It was dark. So dark Squall couldn’t have seen the end of his gunblade, not that he cared. There was a cold breeze caressing his face, carrying the scent of the sea air. He walked slowly, cautiously, towards the source of the breeze, gunblade lifted high in a defensive position.

A dark grey hung over his head, obviously he was going to speak.

“Rinoa? Are you there?” He could still taste her. There was a patch at his side that was still warm from her touch. She had been there until the darkness had smothered everything. A few more tentative steps forward. The darkness parted like curtains, and Fisherman’s Horizon materialised before him. The sea air buffeted his face, causing a small twinge of pain from the scar that dominated his face.

Taking a look around, he realised this wasn’t the FH he once knew. No fisherman sat on the piers with their rods, hoping for some fish to please their wifes with. No children ran around, getting in the way of everyone. No-one was outside, wandering, seemingly aimlessly, around.

A sound Squall knew too well for his his own comfort rang in his ears. The sound of innocents screaming. His gunblade already drawn, he ran forward to battle, humming a tune he liked to call his battle theme. He didn’t know why he did it, but it seemed to bring good luck, so he kept doing it.

His vision blurring, he caught up with a few galbadian soldiers. Instead of attacking immediatly, he stood in an offensive stance, and allowed the soldiers to attack him first. The first swipe at him missed entirely, the rookie hadn’t trained much obviously. The second was slightly more experience and connected. The numbers 46 (glowing white) and near his thigh a slash and 9999 (pure white in colour) breached his peripheral vision, but he ignored it as usual.

He now felt ready to attack. He looked to the heavens for luck, and then began to attack wildly as that last attack had put him over the edge, and he decided now was the time to use his trademark. He liked to call it the Renzokuken. He wasn’t sure where he got the name from, but it had stuck. He sprung forward, his sword flying in every possible direction.

Each hit caused massive damage, and the usual, irritating tapping noise echoed inside his head. On his penultimate slash, he faltered a bit, and that tap was silenced. He caught a glancing blow and jumped back, out of the fray. His rage was such that he gathered energy from the very heavens themselves, drew it into his blade, and released it in the direction of his foes.