Colors of War Chapter 16: Nemesis, a final fantasy vii fanfic

Colors of War, Chapter 13: Taking Sides

Intensive training started barely an hour after Iridalan's announcement. No doubt his knowledge of her nature had pressed him to ignore her opinion and go ahead with the promotion- if one could call it that- without waiting for her to accept it, formally.

Now, dangling by one hand from a sheer rock face, she cursed every star in the Cosmo pantheon which had brought her life to this close. 'Get up there', indeed! She flinched away from an inquisitive bird, scrabbling with hopelessly broken nails for another handhold while trying very hard not to think about how far down everything else was. Or how far up she was. The top seemed awfully far away, but she resolutely kept her eyes on it- no need to tempt fate. Uncle- no, Hurst- had refused her the use of a safety harness. He, like many of the older Turks, was of the opinion that if you didn't survive it, you probably didn't deserve to survive anyway. Damn the lot of them.

Mako could ensure her survival. But falling several hundred meters down a cliff riddled with sharp outcroppings (which she had discovered in the worst possible way after several such falls from lesser heights) was not her idea of a successful training exercise. Besides, who knew if Hojo would manage to weasel his way back to try out weird things on her under the pretence of "medical advice"? No go, girl. Mind on the task here. Surely you don't want to fall down again. Hurst will NEVER let you live that down, even if you do survive. A grunt of laughter oozed out of her strained throat. Note to self: make their lives a living hell when Iridalan retires. Oh, it's going to be a fun lifetime. Finding a hairline crack and digging painful fingers into it, she laboriously crawled an infinitesimal inch upwards, finding with some relief that the cliff had a downward slope around this area. Thank the Planet for rest stops.

In the interests of getting on with life, suffice to say that she spent several more hours hauling herself to the top of the cliff, where a stony-faced Hurst waited. She wondered how long he had been up there- in the agonizing first dozen or so tries it took her to climb more than a two-storey height, he had been there, watching her push her battered body out of the dirt again and again. The coldly clinical set of his face suggested that he was testing the limits of the Mako. If two stories' worth didn't kill her, what would? Somehow there was something unnerving about being watched like a bug. I will never laugh at guinea pigs ever again, she swore to herself, listening with only half an ear to what Hurst was saying. Something about determination and the capacity of the human body to extend itself under duress. Only about a quarter of it made sense to her tired brain, but the words sank into her memory like pebbles falling into a tepid pool. She'd be able to remember everything later- she just wasn't processing now.

She managed to get her feet under her with the help of a none-too-gentle haul on her collar from her soon-to-be peer. Why in the name of the Planet had she ever agreed to this? No, wait, she hadn't agreed to this. For about the four hundredth time in the past day, she cursed Iridalan all the way into the fifth generation. Hurst's hand on her dress shirt collar as she stumbled back towards the elevator which would take them back into the offices proper was solid, a cold sort of comfort. He would catch her. He wouldn't spare her any of the pain, but he would catch her.

And it was almost enough for her to forgive him for the agony of the day.

"I never meant for you to dream of all this, you know."

Light…light and sun-shadow. Grass flowing in waves down an endless, rolling meadow freckled with trees, here and there. She stands beside him, dressed in a simple green dress, her curly violet-black hair rippling in the determined wind. His lean, long frame is garbed in a simple brown Wutaian wrap, belted twice across the waist. He stares out at the endless expanse of green, seemingly one with the earth, the wind, nature itself. She avoids looking at him too closely. Something in her rejects the thought of taking a dream for real. "Well," she replies caustically, "maybe you can do something about it?"

"Sorry." He doesn't sound apologetic at all. She resists the urge to kick him. "It seems to be part of what we passed on to you, plus what She passed on to you. Unavoidable, really. Again, sorry. But life seems to be treating you fairly well." At her loud snort, he shrugs. "Insofar as you enjoy life. I must say, you turned out to be more of a problem than we anticipated."

"So happy to know I was part of your snarky little plan."

"Be nice. The Planet depends on this, so pay attention. You probably won't remember much when you wake up, though…"

"Might as well spare me the lecture, then," she mutters sullenly, bending down and wrenching a handful of long grass from the ground at her feet. A hard cuff over the ear lands her sprawling in the warm green arbor. Surprised and angry, she rolls to her feet, swaying slightly in the uncertain footing. She is barefoot, she finds to her chagrin; her feet are slashed and bloody from the sharp grass. He stares down at her, distant, alien, inhuman.

"You would never have scaled the heights if not for us," he hisses, long brown hair whipping furiously in the sudden gale. "You were chosen, out of the puling, pathetic lot of them, chosen to fight for us. Never forget that, Nameless. As long as you live, you will fight our battle. Fight well, Nameless. The Planet will not accept you until we deem you worthy of death. Now go!"

The grasslands spring into abrupt green flame, dissolving in a whirl of green sparks. She falls into darkness, knowing that it is where she belongs…

"…SHIT!" she swore, bolting awake, pushing aside sweat-soaked sheets. The medical wing was deserted, and sun streamed in through the narrow slats of windows. High afternoon at least. What was she doing here? A quick glance at the light bandages on the end of each limb told her- treatment for her abused feet and hands. They throbbed with a dull ache, spreading throughout her bruised body. Her arms were mottled with healing bruises which looked at least a week old. How long had she been asleep?

Silk lifted a sardonic eyebrow from the next bed, where he reclined amid a traction device and copious amounts of paperwork. "So you're awake, sleeping beauty." He flushed faintly at her wide-eyed look. "It wasn't my fault. Blackthorne decided that since I was going to be your partner, I needed some shaping up. I'll be in traction for the next two weeks at least, I tell you. Bloody superiors and their damn ideas of progress. How's life treating you?"

Diera gave him a narrow glare. "What does it look like?" She held up her mottled forearms, wincing as her grimace pulled muscles in her battered face. She hadn't been entirely successful in the tuck and roll. Hard to bunch up when you're bouncing off a variety of interesting rocks. "Does my face look as bad as my arms do?"

"Sure it does. You didn't break anything, though, so count yourself lucky," he added helpfully, waving one hand for emphasis. "D'you want a bite? You've been out of it for nearly two days."

"Two days? No wonder I'm on a drip," she noted sourly, hiding her surprise. "I'm surprised my covers aren't wet." Determinedly, she began to pick at the tape holding the drip in. The skin itched and burned as she rubbed the end of the tape, unable to use her nails to pick it off. Eventually the tape lost adhesiveness and sloughed, allowing her to peel the pieces off neatly, but the needle had been jostled so much that the skin around the entry site was torn. She swore again, carefully pulling the metal implement out and letting it dangle free. Diera disliked being on the receiving end of pointy metal things, even if they were beneficial. Hojo and his Nibelheim gig had made sure of that. Brrr. "Is all that paperwork yours?"

He grinned. "No. Most of it is yours, actually. I've been fielding it for you. Nothing much better to do. Come here and give me a hello kiss, cherie…" His smile grew wider as she gave an annoyed sniff and limped stiffly over to peck his lips briefly. Silk Ashner never lacked for partners among his colleagues, even under the worst of situations, so he could afford to snicker at his partner's inexperience in dealing with intimate situations. "Loosen up a bit more," he said anyway, deciding that he might as well be as snarky as he could. "Not every kiss is personal, you know… and you can use it for intimidating people."

Her affronted hiss and the ensuing smooch was enough to help his grin rival a Yin-Yang's in wideness. "Better now?" she huffed, and stormed out of the medical wing, presumably in search of something other than a hospital wrap to wear.

Diera was in a foul temper. Having people snicker at her state of dress- or lack thereof- was one thing. Realizing that her feminine attributes had taken a leap without her was much, much worse. Her period had come in full force, and every muscle ached with the added strain of hormonal imbalances. At least the medics had had the presence of mind to equip her with a pad and tampon while she clawed her way back into consciousness. Bless them. They had brains, even if the rest of them seemed to use theirs solely for the purpose of aggravating her. Not for the first time, she cursed her Mako enhancements; her system metabolized pure drugs too quickly for her to enjoy the benefits of painkillers. It would be so much trouble to hunt down one of the poison specialists and get a herbal brew going. Shit, shit, shit. I hate being female.

Yeah, get in touch with my inner bitch. I rank you, take that! Straightening her back, pushing aside the twisting ache that reached up from behind her navel, she imitated Iridalan at his best, projecting her anger at the world in general without much difficulty. The teasing faded in her ears as she stalked (or limped) barefoot (and painfully, she might add) down the immaculate, newly carpeted corridors. Hmm. Like the carpeting. But no dramatic effect now… hard to have clicking boots on carpet… Her knees wavered alarmingly, and she clutched the wall, furious at herself for her weakness. Gods, one climbing lesson and you faint like a bloody virgin on wedding night. Left foot first, right foot next, shuffle your hands along the wall, that's good, remember to cuss out the next person who gives me the hairy eyeball when I meet them, that's the way, have a rest break. Oh, gods. "What the hell are you looking at?!" she snapped acidly, scaring off one of the greenies (freshly initiated by the look of the woman) who had sidled up with the apparent intention of 'helping her out'. "Don't you have a class somewhere?" The woman beat a hasty retreat, red to the ears. Gods, how far can it be to my own room? Wait, don't answer that.

Every slow step seemed like an eternity, and she glared off the concerned advances of her fellows, slowly finding her world narrowed down to a hazy tunnel of red, black and white. Right foot. Left foot. Stop. Breathe. Raise foot, put it down, breathe. Concentrate. Repeat steps one through to five- or is that three, or six? Who cares? Just move those blasted feet and keep going, gods, this hurts. I will kill Iridalan when I feel better. What if I never feel better again? I hope all this is just the monthlies. Damned Mako doesn't help with the period, doesn't seem made for women at all, just look at all those poor sods that Hojo experimented on, every side effect from mutation to permanent mental dysfunction. Maybe I could ruin his research for him, no, wait, didn't I already do that, like, half a week ago? Her hand felt toward the blessed access pad for her room, and she pressed her sweaty left hand down on the print pad, waiting for the door to slide open before she limped inside.

It was quite some time before she registered the steaming mug on her desk, and the note beside it. Mostly it was the smell that alerted her- her vision had already gone to pieces, and it was an effort not to gag at the strongly aromatic brew. Not that it smelled vile or anything- under normal circumstances it would probably have tasted quite pleasant- but her gut twisted at the smell of oranges, peppermint and, strangely, coffee. It made her clap both hands over her face and breathe through her mouth for some time. When she was sure that she could approach it without retching onto her nicely carpeted floor, dull though the color may be, she shuffled cautiously and picked up the paper first.

Diera, (it read)

I knew you'd be bulling around when I saw your cot empty, so I

left some painkiller potion here. Drink up, then take a bath and

a nap. I'll expect you in for a follow-up tomorrow at 10 am.

Jennings

PS: Extra gauze. You know where to find it.

Bless the man twice over. Holding her breath to shut out some of the sensory overload, she downed the potion in a series of nervous gulps and sat down on the swivel chair carefully, keeping her posture ramrod-straight in case any of it decided to come back up. The still-warm brew swilled its leisurely way down to her belly, where it sat fermenting for several long minutes before she started feeling more like her old self.

Didn't help her mood all that much, but at least she went to sleep with a greatly expanded worldview.

Paul Jennings, the man most commonly known as The Unflappable. Default counselor of most of the Turk force. A nasty shot with a gun, too. Diera adored him, if only for the fact that Jennings gave the most sensible advice. For example, he had been one of the few who supported her opinion that Vincent should have just hit Lucrecia Kamryn over the head and hauled her somewhere to properly woo her without the unpleasant complication of Kurayama Hojo. Smart man. Perfectly sensible.

The Unflappable status was never in doubt as he went over her with a patently professional air, inspecting the fading bruises with a gloved hand and unwrapping her clumsily rewrapped limbs to pronounce the damage mended. The scrapes and lacerations had indeed healed nicely (though grossly ahead of time) and the only bad thing, as he commented to her, was that now she had a pressing need for a good manicurist who could repair the damage, yet keep from making her hands too ladylike. Things like that could be fatal for a Turk, whose primary job was infiltration and espionage. Who knew what sadistic job Iridalan would line up for her next? Jennings agreed, albeit for slightly different reasons, that the Leader was getting seriously out of whack. He never did tell her what his reasons were. Jennings, as a long-time counselor- he had seen the company almost through to its founding- had lots of experience at keeping his own counsel. She knew that nothing she could do would change his ways, so she refrained from prying. Instead, she asked, "Why the cliff?"

Jennings' mouth twisted into an amused smirk as she rearranged the straps of her singlet-cum-tank-top. "It's an advanced initiation test of the Recruiter. If it's any comfort, you're the third best record in Turk history. There have been records of Recruiter candidates hanging from the cliff face for days. This one probably elevated you from a rank to a class. Expect a meeting with Blackthorne soon."

"Jennings, there have only been about five other Leaders in our History."

"Does that make any kind of difference? They are the ones who survived the cliff," he pointed out with impassive logic. "And you are only one girl, barely into puberty. Carry yourself with confidence. He'll probably be getting you to crash course the Cosmo Canyon rig next."

She nodded glumly. "Thanks, sir," the girl said quietly, standing and smoothing her rumpled cullocks, discreetly checking for wet patches. "Um- do you have any more of that potion mix?" she added, hopefully. Although he had just given her a hot mug, one could never be too well prepared, and the medical wing was quite a walk from her room. Jennings gave her a long, flinty look that had NO all over it.

There are two kinds of no. One is the kind that can be worn down to a 'yes'. The other kind is the NO.

She winced involuntarily at the look, raising her hands in defeat, and retreated. She could have used The Voice and most probably gotten away with it, but Vincent had, mostly via her frequent trips to the medical department, instilled in her a deep conviction that the medics knew what they were doing. If you got a NO, there was probably a damned good reason for letting you suffer. Probably if you attempted to circumvent them without your own damned good reason, they made sure you suffered more. Never anger the people who put you back together. They know exactly how to take you apart again. It was a rule that every Turk worked out sooner or later, hopefully without the cost of any important limbs.

Oh, well. At least she wasn't limping anywhere. It was an improvement. She stopped by Silk for a brief chat and (it was all his fault) kissing lessons. Her uncles and aunts had often given her books, and some of them made kissing into a fantasy experience. Silk somehow managed to make it completely clinical, do this to get this reaction. "Besides," he explained, "if you make people feel good, chances are they'll be willing to tell you more. Your combat skills aren't that fantastic, you know. Iri may have promoted you, but your area of work will most likely be in information retrieval."

Her shrug acknowledged the truth of that. "At least I can still punch with the best of them," she commented wryly, flexing her newly healed hands. "One thing the Mako is good for. How's the leg, by the way?"

"You spend fifteen minutes with me before asking that question?" he said, mock-hurt. "Honestly, Jennings used Cure materia to fix most of the damage, but I'll still be under traction for a bit. Speed healing tends to produce weak spots in the join. My guess is that he'll turn me out sometime next week."

She grinned. "Five gil says he'll do it this week. Ten says it's Uncle Iri who'll make him do it."

"You're on." He pulled her down for another kiss, and they both laughed at the irate medic who came to chase Diera out.

Within the two and a half days she had been out of action, the paperwork had settled in discouragingly large stacks on and around her table. Silk had apparently gotten someone to move the work which he'd been fielding for her back into her office, the cheap bastard. She allowed herself a minute or so to fume at him before diving grimly into the fray.

Saying that papers went flying with the force of her gusto would have been stretching things, but she would have liked to say it. It was certainly true that she could work remarkably fast when she put her mind to it. With no food or drink on hand, her door firmly closed, there was nothing to distract her from working. Besides, she told herself, the sooner she finished all this, the sooner she could see Jennings about another dose of the potion- which had begun to wear off midway through the day- and find some dinner. She ended up skipping lunch by an hour or so, and hurrying down to the medical wing for a quick dose (prepared, as usual, ahead of time by one of the medics who had an odd accuracy of intuition).

And then dinner came to her attention, as well as the fact that the offices seemed to be mostly empty. Iridalan had gone off somewhere, and the few people she could find around the office proper told her that he'd been on a reassignment spree ever since she was promoted. People had been dispatched all over the world to the various offices, surprisingly including Wutai, to bolster the failing network and reactivate channels of relationship. He seemed determined to make sure that the Turks survived long enough for Diera to actually do something once she took the reins.

A more charitable person might have thanked him for the kind thought. Diera pushed the information to the back of her mind, resolving not to be grateful or annoyed. She hadn't quite forgiven him for putting her through purgatory, but on hindsight he was probably doing what he thought was best, right? Besides, he was old, old and tired. It merited a bit of leeway. So, leave him alone- for now. While it suited her.

Anyway- dinner. Dinner sounded good. Rather than bung around in the office kitchens (yes, they did exist for the gratification of those in the force who liked cooking, as well as for the training of agents for domestic infiltration roles) trying to put together something which would agree with the state of her quieted menses, she decided to venture out to the village inn and see what they had handy. It would be an opportunity to see if anything had changed since her climb up the local cliff, as well.

The times were changing too quickly, Shinra moving too fast, for anything to be quite the same from day to day. Better safe than sorry, as Lancir and Vincent had said to her often enough. It all made horrible sense, she thought disgustedly to herself as she moved out and away of the Turk HQ, eyes on the evidence of Shinra work in the distance. How had they managed to wrest a concession out of Dyne Holland so quietly, so quickly? Had one of Dyne's supporters taken his ear harshly? Questions, questions.

Stifling the urge to grab the first passerby by the collar and shake an explanation out of him, she forced herself to walk casually to the inn, go to the innkeeper, and, unable to repress her shock, grab him by the collar.

"What the hell is going on?!"

"Ah, one of the Turks," the man said rather calmly, for a person who had been half-hauled over his counter. "Haven't seen one of yours around for a bit. No wonder Iridalan was looking haggard when he left."

"I'll get to that in a bit," she hissed. "Did Dyne fold? How come Shinra's building?"

"Gave in yesterday," he agreed sagely, nodding- or at least he appeared to nod. With the relocation of his collar a few inches upwards it was a bit hard to tell. "We decided it'd be best. With the Mako, the elders reckoned we could be a better town, maybe even a city. Y'know, like La Contresiera… maybe better! So we let them at it yesterday, and look how fast they're building. What might your name be, by the way?"

Her chilly glare made his cheer fade considerably. "Don't distract me! What happened with Iridalan? What was he doing before he left? Did he say anything?"

"I don't know!" the innkeeper yelped, intimidated. "He didn't come by here, I heard it from Winlan down the road, don't hurt me, I don't know anything!" He continued on this vein for some time, while Diera snarled impotently and glared off the well-meaning inn patrons who attempted to talk her out of her aggressive posture. "He told old Fitzger he'd be back before the week was out," he added, eyes very large in his tanned face. They looked on the verge of popping out, actually.

She dropped him like last week's news, smoothing her ruffled feathers with a visible effort, and sliding back off the counter. Vaguely she wondered how she'd gotten up there. Oh, well. "I'm… sorry," she said at length, surreptitiously way overtipping him to emphasize her apology, "I've laid up for the past few days… must be the painkillers talking… do you have anything to eat?" Right then they would probably have given anything to have her out of their door, so she tactfully asked for a doggy bag as well, and got remarkably swift service. She left before they could start begging. It was good for her ego, but Uncle Iri was probably going to hear about this when he came back. Argh. Damn the monthlies! Damned mood swings.

A letter was waiting on her bedroom desk when she returned there to eat.

My, aren't I popular?

Rather surprisingly, this one was from Commander Kingston, about his pet project.

In other words, Ragnarok. (So she surmised, reading the note on the back.)

Wondering how in blazes he got the funny idea that she was somehow responsible for any of Ragna's business, she tore open the letter, and unfolded the curt missive with one hand while extracting a cup of soup from her spoils with the other. What was he whining about now?

Ms Diera Raistlorne:

Greetings, and congratulations on your recent promotion.

(She scowled, sipping her soup. Was it all over the news now? She certainly hadn't remembered knowing about Winter Doros' being the Recruiter at first snap. Kingston was all buddy-buddy with Iridalan, though, so it was most likely that Uncle Iri had told the Commander about it for the sake of inter-company relations. Still- all this was getting a little annoying.)

Although I cannot say that he consulted with me before deciding on this development, your abilities and skills seem to be in order with his conclusions. I have also taken into account the surprisingly firm persuasion with which you pressed on me in order to interrogate the Shinra transplant, and my own opinion is that you should be all right on the job.

Though your technique could use some refinement. Not everyone responds well to being blackmailed.

On the topic of one Shinra transplant, I have some rather strange news for you. Ragnarok, as you well know, is one of the prototypes they experimented on for SOLDIER Mako enhancement. They released him to us with full assurance that he was in a stable condition, and had been for a suitable length of controlled time. However, he suffered an odd breakdown almost immediately after you completed your lengthy interrogation. I must request that you return to give a full explanation and tender at least a token assistance concerning his situation. As soon as possible.

Regardless of whether or not you had intimate relations with him-

(She spat soup all over the letter. Where had he gotten those ideas from? Could he be sued for slander? Defamation? Could she possibly have any leeway for crashing the SOLDIER systems as payback? Probably not. On with the letter. It was now wet and half of it was horribly smudged, but Mako eyesight picked out the words easily. Oh, well.)

Regardless of whether or not you had intimate relations with him, I have decided to be temporarily forgetful concerning your relationship. As far as I am concerned, it does not exist. In any case, it does not seem to bother any of your colleagues, so forgive me for my delicacy.

Regards,

Mathias E. Kingston

SOLDIER Commander

Kalm

PS: One Zackary Horizon claims to know you by your long-time pseudonym of Dia Valentine, as I found out after he placed a request for a courier's services. I have assigned him to be your guide upon reaching here, as it is unlikely that you know where our confinement cells are. I also recommend that you give some thought to choosing a more misleading alias. It was not difficult to tell who he was referring to, especially with the description he volunteered. I have not yet informed him of your occupation and/or status, so telling him would probably be a good idea.

Mopping up the mess with one of the napkins provided with her takeout, she fumed. 'Intimate relations' indeed! What did that buffoon think he was driving at? Hinting that the Turks were immoral? Well, most of them were, but such an assumption… oh, hell.

Diera tore into the rest of her dinner like a Nibel Wolf on the attack, completely annoyed. It seemed to be a constant state of mind, these days.

"…and that's all I did," she finished exasperatedly, rolling back on the cot adjacent Silk's. He surveyed her over the Coke she'd gotten as a bribe, silver eyebrows upraised, blue eyes quite serious. "I didn't even touch Ragna in any way that might have been misunderstood. Hell, I didn't touch the queer at all!"

"Kingston jumps to a lot of conclusions," Silk pointed out dryly. "It's what got him his rank, the intuitive streak. Luckily he doesn't guess wrong on much other than relationships. Let it slide, princess. It isn't worth getting worked up over." He caught the pillow she threw at him, one-handed. The Coke didn't even slop. She looked at it a little enviously. "But he got one thing right- you've been lazy with your aliases, too lazy."

"Well, it was a freak storm, how would I know I'd need a false identity to deal with some boy?" She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. Silk's eyes had widened with glee. Diera was notorious for being the youngest, and the most asexual of the lot of them (mostly due to her early height and late feminine growth). Now that he had some male connection to work with… "It's not what it sounds like!" she added hastily, sitting up. "I collapsed on his doorstep…"

The smirk could have cut something. Silk showed his model-perfect white teeth in a positively evil leer. "Do I need to say something?" he inquired sweetly, lounging. Or lounging as best as one could manage with one leg in a cast and in traction. With his experience, he managed to make his posture comically suggestive.

Diera's lip curled. "No."

"Well, keep your temper in check!" he yelled after her retreating back.

"Screw you, Ashner, screw you." With that parting comment, she stalked back to the office to clean up and put her things in order for yet another trip to the SOLDIER headquarters. Somewhat unsurprisingly, there was another letter- a memo, really- waiting on her desk, printing itself from the fax machine used to send inter-departmental (not just intra-office) documents. It had stepped up work speeds, but also caused a lot of unhappiness. Nothing like thinking you'd finished your work, then having someone coincidentally send over another wad of work for you to take care of. What was he up to now?

Heard about SOLDIER from network. Shinra approached them.

Take Materia with you. Could mean trouble.

Materia? Was this situation that dangerous? Interest piqued, she read the lines that scrolled out next, and her blood turned to ice water in her veins.

Wutai offices closed. Close office and head for Kalm.

Group by specialty. Medics included. Transport weapons cache.

Leave when task is complete. Remain at SOLDIER.

She bolted from the office with the finished fax in hand.

War with Wutai, like it or not, was beginning.

"Looks like you owe me fifteen gil," she said mockingly, but the laugh didn't reach her eyes. Silk held her arm in a steadying grip- the slight limp he still suffered showing in the listing of his normally erect carriage- dressed in his preferred 'working clothes' of mithril armor over a black dress shirt and heavy grey cotton slacks. A denim duster was draped, cloaklike over his faintly hunched shoulders, slightly broader through the shoulders than the twin of it that Diera herself wore. She'd put down her shorts for this serious situation, dressing instead in the tight leather pants (with a special gusset piece) and cross belt holster favored by most of the fighting female Turks. If she was going to be a leader, might as well make a statement. With a height approaching five foot eight and the beginnings of lush curves, she looked at least five or six years older than her actual thirteen, and reasonably mature. But nervous.

He bumped heads with her, easy to do at their half-a-head height difference, comfortingly. "Payment aside, will you be all right? You haven't ever stood out in an official capacity before. Except for bashing heads," he added thoughtfully. "You're good at bashing heads. Are you bringing backup? Just in case a stray monster comes your way, remember- you'll get your clock cleaned if you go out there alone."

"Rudon Skoll and Silence are coming with me," she told him wistfully, touching his hand with hers. "You remember Rudon, right? Uncle Dan's kid. He came in with the last promotions. Hand-to-hand combat. You'd like to square off with him, I think. From what I heard, he's actually quite handy-"

"You're babbling, princess," he reminded her ironically, arching one aristocratic eyebrow. "Get Skoll to do the wicked dance with you. Have a good shag, and you'll feel better. I speak from experience," he added loftily, catching her quizzical look. "Nothing like sex to make the body shut down properly. Not like it's likely you'll still have a hymen left anyway, not after all those years of training, so you don't even have to worry about keeping pure-"

"Ashner, don't you ever think about anything but the next lay?" she said half-exasperatedly, pushing him off her. He moved away with good grace, standing mostly on his good foot, but didn't deny anything. "Really, you're going to have to impress me if you want to teach me any of the bed arts!" His eloquent glance and hand movement expressed his willingness to please her any way she needed to be 'impressed'. "Whatever! Just go and join the medics already!" Gathering her saddlebags and the shreds of her dignity, the Recruiter fled into the corridors to the gleeful accompaniment of Silk's baritone laughter.

Some things never changed.

Travel from Corel to Kalm by black chocobo took something like a day, maybe less; she cut it to three hours by working her mount to near-foundering. All right, so the bird was precious, but she needed to do her job more. As a sort of apology, Diera parked it at SOLDIER barracks and roped one of the trainees into caring for him. Rudon and Silence tipped questioning looks at her as their birds caught up minutes later, a clear inquiry as to her need to be escorted. "I have an escort," she called reassuringly, giving the hand signal to 'stay put'. Silence signaled back affirmatively, moving swiftly to head off Rudon's faintly puzzled questions. Being mute had its uses, sometimes.

Zack was fidgeting at the SOLDIER barracks foyer, waiting for her. Apparently, Uncle Iri had put a certain call through to Commander Kingston… she shook her head in bemusement as she trotted briskly up the steps, the train of her duster flaring behind her. His jaw had dropped as he saw her taking the steps two at a time, fairly bounding. She could only guess what she looked like in his eyes- Mako made the rest of the world seem slow by comparison, as if she was moving under a constant low-level Haste. Wait till he got his own enhancements! Then the rest of the world would seem slow, too. She'd adjusted long ago, but he'd probably be banging into things for awhile… if he lived that long, she added darkly to herself. Reaching him at last, she waved a hand in front of his stunned face, resisting the urge to giggle maniacally, feeling strangely kittenish. "It's me," she said pointedly, gesturing at her rather unremarkable chest. "The flat one, remember?"

He choked and spent a few seconds cycling from red to green to red again. "Dia? I thought you were-" his wildly gesticulating hand indicated what his previous impression of her had been, "-I mean, wow! Are you really Dia?"

She sighed. "Yes. I am Dia. You sent me a letter some time ago, as I recall… does that clear things up?"

If anything, his eyes got wider. "But Dia was small!"

It didn't really prick her dignity, but for some reason she found it comical. Pretending to be affronted, she put her hands on her hips and gave him a haughty stare. "I would suggest that you stop right there before I hit you, Horizon."

"If I ever had any doubts, they are now dispelled," he replied solemnly, closing his jaw and dropping the slapstick routine. She grinned, hiding her surprise. Sneaky bastard, quite the consummate actor, huh? "But it's really strange to see you so grown up, you know." At her raised eyebrow and slightly impatient nod in the direction of the corridor, he raised two hands in defeat and began leading her towards Kingston's office. She already knew the way there, but it was only polite that she make some small talk… besides, she didn't know where Ragna was being kept. The locations of the containment cells was the secret that no Commander had ever entrusted to the Turks (or anyone else for that matter), for security reasons. Iridalan was most likely privy to that secret, the old codger, but he kept his secrets well. "You've grown, like, nearly a foot."

"Heightwise, Horizon- heightwise only. Much to my annoyance." She shrugged expressively, pushing grimy black curls off her shoulder. "How about you? Is SOLDIER taking you well?"

Zack blushed briefly. "I just joined, so I'm still a cadet, but I think I'm doing pretty good in my classes."

"I didn't ask you how you were doing. I asked if you were enjoying yourself."

He stared at her. "Dia, this is a job, not a playgroup!"

Her eyebrow waggled humorously. "So long as you're here, why not have fun?- here we are, do you mind waiting outside?" Smiling, she waved him to one of the waiting chairs before turning back to the Commander's office. Her cheer vanished as she stepped across the threshold, the door sliding shut behind her. She'd always been a good liar, if she put her mind to it. "Kingston, sir." Her salute was offhanded and nowhere near the rigidly formal gesture that normal military organizations normally employed; Turks had very little use for such formalities. "I got your letter. Though I disagree with most of it."

"Nice to see you too," the bald, coffee-skinned Corellian returned coolly, putting down the file he'd been going through. "I happen to value my own judgment. Piss off. And go see what you can do about Ragnarok. He'd be tearing the facility down if we didn't Mini and Silence him. Since it was contact with you that precipitated all this nonsense and the Shinra scientists are too busy with their other projects, I can only order you to get down there now. Zack's been given instructions. And a blindfold." This seemed important to him for a reason. Diera resisted the urge to remind him that she had a very accurate internal compass and a very good memory. Oh, well. At least there were no elevators on this compound- or none that she was aware of.

Still, for the principle of it, she crossed her arms. "Since when is Ragnarok any of my personal concern? I didn't even touch him. All I did was question him, as is my right, granted by that little agreement of ours. If you cared to examine the recordings which I can happily provide you with should you not have internal recordings of your own, there is nothing I say there which half the SOLDIER compound isn't discussing, sorry, gossiping about anyway." You want to shovel muck, fine. We'll do it together.

He unfolded to his feet like a well-oiled machine, all smooth dark chocolate muscle moving under the calico of his uniform. She stared defiantly at him, refusing to admit that he looked dangerous. Very dangerous. Diera didn't like backing down, and she was feeling snippy, especially with her personal crisis looming on the horizon. "Miss Raistlorne, or shall I say Recruiter, the fact remains that he broke down and started having fits after your one night stand and did you know that he screamed for you for hours before we silenced him?"

She glowered, fingers curling. "For your information," the Turk gritted out, "it was a cross-examination, NOT a one night stand as you so nicely put it, and I think you forgot to mention that last detail in your letter. Honestly, for someone of your station I hoped you'd be more thorough and less paranoid." Deciding to quit while the going was good, she turned on her heel, drawing the secondary gun (not the rank gun) she had on her, and proceeded to shoot the lock from the mechanical door. It opened, smoking slightly from its recent abuse, to reveal a very startled Zack, who jumped to his feet upon seeing her stalking towards him. "My business with Commander Kingston is finished," she said calmly, even frigidly, her tanned face stretched tight, "I'll come to discuss our mutual business when I feel better about you, sir. Horizon, I believe you have the blindfold and the directions?"

Still looking baffled, he produced the length of thick white cloth, tied it firmly over her eyes, and spun her around a few times before leading her down to the Containment Area. She memorized the directions out of pure spite, upset and knowing that Kingston would be having a long talk with Uncle Iri, probably right at that moment. Well, screw them, she decided petulantly, concentrating on walking in an absolutely straight line. Screw them all. Vincent could have done a better job, damn him. I wonder if the instructor in snarkiness is still around. I could use some lessons. Uncle Iri isn't going to teach me anything useful, the way he's going.

No elevators, as befitting one of the oldest and best-fortified areas in SOLDIER architecture. She blinked in the twilight dimness of the basement, smoothing her hair as Zack pulled the blindfold away. It was only barely lighted, enough for a normal person to see the vaguest outline of things. Mako made it possible for her to see everything clearly, but without color. They really meant this to contain psychological cases, didn't they? "What's with the dim lights?"

Zack looked around, found a guide rail, and began to follow it. Diera trailed behind him like a creaky, slender shadow. "The Commander said that this level is reserved for the trauma cases. They dim the lights to simulate night-time, because it's more soothing. There are lights in the cells if the patients want them, though…" He paused, uncertainly. "I don't know exactly. Seems like people would be more afraid of the dark. Personal demons and all that. But I guess they have their reasons."

"Mmm," she hummed noncommittally, wondering where that metallic smell was coming from. It didn't smell like blood, really, but it wasn't the harsh tang of pure metal either. Salt rode the air, intangible but electric. Mako didn't just affect the reflexes- it heightened every sense. She walked in a world that pressed its sensory information upon her eagerly, while others never noticed the things she did. Few people realized that in her case, sight was not exactly primary. She didn't bother to explain. It was like explaining color to a monochrome world. Suffice to say, this place smelled strange. Sweat, yes, and death, only faintly. People had died here, quite some time ago. Considering that it took a lot to traumatize a SOLDIER- recognized even by other mercenary companies to be among the best in the world- she nodded sagely to herself, even though nobody would be able to see it in the near-darkness. You could keep sharp edges out of a room, but there were ways to kill oneself without physical trauma of any kind. Enough strong emotion could overload a system, poison it with its own chemicals, akin to the common belief that it was possible to will oneself dead. Some Turks were able to influence their objects strongly enough to produce such an effect, a skill that Diera was most definitely interested in learning. Unfortunately, she'd only managed to pick up Iridalan's vaunted Voice Of Command so far- inspiring such strong emotion was a distant hope for her. Oh, well. Make do. "How far back did you put Ragnarok?" She paused as a piping sound (sounding remarkably like a dying rat being slowly squashed to death, only with half-intelligible words mixed in) started up. "Is that what he sounds like now?" It was incongruously funny, but she didn't try to hide it, letting her grin show in her voice. She definitely saw Zack grin as he half-turned, one hand still on the rail, to fumble with the lock on the cell door. "Is he… liable to try and escape?" she wondered, looking dubiously at the hand he had on the door.

"Not really. As of the moment, he's in a covered, reinforced fishtank, if you really wanted to know, and the Commander took the Silence off so you could speak with him." Her grimace, unseen, nevertheless escaped in a slight 'erk' sound. She did not want to know. "The top is wire mesh, so he gets air, but not much else. Certainly he doesn't seem to need food and water. Take a good look at him when you go in. In the pink of health, I swear."

Diera stepped quietly to his side and pulled him round to face her. His eyes fairly bulged at the sudden closeness of her violet eyes, which winked and flickered unevenly in the darkness, unmistakably glowing, even if they weren't exactly full-blown headlamps. "You've seen him?"

"The commander- Commander Kingston- brought me down here this morning, to show me where to go. Switched the lights on. Said…" he looked away from her searching gaze. "Said that I had to know what I was bringing a friend to see. It was like watching a bug, Dia. Never mind he was raving at us, it was still like watching a crazy doll or something. The Commander looked at Ragna like he was something on the butterfly board." He shivered slightly, a totally un-macho gesture from an utterly male and faintly horse-faced young man. "If you don't mind, I'd like to stay outside."

She gave him the Look for a few moments more, wondering if friendship would permit her to stretch him a little further, but decided against it. War should harden his stomach well enough. "Suit yourself. Go back up if you want to." He looked blindly back up at her, and she patted him simply on the shoulder. "I can see in the dark. The Amazing Glowing Eyes, see. Don't worry about me."

His eyes flicked briefly to the line of Materia, their inner fire a dormant glow where her duster parted at the collar to reveal her leather vest and mesh chain choker- her own version of armor. In keeping with Uncle Iri's warning to come properly equipped, she had plundered the stores for the Master Magic and W-item spheres, not to mention a few other experimental materia that, if everything went well, would scarcely see the light of day. But Zackary, bless his trusting heart, didn't recognize the materia for the potentially lethal weapon that it was. Just an Esuna could put Kingston's precautions to bunk. But he trusted her. She watched him turn carefully around, hand still on the rail, and walk out like a silly sheep, and knew that she could do no worse than to betray that confidence. Kingston she would have cheerfully shot in the back. Zack inspired a… bond of sorts… in her. She mentally chided herself for being weak, resolving to deal with it later, and pushed the door open.

He looked rather the worse for wear, if indeed in the pink of health, as Zack had put it. She closed the door behind her, cast a small Ice to lock it (a makeshift solution Lance had taught her in her 'primary development courses aka The Materia PlayFest) and dropped easily down into a Wutai sit-kneel position, facing Ragnarok. He had quieted, staring wildly at her like a cornered animal, bronze eyes glittering madly in the dim stillness of his cell. It was neither warm nor cold here, she noted idly, studying Ragnarok's temporary confinement. Apparently withholding food and drink also had the secondary effect of halting the excretory processes. No smell of anything worse than sweat, and the faint hint of blood. And if what she heard just now was anything to go by, it wouldn't have been surprising if he was sweating blood too.

So- how to approach a cornered animal? Slowly, of course.

She held out her hands, palm-up, and spoke gently- or as gently as her cracking voice (Jennings had her earmarked for alto, or even coloratura, as she matured) allowed. "Ragna, it's me. Dia. Do you know me?"

There was a tense, unmoving silence, during which she held on to her hard-won patience and wondered if Kingston's diagnosis had been accurate. Then- mercy of mercies- he nodded. Some of the wild look had leaked away, and he was calm enough to sink down into a cross-legged sitting position, facing her. Still wild, still dangerous, but not so much that she couldn't easily squash him down. He didn't even twitch when she crawled over on her knees to lift the top of the miniature cell off, holding out her arm for him to catch. Once he was out, and they faced each other in the still-gloom, still able to see each other clearly, she touched a hand to her throat. "Esuna."

Eyes narrowed to slits against the sudden thump of air shoved forcibly out of the way of a restored mass, she surveyed him critically. He hadn't grown any hint of a whisker or even a beard, not in the two days he'd been in confinement, as if his body had been frozen exactly in the prime of its appearance. Hmm. A side effect of the Mako? But she hadn't stopped growing… matured much faster than normal, in fact. Maybe it was the other substances Hojo had never been able to administer to her. Go for casual, then. "Hi, Ragnarok."

"Dia Valentine," he said faintly hoarsely, one hand going up to rub his throat. "I remember you."

Odd turn of phrase. "Who am I?" she asked, hoping he would elaborate somewhat.

"Specimen 00001a." His eyes filmed over, as if he was reciting something by memory. Did she look like that when she was running through her mental database? "Your testing was never completed. Hojo was angry about it." Blink blink, eyes clear again. "He still talks about you. You're the only female to survive the initial tests."

"What else do you remember about me?"

"You fought me. It was a draw." His brow furrowed slightly. "You tried to overturn my recommendation."

"And how exactly did I set out to achieve that?" Her voice was positively frigid, if anything because she hadn't succeeded.

"Investigated Hojo's work. Asserted that my memories were inaccurate." The frown smoothed. "You were wrong, of course. I have a perfect memory. It is unlikely that I would have lost the awareness of nearly twenty years of my life."

As much as she would have liked to debunk that smug little smirk on his face, he'd resisted all her explaining before, so she moved on. Who says old dogs don't learn new tricks? "What happened after I left?"

He cocked his head at her. "I remembered you. I had to tell you something. She told me…"

"She?" Diera interrupted. "Who?"

"I don't know. But She's there. Always there. Watching. Waiting. She told me that you were the Darkness, the Fear in the Night. Are you?"

When in doubt, ad lib. "Maybe." And remember to move the ground to that which suits you. "What did she want you to tell me?"

The aristocratic brow drew together again. "Not she. SHE. The One Who Drinks, the One Who Chooses, the She Who Is Fate. She's always there- always here- talking, whispering…" The frown melted away, and he shivered, rubbing one hand over his forearm as if he was cold. It wasn't cold, not in this cell. "She wants to talk to you, she says, not in your dreams but face to face. She says…" Abruptly his entire demeanor shifted. Diera jerked backwards, rearing from her seiza position like a startled bird, every muscle stiff with the effort it took to not up and run. The male face had smoothed almost into androgyny, shoulders falling back, hands trailing limply on the ground, yet he still kept upright, as if his head was attached by an invisible string to the ceiling. Bronze eyes fixed blankly onto hers, unfocused.

Shit. Shit. SHIT.

"Well, so you're their last weapon," the whispering, husky alto crawled from the depths of that baritone larynx, like a vent… ventriloquist? That was the word… a ventriloquist, throwing her voice into a puppet. The words, innocuous enough, climbed along her skin as if imbued with electricity, branding themselves upon her memory. "I didn't think you would be so… susceptible to my influence, not with the effort they put into making you."

Diera threw her shoulders back, pulling the natural arrogance Vincent had taught her into a cloak, sinking into the familiar anger. "I'm my own person, woman," she said coldly, chin up. "If you've been watching me for as long as I think you have, you should know that."

The woman's voice chuckled. It was totally unnerving to hear the feminine laugh come from a blank, expressionless male face, slack but for the movements of the lips and jaw. No salacious smirk twisted the smooth, slender lips, but the sound made up for every lack of physical expression. "Your own person! No, no, it's time for you to be truthful to yourself. Who are you? Diera Raistlorne, Dia Valentine. Raised by the Turks. Do you exist outside of the Turks? Find the answer, and I will talk with you anon."

"So you're leaving Ragna to take his chances?" Diera inserted clinically, crossing her arms and willing herself not to throw up. Ragnarok had begun to, for lack of a better word, disintegrate. It was as if his molecular structure was breaking up… patches of his skin, his flesh, were shriveling, blackening, dissolving into motes of carbon, a process that looked agonizing, otherworldly. His navy SOLDIER uniform stayed unblemished on his wasting body, growing dustier with every passing breath. "How are you going to speak to me again, then?"

"The same way I always have. Watch carefully, my dark child. See it to the end." Bronze eyes blinked, widened, the glow in them bursting uncontrollably into incandescent honey-amber fire, and he screamed, screamed, in horror and pain and loathing, shoulders spasming as he fell on his side, curling up into a fetal scrunch, staring at the dissolving bone of his exposed hands as they withered and fell away, ivory and marrow and muscle.

The woman was gone. The man was back.

Zack had gone back up.

There was nobody down here who would care.

And who in the world would keep surveillance on the place of madmen?

In that one fatal moment, Diera knew what her next gesture would be.

Ragnarok jerked, once, twice, as she pressed her Valken into his gut, fired, moved to his heart, fired, and finally drew away to blast his brain to shreds.

The screaming stopped.

She stared down the line of her sights at the bloody ruin she had made of his disintegrating body, empty and filled at the same time. The sting of blood in the room intensified and faded as even the spilt blood broke up into minute particles of black dust, gathering in piles and smears of powdery darkness on the immaculate floor. Only his empty, crumpled garments and the spent slugs of her mercy remained, glittering dully amid the uneven dust-hills that Shinra's science had created.

Grateful for riding gloves, she knelt by Ragnarok's remains and gingerly picked out the slugs, gently brushing the dust off them. They fell into her belt pouch with a metallic tinkle, leaving no trace that she had been the secondary instrument of Ragnarok's death. She would report that his body degenerated to dust, and the truth would be hers alone.

Time enough to regret it, later.

"So, everything was just a result of the prototype process?" Kingston said slowly, fingers steepled. Diera stood before his table, at ease, hands by her sides and head raised in the casual posture of confident command. "Can you describe what you witnessed in minute detail? I assume that you were taught how to recall and report?"

"Yes, I was," she replied, eyes impassive and trained on a point between his brows. "As you very well know." Years of training, piqued into the best performance she had ever given in nearly a decade of masquerading, made the words everything she needed it to be- lazy, only vaguely concerned, insouciant. Stress, she concluded, made her mind even sharper. If she could pull off an act as adult as this without collapsing halfway in laughter… well, it was a mixed blessing, considering the circumstances. "Has Iridalan told you what my responsibilities concerning the placements of my people are?"

He met her raptorial look without flinching. "I'm surprised he hasn't told you beforehand."

"Iridalan, for his own reasons, keeps a lot of things to himself," she said, masking her annoyance with a faint smile. "Humor me."

The instructions were fairly simple. Take a census, note people who had jobs on hiatus, and generally coordinate the placements of their people on the field (owned by SOLDIER, adjoining the barracks, and currently adorned with large tents like orderly trapezial mushrooms after a spring rain). Zack, as agreed, would chaperone- he'd stand in as her SOLDIER liason for the duration of the inter-company conference. Diera had raised her eyebrows, but privately she thought that Zack had the sense of a trained Turk and so she didn't protest that Kingston was keeping his more experienced lieutenants back. What was that they said about generals and infantry? Stilettos and clubs, that was the metaphor. The Turks were a veritable assassin's complement. She allowed one corner of her mouth to curl in brief, sardonic amusement at the thought; people often said that an army of too many generals would never win, but the Turks seemed to have no such problems. Well, not that there wasn't constant internal friction, but they eventually almost always ended up getting whatever needed to be done, done.

Fortunately, Kingston seemed inclined to dismiss her after his brief, but self-explanatory, listing. She flicked him a slightly rude salute and ducked out, heading for the open and somewhere she could climb up a wall. Time to check out this place on her own.

"We have to work on your getting down from those heights," Silk told her tiredly, as she nursed a cracked forearm. It was already knitting at a furious pace, but Jennings had refused her any painkillers (probably to teach her a lesson, the old codger), thus ensuring that she would have to deal with the pain for a day or so. She had thereafter been shooed off to one of the command tents (maybe half again the size of a normal three-person tent and easily recognizable) to process all the lists that she was expected to go through.

Masks down and head beginning to ache dully as she fed it sheets of data, Diera grumbled. It hadn't really been any fault of hers. How was she to know that that patch of grass was just a covering for bedrock? She had simply jumped down with the full intention to do a simple tuck-and-roll from the intimidating height of fifteen or so meters, never mind that it would look incredibly ungraceful, it had always worked for her before. The resultant impact had fractured her left arm, gashed both arms wide open, and given her a nasty concussion. Silk, still limping somewhat arthritically, had been entrusted with the task of assisting his partner back to the tent and making sure that she kept her mind on her work. He had made sure to grumble loudly and at length about all the cute medic chicks he was missing out on. She had been too much in pain and embarrassed to kick his ass there and then. She wasn't sure she was up to it even now. Damn.

Her ears felt mashed with cotton wool- so many people walking, talking, shouting outside! Mako stenciled each distinct noise into sharp relief, all the information meshing into a hazy bundle of prickly white noise. Her nose was protesting at the stink of primary human habitation, and the taste of sweat, chocobo and metal clung to her tonsils. Urk! And still her eyes printed every scrap of the words under her hands into the stone of her memories. Let Vincent say what he wanted, but he'd done his job well, suiting her perfectly to her job. Suddenly she laid the lists down, unable to concentrate enough to make sense of them immediately.

Vincent. Where is he?

She'd begun to suspect, watching her mentors guard the Shinra scientists… Kamryn and Hojo… Kamryn and Vincent… Vincent and Hojo. Only Hojo had remained in the wake of their sordid little affair. Where had Kamryn and Vincent gone? Hojo, for all his sliminess, had… something, something real, going with Kamryn. Diera had often thought that it was a little like herself and Vincent, only a little. The rest had to be a sample of that curious, inadequate emotion that many of her uncles and aunts denounced: love. Whatever it was, for the same reason that Vincent had never yet killed her, Hojo could not have killed Kamryn. Besides, she had been pregnant, so hugely so that it must have been twins, and Hojo had been so excited that she was donating the babies to his project, which had made Vincent so angry and precipitated a fight with Kamryn… Hojo wouldn't endanger his girlfriend. Vincent she could believe, but both of them? Unlikely.

Wait. Twins. Ragnarok and his doppelganger. Her own accelerated maturity. It made a horrible sort of sense. She had only stayed around for two small doses of the Mako, and already she had put in nearly double her growth since. What about a larger dose? Enough to accelerate the growth to twenty-five years' worth in three years, maybe two? And then he could have administered something to freeze their appearances. Certainly she'd left him for long enough for him to have moved on without her. Although Gast had been the main brains behind the outfit, Hojo was perfectly capable of his own advancements… and he didn't have the scruples that had hindered Gast before. It was a worrying realization, and once again (for about the three hundredth and sixty-fourth time) she resolved never to allow herself to be alone, without allies, in his presence, ever again. With that in mind, she got up from her folding chair and began to pace the inner perimeter of her assigned confines. Where could Vincent and Kamryn have disappeared off to? It wasn't like Vincent to do anything like that without sending some kind of word to Iridalan. And Lance, too- he was usually the voice of reason to Vincent's habitual implacability. But he was also the less dominant half of their partnership, she remembered ruefully, folding her hands behind her back and wincing as healing flesh (and bone) protested (but she did it anyway).

Whatever had happened to the three of them, Hojo had to be up to the eyebrows in it.

Deep in thought, she nearly crashed into Iridalan, who had stepped through the tent entrance a heartbeat before her foot came down on the left edge of the flap. The rustle of canvas warned her just in time; she hastily moved her foot in the opposite direction and neatly backed up as he came through. Startled, she stared at him, nearly eye-to-eye with her, and backed up some more. Anyone else she might have expected, but not him, not so soon. "You!" she exclaimed, taken aback. "Weren't you in Wutai somewhere?" She knew the comment was silly even as she said it, and contrived to modulate it into sarcasm, crossing her arms. "Were you on a gold bird or something?"

"Astute as recently," he jibed back, obviously not in the mood to be pandered to. "I'm glad to see that all those years have finally paid off. And you seem to be growing up, too, that's a bonus. Have you completed the lists?" Without waiting for an answer, he dropped himself onto the seat she had vacated, leaving her to stand. She turned to face the table, letting her sore arms fall by her sides, obedient to this man's authority if nothing else. After years to watching people jump to attention at his command, she tended to follow suit even if her primary instinct was to slap him silly. So she nodded and started to point to the very last page, where she had not yet finished looking through the list, but he was already moving on to another topic. "Do you know where the Neutral Lands are?"

Diera blinked. What a silly question! "Of course. It's the plains beside Kalm Town. Undisputed territory conceded for the purpose of mediating international disputes, upheld by most of the mercenary and espionage companies in the world… do you want the complete history?"

"No, that understanding is acceptable." Leaning back in the chair, he looked to at her. "The Turks are also part of the truce, as is SOLDIER. It has come to our attention that a group of radicals have staked their claim on about two hundred acres of land nearest to the mountain ridge curve. Your next mission is to leave immediately for this area with a fifty-person detachment of second-class SOLDIERs, reclaim the area under international truce and capture as many of the radicals as you can." The steely grey eyes indicated that there would be hell to pay when the poor sods were brought before him in the interrogation procedures. Iridalan disliked trouble in the best of times. With Wutai and Shinra looming on the horizon, he was definitely not in the best of moods- or situations. "Failure is not an option. But I suppose you already know that." The message, unspoken, was nevertheless clear: get this done, or die trying. Now she realized, with dull resignation, why he had told her to bring materia and arm herself.

All the knowledge in the world didn't change the fact that she had to do it, though.

"Yes sir." Nodding a brief, perfunctionary salute to him, she left the tent, heading for the nearest weapons cache. If she was going to fight her first real battle, it wouldn't be with anything less than a sub-machine gun and several rounds on hand.

Zack wasn't in the mounted detachment that went with her. She hadn't expected him to, but it was just a little bit disappointing. Having him around would have made controlling a large group of disgruntled men easier to manage. They were, justifiably, doubtful of her ability to lead, and she was even more dubious than they were of her own ability to present without having to shoot someone in a non-lethal area first.

Go for broke then- she looked around, considering presentation positions, and decided that no elevation was necessary. Pulling one riding glove off, she whistled, a shrill, jay-like noise that cut through the irritated murmur. She got nearly instant attention, to a man, although some of them looked as if they were considering an appeal to Kingston.

"Look," she said loudly, clearly. "I'd rather not be doing this either, I know I'm young. You've every right to be annoyed. But we need to get the job done, and that means no sass, no splits in the ranks. Among you, you know who's best in leading; I want five teams of ten, leaders report to me, and you have ten minutes." They burst into frenetic activity, jostling to find amiable comrades, and arguing briefly over who was to lead. Diera busied herself with checking and rechecking the data she had gotten from the scouts who had gotten news of the radicals back to the Turks. There were quite a few ways to attack, really, since the fanatics seemed to have very little real idea of how accessible their chosen ground was from the mountain itself, especially with the black Chocobos that she had commandeered. If all went well, the fighting would be over in a day or so. Politely saluting the self-appointed team leaders who guided their mounts toward her, she listed their position, knowing very well that they knew the place better than she (SOLDIER, like the rest of the major merc companies, patrolled the Neutral Lands in shifts) and struck with the sudden thought that one of them, one of the companies, must have let the radicals in willingly. It was confusing. She was trained in such intricate stratagems, but all the cloak-and-dagger tactics gave her a headache. Worry about it later. "I have a plan, but I want your suggestions first."

They gave her thoughtful looks, then looked at each other, and one of them grinned. "Nice to see we're getting somewhere," he remarked cryptically, and they bent their heads together for some earnest strategizing. All her peers were older men, which she was used to dealing with anyway, and once they realized that she was not about to subject them to some idealistic head-on last stand, things warmed up considerably. Diera knew her capabilities lay in the strategy of things, not the physical side, and they agreed, on the condition that she kept the sub handy and covered their backs. She did correlate their plans nicely, anyway, so the concession to her data procession ability was made and they split up, six of the teams fanning out to flank the disputed territory from the sea front, and the remaining four heading directly for the opponent- to create a big diversion.

Each team had a PHS in case of emergency plan changes, and it was a good thing, because Diera realized early on that there were a LOT more of the opponents around than the scouts had originally reported. At least a hundred or two more than before, in fact. They were getting in from somewhere, but where? And she needed reinforcements, not the paltry fifty that had been sent along with her. They were outnumbered by nearly four to one. Maybe more, if there were others waiting in the mountains that the disputed territory bordered on. Her first call was to the four diversionary units, who had not yet sprung the bait, telling them to desist and stay down for a while until she figured out what else to do. The second was to Iridalan's mobile PHS, starting off with an aggrieved "What the hell do you expect me to do!" and carrying on in that vein for several minutes. Suffice to say, he pointed out (managing to insert his assertions between her annoyed hisses) that it was not impossible to carry off what she had been sent out to do, considering that she had studied sneak tactics for all of her sentinent life, and no, she was not getting a person more than she had already. She hung up on him just about then, disgruntled and despairing, to try and think of a suitably dishonorable way of winning without too many casualties.

Strangely, the more she thought about it, the easier it seemed, because the Turks had just done another mass-kill job recently… La Contresiera.

If your numbers are small, obstruct your opponents' movements. Pick them off with poison-

Problem: Where to get enough poison to handicap them enough? And how to administer it?

Answer: Most local plants had more poison than many apothecaries stocked. And one of her childhood bedtime books (how long ago had that been?) had been Most Potent Poisons: Assassination By Ornamentals. No problem there. And they had to have some kind of a common water supply; carrying crates of individually-packed water bottles would be a gross waste of resources. Giving the order to 'stay down', she slipped out alone, on foot, trusting to sun and shadow to disguise her from watchers.

Later, she would wonder if even that, too, had been part of Shinra's orchestrations.

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A/N: All right, I went back to re-read this thing and my reaction was exactly the same as the first time: URK. I think I need a beta, but who in the world would be prepared to put up with this monster? (gloom) If anyone would be kind enough to beta, anyone at all… drop me a review line, ok? It would be really, really, really, really appreciated. And here's the carrot: if I get a beta, then this monster will get revamped faster, and everyone would have better things to read! ….or at least that's what it feels like. (glooooom)