not to mention, it seems as if Squall finally snapped back, and he is none too happy to find himself being bound on top of a fifty-foot cactus. And being abducted—that crucial part.

Yet, does Seifer care?

Hell no.

So they're off, with Seifer hacking away and making sure everything is nothing, with Squall attempting to kill a very determined lunatic using his handkerchief and dress shoes, and everything goes according to plan. Or makeshift plan. Or spur-of-the-moment reaction. Or something like that. This is the greatest romantic dream: people screaming, shit burning, Chicken Wuss and the crew putting on their goody two shoes, Squall choking him with his dress shirt, alarms ringing, the wedding cake flinging everywhere, the entire works. It nearly brings tears to his eyes at the beauty of it all—Pretty Boy's declaration of love via mortal combat is just the icing on top of his glee.

The last look behind him was of one extremely pissed-off Rinoa Heartily.

The Heartily that never will never become a Leonhart.

His Leonhart, he muses, finally splitting a shit-eating grin as his beloved transporter scurried off into the dark night. His motive. His princess. And his final fantasy. Yeah, Fluffyheartz might rip off his jewels or go ultima on his ass, but there had to be something in that Frosty. If the little bastard really wanted to escape, he could've done it thirty minutes ago, and make something very important disappear. Seifer is crazy, but he isn't stupid.

"You idiot," he suddenly hears behind him, so soft that he nearly misses it. "You damn idiot—why'd you make me wait so long?"

There're thorns on his fingers, but he manages to brush his hand over an unfurled palm.

And grin.

"It's hard being ninja in uniform, man. It's pretty damn hard."

But it's worth every single fiber.

" … whatever."

He is sure of it.