Still not too much to say... the story is getting into full flow, and I don't need to muse a lot anymore.
Chuggachuggachuggachugga woo woo!!!
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Isara had never enjoyed talks with brass; attempting to follow a fictional story only made it worse. Sweat rolled down her back as she stood in front of him, a folding desk between her and her interrogator.
"So let me get this straight," the sergeant said, sardonically. He was young for an officer in the army, definitely in his twenties, face framed with dark black hair and some pitiful attempts at a beard. "You escape an incident of friendly fire from a town that was reported to have Imperial activity, meet an Imperial, try to smack him around with your bare hands, and then attack a fellow soldier for attacking said Imperial later."
Timedly, she offered, "You're wrong about one thing."
"Oh?"
"I had this, sir." She touched the wrench on her skirt sheepishly, eliciting a sincere chuckle from the man.
"You're either the bravest soldier in Gallia, or the stupidest one," he laughed. But he sobered up in the following second, a complete reversal of mood, and continued, "… or an Imperial yourself." He punctuated the last bit with a snap of his fingers – a guard stepped through the tent flap. "Cover," he stated flatly – the man lowered his rifle to a ready position.
The Darcsen blanched. She hadn't expected that. "Sir!" she protested. "I assure you I am one of Gallia militia!"
"Oh?"
His voice was smooth and yet resigned as he continued. "I hate to tell you this,spy, but the militia left a few hours ago. They most certainly left no one behind."
She stood up a little straighter, pulling on her remaining lifelines. "Sir, I can give you my enlistment number."
"Oh? Then do tell me."
That "oh" was starting to get on her nerves.
"Seven-yew-ay-zee, one hundred forty nine, zero-eye-fourteen, em-en-see-twenty." 7UAZ-149-0I14-MNC20. She'd always wondered exactly why such a long number was necessary, but she'd memorized it easily enough. It wasn't too much of an effort for someone who had to remember the exact serial codes of engine parts daily, anyways.
He sighed, waving off the guard he'd called in – the soldier retreated back outside. "Impressive feat. Not like I can do anything with it for now, but…" Pulling out a pen and paper, he recorded the entire string – from memory. Despite herself, she was impressed. "Now, your name?"
"Corporal Isara Gunther of Squad 7, sir. My job is to maintain the Edelweiss and pilot it in combat."
For a long moment, the sergeant looked at her. "I'm sorry." He snapped his finger again. "Restrain!"
Taken by surprise, Isara did her best to hop up and dodge, but a burly guard – not the same one –came through and caught her in a bear hug before she ever had a chance, while the first guard followed, rifle now aimed unflinchingly at her chest. "What – why?" she demanded.
"You had an extremely good cover story. Really, you even knew the name of the tank."
Even as she pulled futilely at the arms around her, she wrinkled her brow. "Wait, sir, how do you know?"
"The militia's Squad 7's famous in the army, for accomplishing suicidal missions after we've failed. Quite humiliating, but we try and salvage whatever credit we can." He flashed a sheepish smile. "It's good for our morale. Still, enough of us were sad when we heard a bit of gossip from today's news."
Isara could only wait for the stinger.
"The leader of Squad 7 had a Darcsen adopted sister."
"Yes, that's –"
"While I don't have anything against Darcsens in particular, I have to say that I do have something against a Darcsen who's willing to work for the Empire." The embarrassed smile from before distilled itself into a thin hard line of hatred. "I plan to reward the traitor as the traitor deserves."
"I am Isara!" she cried at him.
"Oh, really? No, you aren't. Welkin's little sister was killed in a friendly fire accident this morning." She froze – he offered a vindictive smile. "Bet you didn't know that little detail, did you?"
"… but… I'm right here! I escaped! Honest, sir, I swear!"
"Oh? Where are your Darcsen colors anyways?"
She had to think for a bit, missing the familiar weight of her shawl, remembering that she was wearing Celes's jacket.
"… I lost the cloth in the building. I'm telling you, we were shelled, and I escaped the building from a tunnel. Honest, sir."
"Oh, really? Unlikely. More likely, you are a spy. Look at yourself." He pointed. "You conveniently lack your squad insignia by instead wearing that jacket. More damning is that that jacket is of Imperial manufacture."
She balked, looking down. It looked like any other jacket, cut in the Gallian style.
"For further reference, the problem is in the stitching. It goes perpendicular to the pieces – it should go at a slight angle."
His observation was true, as she noticed when she looked more closely at his own uniform. Some part of her made a note to chastise Celes for handing her a damning piece of evidence against her – if she ever got out of this situation alive.
Pulling the guard's arm away from her throat to get a breath, she pulled at her last hope. "Let me talk with Welkin. He'll recognize my voice." She took in another, deep breath. "Please," she begged.
The sergeant shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't do that. Prisoners of war may not communicate with officers of the Gallian forces." He pointed a finger out the door. "Take her to the cells," he commanded.
"Please," she repeated. He shook his head.
"I don't know how you made up that plan. It was almost flawless, if a bit audacious… but this one fact damns your entire presence." He stood, pulling out and belting on a pistol from a drawer within the piece of furniture, preparing to follow her out. "Fortunately for you, we don't execute our prisoners on the spot. You'll be seen in military court the next possible opportunity in Randgriz."
Isara almost protested again, but shut it, electing to play along for now. "I can wait that long, sir. Someone will recognize me back there."
"That may be. Too bad for your friend, though."
"What about Ce – him?" Damn.
He raised an eyebrow at the slip, but said nothing. "Oh? For someone who claims to have jumped the soldier, you seem to know him rather well. The plot thickens."
"I can explain, si –"
"Don't flatter me." The cut-off was brutally abrupt – the sergeant's face was frozen in a blank expression. "Your Imperial accomplice will executed shortly, in the field, for attacking a soldier of the Gallian army."
Giving up the struggle, she instead adopted the most dignified expression she could, going for the truth. "You have the facts wrong. I attacked him, not Celes; you said as much yourself."
The sergeant shook his head. "Oh, yes, but if I pinned that crime on you, I'd have to execute you as well." The look of absolute horror on her face must have communicated her dismay. He shrugged, a sad frown creeping across his face. "Your Imperial friend has enough going against him for his death already. If I don't pin the crime on him, you die as well. Barring that you may actually be Isara, I'd rather keep you alive for now."
Isara went cold all over at the simple weighing of human life, as if it was nothing more than a currency to be exchanged. "You… bastard…" she choked out.
He shrugged. "Maybe, but it's the truth of the world." With a low bow, he apologized, "I'm sorry. Take her away!"
The burly guard pulled her away, followed closely by the armed guard and the officer. Stunned, she couldn't resist any further.
So much for a glorious rescue.
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Shorter, but hey. To quote the unknown sergeant, "the plot thickens". Isara has the opportunity to throw Celes's life away… but she doesn't. But now the army considers them both to Imperials, and won't let them confirm the fact.
And now they progress towards an execution…
