Dirandau leaned against the wall of the training hall. He was off restriction now, but they still had two days to go.

He was brooding silently, angry at all the mistakes he perceived his men to be making. He wanted to correct them, but, no, the instructors were the only ones who were allowed to do that at the moment. And...aya, were they blind, or something?

Guimel had begun an offense attack. Right off the bat, it was just...wrong. He'd left himself wide open to be cut in half. Dirandau waited and waited, but the instructor didn't say anything. The instructor had decided to let it slide, knowing that Guimel would get better in time, and there was no need to obsess about minute details just yet.

But Dirandau did not hold with any such theory.

Dirandau started towards the two, intending to give that instructor something to think about. However, he was stopped momentarily. A hand grabbed hold of his leg, and Dirandau landed flat on the floor.

"Damn you, cleric..."

Gatty rolled his eyes.

"Oh, come on. I was doing you a favor. You know that if you interfere you're going right back on restriction."

Dirandau glared at him, but didn't say anything more. It was true. He hated having it thrown in his face.

He sat up, waiting for this session to be over, and watching the clock so that he didn't have to see his men struggling to learn without someone proper to teach them.

Gatty leaned on his hand, bored. He had finished all the work he'd been given for the month. There was nothing, absolutely nothing to do. And try as he might, he couldn't force himself to take interest in what the Dragonslayers were doing. He never cared to watch fighting. That was one thing that he could only enjoy if he was doing it.

The clock ticked the last second away, at which time Dirandau shot up and bolted for the door.

"Time's up! Everyone line-"

"Don't do my job, Captain," Gatty interrupted. He rose lazily to his feet, not caring how long he took to do so. "Until restriction is over, I'm still in charge of them."

Dirandau glowered at him.

"Usurper..."

"No. Unwilling captor. There's a difference."

Gatty gave the order for everyone to line up. They headed out to the temporary Dragonslayer's wing.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKING????? YOU CAN'T DO THIS! THEY BELONG TO ME, NOT YOU!!"

It had been necessary to call in a few guards, to restrain Dirandau. He was....not happy. [As if he ever is...]

"Calm down. It's not as if we're sending him to an execution," said Folken. "He's only being reassigned."

The young man in question, Laurel, was standing at attention on the other side of the room. He had just turned in his uniform, his weapons, and his manuals. It was difficult, but he remained strong. He didn't break down crying, though he desparately wanted to. It was especially difficult after hearing the emotional outcries of his lord. His former lord.

"His replacement-"

"I'M NOT REPLACING HIM! HE DID NOTHING THAT WARRANTS REPLACEMENT!"

Folken nodded to the lead guard, who then gagged Dirandau to keep him quiet.

"His replacement will join you tomorrow at 1300. I expect his quarters to have been cleaned out and inspected by that time. And I expect you both to be waiting at the entrance of this wing waiting for me."

"Mrflfflefff!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Folken gave the guard another nod, and Dirandau was dragged back to his quarters. Dirandau fought and struggled, as usual. Though the guards outnumbered him, they had difficulty keeping him in check.

Folken sighed.

"He's becoming too difficult to control nowadays..."

The ending of a period of restriction ought to have been a time for celebration. Before that wonderful bit of news Folken had given him, Dirandau had planned to let them all relax. He had even thought of bringing up a few bottles of wine for them to share.

Instead, it was cause to brood. A mark in the slew of things Folken had done to ruin Dirandau's plans.

Dirandau sat on Migueru's bed, watching his friend empty out his dresser. He had been trying for an hour to get a conversation going, but Migueru refused to talk. He was too angry. This left Dirandau feeling very alone. Migueru was the only person he ever really talked to about anything. Now he didn't even have that...

Migueru chucked another pair of skivvies into the box he was using to transport his belongings.

"That bastard," Dirandau said with a sigh as he thought of Folken once more.

He had made more than one change that day to the structure of the Dragonslayers.

It would not have hurt so badly if, as it first appeared, that Folken was only replacing Laurel. Laurel held the lowest position of the Dragonslayers, and so it wasn't a great loss.

But Laurel was not the one being replaced. He was simply being kicked out to allow room for another replacement...Migueru's.

Until now, Dirandau's chain of command had been just as he wanted it. Migueru was the second highest in rank, therefore the only candidate allowable for second in command.

Folken had updated his record, demoting him. Not one rank, not two..but as many as possible without having him be ineligible for the Dragonslayers. It was cruelty mixed with kindness. Folken realized that the two meant a lot to eachother, but he did not want Dirandau to have any excuse to be using Migueru as an advisor. Therefore, he allowed Migueru to stay in, but only as the lowest ranking soldier.

Migueru stared at a pair of his socks before throwing them in as well. He was angry as hell, at everything and everyone.

Migueru had adored Dirandau ever since they first met, had worshipped him just as one would a god. There was nothing that Dirandau couldn't manage, nothing he couldn't change, and no one that could force him into anything. Life was supposed to be perfect now. If he worked hard, nothing bad would happen to him.

It had never been more evident how lacking he was in the ability to do anything. It wasn't his fault, but still...

"Sir?"

Dirandau blinked. This was the first thing that Migueru had said to him in what seemed an eternity.

"Yes?" Dirandau answered.

"I'll report to you in a day or two, " he said, his words cold. It was a rare occasion that he would ever bother to speak in an official manner.

He threw the last of his 'personals' in his box, and pushed it to the side.

He then started on stripping his bed, and on emptying out his closet.

Dirandau watched him for a bit longer before standing up to leave. He couldn't stand it. The constraints Folken had trapped him under felt like they were crushing him.

"Very well," he replied just as officiously. "Don't be late."

1300 came and went. Laurel stood at the outskirts of the wing, waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting...

He was used to it by now. The dragonslayers had inadvertantly been trained to deal with horribly long waiting periods, thanks to Folken always catching Dirandau up in lectures. Through no fault of his own, he was always immensely late.

He stared at Gatty a few times, wondering what that idiot was doing here. He'd come some time ago, and sat down. And now he wouldn't move.

Perhaps he was there to escort Laurel off the premises?

"Hadn't you ought to be at attention if you're waiting for someone?" Laurel inquired.

"And ruin my legs? I should think not."

Laurel resumed staring at the wall ahead of him, standing at attention. When Dirandau did show up, he'd give Gatty hell about this. That was something to look forward to, at least.

Just about everyone else had retreated to their quarters, pondering the situation. All except for Shesta, who had taken the emotional welfare of the group upon himself. He went around to each room, talking with the others individually, and making sure that they were all okay. It was a great comfort to them.

He had reached Migueru's room just in time to see Dirandau stalking off, looking very upset. He attempted to ask Migueru what was going on, but only received a death threat in reply. Hesitating, he walked to Dirandau's quarters and knocked on the door.

There was no reply. He knocked again. Eventually, he gave up on waiting and walked in.

He was a bit...disturbed...upon walking in. The room was neat and clean, but everything that furnished it was damaged in some way. There were things written all over the walls, things which he would try very hard to erase from his memory later on. On one wall, there was nothing but a list of death-threats, describing who he intended to kill and what he intended to do to them. Folken's name appeared frequently.

And then there were spaces covered with incoherent words. They appeared to be some form of poetry. But...cripes... What manner of insanity coated them...what strange experiences had he gone through to write such things?

And then the pictures....Aya! He couldn't have begun to describe them afterwards....such terrible surrealism....all of it was just terrible...

Oh, Shesta would have nightmares about this, that's for certain.

Dirandau had sat down at his desk, lain his head down, and...it seemed to Shesta at first glance that he was crying. However, when he moved closer, he realized that it wasn't crying. It was a torrent of words, said so fast that he couldn't keep up with them.

"....Sir...?"

Shesta was nervous. He knew better than to disturb Dirandau when he was quite obviously already disturbed. But he just couldn't let his lord continue like this. Even if it brought trouble on himself.

Dirandau momentarily stopped talking. He slowly turned his head to look at Shesta. Shesta, with that blonde hair and naive face. Shesta with that demure demeanor and kind heart. Shesta with that...innocence.

Dirandau didn't want to see innocent Shesta.

Dirandau didn't like innocent Shesta.

Dirandau hated innocent Shesta.

Dirandau despised innocent Shesta.

Dirandau wanted to kill innocent Shesta.

Dirandau would shatter the innocence that was Shesta.

Poor Shesta.

"S...s....top...please....." he called out desparately, as Dirandau began slamming him around. Dirandau smashed Shesta's head into a wall, then nearly ripped his arm out of it's socket throwing him to the ground. He continued on in this way, becoming worse and worse. All the while, Shesta cried out and tried to get his lord to listen to him. It was to no avail.

Shesta tried to run away, but Dirandau chased after him. He pinned Shesta to a wall, and began hitting him mercilessly. His hand slipped once, and he slammed it hard against the wall.

This sent him reeling backwards. He allowed himself to drop to the floor. Ever since he had hit Folken's arm, his joints in that hand were damaged, and hitting any flat surface with such force...it was a terrible pain to endure. Both the physical pain and the pain of the memory. That was when all these problems had started.

Shesta's face was now a mess, covered with a mixture of bood and tears. He fell to the floor as well, trembling with pain and exhausted. But, he was still determined to do what he came here to do.

"S....sir...." he began. "I know...tha...t you're hurt...bu..t..y..you...you're not...alone....and....and we care....we care...so v...very much...."

He coughed, some of the blood having run down his throat.

"W...we....don't want...gd...w....e...j...djust...."

His head hit the floor with a thud, and he passed out. So much for his grand idea of helping out.

Dirandau stared at Shesta a moment, coming to his senses somewhat. Shesta would have appreciated if he'd come to them BEFORE this whole incident...but, that was never Dirandau's way.

The irony of this hit him. Shesta was so concerned...only trying to help. Shesta had come to help bear a little of Dirandau's pain. And...well, he was bearing a lot of pain now, wasn't he?

He stared at the product of his work. A bloody compatriot, barely able to move. He saw Shesta's fingers twitch. Poor Shesta...poor half-dead, loyal Shesta.

He felt guilt creeping over him. Such an unbearable feeling. So unbearable that he was completely unable to keep it as his own.

"This is all Folken's fault."

Indeed, he found it incredibly easy to call Folken the root of all his problems. No matter what he did, Folken was the reason why.

Dirandau would never be held accountable for his actions.

He moved closer to Shesta. He brushed the young man's face out of his eyes, useless as the action was. There was so much blood covering his face that clearing it of obstruction did not aid in neatening its appearance.

"You're such a fool," he said. "Trying to get close to me. Don't you know...don't you have a clue?"

Being isolated by that period of restriction had brought to light a facet of his personality which he hadn't noticed before. When he was unable to interact with anyone, he felt no different than before. He felt normal.

And now it was over, and he felt just the same. Why....why couldn't he connect with anybody? They all seemed to feel eachother's presence, but he...

He had a growing sense that there was something peculiar, something wrong with him. He wondered if he'd always feel this way.

There were so many things he was starting to wonder. It's not unusual. When a child starts to grow up, they start to wonder about the lies their caretakers have been telling them all along. They start to wonder who they are, and what damage has been done to them.

He wanted to ask, but...who could he ask? And even if he could, he wouldn't. There was some sense of impending dread he got every time he thought about asking. As if something terrible would happen. Or...as if he knew that the answers would be terrible, ones he would be unable to live with if he knew the answers.

He took the cover off of his bed, and laid it over Shesta.

He looked at Shesta's damaged body once more. How could he? He was no medical expert, but he knew he'd practically killed the boy. Shesta depended on him, and in return had received an attempt on his life. Was that the mark of a good leader?

No. It was not.

He couldn't let this happen again.

Without another look back, he walked out the door, resigned to deal with whatever was to happen.

He refused to think another moment about Shesta's condition, about what he had done. If he dwelled upon it, he was likely to do something similar again soon.

In a manner which he deemed much more healthy, he turned all his hatred towards Folken and all that was connected to him.

It was 1430, and Folken still hadn't shown up.

"Damn it...he's an hour and a half late. If he's going to screw me over, he could at least be on time to do it!"

Gatty rolled his eyes.

"And you are more in the right because you were only an hour late?"

"You dare question me? You hold no power here anymore, remember? Restriction is over." Dirandau said, glowering at him.

"I'm only pointing out an error. You ought to thank me."

Dirandau's expression changed to a smirk. A dangerous one.

"And I think I'll point out an error to you in return...you are below me in rank. And I have the right to discipline anyone below me."

"Yes, but Folken is above you. And if you 'discipline' me, as you call it, he'll be certain to give you his own brand of unhappiness."

"Says who? There are no witnesses."

Dirandau moved closer to Gatty.

"Except, of course, Laurel. And he's on my side. Aren't you, Laurel?"

"Absolutely, sir," Laurel said with a smirk.

"There, you see? That equation I told you about earlier...I don't think you learned it the first time. Prepare for a remedial math lesson."

Gatty stood up and took a defensive stance.

"Anytime you're ready...'sir'..."

"Is that the best insult you've got? You deserve to be killed for sheer unoriginality!"

Dirandau struck Gatty hard in the face. Though Gatty was prepared, he was still thrown back by it. He hopped back up and whip-kicked Dirandau in the stomach. Dirandau was sent back, but with the same resilience Gatty was showing, he got right back into the fight.

Dirandau tried to get a clear shot to Gatty's face again, but Gatty was wary now. He had figured out that those kinds of hits were Dirandau's forte when it came to hand-to-hand fighting. He kept his hands close to his head, so that he'd have an easy time blocking anything.

He smirked. He had one-upped Dirandau, and Dirandau was now very frustrated because of this.

"Your turn."

"You want to play games, huh? Then fine. We'll play my way."

Dirandau unsheathed his katana, smiling.

The sound of that sharpened blade destroyed any semblance of confidence in Gatty. Gatty, a simple cleric, did not own a sword, nor did he know how to fight with one. He had learned fist-fighting and hand-to-hand combat because he had wanted to know, because he might actually find use for it. [And because it was relaxing, in some strange sense, because it was relaxing.] But swordfighting was not something he had thought he'd ever need to know about, nor was it something his status would have allowed him to study.

So, he not only had no weapon, but he also had no idea what the hell Dirandau was going to do and how to defend himself against it.

Perfect.

Dirandau advanced slowly. Gatty retreated in as efficient a manner as he could muster. He ran for the entrance of the hallway, but Dirandau beat him to it.

In no time, Dirandau had him backed up against a wall, his blade pressed against Gatty's throat.

"You've been troubling me for so long. I think I ought to return the favor."

Gatty stared ahead, standing at attention. He was resigned. If he was to die, then so be it. He'd die maintaining his military bearing, right to the end.

And, of course, just as Dirandau was about to end this, Folken came by.

Dirandau dropped his sword and groaned.

"Damnit....if you were going to be so late, why'd you have to show up at all!"

"I'm a strange individual, remember? Nothing I do makes any sense," he said nonchalantly.

"Is everything taken care of for the changeover?"

"Yes," Dirandau said. A puzzled, anxious look was on his face. "But...we can't do this unless the replacement is here."

He dreaded this answer.

"Where is he?"

Gatty rubbed his throat, dwelling over what might have happened if Folken hadn't shown up. He tried not to be annoyed that Folken didn't even give a damn that Gatty had nearly lost his head...but it was impossible.

He wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible, and get back to his office, where everyone was much more sensible.

"Sir, if you wouldn't mind taking care of another issue first, could you tell me what you wanted me to come here for? There are pressing matters which I must attend to."

Dirandau glared at Gatty for interrupting him. He swore, after this was over, he was going to have Migueru show him where Gatty's office was, and the both of them would take care of him.

His eyes went flat at the thought of Migueru. Whoever was replacing him had better be good. Anyone less than the best that Dirandau could expect would be in a whole hell of a lot of trouble.

"I believe, Gatty, that you will find it a few other matters more pressing...such as finding a way to ensure that your new Lord doesn't kill you."

"AAAAAHYaYAyaYA!!! I Knew it!!!!" Dirandau shrieked. "I knew you were going to do something stupid like this! Replace Migueru with an admin officer? Are you insane??? He doesn't even know how to fight!"

Dirandau ranted on, his words eventually fading into background noise.

Gatty stared up at Folken, unnerved.

"....sir.......how am I....I mean.......are you serious?"

Folken nodded. "Yes. You're exactly what he needs for a second: Someone who's willing to admit when he's wrong, and who will actually do the job rather than be a friend."

"But....sir.....he'll...he's psychotic! And he's going to kill me!"

"I know it's a difficult undertaking, Gatty. But I know that you are an upstanding young man. You can do it. You have the strength and the courage. And I will be here if anything goes terribly wrong. We need him, but he needs someone responsible and confident to depend on. Will you accept this?"

Gatty watched Dirandau for a moment, who was making wild hand movements and talking to nobody in particular. He shut his eyes.

"I'm going to hate myself for this," he thought.

He bowed to Folken, and stood back up at attention.

"I will accept the responsibility, Lord Folken."

"Oh no you won't! You're going to hi-tail it out of here now! And I'm never going to see you around here again!! Folken's crazy. And I'm going to report him...and then we'll all be perfectly fine."

It didn't matter what Dirandau said. No one was paying attention to him now.

"Go and retrieve your things, Gatty. You have one hour."

Gatty bowed, and left to fulfill that order. He bit his lip walking down the corridors. His future suddenly looked very bleak...and very short.

Dirandau made a cry that sounded as if someone were trying to rip his head apart.

"Folken, you can't do this to me!!! What-"

Folken grabbed one of Dirandau's hands, which had been held in front of him, open but clenched in a questioning manner.

"Before we discuss anything else, I'd like you to explain why you have blood on your hands."

That shut Dirandau up right-quick. He stared at nothing in particular, and did not struggle because he knew Folken wasn't going to let go.

Folken stared at him, stared through him. He'd seen this before. He already knew...and yet, he had hope...well, the answer could be different than normal. This boy's life was not inescapably connected with the destruction of all things that came in contact with his hands.

"Dirandau?"

He seemed unable to hear Folken. He was lost in his own thoughts. At least, he appeared so. More likely, he was using the appearance of a low attention span to avoid explaining.

"Alright then. I won't hold you to explanations that will damage your fragile ego. Just tell me...am I going to have to alert the medical ward that another of your soldiers is going to be staying for a few weeks?"

Dirandau couldn't think about this now. He couldn't deal with it, with the memory. It had to be blocked out.

Dirandau kicked him in the shins, trying to get away.

"What I do with my men is my own business, not yours," he snarled.

Folken shut his eyes. So it was true? How disappointing...

"Dirandau, it is poorly served for a group to spend more time in the infirmary during peaceful activity than as the result of battle."

"Cripes! Can I help it if-"

"No you can't. However, even if it's not your fault, you must stop this."

He didn't want to listen to another edition of that same old theory - that everyone else was always responsible. Dirandau had the ability to make it sound so plausible.

Dirandau began sulking where he stood. Folken could see the signs of disobedience already. He wasn't going to listen to good advice. He never did. Not unless he had cause to fear something worse happening, were he to continue his present behavior.

"I don't know what makes you do this, why you try to destroy those you have often said you care about. The only people you've ever said that about. Were you lying all those times?"

"No."

"Are you testing their endurance?"

"No."

"So why do you do this?"

".........."

"I fail to understand your actions."

"As if I understand them any better than you..." Dirandau thought.

At the moment, he didn't quite understand it himself. He couldn't reason out why when he held a glass, his grip became tightened and his nerves overworked themselves. He couldn't reason out why there were holes in the walls that he didn't remember making. Or why everything he touched seem to crush and die. He felt slightly out of touch, as if he were no longer in control of his actions.

Of all people, he had the least idea of what he was doing or why.

"If it happens again, I'm putting you on four months restriction, and every last one of your chosen soldiers is being replaced. If you refuse to show them anything but abuse, then they will be sent to other officers who actually know how to lead."

Folken released his hand, and Dirandau started walking away.

"And," he added, "I'll be sure to let your guards know why you've gotten restriction. The lower orders happen to dislike this kind of abuse."

He hoped that even if it was impossible to appeal to Dirandau's good character and morals [For it grew increasingly apparent that Dirandau had no conventional ones to speak of], then he could at least appeal to the boy's fear. It seemed to work. Dirandau's reply of 'Yes, Lord Folken,' betrayed his troubled nerves and uneasyness of mind.

It was the best Folken could hope for. If Dirandau couldn't be changed, he could at least be controlled. He'd still serve his purpose to the army after all.

Gatty hadn't much to bring with him. Just some bedding, his uniforms [Which he'd have to trade in later], and a few books. He wasn't one for useless keepsakes.

The other Dragonslayers had congregated in small groups at eachother's doors. Gossiping, as they were often wont to do. They had two months of catching up to do, and were wasting no time about it.

When Gatty came round the corner, they immediately snapped shut, and everything became quiet. Two months of restriction had taught them that Gatty equals dead silence.

He walked down the line of them with eyes staring straight ahead, seeming much like the image of one running the gauntlet. They threw hateful glares at him, plentiful as daggars in a thieves den. The indignity they had suffered at his hand was still very much fresh in their minds. And he would not be forgiven lightly.

Gatty looked down on the information he'd been given for the room number. When the others saw that he was walking into Migueru's quarters, they gathered round the doorway, excited. Migueru was mad as hell, and he was well-known for his temper. In some ways, it matched that of their Lord.

Some placed bets on whether or not Gatty would come back out alive.

It did not register in Migueru's mind that Gatty was the one who had entered. Actually, he'd been so focused on his angry thoughts that he hardly noticed the entrance of another person at all.

Seeing that Migueru wasn't quite finished packing up, Gatty sat down on the bed, and waited. Migueru, not willing to pay attention to who it was, assumed that it was Dirandau, come to try and talk to him again.

His eyes narrowed.

"So...sir, you think I'm incapable of placing items in boxes on my own, sir?"

Migueru angrily slammed the second packing box against the wall. He had one more box to fill, mostly with his remaining uniforms and weapons accoutrements. It was an extensive collection.

"Sir, I'll report in at the proper time as ordered and promised, sir. Until then, sir...this evolution does not require supervision, sir."

Migueru's overuse of the word 'sir' amused Gatty, after having seen many times Migueru's lack of military bearing in speech.

"Oh, alright. If you really want, I'll leave."

Migueru became wide eyed. He whipped around, angry and in shock.

"What the hell...??? What are you doing here? Vacate my quarters immediately!!!!"

Gatty shrugged.

"Oh, I would. If these were your quarters."

"How dare you..." Migueru hissed, his eyes flashing venemously. "Does Dirandau even know you're here? I swear, when he finds out that you've been-"

"Of course he knows. And I'll thank you not to talk about him in such an informal manner. He's your commander. Speak as such."

Migueru rolled his eyes.

"You break into my room to lecture me? You really are insane for a prig, you know that?"

"No, I don't. You should tell me about it some other time."

"Oh, just give me the time and place. We'll have tea. I'm not much for talking, though. I prefer to let my sword do that...."

Migueru smiled, thinking of how lovely that blonde headed idiot would look with a few slices in him.

"You really ought to learn to control your mouth a little more, Migueru. It'll cost you on evaluations."

"So? Dirandau doesn't look for that sort of thing...not from me, anyway. He and I have an...understanding."

"Yes, but you have no such understanding from me. And I don't treat evaluations with light concern."

Migueru stared at Gatty as if he'd suddenly gained a personality and a life.

"Evals are a month away. You'll be long-gone by then. Why would Folken drag you back just to have you take our evals?"

It was then that he noticed Gatty's little packet of belongings.

Migueru grimaced as it finally hit him.

Gatty smirked.

"You soldiers are all so very thick-headed. I was wondering how long it was going to take you."

He undid the string holding his belongings together, and set everything neatly out next to him on the bed.

Migueru stared at him, eye twitching.

"He's got his stuff on my bed...he's got his stuff on my bed...idiot...cleric...stuff on bed...damnit...no...!!!"

Migueru's thoughts repeated themselves over and over. He couldn't fathom it. His room...Gatty was going to live in his room....gaaaaaaaah!!!!!!!!

He wanted to beat Gatty senseless, but..well, Gatty -was- going to be in charge of his evaluations. If he screwed up, the cleric was certain to have him kicked out at a moment's notice. It had been hard enough on him to be demoted. To be kicked out altogether would be unbearable.

So, with as much prudence as he possessed, he simply clenched his fists and walked out.

And then he pummelled the first thing he came in contact with - Viore's head. He then proceeded towards the training hall, intending to work out some of his feelings.

Guimel helped Viore back up. Viore, though his face was now sore and bleeding, was smiling as happy as a fool.

Guimel looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

"And what the hell could you possibly have to be so happy about?"

"I won the bet...you all owe me credits for a year! Ha!!"

The others groaned, wishing they'd have been the stupid ones to make such a long-shot bet. Dalet looked very uncomfortable. He'd lied. He didn't have anythingThi to back up his wager. This was a terrible habit with him when it came to gambling. Dirandau could attest to that. Dalet was probably going to be in debt to Lord Dirandau for the rest of his life.

He smiled sheepishly.

"Uh....would you care for some food appropriated from the kitchens instead?"

"Hell no!" Viore shouted. "If I wanted that, I certainly wouldn't trust -you- to get it for me. First off, you always get caught. Second, when you actually do manage to escape with something, you never come back with the good kind."

The Dragonslayers had begun gaining unofficial notoriety among the other groups. There wasn't a day that went by in the chow halls they frequented that the staff wasn't buzzing about their recent 'expedition'. Thankfully, the staff had no proof, and Dirandau hadn't heard the rumors. Otherwise they would have been in major trouble. [No one knew for certain, but they had a good idea that Dirandau would not be happy that they were more well known for thievery than for their swordsmanship.]

"How about a bottle of wine?" The wine cells, thank goodness, were less well-guarded than the kitchens. For some reason, the officials didn't mind letting the lower orders drink themselves to death. Probably because if they were drunk, they were satiated and not apt to complain. [How else could you explain the fact that they would turn a blind eye to a group of alcoholic eleven year olds?]

"Make it three, and you're on."

"Alright, three...but the last two aren't going to be the good stuff."

"How about two of the good stuff, and then a bottle of beer?"

The two bartered on, trading off things. Eventually, they decided on one bottle of 'the good stuff,' two months worth of uniform repair and preparation, and Dalet volunteering for the next two punishments that Dirandau decided to give Viore.

At 1400 the next day, the Dragonslayers filed into the training hall, and lined up according to rank. Dirandau walked down the line of them, looking them over. They looked decent. Nothing more than decent, though. Dirandau would let it slide this time. They didn't have time to waste at the moment. They HAD to catch up on their training.

He noted two empty spaces in the line. One for Shesta. And one for...hmmm...That was certainly interesting. It seemed as if Folken's young friend had decided not to show up.

Very interesting.

"Alright..." he began.

"This is the first time we've been able to train for two months. I swear, if I catch anyone slacking off now...."

He gave them a dangerous glare.

"Understood?"

A chorus of "Yes, Sir" was heard.

He set them off on an easy warm-up. Two hour's worth of drills, drills, and more drills. Practicing minute details in their techniques and footwork.

After this came one-on-one sparring. Nothing unusual. [Except for the fact that Dirandau had to keep stepping in and reprimanding Migueru for not keeping in mind who was as good as him and who wasn't. It was all some of them could do to keep him from slicing their heads off. He was still angry...so very angry...]

Dirandau let this continue on for an hour and a half, then set them on attack and defense drills. The difficulty increased with each evolution. It was a set-up for their final task of the day - all out attack drills.

All out attack drills were a great deal of fun, even though they were extremely tiring. Using everything you have until you keel over. To a true fighter, there is no greater high, there is nothing to be enjoyed more.

When they were about three-fourths of the way through their attack and defense drills, a haggard and worn Gatty stumbled into the training hall. It had been a long morning.

First, he'd had to get the rather extensive uniform issue which went along with being one of Dirandau's soldiers.

Before, he had only one type - His normal working uniform, which also served as a ceremonial uniform. Simple, easy to maintain, and non-space-consuming.

Soldiers had a different type of issue, with three sets of each type, and each of those with a separate pair of boots. There was the practice uniform, cleaning-detail uniform, two styles of battle dress uniform[One for wet weather, one for dry], ceremonial uniform [which was foolish for them to have, because everyone always wanted to see them in battle dress at ceremonies.], relaxed gear uniform, and then the various bits of padding. First he had to be measured. Then re-measured to make sure the first measuring was correct. Then he had to wait an undeterminable amount of time while one of the clerks rummaged about the back to find the right sizes. After that, he had to try everything on, and the fitters measured for tailoring, for each and every uniform.

He now understood why the requisition officers down the hall were always in such horrible dispositions - their job was a never-ending hell.

Half-way through, he gave up and decided that he'd better cut-and-run, so as to cut down on how late he was going to be. He managed to escape with his practice and relaxed uniforms, and one pair of boots.

After that, he had to pick up his record, in order to turn it over to the right handlers.

Even though he was now technically in the Dragonslayers, he was still technically required to fulfill the duties of his administrative position. Despite his protests that he had other things to take care of, he was forced into taking care of all the work that had piled up. [That week, numerous officers had completed their physical readiness tests. There were always mounds and mounds of papers when those came around.] It would have been kind of his fellow administrators to take the work since they knew he was having a busy adjustment period, but...no. Any excuse to dump paperwork on someone else never went unused in that office.



And as usual when he started any task, a myriad of other service members came in, mostly soldiers, demanding help with their work. After all, they did have a good excuse: Soldiers aren't given any office training, and clerics are given far too much. To be a resident expert in decorum and filing was a Cleric's purpose in life. If he attempted to brush them off, they'd throw a royal fit until taken care of. [And if you think popularity is a desirable thing among clerics, think again. The better you are, the more they stalk you.]

Officers could be such demanding children....

When he eventually found a way to escape unseen, he was so dead-tired from running around that he could hardly keep going. He'd missed both breakfast and lunch, and felt nearly faint. [Because, poor guy, he had also missed the evening meal the night before.] Luckily, chow hall staff lived in the kitchens, and he was able to beg them for something. [It was then he learned never to use the phrase, 'Just give me something. Anything.' around kitchen staff. He prayed that blue was that stuff's original color...whatever the hell it was.]

When he had finished choking down the left-overs he received, he dashed over to the armory and pick up a sword, and ran to the training hall.

When Gatty stumbled into the doorway, everyone stopped what they were doing. They looked at Dirandau, wondering what he was going to do. He was a very strict individual, and did not hold with tardiness at all. To top that off, he didn't like Gatty in the first place. This was going to be...memorable.

Dirandau strode over to Gatty, who presently fell to his knees. [This wasn't so much to show respect as it was the result of his fatigue.]

"Do you have any idea how late you are?"

Gatty couldn't help a slight smirk creeping on his face.

"No, sir. It seems as if I couldn't get near a clock today, sir," he stated, his voice imbued with sarcasm. He had taken to mocking himself and everything he experienced, as a way of dealing with the ridiculousness of life in a dictatorship bureacracy.

As if replying to an instant reflex, he struck Gatty to the ground.

Dirandau clenched his fists together, staring at him. He wanted so badly to smash Gatty's face in. But...Folken's threat...

Dirandau had hardly been able to deal with a month's worth of restriction. Four months would be unbearable, especilly when it was the fault of that cleric. And he owed it to his men to protect them. He would protect them at the sacrifice of his own satisfaction.

[Not to mention the fact that Gatty hadn't had his physical yet, and therefore was 'untouchable' at the moment.]

"He's trying to defeat me....that's why he was late. He knows how badly I want to hurt him," he thought. "And now he's trying to provide me with more reasons."

Dirandau became resolved not to draw Gatty's blood. Not on purpose, anyway...

"Get up!" Dirandau ordered. Gatty complied, rising shakily to his feet. He fought valiantly against those recurring feelings of helplessness. He failed.

"This will not be tolerated in the future. Understand?"

"Yes sir."

"As it stands, you've missed nearly the whole practice. You may think that an hour or two is all that's necessary, since that's what the other teams take for practice...but that small amount of time won't work."

"I understand sir. I myself never spent less than three hours at a time when I trained myself."

"What training?"

"Martial arts, sir. Self-defense."

A wave of understanding came over Dirandau's face. So that's why he was able to threaten Migueru so well out in the hallway. He had been wondering how, as strong as Migueru was, his best soldier had been so easily defeated.

Dirandau didn't hold with non-weapons training, seeing it as useless for one of Zaibach's elite fencing divisions. Thus, none of them had learned how to decently defend themselves without a sword. Under normal circumstances, they were expected never to be without one.

"I know a little of sword-training as well, sir. We have a few manuals on it in my office."

Some of the Dragonslayers were unable to subdue snickers and laughs. Zaibach fencing manuals...right...as if they were worth using for anything but propping up uneven tables...

"I take it, then, that you feel confident in your fighting abilities?"

"Of course, sir."

He truly was confident. The naive little fool...

"Very well. Then there's no need to start slowly. And, of course, you won't be bothered by joining in right where we left off."

"Absolutely not, sir."

Gatty had been slightly deluded by Dirandau's calm and civil attitude. He was under the impression that this was a straight-forward conversation. He had no idea that Dirandau only acted thusly to those he considered enemies, whom he would most likely soon see destroyed.

The delusion, coupled with the ludicrous assumption that participating in a Dragonslayer's training evolution was not going to be impossibly difficult, was the setting for his failure.

"Dragonslayers, line up!" Dirandau called. They all dashed to their respective places, sheathing their swords as they ran to save time.

Dirandau gave Gatty, who was still standing next to him, a curious glare. After a few clueless looks from Gatty, Dirandau finally had to say it.

"That means you too....."

"Oh! Aye, sir!"

His face flushed red, thoroughly embarassed. It was strange for him to be responding to the title of Dragonslayer. It was the same as if someone had changed his name against his will. They could continually call him what they wanted, but he would always see himself as someone else.

He started for the head of the line, but was held back by Dirandau.

"You know, it's so coincidental that you've studied self-defense. That's one of the subjects we've been working on today. And we were just about to start a new evolution..."

Dirandau practically threw him to the middle of the training hall. He landed on the floor with a dull thud.

"All out attack drill #4. Five minutes."

Shouts of, "Yes, Lord Dirandau!" were heard. Instantly, Gatty found himself surrounded by the Dragonslayers, swords unsheathed.

He shuts his eyes.

"He's got to be kidding!" Gatty thought.

Dirandau put up the chair he'd had placed in the room for him, so that he could have a better time of watching.

"So, here's the scenario: You've just lost all your compatriots, and have been surrounded by your relentless enemies in their own territory. No reinforcements or help of any kind are likely to show up any time soon. It's all up to you."

Gatty rolled his eyes.

"And what part of that is fictional?" he wondered in his head.

"Since it's you're first time, all you have to do is survive. I don't expect you to defeat the rest of them...this time. Understood?"

Gatty hesitated. He could buy himself some time by lying. But...lying would probably make Dirandau angry at him. Angrier. He didn't feel like needlessly pushing any buttons.

"Yes, sir," he said, his voice betraying dismay. Dirandau smirked upon hearing that.

"Good. You may begin."

Gatty stood up and drew his sword as the others closed in around him. The thing was heavier than he thought it'd be. But, that wouldn't inhibit him much. His arms were strong from lugging large stacks of paper around all day long.

Migueru moved slowly in on Gatty. He had been waiting for this chance.

"Lord Dirandau...are there any orders for us?"

Dirandau looked up at the ceiling, thoughtfully.

After a moment, he said, "Don't kill him," lightly, as if it weren't all that important for them to keep in mind.

"Your compassion overwhelms me," Gatty said through grit teeth.

What followed was as close to a massacre as anything could be without blood.

By the end of the first minute, he'd received about thirty deep bruises and nearly sprained both his wrists. They were being kind to him, using the dull edge of their blades to hit him with.

By the second, he had definitely damaged his left wrist, and was now resorting to fighting one-handed. He also learned, thanks to whacks to his spinal chord, why the chiropracter always told him to quit whining any time he dared to come see them. [He suffered slight back problems, stemming from the same activity that had strengthened his arms. But it was nothing compared to what the soldiers got from fooling around in their practices.]

By the third, he had become locked in a fight with Migueru. Migueru was intent on crashing his sword down on Gatty's head...and he had neglected to use the flat of his blade for it. So, with the proverbial hand tied behind his back, he used all the strength he could manage to resist Migueru's blade while trying to stay away from the others. Luckily, he'd backed himself up into a wall and they couldn't get behind him.

By the tenth second of the fourth minute, he lay on the floor, defeated and racked with pain. While his sword was employed resisting Migueru's, someone had slid theirs behind his legs, and pulled forward, thus causing his knees to bend. It was tricky, but they managed it. Dirandau had schooled them well in under-handed tactics.

The pressure Migueru was exerting on him had forced him to fall.

Migueru put his foot on Gatty's back and pressed down hard.

"You know what...I should just kill you here....you're not needed. You failed. Our Lord needs no such soldier on his hands...one that he'd have to take care of."

Gatty could hardly defend himself verbally. He was too busy trying to breathe with Migueru crushing him.

"Get...off.me....you're...too fat..for this...."

Even though they knew he'd kill them for it later, the others laughed at that joke [Or at least, what they thought was a joke. Gatty was being completely serious.]. Migueru was incensed at this insult.

"I'm not fat. This is all muscle..."

"No it's not. I know how much you eat."

Migueru pressed harder.

"Die..."

"That's enough," Dirandau said, with much hesitation. He would love to have let Migueru follow through completely...but...no...he couldn't. Folken was serious about that warning. He really would get rid of every last one of the Dragonslayers...and Dirandau would never even get the chance to work with them out in the field. Not once!

That would be such a shame after all the work he'd put into them.

Migueru looked immensely hurt.

"But..my lord, he-"

"Yes, I know," Dirandau said with a nod. "Still, I order you not to kill him."

Migueru bowed, his facial features and voice thoroughly soaked in indignance and embitterment.

"As you say, sir. I shall let the bastard live..."

He removed his foot, and backed off.

"But don't expect me to be happy about it," he said, and presently stalked out of the room. Dirandau, though hesitant to do so, said nothing to impede his passage. Migueru was upset, and needed to sulk. It was the only thing Dirandau could offer him.

Migueru was becoming increasingly disobedient, and his insolence was sure to prove problematic. Dirandau was not doing much to combat it at the moment, as he knew exactly how Migueru felt. He saw in Migueru much of himself, and didn't want to hurt him any further.

But...soon, he'd have to be more authoritative. He could show no lenience, even to those he cared about.

Attention came back to the center of the room. Dirandau stared down at Gatty, who was fighting against the pain and trying to sit up. It annoyed him. Stay down...he should just stay down...

"Clear the floor of all obstruction, and start another #4. And..."

He glanced at the group, choosing someone at random.

"Viore, it's your turn."

They carried Gatty, the 'obstruction' Dirandau was talking about, off to the side. He leaned against the wall, watching contemptuously. He watched Viore whipping about, slashing up and down...doing so much better than he could have done even if he weren't dead tired. He was angry at himself and at them. And jealous. How much time had they had to train? To do something they so loved? He tolerated his work, but he never enjoyed it as these soldiers seemed to. Perhaps he might have if everyone else had been as much of a perfectionist as he was...

Dirandau kept slipping him arrogant smirks, until the practice was over. As if to say that he was well on his way to winning this little battle.

"Yeah...just keep it up, you arrogant bastard," Gatty thought. "I may fall easy, but I always get back up. Always. Keep it up. I'll make you wish you'd never eased your way to the top."

After practice, Dirandau ordered the other Dragonslayers to take care of Gatty. Much as he hated him, he wouldn't leave Gatty to lay there helpless on the floor. It was a cruelty he couldn't bring himself to commit...

The others tried to drag Gatty off to medical, but he refused. He knew he needed to go, but he refused anyway. After being helped up, he made it a point to walk under his own power back to his quarters. This slightly impressed the others, though they dared not show it.

Once he was out of sight behind closed doors, he collapsed on the bed and passed out.

He was supposed to report to Lord Folken later that day about his experiences thus far, but, for understandable reasons, did not show. Folken, ever suspicious and ready to reprimand, had come down to the wing to investigate. Without waiting to talk to Dirandau, he had gone into Gatty's quarters. Needless to say, he wasn't pleased when he saw Gatty's condition.

Dirandau came in minutes later, having been informed by the person he'd put on 'spy duty' that Folken was messing about [which was never, ever a good thing for the Dragonslayers.] Folken was sitting at Gatty's desk, scribbling on some papers.

Dirandau grimaced.

"Paper...paper is not good," he thought. Paperwork, as much as he mocked it, was a powerful weapon for those who understood it. He knew very little, and it frightened him.

"Lord Folken, what's the meaning of this?"

"After you tell me the meaning of this," Folken said, gesturing towards Gatty.

Dirandau's face scrunched up.

"Damnit, I told them to take care of him..."

He'd have to berate them later for not dragging him to medical.

"Well, it seems as if you took care of him well enough."

Dirandau's eyes went wide, and his breaths came short and quick. This..no...no!

"Lord Folken..it's not what you think...really...I didn't-"

"Save your excuses, Dirandau. I will hear no more."

"But I didn't....! That was from practice! I told you he couldn't fight...but he agreed to do it...He can tell you...he..."

His face fell. Why should Gatty tell Folken anything?

"Doubtless, you've had him practice his lines well. But it will do you no good. He is not the type to lie for those who are dishonest, even if you did torture him to the point of telling you he would. He puts that sort of dishonesty in the same category as dishonor, and honor is of the greatest importance to him. He won't give his up for your sake."

Folken continued writing. Dirandau approached him cautiously, almost hoping that treading lightly would reverse the effects of this trying ordeal.

"W...what are those...?"

"You know perfectly well. Transfer papers. 13 of them."

"Folken, you can't!!" he cried, his voice overcome with desparation. "You just can't! I need them!"

"You'll do just as well with another group. And perhaps you'll have learned your lesson after this."

"But...I...need...them...."

Dirandau fell backwards against the wall. How could Folken be so relentlessly cruel and merciless? Always forcing Dirandau into corners, and then berating him for having been so foolish as to get trapped.

After his initial sulk, he thought about Folken's words. That transfer...Folken was transferring them immediately. Not only was this unspeakably cruel, but it was contradictory.

"You..! What do you mean telling me that we couldn't be transferred out fo here for months, and then out of the blue, you get the power to do so??"

Folken continued writing, not looking up at Dirandau.

"I never told you that I couldn't do it," he said calmly.

"Chk...just that you wouldn't, huh?"

"You needed to be kept back here. You still do."

Hatred, pure unalterated hatred showed through Dirandau's eyes. Finally, that jackass was admitting bluntly what he'd done. There was no mistake. He had kept him there out of some personal vendetta, and intended to continue to do so. No matter what he did or did not do, Folken was determined to keep him. To own him.

Dirandau's face became calm, devoid of anxiety or fear. Losing everything did interesting work on his spirit. It stripped him away of everything, and left only a kamikaze nature.

"So...I belong to you. That means you have to keep perfect track of me, doesn't it? That's why you're always around...why you never leave me alone...right? Of course it is. You need to have me close by. You..need me...."

Folken knew well enough that when Dirandau began talking like that, rambling on calmly, something negative was going to happen.

Still looking down, he said, "Dirandau, don't try anything. Anything, you hear?"

When there was no response, he looked up. To his surprize, Dirandau was no longer there. He stepped out in the hall, but there was no trace of the boy.

A slight smirk crept on Folken's face.

"Playing hide and seek as a way of revenge? How...childish."

He did not intend for the game to last long. This training center may have been a large one, but it wasn't huge. And there were only so many places that Dirandau could hide in.

And he was so wonderfully flamboyant...he couldn't hide. No way. Not forever.

Folken gave the messenger a blank stare, seeming to have left the world for a moment. The messenger became a tad bit uncomfortable, not knowing what the hell was going on.

"...sir?"

After a moment, Folken questioned him again.

"You locked down the galley like I told you?"

"Yes, sir. Everyone is keeping an extra careful watch in the kitchens. They haven't seen him at all."

"Are you certain?"

The messenger coughed, a little awkward about this. He didn't want to insult the commander by pointing out the obvious.

"....sir...it would be impossible to miss someone who looks like him. He's highly recognizable. And he's loud, sir. Very loud."

Folken nodded.

"Yes, of course. And you've made certain to keep all watches on high alert?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the Dragonslayer's wing...that is locked-down as well?"

"Yes, sir. They can't go anywhere on there own. Restriction officers couldn't do a better job."

Folken knew better than to allow them to be free during such a situation. They would find their Lord and help him continue an existence in hiding.

"Re-check that everything is locked down. Set out a roving search, and tell all those on cleaning detail to keep alert as well. It's important that we get him back. He's a...high maintenance individual. It is imperative that he be found before something happens to him that we don't know about."

"Understood, sir."

The messenger left Folken alone with the myriad of paperwork that was now in front of him. UA slips for every event of each day that Dirandau had gone missing; warnings and lectures from the sorcerers who were deeply concerned about this new development; complaints from various staff members that Folken's little UA project was committing vile acts against them; and several anonymous letters from the people who feared for their lives [Which mainly consisted of messengers.].

This was indeed a nightmare for the training center, having that little psycho running loose with no boundaries. He was well-known, respected by many, but feared by all. Some knew of his capabilities for intelligence. The rest just knew of his propensity towards violence, and the frequent recurrence of it which kept the medical ward nearest his station full at all times. Many believed it was only a matter of time before they would have dead bodies piling up.

And, they all held Folken responsible. Even Folken had to appreciate how well Dirandau was orchestrating his revenge. Such a simple method...yet so effective.

Meanwhile, back at the wing, the Dragonslayers were constantly chattering away about their feelings on Dirandau's dissapearance. They were worried sick about him. There was no telling how much trouble he was going to be in after this. [And they knew he'd come back sometime. Even if they didn't find him, he wouldn't abandone everything just to spite Folken. He wanted his career, and couldn't have it hiding in a closet.]

They just prayed that Folken wouldn't beat him up. As much punishment as they received, they had no desire to see Dirandau hurt.

Gatty was back in charge of them, trying his best to take care of things, and to try and be accepted by them. He didn't care if they liked him or not, but he did need to reach an understanding with them in order for this to be an effective group.

He ran things as best he could, though his lack of technical knowledge was obvious. And no one was about to help him.

A typical training evolution during this time went as follows:

1. Wait for Gatty to screw up.

2. Point.

3. Laugh.

It would have been bearable if Migueru had given him the slightest bit of advice, but Migueru, of course, was being pigheaded about the whole ordeal. He kept to his own schedule, and avoided the rest of the group at all costs. When Gatty did ask for advice, he received death threats, if he received a reply at all.

By the end of the first week, Gatty had given up on trying to run things. It was impossible without help. He merely made up their schedules and told them to take care of eachother.

He tried to make himself useful, but there wasn't much he could do. About the only useful thing he did find was to check up on that soldier in the medical ward.

When he came, he was denied the right to see Shesta until he had a check-up.

"But, I just had three months ago," he said.

The nurse ignored his protests. She was quite forceful about the whole thing.

"We always check the Dragonslayers for injury whenever they walk in here. It's an unwritten rule."

"....why?"

She just smiled, and went about her work. It was also an unwritten rule that no one here talked about such things.

When satisfied, the nurse allowed him passage to that space that had been, also unnofficially, given to the Dragonslayers. It was quiet, secluded, and dimly lit. The perfect space to gain some peace of mind.

The doctor told him that everything was fine, and Shesta was back to normal. They were just allowing him a little extra re-couperation time, and were working to see if they couldn't get rid of a few of his remaining scars. His face was completely back to normal, but the rest of him...well, Dirandau was always cautious about any area that would show when in uniform, but the rest was fair game for permanent devastation.

After talking to the doctor, Gatty had intended to leave, but Shesta begged for him to stay. Gatty would have protested to this as well, having now come to the conclusion that every single one of the Dragonslayers was going to hate him forever, but....he had nothing better to do. He may as well see what the young invalid wanted to tell him so badly.

Shesta was sitting on a comfortable little bed, drinking that herbal tea which was offered at every turn in medical. He asked the nurse to get an extra one for Gatty, who looked a bit tired.

"No, no. I'm perfectly fine," Gatty protested, one eyebrow raised in confusion. What the hell was this? All he ever knew of a prolonged stay at medical were irritated personnel and terrible food. This seemed like something out of those health spas from other countries.

He pulled up a nearby stool and sat down.

"So...uh...is there something you need put in your record? Or something of that nature?"

Shesta shook his head 'no.'

"I just wanted someone to talk to, is all."

Gatty blinked. What the hell...?

"....you do know that I'm the one who usurped Migueru, making your lord angry enough to run away and stay lost for about a month now, right?"

Shesta nodded.

"I know."

"Uh...and you do recall that I was the officer in charge of you during restriction."

"Yes, I do," he said with another nod. He was smiling, and seemed happy and amiable.

Gatty was absolutely perplexed. When he could think of nothing else, he added, "You don't, by any chance, have some plan in effect in which these wonderful nurses are going to bound, gag, and torture me to death, do you?"

Shesta burst out laughing, and shook his head 'no.' again.

"No, no, nothing like that. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Are they being very horrible to you?"

"........."

"Ah. I see. Don't worry. They'll come around. We Dragonslayers are a stubborn bunch, but we certainly don't ostracize good people forever.

He took another sip of tea.

"They just don't understand you. Keep trying, you'll make yourself understood."

Gatty stared at Shesta, an incredulous puzzled smile on his face.

"Then you must know what it feels like to be in my place. You weren't always a soldier?"

"Actually, yes, I have always been a soldier. A little too ruthless at times, I'll admit. They tell me that I'm far too apt to kill people when it isn't necessary."

Gatty blinked.

"You...ruthless?"

Shesta nodded.

"I'll spar with you some time, and let you see for yourself."

"Eheh...no thank you. I've had my fill of introductory sparring lessons for awhile."

His wrists and back still hurt like hell from drill #4.

Shesta continued to sip his tea, and Gatty continued to stare at him in puzzled wonder.

"You...if you remember everything I've been up to, why do you care how I'm doing?"

"Well, for one thing, you're here to stay, right? Lord Folken rarely if ever backs down on his decisions. I say we ought to all just get along with eachother. That way, we'll be better off as a group. More effective."

Gatty smiled.

"Well, now...finally there's someone here who thinks like me."

"And for another thing, I don't...uh..." Shesta cut himself off, turning red in the face. "Never mind."

"No, continue...what were you going to say?"

Shesta put his cup down, and sighed.

"Well...Dirandau...he...well, I know he's not one of the gods and everything. He's so wonderful. But he needs help...and he won't take it from anyone. And you, you're different. You've had a life of your own. You know..."

He flushed slightly with embarrassment.

"You know how to think for yourself, and your mind belongs solely to you. If there's anyone in this group who has actual advice to over Dirandau, it's you."

"Ah...I see. So you don't think he's capable for this either?"

"Oh, no! Don't ever think that! Of course I think he's capable. It's just...you've seen him, haven't you? Those looks he has on his face when he thinks no one's looking. The way he talks, the things he says. And, then there's...well, you haven't seen him at his worst yet. We all have faith in him because he is the best choice for this job. He just...."

Shesta looked about ready to die. Trying to put these feelings into words was taxing his emotions. He gave up trying and began on a plea for Gatty's cooperation.

"You'll just have to learn for yourself. Please...keep in mind that he really is a wonderful person. You just have to understand him more than those that don't know him personally to see that."

Gatty leaned on his hand, staring at Shesta.

"Do you care about everyone so much?"

Shesta nodded.

"Yes. I suppose I do. A little too much. Everyone says it's my worst weakness. I can't say as I disagree with them on that, but...I think understanding is helpful when living with people for long periods of time. And, anyway, everyone deserves a chance to be understood, don't they?"

Gatty nodded in agreement.

"You're a little odd, but I suppose you're right."

He stood up.

"I'd better get going now. I'll be sure to let the others know that you're fine."

"Alright. I'll see you around then."

Gatty started for the door.

"Oh! Before you go.."

"Yes?"

"Just remember: We aren't crazy. We're just a little different."

"Ehe...you know, I used to say the same thing about my team in the administrative department," Gatty said with a smile.

He bid Shesta goodbye, and walked out.

The nurse he had seen before looked sadly at him.

"The poor dear...he's been so depressed lately. Thank you for that."

"He seemed fairly happy to me."

"Well, yes, he's happy now that he's had a chance to talk. I think he just needed to feel like his voice was being heard by someone in his own world. It seems like no one ever listens to him half the time."

Gatty chuckled.

"They don't seem the type to listen to reason, do they?"

The nurse gave him a terrible look, incensed that he could joke so lightly about their situation.

"Yes, well they don't have a lot of experience dealing with it."

"I'll certainly attest to that. He's been here a month, and he's still got such terrible looking injuries?"

"Actually, it's not as bad as it seems. And I'll bet that over half the ones you noticed were from previous encounters."

"Previous encounters?"

"Oh, my, yes! I've lost count of how many times that poor dear has been in to see me. And the others...well, if you ever take a good look at them without their battle dress on, you'll see. They've all pretty much got the same injuries."

"That's detestable. Their loyalty to him...it's not only dangerous to their minds, but their health as well."

She chose not to comment on that.

"Before you leave, you mind telling me your favorite thing to drink?"

Gatty gave her yet another look of confuzzlement.

"I...uh...coffee."

Coffee was his life force. To those who must stay awake for ungodly working hours, it was a holy relic.

She smiled.

"That's interesting. The others mostly say wine. Alright, I'll remember it when you come for a stay," she said, writing it down in a little green records book. She turned to go, but Gatty stopped her.

"What do you mean, when I come for a stay?" he asked.

She looked away from him.

"I have to go. I have to go and take care of something..."

But he refused to let her go.

"I'm not going to be racked up her in a bed for weeks, lady. I will not be used as someone's release from anger," he said, a great deal of pride attached to his words.

She smiled sadly.

"Certainly, certainly. You'll be different. You won't get any scars."

She gently tore her arm from his grasp. When she reached the door to the doctor's office, she turned and gave him one last look.

"I'll be sure they start stocking coffee here as soon as we can. The good stuff, you know? We like you boys to be comfortable here. That's about all we can do to help."

And she dashed inside before he could argue with her anymore.

He walked out, shaking his head.

"I will not end up like one of them. I refuse. My spirit is an iron rod, and will not be broken by the likes of him."

After a month of hiding, Folken was about ready to give up. Perhaps Dirandau had run away. Had Folken really pushed him that far? Dirandau's loyalty was one which required him to be with his country, working for its ideals in order for him to have any measure of happiness. Could he possibly choose to live the life of one who has abandoned that?

He thought, perhaps, that if they actually did find him again, it might be wise to be a little more lenient and compromise more often. After all, the decisions Folken made were for his own good, but he honestly couldn't comprehend that. A few changes in Dirandau's favor might help to ease his mind.

And then, inexplicably, Dirandau just showed up again. Folken had walked to his office one day, only to find the young captain lounging in his chair, asleep.

What followed that was the longest lecture in recorded Zaibach history. Folken knew of about 735 different ways to say how irresponsible this stunt was, and was fully intent on using all of them. Dirandau merely stood there, nodding silently.

After he was through, Folken asked, "Do you have any questions?"

"Yes," Dirandau responded. "Are you going to quit lying to me?"

"I did not lie to you."

"How dare you say that? You've lied to me at every turn, Folken. You lied when you said that you weren't really trying to control every aspect of my life. You lied when you said you would not give me any difficulty about my choices in chain of command. You lied when you said I was getting out of this damned fucking training center. And you lie every time you try to say that you give a damn about anything I think."

Each of his words was said in a calm and sensible manner. He had obviously been thinking a long time of some way to get Folken to quit screwing around with him.

Folken, however, did not care to let Dirandau win in any occasion.

"I have never lied to you. Everything I have ever told you is true, in some way or another. You misunderstand a great many things, Dirandau. You always have. That leaves you to become confused easily, and thus, frustrated. It is your own faults that are in the way, not mine.

Folken expected Dirandau to begin ranting, or screaming, or something of that nature. But his next action was perplexingly different.

"Very well," Dirandau replied, that calmness and sensiblity still maintained. Without another word, he started for the door.

"Where are you going?" inquired Folken.

"To my quarters. Where I intend to sit for the rest of the day. Good day, Lord Folken."

"Now you're actually informing me of the fact that you're going off to sulk somewhere? That's highly unusual."

Dirandau stopped where he was and turned around, still calm.

"Folken, you're a cold hearted jackass. I don't know who or what you really are. I don't know what your purposes are in meddling with my affairs. I don't know what you think of me beyond what you add to our useless banter. I don't know why you're always trying to prove me wrong and take things away from me when I've earned them or when you have no right to do so. I don't know why you won't let me go. And, now, with all other possibilities exhausted, I don't know what to do...."

Having reached a standstill in his thoughts, his words trailed off.

"I bid you good day, Lord Folken."

And with that he walked off.

Folken was dumbfounded by that display of civility and rational thinking. His instincts told him that this was some kind of trick, but from all appearances he couldn't say that he trusted those instincts this time. He half-trusted that perhaps Dirandau had grown up a little more in his self-appropriated 'vacation.' The other half of him, however, trusted that this was all just some ploy, knowing full well Dirandau never said anything he meant truthfully.

"What are you planning, Dirandau?" he thought allowed. "What should I expect?"

{{hehe...okay...this is sort of ending in the middle of nowhere.

^_^

I like it that way.

You'll have to excuse my treatment of Gatty in recent fics. It seems I've become well-taken with "Gatty-torture." Needless to say, these next chapters are not going to be happy ones for our overworked young man.

[And some of you happen to know -why- I'm so taken with Gatty-torture lately.]

Next chapter should be fun.

Dilly and the DSlayers are pretty much all together as a group this time, instead of off on restriction or unauthorized status.

I think either in the next chapter or the one after that, I get to my explanation as to why he wears the infamous tiara. ^_^ I'm very silly about the whole thing, so please forgive me.

They are also getting their guymelefs soon [They don't have them yet. Poor little guys without toys.]. And they will actually get to be in a real fight. Yay!

::Pouts at the lack of reviews, and refuses to comment anymore upon it.::}}