DISCLAIMER: Couldn't it be said that we all own Claymore, a little bit, in our hearts? -hitman prods me in head with silenced pistol-Okay, okay! I don't own it! Please don't kill me!

First scene: the set-up

It has been said many times, by those who presumably should know better, that every human being is a perfect angel deep down. Ophelia had always assumed, when her squirrel-like mind stopped long enough to actually think, that the good, wonderful, angelic person she undoubtedly was deep down had been shit out by mistake years ago.

This particular contemplative streak had been brought on by the magic of smoke inhalation, something which should be familiar to those who also suffer from contemplative streaks. Differing from the usual, this situation involved a forest. Specifically, a forest fire. Now, remember that in the twelfth century, there were no nonprofits or sit-ins or what have you declaring the rights of forests: in fact, burning down a forest would have seemed like a pretty good idea if you suggested it to any individual peasant. Forests where were Youma hid. Burn down the forest, maybe the Youma has nowhere to hide and goes and bothers someone else.

None of this had really occurred to Ophelia. She rarely thought things through, an aspect of her personality that had landed her in this particular situation, clawing her way out from under several hundred charred, smoking logs.

She had been celebrating the recent victory over an awakened being in a nearby logging town. It had not been a particularly strong one, but had made up for it by cleverly hiding underground and striking at people, dragging them under by their feet to suffocate in the Earth before he ate their guts. Ophelia made rather a mess of him, churning up the ground in order to dismember the unlucky soil-dweller. To celebrate, she had gotten knock-down steaming piss faced drunk and passed out face first in the forest, neglecting to extinguish her campfire.

Hence, the above mention of forest fires.

"Rrrrgh." Ophelia's right arm fought its way through two logs and into the air. Smoke may have been a better word, as there was absolutely nothing but that. Ophelia's right arm was followed by her left, which reluctantly brought along her soot-blackened, angular face. Ophelia was a very pretty woman, which was part of why she looked so terrifying when she was angry: it just didn't look right. And she was angry, now. She wasn't totally clear as to what, but something was going to die.

"Do you need a hand, o pyrokinetic one?" Galatea stood over her compatriot, unbothered by the smoke.

"Stupid…long words…fuck you." Ophelia struggled to articulate herself through the fog of her hangover. She braced her hands against the log, and tried to pull herself up. And tried again. And tried again.

"Your tits are caught. Stop trying, you'll only injure your…" Galatea began, before being suddenly showered in high-speed charred needles of wood. "-self."

Ophelia stood, breathing heavily, then turned wordlessly. She walked away from the scorched remains of forest and her eyes scanned the horizon for something. Apparently spotting it, she sprinted away into the distance.

"Go ahead, ignore me then. Bitch." Galatea followed her fellow Claymore, silently cursing Rubel for asking her to find the violent lout. "HEY, BITCHCAKES! MESSAGE! FOR YOU!"

Galatea's words rang back on her from the distance, the beautiful valley below mocking her with her own words. A fast-moving particle in the distance suddenly turned into an approaching Ophelia, beaming and clutching her signature sword. "Found it!" she declared to herself. "Oh, hey. 'Tea. What's up?"

It was all Galatea could do to keep from wringing Ophelia's neck. "You started a forest fire. That's what's up."

"I know!" Ophelia replied. "Wasn't that cool? I mean, I don't really remember what I did last night, but if I burnt down a forest, it must have been pretty cool. Look, I found my sword stuck in a boulder four miles away! Some kid was trying to pull it out. I think that he thought it meant God wanted him to be king or something." she laughed, high and cold. "I cut his balls off."

"That's….crazy. Ophelia, I have a message for you."

Ophelia's head swung up like a bird's. "What do I get to kill now?"

"That's exactly it. You've been getting erratic. Unreliable. Destructive. Ophelia, I'm here to tell you that you have a…forced leave of absence." Galatea forced the words through her mouth like small sharp stones.

"A what?" Ophelia's white-knuckled grip on her sword became more pronounced. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"You're getting time off. Frankly, the truth is that the Organization wants you to take a break. You get too wrapped up in what you're doing, and you get sloppy. You just burnt down a forest, Ophelia, and you didn't even mean to. You're getting a vacation."

"What? Hey, I'm good at my job! So what if-"

"I'm not here to ask you a damn thing. I'm telling you, Ophelia." Galatea took her direct lesser by the crook of the arm, "You're taking time off and I'm going to personally escort you to somewhere that has no Youma, no awakened beings, and no Claymores. They won't even know what you are there. Just keep your head down, enjoy the sights, drink casually, and don't kill anyone. Understand?"

"Hell no!" Ophelia replied angrily. "Leggo of me! Fuck you! No!" she struggled, trying to wiggle her sword arm free.

"Hell yes." Galatea responded. "You're going, and that's that. Even if I have to drag you the whole hundred miles there, you're going. This is for the safety of the country, its inhabitants, your fellow Claymores, and stop fucking biting me!" Galatea rabbit punched Ophelia, hard, right in the forehead, and number four's eyes glazed over, still clenching number three's shoulder in her teeth.

Galatea hoisted the surprisingly light and trim sociopath over her shoulder, and walked down the path to the south.

This was going to be a long trip.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Wow! First Claymore fic. I'm happy to be writing for one of my favorite series, but I'm depressed to see that there aren't that many stories in this category. Let's change that, hey?

I went with a dark comedy because that's what I'm good at, and I went with Ophelia because she is easily the most…dynamic Claymore. Her arc was probably the most gripping part of the series, and what rocketed it into the most dramatic parts of the overall story. This tale takes place probably two years or so before her appearance in Claymore proper. Please, come back soon! I intend to keep this story running for a while. After all, who can tell what a place without Claymores or Youma is like?

NEXT TIME: a lonely city. The beautiful island. The waves give, and the waves give away. Introductions are in order.