AUTHOR'S NOTES: Time to start building this up towards the explosion that we've been (probably reluctantly) waiting for. I'll warn you: part of this chapter was very difficult to write for me, but necessary to build towards that explosion.

And much like Rooster Teeth, just about the time that the fit hits the shan, I have to put this fic on hiatus for two weeks-I'm going on vacation. All work and no play make Sentinel a dull author...

SACEUR Tactical Headquarters

Near Poznan, Republic of Poland

28 August 2001

Lieutenant Jessica Stroud leaned back against the tree and sighed. It seemed strange to be bored in the middle of a war, but she was. Then again, being the person in command of the western portion of General James Ironwood's security ring at his headquarters wasn't exactly the most interesting job in the US Army. The fighting was still over a hundred miles away, and it was very doubtful that she would see action. Then again, she thought, raising an arm, that might be a good thing. She was wearing a chemical suit, baggy and uncomfortable, especially in summer heat—though at least the latter was now tolerable, with the sun down. Unlike people on the front line, headquarters personnel only had to wear MOPP Level 2—the suit and boots, with their mask and gloves in their carriers.

"Lieutenant? Lights coming down." Stroud nodded and pushed off of the tree. She walked towards the temporary barricade across the dirt road that led into the forest, where SACEUR tactical headquarters was now positioned. As the lights grew closer, one of her sergeants stepped forward, M4 at the ready, and put their hand out. The vehicle slowed and stopped. Stroud was surprised: it wasn't a HMMWV, but a Mercedes SUV of some kind. It was camouflaged and had German Army plates, in any case. Stroud walked forward as the window rolled down. The soldier inside was in full MOPP gear, with a gas mask and gloves on. "Who are you?"

The figure inside reached up and pulled up the mask to their forehead, and Stroud saw that it was another woman, with long black hair, too long for regulations. "Guten abend," the female soldier said. "This is the road to SACEUR Tactical Headquarters, yes?"

"It is," Stroud confirmed, "but unless you have a pass, I can't let you in."

"No pass," the soldier replied. "Documents from my government to General Ironwood." She put her hands up and slowly reached to the passenger seat, as Stroud rested one hand on her pistol. The soldier then handed her a thick manila envelope. It was sealed and had official looking marks on it. Stroud stepped back, pulled out her flashlight, and shined it on the envelope. The light went through it: there were documents, and what looked to be some sort of small, oblong object. "We'll have to open this," Stroud told the soldier.

"Naturlich," the soldier replied. She then produced a piece of paper. "Please to sign for it, ma'am."

"Sure." Stroud flipped through the paper without looking and signed the bottom of three pages. "By the way, we're at MOPP Level 2, not Level 4. And I didn't know that any German units were in Poland."

The soldier shrugged. "I am just a courier. They tell me nothing, Lieutenant. They tell us there is gas here, so we go to MOPP 4."

Stroud chuckled. "I hear you." She looked a bit closer at the woman. Her face looked a little strange, but it was dark. "Didn't know the German Army allowed girls to grow their hair long."

Another shrug. "I am a reservist, yes? Called up two days ago."

That made sense. "Very well. Thanks—I'll make sure this gets to the general."

"Danke schon." The soldier pulled her mask back down, saluted, and drove off. Stroud watched the Mercedes go, tapped the envelope against her hand, then walked back to the barricade.

German Armed Forces Hospital

Berlin, Federal Republic of Germany

28 August 2001

Colonel Winter Schnee stepped out of another Mercedes SUV and walked towards the front entrance of the hospital. There were four guards at the front entrance, all in full battle gear, their assault rifles at the ready. They snapped to attention and saluted as Winter stopped. She returned the salute crisply. "Colonel Schnee, here to see Fria Gletscher," she said. "This is Doctor Richard Ampere. He is an oncologist from the Imperial College School of Medicine." She nodded to a tall doctor with a trimmed, thin mustache and a thick briefcase.

"Certainly, Colonel. Doctor, we'll need to search you."

"Of course," Ampere said, put down his briefcase, and held out his arms. One of the guards ran a metal dectector up and over his limbs, which returned nothing. Another opened his briefcase, flipped through the medical reports within, checked the laptop inside, and closed it.

"Colonel Schnee, your sidearm." The first guard held out his hand. "I'm afraid you'll have to surrender it, ma'am."

"I will not," Winter snapped. "I am an officer of the Luftwaffe and I will not surrender my sidearm. You may call General Ironwood, if you wish."

"Not necessary," the soldier replied. He came to attention and saluted. "Colonel Schnee, you may proceed."

"Thank you," she said icily, returned the salute, and walked into the hospital, Ampere trailing behind. There was another security checkpoint at the elevator, which they passed, and then they went into the elevator, where Winter pressed the button for the eighth floor. Once the doors closed, she stepped back and stumbled. Ampere reached out to catch her, but Winter recovered. "Are you all right?" he said quietly.

"Fine," Winter growled. She pointed to the boots. "It's the lifts. It's hard to walk."

"I suppose it is rather difficult for you, considering you're five feet and Winter Schnee is nine inches taller." Ampere smirked.

Winter gave him a nasty look. "And you couldn't shave off the mustache entirely. I'm standing here wearing a wig, contact lenses, and seven-inch lifts, and you just give yourself a trim."

"Neo, my dear," Arthur Watts said, "it takes a long time to grow a mustache such as mine. Besides, it gives me just that upper-crust, typically British Imperial College look, don't you think?"

The elevator opened before Neo could retort, and she immediately wiped her face clean of any expression, assuming the faintly disgusted look that she was certain characterized Winter Schnee. They passed through another checkpoint, and Neo noticed that there was a guard there with lint on his tunic. She reached forward, pulled off the lint and tossed it aside, and clicked her tongue to shame the soldier—which was something Neo thought Winter would do. Neo Politan believed in becoming her mark, and even if her gait was somewhat awkward in the high lifts, she strode rather than walked, her eyes flicking around at details, her hands folded behind her back. Before leaving Heringsdorf, after donning her disguise, Neo had studied every bit of footage of Winter Schnee she could find, plus what she remembered from the Schnee summer home at Zagan. Her impression was that Winter was an officious, overly disciplined martinet, albeit one who might actually care about her people deep down, certainly moreso than her father.

Finally, they reached the fourth and last checkpoint. It had been a guess by Watts, but a correct one: according to the map of the hospital he had hacked, this was the only secure floor. It made sense that someone as frail as Fria Gletscher would be there. They had watched the interview with the Winter Maiden bearer, which had aired on television that evening; it had not been a long one, just long enough for Fria to give some background on the Maidens. It was obvious to everyone that this was an old woman who was not well, and many times she had broken off her interview to cough loudly; Fria had admitted that she had advanced lung cancer. Watts had noticed the large black bracelet on her wrist, the same that Amber Tardor had worn and Cinder Fall had brought back, nearly at the cost of her life.

The guards searched both of them again, and this time Winter—Neo—was forced to give up her sidearm. She did not argue. They were then allowed into the hospital room, which was dark. "She's sleeping," one of the guards explained.

"I understand. We won't be long." The guard nodded and closed the door behind them. It left the room only barely lit by the machines hooked up to the sleeping form of Fria Gletscher; even the blinds on the door were closed. It took a moment, especially with the contact lenses she was wearing, for Neo to adjust to the darkness.

Watts set his briefcase down, pulled out his laptop, and logged in as Neo waited. Fria stirred once or twice, but other than that, the machines recorded her heart rate and blood pressure as normal, if a little elevated. He plugged in a cord, then walked over to the small cabinet that sat next to the bed and plugged in the other half of the cord to the diagnostic machine. After typing in a few commands to his laptop, he walked over to Neo and pretended to bend over the patient, as Neo was doing. "You said you could make this quick," he whispered, almost below where she could hear him. Watts hated to admit it, but this was making him nervous. Not the murder of an old woman, but something he couldn't put his finger on.

Neo said nothing, but knelt for a moment and pulled a plastic, razor-sharp knife from the inner lining of her boot. She kept her back to the camera that was perched in one corner of the room, so it appeared she was merely tying her bootlaces. Then she straightened, and carefully turned Fria over. "Miss Gletscher?" Neo raised her voice. "I'm very sorry to wake you, but I've brought Doctor Ampere to examine you, from Britain." She positioned the knife between her fingers. It would go in behind Fria's ear, killing the old woman almost instantly. Watts' laptop kept the diagnostic machine in a loop; with any luck, it would be morning before anyone discovered that Fria was dead.

It was at that moment that Neo realized she was looking into a mirror—or rather, the same face she was wearing. She froze for a second, as the assassin realized that it wasn't Fria Gletscher staring back at her, but Winter Schnee herself.

The pistol barked a second later, and only Neo's reflexes—and her lifts—saved her. She threw herself backwards when she saw something bulge out of the covers, slipped in the unfamiliar shoes, and crashed onto her rear end; the .45 bullet missed her head by only inches as Winter fired through the covers. Watts, stunned, stumbled backwards, but managed to keep his footing.

Winter threw back the covers as the door burst open, flooding the room with light. Her hair was pinned up to resemble Fria's, and she wore a hospital smock—though Watts noticed, as he shrank back against a row of cabinets, that Winter wore body armor and her uniform pants under the smock. As she got to her feet, she kept the .45 trained on Neo with one hand as she pulled off the various medical equipment and blood pressure cuff with the other; what they had assumed was an IV was just taped onto her arm. "Don't," she snarled at Neo. "That shot was meant to kill you, but since you didn't cooperate, I suppose we'll have to take you alive."

"Arthur Watts." Watts turned to the door as James Ironwood stepped through. "I admit I was somewhat surprised when you showed up with Neo Politan; we were expecting Cinder Fall." He also had a .45, and it was pointed at Watts, who saw that both holsters were empty; apparently, the general had given the other to Winter. "And I must admit, Miss Politan, that you have quite the disguise. You've even got Winter's mannerisms down."

"I'm not sure if I should be insulted or not, sir." Winter kept her pistol trained on Neo, who remained on the floor, her hands raised. The assassin spared Watts a rueful look.

"Well, then, Dr. Watts," Ironwood said, motioning one of the guards forward, "should we call it a day? You have an appointment with a certain person from the Central Intelligence Agency in your very near future."

Watts, despite himself, blanched. "I know who you're talking about, James," he said. "And she'll torture me. So much for the moral high ground. What makes Arashikaze different from Salem, eh?"

"She's shorter and has better skin?" Ironwood laughed. "Ask me if I care, Arthur, since we're on first name basis now." He nodded. "Cuff him."

The guard acknowledged and moved forward, blocking Ironwood for a second. Watts suddenly lunged for his briefcase, snapped it shut, then turned and thumbed back a hidden trigger in the handle. A hole appeared in the leather lining as the MP5K hidden inside the case erupted. The guard flew backwards, bleeding, though his body armor saved his life; Watts then stepped forward and swept the briefcase across the entrance. The guards dived under cover, along with Ironwood, but not before one bullet went through the general's left bicep. He gritted his teeth in pain as he was pulled back behind the corner. Watts then whirled to kill Winter, but she had thrown herself backwards behind the bed. "Neo, go!" he shouted.

"Go where, idiot?" Neo made no move to get off the floor. "They'll gun me down before I get three steps."

Watts triggered another burst from the briefcase. "I'll cover you!"

"You stupid ass!" she shouted. "They want you alive! They're waiting until you run out of ammo!"

In frustration, Watts continued firing the briefcase, shattering the windows and holing the wall around the door, until the submachinegun clicked on an empty chamber. It was only intended as a surprise, enough of a shock to clear a path; there was no way to reload it. Watts dropped the case and adjusted his suit, waiting for the shot that would end his life. No shot came, and the doctor, with an icy ball of fear in his stomach, realized Neo had been correct: they indeed wanted him alive, to be handed over to Rissa Arashikaze's tender mercies.

Four guards came through the door now, shoving Watts up against the wall; one smashed a fist into Watts' face. Winter reappeared as Neo, pulling off the boots, got to her feet; Winter did not get any closer. She fixed Neo with a murderous glare. "Strip to your underwear. I don't know how many hidden weapons you have."

Neo grinned back. "Oh, quite a few. What if I'm not wearing any underwear? I wasn't sure if Winter Schnee went commando."

Winter didn't take the bait. "Then strip naked." She took one step forward, careful to stay out of Neo's reach. "Now do it. We want Watts alive, but you're just extra." Neo gave an elaborate sigh and began removing the uniform.

Poznan-Krezsiny Airbase

Poznan, Republic of Poland

28 August 2001

Clover Ebi walked into the small lounge area at one end of the officers' quarters. It wasn't much—just a few lounge chairs, a pool table, and a piano that amazingly had not been badly damaged or burned yet. There was also a sideboard where an enlisted orderly would come by every night, keeping pastries and hot coffee or tea fresh for any night owl pilots. It was just after eleven, and most of the 77th Tactical Fighter Squadron, and Ace Flight, were taking advantage of the sudden ceasefire to catch up on sleep. Clover poured himself a cup of coffee and went to go sit down, lost in thought. As a result, he didn't notice Pyrrha Nikos, who was curled up on one of the lounge chairs, reading; she hadn't noticed him come in. They noticed each other at the same time. "Oh," Pyrrha said. "Hello."

"Uh, hi." Clover took a seat across from her. "Pyrrha…about last night. Sorry I brushed you off like that. I was just worried about the general." He sipped his coffee. "He's never acted like that."

"It's all right," she reassured him, though it wasn't. The reason why she was in the lounge rather than in bed was because her mind had kept replaying that scene.

"And I had a little talk with Harriet. There's no excuse for what she said to you. I told her the next time she lips off to anyone, she's going to be kicked out of Ace Flight. Harriet's a hell of a pilot, but she's got a mouth that wants closing."

"Thank you," Pyrrha replied. That was actually a load off her mind, at least—and better than what might await Harriet Bree in the near future without that warning. When the meeting had broken up the night before, Yang had been rather sinisterly talking about hosting a sock party, where Harriet would be held down and ruthlessly beaten with weighted socks. That sort of barrack room justice was punishable by court martial, but Harriet's unpopularity might result in suddenly everyone on base pretending not to notice.

It was silent in the room for a moment. "So…what are you reading?" Clover asked.

"Oh." Pyrrha held up the book.

"Ninjas of Love?" Clover's eyebrows raised.

Pyrrha smiled and set it aside. "It's trash, actually. Pornography thinly disguised as a romance novel. It's Blake Belladonna's; I borrowed it just to see if it's as bad as everyone says."

"And is it?"

"Most definitely." She laughed. "Still, it's entertaining, in a sort of train wreck fashion."

It was silent again, as both didn't trust themselves to speak. Neither wanted to be the one to say what they were actually thinking. Finally, Pyrrha could stand it no longer. Clover was looking at everything but her, drinking his coffee. "We should talk, Clover. About us."

Clover set aside the coffee. "Pyrrha, I don't think now is a good time."

"When will be?" She leaned forward. "Clover, I'm sure you've heard the rumors by now. I was close with Jaune Arc back at Beacon."

He nodded reluctantly. "Yes, I heard. I don't remember who from."

Pyrrha chuckled at that; Clover wasn't going to admit that it was probably either Yang or Nora. She looked around; they were alone, but she dropped her voice all the same. "We were more than close. We were lovers."

Clover looked uncomfortable. "Pyrrha, it's none of my business."

"It isn't, but you should know." She stared at the floor. "Clover, I waited too long to tell my feelings to Jaune. We had one night. That was all. He was killed almost immediately thereafter. It…I was very torn up over it. I even attempted suicide." Her hands twisted together. "It took me a long time to accept that Jaune is dead, and I will never see him again in this life. And that it's all right for me to…see…well, other people." She suddenly got up and knelt in front of him, taking his hands into hers. "Clover, I know perhaps I'm moving too fast. And perhaps you're not used to the woman making the first move. And that, while we have enjoyed each other's company, this is not perhaps something you wish to do. And yet, I don't want to wait any longer."

Clover stared down at her. "Pyrrha, I do enjoy your company, but I think you're making a big mistake. I'm not the guy you want me to be."

She leaned back on her heels. "I don't understand."

He looked away. "It's…complicated. Something I don't want to talk about."

Pyrrha was confused. "Am I…unattractive?"

"No!" Clover put up his hands defensively. "God, no. You're beautiful. Probably one of the most beautiful women I've ever met. I just don't…I don't think what you're thinking is a good idea."

"Because of your girlfriend back in Okinawa? She left you!"

"She…" Clover's voice trailed off, and she saw pain in his eyes. "It's…it's not…"

Pyrrha saw that he was wavering, unsure of what to do next. It reminded her of Jaune, and how he had been so reluctant to admit that he was attracted to her, and she had been equally shy. That had resulted in that one magical night, but just one, a thought that stabbed at her every night over the missed opportunity.

And Pyrrha Nikos was tired of missed opportunities.

She lunged forward, grabbing Clover by the shoulders, and bringing her lips to his. He resisted at first, taken by surprise, and then relaxed, his hands coming up to her shoulders. Their lips parted, and they jumped at the touch of the other's tongue. Pyrrha felt the heat flare inside her and broke away. "I want you," she whispered huskily.

"I…I can't…" Clover stammered.

She kissed him again, pushing her body into his, nearly overbalancing the lounge chair. "You can. I want you to. I'm tired of being alone, Clover." She licked at his lips, hungrily.

Clover pushed her away—not ungently, but firmly, and stood. "I can't, Pyrrha. I won't."

"But why?" she demanded, tears in her eyes, not caring if anyone heard. "My God, why not?"

He looked down at her, his lips trembling, then opened his mouth—then closed it again, and covered his eyes. "Pyrrha…I…" He took a deep breath and stepped away from her. "Because I was ordered to get close to you, all right? That's all. I was ordered to."

Pyrrha's mouth dropped open. "You…what?"

"I was ordered to keep an eye on you. Because of what happened after Beacon. You were…shit, Pyrrha, I don't want to tell you this!" Clover took another step back.

She got to her feet, fists balled. "Tell me, Clover!"

"I read your file, all right? I read the files on everyone in Ruby, Norn, and Reaper Flights. I was ordered to. I know about Jaune. I know what happened between you two. And I wished I'd never read that." Clover grabbed his coffee and started walking away.

"Stop!" Pyrrha shouted. "Don't you leave—"

"I have to!" Clover yelled. "Because I'll be damned if I ma—have sex with you to fulfill some sort of fucking order. I'm not going to lie to you any longer. God, I never should've to begin with."

Pyrrha glared at him. "Then it was all a lie."

Clover couldn't meet her eyes. "Yes," he said finally.

"You fucking piece of shit," she snarled. "Who ordered it? Who?"

"I can't tell you." Clover put the cup in the sink. "But I'll tell them I failed."

"You do that." She searched for a weapon and found one, then hurled Ninjas of Love at him. Clover easily dodged it; it was a clumsy throw. "Get out of here. Never speak to me again, unless it's related to operations. You unbelievable bastard. I hope you burn in hell."

Clover nodded. "I probably will." He turned his back on her and walked away.

Pyrrha stood in the lounge for quite awhile. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. Finally, she walked calmly over to where the book had fallen, picked it up, dusted it off, and pulled out her cell phone, dialing with one hand. "Yang? Ah, good, you're awake. I can't sleep either. Want to go work out?" She paused, and smiled. There was no humor in it. "Oh, no. I'm fine." Pyrrha looked towards the hallway where Clover had gone. "I'm perfectly fine."

SACEUR Tactical Headquarters

Near Poznan, Republic of Poland

29 August 2001

It was after midnight by the time Ironwood got back to his tactical headquarters near Poznan. His arm ached, but he had refused any painkillers stronger than ibuprofen; Ironwood wanted his head clear. He sat down slowly behind his desk, wincing at the tendrils of pain making their way up his shoulder. His arm was in a sling, his upper arm heavily bandaged. He had been lucky, Ironwood reflected: Watts' bullet had passed cleanly through the bicep, missing bone and any major blood vessels. He would not be able to use his arm effectively for awhile, but at least it should heal well; his right arm was still misshapen from the wound he'd taken in Norway with Ozpin. Doctors had told him he should get it operated on at some point, but Ironwood was used to his right arm now. Running out of limbs here, he smiled. I'm going to be a cyborg at this rate.

Still, he thought, despite getting shot by a renegade scientist—which was embarrassing enough that Ironwood considered turning down the Purple Heart for the wound—the night had gone well. Arthur Watts and Neo Politan were headed for prison, though not in Berlin; he was moving them to a much smaller one not far away from Poznan. As much as he liked the historical reference of putting them both in Spandau, the Germans were understandably reluctant to be associated with torturing prisoners. The small camp Ironwood had in mind would be far enough away from civilization that no one would know, much less mind, whatever Arashikaze had in store for Watts. Ironwood hoped it wasn't pleasant; he'd tighten the thumbscrews or put the scientist in the ropes himself, after what Watts was responsible for at Beacon. He doubted Neo had much in the way of militarily useful information, and wondered if Arashikaze wouldn't just simply shoot the diminutive assassin out of hand and toss her body in the ocean somewhere. It would be no real loss to the world, he decided.

"Sir?" His aide stepped into the tent. "Is there anything I get for you, General? Something to eat, maybe?"

Ironwood hesitated, then nodded. "As a matter of fact, Major, I would love something to eat. And a Coke, I think." He raised his sling, then grimaced. "Don't think I want to chase my meds with liquor, though." The major nodded. "Has Colonel Schnee reported in yet?"

"Not yet, sir. The convoy was still at the border. Should be processed through at any time—the Germans are just a little reluctant to let anything across the border before the Bundestag makes its final decision on Salem's offer, sir." The major pointed at his desk. "Speaking of the Germans, sir, that came for you—the manila envelope, sir. We checked it out—official correspondence from the Bundeswehr; came by special courier while you were at the hospital."

"Right. Thanks, Major." Ironwood reached forward and pulled the envelope closer.

"I'll get the grub, sir." The major left the tent.

Ironwood paused before he opened the envelope, reminding himself that he had won only a minor victory tonight in taking Watts alive and eliminating two more of Salem's minions. That left only Cinder Fall at large, and she was alone; he expected that she would either fly back to her mistress, or find a deep hole and hide. Nonetheless, Salem still held the upper hand, with governments seriously considering her peace offer. Ironwood didn't: aerial reconnaissance showed GRIMM moving up to the FEBA as Salem replaced her losses. He couldn't be sure how far back her forces went, either, as he didn't want to jeopardize the ceasefire. Whatever Salem's reasons for it, the ceasefire was helping him as much as her.

"Enough," he told himself. With any luck, the correspondence would be something along the lines of the Bundeswehr moving troops forward into Poland quietly, while the politicians talked away. He pulled the sheets of paper from the envelope and began to skim them; he would read it more thoroughly over his midnight snack.

Ironwood's eyes narrowed. What was written on the paper made no sense. It was a report on troop strengths of the Bundeswehr, obviously taken from what was available on the internet and printed out. He flipped through the paper in confusion, and stopped on the fourth page. The article ended, but there were three more pages to go—all of them reading All work and no play make James a dull boy. A chill went up his spine at that, despite himself. "Watts, you're really something," he growled. "This has got to be you." He tossed the papers onto his desk. Watts was just petty enough to send him this, in an effort to get under his skin. If Arashikaze waterboards that son of a bitch, I'll hold him down. Then he noticed something else in the envelope. With his good arm, he reached in, felt around, and pulled it out. Ironwood stared at it for a moment.

It was a chess piece: the black queen.

"That…son of…motherfucker!" He slammed the piece down onto his desk, then smashed his right hand down on the papers. "Major!" he shouted.

The major quickly walked into the tent and came to attention. "Sir? What is it, sir?"

"I want the 77th here, right now. The same with Ace Flight. I want them in this tent in less than half an hour. Am I understood, Major?"

"Yes, sir! Right away, sir!" The major turned and fled out of the tent as Ironwood smashed a fist into the desk again.