One could find a dozen tales to be told in just this moment. Every student passing through this quad carried one. Some were heading to or from their classes. Others were no doubt visiting friends, mentors, or lovers. Some had come here to chat with friends, play frisbee, or simply enjoy the weather. One could latch onto any one of these lives, hit fast forward or rewind, and be treated a story like no other. For while all these life stories intertwined at this moment, they stemmed from sources wide and far apart and would again someday diverge into all walks of life.
But to Mikoto Tribal, it was all nothingness. The teenaged Garden cadet stood apart from the crowd, projecting a wave of silent antagonism that repelled anyone who would have any dealings with her. That was fine with Mikoto - human interaction was extra work that yielded no discernible reward. She certainly was not one of those people inclined to think that the glass was half full, nor even that it was half empty. No, Mikoto was one of those rare people who were convinced that the glass was completely empty.
Her monkey tail twitched with irritation at the pathetic facade surrounding her. Couldn't these people see how pointless their lives were? How meaningless it was to celebrate good weather when it would be gone tomorrow? There were probably several billion people on the planet, and billions more through history. How could they be so foolish as to think that they were somehow special or unique? They would all be gone someday, and the world would still be there. (And she didn't believe in reincarnation because she refused to come back as a bug or as a rabbit.) The world did not care about them. They were not needed. They were not important.
And the prospect of anything could offer her salvation from her post-post-post-post-post-ironic hell was scoff-inducing indeed. Art? There was no new commentary on the human experience, nothing to say about the universe that had not already been said. Science? Medicine? There was no reason to bother prolonging meaningless lives. Politics? Good would always come to the wicked and evil to the virtuous; she could not change that. Love? No relationship lasted, and, besides, it was silly to think that someone else was really important. Athletics? A purely artificial facade to promote meaningless accomplishments. Fandom? Consumerism? Much as she liked them, no Radiohead song could make her life complete.
No, like all things, she was nothing. Life was one big fat cliché. Truth was not really stranger than fiction; they were both equally boring. Tragic downfall, romantic comedy, action-packed disaster thriller -- everyone, everything was just a genre. There was nothing new under the sun. And nothing hurt like nothing at all.
Some told her that the universe was one big Rorschach test. It wasn't designed to mean anything; it was only a prompt for her to define her own reality. But to Mikoto, such an explanation only revealed how truly futile it was to search for meaning in the empty shell of existence. If nothing truly meant anything, pretending it did for your own sake was only a sick, cruel joke. Why think the sky was beautiful? Someone else probably thought it was ugly. Nothing was worth caring about once she accepted the emotional holocaust of relativism.
Oh, once, perhaps, humanity had been able to hide inside the comforting illusion that their decisions meant something. Then, they were all individual beings and their actions were born from God-given free will. They had real control over their decisions and when they stumbled, it was because of something of comforting cosmic significance, like the devil. Even later, when their personalities only stemmed from how they treated as a baby and whether their id and superego were in check, they could pretend that they were somewhat unique.
But what were they now? Decaying lumps of organic matter, that was all. They had no real personality, no free will, no identity, only various chemicals floating around their brain. Their problems did not stem for any ultimate personification of evil but a bunch of amino acids. How humiliating to be reduced to nothing more than a chemical equation. But the truth was always ugly and depressing. They were all only machines. So why bother feeling anything? Feelings weren't real.
She put little faith in this whole "soul" thing. Supposedly they were made real human beings into unique people. Supposedly she had one too. Supposedly she wasn't supposed to be a mere machine like the rest of the Genomes. But that was only what the dumb ones claimed so they could rationalize denying the truths she spoke. The only thing she had over them was an extraordinary intellect that allowed her to grasp the emptiness of the universe. She was not missing the point - they were. They were all like the Genomes. Worthless, empty automatons.
And so she had made it her solemn duty to remind everyone else at Garden of just how cosmically insigificant their lives were. If someone had forced her to justify this behavior - if everything was meaningless, did it matter if others had deluded themselves into believing they were meaningful - she wouldn't really have been able to come up with a logical, rational explanation. Logic, rational explanations were the only ones that counted, of course. And yet she found raining on everyone else's parades to be entertaining in some perverse way, or at least cathartic. Misery loved company, and Mikoto's was looking for a block party. And, hey, it wasn't her fault! It was those dastardly chemical imbalances again.
"Hey, you stupid punk, take a copy of my 'zine," she said, thrusting a few photocopied sheets of paper towards Zell. "Look, the name is in all lower-case letters and all the words are strung together. I'm so indie it hurts. The Strokes are the saviors of rock'n'roll."
Did he politely take the 'zine and damn himself to a conversation with Mikoto, even though it would probably turn nasty? Or did he blow her off now and try to minimize the damage? The latter was probably the better option, but by the time he had decided so, he already allowed himself to stop and take a copy of the 'zine. Damn, he was such a chickenwuss.
Zell paged through the photocopied sheets. He had to think something polite to say to end the conversation before Mikoto started spewing more hyperbole than an eBay feedback profile. But he was failed. He cringed when Mikoto began, "Check out my glowing review of the new They Moved the Tomb, But They Didn't Move the Bodies. It's a brilliant mix of atonal synthesizers, grating vocals, unmelodic guitar feedback, and unintelligible lyrics that is guaranteed to make your ears uncomfortable, your head throb with pain, and your mind reel. It's fantastic. Radiohead are the saviors of rock'n'roll."
Oh, brother. Zell was already deeply regretting getting involved this. Now he was all pissed off at Mikoto's stupid snobbery. But he couldn't leave now! That would be like admitting that Mikoto was right! No, he had to fix this mess and force Mikoto to admit that she was just plain wrong! (Because, truth be told, he was kind of worried she might be right.) "Yeah? What's so fantastic about making music that sucks?"
"Because it's art, you wiseass uncultured ninny. You wouldn't understand."
Sure, Mikoto. Whatever you say. He had been idly flipping through the pages while listening to her, and suddenly his eyes fell on one of her less glowing reviews. "What the hell?" he exclaimed. "You gave ONE STAR to Collective Wang's 'Tan Album'?"
Mikoto snorted. Stupid teenagers. "Yes, Mr. Punky Punk, I gave it one star because it was incredibly trite and generic pop crap. Anyone who purchases such dreck is only entering into what Marx called a 'false consciousness,' whereby their purchase of manufactured vicarious experiences of angst and rebellion has somehow liberated us from the endless nothingness and futility of your chemically-inbalanced existence. And yet despite the fleeting illusion of cosmic significance, we remain trapped in the unfathomable nightmare that is our self-made post-modern apocalypse. Art is dead. The Strokes are the saviors of rock'n'roll."
This was all a gross affront to Zell's punk sensibilities, and he could not keep his mouth shut. "Look, it's music, not mathematics." Music was supposed to be about feeling, not masturbating over your time signatures! Who cared if you were new and original? As long as you were doing to meant something to you! And so what if you only knew three chords and had no fancy electronic instruments? At least you felt something! That was the things were supposed to be. Nature abhorred a music critic.
"Yes, but what is music but an endless counter-culture pissing contest?"
"Music!" Zell hurled the 'zine to the ground in disgust. Dammit, Mikoto could get under his skin almost as much as Seifer did. It was like she was trying to find the most annoying, frustrating arguments to make. On second thought, she probably was.
"Yes, and if music isn't utterly dour and depressing, it's stupid pop crap. Art is all about making people feel that their lives are futile and meaningless, you know. After all, emotion has been completely played out, and if it's not brilliant and revolutionary, there's no point in doing it. Everything you think has already been thought by someone else. Interpol are the saviors of rock'n'roll."
Zell snorted. "Your words are as empty as your soul! Rock'n'roll has ill need of saviors such as yourself!" Total ridiculous melodrama, of course, but there was no better way to get a cynic's goat. He knew that, just as it irritated him that nothing he said could make Mikoto care about life, in turn drove up her up that wall that she could not turn him into an emotionless cynic. And if he couldn't win an argument, well, there was still plenty of satisfaction to be found in being a complete pain in the ass.
Besides, he did agree with what he was saying. He hated the idea that they all needed saving from themselves. Like Mikoto was really any better than they were. He wasn't even sure why he bothered getting upset by it, because he knew that the cynics lost out in the end. No matter what any intellectual snobs or corporate tools might say, people would go on liking what they wanted to and doing what they wanted to do. The glory of it all was that most people didn't care if their favorite bands was cosmically insignificant. Because it mattered to them. And wasn't that good enough?
"Oh yeah?" Mikoto continued her assault. "Do you want to be uncool? Huh? Do you? Wilco are the saviors of rock'n'roll!"
"I don't see how it's 'cool' to spend all your life bitching and complaining."
"Because the world bores you when you're cool." How more obvious could she get?
Zell giggled on the inside as he continued playing the drama queen. He picked up the 'zine just so he could slam it on the ground again in disgust. Then, in case his point wasn't clear enough, he stepped on and ripped it with his foot. "I guess I'm not very cool, then, huh?"
* * *
Cid Kramer, Headmaster of Balamb Garden, studied the map before him. The positions of various military forces around the world had been carefully marked and measured, and Cid now tried to envision their movement around the globe. The gazes of the others around the table -- Edea, Xu, and Quistis -- remained fixed on him, as everyone waiting for him to make the critical decision. Cid wrung his hands underneath the table, trying to clear away his remaining doubts and bring himself to take action.
"All right," he declared at last, "I'm attacking the Cape of Good Hope from Irzvjkusktcha."
Just as he was about to roll the dice, the elevator from the lower level arrived with a ding. Cid quickly slipped the dice and Risk cards under the map and feigned poring over the map. "There's one Mr. Niccolo to see you, Cid," Rinoa reported. "He sounds pretty angry -- he's talking about a lawsuit or something. Probably another greedy Wall Street bastard."
Cid scratched his head. "Send up him, then," he said.
Rinoa pushed a button and dropped out of sight. The elevator returned about a minute later, carrying a fat brown rabbit, who in turn held a long scroll of paper. Niccolo began rolling the paper up, pulling up still more of it through the slit in the floor surrounding the elevator platform.
"Looks like Santa Claus is going to be busy this year," Quistis observed.
Niccolo continued rolling up the paper as he faced Cid. "Mr. Kramer, I have in my hands a list of 5,343 card-carrying members of... er, I mean, museum pirates, operating out of this very school. I'll be seeing you in court."
Cid adjusted his glasses and peered through them at the rabbit. "What in heavens' name are you talking about?"
"Don't pretend you don't know!" Niccolo hopped from big foot to the other, about to explode with anger. He was still unrolling the paper. "I know you're personally responsible for this, Kramer! You've cheated me out of hundreds of thousands of lucre from our new 'World's Most Exciting Napkins' exhibit at the Balamb Museum of Natural History! This is stealing!" He finished curling up the paper into a six-inch-thick roll and thrust it at Cid. "And here's the evidence!"
Cid began unrolling the list, scanning Niccolo's list of names and their alleged crimes. "Why, this is nearly every student and SeeD at Garden!"
"That's right!" Niccolo continued. "All those damn college kids, treating my museum like a commodity! You're not getting away with this, Batman!"
"Um, I'm not Batman."
"Well, whoever you are, you're not getting away with this!"
Cid sighed. "Mr. Niccolo, I'm afraid there's no way you can hold Balamb Garden liable for what our students do on their own time."
"Well, I feel like suing
"Is that even legal?" Quistis cut in.
"I'll make it legal." Niccolo's tail twitched what seemed to be barely concealed glee at the prospect of taking his revenge on the pirates. "Anyway, Mr. Kramer, I plan to deal with Kisaragi myself. I expect you not to interfere or Niccolo Group, a proud subsidiary of NORG Holdings, Inc., registered trademark, patent pending, may have to institute a little 'regime change' here at Balamb Garden. Heheheh." Having delivered his ultimatum, he stepped back onto the elevator and descended.
"NORG!" Cid muttered through clenched teeth. "I should have known that bastard would be behind something like this!" He took off his glasses and idly polished them, already planning what to do about this latest crisis.
Meanwhile, Niccolo had descended the elevator to the office lobby. The Bumbling Recurring Minor Villains Local #203 now packed the place, marching around and waving their "More hit points, fewer elemental weaknesses" signs.
"Support your local minor villains!" Dominia accosted Niccolo. "We keep your heroes harassed so you don't have to!"
He pushed her picket sign out of his face. "Oh yeah? There's a bunch of rabble-rousing kids right here in this school that could stand to 'disappear.' I've got more cash that I know to do with if you can stop these kids from cutting into my profits!"
* * *
Zell was still grumbling about it, but Selphie would not let Mikoto's misanthropy ruin their chance to take advantage of the fine weather. A bit of gentle goading on her part was enough to get him in her bright yellow PokéBeetle, and they cruised over to the old part of town. Especially on the side of town near B-Garden, Balamb was draped in the necessary college-town trappings that made it more or less an extension of Garden. But closer to the ocean, that zeitgeist faded away, and what was left looked much more like the town's humble fishing-village beginnings.
While Selphie certainly appreciated the amenities Balamb offered her, it delighted her to know that more could be found to explore beyond it. Barely a trace of Balamb's other life as a beacon of higher education could be found in this quiet little world, tucked away where there were no parking lots, just ocean-weathered storefronts and tiled roofs that didn't match the ones next door. Time stood still for them here; they had ventured out of the range of the troubles and duties that plagued their mundane lives. Here they could get blissfully lost in what might as well have been a prive fantasy universe created only to be discovered by them. It was like they had jumped through one of the paintings in Princess Peach's castle and ended up in an entirely different universe of cozy bookstores and little family-owned restaurants.
Selphie had parked the PokéBeetle as soon as she had found a spot that accomodated the vehicle's Pikachu-styled tail, and she and Zell meandered hand-in-hand down the sidewalk. What a wonderful feeling it was not to be going anywhere. Free from the burden of a destination, they could choose their path anew at each new corner, following only whatever struck their fancy at the moment. And plenty did: wonderful views of the ocean, a child's chalk art (including a cute moogle) on the sidewalk, an old water wheel...
"I still don't see why she has to be such a snob." Zell refused to let the matter drop. "Who cares if what's been done before? I mean, everything's been done before in some way; that doesn't mean we still can't find them interesting. It's about the feeling, it's about your own personal experience!"
"Well, I agree with you about that," Selphie said. She didn't usually mind his rants about music, but she had been trying just for this afternoon to get away from this kind of bickering. "Unfortunately, much as I sometimes wish I could, we can't force anyone to enjoy life."
"Yeah, but what else can we do but try?"
But even Zell's righteous fury could not survive long when taken out of its natural habitat. Standing on a slightly curvy gravel road, breathing in the sea air and watching the fishing boats go about their business in the ocean, any anger at all seemed so groundless. Things all seemed to fit together out here. A soft, gentle flow of life like the calm waves that rolled gently through the bay. Violence and struggle were the products of conflict, but here there seemed to be none. Oh, he knew that was not really the case. There were plenty of problems in any town, in any way of life, and he would have to be a hopelessly naïve tree-hugging F.H.er to believe this was some kind of utopia. But it was nice to see what else was out there, to get pushed out into the giant diverse world that he kept forgetting about, so that he could remember that his problems did not define the earth. His existence was so wrapped up in - measured by, even - SeeD and punk bands that it was easy to forget that so much more was going on around him. Or that one's existence could be measured by standards other than his own. It was relaxing, really; if his life wasn't such an impending crisis of global proportions, he could devote more time to enjoying himself and less time to justifying his existence.
Selphie seemed to be sharing his thoughts, for she murmured, "Zell, have you ever thought about how much stuff there is in the universe? Not just planets and stars and atoms, but ... something new and unique in every little corner of our world. I mean, there could be one kind of tree and we'd get by, but there's hundreds and that's so much more interesting. And the crazy part is that there's probably someone out there who specializes in studying each kind. There's just so much to know about this universe, it's amazing. Thousands upon thousands of different animal species, millions of people each with a story... books and books and books and music, different cultures around the world, every city with its own personality, the physics of a catapult and the genealogy of your best friend's family. We tend to do the same thing every day but in truth there's so much out there to be explored and discovered we could take lifetimes and never see it all."
"Yeah," he murmured. He wasn't sure what else to say. He wanted to express how much he agreed, but Selphie had already put it so beautifully he didn't think he could improve on it any. That was often the case. So many times it felt like she had not just yanked his thoughts right of his head but brought them into focus, touched them up, and presented them back to him with crystal-clear precision. Twice as magnificent, twice as understandable as they had been in his head. He fumbled to contribute something to this masterpiece. "I think everything in the world is interesting and worthwhile in some capacity. I mean ... it's so easy these days to deny that things even have a right to exist. People just say they 'suck'; they don't even have to give a reason, any form of useful criticism. One word takes away its whole place in the universe! But, you know, if it means something to someone, anyone ... it's not worthless at all. And pretty much everything is admired by someone." After all, wasn't that he had been arguing with Mikoto about? Mikoto thought everything was a cliché, that the world was boring and had to come up with something new to interest her. But he liked a lot of what was already there. Too bad that it didn't matter that he thought Rectal Genocide's self-titled was great; as long she didn't, they sucked and shouldn't exist.
It kind of surprised him, but he was really starting to notice a change in himself. It wasn't too long ago that he would have spent this whole trip griping about Mikoto and mentally noting things that "sucked." But ... while he had never made a conscious decision to shy away from that, he found his feelings swaying in that direction less and less. He couldn't totally put into words yet because he wasn't sure what it was; it had sort of snuck up on him. But days like this made it hard to deny that it existed. He felt like he had gotten back in touch with something he had lost somewhere: an interest in the world. He was starting to wake up to the beauty that lay right under his nose. His life, as of late, was more a competition than anything else, an ongoing struggle against his inner Mikoto to justify his existence. But he remembered a time when he could afford to take an interest in things other then the newest, most underground punk bands and other armaments in his war against worthlessness. But once, every bit of the world seemed to exist to be explored, understood, and incorporated into his life. An endless playground, not an endless battlefield.
He missed that. He certainly had been a lot more excited to be alive back then, and he had felt a lot more secure about his own worth. But, alas, that was irrelevant now. He had already chosen his path. Even if he wasn't happy with his direction, how could he ever hope to make up all the time had lost? Others had used this time to advance their understanding of the world, build friendship and careers, master their favorite activities, and all he had to show for it was the original vinyl release of the Filth Brigade's seminal record Bloodsucking Penis Fish.
They ate lunch - Balamb fish, of course - in a little restaurant with a rather nice view of the ocean. Had a lovely talk about SeeD and their friends, about how happy they were with how things seemed to be going these day. Even got to sit by the window. Selphie was beaming. Zell was doing flips that he was finally able to offer her something besides whining.
Their travels took them next by a row of houses. They couldn't go in any place here, but that was fine. Houses fascinated Selphie. It would have been easy for them to all be identical, yet they came in so many designs, sizes, and colors. Sometimes lots of houses were built from the same plans, yet they still ended up different once living souls got into them. Some kept up their yards; others didn't. Some hung lots of decorations out front, or in the windows; some were more staid. Some had gardens; others water slides for their children. She thought it was cool how their residents managed to reshape the same clay to suit the many varying sculptures they had in their heart. Everyone wanted something a little different out of a house. She imagined living in each one. Sure, she had already had her home (even if it was only a dorm room), but every other one had its own life. They were only other houses to her, but they were all home to someone. One family's life revolved around each of these domiciles. So she could not be too quick to write them off for not being the home she had become attached to; someone out there was attached just as much to each one. It was fun - and, she thought, eye-opening - to consider herself being in each of these other lives.
They passed by a dollar store and - at Selphie's suggestion - peeked inside. That, Zell, noted was the difference between Selphie and boring people like him. He knew he would have walked right by that store and never even considered going in. Wouldn't have stopped to wonder what was inside. It was for other people; it wasn't what he had already declared important to him. But Selphie wanted to explore. Selphie wanted to discover. Selphie wanted to examine everything around her and find out how to draw new value from it into her own life.
And that was exactly what she was doing right now: rummaging through various bins of junk looking for anything she might be happy she found. Zell wasted no time in following in lead. Sure, most of what he found were irrelevant trinkets, but that was okay. It was fun actually looking for interesting things instead of looking for ways to explain why interesting things weren't really interesting, you stupid poseur. Selphie probably felt this way all the time. Hyne, how awesome that would be. But ... he wasn't sure he could do it. He could if he made a conscious effort to go out of his way to try new things. But it wasn't in him naturally, not the way it seemed to be Selphie. Or at least not yet.
"Ooh, this is kind of pretty." Selphie sifted out a Rubik's Cube adorned with pictures of stars and planets instead of colored dots. She picked up the toy and started fiddling with it. "I had one of these a long time ago; I could never solve the darn thing." Well, it seemed kind of fun and was certainly worth the cheap price. She liked stars.
He kept scouring the shelves while Selphie went to purchase the Rubik's Cube. Besides all the generic household goods, there were some odd items. A horribly chintzy Winhill: The Good Life map, some "Gnu Canoe Camp" placemats, a bobble-headed Laguna doll (part of a larger Bobble-Headed Leaders of the World set, according to the package). Zell briefly thought about getting the doll for Selphie, but it looked so stupid it probably sacrilege her idol.
He moved on and found a row of bright-colored Pokémon tumblers. Hey, there was Charmander; that was Selphie's favorite! Now if only could he find his favorite, he could make a cute set. He shifted the glasses around - he even took a few rows fof the shelves entirely and set them on the ground - until he finally found an Electabuzz. Heheh, awesome. Sure, they weren't fantastic purchases -- he figured they'd rarely, if ever, actually use the glasses. But they'd be a reminder of not just a happy excursion but one that Zell would probably later come to regard as something of a turning point. That was worth a few gil.
It wasn't until recently that Zell had come to see the value of souvenirs - probably because it wasn't that long ago that he didn't do anything worth having a souvenir from. But now he wanted to crystallize every uplifting feeling in a photo or snowglobe or postcard. Then they could be carried with him forever - not just in his mind but in his room and in his pocket, so that when they escaped his mind something would be there to put them back in mind. He liked having these reminders of how much he had in his life, how much the world had it in itself. Not only could they opened the door back to happy times when the only ones around him were miserable, they empowered him to make his life and the world better. Too much existed for him not to do his part for it all.
Selphie appeared behind him, staring over his shoulder at the glasses. He chuckled. "I thought I'd get these a souvenir," he explained. "Here's my Electabuzz and here's your Charmander."
"Cool. Go pay for 'em; I'll pick up this mess." He did, and she did.
"Thanks for waiting," he said as they left the store.
"No problem."
Their hands found each other again and they set out again to explore. Selphie spotted a gardening store and stopped to pick up a plant for Quistis' garden - the one in her new backyard, not the one where she worked. As they were walking away, Zell felt the slight tingle of movement on his shoulder. He looked down. A tiny Bite Bug had landed on his left shoulder and was crawling down his sleeve. Zell carefully lifted the insect off with his other hand, walked back to the storefront, and set it down in a flowerpot. "There you go, little fellow."
Selphie looked at him with some amusement. "You could have just squished it, you know."
Gah, how could he answer this without sounding totally self-serving? He really wasn't doing to prove anything, it was just the way he did. "I just don't like hurting things," he said in something of a protest. Ugh, he wasn't trying to be so obnoxiously nice, but he could hardly bring himself to do anything else with the poor bug. "I mean ... it was just doing all it knows to do; it doesn't deserve to have its life snuffed out. It's like I said, everything in the universe is worth something." He frowned and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to deflate some of the embarrassing pretentiousness he'd just wrapped himself in. No luck -- his cheeks were already warming up. "Gosh, that sounds so dumb, I know..."
She grinned and gave him a playful elbow. "No, it's not; it's sweet, and I agree with you. Stop being so embarrassed about being yourself."
"Yeah, yeah, I know."
She smiled and looked at him. "Are you having a good time?" It seemed like he was but she sometimes worried that on the inside he was wishing he could be doing something more him.
"Absolutely." Too bad he didn't have more to say than that. He wanted her to understand how he really saw the world, what he was thinking, how he wanted to be in that other world, but ... he just didn't have the words. His thoughts and feelings knew no language. He could try to pluck them down from the sky, force them into the little color-coded bottles of words, and stack them on sorted shelves where others could identify them without having to think about them. But he always lost something that way, like shrinking a great mural down to a thumbnail photograph.
She grinned. "Good, I am too. Thanks for coming along; I know this isn't really your thing."
But it is, Selphie, it is; don't you see? he wanted to say. Alas, she was probably right, though. He could learn all the customs and ways of this world, stand with his face pressed up against the glass, but he would never truly be a part of it. Twenty years on the outside had already sealed his fate. His brain programming was already stuck on "elitist punk." He could not suddenly jump from one track to another, from one Zell to another Zell, any more than he could suddenly be Irvine or Rinoa or Fujin. He had made his choice, and even if he wasn't completely happy, he had to learn to live with it.
But at least it gave him plenty to think about on the drive home.
* * *
When they got back to Garden, they found Squall sitting on the front steps, staring morosely at the ground. "Hi, Squall, what's up? You look down."
But Zell diagnosed the specific nature of the problem immediately. "Holy Penny Arcade reference, Batman; he's turned into an
Yes, it was true. Squall had traded in his fur jacket and Griever for thick-rimmed black glasses, a slightly worn button down shirt, a fuzzy brown sweater, and dyed-black hair. The newly refashioned Emo Squall sipped black coffee and wrote depressing poetry in his diary as the Get Up Kids blasted through his headphones. Zell immediately found himself attempting to restrain his urge to comment on this. He knew that it wasn't any of his business how Squall dressed, but he simply couldn't wrap his mind around a point of view from which Squall's pathetic trend-jumping could be justifiable. How could anyone be this fantastically dumb?
That question once again proved too much for him to handle. "What the hell's gotten into you?" he exploded. "Did you junction 100 Ultimas onto your retardation statistic or what? I like your clothes too; did you buy them at Hot Topic? Listen, noodlehead, this may come as a great shock to you, but there are other emotions besides whining over ex-girlfriends. And since when did crappy acoustic rock become the only music with emotions in it? Huh?"
Squall looked even more hurt and confused than he had before. He knew Zell had quite a complex concerning other people's tastes in music, but as Squall so rarely cared about anything, this was the first time he'd actually been confronted by it. It was rather unsettling. This was his personal business, and he didn't know how -- or why he should need -- to justify it to Zell. "What do you have against emo? I think it’s deep and sensitive.”
"It's music for children, like Chuck E. Cheese!" Zell raged. "Being whiny and heartbroken doesn't make emo bands cool, it makes them ineffectual, self-important losers! Trying to outdo each others' whininess is just as much of a pissing contest as the undirected alpha-male anger they claim to be above! The only thing that these bands wear on their sleeves is their mindless trend-jumping! How can you listen to this garbage?"
"It speaks to me," Squall sniffled.
"But it's totally generic pop crap! If it speaks to you, you must be generic too!" Selphie looked curiously at Zell. Perhaps it had been only a passing comment, but she thought she just might have figured something out. "Why would you care about whiny emo music, anyway? You have a girlfriend!"
"No, I don't. I was dumped." Squall sniffled again and took a sip of coffee.
"Oh. Uh, oops." Damn him and his big mouth. Now he'd made a total ass of himself again. Not that the truth made Squall's pathetic bellyaching any less irritating - but it did make this an inappropriate time for Zell to harass him about it. Squall had enough real problems to deal with. On the other hand, Squall would have no trouble finding plenty of 15-year-old girls to fawn over him and his "sensitive" emo glasses. "Hey, I didn't know; I'm really sorry to hear. I know that must be really hard, and I'm sorry I flipped out at you..."
Squall sighed. "Maybe if I learned to play acoustic guitar really badly she'd take me back. I think girls go for guys who play acoustic guitar really badly. Or I could get a little rectangular goatee. Do you guys think I'd look good with a little rectangular goatee?"
"Squall, why don't you explain what happened?" Selphie suggested. "Maybe you'll feel better if you talk about it some."
"I don't know what happened," he whined. "Rinoa asked me the other day where I thought our relationship was headed. I said 'wherever you think it is,' and then she got all mad at me and started saying I was a pathetic spineless leech who didn't have any opinions of his own. She said the only place our relationship was headed right off a cliff and into a flaming, smoking wreck of twisted parts and lots of shrapnel jabbing into your eyes. I guess I didn't give her the right answer; what did she want me to say?" He sighed dramatically once again. "Sometimes I think that love is just another word for pain."
WHOA, HOLY SHIT, THAT WAS INSIGHTFUL! Zell's cynical side hurled sarcasm at Squall in the safe testing ground of his imagination. He knew he shouldn't be so jaded - and he did recognize that Squall was understandably crushed - but did emo boy have to be so melodramatic about it? Whining and feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to change anything aside from making Squall feel even worse. Granted, that was Squall's decision, but every time Zell tried not to take it too seriously, there was Squall sitting there in his stupid glasses, taking everything far too seriously, and ... ugh.
"And did she talk to me in person? Call me? No, she did it over Hotmail. So not only was my heart being ripped out and shredded, I had to look at an ad for the X10 WIRELESS VIDEO CAMERA."
Selphie frowned and fidgeted with the heel of her shoe. What comforting words could she offer him, especially since he'd already more or less made up his mind to be miserable? "Things don't work out the way we'd like them to, Squall, I know..."
"Well, they should," he declared. "We were as good as married in my mind! How could this happen?"
A few raindrops splashed on Selphie's head. "It's starting to rain," she cautioned. She didn't want to act like she was ignoring his woes, but issues like that did need addressing. "Maybe you should come outside. We could do something together."
Squall shrugged. "Nah. The world always rains on me anyway. It's no difference."
"Well, okay... if you say so..."
"Maybe I should get a tattoo," he mused as his friends departed. "They hurt like I do."
* * *
"I don't know why I let that sort of thing bother me so much," Zell confessed to Selphie as they were walking back through the hallway. "I know it's silly and dumb and doesn't matter and is hence nothing to get upset about. I know I haven't change anything by making fun of him. I guess my mind just boggles to think that there are still people who are that much of a ridiculous stereotype. I don't know how to process it." How could he not laugh at emo kids? Tattoos that "hurt like I do"...
But Selphie had an inkling of her own. "Zell, something you said to him made me think. About how if Squall liked generic music, he must be generic too. And ... that's it, isn't it? The reason you only listen to obscure punk bands. You're afraid of being generic, aren't you? You're worried that you're not doing enough to justify your existence when there's so many others like you. That's it, right?"
Yikes. Was that it? It almost made sense. He'd never conceived of that idea, had certainly never consciously thought that way, but it did seem awfully fitting. "Maybe. Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I'd say that I want to matter, to not be another whiny dork thinking his trite problems are important when they're actually shared by tens of thousands of other people just like him. But I know I matter to you."
"You matter to a lot of other people, too."
"I know," he said. "I guess it's more that I'm worried that I'm going to come to a bad end because of what I am. I mean, in general, white middle-class males are a crappy bunch of people, right? Look at Squall. Look at
He hated the fact that so much of the world threatened his individuality. It terrified him. He knew that as a well-to-do white male all his thoughts were inherently suspect, knew that it would be all too easy for him to drown in the same social programming that created all the other Seifers of the world. And he hated the haunting appeal of those roles. More than anything, the reason he couldn't stand to hear mainstream music was that he didn't totally hate it - and that proved that deep down inside, he really was the same as Seifer. So he had to struggle to not let his inner nastiness infect the world. His morality needed to be kept precisely honed. One false step, one band he liked that he wasn't supposed to, and ... whoosh! There went his entire value as a human being! On the run from himself, that's what he was. But at the same, his curious side resented being walled off from so much of the world. So what if he did like the occasional rap-rock song? He should be able to take in everything that made him happy.
But could he risk it? Could he risk letting the possible biases of his privileged background dissuade him from doing the right thing? If he always assumed he was wrong, well, no one could ever accused him of being morally bankrupt.
Selphie stared out the sides of the walkway and watched the rain beat against the glass. Good thing they'd gotten inside when they had. She could not help but be frustrated with Zell's determination to turn himself into a pariah. But she wasn't mad at him, really. She knew he meant well and that he was trying not to be this way. She just wished she could find the right things to say to break him out of this mess. Because once Zell managed to talk himself back out of the corners he'd talked himself into, he stayed out. One-winged angels, she reminded herself.
"I understand," she said after she had finished contemplating her reply. "No one wants to be thought of as just a stereotype. I know that some people still think of me as a bubbly, ditzy airhead and it frustrates me that I can't always get taken seriously. But being different for the sake of being different is no different than falling in the line for the sake of being normal. We're snowflakes, Zell. Everyone's a little different. You, me, Seifer, Squall... we're never going to be each other, so don't think that because we have things in common means we'll do other things the same way. Everyone thinks for themselves. You don't have to make yourself unique; you already are just by existing and nothing will ever change that. And even if you do have your faults, so what? No one's perfect. You're holding yourself to too high a standard, Zell. Don't forget to care about yourself just as much as you care about everyone else."
Zell grinned. He knew he needed to hear this - wanted to hear this. It might take some more beating in before it actually started to change his thinking, but, really, he knew that he had believed in his heart all along. And so he welcomed hearing it from someone he knew had nothing but his best interests in her heart. "Yeah, I know. Sometimes I just need to hear it in words to get it through my skull. Thanks."
She had one last thought to add. "Zell, if you hate yourself for being white or male or straight or whatever ... that's no different than hating other people because of their gender or race or sexual orientation. Now, I remember when you went to great lengths to prove you weren't homophobic, and I know you're not that kind of person. So don't be heterophobic either, okay?"
She was right, of course; she always was. He felt a little bad because she'd already given him all the answers he needed and he'd failed to live up to them. But after he'd spent so placing obligations on himself, it was so hard to break them - even though he knew in his hear that he didn't deserve them. "Yeah. It's not easy," he said. "I guess I need to listen more to the people who care about me and less to Mikoto."
"Well, there you have it." She grinned and poked him in the ribs. "Besides, what could be more punk rock than listening to widely-reviled sappy pop music and refusing to give a damn about what anyone else thinks about it?"