Cloner4000: The main thing I wanted to get across was the "average Joe" – currently, the only antagonists had been racists. This way, we can see just how troublesome their position is.

In other news, I'm considering adding a second theme to the story, although events will still be kept canon. Namely… the survival of Selvaria.

Yeah, there was no good reason for her to die too. Okay, I lied, her sacrifice really did push the Empire over the moral event horizon, but I still feel that the Federation wasn't involved enough.

I suggest this as an underlying plotline for our main protagonist's adventures: the discovery of atomic materials. As in nukes.

Not only could this let Selvaria survive (it wasn't a Valkyria blowing herself up at Girlandio, it was a bomb!), but it would make a great "secret war" to fight. I was sort of thinking of it when I put Rooney into "intelligence", but wasn't sure. There's a scrappy in charge of nuclear materials… oh boy, good fun. :D

Comments on this would be greatly appreciated.

Isara now finds out just what "imprisonment" entails… that sounds inappropriate. :/

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Isara, hands now bound together, found herself being led to a small, obviously prefabricated shack by her three guards – the burly one who still kept a grip on her shoulder, the one with the gun, and the sergeant who had condemned her. The building was in a row with five others, each marked with a roughly painted number on the door. All but one were open and unguarded – Celes, she supposed.

The guard for the entire area was scarily excessive – almost a full dozen men with weapons within arm's reach had been arranged on all sides of the occupied building, although none of them in particular were looking particularly attentive, playing cards, smoking, or otherwise generally shooting the breeze.

The sight of idleness made her sick. The scene looked like something out of one of her own experiences, a day where Squad 7 had learned about their lack of deployment to an operation for the fourth time – or had it been the fifth? Everyone had been at ease, recreation had been scheduled. But seeing this now? So this was what the "glorious army" was considering an "operation".

There came a noticeable change in the men the moment they caught sight of the blonde sergeant, though – weapons magically found their ways into their hands, cards and cigarettes disappeared, and uniforms somehow became straightened, even inspection worthy. One snappy salute later, she had reworked her opinion of them.

Lazy, but competent.

The sergeant returned their salute, and suddenly the scene was restored to its previous state. The rapid change was almost comical.

However, one soldier didn't fall back at ease - a blonde-haired Gallian corporal, only slightly younger than the sergeant, walked professionally towards the sergeant, snapping a second salute. Upon having one returned, though, he fell back at ease, as did the sergeant, fully completing the casual scene.

"Halsey," nodded the sergeant.

"Worrick," the corporal replied. Well, at least she had their names. "Now, we've been trying to get the Imp to talk, per your orders, sir. We've tried to act a bit more, er, loosely than normal, but I don't think he's feeling any easier." Isara blinked in confusion, and opened her mouth to interject, but a small squeeze on her shoulder convinced her to leave it alone for now. "Pity." Halsey sighed. "I was looking forward to delivering some justice on the enemy."

"Halsey, you know how idiotic the brass is," Worrick said resignedly. "Have we ever been deployed in something that was neither a milk run or a slaughter?"

"At least we haven't been in the 'right' place for the second," grumbled the corporal.

"Halsey," the sergeant warned.

He jumped, almost to attention again. "Sorry, sir! But… don't you think it's frustrating to never get a chance to fight properly?" The formality didn't last long as he began waving his hands, clearly incensed. "I mean, damn, the militia's walking all over us – they've got a competent commander, at least when the brass lets her give her own orders. And that Squad 7; damn! They've tromped all over those Imps, getting at all the juicy action! None of these layabout jobs or bloodbaths."

Isara couldn't resist. "Squad 7? We've been through some flak before. Fouzen was… unpleasant." A squeeze clamped down on her shoulder; she ignored it. "If we'd had more support, we could have saved the concentration camps – but I swear, the brass were trying to get us killed on aaaaaccck!" She dropped to one knee into the dirt, her guard pressing down hard enough to bruise.

"That'll be enough, Claud. Get her into a cell… five, if you please." Five; that was the one currently occupied, four. It only made sense to have the prisoners right next to each other – with the buildings being completely enclosed, without as much as a window, there was no way for the prisoners to communicate with each other, and spreading out the guard was more dangerous if either of them tried something, even if that was an unlikely prospect with the heavy bar that could fall across the door to seal it shut.

Absently, Isara thought that it would be easier to try and bust through a wall than that, although there was certainly no way for that to happen either.

Even as Claud and the armed guard led her into the shack, the two officers began talking. What she caught was bare, but it was clear that they were talking about her, and her predicament as a whole. Quickly, the two guards patted her down – professional avoiding lingering gropes, which surprised her – and took away anything that was potentially dangerous, which was to say everything she had, especially the wrenches that she had applied as improvised weapons so many times before. After they took the last fine screwdriver out of its bag, they untied her bounds and gave her a solid push into the building.

And then the door closed, the bar dropped, and she found herself alone.

She had been wrong – the building wasn't completely sealed. The ceiling was shuttered in a corner, opening to the sky for a supply of light and fresh air, with a string – thin, too weak to hang oneself on – to open and close it at will. However, the shutters were solid metal, and her engineering background told her that it was definitely well anchored into the ceiling – popping it out and fleeing was not an option. There was a cot in the corner, propped out on the wood floor – so no tunneling, unless she found a way to hide the noise of breaking through the surface, which was laughably impossible. A step away was a folding chair – mostly cloth, it was impossible to use as a weapon. Finally, there was a bucket, most likely for bodily processes. Interestingly, this seemed to be an object that had not been designed with security in mind. When she toed it curiously, she found it heavy. Add in the two handles on the side, and you had a definite bludgeoning weapon.

She filed that tidbit away for later use. With calm acceptance no longer an option, with Celes's upcoming execution, perhaps it would come in handy.

Pacing the entire shack, she found that it was about four strides square, if she took long ones. She did this a few times, bored, ears filled with the mindless, inane chatter of soldiers talking about the "stupid war", girls back home, opinions on random subjects, none of them relevant. Soldier talk.

Time passed. Her pacing might have worn a trail in the soil, had there not been wood instead. Her mind raced with possibilities. Were they going to talk with Celes again? With her again? How would they try to convince them to "give up information", which she couldn't possibly have? Or would they just ignore her, and take Celes to the firing squad without a word?

An hour later, when chatter floated through the shutter again, she stopped. Sitting on the cot to listen carefully, she perked up her ears – the conversation had just turned relevant.

"… that's likely," came Halsey's voice, dripping with sarcasm.

"I don't believe it either," sighed Worrick. "Under just what circumstances would this Celes-person come into contact with a miltiawoman close enough for her to know his name – and him hers – "

Well, it seemed Celes had let it slip too. She felt a little better about her slip up, before depressingly realizing that it simply made the whole scenario much more damning.

"– and why was he so unwilling to talk at all to save his life?" Worrick finished. "You heard him – he refused that offer of delay of execution point-blank. We'd send him to the military courts back in Randgriz, and most likely they wouldn't kill him – bad for public image. Surely he knew that."

"You weren't really going to give it to him, were you?"

"Yes." Her heart beat anxiously. "That's what the books say, Halsey, you know I'm not that cavalier –"

"Yeah, yeah –"

"I really didn't think that he'd be willing to give up his unit's location – and he so conveniently doesn't have his helmet so we can just get it without asking – but the moment I mentioned a Darcsen girl that beat him over the head with a wrench, just like she said she did, he got real quiet. Wouldn't say a word." A pause – she imagined one was looking at the other funnily. "Well, no, he did start to say 'Isara'," the sergeant admitted.

Well, that had been a poorly timed comment, Celes. Good job.

This was turning out to be a rather informative eavesdropping. Isara wondered if they realized she could hear her. More distressingly, she wondered if the entire conversation was just a farce to draw her out.

"Do you have an opinion about that door through his leg?" Halsey asked.

"… I can't find a logical explanation for it. It seems way too farfetched for a ploy."

"So strange, it must be the truth, eh?"

"… well, it took us all that time to finally chop it off his leg. It almost seems planted."

Silence from Halsey. "The wood was rotten around the hole."

"Awfully convenient," Worrick refuted.

"You're suggesting he decided to get it around his leg on purpose?"

"… still. It doesn't add up."

"What about the rest of his unit? We have any idea about where they are, enough to bluff him out of some information?"

Worrick paused, obviously thinking. "We have that militiaman's report of Imperial activity around that town – Lia, was it? – but then a search found nothing." A pause. "Of course, he did have the dead squadmates to show for it."

"Damn Imps."

"Well, I hate to say it, it seems almost karmic in nature." Isara's heart leapt. So while Worrick might have seemed a heartless measurer of life earlier, he still wasn't a completely thoughtless man.

"How so?"

"He called in artillery on the Imps right before they ambushed him – but from any report, the civilian casualties were immense. Lia was almost wiped off the map. Any scout worth his salt would have stayed his hand." A short, sharp laugh. "Makes me wish the Imps actually got him."

"They did find one helmet, sir."

"One helmet. That was all they found. I don't care what you think, one Imp is not worth a hundred of our people's lives."

Halsey grunted in agreement. "That kind of irrational move makes me wonder if we'll ever be able to meet face to face again. If this war ends – " he corrected himself – "when this war ends, after all their atrocities, how will they ever hope to keep a political image?"

A pause from Worrick. "Hmm. Some idiot will always find a way to make friends with another idiot. It's the way of life. Take a look at us." Isara smiled.

"… was that insulting you or me?"

"Forget it."

After a second pause, Halsey gave his own opinion. "On the same note, think those two are friends or something?"

"If we go with the spy angle – and I'm still not willing to believe that girl's story – then, no, it's definitely just professional standards."

"Heh… think they're lovers?" Halsey offered salaciously.

Isara restrained the urge to deny it, but she flushed anyways. She remembered her little gesture in the tunnel – that light caress. What had she been thinking, anyways? Oh, of course she had just meant it in a brotherly way, like she had used to do with Welkin when they were younger – but she hadn't done that for years, ever since he'd gone to university. And that urge had been so strong, she had just decided to go with it. That scent of sterility and yet of person was so strange, something she'd never experienced before –

"… really, what possibly gave you that idea? Get your mind out of the gutter, Halsey."

"Sir!"

Isara decided that was also a good idea for her.

Silence. "Did you get the report from Private Macarthy yet?" There was an emphasis on private, a derisive tone. Maybe they didn't like him either.

"Yeah, claims the Imperial assaulted him still," Halsey grumbled.

"Assaulted with bandages, ragnaid, and an act of friendship, more like. I mean, I can see him trying to act all nice to make his case better, being on the road to execution, but something is kind of strange – I don't think a spy would be trained in such advanced care."

"Advanced?"

"Well, that instrument the witnesses said he used? I've never even heard of it. Our medic's never heard of it, and not even our surgeon's heard of it. Whatever it is, it did a damned good job – that hand's almost completely cured, and not a single bit of overgrowth to show for it."

"Maybe it's an idiot-proof tool."

"… no, it seemed he knew exactly what he was doing. He knew exactly where the injury was… even after getting punched in the face."

"I'm telling you, we need to court-martial that bastard again." Isara agreed, although the word "again" caught her interest.

"The judges won't let such a patriotic person get out of the army. You know as well as I do they'll keep him in, only taking away his prospects of promotion any time soon – he's been a private since the First War. If he could just keep a lid on that rage of his, he'd be a retired major by now. But alas, we've tried twice already," he added sardonically. "Both cases of brawling, no less."

"Hitting a man who just wanted to help, right after you attacked him for a small comment?" Halsey's voice was comically reasonable, in stark contrast to his words. "Yeah, that's perfectly fine. You bein' nice ta me?" His voice drawled in an imitation of Ralf's rural accent. "Why, that means I gotta punch ya in the face!"

"Hey, maybe he just really doesn't like the empire. He is a First War veteran, after all."

"Explain the brawling with fellow soldiers, then."

"… it's his way of expressing friendship?" Halsey joked.

"No," Worrick interjected flatly.

The banter was familiar to Isara, of soldiers who had trained, lived, and fought together. Perhaps the army wasn't all that different at a basic level. Like Halsey had complained, perhaps it was just stupid brass in the end.

"Back on topic," the sergeant started anew, "we should really talk with her now. This 'Isara'."

"You did start writing that report to the brass, right?"

"Yeah, it'll be done – after we talk, that is."

"… you know, I think she heard us. The vent is open, after all, like you requested, and we are standing right in front of the door."

Silence. "Halsey, you incompetent bastard, why'd you start this conversation?"

"I thought you wouldn't respond."

"You know I always respond."

"Have to have the last word, don't you?"

"Yes."

"See?"

"Just stop."

"Alright."

"You didn't stop."

"I did!"

"Liar."

"Control freak."

"… I'm opening the door now."

He did. The bar scraped open, the door opened wide, and the two Gallian officers were treated to the sight of her clutching her sides, barely restraining a fit of laughter.

No matter what the situation, it was still funny.

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Hopefully, that banter, although unprofessional, gave you an insight into these two characters and their world, as well as the events happening around Isara and Celes. If I forgot any glaring facts, let me know, although remember that they do think that the two of them are spies.

This was really fun to write – hopefully, I can use them as "those two guys" for a while.

Leave a review! Next up, Isara lays down the facts of their situation…