Ouberon figures, to distract herself from the gash that resembled a mouth more than a wound, she'd think of a happy memory.

Warm, unlike the predicament she's in now. All eyes attentive, like the predicament she's in now.

Young Ouberon waddles center stage to deliver a speech, classmates and grownups alike gather to hear her. She's nervous, how will a crowd like this accept the weight of her words? Ouberon is no God, but will they regard her as one after her lips stop moving? The responsibility! Yet, despite it all, she persists,

"Uh... the war...is such a bad thing...when people fight...it's bad..."

Our young heroine tests the waters... she spots smiles in the audience!

"When there's war...people are not nice to each other...that isn't good. So, no more war! We should all love each other...a lot. Then the world would be a better place...the end."

The crowd bursts into a crescendo of applause! Her teacher can barely contain herself— she's scrambling over to Ouberon to give accolades!

"That was amazing...! That was a poem from Ouberon Pueson called...sorry, honey, I keep forgetting..."

"War...War is Bad."

"War is Bad! Now! Next, we have..."

Ouberon bolts from the sea of gazes, running from the stage and into her mother's arms. In her generous nature, she gives her rank-smelling grandfather a hug, as well.

"You did great, Ou."

"Thanks, thanks, mommy. Now they'll know not to fight anymore!"

Her repulsive grandfather sneers, "Hopin' I'll stay alive for 11 more years just 'cuz of this moment."

"Oh, you stop it!"

"But why, Grandpa?"

"You've got that dog's blood in you. Gullible.  Tender, easy to flay."

"Ou, don't mind him, he's—"

"No amount of big talk's gonna erase all of that."

The cold applies a new coat to her nerves and suffocates them. Eyes hinged shut, the childhood sequence flushes from the bottom of her eyelids. Chatter, frost, and the twisting of her thigh all coerce them to open. She tightens them closed.

Taking a drag from the ague, she yells, "...GOD! HURTS, HURTS!"

Silence.

"Baby's first words!" 

That's the thing that gets her eyes open.

Surrounded by somewhat familiar faces, she found her body and wound dressed in odd fur. 

"Wander off to the side you did," choruses one familiar girl. "What's up with that? Is the battle boring you?"

The words, "Where'd you come from...?" barely make it past Ouberon's tongue.

"Well, me and another were tallying up the wounded and we said to each other, 'Ah, who's that?' And there she was again! ...Did you even fight, eh?"

Overwhelmed by the familiar girl's hand gestures and gum flapping, Ouberon offers a simper as her eyelids threaten to collapse again.

A voice jolts her awake, "...Hey, sorry for asking, but don't the Doyles have some kind of medical unit...division...something?"

Ouberon's gaze rushes to find the source—a girl dressed in an unusual outfit. She grew so accustomed to The Doyle's own uniform that anything else gouged her eyes. 

"Afraid not! The Doyles are taught to be all kinds of things, so we really just have no need for that!"

"Alright, okay."

Eyes closed again. Pinching herself seems to be a good investment, vignettes mesh together with ease, but a dry, frigid sheet of pain chastises her, reminding her that this is reality. An unfamiliar sitting so calmly amongst familiar faces? 

She's outnumbered, 3 to 1, it's fine, reasons Ouberon. Another thought, Wait, it means nothing...could this be a setup? I'm being sold out? I was drugged, wasn't I?

Ouberon prepares to confront the apparent, then a squeal adjourns...

"Before I speak... an applause for the siren?" 

Ouberon's nervousness dissolves into a teenaged groan. She grins through tremors and turns to her side to find the center of everyone's attention. 

"C'mon, that sound is the result of strenuous efforts. Girls, we need applause!"

The familiars and the unfamiliar follow the order, clapping, hooting, hollering, etc. Hadewig and a woman with a megaphone bask in the fanfare. Ouberon was put at ease.

"Alright, alright," Hadewig cackled. "You all leave Ouberon to me."

As the megaphone woman and the two familiar pass by Hadewig, she stops the unfamiliar with the back of her palm.

"Name?" 

"Idoia, superior."

"Hm. We'll let you live for now. We see you again, and I won't be so generous."

Idoia matches Hadewig's smile and moves on with the rest of them. Doting as ever, Hadewig approaches Ouberon.

"Pick yourself up and we'll pick up from where we ended last,"

"No...!"

"C'mon, now, obviously I'm not gonna do it myself." Hadewig's eyes lead Ouberon's attention to her two "stubs."

As Ouberon's gash attempts to remind her of its existence, oil, and fur against it, she kicks up snow and uses Hadewig's waist to prop herself up. They walk to their base, conversing all the way.

"You like going there a lot, I notice." 

"Wh...Oh. You know, it's a habit, General Hadewig."

"...Nuh, uh, what did I tell you about that "General" word, Pueson?"

"...I told you... I wasn't up to it. Still not up to it now."

"Of course, look at you wandering off in the snow, half-dressed, I might add."

"Half..."

"I'm talking about then," Hadewig pinches the tip of Ouberon's fur jacket. "Obviously you got the..."

"Oh..."

"...That's beside the point. I feel like you girls think I can...carry the weight of the armed forces with my goddamned feet. I have thyroid issues, you know."

"That isn't life or death, Hadewig."

"And neither is taking up—"

"Okay...sorry. I wanna ask why it's just me who's..."

"It isn't just you."

"...So why am I the only one being bugged right now, come on?"

"You're competent."

Flattered wouldn't describe a quarter of the feeling. Ouberon's skin wears red, however, her facial expression reads "vacant" as always.

"Don't let that add extra weight to your head, but you're...you're a natural leader. Out of...everyone who's on that ballet, I know it's you who'll change the Doyles for good."

"...Yeah?"

"You're not even ecstatic about that?"

"Okay, yes, I'm flattered, but I'm sure I'm not the only competent one."

"...Absolutely no fun. No fun at all. Come on, doesn't it sound fun?"

"Again, sounds like a pain in the ass...sorry."

The conversation dies and Ouberon and Hadewig are three hundred steps deep into the base. Hadewigs gives Ouberon a non-verbal and leaves her to herself. 

The base consumes her senses. As her nerves thaw, her eyes amble. A layer of mold lays itself fresh on the walls. Just a few feet ahead of the growth, two girls inspect a scatter of rashes on another girl's back. Their lips are moving, nothing is coming out. 

She ambles the rows of bunk beds, treating them all like picture shows, forgetting, of course, she has her own to get to. Girls crying, girls fighting, girls... girls coughing up blood, girls clutching at their stomachs, girls tyrannizing one another, girls. 

She was so enamored yet disgusted by it all. It was one of the few moments her feelings of inferiority remade themselves into genuine misanthropy. Those thoughts jostled her into reality, noticing that some of the girls returned her gaze. Ouberon stumbles into her chamber.

And is immediately welcomed by the sight of an unfamiliar.

"I kinda like it!" The unfamiliar turns and smiles to reveal herself as...

"Idoia?"

"...Yeah...the Doyles are idiots but...just, like, look at this room. Redwood tile...probably fake, eh..."

"I don't have to ask if you're dumb...but I am gonna ask if you're crazy--you're gonna die!"

"This is a real dog, right?"

"...You're dense. Dense."

"You killed it, stuffed it, mounted it, etcetera...really cool. Uh...How many people did you kill for this room?"

"Kill...?"

Idoia stops and looks as if she's attempting to swallow the information that comes with the response "Kill?" with a thin straw. "...This is really worse than I thought..."

"I'm gonna call Ha—"

"Hey, sorry, sorry, I'm...kinda forgetting formalities here, my name is Gwendolyn Shepard."

"...Ouberon."

"Great, I wanna ask you a few questions before I proceed, and remember...I am asking the questions here."

"Alright..."

"...Not you."

"Right."

Gwendolyn presses her wrist to her chin and allows her eyes to scan the room. 

"How long have you been serving?"

"Uh...damn, it's been...I'd say five. Five years."

"Ah, really? Me too!"

"Yeah?"

"No. How long have you been advancing to Abel?"

"As long as I've been here."

Gwendolyn picks at her lip. Attempting to disengage and hope that it all blows over, Ouberon starts to count the wrinkles in the wood. 

"War is important. Disagree? Agree...? Curious on your take."

Ouberon jolts up. "Yes."

"Yes, what?" 

"War is important, it's the reason why we've been able to keep our freedom."

"So...from that answer...I'm guessing you'd be upset to learn that... you are not fighting for any type of freedom...but you are in fact fighting for the bossman's fetish for bloodshed."

A Grin reaching both ears, Gwendolyn waits for her to break...none of the members of Ouberon's face move an inch.

Ouberon sits on the bed and sighs, "Is that so?"

"Abel is the size of a football stadium, Ouberon. Do you even know why Abel is a threat to you?"

"...Hadewig wouldn't lie."

"Willingly. Hadewig wouldn't lie willingly."

"...Alright, Gwendolyn. What do you suppose I do about all of this?"

Gwendolyn beams. "Help me tell the world that the emperor has no clothes."