Cloner4000: "Report" is another word for the sound a firearm makes. It's kind of uncommon, but as a war story I hoped more people would recognize it. Oops. Still, if it makes you feel better, consider my use of the word a complement to you. :p

And now the voice of the Gallian army, Halsey and Worrick (yes, the grammar is right, they act in unison) comes to inform our heroes of the (bad) news. Oh dear…

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Breakfast was long over, as was lunch. Conversation ebbed and flowed; right now it was in the ebbed position. If she heard about how to properly suture a bullet wound one more time, she was going to have an aneurysm – in fact, she'd even learned that word from him, a blood vessel that had swelled to a dangerously large (and thin) size due to high blood pressure, which she was certainly developing as the conversation had grew more and more strained. Now they were back to silence once again.

Head pillowed on an empty section of bed, Isara stared at the wooden panels of the ceiling, absently tracing the wires and plumbing from their sources from the walls to their logical conclusions at light bulbs and sinks. There were no windows in the room, although a clock on the wall claimed the time to be early afternoon.

She still refused to let him get out of bed – even with copious application of ragnaid, the fact of the matter remained that he had had his ribs and arm broken, whole body bruised all over by punches, kicks and a collapsing building, back slashed by broken glass, and thigh shot through by a handgun. She'd never known anyone else so blind to their injuries – were all Imperials as implacable as he was?

Somehow, she doubted that.

He returned the favor by refusing to let her go anywhere out of earshot; the first time she had tried to sneak out, he'd called her name almost immediately, accusing her of such.

As much as she wanted to leave, though, she only obeyed his orders for one main reason now: the moment she left was the moment that he forced himself out of bed. With the shifty Imperial and Darcsen hating doctor the only other person she could hope to call at this time, she decided it was in her – their – best interest to stick together.

Minutes continued to slip by. He would shift a leg – she would reposition an arm. The silence grew strained – the conversation started anew, this time about military structures. For some reason, even though each of them had personally met each other's officers already, and had even chatted on relatively easy terms, both of them refused to use their names. Welkin and Alicia were referred to as "our lieutenant" and "our sergeant", respectively, while Celes talked about his own superior in the same terms. Surprisingly, she learned that Imperial units, for the most part, only had a single officer above corporal, ranging from a sergeant to a colonel depending on the amount of soldiers under the man's command – specifically a man, for the army strictly enforced the gender barrier. She could see why; she doubted that many women could bear the weight of the heavy Imperial armor on a regular basis, even the stronger ones. A few might, but then there was the problem of fitting the uniforms, which was a crippling problem when it came to metal plating – just like the Gallian army, they simply didn't spare the resources to try, which was quite justified: while armor-woven cloth might stretch a bit awkwardly, metal didn't stretch at all.

It was when they came to the subject of just whether or not a unisex uniform could be made, either of cloth or armor that the bearers of news came in the forms of Halsey and Worrick, trudging into the room like harbingers of doom.

Almost guiltily, Isara removed herself from her comfortable position – leaning against the side of Celes's bed – and scrambled into a pseudo-attention. The movement surprised her by worming out twinges of pain from her joints and muscles; evidently, she wasn't all better. Celes, still bound in bandages, did his best to show his respect by sitting up a little straighter and raising his chin. It was a little thing, yet it obviously cost him a lot of his energy. Yet neither of the regulars showed any sign that they found the sudden change of demeanor strange. The same expression stayed resolutely painted on both of their faces, grim and determined.

Isara's heart fell to somewhere around the vicinity of her knees. "Sir?" she asked, ostensibly directed at Worrick but truly to both of them. Hypotheses began running through her mind, none of them promising.

"Miss Gunther, I am sorry." The sergeant's words were stilted and emotionless, even as he reached for his sidearm at his belt. Before she could protest, it was pointed in Celes's direction in a statement that said everything she needed to know.

Desperately, she flicked her eyes to Halsey, hoping that this wasn't what she thought it was – but his weapon was out as well, pointed in exactly the same direction. "We have our orders straight from Colonel Nicholas himself," the blonde said in a dead voice. "Resisting a member of the Gallian armed forces is not to be tolerated. The Imperial is to be executed at sunrise tomorrow, as an example to those who would dare oppose the might of Gallia's army."

With nowhere left to turn, she glanced behind her at Celes – he had adopted the same blank look as both of his captors. "I understand, sirs," he said with a nod, words hollow, almost mocking. "I assume you will be taking me back to my cell?"

"Yes," affirmed Worrick.

Isara could only stand in despair as she watched the Imperial – her charge, her friend – painfully pull back the sheets and climb out of the bed, each step wobbly and uncertain. Slowly, he raised his arms into a semblance of a surrendering position, moving towards the door at the speed of a crawl.

"Am I to walk back through your camp in this state of dress?" he said wearily.

"Your boots and fatigues are waiting outside," explained the sergeant in the exact same manner. Lowering his weapon – but still keeping it in his hand - he proceeded to lead his prisoner back. Isara opened her mouth to protest, but at that moment Celes looked back, shaking his head in a solemn "No."

Her heart died as she watched him walk out of her life into death.

Halsey had stayed in the room, but unlike his superior had holstered his weapon completely. "I'm sorry it has to be this way," he consoled, emotion starting to recolor his voice.

The Darcsen had nothing but disdain for him. "No. No, you don't."

"Eh?"

"You didn't even try, did you?"

The blonde sighed, and walked over to chair, throwing himself into it. Every movement of his body spoke of resignation. "We pulled every string we could to keep him in prison, but we are at war," he explained. "If Colonel Nicholas gives the order here, there's nothing we can do."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing." He paused. "I'll tell you this, though: enough people were witnesses to Ralf's initial outburst to be sympathetic to your friend." She nodded darkly, not seeing the point. "The stories have spread through the camp like wildfire, and almost every single one of us would be said to watch this man be killed on an officer's whim, anyways."

She nodded, waiting for him to continue. "Most of the regulars really don't like the Colonel, anyways, and plenty of the non-commissioned officers – including us – want a way to get back at commissioned brass," he finished.

"You aren't suggesting – " In an armed camp of trained soldiers?

"Firstly, remember – we can do a little bit, but we can't do anything that risks our lives. We aren't that friendly," he admitted.

"Of course!" she burst out. "Get to the point!"

"Now you tell me something, Corporal Isara Gunther. How heavily do you weigh that identity against your friend's life?"

Briefly she thought of the Edelweiss, of Welkin and Alicia, of Bruhl taken by the Empire. She compared it to the feats Celes had performed for her, the kindness he had shown, the absolute betrayal of his trust as a friend if she did nothing.

There was no contest.

"Not at all," she declared.

Halsey rose to his feet with a glint in his eye, determination giving his steps toward her a solid pace on the floor. "Come with me. I think we can work something out."

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Originally, I had them do a large planning sequence. Then I realize that as the reader, that kills ALL the drama for you guys. It doesn't affect me because I know what's going to happen, but it made the story a lot lamer than it should be.

Yes, this may seem unrealistic, but remember – I'm trying to emphasize that the brass are heavily disliked by most, and that most of the grunts disagree with them. A lot of them have a sense of personal honor