Jeb Cain had not realized how much the image of the disheveled prisoner had kept the nightmares featuring the well-groomed officer at bay, not until he stepped back into the tent and the big sergeant almost walked into him because his blood had turned, momentarily, to ice. Back in immaculate black, washed and shaven, his old nemesis was giving the young captain flashbacks, right back to the child held helpless in a grown man's grip.
Zero, of course, noticed the hesitation and reacted predictably. The man sure thrived on provoking fear responses. The familiar smirk – satisfied with a hint of humor, gah, he really knew how to read the signs by now – actually helped Jeb to regain his equilibrium.
At his continued approach, the general waved dismissively towards a folding desk at the back of the tent. "There's pen and paper over there, boy. Draw me a map, including everything you remember about the Alchemists' tunnels."
The order raised some eyebrows among the assembled officers, but only one openly made a comment, quickly shot down by his commanding officer.
Keeping one ear on the discussion behind him – to fish for names and any other signs of group dynamics that might prove useful – the young captain gathered his thoughts.
The motivation behind this command was threefold, he decided. Beyond the obvious, confirming intelligence, it also provided a convenient excuse to have the unknown youngster present in the command tent while battle plans were made. And it served as a gauge to find out just how much effort Wyatt Cain's son was willing to put into a mission led by General Zero.
Jeb clenched his teeth. His father's son would not be found slacking in any undertaking he had agreed to participate in.
Oo oo oo oo oO
A good ten minutes later, he ran a last critical look over the product of his efforts, rolled it up carefully and turned towards the main table and the ring of black-clad officers surrounding it.
Heawl, who had taken up station against the tent wall right behind his general, cleared his throat.
Zero looked up, caught Jeb's eyes and waved him over. He snatched the map from the younger man's hands as soon as he came within reach, but made no comment when Jeb took another step forward, to a place where he had a good view of the table.
There were a handful of printed tactical maps, some lists and one other hand-drawn map, the latter nearly identical to the one the young captain had just sketched, though drawn in a much more formal way.
Jeb's handiwork was stretched out beside it and critically examined.
"Good eye, boy," the short major, Anjil Jeb thought his name was, commented, but his eyes were on the general while he said that.
Zero gave back a wolfish grin and Jeb was certain of the identity of the man who had questioned his presence. He carefully stored the man's face and voice for later reference as the man who talks back to General Zero.
Colonel Reeds – thin as his namesakes – pointed at a crosshatched area beyond the corridors Zero had drawn. "What's that, Graham?"
"Heavy machinery, sir," the young captain explained. "I'm not sure what exactly, but I could hear it from here to here."
It took him until the end of the sentence to realized that he had attached the honorific without deliberate thought. A fact Jeb chose to attribute to the colonel speaking with exactly the same genteel accent as most of the Queen's old officers, who had resurfaced – from various hiding places, as rebels or more literally from cells beneath the Tower – after the Eclipse.
"Good ears, too," Major Anjil added, deadpan, and Zero's grin dissolved into a short bark of laughter. This time, though, the short, stocky man was sizing up Jeb – and the former rebel had met enough watchdogs to recognize the look of pointed interest.
More questions reclaimed his concentration before the young captain could figure out just what the other man was guarding so fiercely, but he certainly added a bears further watching to his mental file on the short major.
Oo oo oo oo oO
After some further cross-examination – what had the young man seen, heard, noticed in any way or form of the underground compound and its denizens – interspaced with proposals how to deal with this and that, Anjil excused himself to get ready to move out with the scouts, and the general nodded to the sergeant.
Heawl placed a large hand on Jeb's shoulder. "Come with me, boy," he rumbled, leading the young captain towards the exit.
Satisfied that he knew at least the basic points of the plan the Longcoat officers had concocted, Jeb allowed himself to be led towards a nearby crew tent and the handful of black-clad soldiers crouching around the fire before it.
"Grub for the kid and a place to sleep," the big sergeant demanded, and a tin bowl full of something globby but surprisingly edible and a bedroll appeared as if by magic.
With his stomach reminding him that it hadn't seen proper food for way too long, the young captain dug in eagerly, ignoring the knowing looks exchanged over his head.
After a moment, the soldiers resumed their previous occupations: one whittling, three smoking quietly, two carrying on with their discussion about the proper way to cook a hare – a topic so utterly mundane that Jeb could scarcely believe his ears – and let the young man eat in peace.
He had cleaned up most of the stew when one of the smokers flicked the butt of his cigarette into the fire, leaned forward and asked, suddenly intense, "How is the general?"
Adjusting his grip on the bowl before looking up, the former rebel found six pairs of eyes fixed on him; hungry, eager eyes, turned red by the reflection of the low-burning embers, which also set the metal buckles and gleaming black leather of their coats aglow. It took some willpower to calmly keep his seat, swallow the last mouthful and answer the question.
"Fine?" he ventured, every inch the young recruit, deeply uncomfortable with assessing a high-ranking officer. "I mean, he's here, in one piece, probably won't get much sleep tonight but …"
Some of the tension had receded at one piece, but the spokesman – mid-thirties, lean but wiry – wasn't satisfied, yet.
"So he's alright, in here?" he asked, touching the side of his temple for a moment.
As much as he ever is. "Seemed normal to me. Not that I know him that well," oh, the irony of that statement, "but he knows places and people, acts smart, full of nasty plans for the Alchemists … Why do you ask?"
"You said it, kid," that was the whittler, unexpectedly. "Alchemists. When the Alchemists get someone, they often come back … wrong. Good to hear the general was tougher than they thought."
The first speaker nodded, relaxing visibly.
"So, what really happened up there?" he asked, waving vaguely uphill, and Jeb resignedly rehashed the account he had already given to the officers.
By the time he was finished, his bowl was empty, the red-eyed, fire-cloaked demons had relaxed into rather human men, and the approval in their eyes didn't have the slimy feel to it that the former rebel would have previously sworn Longcoat approval should have.
Lean-and-wiry stood and disappeared into the night with a curt, "I'll spread the word," and the rest of the men prepared to catch at least a few hours of sleep.
Belly filled with hot food, Jeb found an unoccupied corner in the tent. And when one of the men threw him a greatcoat to shelter against the cold mountain night, he could barely, just barely, accept that it was black leather in good grace.
A/N: Next week is the Easter holiday, I'm not sure if I'll put up something then. And afterwards, I'll be rather busy, meaning that I probably won't be able to keep up weekly updates. I'll try for biweekly, and hope for the best.