AUTHOR'S NOTES: A long chapter this time. We finally find out the "did they or didn't they" answer with Blake and Yang, get to the planning of Operation Vengeance, and then things get spooky...and I don't refer to the AC-130. Not yet, anyway.

Caesars' Palace

Las Vegas, Nevada, United States of Canada

25 April 2002

Yang opened the door to Blake's room and stopped short. "Oh."

Blake turned away from where she sat at the sink. "Hi, Yang. Any problem getting the clothes?"

"Uh, no. Emerald took care of it. We just hit like three thrift stores and got what we needed."

"Good. I'm glad she thought of that. My civvies would've stood out like a sore thumb." Blake went back to trimming her hair. Abruptly they had all realized that Ruby Flight's civilian clothes were relatively new, base exchange clothes bought on officer's salaries: in other words, they were relatively trendy, and not what someone desperate for work would wear. Emerald had suggested visiting the thrift stores on the edge of the Strip to find less conspicious clothes. "I never thought of myself as bourgeois, but I guess I totally am…" Blake's voice trailed off as Yang continued to stare at her. "Is there a big spider on my back or something?"

"Huh?" Yang shook herself and laughed. "Heh, no. I would've screamed like a little girl. I hate spiders." She went into the spacious bathroom and set Blake's clothes down on the side of the tub. "I didn't know what you'd like, so I got three pairs. Guess I need to start shopping at stores like that—got all three of these outfits for what I'd pay for one at the BX."

"The people that used to wear those are probably dead," Blake remarked, then saw Yang sit down heavily on the toilet. "Sorry, that was morbid." Yang bent over and rested her head in her hands. "What? Is it my hair?" Blake looked in the mirror. She had cut off her hair to just above shoulder-length, from the longer hair she had worn to her shoulder blades. Blake gave it a quick touch-up. "It's not perfect, but I didn't want to risk using a barber. It might look too good then." She sniffed at the pile of hair on a towel she had spread on the floor. "I hated to lose that, but hell…it was out of regs anyway. My CO's been telling me I needed to get it cut. Funny how being able to grow your hair longer than regulation was one of the perks of being a Huntress." She glanced at Yang, who hadn't moved from her position on the toilet. "I don't know how you get away with that mane of yours." Still no response. "Yang?"

Yang was silent for another minute, then sighed. "I remembered what we did last night. Amazing what Weiss' coffee and a little fresh air can do." A pause. "Actually, I remembered this morning, mostly. I just wasn't completely sure."

Blake paused for a moment herself, then picked up a comb and started getting the loose strands out of her hair. She had deliberately not washed it. "So…what did we do? Because I still don't remember."

"You drank more than I did." Yang leaned back against the toilet. "And…that's pretty much it. We just got drunk, laughed a lot, did stupid shit, and passed out."

"I see," Blake replied. "So why were our clothes strewn on the floor from the door to the bed, and why did I wake up naked next to you?"

Yang turned away from her. "We did make out…kind of."

She went silent again, and Blake started combing her hair once more. "And that's all?"

"No. You said that you were going to fuck me, poured booze all over yourself, and then you kind of just smiled like an idiot and fell on the bed. I noticed you were passed out, so I watched you for a bit to make sure you didn't barf on yourself like Ruby, and went to bed. I wasn't feeling any pain either."

Blake set down the comb. "Yeah, the scotch…I figured that's what I did. I did that with Adam once, except it was champagne." It surprised her that she could talk about her murderous ex-lover without stumbling over his name. "Great. So I really am a three-bottle bisexual. Adam used to accuse me of that, when he was being an asshole. No wonder Ilia thought she had a chance."

"I don't know if you are or not," Yang admitted. "The thing is…" She looked at the ceiling; Blake noticed that Yang was having trouble looking at her. "The thing is, you were going to pity fuck me. You basically said that. You said 'You need to be loved,' and that's when we started kissing and playing tongue hockey. You're good at that, by the way."

"So I've been told." Blake regarded her reflection in the mirror, then stared at Yang. She leaned back and shut the door to the bathroom, though the bedroom door was already closed, and returned to regarding her friend. "Yang, could you stand up?"

"Uh, sure." Yang did as she was asked. "What—"

"Don't say anything, please," Blake requested, and turned in her chair. With her eyes, she started at Yang's wild mass of blond hair, to the beautiful face and the expressive lilac eyes; right now they looked very unsure. Next she traveled down to Yang's body—Yang was dressed, of course, in a striped blouse, denim jeans, and her flight boots. Blake almost asked Yang to strip, but decided her imagination was enough. Blake had seen Yang naked enough times to know what lay beneath: the large breasts, flat stomach, the muscular legs, big feet that Yang was a bit ashamed of, the mass of blond curls between her legs. The metal arm did not take away from Yang's beauty; in some odd fashion, it enhanced it, made her more human rather than less.

Then she closed her eyes and let out a long breath. It wasn't there. The desire just was not there, despite Blake finding that she wanted it to be there. All she could see was a friend—a best friend, to be sure, the best friend Blake had ever had…but not a lover. Are you sure? Blake asked herself. You were willing to have sex with her last night. Yang wouldn't lie about that. And you thought about it while at sea, what it would be like. You even thought about asking Terri about it, if she'd ever thought about sleeping with another woman. I love Yang, but do I love her as my best friend, like the sister I never had but always wanted…or do I want more than that too? I don't desire her sexually, but as my dad likes to say, in vino veritas—in wine there is truth. Maybe last night was how I really felt…or was it? Ruby hugged Weiss when both of them were naked, but I know those two aren't remotely lovers. Ruby was drunk, as bad as I was, but she doesn't love Weiss. I mean, yes, like a sister…but not like me and Yang. If I'm even remotely not like a sister now. Dammit!

Finally, Blake just said, "I don't know what to do."

Yang bent down and kissed Blake between her ears, which flicked when the other woman's hair touched them. "I do." She sat back down on the toilet. "Blake, I'm glad nothing happened last night. I wanted it to—fuck, like you wouldn't believe." She pointed to her groin. "I was wetter than a Cape Hatteras hurricane down here last night."

Blake smothered a laugh with her hand. Leave it to Yang to say something funny. "Did you…take care of business while I was asleep?"

Yang shook her head. "Nah. I was out like a damn light myself. A B-52 strike wouldn't have woke me up. Had some pretty nice dreams, though." She reached over and took Blake's hands in hers. "But seriously…if we had fucked, then it would've been because you were drunk and so was I. Besides the fact that we probably wouldn't have gotten to the fun part without passing out, or worse, one of us upchucking, it wouldn't have meant anything." Yang forced herself to look at Blake's face, into her golden eyes. She wasn't sure about the short hair look, but it did frame the Faunus girl's face nicely. "I said back in Banska that I didn't want a pity fuck, and I meant it. Last night…I would've taken it. I saw it in your somewhat bloodshot eyes that was what you wanted to do to me. And me, half-blasted like I was, was totally okay with that. I kept thinking that I was going to get to finally fuck you.

"And that's why I'm glad, Blake," Yang said sincerely, her eyes shining with tears. "Blake, not gonna lie. I want to make love to you. Just you. I had the opportunity to bang Coco, and I couldn't, because I didn't really want her. It was kind of shitty of me to do that, and Coco was right to call my ass out on it. I just wanted to fuck her…or thought I did." She shook her head. "I want to make love to you. I've never made love to anyone. Fucked them, yes. Like a bitch in heat sometimes. But I've never made love." Her lips quirked into a sad smile. "When I was 14, Dad gave me the talk. Mom wasn't around, of course, and there really weren't any other women around that could. I mean, the school nurse had to show me how to use a tampon…" Yang waved her hands, realizing she was starting to babble. "Anyway, Dad did his best with me and Ruby. He told me that someday I'd find a guy that I really, really liked and I'd have sex with them…but that there was a big difference between fucking and making love. First time I ever heard Dad use that word when he wasn't watching football. He said I'd know the difference too, and he was right." Yang let go of Blake's hands. "Last night would've been fucking, Blake. And I don't want that. Neither do you."

Blake leaned over and gently kissed Yang's cheek. "Then I'm glad nothing happened either." She pulled back. "Yang, I've told you several times. I don't know if I can be that to you—despite what Johnny Walker may have been saying last night. Hell, maybe losing all my inhibitions really was what I wanted—"

"Or maybe you drank until your judgement was so shot that fucking me made sense," Yang pointed out.

"True. But…I want that too. If it ever happens between us, I want it to be right." Blake looked at her feet. "I don't know if it will. I just don't. I just don't know if I'm capable."

"Is it because you got burned with Adam?"

Blake shook her head. "Not at all. I did a lot of thinking about him while standing watch on the boat too. I realized that we did actually love each other, Adam and I, but he changed and I didn't. If we'd walked away from the White Fang, left all that bullshit behind us, I would've married him and had his babies, and counted myself lucky. But Adam wanted the revolution more than he wanted me, and when I left, he just wanted me back so he could tell me he was right all along. It wasn't getting me back because Adam loved me—it was getting me back so he could win the argument."

"I didn't know the guy," Yang said, holding up her metal hand. "Thank God. I think that was who he was, though. I don't think he ever cared about Faunus rights. I think he just wanted to be the guy who was always right, about everything."

"Faunus rights was always the excuse for Adam. Sienna was sincere about it, though she got blinded by ambition. Dad and Mom are sincere about it. Ilia is. Hell, I am—or I hope so, though these days I think I'm a Marine first and a Faunus second." Blake let out an ironic laugh. "Gunny Frisby should be happy about that. But Adam? I think even if we had won, even if we did end up ruling the humans, he would've kept killing. He got addicted to it…even if he wasn't like that at first." Blake touched Yang's metal hand. "He was once a good man, Yang. Once. I miss that Adam. I don't miss what he became."

Yang got up. "Maybe he was always like that, Blake. He just got good at hiding it." She put her arms on Blake's shoulders. "I wish you weren't doing this tonight. I don't trust Emerald. She turned on Salem, she can turn on us."

"You trusted me, Yang, and I've done things just as bad as Emerald has. Or at least close to them."

"I suppose." Yang looked down at her friend. "Can I kiss you? That okay? Y'know…just in case? I'd hate the last time we kissed be when you were crosseyed and three seconds from passing out."

"Sure." Blake closed her eyes and offered her lips. Yang kissed her. Blake half-expected Yang to maybe go further, like they had the night before, but she didn't. It was a chaste kiss, but a loving one, both filled with hope and sorrow at the same time. They parted. "Not bad."

"Yeah. I'll save the tongue for later." Yang winked. "Can't spoil you."

Blake snickered. "Get out of here, dork."

Once Blake and Emerald were dressed, it was a quick cab ride to McCarran. Everyone dressed in casual clothes, in case Fifestone was watching the hotel. When they arrived at the US military side of the field, everyone but Blake and Emerald changed into flight suits; Blake felt left out, like everyone else was going to a party but she was stuck at home.

Wilkerson convened the briefing in the hangar—there was no other room for all thirteen of them. They all gathered around a table made of a sheet of plywood over two wooden benches. Wilkerson introduced Ruby and Prince Flight—Pyrrha glared at Nora, who didn't mention prunes—just mentioned Raven by her first name, and then turned to the new faces around the table. "Major Nikos, I take it you'll be in command of this operation?"

Pyrrha nodded. "The air portion, of course. I'll leave the ground battle to the experts."

"That's me, then." The man who spoke looked like someone off a Marine recruiting poster, despite being shorter than all but Ruby and Weiss: a tough-looking fireplug of a man with hair so closely-cropped that he was almost bald, a thick mustache, and a pugnacious expression that Blake wasn't sure was genuine or not. "Captain Wendell Metzger. Call me Joe." He did not put out a hand, but continued to stand at parade rest. "I'll be commanding my Marine rifle company."

Wilkerson nodded. "What do you bring to the table, Joe?"

"Three rifle platoons, one mortar section with a 60 millimeter mortar, one antitank section with Javelins, one medium machine gun section with a 240 Bravo." The answers were rapped out in quick succession.

"That should be enough." Wilkerson motioned to Nora and another woman, an attractive brunette who was cracking open a soda. "You'll have CAS, Joe. This is Lieutenant Valkyrie and Captain Shamir. Valkyrie will have an A-10 on station, and Shamir's got Spooky 21."

Yang laughed. "So you did get an AC-130!"

"Oh, I got more than that." Wilkerson pointed to an older man with frizzy hair, who Blake thought bore a strong resemblance to Weird Al Yankovic. Apparently someone else had thought so as well. "This is Weirdo Padgett."

"Weirdo?" Metzger asked disbelievingly.

"Oh, it's not just because I look like Weird Al. I've had that name since I was at the University of Florida," Padgett replied. "I think I got it after I used dry ice to turn the dorm hallway into a skating rink. Or it might've been when we hijacked the TV signal in Chicago that time." He did put out a hand and shook hands with those nearest him. "I've got the Compass Call. That's an EC-130 for you jarheads." Blake snorted in laughter, but Metzger only looked like he wanted to throw Padgett into a propeller. "We'll be providing standoff jamming. Whoever those people are at Area 51, we'll keep them off the air."

"Finally, we've got the boys from Tucson over here." Wilkerson gave a nod to four pilots, each wearing a patch with the Arizona state flag on it; two men and two women. "This is Captain Milosevic—no relation to the other Milosevic—Lieutenant Wang, Dunn, and Jaka. Lancer Flight."

"Cool," Yang remarked.

"Major Nikos, I'll turn the briefing over to you." Wilkerson stepped back.

"Thank you, sir." Pyrrha went to the table and pulled back the sheet that covered it. The map had been hastily drawn on a piece of butcher paper Yang had found at the thrift store, but it was accurate enough. Riana's photos were attached to it at certain spots; amazingly, most had turned out, even if the email had tended to rob the pictures of some of their clarity. "As you know already, this operation is aimed at Groom Lake—Area 51, as it used to be called. Before the Third World War, both the US Air Force and the CIA used it to test secret aircraft projects like the U-2 and SR-71."

"And keep the aliens there," Padgett put in.

"We'll be sure to let you know if we find any." Pyrrha put a little steel in her voice, and Padgett looked duly rebuked. "We believe that it is currently being used as a waystation for a trafficking scheme—human and Faunus. We have solid intelligence that these humans and Faunus may be being used as slave labor." She let that sink in around the table for a moment. "Operation Vengeance's first action will be for Captain Belladonna and Lieutenant Sustrai to infiltrate Area 51 on one of the airliners being used to transport people from Las Vegas to the base."

Metzger raised a hand. "Major, these people are being smuggled from right here?"

Pyrrha nodded. "Right across the tarmac from us, actually."

"Fuck," Metzger breathed, then caught himself. "Apologies, ma'am. My language."

"No apologies needed, Captain—we all feel the same way." Pyrrha pointed at one of the photographs. "The airliners park here, and likely offload their passengers into these buildings. The flights take place at night. After dropping off the passengers, the aircraft apparently fly on to Pocatello, Idaho to disguise their true nature. We believe that the passengers—prisoners—are kept in one of these buildings through the next day, and transported somewhere north the next night, either by truck or another aircraft, to Winnemucca. From there, they continue their journey elsewhere, by truck, aircraft, or even rail."

"Prisoners by rail?" Shamir looked sick. She put down her soda for the first time.

"Assuming that we're correct, after dawn tomorrow morning Captain Belladonna or Lieutenant Sustrai—hopefully both—will sneak out of the compound and signal us. If we haven't heard from them by 0900 hours local, we attack all the same." Pyrrha pointed to spots on the map. "The go code will be Octavia. At that point, Weirdo, you'll jam every frequency but this one." She handed a note to Padgett. "This will be the frequency that the infiltration team will be on. We'll need to keep that open for CAS support. Can you selectively jam like that?"

Padgett grinned. "You bet, ma'am."

"Excellent. Once we have the go code, all fighter air assets will proceed from our holding position west of Las Vegas—Bullseye—to Area 51. Here's where it may get tricky," Pyrrha warned. "We have reason to believe that these smugglers may be in league somehow with Salem, and are involved with the recent rash of attacks against Phoenix, Florida, and here. If so, we may be attacked by Kobolds—that's the codename for new stealth GRIMM. That does not leave the room, yes?" Nods all around. "Good. We will then split the flight. Unfortunately, as Colonel Wilkerson lacks air to ground weaponry, we'll have to transfer it from Lancer Flight to Lieutenant Valkyrie's A-10. Nora, you're our main CAS person for the first few minutes of the attack."

"Mama CAS!" Padgett joked.

"Fuck yeah," Nora grinned. She did not apologize for her language.

"Because the Compass Call might not be able to put all of the AAA and SAMs out of business, we'll need someone to act as Wild Weasel support—we do have two HARMs available. Ruby has volunteered for that." Ruby smiled and gave everyone a thumbs-up. She didn't want to admit that her knowledge of how to use an AGM-88 HARM was somewhat limited. "It'll be Ruby and Nora's job to take down any SAM or AAA radars. Once those are clear, then Spooky comes in and cleans up as necessary."

"Can do," Shamir said. She glanced at Blake and Emerald. "I'll be Spooky 21 if you need us. You ever worked an AC-130 before?"

"Sure," Blake lied.

"As for the rest of us, we're on CAP. Yang, Weiss, Ren, Raven, and myself. If we get hit by GRIMM, then I'll tell the Compass Call to cease jamming so we can keep the frequencies open. We'll be groomed for GRIMM. Any problems?" Pyrrha was staring at Raven when she said it.

"None," Raven replied.

Milosevic raised his hand. "Where do we come in?"

"You'll be BARCAP for Las Vegas. I'm hoping the GRIMM don't show up, but if they do, and any get past us—you're it. I know it sounds like you're on the sidelines, but trust me—you are absolutely necessary to this. If no GRIMM show up, we'll bring you north for CAS support. You won't have anything but your guns, but better than nothing. Okay?"

"Yes, ma'am," Milosevic replied, somewhat mollified.

"Once any ground defenses are suppressed, one of us will give the go code for you, Captain Metzger. When you hear 'Yo, Joe'—your C-130 will proceed to Area 51 at best speed, land, and offload your Marines. You will have plenty of CAS on station, so hopefully it will not be a hot LZ. The Marines will take Area 51, secure the passengers, rescue our infiltration team, and take prisoners. Our friends in the CIA would at least like a few to vigorously interview."

"Will do, Major." Metzger was taking notes.

"Once Area 51 is secured by the Marines, all of us RTB here for champagne and lobster, and God bless us, every one." Pyrrha stepped back. "We will have tanker and AWACS support—Brown Anchor for the KC-135s, Disco for the E-3. Any questions?"

"Any idea what ground force we may be facing, Major?" Metzger asked.

"Unknown, Captain. It may be just a few guards, or it may be several companies of them. If you're unable to secure the area, you will fall back to the C-130 under the cover of Spooky, and exfiltrate south."

Metzger looked offended at the suggestion. "We'll take that fucking place, Major, if I have to hole up in one of the buildings and get the whole goddamn 1st Marine Division in there." He closed his eyes. "Apologies, ma'am. My language."

Pyrrha smothered a smile. "Of course, Captain. Any other questions?" There were none. "Get some food and rest. The trafficker flight departs around midnight; we must be ready to fly no later than 0500." Then she did smile. "Let's do it to them before they do it to us."

They ate and slept, and at 9:30 that night, Yang woke up Blake and Emerald. "Time to go, girls." Her voice held a quaver of nervousness in it. Blake got up and stretched; she had slept in her disguise clothing to give it an even more rumpled appearance. Emerald had done the same. She had washed the green dye out of her hair, exposing its natural black color; that alone made her look different. "Just a moment," she asked Yang, and then opened her duffel bag. She pulled three small knives and a silver metal pin from it. She offered one of the knives to Blake, who recognized it as a very high-quality Sykes-Fairbairn commando knife. Blake shook her head. "They'll search us."

"I know," Emerald replied. "Just in case we get figured out before they search us."

"They won't."

Emerald shrugged and tossed the knife back in her duffel. One of the remaining ones she taped to the inside of her left wrist, concealed by the long-sleeved shirt she wore. The other she taped to her back, where her backpack would cover it. Finally, she wrapped her hair up in a loose bun with the pin; Blake could see that it was not entirely decorative. Yang watched with interest as Emerald hid her weapons. "Got to admit; that's pretty cool." She tried a joke. "Sure you don't want to hide one up your vag?"

"No. These knives are too big. If I had one of those smaller knives, I'd consider it."

Yang realized Emerald wasn't joking. "Well, I bet that ain't comfortable. Sure you don't want a gun?"

"No. A knife they might overlook, but a gun they won't." Emerald patted the sheath on her left arm. "I can kill someone with this before they can even draw a gun. Trust me; I have." She tossed her remaining clothes, along with some assorted items, like a toothbrush, toothpaste, duct tape, even some pictures of Las Vegas she had taken with a cheap disposable camera, getting them developed at the hotel; she had then wrinkled the pictures to make them look worn. Blake, in her little suitcase, carried much the same thing, though part of her cover was a little yellow teddy bear she had found in the airport gift shop. She had rolled it in dirt to make it look less new. While Emerald put her radio in her backpack, concealed in a pair of foul-smelling socks—Emerald had soaked them in a urinal earlier-Blake carried hers in her pocket. If and when they were searched, Blake prayed that the guards wouldn't recognize the AN/PRC-112 radio for what it was. In case hers was confiscated, Emerald had hers. In the soles of their shoes, they concealed cheap mirrors they had found at the hotel gift shop; the worst case scenario would be using the mirrors to signal their position to Nora or Spooky.

"What about pen flares?" Yang asked.

Blake and Emerald exchanged glances. "We'd better not," Blake finally decided. "Too much chance someone sets one off."

Yang led them out of the little barracks area and to a cab. It was being driven by one of the Marines; the cab driver had been one of the Mafia's people, and had been told to go hang out in the airport lounge for awhile. Ruby, Weiss and Pyrrha waited by the cab. "Well, good luck," Ruby said. Her voice had the same quaver of fear that Yang's did. "We'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah." Blake didn't trust her own voice to say more. She hugged all of them. Ruby alone hugged Emerald, though Pyrrha touched the former thief's shoulder. Emerald smiled hesitantly and followed Blake into the cab.

They watched it drive off. "Well…" Yang sighed, "this isn't the dumbest plan we've ever come up with, anyway."

The Marine posing as the cab driver drove out of McCarran to the north side of the Strip, then turned south and returned to the airport through the night traffic. Lynn Mikado had been told only that the CIA were sending in a few spies; she had not been told anything else, though she clearly wanted to be, and had even volunteered to go herself. After that was turned down, she had told them where the dropoff point was. It was at a gate just across Las Vegas Boulevard from the Welcome to Las Vegas sign. None of the tourists getting pictures paid the cab any heed as it pulled up to the gate and dropped them off. Blake tipped the Marine a little money and got out of the cab.

In her time with the White Fang, Blake had gone on a few infiltration missions just like this one, so she knew the trick of passing unnoticed was to be casual. No one really cares about you, she heard Adam's voice in her mind. People are wrapped up in themselves. Guards are thinking about getting off of work, of their lovers, of their kids. Act like you believe you'll be discovered, and you will be. Act like you yourself are just going to work and it's a normal day, and no one will look at you twice. Despite the source, it was good advice.

Blake also knew she had to become her persona: a poor cat Faunus from the favela of Las Vegas, Leona Blair, who had recently been fired from her job as a waitress at Caesars' Palace; though she doubted the traffickers would actually check, Raven had ensured that a call placed to the hotel would confirm that. Blair was angry at her former employers, had lost her tiny apartment, and was willing to fight anyone for another job. Emerald had chosen Esmeralda Hernandez, a teenaged girl and recent immigrant from Mexico, who spoke broken English. That persona took advantage of Emerald looking to be younger than she was, and Emerald had even gone without eating anything all day so that her stomach would start growling—the picture of a starving waif that would do anything for a roof over her head and a decent meal.

They walked to the gate, where a single guard waited. He carried an assault rifle over his shoulder. "Yeah?" He sounded just as bored and disinterested as Blake had hoped.

Blake held up the flyer; getting those had been the easiest part of the operation. "Need a job, man." Emerald just smiled as widely as she could and waved the flyer around.

The guard looked them over. "Sure," he grunted. He produced a key and unlocked the gate, opening it just enough to let them in. "Over there. Just follow the yellow line." For Emerald, he repeated the same line in Spanish.

Blake gave him a nod and started walking, with Emerald beside her. To their surprise, there was no one along the path—no guards, nothing but a triple fence with razor wire on one side, and the airport perimeter wall on the other. Blake's heart rate jumped, wondering if it was somehow a trap, until she saw a crowd of about twenty more people waiting in a parking lot next to a hangar. There were more guards here, though their guns were also slung over their shoulders. Like Blake and Emerald, the others were dressed in rather drab, often homespun clothing, the poor and desperate; two-thirds were Faunus. Some had two suitcases of luggage; others only had a small backpack, or nothing at all. The ages ranged from at least fifty to as young as twelve.

"You two!" Blake heard someone say. "Over here. Ustedes dos, por aqui."

Blake and Emerald went over to a man wearing the same off-the-shelf surplus fatigues that the other guards wore. He had a clipboard. "Names?"

"Leona Blair."

"Esmeralda Hernandez." Blake noticed that Emerald normally didn't have an accent; now it was so thick she was barely understandable.

"What kind of work do you do?" Blake answered that she had been a waitress, but she also had a year of college at UNLV in aeronautical engineering. That was a risk as well: aeronautical engineers didn't end up in the favela very often. The man did look up at her for a moment, then shrugged and wrote it down. Emerald said she didn't have any skills, but she had a strong back. That was taken down as well.

He called over two of the guards and ordered both women to put down their luggage. Blake tried to look bored as their luggage was gone through: if Emerald's radio was found, it would raise some questions as to why a bedraggled illegal immigrant was carrying a very expensive-looking piece of equipment. However, Emerald's gambit had worked: the guard wrinkled his nose at the smell coming from the socks, and quickly shut the backpack. They found nothing in Blake's suitcase. Both were weighed and given back to them. "Any guns or knives?" Blake shook her head. Emerald handed over the knife that she had concealed on her back. The clipboard man grunted and tossed it into a small pile of weapons. "Empty your pockets on the table."

Blake hid the panic that bubbled up at that, and put everything she had on the table: wallet, some loose change, some keys—Yang's car keys, actually—and the radio. She once more tried to be nonchalant about it, but one of the guards noticed. "What's this?"

"A radio," Blake answered, with just a hint of hostility. The guard gave her a look, and Blake knew her ears went back. "What, we can't listen to music, man?" He set it down and walked off, and Blake put everything back in her pockets.

"Keep that thing off in the plane," the clipboard man said. "Okay, get your stuff and go sit down. We'll be leaving shortly." He waved over three other recent arrivals.

Blake sat down and wiped some sweat off her forehead. She didn't talk to anyone, though Emerald struck up a conversation in Spanish with another woman sitting next to her. They had to assume that Fifestone, or whoever was running the operation, might have planted his own people among the crowd.

About ten more people arrived, and were processed the same way; the process was clearly rote for the guards, with the same friendliness as someone being checked into a hotel. Then no one arrived for almost fifteen minutes, and the clipboard man began making a count. A woman came over, wearing the usual attire of a pilot, and checked the manifest. She gave a nod and walked off, and the clipboard man ordered everyone to stand up and line up in single file. "Okay, listen up," he said. "You're going to be flown out to an airfield. You'll be processed there. A few of you will be selected for special training, depending on what skills you have. You'll be separated from the others. Don't panic; this is routine. The rest of you will be kept during the day in a shelter and issued new clothing. Your luggage will go on ahead of you. Tomorrow night we'll fly you out to where you'll be working. If anyone wants to leave, now's the time. You'll be gone for six months to a year." He waited until his words were translated into Spanish and, to Blake's surprise, Chinese, then pointed back the way they came. One man looked around and then stepped forward, saying he changed his mind. The clipboard man nodded, handed him a fifty-dollar bill, and told him to leave. No one else left. "Okay, let's go. Stay in line."

They were led forward through the hangar, which was empty, and then back out onto the tarmac. Blake saw that it was an older 737-200—just as Ruby had identified them as. It carried no markings but a single red cheatline down the fuselage windows, with a block-lettered AIR AMERICA just behind the forward door. The top of the airliner was white; the bottom bare metal. They were led up a flight of airstairs into the aircraft, told to take the first seat they came to, and to put their luggage in the overhead bins. Blake took the window seat and Emerald the aisle. As everyone got to their seats, Blake noticed that the aircraft was clean, and smelled clean. None of the guards had been particularly friendly, but none of them had been bullying or impolite, either.

Once everyone was seated, the clipboard man handed the manifest to another woman, who was clearly the flight's only stewardess, and left. She did a head count, then closed the door and locked it for flight, and sat in the jumpseat just behind the cockpit door, which was closed. Everything is normal, Blake thought to herself, looking out of the window. That's what scares the shit out of me.

They waited a few more minutes before Blake felt the 737 powering up. She saw the ground crew pull the chocks and remove the airstairs, and the aircraft began to push back, then turned on its own power and began taxiing towards the east end of McCarran's east-west runways. Then she noticed what was not normal about the flight: there wasn't the usual safety briefing. In fact, the stewardess said only for everyone to fasten their seatbelts, though at least she smiled at people as she demonstrated how to do it. Blake put hers on, then helped Emerald with hers, as the other woman fiddled with it. "Method actor," Blake whispered, and Emerald gave her a brief smile. Once belted in, Blake returned to staring out the window, deciding that Leona Blair had never flown before and would be interested in looking outside. They passed the Marine C-130 in its ghostly gray camouflage, and the EC-130 Compass Call, with its various bumps and antennas, which would go unnoticed by the casual observer. The AC-130, however, was a different story, which was why it was at Kingman. She thought she even saw the Night Raven, black and malevolent like a shadow at the far end of the military section. Blake had the very strange sight of her own aircraft parked with the others, lined up on the tarmac under the dim sodium lights, and saw the shadowy figures of pilots—two short, one tall—and knew her friends were watching her leave. Goodbye, my love, maybe for forever. The snippet of song came unbidden to her mind.

Then the 737 turned onto the active runway, and Blake felt the pilots touch the brakes. Any time now. A single chime for the stewardess to make sure she was in her seat, and the brakes were left off. The engines surged with power, and they rolled down the runway, past the military section, the terminal, and the other aircraft waiting to take off on red-eye nightflights. Blake felt the nose rise, then the thump as the main gear left the runway; then they were airborne, over the Strip, brilliantly lit up in the darkness. Blake had to consciously resist going through the motions of takeoff—pulling the stick back, manipulating the rudder pedals. The landing gear came up, and the aircraft continued its climb out to the west. After the Strip, the lights of Las Vegas dimmed quickly to a few strings of isolated lights, then ended completely as the pitch-dark desert began.

The stewardess got up from her seat, much faster than one would on an actual commercial flight. "Close your window blinds, please!" she ordered politely, then went down the aisle to make sure each one was closed, closing those that stayed open and apologizing as she did so. Blake closed hers as the stewardess leaned over; she noticed that the woman was armed, a small pistol underneath her stewardess vest. Then she continued down the aisle, did another head count, and returned forward as the 737 leveled off and headed north. Without the stars outside or any sort of visual cues—though it would be hard to see the desert below even if the blinds were open—Blake knew that the passengers would rapidly become disoriented.

The airliner had not leveled off for more than ten minutes before Blake felt it start to descend again. She also could feel that the dive angle was much higher than would be allowed on a commercial flight. She heard murmurs and the occasional loud voice behind her wondering what was going on, and could actually feel gravity pulling her forward, which she would never feel on a regular flight. We're in about the same dive angle as that Gulfstream pulled at Greenbrier, Blake thought. That means we're threading through the mountains. The 737 leveled off again, and Blake felt the nose come up as the landing gear thumped back into place. Hell, we're landing. She didn't have a watch on, but knew the flight had been no more than half an hour, if that. She wondered if she should dare to open the window cover, but then decided that Leona would not do something like that. She'd be too scared, Blake thought. And for once, I don't blame her.

She did see the hint of lights through the blind, then the loud noise of the landing gear touching the runway, followed by being pushed back in her seat as the thrust reversers were deployed. "Good landing," she murmured, and it had been. She risked opening the blind just a little, and saw a hint of runway lights, which just as quickly went out, leaving only the soft glow of the blue taxiway lights. She slipped the cover closed as the stewardess stood up from her seat—again, much faster than she would have normally. "Attention!" she shouted. "Please remain in your seats until the captain has taxiied to the terminal! When we come to a stop, move in an orderly fashion to the nearest exit! Leave your luggage—it will be offloaded by ground crew later! You will receive it when you reach the barracks!"

Something feels very wrong. Blake exchanged a glance with Emerald, but there was no choice now. The 737 stopped, the stewardess opened the door, letting cool, fresh air drift into the cabin. It had a curious, pleasant scent to it. Blake heard another set of airstairs get attached to the aircraft as the engines powered down, and then they were instructed to get up and start moving. That part, at least, was just like any other deplaning at an airport, with the added effect of no one stopping to grab their luggage.

Then they were outside, back in the night air. There were a few lights on, just enough to illuminate the tarmac, and Blake saw that even the taxi lights and the 737's landing lights were off now. They were led off the aircraft by neon-vested ground crew, and taken to a roped off holding area. Waiting there were a trio of attractive women dressed in the same fashion as the stewardess, handing out glasses of lemonade. Most of the passengers headed in that direction, and the women smiled and poured them glasses. Emerald went in that direction, but Blake quickly put a hand on her shoulder and gave a minute shake of the head. They went over in a corner of the roped off area and sat down on the dirty tarmac. "Why not?" Emerald whispered, and motioned with her head towards the lemonade stand.

"Might be drugged," Blake replied softly.

"None of the Faunus seem to think so," Emerald said. "No smell or taste?"

"Kerasine doesn't have either. Trust me." Emerald gave her a genuinely fearful look at that.

They sat in the corner for about half an hour, then a number of guards marched over to the holding area. They too wore the surplus fatigues as the guards had in Las Vegas, but these guards did not look bored. Their assault rifles were off their shoulders, and if they were pointed towards the ground, Blake could tell they could easily be brought up in a second. "Line up!" one of them shouted; he had sergeant stripes on his sleeves. "Get in line! Move!" Blake got up, dusted off her rear, and helped Emerald to her feet. They then lined up again. Blake glanced at the lemonade girls: they were no longer smiling. In fact, they looked just as scared as Emerald had.

The forty passengers were lined up again, with the guards taking up position on either side and behind. "Move forward! Slowly, single file!" the sergeant snapped, and the line began to shuffle forward.

Blake took a quick moment to look around, with the surreal feeling that she had flown over this very spot two days before, very fast and very low. There were three large hangars, which looked abandoned and rusted—though Blake suspected that the rust was fake. The tarmac was cracked, but not to the point of being unusable, and there were outbuildings, some of which looked genuinely in ruins, others where the damage looked faked as well. There was also a triple fence in the distance, with hurricane wire atop it, and there were guard towers every so often on the fence; with her night vision, Blake could tell that each tower had someone in it with a starlight scope. The ground also looked disturbed outside the fence. Mines. Hope the Marines don't have to land out in the desert.

The line stopped, then restarted, and Blake heard voices raised in alarm. They started off as frightened-sounding muttering, then terror rippled down the line. Blake risked stepping out just a little to see ahead before the guard pushed her back with the butt of his rifle. Ahead, at the head of the line, was a tall Faunus woman dressed in black. Now people began to scream, and the guards were having to forcibly keep people in line now. More guards streamed out of the hangar to reinforce them, but the former passengers were in near panic.

"Que pasa?" Emerald asked, and Blake had to admire her dedication to her character.

"I don't know," Blake replied truthfully, and seeing the guards distracted by someone behind them, once more took a quick step in and out to see ahead of her to the front of the line, about ten people ahead. To her horror, the woman was tapping a riding crop on the chest of each person as they walked by, and occasionally flicked the crop to the right. Most of the people were going to the left, but three or four were to the right. Blake jumped back into line, her heart in her throat. "Selection," she whispered to Emerald.

"Oh shit," Emerald said, in English. "Like in…"

"Yeah. Exactly like that." Like in Auschwitz. Oh sweet God, they're going to kill us, not recruit us. As she got closer, her heart sank even further. I'm dead. Oh shit. I'm going to die. She frantically glanced at the fence; she would never make it. The tall woman jerked someone else out of line. Blake was only five people behind now. She took a deep breath. Okay. I'm going to die. But I'm not going peacefully, dammit. Sorry, Yang—not the way I wanted this story to end. Three people now. The Faunus in front of her was a big one, a bighorn, but once he moved, the tall woman would see her, and then Blake Belladonna would die. She readied herself to attack.

"Stop this! I said stop it!" The line stopped, and Blake saw a big man storming out of the same hangar the guards had come out of. "Dammit to hell, Zira! What the fuck are you doing? Stop it!" As he got closer, Blake saw that it was Hanlon Fifestone, dressed in fatigues now.

"I'm finding the ones Dr. Merlot asked for," the tall woman said calmly. Blake risked a quick glance, and confirmed what she thought: it was a lioness Faunus.

"What, by acting like fucking Dr. Mengele?" Fifestone flung a hand down the line. "You're about to have a full-blown panic that's going to get people we need killed, just because you want to get off on scaring the shit out of people?"

Zira glared at Fifestone and put her hands on her narrow hips. "How else are we supposed to choose Merlot's people?"

Fifestone slapped the clipboard in his hand. "Oh, I don't know—by checking the fucking manifest?" He shoved her out of the way and raised his voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for my second in command's idiot behavior." She snarled at him, but he ignored it. "Nothing is going to happen to any of you. This isn't what you think it is…though it's understandable that you'd think that." He threw a murderous look at Zira. "I'm going to call some names. Just move forward. These are the people who have been selected—" he winced at that word "—to go to a different work area. That's all. No one is going to be hurt. Remain calm and follow the guards' instructions."

Fifestone raised the manifest and read off six more names. The people called reluctantly got out of line and came forward. They stood to one side while he briefly talked to the four that had already been pulled out. Two of them went back into line, and the remaining pair joined the six that Fifestone had called out. "All right," he called out, "now that we're done with that, head over to that hangar for processing. Please don't panic. Nothing bad is going to happen. No one will hurt you as long as you obey orders." He motioned in that direction, and the line went towards the hangars. Blake made sure the bighorn was between her and Zira.

Emerald caught up with her. "What's going on?" she quickly whispered. "You know that bitch back there?"

"Yes," Blake said, her voice trembling. "Her name is Zira Zietan. She's former White Fang." She risked a glance backwards. "And she wants me dead."

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Oh boy. That's not good, is it?

GI Joe fans will recognize Wendell Metzger, while "Cola" Shamir and "Weirdo" Padgett are both transplanted Battletech characters from my Snowbird story; Lancer Flight is a friend of mine's Battletech characters! I'm sure nothing bad will happen to them, because nothing bad ever happens to characters based on others. Everrrr. (Padgett, incidentally, is apparently responsible for the infamous "Max Headroom" broadcast intrusion incident.) The EC-130H Compass Call is a real aircraft and does act in the standoff jamming role.

So enough talk! Next chapters (probably two chapters) will be nothing but action. Blake and Emerald may have snuck into Area 51, but they're going to have to shoot their way out.