The dormitory common room was deserted. The subliminal hum of the air conditioning mixed with the buzz of the fluorescent lights to create a gentle white noise that filled the background as the snap of playing cards broke the air. Tokarev shuffled the deck again before swiftly dealing them out with typical robotic precision. A good hand, StG thought as she peeked at hers. Type 79 kept an uninterested expression, but FAMAS's lip twitched in a sign of what StG took to be dissatisfaction. Human mimicry programming getting the better of her, she thought. It had been a while since Hunter had played poker, so they were all out of practice.

The four of them had started talking again, memories of their last altercation fading away. It had been StG who suggested they play poker, a pastime introduced by a previous member of Hunter, M1895 CB, who had been transferred back in S16. StG thought of her every time she picked up a deck of cards. M1895 had been her predecessor, and they met only a few times before her departure. That first poker game had been a way of passing the torch. Little did she know at the time what that would mean.

"I'll bet five hundred," said Type 79, pushing a pile of worn, wooden tokens towards the center of the table. FAMAS pursed her lips, her eyes looking up at StG for a moment before going back to her cards. Sturmgewehr watched her expectantly, running through probabilities in her Digimind as the French doll made her move.

"Raise, one thousand roubles." The green-haired doll added to the pile. StG stared at her for a brief moment before swallowing and matching her amount.

"Call."

"Ten thousand five hundred fifty six roubles in the pot," Tokarev announced. StG looked to her dwindling funds and hoped that neither of the others would prove to have a better hand. She didn't need the money, but it would hurt to lose to either of the others.

"Five hundred." Type 79's metal hand, surprisingly dextrous, allowed her to flip one of her chips over and between her fingers with frightening speed. I should learn that, StG thought, but told herself that it would be a waste of time.

"Call," said FAMAS. StG studied the French doll. She was talkative the first few betting rounds, but had become utterly focused in the past couple minutes.

"Call," echoed StG.

"Fifteen thousand three hundred fifty six in the pot."

Type 79 set the chip she had been playing with down. "I think I'll go all in, ladies. Who's with me?"

"Son of a bitch," said FAMAS. "Fold."

That gives me an improved chance. Unless Type 79 wasn't bluffing, which StG found unlikely, she would win this match. "All in."

"Twenty seven thousand three hundred eighty. Type 79?"

Type 79 placed her cards face up. "Full house, fours over sevens," said Tokarev. "StG 44?"

In the bag, StG 44 boasted to herself as she revealed her hand.

"Seven-high straight flush," said Tokarev. "StG wins."

"Screw you." said Type 79, rubbing her eyes in exasperation. "Do you even show emotion? Damn poker face."

"Excellent play, 44," FAMAS said begrudgingly, collecting her remaining tokens. The green-haired doll seemed to have warmed to StG again. "I take it you accept your payment?"

"You can divide it evenly, Tokarev inclued" StG said. "I don't need the extra money."

"Nine thousand one hundred twenty six to each player, rounded down," Tokarev said. Type 79 and FAMAS produced their banking cards and inserted them into the dealer's console, as did StG 44. Tokarev processed the money and they all removed their cards, some of them richer.

"Excellent game, guys!" Tokarev said, breaking her dealer's persona to smile widely at each of them in turn. "You all played really well!"

"Blackjack next, right?" quipped Type 79, mollified by StG's charity.

"Too easy for dolls to card count," said NTW-20. They all turned to see the doll approaching from the dormitory entrance. "Howzit?"

"44 is a bit richer," said Type 79. "Shame you couldn't show her up, NTW."

"I've got more important matters than gambling." The pink-haired doll's usual smile had been supplanted by a thin-lipped frown. StG could only imagine one thing in S17 that would make her that serious. "It's the Commander. 44– with me."

StG 44 pulled at her gloves and adjusted her tie every few steps as they paced down the hallway. Beside her, NTW-20 walked straight-backed as ever, the typical blank face replaced with the mildest expression of trepidation. At least you're anxious too, StG thought, reassuring herself that her tics were normal. Kerr probably produced that effect in most dolls. If StG was nervous, who wouldn't be? FAMAS. It was a long way to the command wing from the recreation center, but both of them were fast walkers and made good time.

"Any idea what she–"

"Nope," said NTW-20. "She never says."

StG reached for her tie again, pulling it tighter around her neck. This is it. Kerr had never asked for StG, and they had never spoken in person since her induction. Kerr's image flashed in front of her, crystal clear, hard eyes looking into StG's apathetically. It'll be different this time.

The two approached the command wing's entrance. "Ladies," NTW-20 greeted the dolls managing the security checkpoint. PP-90 and AS Val got up from their seats, Val picking her rifle up and holding it under one arm.

"Don't see you around here too much," said PP-90, grabbing a handheld scanner from the table. "Kerr gonna tear you a new one or something?"

"Not quite," NTW-20 said, holding her arm out. PP-90 held the scanner over her forearm and watched the readout on the screen.

"Clear. StG 44?"

StG pulled her sleeve up and mimicked NTW-20.

"Clear."

"Hey, Sturmgewehr," said AS Val. StG turned to look. "Want to get a drink sometime?"

What? StG considered the Russian doll. Why? She knew Val from running simulations on occasion, but they weren't acquaintances. It came as a surprise for the Russian doll to invite StG out for a drink. "Er… sure. What time were you thinking?"

"Café, next week, 9 PM," said AS Val. "That's when the Americans are doing their jazz show."

StG nodded slowly and followed NTW-20 through the now-open door.

The first floor of the command wing was significantly quieter. The gentle murmur of office workers mixed with the hum and whir of active computers and printers, sounds of diligent bureaucratic labor. Drywall offices stretched the length of this floor, doors closed to outsiders and window blinds closed. Workers here were a mix of A-dolls, T-dolls, and organics, the staff vetted by the senior command team and constantly assessed to determine if they would be allowed to continue working in this wing. Kerr ran the base like a machine, and as the center of the operation, the command wing was the most carefully supervised sector of the entire facility. For all her love of efficiency and improvement, StG could not imagine working here.

The door closed behind them, sealing with a heavy thunk. NTW-20 and StG stood awkwardly by the entrance, receiving stares from a few of the human employees walking about, until the adjutant arrived.

"NTW-20," intoned Type 81, approaching them from a side hallway. "Thank you for arriving on time. Commander Kerr is waiting in her office. Please follow me, if you'd be so kind."

"Of course," said NTW-20. Gone was any trace of her former nervosity, and she moved smoothly and properly. StG did her best to stop her fidgeting and do the same. As they passed by the offices, she tried to get a glimpse of the inside through the windows, but only saw humans or dolls bent over desks or tapping away on computers. One of the doors ahead opened, and a brown-uniformed T-doll stepped out of an office, bearing a thick stack of papers.

"Type 81," the doll said, falling in with the three. "I've compiled the information that the Komandir requested, if you'd like to bring it to her."

"Much obliged," said Type 81, accepting the stack of papers graciously. "I'll take it to her now. What about the listening post analysis?"

The other doll bowed her head. "Still a work-in-progress, I'm afraid. I need to meet again with the communications team."

"Understood. That's all, then."

The three approached the elevator bank at the end of the floor, and Type 81 pressed the call button, the lightbulb within flickering to life feebly. Even the command wing, which was mostly modern and renovated, still had leftovers from the previous Soviet owners. StG could hear the elevator slowly lowering itself to their floor, clattering all the way. For such a large wing – StG estimated that this floor was more than a few thousand square feet alone – the elevators seemed painfully small. The doors in front of them opened, squealing into the walls, and Type 81 beckoned the other two to enter first.

It was cramped inside, and StG awkwardly brushed shoulders with NTW-20 as they made room for Type 81. The adjutant transferred the binder, clipboard, and papers she was holding to one arm and pressed a button with other, closing the doors and setting the elevator back in motion. It shook a little as they rose, heading directly to the top floor, where Kerr's office was. StG did not like in the elevator. She felt trapped in its faux wood paneling, shoved into a corner, like a caged pet being brought to the veterinarian.

The elevator ground to a halt, doors creaking open to reveal the command center. This was the first time StG had seen it outside of press releases, and it did not fail to impress. It was a large, long room, with an array of individual workstations around the walls. The far end of the room was covered in a large, wall-spanning projection of S17, with numerous emblems scattered about on the map, indicating the positions of friendly and enemy forces. In the middle of the room was a raised floor featuring a large holotable, around which several officers were gathered. Some were organic, but just as many were dolls. StG recognized white-uniformed Jericho, as well as the shorter Makarov, both of whom glanced at StG, and then took a longer look at NTW-20, as the two of them followed Type 81.

"The Commander's office is this way."

Type 81 led them off to the side of the raised portion, heading toward the map wall and taking a left. A door on the wall led to… another checkpoint? StG found herself raising a bemused eyebrow as the adjutant took them into a small anteroom, with only a single wall-mounted control panel and a heavy, mag-locked blast door. No security dolls manned this door, only the automated security system. Type 81 quickly punched in a series of numbers, then swiped her forearm over the scanner. The light flashed green. NTW-20 and StG copied her.

"NTW-20 and StG 44 here to see Commander Kerr, escorted by Type 81," announced the adjutant. With a muted clunk of retracting bolts, the door seal broke and it slowly swung outward. The room behind it was much larger, featuring several rows of scuffed wooden chairs lit by wall-mounted LEDs. A table sat at the end of one of the rows, holding a poorly stacked pile of dated magazines. Type 81 stepped over to the table and hastily straightened the pile. "Commander Kerr is currently in a meeting with another individual. She apologizes for the delay and invites you to make yourself comfortable while you wait."

"Of course," said NTW-20, taking a seat. StG lowered herself into the seat across from her echelon leader as Type 81 went to stand by the door. Yet another door, she thought, staring at the entrance to the office. Kerr certainly liked to keep herself secluded. StG supposed that it was a better alternative to the interfering, hands-on approach that many Griffin commanders – her old S09 CO included – tended to adopt. The dolls in S17 were largely self-sufficient, and even if not, the doll garrison in S17 was so large that it would be impractical for any one commander to singlehandedly liaise with every doll. In a situation such as this, StG believed that any good commanding officer would distance themselves from the troops and delegate responsibilities as necessary. To avoid being compromised, or so StG thought. She told herself that she had never been and would never be in a command position.

To keep herself occupied, the doll picked up one of the magazines.

POPULAR MECHANICS

June 2058

Humanlike Androids: Will Second-Generation Dolls Outdo Humanity On the Frontlines?

A smile tweaked the edges of StG's mouth as she read the headline. Where had this magazine even come from? An image of a brown-haired A-doll was plastered on the cover. Sturmgewehr opened the magazine and flipped through, passing some out-of-date articles on military technology until she found the piece on T-doll strategy.

"It is postulated," stated the article, "that second-generation tactical androids will require a complex decisionmaking and emotion module to truly supplant human troops in frontline combat. Prominent roboticist Eckhart Willenborg, a senior member of the Heer's recently founded Automated Infantry Division, has published a seminal report detailing the necessity of emotions in order to make an effective android soldier. 'Empathy is a key aspect of any infantryman,' Willenborg stated in his report's preface. 'Without the capacity to feel for their fellows, it is difficult for android units to be truly cohesive without a superior authority.'"

Like emotion ever helped me with Hunter, StG huffed, peeking at NTW-20 over the top of the magazine. The pink-haired doll was sitting still, staring off into the distance. StG presumed she was looking at something on her HUD and resumed reading.

"Willenborg's stance on emotion modules is closely tied to previously theorized 'master-commander' models of doll command, where tactically independent androids with individual preprogrammed personalities (capable of self-improvement and independent learning) were controlled – or rather, commanded – on a strategic level by one human officer. By delegating certain tasks to sapient androids instead of frontloading it on human operators as seen in 'command-control' models (e.g. New Soviet Union android units), it would be much more capable for one or a small group of humans to command a large unit of androids. Such a model, of course, relies on the command and interpersonal skills of the commander. There must be a certain amount of trust between the commander and those commanded. Reliance on hard-coded command obedience programs is not a suggested method of command, according to Willenborg."

StG looked at one of the pictures in the article, a Pan-European Union military officer standing at attention next to his platoon of android soldiers. Trust between the commander and those commanded. Though Kerr seemed to subscribe to a more aloof method of commanding. StG did feel somewhat assured of the Commander. Kerr was not friendly or cordial or relatable, but she was capable, and to StG, that was all that mattered.

Type 81 stepped away from the door moments before it swung open. Another Type 81, a dummy, stepped out, then stopped and waited for two others to follow. One was a uniformed officer, in the process of fitting a beret to his head, and the other was none other than Dr. Schuhart. The IOP scientist was garbed in a smart white shirt and subtly patterned tie underneath his unbuttoned, sterile white labcoat. The doctor adjusted his glasses and managed to catch StG's eye right before she could look away. "Sturmgewehr," Schuhart said, smiling at her. StG nodded robotically and then turned to put the magazine back on the table. "And NTW-20"

"Sir," the other doll acknowledged curtly. The uniformed man paused for a moment and glanced back at NTW-20 before he moved on. StG stood as the Type 81 dummy brushed by her. Schuhart inclined his head.

"Pleasure seeing you again, Sturmgewehr."

"The pleasure's mine," StG replied stiffly, automatically. The scientist turned and followed the Type 81 dummy, which opened the anteroom blast door and led the two men away. StG made for the office door.

"The Commander will have you enter when she so wishes," said Type 81, a clear tone of don't-mess-with-me evident in her voice. The blast door locked shut as she stepped in front of the office door, making StG feel a little trapped. Don't get between an adjutant and her commander, she thought.

"44–" NTW-20 began.

"They can come in," said a voice from inside the officer. Type 81 opened the door and stepped inside, followed by the two dolls. StG was so preoccupied with looking around that she barely had the presence of mind to pull the door shut behind her.

It was darker inside the office, lit by a pair of floor lamps and a single desk light. StG snuck a few looks around the room, taking in as much as she could. It was carved out of stone, like much of the base, reinforced with concrete and quite cold to the doll's outer thermometer. Every inch of the room was as austere and closed-off as its inhabitant. Kerr sat at a large wooden desk, its surface covered in neatly stacked papers. High on the wall behind her was the Griffin and Kryuger coat of arms, flanked by an Elite Griffin plaque and a red flag with two crossed swords and a lion atop a crown. The left wall was taken up by a large, ceiling-high metal bookcase, packed with nondescript grey binders. The right wall featured a large, framed landscape painting, next to which was a display box. The brass medals within glimmered faintly at StG as her eyes roved over the wall, lingering on a photograph of a young woman in uniform. A door on the back wall had been left ajar, and the doll could just barely glimpse a small bed through the crack.

As they came to a halt in front of the desk, the tick of a clock became evident. Soon it was the only sound in the room, a constant, reliable noise.

"NTW-20, Sturmgewehr 44," said Kerr, raising a hand distractedly. She was looking down at her desk, a thick fountain pen in her right hand as she printed a note. StG could read (upside-down) "MEMO – DOLL SERVICES DIVISION" across the top.

"Kommandant," said StG, snapping her heels together and snapping her hand to the rim of her cap in a well-practiced salute.

"Commander." NTW-20 merely raised her hand to her brow.

"At ease," said Kerr. StG shifted into parade rest.

"Ma'am, Serdyukov completed the requested Sangvis logistics data compilation," said Type 81, stepping around StG to the side of Kerr's desk.

"Place it here." Kerr patted the edge of her desk. Type 81 complied before taking a place against the wall. "You may wait outside."

"Yes ma'am," said Type 81, heading through the door with nary a sound. A perfect adjutant, StG mused. Kerr continued to ignore her and NTW-20, scribing her note out onto the paper. Her thick, greying hair had been pulled behind her back, though it fell forward around her head like a curtain whenever she leaned particularly far forward. Her pen scratched away at the paper – she seemed intent on filling the entire page. StG contained her impatience. This was her first time meeting Kerr in such an environment, nearly free of judging observers like FAMAS or MG34. The Commander's bulky red overcoat and beret had been hung on a coat rack in the corner, and she wore only her white dress shirt and black skirt and tie. A pair of glasses were perched on her nose, simple and black-rimmed. Kerr was quite the inoffensive woman, visually speaking.

With a harsh mark of punctuation, Kerr leaned back and screwed the cap on the pen, setting it aside and picking up the papers she had been working on. With a tap to straighten them, she put the pile next to the one Type 81 had set on her desk. "Thank you for arriving on time, and please pardon the wait. Dr. Schuhart and Colonel Grinevich were especially talkative."

"We didn't mind," NTW-20 said. Kerr reached up and removed her glasses, folding them carefully and setting them down on the desktop. Her face was sharp and well-balanced, her voice carrying only a soft hint of a Scottish burr, covered by a British accent.

"Did you receive my earlier communique? You failed to reply to it over the net."

"I was occupied and it slipped my mind," NTW-20 said. Kerr nodded, making eye contact with StG for a split second.

"That's all right. I intended on discussing it with you during this meeting regardless."

The Commander leaned forward, putting her crossed arms on the desk.

"It concerns the Yew Team incident."

There was a subtle shift in the room. NTW-20 became more guarded, while StG felt herself put on edge. Kerr pulled a different stack of papers in front of her.

"We all know that this event is more than just an abnormality. The sector has been as quiet as ever since Operation Cataphract. The Ringleader is dead, Sangvis forces scattered. But somehow an entire echelon was killed or disappeared. It's even more unusual than it might be otherwise. The recovered corpse of SV-98 was revealed – after a necropsy – to not be a mainframe, and was in fact a dummy. However, that doesn't explain the missing optics or artificial nervous system. This sort of mutilation has never been seen before. As MG34 noted in her report, the nature of this incident is certainly unknown."

"So–" NTW-20 started, but Kerr held up a hand to stop her.

"Also pertinent is the results of Thistle Team's engagement with a Sangvis convoy. We all know how without the OGAS protocol, Sangvis infantry is useless. But Grizzly stated in her AAR that Sangvis was very much capable, organized, and even adaptive to her tactics. She said, 'Sangvis managed to not only set up an effective defense when they were ambushed, but nearly routed us and successfully cut our sniper off from the rest of us. Only through quick thinking and the team's cooperation did we win that particular engagement.' And after that, they were hit with close air support and nearly destroyed in the riverbed."

Kerr set down the paper she had been reading from and looked up, the mildest look of perplexion crossing her face.

"The Sangvis intelligence that Thistle recovered from the convoy? Virtually useless, out of date by a week. Just old communications logs, scrambled too. Everything here reeks of a Ringleader. It would be impossible for Sangvis to do this otherwise."

StG's head spun with giddiness. Another Ringleader? Another challenge. NTW-20 had gotten the kill on the last one. This would be Sturmgewehr's chance to one-up FAMAS. "But," she said, betraying not a hint of her emotions, "Sangvis couldn't possibly have a new Ringleader so fast."

Kerr gave StG a funny look, but nodded in agreement. "That's what we thought. It's been barely two weeks since the last was destroyed. But there's no other explanation, unless Sangvis has made some amazing technological advancements over the past couple weeks."

"Do we know anything about this Ringleader? Is it a dummy of Headhunter?"

Headhunter had been the previous Ringleader, a bold commander who gave S17 a run for its money in the first few weeks. But after that first loss, it had only been a matter of time.

"Doubtful. The nature of Yew Team's disappearance is so strange that I, Dr. Schuhart, and others believe it to be a Sangvis model not yet seen. Stealth-capable, perhaps. A model we've never seen before. And whatever it did to the dolls in the forest, it infected the only survivor with a virus–"

"Parapluie?" NTW-20 cut in. StG's Digimind shuddered at the mention of the deadly Sangvis infection.

"Quite possibly, but we don't have enough information yet. The survivor – RPD – is being kept in confinement until a solution is found. She has been wholly useless in providing evidence or a witness report, merely shifting in and out of level one consciousness. So far, she has failed to show any hyper-violent tendencies indicative of Parapluie, so she has yet to be terminated. SV-98's corpse has also provided no clues as to the nature of the Ringleader, aside from its apparent propensity for mélèe and cannibalizing carrion."

"So, a stealth Ringleader who mutilates corpses and can infect Griffin dolls with a virus on the spot." NTW-20's facial tics, normally suppressed, betrayed an attitude of… worry. That's surprising. Was it just something for the human's sake? Or was NTW-20 really that perturbed? "This is more than just an anomalous Sangvis, ma'am. It's an unknown one."

"Which is why I intend to deal with it as quickly as possible. Our first priority is determining where the Ringleader is operating from. I have already ordered the deployment of echelons in a wide search area to check former hotspots as well as predicted locations of Sangvis activity. Concurrent with this search is an effort to understand Sangvis's capabilities as a whole. Strength, logistic capacity, mobility, et cetera. We believed their combat readiness to be effectively destroyed after the last operation, but Thistle's convoy encounter proved otherwise."

Kerr unfolded her arms and instead laced her fingers together, setting her hands on the desk. Her voice was strong and steady, matter-of-fact in its delivery, and she made the matter of a new Ringleader sound as simple and easy to fix as brewing tea.

"Once we have the intelligence we need, we initiate a search-and-destroy operation to knock out Sangvis facilities and counter their efforts in the field. They're already pushing in from far away command posts, so we should respond as soon as possible. Neutralizing Sangvis assets now will make things easier in the long run."

"And you're telling us this because you want Hunter on standby in case the Ringleader shows up," NTW-20 surmised.

"If necessary, yes. Once we know where and what the Ringleader is, we devise an operation to corner it, Hunter heads in and takes care of the problem with support as needed. No one really knows how serious this will turn out, so we're assuming the worst and taking steps to anticipate a large operation. NTW-20, I'd like for you to begin drafting a report on what you think is the best course of action for dealing with the Ringleader. The command team and I will have a meeting to discuss the best method to apply in the coming days.

"Yes ma'am," NTW-20 said, inclining her head.

"Good. I advise you to consult with Jericho or Welrod if necessary, and Serdyukov's intelligence department is, of course, available if you should need it."

The Commander restacked a few papers and put them away, sitting up even straighter in her chair. There was a subtle change in her expression, something harder. Kerr finally turned her gaze upon StG.

"Now for you. I don't suppose you know why I asked NTW-20 to bring you along?"

"No, herr." I should've known there was a reason.

Kerr's face was like stone. "M1 Garand suffered numerous injuries and had to spend over an hour in the repair bay getting them fixed. SVT-38 seemed to get off lightly in comparison, but a broken nose is nothing to sneeze at."

"I had my reasons," StG 44 said. Why is everyone on my case about this?

"I'm sure you did. The fact stands, however, that assaulting Griffin T-dolls is unwarranted damage of company property… not to mention the money expended fixing the dolls. Quite frankly, I didn't expect to see such archaic behavior at this base. We're not S13," Kerr said, a tone of disappointment edging into her voice. "As a Griffin doll, you should have more respect for others and more self-control. You, Sturmgewehr, appear to lack both of them."

She paused, and StG kept a straight face, not wanting to betray the steady sinking feeling in her mind. The doll had thought the incident in the past. A mark on the record, perhaps. She hadn't ever done something like that. I was a fool to think that way, she berated herself.

"The question now is how to punish you for your actions."

"My actions were totally legitimate. She provok–"

"Nothing you did do those dolls is legitimate," Kerr cut in. "I don't care about inane squabbles over your previous deployment history and an injury to your self-esteem. You didn't act in self-defense, you attacked her because of an insult. This is not a primary school playground, and by allowing her to provoke you to action you are proving yourself the petulant child she thinks you are!"

The Commander had not raised her voice a great deal. In fact, it was nearly imperceptible. But something about it instilled a quiet sense of fear and an instinct of deference, and of guilt, in StG.

"Kommandant, I–"

"That's enough." Kerr shot StG a withering glare. "NTW-20, do you have anything to add?"

StG's breath caught in her throat. Please, not her. The Commander had already torn her down. She didn't need her team leader doing the same.

"Nothing you haven't said already, ma'am," intoned the pink-haired doll. "StG must keep a lid on her emotions."

"I do," StG muttered, an assurance for herself more than anyone else. I try. NTW-20 shot her a glare.

"I am in agreement," the Commander was saying. "Now, for the punishment. Given the circumstances, I think that reassignment would be prudent."

The words shocked StG. Hunter Squadron was her only real home, even if they had their disagreements. She couldn't imagine going elsewhere.

"But Hunter Squadron needs to be ready in case–"

Kerr nodded. "And it will be. If and when Hunter Squadron is deployed, you will be with them. But in the meantime, there are other things for you to do besides visiting the simulation pods. More productive uses of your time. The question is where you will be reassigned. Most combat echelons here are full-up. It happens that Chrysanthemum Team has an opening, however."

Kerr picked up a tablet from her desk, flicking through a few pages on it.

"Ak 5 is on leave, at the nearest IOP branch receiving upgrades. You would make a good replacement."

She was already authorizing the transfer, handing the tablet over to NTW-20 so the T-doll could input her own credentials to confirm, and StG was shunted into Chrysanthemum just like that.

"You will eat, sleep, and work with them. I expect you to be on better behavior than you have been as of late. CBJ-MS will be informed of the situation, you are to report to her this evening."

Kerr paused to let that sink in. StG kept her face straight, desperate not to display even a hint of the emotions coursing through her wiring. Shock, embarrassment, anger. Anger at Garant, at SVT-38, at herself. The Commander leaned over her desk just a little, catching StG's eyes. The doll straightened her back even more, if that was possible.

"Sturmgewehr. You're in S17 because I wanted you to be. Remember that. Now wipe that petrified expression of your face and get used to your situation. This is your fault that this is happening, no one else's.

As if on cue, Type 81 reentered the room. Kerr looked up at the black-haired doll, all business. "Type 81, please escort NTW-20 and Sturmgewehr 44 to the exit."

The last image StG got of Kerr was her setting her glasses back on her nose as she picked up a fresh stack of papers.