The problem with Squall, Seifer thinks, is that he looks so damn good when he's confused or hurt. Not that he doesn't the rest of the time, of course - he's fucking stunning and refuses to realise it - but there's this point when he furrows his brow, or opens his eyes wide at the wonder of whatever crap's being pulled on him, and he becomes something /other/. Seifer relishes the fact that most of the time it's only he who can produce this reaction. Squall can categorise the rest of the world, can reduce it all to a series of formulae to ignore, like Zell's puppy-like attempts to get close to him, the constant gabble and easy smile that Seifer resents and thinks - hopes - Squall does too. The flashes of beauty - the shock when the world he's so carefully constructed about him falters for a fragile second - are reserved for the swipe of a T-Rexaur's claw and the bite of one of Seifer's carefully constructed, seemingly offhand, comments.

And once he's got Squall there, unable to respond even with his usual punctuation, Seifer will push his advantage mercilessly. He may be the bad cadet they label him, but he's a master tactician. He switches tack, changes attitude, flips from distantly cruel to warm and familiar, and searches Squall's expression for the charged moment when his eyes lift, troubled, and meet Seifer's. Then it breaks, and Squall regains his cold control once more, but the moment is lasting longer and longer each time.

It is by no means long enough.

This war of attrition, breaking down Squall's resistance incrementally, is too slow. In fact, as the generals in Seifer's books on military strategy have proven time and time again, he has chosen the most potentially damaging method he could have. There is no way of telling what the outcome will be, whether each wall of logic that Seifer knocks down is being instantly rebuilt in new, more suitable materials, whether the Squall he eventually captures, weakened by bombardment, will be the same Squall he set out for. If one part of the line moves too fast, overtaking the rest, Seifer's flank is left exposed to counter-attack: he has to step back, recoup, reduce the charges to isolated raids and concentrate his forces in other directions. The complexities of all this, at first diverting, have begun to bore Seifer. Long-drawn-out sieges are not his style.

Better, thinks Seifer, to risk all in pitched battle, to die in a blaze of glory rather than dwindle away in the trenches. But somehow, for some reason, he finds it impossible to take the swift action necessary. The fear of failure overwhelms him: every course he thinks of presents flaws instead of arms, with tattered banners, stolen standards and tired paeans. Finally, exausted by the useless options his mind presents, he falls back to the bitter slog of a slow besiegement.

Seifer cannot understand why it should be so. After all, this is only a diversion to pass the time.

i'm tired and confused. abuse is welcome.

I need a cigarette. This is a bad sign. I normally don't need more then one cigarette in the course of the day, just about two or three in the evening... or half a pack if i'm writing Xu, because she's just like that. Damn you, Xu! If I die of emphysema it'll all be your fault, and then you really *won't* get written!

*Ahem*. Anyway, cannot go smoke till the rain lets up because I'm in the country and I don't think my relatives (who I'm staying with) know I smoke and what they don't know won't hurt 'em. Or something. I'll just leave it in the grey area of half-truths. I mean, they all smoke, and if I'm asked directly I'll admit to it, but... there's a kind of taboo. I am the youngest cousin, after all.

You know, we recently discovered an actual relative, blood relative and all, who was around my age. About a month older than me, in fact. Turned out to be my cousin's daughter. That's just... wrong. I have cousins in their /forties/, and their /children/ are my age. Or older.

But that's on the other side of the family, of course. The children of my cousins on my father's side are only about seven or so. Mind you, my favourite cousins, the ones I'm staying with, arenae married and havenae bairns, so I'm safe from that wierd feeling of being in the wrong generation.

Anyway, I didn't mean to ramble about fags and family. I meant to ramble about watching the rushes of my friend's film. This friend is a member of one of the hugest extended clans of children to come from the same father ever. His dad must have married seven times, with issue from each marriage, and /then/ got bored of the ceremony and just, you know, lived with his girlfriends. And every single one of the kids - that I know, have met, or know of - is completely insane. I love them dearly, but... mad. mad mad mad. One of them was in one of those 1996-7 indie bands and muchly derided in the inkies for being a complete loony, actually.

So we've got my friend and his brother over at the moment, and we're watching the rushes of his film, which is /stunning/. Parts of it are set in Japan and parts in Brazil, and his girlfriend (nihonjin) is pretty much the main character for Japan part and she's real pretty, have to say. There's this bit of footage inside a Zen garden that's never been filmed in before and... whoah. Some beautiful footage in the snow, too. And there really isn't much more to say about it, except -

- there's a bit, where the camera pans into this absolutely classic Japanese amusement arcade. We have no sound: my friend is describing the rush of noise to us. So imagine me on the edge of my seat (being pushed off it by a sleepy labrador, actually), cooing over the pretty flashes of the computer games they were playing and having that bagatelle-style game explained to me. And then seeing some wierd one where the player has to punch these flashing things which pop out at you (that's gotta be /so much fun/!), and then this virtual drumkit thing where you, well, have to play the drums as directed on the screen. And then, of course, someone bouncing about on DDR.

Do you know what song's been in my head since then?