Chapter Text
Quistis Trepe sat, back straight, at the head of the conference table.
The conference room was empty and silent, save for the buzz of the yellowing fluorescent lights overhead and the ticking of the ageing, quartz clock on the wall. She glanced up at it, posture still perfect.
Thirty-nine minutes past nine.
They were nine minutes late.
She fought the temptation to rearrange the objects on the table before her - three unopened plastic bottles of water, a tissue box, and a single ball point pen.
The pen was standard Garden issue - a slim tube of sticky black ink enclosed in clear plastic, with a simple knock-spring mechanism, procured in bulk and requisitioned by staff in plain carboard boxes of twelve. These pens were not ergonomic and tended to hurt the hands after prolonged use. The plastic ridges tended to imprint right into the sides of the fingers. More egregiously, the entire box of pens would somehow run dry, regardless of how much ink appeared to remain in the barrel, about two months from requisition. They did, however, cost less than 1 gil per piece when purchased in bulk.
In short, the pens were cheap, easily replaceable, and rather disposable. Expendable.
Much like the rest of Garden’s resources.
Quistis recalled that there had once been a staff petition to change suppliers. The petition had been started by one irate combat instructor who was tired of his pens running out of ink mid-way through cadet evaluations.
Instructor Galen had unfortunately, been discharged on medical grounds shortly after. It had been a freak training accident, one that involved two T-Rexaurs in the training centre and having to manage thirty preteens in a single class.
A coincidence, and a very unfortunate one. The petition had accordingly, died down.
She sincerely hoped that the good Instructor was doing well, wherever he was.
Quistis’ mind returned once again to the present.
An exit interview. This was a first for her. She supposed that there would be forms to process her exit, documentation that required her signature. Some talking, perhaps? They’d assured her that it was just an interview, strictly procedural, a formality - with no right or wrong answers, that it was just a way for Garden to understand its employees better.
It was odd then, she thought, that they would choose her official last day on the job to learn about her. No matter. She was done here.
She glanced up at the clock again.
Forty-two minutes past nine.
Well, they were now twelve minutes late.
Her back was still straight, her chin lifted, her shoulders pulled back – but she was beginning to become aware of a niggle in her shoulder. An ache, somewhere deep in her right upper shoulder, that seemed to radiate outwards to the back of her shoulder. The strain was growing more noticeable by the second and was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
The clock ticked on.
Forty-three minutes past nine.
Hell, she really wanted to stretch her shoulder. It had been years since she had to stand in parade and she did not miss it. But today, today was her final show – of discipline, control and precision, and – oh hell, her shoulder was really a bitch today, had she slept funny? She had tried to transition to sleeping on her other side over the years, but when she was tired (which was nearly always) she tended to flop over on her right side – the whip-throwing side – and it was always hell in the mornings.
Forty-four minutes past nine.
Where the hell was Human Resources anyway? Emergency meeting? Too many humans to resource? Wait, sorry – Human Capital, not Resources. They had renamed certain corporate functions a year ago, a suggestion from some Deling-city based management consultants.
Human Resources, they had argued, was too demeaning in that it reduced personhood to resources, like firewood or natural gas, to be expended. Capital, they had reasoned, implied a measure of value. Now, Quistis wasn’t sure if that was any less demeaning, for monetary value to be attached to persons. She reflected that as a military institution for mercenaries-in-training, either would be rather consistent and on-brand, in any case.
Yet another glance up at the clock.
Forty-five minutes past nine.
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet – and a department by any other name would be as inefficient and tardy, it seemed. Fifteen minutes was up – the socially-acceptable margin for time-idiocy. She loosened her shoulders, just a little – ready for a big, wide stretch and the relief it would bring -
The wooden twin doors of the boardroom swung open.
In sauntered two representatives from the Garden Human Capital Department. Quistis had only ever spoken with one of them – Phil, Vice President, Talent Acquisition, regarding some suggestions she had escalated to them. It was a memory of a vapid words and empty promises that stuck to her like gum on the soles of her shoe. Fitting then, that he would oversee her last official engagement with Garden administration.
She did not recognise the second representative. She looked…young.
Both, she noticed with growing annoyance, were carrying iridescent blue paper coffee cups, emblazoned with “BUCKIN’” branding on the sides. The coffee chain had recently collaborated with an Estharian boyband or something – she wasn’t sure, she wasn’t a fan – but she knew that the only BUCKIN’ was off-campus, in Balamb Town, and…
These idiots were fifteen minutes late from a coffee run to Balamb Town?
The disrespect.
“Good Morning, Instructor! You’re very early today!” chirped the one who wasn’t Phil.
She cleared her throat.
“I am not early, I am punctual. The both of you are late. It is not the same.”
Silence, save for the frantic shuffling of some papers, as Human Capital settled into their seats across the long boardroom table.
Quistis afforded Human Capital a brief moment to compose themselves and cleared her throat again.
“You called for this meeting?”
“Right! Okay. So, I’m Phil from Human Capital and this is Jo – she’s just joined. Today is your last day with Garden. We’d like to express our appreciation for your support and contributions to Garden in the last,” Phil looked down at his papers, rather unsubtly, thought Quistis, “twenty years? Since you were officially made SeeD?”
“Wow! What a career. We just have some routine questions and some forms for you to sign off on.”
“Eighteen, actually.”
“Well, so I suppose for a start, perhaps you can give us some flavour about your time here with Garden? You started as a cadet here?”
No, I started as rear admiral, she wanted to say, but she swallowed the snark.
“That’s right. I was just 11 when I enrolled. I spent most of my childhood in Centra.”
“Wow, Centra! I’ve always wanted to visit.”
The younger representative smiled, her eyes wide and enthusiastic.
“Of course you would, it’s changed now.”
Quistis allowed herself a wan smile.
“It used to be just sand dunes and the ocean. It was an orphanage built on ruins, by the sea, run by Edea Kramer - you know her, she was married to Headmaster Cid Kramer. I was adopted, briefly. It didn’t work out, and I found myself back in Balamb Garden shortly after.”
“They sent you back?” whispered Jo, under her breath.
Quistis blinked.
“It happens. Anyway, I enrolled and worked hard. Really really, hard. I had nothing else to do, really, and nothing else I could do. I made SeeD at 15. Instructor at 17...lost that title a year after. And then you know about the Second Sorceress War, the fated children and all of that…”
The duo nodded, hard.
“Reinstated as instructor at twenty. That’ll be…thirteen years ago. Full-time teaching staff and away from active duty about eight years ago? Head Field Instructor six years ago…and here I am.”
“That’s…one hell of a career, Instructor. Can you walk us through your decision to leave Garden at this point in your career?” Phil flashed her a smile that he must have thought was winning. Quistis wanted to roll her eyes.
“Walk you through my decision?”
“Yes, maybe tell us more about the thought process, the reasons why, maybe how we might have …persuaded you to stay?”
Quistis laughed. Human Capital laughed too, nearly instinctively, and settled into their chairs. She supposed that such conversations were probably routine for them.
“Well, you couldn’t persuade me to stay, really – and I say this with utmost respect.”
“And why is that, Instructor?”
Quistis shrugged and smiled.
“ No, we must understand the reasons for one of our most valued employees’ departure…”
Quistis inhaled. Well, if they really wanted to know…
“Well, for one – I’m fairly sure I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
“What, why would you say that, Quistis? Why?” They were both chuckling now, good naturedly, smiling at her.
She smiled back. Was this…banter? Was she expected to banter with Human Capital to leave Garden?
“Well, Phil, “ she said, slowly, “I’m not sure what I think would be…palatable.”
“Palatable? Quistis, come on – we’re just having a chat, the two, no, three of us – “
“Phil. I’ve been in this role for six years. Apart from the Commander, I’m one of the only SeeD left from the War. I don’t think there’s anyone in Garden whose combat record matches mine. Not even the Commander, with all respect. I think, given my qualifications, if I were welcome I would be Head Instructor, if not Headmistress, at least.”
The laughter stopped then. The conference room was deathly silent. She took that as her cue to continue.
“I turned down the Commander role eight years ago, when Squall, I mean, Commander Leonhart left. I wanted to make SeeD a force for the next generation, the new world. But things have changed so much since the War, and I’ve seen so many young people Garden failed, over the years. I wanted to improve Garden, protect the people in it. I saw so many opportunities. I raised these, every opportunity I could – but I never saw any change. Time and again, they’d tell me reasons for things remaining the way they were. Even in the face of all the opposition from the public. When I tried to make the changes from within…people didn’t like it. And that’s why I’m Head Field Instructor.”
The duo sat across her, eyes wide, as if they had been expecting something else.
“By the way, what’s a Head Field Instructor? We never had one before me. I’ve always suspected they made it up to occupy me and keep me on payroll while they chose the Headmaster and Head Instructor…”
Quistis scoffed.
“I am not anti-Garden, by the way – but there are some very valid criticisms of Garden that have surfaced in recent years. We’ve somehow never really acknowledged these.”
Phil swallowed visibly.
“And…what might these be?”
Quistis sighed.
“Look, have either of you ever been on active duty or worked directly with personnel on active duty?”
The duo shook their heads.
“Right. When did the two of you join Garden corporate anyway?”
Jo bit her lip. “Um, last month? Right out of college.”
“Three years. I joined from the public sector.”
“Okay, that’s pretty recent. You know the youngest age cadets sit for the exam is fifteen, right? The field exam. So, we used to send these cadets out to active warzones for their exams. It used to be quite the norm.”
“Active warzones?”
“Yes, for example - Galbadia has been rather reasonable in the last decade, but if they invaded, say, Dollet or Timber, and they needed private military contractor support – we could…would…send these fifteen-year-olds in to take their tests…in these active warzones. Some would pass, some would fail, some would… you know... just not make it.”
A gasp from Jo.
“Fifteen?”
“Yes, actually. We’ve moved to mostly monster-clearing and peacekeeping or private protection, and the numbers have gotten better but we did, and technically we still can… You are aware of what they call us on the internet, right? The merc orphan school? No?”
“We could have pivoted to other roles and provided a more holistic education for these…kids. Prepared them for life…but it seems we’re also just racking up monster-clearing contracts in recent years...”
“Has any…child ever…died? On a field exam.” Jo asked, her face pale and her voice tinny.
“Historically yes. Instructors were always afraid of that. We were so hard on each and every cadet. We wanted them to survive. But, well... “
“Wait, Quistis…”
“Yes, Phil?”
“I don’t think this is a fair criticism of Garden…”
“And why is that?”
Phil paused and took a deep breath.
“Garden is…a product of its time. I remember the war. You know how it was.”
“Phil, it’s been fifteen years. I’ve been part of this for fifteen years. I see how this place works. I think I would know if management were actually interested in change by now, don’t you? Garden’s survived by throwing volleys of poorly-trained, poorly-equipped youth at various problems - which they all attempt to solve in one singular way – more fire power. I don’t know, aren’t there other ways? Couldn’t there be?”
Phil opened his mouth once, and closed it, wordlessly.
The boardroom was deathly silent – except for a sharp intake of breath from Jo.
For the first time, Quistis looked at her.
She looked…young. Tears were welling up in her eyes. What?
“Wait, are you – “
“Fifteen year olds? Dying on tests?” Jo repeated, voice cracking.
Quistis pushed the tissue box across the conference table hastily. Phil caught it, and began pulling fistfuls of tissues for Jo, who ignored him.
“My sister is fifteen.” Jo whispered.
“Right, can we just – “ Phil blustered and composed himself.
“Just, why now though? Was there a trigger, Quistis?”
“Yes. I suppose there was. I met someone. Garden failed him too, but I saw that there were … possibilities outside of Garden.”
“Garden failed this person?” Phil stared at her.
“…Yes, yes it did.”
“But how?”
“…It’s a long story. But I was there.”
“Was he fifteen too?” Jo whispered, horrified.
“No, he was eighteen. Look, can I just leave now, Phil? Do I have to sign anything?”
“Uh, right, just, uh – sign here.”
She scribbled her name at the end of the form, quickly marking all boxes for comments “Nil”.
She left the boardroom and the pair and walked into the mid-morning sun, stretching her shoulder at long last.