Notes: This chapter would not be possible without kilgamesh, over on tumblr, who helped me a great deal when I started getting frustrated with different aspects of the action (that I had not adequately planned-imagine that). Thank you so much, Beretta-this one's for you! Warning for repeated mentions of throwing up, though it never actually happens. Some mild dissociation maybe.

Tomorrow comes early as you cannot stay asleep for more than a couple hours at a time, waking to darkness over and over as your stomach tangles itself in knots, and your mind spins in circles that keep you just on the edge of nightmares and the comfort of your bed.

From what you know of Miss Pauling—little, resolute, professional Miss Pauling—you cannot help but believe the woman will arrive early this fine Sunday morning, hand over what was more than likely your letter of rejection, and order you to be gone from the base by sundown. Stomach turning, tumbling, trembling, you shrug on the uniform coat, pulling it secure over your shoulders, laying the collar even. You strap the Lancaster to your thigh; the weight feels good. The coat makes you feel hidden, enveloped and warm.

But you hesitate at the door. Is it incredibly pretentious to dress in the role you may be denied?

You try to duck into the high rim of the collar. You push into the hall, feeling the gentle tug of the holster on your thigh, the faint chill of the air-conditioned hall on your cheeks. The flex of your thigh alongside the pistol feels right and real.

No, there isn't a damned reason you can't wear this coat. You've worked months for this, gave up seeing your mother heal for this. You—

Scout totters out of his door in a wrinkled pair of shorts and t-shirt, hair a mess of stuck-up tufts. There's a bounce in his step again; relief floods your chest as your previous thoughts evaporate into air.

"Good mornin', Spesh!" An easy jog puts him at your side, as though the thought that you'd be even with his door very shortly, should he wait, did not occur to him. "Pretty nervous?"

You bite back several comments about throwing up, his astute powers of observation, and your desire to run outside and scream like a madwoman. "Yeah."

Scout nods. "I don't think you need ta worry about it. Miss P's pretty fair, and you've been pretty good this week." He gives you a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth sneaking up in a cocky little grin. "Y'know, not like my caliber or anythin', but pretty damn decent."

First instinct is to roll your eyes. "Thanks. Feeling fantastic now."

But you do find your stomach has settled a bit.

He grins, heaving his shoulders in an elaborate shrug. "I just have that effect on people." The boy holds open the door to the mess hall for you, and furrows his brow as you pass. "You goin' somewhere?" He gestures up and down. Your brow furrows, too, as you try to figure out exactly—

Oh. "The coat?"

"Yeah. We're off today, unless you know somethin' I don't know."

You attempt a casual shrug, but it manifests stiffly, all wrong. "Just thought I'd wear it," you say, and it sounds hollow even to your own ears. What else could you say? You felt safe in it? Strong? Sure?

It makes you feel like you are part of the team, simple and red and clean?

No. "Just felt like it" is really the only verbal answer you can possibly give. And Scout seems to accept it, bustling over to the refrigerator for a half-gallon of borderline-questionable milk. As for you, you tug a cup down from the cupboard for your morning beverage, careful to check the ceramic for old coffee-rings or scummy traces of soup. The mug is acceptable, but—

There's a trace of spicy smoke on the air, and your fingers immediately find the grip of your pistol just as a hand finds your wrist. "Fair warning," curls a voice, soft, at your ear. "Our doctor is on his way." Our? Your bare fingers curl into the handle and trigger as your teeth creak, shoulders tense- "Our doctor, mademoiselle." He releases your wrist only when your hand falls slack against your thigh. A faint current of air signals the beginning of his departure. "I will intervene if necessary." You open your mouth, but you know he's gone.

Damn spies.

Scout has a mouthful of toast. "What'cha doin' over there? Catchin' flies?"

You snap your mouth closed, quite unsure how to broach the subject. He needs the warning more, but how to delicately...

There's a stutter and a grinding halt in the easy breakfast-time domesticity when those parade-polished heels click in from the hall. You're much too late as Scout squares his shoulders and folds his arms tight, glass of milk in one hand and toast in the other. Much too late as Medic's eyes sweep over the boy with a cool ambivalence over his spectacles. Much too late as the doctor reaches above your head to pluck another mug from the cabinet, quite unbothered by the fact that your nose is almost buried his sleeve.

He smells like antiseptic and it's all you can do to ignore the reflexive bile that rises in your throat but at least he doesn't smell of blood and dust and gunmetal glinting steel—

You draw your next breath, sharp, as he moves to set the coffee kettle, back pressed hard into the counter, its tiled edge drawing a line across your spine; the air smells of wood and old bacon. Fingers curled, you inhale again, focus on the stale breakfast smell.

"Guten Morgen," he says at last.

Scout takes a sullen bite of his toast.

"Good morning," you manage, and the corner of Medic's mouth twitches in a smile. Your nails dig into your palms, and you stare resolutely at the cracked tiles on the floor. This is your teammate, not your enemy, no matter how familiar his face.

But even as you return to your own mug and redouble your efforts to make something of breakfast, you cannot shake the feeling that you've been mocked.

The silence settles uneasily, but the minutes tick by, and you fill your cup. Scout sits next to you at the table, and nothing worth an intervention occurs. You stomach a piece of toast. Medic stirs his coffee. Scout finishes his milk. You keep sipping.

Scout finally taps his fingers against the worn grain of the tabletop. "Placin' any bets for Spesh today?" he asks, but does not look at the doctor. The doctor-sans-license.

Medic unfortunately takes this as an invitation to sit down across from you both. "It would be a pointless exercise," he says. "Zhere would be no bets against her."

The boy snorts. "What, 'cause she's your pet project?"

But you're still staring at the doctor. You knew he wanted you to stay, but to claim such confidence in your abilities, in what little potential you might have shown this week…?

Your mug is halfway to your lips, and you make no move to put it down nor to sip.

And he's looking at you.

"I'm flattered you believe the rest of zhe team thinks so highly of my work."

You want to look away, but you can't help looking for some reason in the arch of his brow, the sardonic turn of his lips as he addresses Scout, but looks at you.

"Hey, uh—" The crinkling of the boy's brow is practically audible. "You all right, there, Spesh?"

"Yeah, fine." A scalding glup does an extraordinarily poor job of covering your embarrassment. "I'm—um—I'm sure a few people have criticisms of this week regardless of—er—Medic's… work."

"Nonsense," says Medic brusquely, unpinning you from his gaze. "You have adapted und performed admirably."

"Yeah, keep goin', doc." Scout grumbles; he pushes back his chair, swiping his empty glass off the table and dumping it in the sink.

The doctor still doesn't pay the boy any mind. "I would expect Miss Pauling zhis afternoon. Do you have any plans for the day?"

Your brow creases. Plans? Beyond trying to keep your toast from leaping out of your gut at the first sign of a nervous influx? Why? "It's my day off," you reply dumbly.

Medic nods amicably. "Ja. Und, if you have no other plans, perhaps you could make time to return to zhe infirmary with me. I have some thoughts."

As a chill creeps over your skin, your stomach drops somewhere far below your chair.

Well, at least you don't have to worry about throwing up anymore.

"You're shittin' me, doc." Scout leans against the counter, easily replying in your place. "Tryin' to talk somebody into workin' on the weekend?"

Medic straightens his glasses, finally deigning to turn his gaze to your teammate. "It's not vork if it's voluntary recreational experimentation."

"Not true," you mumble into your mug.

"Und besides, we're being paid!"

"We're bein' paid regardless." Scout rolls his eyes. "I'd rather get paid for not getting cut open, thanks very much."

"Well," says the doctor stiffly, "I was not asking you."

And his eyes are on you again as you try to pretend you're somewhere far, far away. Like your room. Or a sunny beach with white sand in-no, no; never mind. Sand has been ruined for you regardless of color. A river instead maybe. With muddy banks and tall grass.

"Vell?"

Sadly, you are not on a sunny river-bank apart from your nerves and decisions that, were they not so grave, might amuse you with their fictional-levels of ridiculousness.

Join Dr. Frankenstein in his lab, indeed.

At least Victor Frankenstein had a fucking license.

"Well, I…" You coil your hands around your mug. "What if Miss Pauling arrives early?"

He waves a dismissive hand. "You don't need to worry about zhat. If anything, she's more likely to be late. Now—"

"Ya don't have to go," Scout interjects with a shrug. "We're workin' tomorrow, and if you wanna let him cut ya open then, whatevah. But you don't gotta do it today."

You know that; of course you do. And surely Medic isn't vindictive enough to jeopardize having you here if you say no? But-but if you can manage it…

No. Your stomach roils, your nerves flag, your mind is stretched thin already, a trembling, fragile band of rubber. You wouldn't make it. "I'd—really rather not, if that's fine."

Your fingers tighten around the cup as his brows arch, and you grit your teeth. You know you'll do it if he insists.

But Medic shoves himself from the table, chair scraping horribly. "Suit yourself, Specialist." The way he hits each consonant, guttural and harsh, curls you further around your mug.

And then he's gone, tromping off down the hall, the click of his boots drawing distant.

"Moody asshole," observes Scout.

You're just glad Medic hadn't pressed the issue.

Though you have no idea what you're going to do with your day now, far from the infirmary. You settle for taking another drink.

"Ya know what?" Scout asks suddenly, and doesn't wait for even a grunt in reply. "You look like you need to play ball."

Honestly, after an hour, standing in your undershirt while your coat lays neatly draped over the nearby fence, you strongly suspect that Scout was, in fact, the one that needed to "play ball." His over-eager batting and the fact that there were only two of you in the middle of a damned desert had already lost you six baseballs to the dusty red wasteland. Any balls that weren't lost dented the shed at your back with nasty cracks that left deep divots in the wood.

You catch this one in the glove he'd lent you with a snap. Underneath, your palm stings. "Letting off a little misplaced aggression, Scout?" You ask dryly, and pitch again. He doesn't swing this time; the throw was too high. He catches it bare-handed instead. There's some massive structure behind him, about twenty feet back-much larger than the storage sheds that dot the area-but the ball never gets far enough past him to strike it.

"Ain't you?" Scout grins.

Honestly, you don't have any aggression left for the day. Your bones are weary, and your stomach turns near-constantly, until you question why, only to remember what it is you're nervous about, and proceed to become twice as anxious. You shrug, and catch the ball he returns. "I don't exactly feel like kicking the shit out of anything right now."

You decide not to mention that if you weren't standing in the yard with sweat steadily pouring off your brow, you'd probably be curled up around a pillow, pretending you didn't exist.

Scout laughs and when you pitch again, smacks the ball off to your right, where it cracks against the shed again. "Guess most people get tired of it. Me?" He puffs out his chest. "I'm always ready ta go."

A smile inches its way over your mouth without permission. You cover it by bending down to pull the dust-discolored ball out of the dirt and sand. You wipe your brow as Scout saunters over, offering the bat, and bite back a groan, tempted to just wipe your face down the front of your undershirt. You're really shitty at this part of the whole 'baseball' thing.

Now is as good a time as any to wonder about the structure across the way. "What's the building there?"

The boy follows your gaze to the edifice you've been facing this entire time. "Dat's got weights 'n stuff in it. Basically our gym." He shrugs, now directly trading the glove and bat.

But your interest is piqued. "Can I see?"

Scout's brow furrows. "Uh—sure? I mean, it's not like anybody's stoppin' ya. Ya kinda live here."

That is like a punch in the gut. You live here. You do. You have. For a week now. And in a matter of hours or minutes, it could all be gone. The months spent training—days on end disassembling, reassembling your weapons, firing in the range, learning the maps, late nights reading dossiers and praying, fearing all this would not be enough—

"No one… ever mentioned it," is all you say, distant.

Scout taps the bat restlessly against his heels. "Yeah… Soldier really likes his obstacle course, and I don't think anybody else uses it much. Heavy, sometimes, maybe. Demo, on weekends, if he feels like it with that sword a his."

And—and you're angry.

How dare anyone believe they can tell you whether you deserve this position or not? They brought you on, months in advance. Brought you to the middle of a god-forsaken desert. Gave you a room. A new name. And today they will decide whether or not to take it all away?

"Um—Spesh, you gonna go or are we playin'?"

That was the fucking question, wasn't it?

"Yeah." You snatch your coat off the fence where it hangs, shake the sand from it. "We're doing one of those things."

Scout watches with a furrowed brow as you stride past, headed for the broad, squat building with its sloping roof and rough walls. "You-uh-you ok?" He catches up in just two bounds.

Your fingers curl into the heavy fabric of the scarlet coat. "I'm… okay."

"Uh, nice try, there, but I don't think ya are."

"I'll be fine, Scout." Your boots kick up little, orange clouds of dust.

He puffs out a little, annoyed breath, but you pay it no mind, pushing your way through the heavy door into the gym. You stop so short that Scout jostles your elbow in the doorway.

'A few weights and stuff' is not the way you would have described it. Weights there were, yes, but the room was huge. Targets, armor, supplies piled in the corners, on shelves. A finished floor fit for basketball (though you see no hoops). Blanks. Clay pigeons. More baseballs. Punching bags. A boxing ring.

"There's a boxing ring."

Scout heaves his shoulders carelessly. "Uh… yeah."

You face him directly as the door clicks shut. "It's a boxing ring."

"Um… that's what ya said."

The fury is still burning in your gut, but it wars with the familiarity of this single thing. You have to know. There's even a wrestling mat stored along the wall. Your fingers are wringing the hell out of your coat. Just the sight of it has you itching to jump in. Everything-everything would be fine for fifteen minutes. Stance, sweat, blood-—

The door creaks.

"Specialist!" You turn to find Miss Pauling there, clipboard tucked under her arm, glasses sliding crookedly down her nose. "Nobody knew where you went."

Any determination that had arisen, flowing through your veins, throws in the towel immediately. Your shoulders slump. Your mouth runs dry. A chill creeps down your spine.

"Miss P!" Scout stops just short of sliding an arm around her shoulders, folding flustered arms over his chest. "Great ta see ya!"

"Scout." She doesn't even really look at him; spares him a single glance and fixes you in her gaze. You wish she wouldn't. "I need to borrow the specialist for a few minutes, so if you could—"

"Yeah—yeah, no problem!" The boy gives you a broad grin, claps you on the back. "Good luck! I'll see ya in the mess, Spesh; it's gotta be time for lunch." He gives Miss Pauling another too-wide smile on his way past. "Maybe we can talk for a minute before ya have ta leave today an—"

"Scout, please."

"Got it, got it—sorry." He pushes the door. "But seriously—"

"Scout!"

"Gone!" And he was, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.

There's bile rising in your throat when Miss Pauling turns back to you. She straightens her glasses and smiles. "Nervous?" she asks.

Not even one irritable, sharp response comes to mind. "Yes."

She gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder. "Don't be."

That was certainly very easy for everyone to say, wasn't it? You try to return her smile, but you have a feeling it looks less than relaxed. From the way Miss Pauling's brow creases, you'd wager it looks more like you're about to get sick on her sensible, black mary-janes.

"Here," she says, gesturing to a stack of metal folding-chairs in the corner. You nod and grab two, setting each of them up with a grinding screech of half-rusted joints, and sit only after she does. "Now, I know you're very nervous, hoping things will go through fine, so we'll dive right in; this won't take too long."

"You're… very busy," you manage to say with practiced politeness.

Miss Pauling gives a helpless lift of her shoulders. "Always; it comes with the job. I don't really even have the time to think about how busy I am, so it's all right But—" She straightens her glasses again, though this time they do not need it. "—we're here about you." You try to meet her eyes as best you can. "I'll start by saying that the team speaks very highly of you."

All of them? Yes, most of the team seemed content with your performance, but what was said to one's face and out of one's company are, too often, completely different things. But you keep your mouth firmly shut.

"Reports of your cooperation on the battlefield are, overall, very positive, and footage of the battles supports reports of your skilled performance."

There's a 'but' coming, you can feel it in your gut. You shift in the chair with a creak that echoes uncomfortably through the gym.

Miss Pauling's eyes have returned to the clipboard. "There is the matter of your lingering psychological complications—what Medic identifies as 'Gross Stress Reaction'—"

There it is.

"—but, he identifies that it's well in-hand, so that won't be an issue unless you wish to terminate our agreement on those grounds, which you may do at any time."

Your mouth is hanging open, lips parted, voice quite lost. That… that was different. That was…

"Do you want to go home?" Miss Pauling asks.

"No!" You slide to the edge of the chair, which groans in an irritated fashion, but you don't give a damn. "No—I want to stay. I haven't changed my mind. If you thought—if my performance—if I did well, yes—yes, I want to stay. I need to stay. You know that, ma'am."

She meets your eyes again with a gentle gaze. "I know; I remember. I just need you to know that you have the option."

You nod. "I understand."

The woman's gaze flicks to the little, silver watch on her wrist, framed by a worn, black band. "Good. Well, in that case, we can speed things up a little." From somewhere under the paperwork on her clipboard, Miss Pauling draws a little, scarlet and saffron scrap of fabric. She presses the embroidered circle into your hands, and you forget to breathe. "Congratulations, Specialist."

Lips parted, you trace the crimson circle. The yellow wash that makes a shining background. The neat, black stitches that form a scarlet shield which houses four, black barrels. The shield and howdah.

A class badge.

Your badge.

"Affix it to the right shoulder of your coat tonight, and you're official."

Your lungs are burning by the time you remember to breathe.

"Well, after a couple signatures on the full contract of course, but—"

In your hands. You can feel it, every satin ridge. Miss Pauling's voice becomes a gentle rhythm at the back of your mind as you blink the tears from your eyes so you can just keep looking. The colors are as bright as your mother's scarves. And when your gaze blurs again, scarlet and saffron run together in a wash of hope, and all the half-drafted letters of failure in your mind are scattered to the wind when you finally hear Miss Pauling's words again:

"Welcome to the team."

Notes: HOLY SHIT, YOU GUYS. WE HIT A MAJOR RESOLUTION. Though I consider it more of a... beginning. Time to start getting down and dirty with some real plot reveals, what do you say? Thank you all so very, very much for sticking around, and I look forward to getting into even more in the next few chapters.