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Seifer
The rain doesn’t stop. Parade floats are half-built skeletons against a morning the color of tin. Cables snake across the street, puddles catching flashes of neon and exhaust. He’s atop the float, taking in the threat points, when his gaze catches on the sign across the alley.
I HAVE TO CHANGE TO STAY THE SAME
It hums hot pink through the fog, hanging in some pretentious little gallery. Garish in the rain.
Change. They’d all preached it at him. Be better, be disciplined, be less. All those Garden lackeys who tried to sand him down to fit their mold. Even the blonde cadet who once trained beside him, eyes sharp with challenge, like she saw him—until she came back wearing a SeeD uniform and stopped seeing him at all.
Why can't you be more like Squall?
Rain drips down his face. He’s finally done playing their part. This isn’t change. He’s stepping back into his own skin.
Parade banners flap like wings above the street. Somewhere, soldiers shout his name. Not a reprimand. With deference. They’ll wait if he makes them.
The city flickers, half-awake. He tilts his face up into the rain, and pink light stains his grin.
Rinoa
Evening settles on Deling. The parade route is cordoned and gleaming.
Floodlights pulse along wet stone. Workers shout, stringing banners through the mist. She lingers at the barricade, watching the route where the army will parade out. Across the street, a pink sign buzzes in the window:
I HAVE TO CHANGE TO STAY THE SAME
The words look alive, electric against the dreary sky.
All her talk about resistance—for what? She thinks of Squall’s steady eyes, too sharp, too tired, seeing straight through her. How she wants to be someone who doesn’t need saving.
If she stays as she is, she’ll fade into the noise. If she learns to fight, to matter—maybe she’ll keep the promise she’s made to herself since Timber.
Her toes curl in her boots, cold as the threat of failure. She shakes her head, tossing the thought away. The city lights wash her face in gold and silver.
“Then I will,” she whispers. “Whatever it takes.”
She thinks of the Odine Bangle glinting in her father’s study—the one she isn’t supposed to touch. And she runs—through the puddles, through the crowd, toward whatever difference she can make.
Quistis
Night has fallen. The parade blares somewhere beyond the alleys—music, firelight, cheers.
She is running.
Her boots slip on the cobblestone, night air sharp in her lungs. The mission’s gone sideways—all because she couldn’t control her emotions.
Again.
At the end of the street, a window flares pink:
I HAVE TO CHANGE TO STAY THE SAME
The words ripple across a puddle as she passes, reflected and broken.
The word has chased her for years—through exams, promotions, that humiliating revocation. She thought she’d learned control. Professionalism. Discipline. But emotion keeps breaking through—Seifer’s taunts, his grin, the frustration of the student she couldn’t reach; Squall’s distance. The raw sting of wanting to finally be enough for someone. Everyone.
She presses her hand to the brick wall, chest heaving. Zell and Selphie slow behind her. If she keeps unraveling like this, she’ll lose everything she’s built. The prodigy, the instructor, the SeeD. If she’s not that, what is she?
Her reflection stares up at her, blurred, unfamiliar.
“Lock it down,” she chides, voice unsteady. “Just… lock it down.”
And then she’s moving again, chasing the mission, chasing control, chasing the version of herself she swore she could be.
Squall
The darkness burns with light and noise.
Music coils through the streets, the crowd’s roar rising and falling beneath it. He waits beside Irvine on the balcony, eyes fixed on the Sorceress’s float. The mission is everything—briefing, distance, order.
A glow between dancers catches his eye: neon, flickering in the dark alley below—
I HAVE TO CHANGE TO STAY THE SAME
The words pulse once, twice, before the parade blocks it again.
It’s all anyone seems to want from him lately—Quistis, Rinoa, even this sharpshooter confessing his nerves—to be someone he’s not.
Connection is distraction.
The shot fails, chaos blooms, and he’s already moving. Through the smoke, the screaming, the flood of light. Down the parade route. Into the car.
All you can do is be who you are. What’s the point of anything else?
Just ahead, Seifer—waiting in the spotlight.
“This is my new life!” Seifer crows. “My romantic dream! And you people are not invited.”
Something about Squall swearing undying hatred.
The world is falling apart, and all anyone cares about is finding themselves in someone else. Even Seifer wants a witness.
Squall doesn’t understand needing anyone that much.
He doesn’t plan to start now.