Sabin had of course signed up for the mission the first moment he could, after hearing about it. The thrill of adventure, the challenge of a strong enemy. Who could ignore such things? Definitely not the martial artist, who at one point had helped save the world
( ... )
The Deep Sea Research Centre... It brought back a lot of memories for Squall, and none of them particularly pleasant. His blood ran cold at the thought of the beasts roaming freely within. How had things changed in the years since he'd last been here? It was hard to imagine just what hell awaited them.
He had spent most of the journey sharpening, oiling and cleaning his gunblade and ensuring his magicks were well stocked. They'd probably need all the help they could get down there.
The moogles seemed to favour Sabin's positive attitude over Squall's silent, less positive aura. "The sooner we get down there, the sooner we can get out." The less time spent in the cesspit of evil, the better.
Sabin couldn't help but chuckle at Squall's comment, even as his brows furrowed in thought. Was this the only other one who had come? He hadn't really paid attention to who might have boarded the ship before hand, simply figuring that there would be a goodly number of folks who would answer the call. After all, this world was chalk full of heroes, right
( ... )
Squall shook the man's hand, giving a grunt of his. "Squall. Leonhart. Commander of Balamb Garden." Yay for titles.
He brushed a hand through his hair, sweeping the bangs out of his eyes. "Deep Sea Research Centre is a living hell. Been down there once before. It's not pretty."
He checked his weapon again. He gritted his teeth. Nervous? A little.
Al-Cid had decided on a whim that the place where he was needed most would be the place where, it seemed, the Malboros were coming from. All the data said the biggest concentration of the things were in the Deep Sea Research Center, so, flying his airship into a low range around the thing, he let it idly, lazily circle the place. Throwing down the rope ladder, the young Rozarrian scrambled nimbly down, and dropped onto the roughly hewn entryway, wondering if it was stone, or if it was metal so long corroded and added to by the ocean debris that it just appeared that way
( ... )
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He had spent most of the journey sharpening, oiling and cleaning his gunblade and ensuring his magicks were well stocked. They'd probably need all the help they could get down there.
The moogles seemed to favour Sabin's positive attitude over Squall's silent, less positive aura. "The sooner we get down there, the sooner we can get out." The less time spent in the cesspit of evil, the better.
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He brushed a hand through his hair, sweeping the bangs out of his eyes. "Deep Sea Research Centre is a living hell. Been down there once before. It's not pretty."
He checked his weapon again. He gritted his teeth. Nervous? A little.
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