Author's Note: immeasurable thanks to TheDonutMistress for nurturing this brain baby.

prologue

kriegspiel
noun
/ˈkrēɡˌSHpēl,-ˌspēl/
players do not know the moves of the other and
determine their moves based on limited information

Rajasthan Province, India
22 July
Thar Desert; privatized jet
02:14 PM

Sherry's eyelids flutter slightly.

But she then shuts them rather tightly, with a small noise in her throat, as she stretches in her chair. She doesn't remember falling asleep, but she's hardly surprised. It's been a busy couple of days. From Lanshiang, her and Jake were flown to New Dehli to meet with UN officials. They would be transporting Jake's blood samples and New Umbrella's half-year research to the World Health Organization for further review and testing. After an awkward goodbye that Sherry is sure will continue to leave her chest feeling tight for years—why did I have to make it lame?—Jake walked out of the hotel lobby and her life.

After purchasing a new laptop, she split her time between working on her report and wishing she had said something better to him other than 'see ya.' Sherry was still kicking herself when she got on the jet to London. From London Airport she would fly back to DC with a connection in New York. More tired than she had realized, she can't recall anything after finishing her field log and starting a cup of tea.

With a gentle sigh, she opens her eyes and looks around. The cabin is dark, and the man in the seat across the aisle from her is casually flipping through a copy of SkyMall by the light of his window. Blinking drowsily, she licks her dry lips, glancing up and down the aisle. Gosh, I'm so sleepy, her mind slurs through the fog. Just as Sherry starts to wonder if she should just sleep the rest for the flight, something about the man's window is strange. Squinting at it, she realizes nothing is moving past. Confused, Sherry twists slowly in her seat to lift the blind on her own window—I thought I left this open? she ponders with a yawn—to find the same static scenery.

On the ground.

Some of her alarm begins to cut through the haze that's settled in her brain, and she grips her arm rests, leaning back out into the aisle. Lifting herself up a bit, Sherry can see no heads over the tops of the chairs ahead of her, and craning her neck to look behind her shows equally empty seats. There's no one. Just her.

And the man beside her.

The creaking leather of her chair is very loud as she eases back into her seat, leaning away from him. With both of their windows unblocked, there's enough light for Sherry to get a good look at the man. Correct that to boy; he doesn't look like he could be much older than she herself looks. They both could pass for high schoolers. His hair is red, darker than Jake's, and long enough to be swept to the side. Sherry recognizes it as a popular hair style right now, from all the magazines Simmons would bring her. An olive dress shirt is rolled up to the elbows and the top three buttons are undone.

Her chest is becoming tight as her eyes travel down the outfit. Ignored dark red suspenders hang from a checkered black and white belt. His pants are black jeans, cut skinny, and end at his converse. They're in the shadows from under the seat, and she can't tell if they're black or just some other dark colour.

He's clean shaven, and has a small hoop earring he keeps absently playing with as he turns the pages with his other hand. She's trying to decide if those are sweat bands on his wrists, when he notices she's awake. He watches her from the corner of his eye for moment, before tossing his magazine aside while turning in his chair to face her.

"Heya!"

His enthusiastic tone and matching smile aren't anything she expects, and some part of Sherry wonders if this is some bizarre dream. He's good looking, with nice teeth, and Sherry's reminded of some actor as she looks at him. The name never comes to mind, though, and in her tired, chest burning stupor, she gets distracted by his eyes. A startling green, they almost glow surrounded by dark lashes.

He chuckles, raising an eyebrow. "Don't forget to breathe, Sher-bear."

A beat.

Sherry exhales, realizing that that is why her chest had begun to hurt. Her blush won't be limited to her cheeks, and her face tingles as blood rushes down her neck. She's still gripping her armrests tightly, shrinking away from him. "Sorry about the tea," he blurts into the silence, surprising Sherry enough that her next breath hitches. "Looks like we got the dosage wrong. Our bad," he shrugs apologetically.

"Man, you were out for hours," he goes on, reclining in his seat. His head is tossed to the side to keep looking at her. "I was actually reading that SkyMall; that's how long you were out for. Like, the articles." He makes a big show of suffering a shudder. "However, the app to start your Nespresso is kinda cool. How would it use the creamer, though?"

Apparently these aren't questions for Sherry to answer. Or anyone else, as he shrugs off his own made mystery, and returns to leaning on his arm rest to talk to her.

"Enough about that." All that youthful mirth vanishes from his face, his slight smile falling into a joyless smirk. "Let's talk about you."

The change ages him somewhat, and Sherry becomes even more sure he's like her. She cannot put her finger on it, but something about the man resonates with her; she's nearly certain, on a viral level. And there is no comfort from that feeling. She can understand she's been drugged; that explains the befuddlement she's looped in. It won't last much longer; all the years of experimentation proved that G will always break down the proteins of such medication sooner rather than later. Right now, Sherry's very glad for it.

"Who are you?" she asks, willing her voice to keep anything high pitched out of her words.

"Ah-ah." His tone is something dark, and there's no light behind his eyes to match. How they can be so vibrant and void is jarring. "We're talking about you."

Despite the fact that she can survive anything, Sherry isn't excited to get hurt. This guy has done absolutely nothing, and Sherry finds him very scary. She can't help swallowing, but she forces herself to sit forward and unclench her hands, pulling her fingernails from the leather.

"You drugged me. Why?"

She's pleased with her authoritative tone of voice. Apparently, so is he; a flash of amusement crosses his face. She isn't sure if that's any kind of good news.

He takes a long breath. "Well, Sher-bear, this," and he gestures around the empty plane. "This takes quite a bit of set up, believe it or not." There's that nickname again. She can feel her eyes narrow at it. "So we had to Sleeping Beauty you for a little while."

"Why?" she asks immediately, nearly not waiting for him to finish. The fog is starting to clear, and her bravado is beginning to shine through. "Do you have any idea what it means to attack a United States government agent?"

The boy shrugs. "I can wager a guess, but it's not like we 'attacked' one of those." He makes air quotes around her term, muttering that they didn't attack anybody.

She scoffs angrily. "What are you talking about?" Sherry places a hand on her chest, addressing herself. "I'm a government agent. Don't you know that?"

He turns away from her then, reaching into the seat closest to the window. Sherry leans forward, stretching her neck out to see what he's doing. He faces her, a file in hand. Better than a weapon, she guesses. It's blue and she can read her name on it as he twists it to and fro in the air.

"Don't you know you're not?" he asks enigmatically, handing her the folder. Frustrated and confused, she hesitantly reaches across the aisle and takes the file.

All personnel actively associated with Derek C Simmons will be detained for questioning following recent events that have revealed the former National Security Adviser has not been acting in this country's best interest.
All will be stripped of individual security levels.
If any actively associated personnel are determined to be ignorant of Simmons' actions, they will be relocated to another branch site.
All actively associated personnel will be undertaking this review.
With the exception of S. Birkin: Once back on US soil S. Birkin will be returned to Project Thunderclap regardless of findings.
S. Birkin will be relocated to the NV facility to continue Thunderclap.
These conditions are nonnegotiable. Be prepared to replace staff effective immediately.
Their assigned parking spaces will be up for bid—

It's a copy of a memo from the new National Security Adviser, Lee Nelson. It-it says they're going to… going to… Her bravado is quickly flickering out, and Sherry shakes her head at the boy, like he can do anything about this. "This isn't right," she tells him, and her throat is getting tight. "I earned my freedom. They said I didn't have to do Thunderclap anymore. They said—"

"Ah-ah," he repeats. One arm is propped at the elbow, his chin sitting on a closed fist. "They didn't say jack. Simmons did." She blinks wide eyes at him, turning back to the open file on her lap. Her lips move, but she isn't making any sound. He decides to help her out.

"You asked me who I was earlier." Sherry swallows thickly, feeling a pressure behind her eyes as she stares down at the damning text. "We'll get to that. I represent a concerned individual," he goes on, adjusting his head to lay his cheek against his hand. "Someone who'd like to offer you true freedom—"

"You're lying."

His jaw snaps shut with an audible clack from his teeth. Her breathing is getting choppy. "You're lying," she insists again. "You made this whole thing up just to get a BOW." There's not a lot of conviction in her voice, like she doesn't believe it herself. She's grasping at straws, and both she and this stranger know it.

"Could be," and his tone is so gentle Sherry is prompted to look at him. The nice guy that started the conversation is back on his face, and his voice is now kind. "But, I'll tell ya: we'd hate for you take the risk and go back, Sherry." It's the first time he's used her actual name, she notes dully. "I think we both know the only thing waiting for you is a cage."

He's right, she despairs. Looking back down at the memo, a wet spot appears on the paper before all the words swirl away, unreadable through unshed tears. In Nevada, there is a cage waiting for her. Where they're going to take blood until she can't stand; ask if it hurts when they bring the scalpel down; give mechanical apologies that no anesthetics work on her; gouge out so much meat just see what grows back, and it always grows back, why do they keep taking it? Why do the needles have to go in my eyes—

"Breathe."

With his reminder, she gasps, because it comes with the touch of his hand. She blinks tightly to get the tears out of the way so she can see what's happening. He's reached across the way to hold her hand. He's just as pale as her, but she's distracted by weird temperature of his touch. His skin is very cold, but it's like Sherry can feel a great heat from behind it. She can feel her wet lashes as she looks at his face.

"We deserve better than cages." She sniffs, aware of his phrasing but too upset to point it out. "And that concerned individual? He can provide the life we deserve. He's already helped a few of us. Let him help you."

With her nose stuffed up, Sherry takes several small breathes through her mouth in an effort to compose herself. It could still all be a trick, she tries to reason, because they wouldn't do this to her. But he made a good point: it was Simmons that pulled strings to get her out of the experiments; it was Simmons that told her she could have an on sight apartment when she returned; Simmons that allowed her visitors, treats, and pop culture magazines to make her feel like she still knew what was going on in the world. If she ever needed anything, from a reprieve from experiments to human interaction, Sherry could go to Simmons. He always took care of her.

And now his replacement is undoing everything he did for her.

Licking her recently chapped lips, she asks, "Why?" She shrugs in something near defeat. "Why me?"

His eyes stare past her, focused on something far away. "Right?" he agrees quietly, though that's not exactly how she meant her question. Bringing his attention back to her and addressing her actual concern, "You'll have to ask the man himself." He's still holding her hand, and gives an encouraging squeeze. "Only way to do that is to come with."

His other hand reaches out and takes the tear smeared file from her. "Is it safe?" she asks, watching him step out into the aisle and stand. He begins to head for the door by the cockpit, and she stumbles up to follow him.

Sherry is surprised to find the pilots simply sitting at the controls, apparently waiting patiently. The stewardess that served her the tea is standing casual by the exit. With a polite and slight bow, she reaches for the locking lever. Sherry's mind rewinds back to when he mentioned 'all this' taking time to set up. This is clearly a lot bigger than she even considered, and this Concerned Individual has money and power that maybe even Simmons would think twice about balking at.

A thin trimming of light lines the door as it slowly begins to open. They're still holding hands.

"It can't be any worse, right, Sher-bear?"

She hopes not.

Author's Note: Hoo boy. The existing schedule is to update every Tuesday. I'm writing chapters in advance, which is new to me. Right now I'm only eight ahead. If I wind up kicking it up a gear and maintaining that kind of distance between updates, I'll see if it's reasonable to update twice a week. I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna stick the schedule and finish the story! As always, thoughts and concerns (and theories!) are always welcome. Be good to each other.