Chapter Fifteen: Cold-Blooded, Part Two

"You wish for me to follow number forty-seven?" Galatea repeated slowly.

"Yes. It is a matter of utmost importance, I assure you. Find her, then keep track of her and the man she is with." She made sure not to show any sign of surprise. There were men in this world who didn't care for the warriors' reputation, so enchanted by their beauty they were. She had seen such men before in her years, and had even been the passing fancy of several. But the interest of a man always ends when they see the stigma wrought on her body. No, a man with a warrior was not so special―simply an ill-fated bond.

But for Louvre himself to have taken an interest? That was something in of itself. She considered her next words, searching for a way to press for more without seeming intrusive. "Should I expect trouble from number forty-seven and this man she is with?"

It was rare to see him express anything beside his usual false affability. Pacing the stone-carved conference room within the heart of Staff, Louvre seemed deep in thought.

"You should be able to handle forty-seven without trouble. After all, you are the 'God-Eye'," Louvre finally said. While wracking her brain for explanations, he continued. "The man she is with is an unknown factor. If he shows signs of aggression, push him to act, but do not provoke his ire. Keep track of his behavior as if he were a warrior himself." Louvre did not seem to notice the surprise that briefly registered on her face. She schooled her features quickly. "Should anything odd occur in an encounter, report back here immediately. I want to know what happens, no matter how ridiculous it seems. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is there anything you wish to add, Herman?"

"His swords." Galatea whirled reflexively at the new voice, her sword leaving its sheath in the process. A blond man in his late thirties faced the tip of her claymore with an amused smile. She shuddered when she met his blue eyes. "Stay wary of his swords. And his bow, as well. Report to me as many variations of his swords as you can learn. I need to know how his abilities work."

Naturally, confusion settled in her. Louvre's lack of reaction to this man's presence meant he belonged here. And that she needed to show obedience. "I understand."

"That is all. Do your duty."

"Go," Louvre said. Galatea bowed slightly, and departed from the conference room.

She moved silently through the torchlit halls. The halls of the Organization, carved from the very plateaus in the east, had a stifling air to them. She would see the occasional handler pass by, each of them in woven armor covered with flowing robes. Cloth masks covered their faces to protect against the sand that the wind carried. She would catch glimpses of a young girl or two in these dark corridors, the faces of a generation that would come to be. Warriors, warrior trainees, and men that turned common girls into monsters―how poetic it was for these dead lands to be their home.

She wondered how long it would take for the rest of the world to become like this.

In their hands.

"Galatea, was it?"

She hid her surprise when the stranger from earlier, Herman, emerged from the shadowy passageway before her.

How he had gotten ahead of her, she had no idea.

"Did you need me for something?" Galatea asked cautiously.

She didn't know whether this man deserved the disciplined approach the rest of the Organization's handlers demanded from her.

Herman smiled genteelly, but Galatea wasn't fooled. There was an edge to this man's presence that made her wary of him, regardless of his well-behaved he seemed. After all, the Organization did not involve normal men. And no normal man could look at her with such calculating eyes. Disgust, perhaps―but not evaluation.

"I hear praise of you from the others here," he said offhandedly. "I thought to introduce myself to you, the number three. I am Herman von Grimm." He bowed slightly. The coat he wore was strange, made of a leather that was all too neat, too clean for the wastelands of the east. "I am here to assist the Organization in mobilizing all of its warriors, including numbers one and two."

Alicia and Beth, Galatea named in a heartbeat.

She bowed low. "I greet you, von Grimm. We appreciate your presence, and eagerly await the emergence of our sisters."

"Hmm. Polite, if not a little flowery. Very well. I only wish to ask you to inform myself as well of your findings for the report Louvre asked you to make. Of that man, most especially."

Galatea blinked. "Do you know of him?"

"I know of him, yes. We are, well, adversaries in a way." Herman's smile grew a little wider. "I have heard word about him from Rabona. Perhaps you should start your search there."

"The Holy City," she repeated. "Very well. I thank you for your help."

"Just do your job," he said as he turned. She watched as he melted into a wall.

My job.

My job, that involves keeping track of a saint of the Holy City as he traverses the world saving people from monsters.

There were times when she learned of things that seemed beyond her position, even as the highest-ranking active warrior of the Organization. In her memory, the times when she learned of the names behind the Organization, and of what lay beyond the waters of the world were among those times. Her yoki sensory abilities made her a particularly useful pawn, but a pawn nonetheless. Expendable.

Still, she had never questioned until now.

Why would the Organization need me to keep track of a saint?

It had been extraordinary, for sure. She had seen him fight from the distance alongside the warrior named Clare, the number forty-seventh. The carriage they rode had been ambushed by strange yoma hidden partially beneath the earth like sleeping beetles. Galatea herself nearly intervened in the fight when the monsters first emerged.

When the carriage riders stood their ground, she watched instead.

Clare had been as she expected: trained, but slow in the way warriors that lacked a talent in yoki empowerment were. There had been nothing special about Clare as a warrior.

Then there was the man with her, wielding a plain sword of sturdy, Rabonian make that cut apart the shell of one of the yoma as if it were warm bread. And when she witnessed him cut them apart with the fluid ease of a warrior, she was convinced. Watching the actions of forty-seven was not the purpose of her observations after all. The subject was the Saint himself.

It made little sense. The Saint seemed to have goals aligned with that of the Organization: the defense of the people against the yoma. Instead of keeping him under surveillance, the Organization should have made contact with him to form an alliance. That they had not only added to suspicion to the veil of secrecy they possessed: what would a group dedicated to stopping the yoma have to hide?

Galatea recalled approaching the Saint one night:

He held a guarded stare, his eyes flickering past her to look for something further than the light the flames of the campfire reached. "Who are you?"

She raised her hands and smiled affably. "I mean you no harm, I assure you."

She kept her own eyes away from the sword at his belt even when his hand hovered over the grip. She focused on the subtle shifts in his expression, showing his inner conflict. "I know you've been following us. I can only be wary of someone with a need to spy on us."

Clare watched from beside the fire neutrally. "You are?"

"Number three, Galatea. Well met, number forty-seven. You've picked a nice companion to stand behind."

Galatea's gaze wandered to where the carriage was parked beside the road. The horses were drinking from a trough of water retrieved from a nearby river. One tasted a piece of salt lick. Brushing the coat of a reddish horse was a young girl with red hair braided to her shoulder. A boy, thin and brown-haired, peeked out from the cover of the carriage with his practice sword in hand, sweating. She made sure to smile more pleasantly in his direction; the boy blushed and pulled himself behind the vehicle.

"Speak," the Saint said.

"Peace, Saint. You need not be so guarded. I will not hurt you." She drew her sword and set it on the ground. "I only wanted to speak with you."

The Saint relaxed a little. His hand never left his belt. "About what?"

"Forty-seven," Galatea called. Clare regarded her silently. "Why is it that you have chosen to follow this man?"

The way Clare spoke slowly called to attention how she was choosing her words carefully. It was as if she were purposefully concealing information. "Shirou is the Saint of the Holy City. The gods bestowed upon him their powers." Galatea noticed how the Saint, Shirou, shifted as Clare spoke. "I wished for a blessing from him. He requested that I prove my worth beforehand. We are traveling together so he may learn of my motivations, and judge accordingly."

Powers from the gods, Galatea contemplated.

She was reminded of Herman.

"The Organization knows what you are doing," Galatea said. "I am to report to them about your actions. As well as those of the Saint accompanying you."

"What is this Organization?" the Saint asked.

"Is the Saint so uninformed? Know that we warriors roam the land to slay yoma. The Organization is what governs us," Galatea recited. "It is not something many think about, or hear of. They believe we are a phenomenon that somehow sustains itself without guidance. They are wrong."

"It's a secret, then? This Organization is purposefully keeping people in the dark about them. Why do they? All you're doing is killing yoma, there's no need for you to―"

"Fear." Eyes turned to Clare. She continued as she stared into the fire. "They fear us. To protect them and ourselves, we tell them nothing. If they knew of the Organization, they will search for it and destroy it to prevent more of us from existing. They fear us half-yoma, after all. And to defend itself, the Organization will fight back―and slaughter them. To prevent such a thing from happening, the Organization remains hidden."

"And now you know, Saint of Rabona," Galatea said. "What will you do?"

He shut his eyes, frowning. "I understand. I don't like it, but I'll keep quiet. I think there is more that you aren't telling me. I won't ask anything else… except this," he opened his eyes. "Do you know of a man named Herman von Grimm?"

Galatea hesitated.

"You do," he said. "Where is he?"

"I cannot tell you," she answered. "I am not―"

"He is dangerous."

"―of a position to tell you. I do not know much about him, either. You will need to find someone who can talk to you his location. That place has many warriors, trainees, and their handlers―perhaps one of them will suffice." He was listening closely. "It is admirable that you are willing to risk your like to this extent for the sake of others, but not everyone may appreciate it. I implore you: do as you think is best, but be careful. As you continue your journey, you may draw the attention of dangerous beings."

"Dangerous beings?"

Clare spoke. "The Abyssal Ones. Powerful yoma. Though I do not think you will have too much trouble… they are long-lived. And intelligent."

Galatea nodded. "And not all warriors are as agreeable as I am."

"I don't understand what this has to do with Herman," he muttered, frowning. "Are you saying he can bring me that… kind of…?" His eyes widened. "I see."

"Be careful."

"I understand. I will. Thank you."

Galatea smiled. "It would be a shame if a Saint would fall to such scheming, wouldn't it?"

And perhaps, she mused, perhaps I should follow my own advice.

"But it is never so simple," she muttered, brandishing her sword.

Ichor spilled from the gash on the fleshy shell of the egg buried beneath the farmlands of the village she stayed at. The villagers would never know. As the egg shriveled and caved in upon itself, Galatea wiped her sword with a dirty rag. The yoki of the egg dissipated when it died.

"I cannot let myself become a pawn for their scheming. Not me." After sheathing her blade, she fixed her long, blond hair and checked herself for damage.

Her armor was clean save a small patch of a yoma's blood on the right ankle of her linen leggings. Unacceptable. As one of the strongest warriors, she required a certain perfection to her appearance. Not like the weaker ones that struggled to make by. Her fellow warriors needed to believe she was untouchable. If she was not, then how could they persuade themselves to try harder?

Grumbling, she raised her head and pushed yoki into her eyes. Her vision sharpened drastically, allowing her to see a farther distance than humanly possible.

This was one of the reasons why she was the number three, God-Eye.

She saw in the distance, beyond the sparse trees and long plains, tracks that suggested Flora had followed her advice and had gone west in pursuit of the Saint. In another direction, Galatea saw villagers from the local town go about their daily lives. And then there was a stream, a place she could clean her leg.

But before she could leave in that direction, a presence made itself known nearby. Galatea drew her sword instinctively, and froze when she met another silver eye.

"Rafaela."

Another warrior, like herself, made herself known. Whereas Galatea had a tall stature and fair beauty, Rafaela was rugged, with short, uneven hair and a scar over an eye. But that didn't matter―it was a superficial comparison at best. What bothered the God-Eye the most was that she could not detect her fellow warrior. Half-yoma warriors could empower themselves using the demonic influence of the yoma flesh in their bodies. It made them the fighters capable of challenging monsters that devoured human flesh.

Number five lacked yoki.

"Galatea," Rafaela greeted. There was a coldness in her tone that Galatea could not ignore.

"I never expected to see you here."

"I did." Rafaela drew her own sword. "You've been blacklisted."

Galatea gritted her teeth. "My own advice," she murmured. As Rafaela took a step forward, Galatea took a step back. She had no delusions about defeating Rafaela. While warriors of higher rankings tended to be stronger, the pattern tended to blur among the top five. Galatea was a powerful sensory-type, and Rafaela lacked any yoki to sense. The result would be clear. "I don't suppose you'll tell me why."

"You're in the way," she answered simply.

Then she attacked.

a/n: I've been focusing a lot on Shirou for this story, so I thought another chapter from a warrior's perspective would be nice.

I'm also working on a RWBY story with the Dresden File vibes (which may be Spacebattles only, if I ever finish it), another chapter of The First Pawn, and my own original story for publication (which I've been procrastinating for a while). No promises on release dates for any of them, though.