The oath comes out louder than he intends, but it’s not like anyone can hear him swearing up a storm over the chaos outside. Seifer ducks back down (perfect timing, too, considering the sweep of bullets that rips through the far wall of their hiding spot, and two seconds earlier would have left a Seifer-shaped stain along with all those new ventilation holes.
“We’re gonna have to get out of here,” he tells Squall, because stating the obvious is also a thing that he needs to do right now, apparently. “Can you walk yet?”
He fucking hopes so, considering Squall’s downed the last potion either of them have between them.
There’s a distant scream, a boom– he recognizes the former as Garden’s incoming aerial assault siren, and it’s easy to assume that the latter is the concussion of a bomb hitting a target.
Hope they’ve got better aim than intel, he seethes, Hyperion heavy in one hand, slick with blood.
He’s got Hyperion, Squall’s got Lionheart… Maybe a couple of bullets between them. Maybe. He doesn’t know what Squall has junctioned, or if he’s exhausted that, or had his GF node ripped off on their mad dash across the battlefield.
Seifer’s got his magic, and a stupid idea dawning on him as another blast rocks the tin shack that was probably someone’s gardening shed before the town became a war zone. One more, and the whole thing’ll probably come crashing down around them.
He hauls Squall to his feet, getting them both to the door, peeking around the frame to assess the situation (and quite frankly, the situation sucks.) The terrible idea gets worse– he breathes, trying to keep the heat of his magic at bay before it gives into this ultimate reckless impulse.
“Forget walking– you’re gonna have to run,” he tells Squall. “And don’t you dare fucking look back until you’ve met up with the rest of the squad.”
A pause, Hyperion’s tip tapping on the concrete floor.
“Well, you’d better come back, too, because I’m not dying for your stupid ass.”
Eyes track the rumbling path of a Galbadian tank, crushing over a row of neat front lawns. Seifer counts to three, the tank rolls out of sight, and he shoves Squall to the left before he goes right.
“I’m right here, you assholes!” he bellows, firing off his last shot before Hyperion comes down into a dramatic arc, and it causes the chaos he was hoping for– all attention of the enemy is squarely on him.
(And to think, once upon a time he’d led this fucking army.)
Seifer grins, bloody and feral, and lets the bullets come toward him, embracing the assault with open arms as he mentally undoes that last tether that holds his power in check– never let it go, you’ll sink like a boat, Edea had told him once upon a time.
She’d be so pissed at him now.
There’s nothing that prepares you for this, nothing at all– he’s only ever done this once or twice, just enough to know he can; the fire rips out of his palms, up his arms and shoulders and hair and for a second, there’s a theory that it might not work, and then every last ounce of power he’s got burning in his bones erupts like a supernova.
The curses of the other fell on deaf ears, the frenzied throb of his own pulse and the drone of bullet fire blocking out all but the most direct of words. It also didn’t help that the bullet wound in his leg was in the process of sealing over bit by bit, flesh and sinew knitting and fusing with wisps of healing green steam until it pushed the bloodied lead bullet out of him into the dust. He bit back a groan, head dropping with a dull thud against the wall he sat propped against, exhaling a breath of relief as the sting began to subside and the blood stopped flowing so freely from the wound, the numbing effect of the potion washing through him like a cool trickle – not entirely healed, but it would do as a stopgap measure to help them press on.
Only then did he open his eyes to look up at the blonde, catching the urgent question and nodding faintly in response, “yeah.” Reaching out beside him he grabbed up his Revolver, flicking open the barrel in a moment of mental clarity and checking the bullets left inside it — a few blast rounds, but the rest were merely concussive. Not helpful for covering a quick departure. His tongue clicked against the back of his teeth in frustration, flipping the barrel shut and reaching up for the hand that extended to him.
“Not like I have much of a choice otherwise,” he muttered to the man with a sullen look by way of communicating that the ammunition on his end was in low supply, leaning his shoulder just inside the door frame to peek around it to the situation outside. There was a narrow margin for error with the enemy closing in. He was assessing, calculating the best route through the streets and houses based on his knowledge of the area, but before he concluded Seifer was warning him to come back for him.
He gave Seifer a confused look just as he was being pushed, urged out into the open, ushered to run back toward the safety of their backup some few blocks away. He staggered, wheeling around to watch in shock as the blonde rush in to face down three tanks and the remaining battalion by himself.
“What the hell are you doing?!” he blurted without thinking, completely ignoring the other’s instruction not to look back – how could he not? Was he supposed to just let the self-sacrificing idiot throw himself under the wheels of a tank while he ran for his life? That wasn’t part of the deal, there was no way Seifer could hold out on his own until Squall returned – skilled or no. He had taken a single step back in his direction when a wave of heat seared his cheeks as if the door of a fiery kiln had been opened. He squinted, lifting his arm to shield himself from the worst of it, watching as flames began to lick the other’s fingertips, a sight he was accustomed to during many years of training with the taller male. But what set this particular instance apart was the way those flames grew, traveled, consumed. Realizing what was happening Squall’s eyes widened, barely catching his footing as he turned to sprint away from Seifer and throw himself behind the crumpled hull of an overturned car.
He’d managed shelter just in time for the fiery nova to erupt, causing the car at his back to quake and blister. He could smell hot metal, burning fumes, arms lifting to cover his ears against the blasts of exploding gasses and ammo. Chaos reigned around him for a cacophonous moment before all fell eerily quiet by comparison – no bullets. No missiles. No shouts.
He lowered his arms slowly from his head, glancing back over his shoulder to listen a bit closer for any hint as to the outcome of the explosion, but none were readily apparent. He raised out of his crouch just enough to peer around the hull of the car, careful not to touch the hot metal that still glowed from the blast, the soles of his boots sticking to the asphalt a bit as he shuffled his stance.
