It's late at night. The Spring weather leaves the air comfortably cool. A light jacket is all that's required for Royal atop form fitting jeans and a button up shirt. She finds herself eager to head to this bar in particular. It's where she met her, after all. Since then she can't seem to help herself. At first she thought it was a curiosity, a desire to make new friends. But before she knew it the urge to return to her had become an obsession. She'd never considered herself true lesbian, though she'd been mistaken for one before. And while the woman is beautiful, what attracts Royal most is the mysterious confidence she exudes. Little does she realize that the attraction goes much deeper, all the way to the Blood.

This bar had been the first place they met. For whatever reason it was where Royal could often find her. And so Royal came here often, more often than the woman did. She even made an effort to find out about her, asking around for details.

Royal looks about hopefully, seeing some regulars at the bar counter. She gives them an obligatory wave but doesn't join them. Instead, she sits at the other end of the bar and orders her usual pint. It might be another night of staring at her drink and making idle chat with those ballsy enough to approach her.

As though heralded by the gust of cool wind that poured through the open doorway of the bar, the woman of Royal's fixation strode inside, a black bridge coat enshrouding her figure and leaving all but the pale line of her neck and her milk white visage covered. And then, with slow, measured strides she walked closer, black eyes fixed upon Royal and ignoring all else. It was only once she reached the other woman's side that she spoke, her words like the early spring wind: cool, though hinting at the promise of warmth.

"Let us find somewhere more comfortable to sit," she began, nodding towards an empty booth in the back corner.

"Order two glasses of Glenfiddich, aged 26 years, and bring them. I'll be waiting for you."

Then she walked away, with no further greeting and no offer of thanks. There was only that strange incentive that Royal couldn't articulate, that impulse that was suddenly pulled taught inside her, like fishhooks sunk deeply into her muscles, the wires tugging at her skin.

Regardless, once Royal joined her, the woman's coat hung primly upon the booth's coat rack to reveal a pristine, black suit beneath, she spoke again, the words quiet and rolling smoothly off her tongue despite the insidious question held within them.

"You've told me what inspired you to join our former nation's service, though you've never told me what inspired you to want to plant metal inside another person and watch their life slip away. Will you tell me tonight?"

Relief washes over Royal's expression for a moment as she looses control to the sensation of delight at seeing Josephine. Not only had she come to the bar, but she spoke to Royal as if they were longtime friends, fulfilling every secret wish she longed for. She could hardly deny the request, despite its being framed as an order. But even so, she is used to following orders, trained even before the pale-skinned woman came into her life.

Royal flags down the bartender to fill the order and waits impatiently for the filled glasses of single malt whiskey. She obediently arrives at the back corner booth, setting the drink before Josephine dutifully before taking her seat across from the woman.

Before she can open her mouth to speak a greeting, Josephine is the first to cut through the silence and Royal can only listen, a confused weak smile trying to force its way through. The implication in the question is morbid, callous even. And yet Royal is all too eager to answer, pleased that she remembered their previous conversations so carefully.

"Well, you know I'm career driven," she stars in the familiar English accent, betraying her nationality, though that's all old news by now. "Sure they gave me the Beret, but what could I do with it? Play a horn in their rotten parades? How was I supposed to prove anything doing that? As some token woman marching to their tune? Never even played an instrument in my life. But cold steel, I know I can work a melody on that. See, I never cared for the killin' itself. War is war. Been that way forever. But oh no, not for a lady in a man's world, bloody pricks. I just wanted to show what I was worth, that I could do it just as well as any man. Never even got the chance though, bugger all."

The sarcasm is evident as she mentions the man's world, bitterness seething through that likely relates to some experience with prejudice in her upbringing.

The woman's black lips curl towards a smile, the expression halts, hovering upon the edge of mirth.

"What a world it is that we live in, were it is spilled blood that finally signals equality," she replied softly, sweetly, as though they were words she would teach a child to fondly savor.

"Though that is what we are used to, isn't it?" she rhetorically pressed, eyes alight. "Spilled blood. Why, the tribe that first fought the Romans upon British soil was named for their prowess in battle, their prowess for spilling blood. And after the Romans conquered them, then came the Saxons, and after the Saxons came the Norse, and after the Norse came the Normans. And then we spilled outwards, to the Holy Land, to France, to India, to China, to Africa, and to this land. And we sowed all the land upon which we walked in blood, and from that blood rose the civilization which we are surrounded by today. A civilization that privileges the spilling of blood. Why, it's almost as though, having witnessed what such spilled blood has grown, that men have come to see it as more precious than their own seed, and they fear what might happen were they to lose sole control of such power.

"But we know better, of course," the woman continued, pushing one of the glasses of golden liquor over to her companion. "That's what I admire about you."

She didn't say Royal's name, nor did she speak her sobriquet. It had always just been 'you'.

"But tell me, knowing what you know, would you still be willing to enter into service were it not for a nation? Would you be willing to play a melody upon cold steel to protect others even if no one would ever know that you had done so?"

The woman seems to understand Royal so well, as well as the world and its complex history. How right she is that war continues to be the status quo. Nationality doesn't matter when all peoples thirst for the blood of their neighbors. And in all conflicts, women were trampled underfoot, as hostages, slaves, or trophies. Out of fear that men would lose power over them.

Josephine's gesture to the glass reminds her of its presence and she follows her cue to raise the drink to her lips, the whiff of its smoky scent being replaced by the light taste against her palate. It still has quite a powerful kick that burns her throat as she gulps quickly. Josephine's admiration nearly causes her to spit it back up, her throat catching as she puts the glass down against the tabletop. Her cheeks burn now from the sudden praise.

"I...um, thanks..." she says, and then clams up as Josephine poises her next question, her eyes following the woman's curling black lips before flickering back up to meet her gaze.

"Well...I mean, I suppose that's true, considering I renounced my citizenry. I just thought that I'd have a better chance serving in the Americas. Of course there's no guarantee I'll see combat here either. It's always an uphill battle, you understand. But it's not like most combat operations get acknowledged outside of internal channels, so I'm not doing it to be some kind of hero. I'd like to see some changes in policy, but that's starting to happen even without me. Now I'm just trying to prove it to myself. I never got offered a chance to even see if I could make it."

The woman, Josephine, slowly inclined her head in a nod as grave as the descent of a judge's gavel. The smile had not withered from her ivory face, though her black eyes regarded Royal with an appraiser's air, intent as the edge of an obsidian blade.

"I have no doubts that you'll soon find yourself offered that chance. You are a rare breed. Few are willing to strive so diligently to discover just what lies within their soul's depths. Which makes me now wonder, just what do you believe about the soul? Are you ever troubled by thoughts of falling prey to some Devil, or is that just a fairy tale the weak whimper to one another?"

Teeth appeared between those black painted lips, a fierce amusement sparking into being as Josephine spoke those words.

Confusion grows in Royal's expression, a resistance perhaps deep within her mind or from some animal instinct. That small voice of her conscience knows it is being prepared for something. Though faith had died in her years ago, some embers of its presence stir, warning her as they recognized the Devil's contract being unfurled. "You're not one of those God-fearing Bible-thumpers are you? You didn't strike me as the type," she says with a nervous laugh. "No disrespect, but I've just never seen any evidence of the soul or Devil. Mankind is its own Devil and each of us has our demons, sure, as you like. Fear being one of them. But as some ancient proverb goes, 'If you know the enemy and know yourself you need not fear the results of a hundred battles.' That's something that gets passed around the brigade."

She takes another drink to drown the nervous voice in her head. Fear and control, sisters in subjugation. She saw how others were corralled into what was designated a woman's role by tradition. Her defiant spirit would not submit those chains, giving her the will to struggle against it.

Despite Royal's words, Josephine's smile remained in place, though the amusement found in that bearing of teeth did nothing to put Royal at ease.

"At one time I did hold a bible close to my heart, but now I hold no fear of God. Or of Devils. I merely wished to learn what you believed. You fascinate me," Josephine expressed, her voice dropping lower, forcing Royal to lean in to better hear what was said.

"You see, I've been looking for someone like you. Someone who is not content to sit in the dark and be fed manure. Someone who is willing to walk where others will not, and most importantly, someone that is willing to learn so that they might battle. For, though I have never worn combat boots like you, nor stood in a brigade, there is a war that I've been fighting. One that I think you could help me with. And, if I'm not mistaken, you're looking for a war. I'm offering you one."

The second glass of amber liquor was pushed across the table, Josephine's bloodless hand staying upon the glass, proffering it to Royal. A token of the covenant she was extending.

Royal leans in, her hands clasped tightly to the glass in her hands while her eyes remain on Josephine's smile as cornered prey might stare at a predator's maw. The Blood that courses inside has her hypnotized and her eyes close halfway as if leaning in for a familiar kiss.

Her words remind her of her purpose though, and she blinks the haze away. Combat, battle, and the struggle return to her thoughts. "You're...what? A war?" he answers in question in a similarly low voice. Surprise kicks in as she attempts to comprehend her meaning. Had she stumbled onto some terrorist sleeper cell? Or some radical rebellion in the works? No, not her Josephine. But then, if it were true, could she really bring herself to say no?

She gulps, her throat still warm from the whiskey as she asks, "Who are you working for?"

The amusement on Josephine's face turned cruel, her smile transforming into a smirk that couldn't have stung more if it had accompanied the crack of a whip. She could see the struggle warring behind Royal's eyes, Josephine's glittering black gaze feasting upon the dissonant carnage in the soldier's mind. Sable brows arched above that devouring gaze, rising imperiously, demanding, without words, if Royal truly cared.

Was she more than just a gun waiting to be pointed?

Was that what the woman across from her truly thought?

Regardless of the answers, Josephine spoke again.

"You would know them as numbers. Statistics. Faceless victims that were killed in the dark of night, their blood shed by an enemy that they were not even aware of. And should not be aware of. It is up to women such as you and I to keep them in check; to stomp them out and protect all those sweet innocents that merely want to plod through their lives in docile safety. No one would ever hear of it, they would never know the war we fight, but you, you would learn exactly just how well you can make it. You would learn what it was like to protect others with a melody played by your trigger finger."

It is not an expected answer. It sounds like a fairy tale rather than a terrorist plot. Royal has no idea what statistics Josephine means, but if the enemy is meant to be secret, it's managed to hide its tracks well from the media. What had she stumbled upon in these Americas? The eager soldier grows dark, her voice losing the shakiness of fear as she begins to humor the idea.

"Let's say I believe you. If you wish it, I can play you that melody. That would be enough for me." The infatuation creeps forth, twisting her mind away from reason to cross that invisible line. Any excuse would do, so that she could fill her potential, so that she could justify her lust for violence. So long as she stayed in this woman's eyes.

"Wonderful," Josephine purred, a deathly pale hand reaching over and descending into the pocket of her hanging coat to produce a fold of bills secured by a money clip.

"Then pay our tab, will you, and we can retire to my home," she continued, passing several bills to Royal. "There is something that I would like to show you. Something that I believe will strengthen your belief."

Royal's cheeks flush again, the telling signs of flowing Blood and a beating heart, quickened by Josephine's invitation. Her emotions hop between deadly seriousness and an uncertain desire, revealing a dichotomy brought on by the link between them. She nods obediently, taking the money clip and standing to make her way to the bar. Her head is swimming, not from the liquor but the new information she has to process. A multitude of voices debated the back of her mind. Unable to linger on one decision, it is simply easier to allow herself to be led, her fate in the woman's hands.