An X made of four narrow, glowing red arrowheads drops onto the black
man dressed in what looks like a military uniform in the center of the scene.
He's pontificating silently, waving his AK47 at the crowd of cowering
villagers, dressed in bright homespun, one of their huts burning against the
green forested background.  Several more young men are standing around, some
in military-style outfits, others in clothes similar to the vilagers, some
with rifles, others torches, clubs, or machetes.

	The X flashes, shifts a little, flashes twice, then the scene shifts
to follow it as it settles back onto the center of the man's head.

	A flat {PHUT!}, and the scene shakes.  The reticle shifts to center of
mass on the next man with a rifle, {PHUT!}, the next, and the first drops, his
head blown off, the second starts to spin, {PHUT!} collapses with half his
torso blown to bloody ruin.

]Forty rounds of match grade fifty caliber bee em gee, sixty yen.[  The
subtitles use a Y overstruck with a backslash for the yen symbol. 

	{PHUT!} One of the men starts shooting into the crowd of panicked,
fleeing villagers, and another chases after a young woman, who's slowed by the
young child in her arms, waving his machete.

	{PHUT!} the reticle leads the chasing man, {PHUT!}

]Combination muzzle brake and silencer, eight tuits.[ The subtitles use a T
overstruck by an O for tuit symbol.

	One of the torch wielding men has dropped his torch, and is holding a
young child aloft, kicking his mother as she tries to rescue him.  The reticle
drops to the man's center of mass, then the mother climbs up onto his chest,
scratching at his face.  The man moves, turning, kicking.  The reticle lifts
to bracket the center of his head, {PHUT!}

	The reticle slides onto the last man with a rifle, who's firing
randomly into the trees, blinks twice, {PHUT!}

	]Autoranging telescopic sight, twenty tuits[

	{PHUT!} the reticle shudders, sliding off the man beating a
white-haired old woman.  Another man drops his M16, and starts running.  The
reticle leads him a little, (PHUT!}

	]M2 Battle Rifle, thirty tuits[

	The reticle slides onto last man with a machete, blinks twice.  The
man drops the machete, holding his hands out to the sides.  He stays that way
for several seconds, reticle centered on his torso, then he dives for a rifle,
grabs it up, and starts running.  The reticle leads him a little, {PHUT!}.
He drops as the scene steadies again, looking over the bloody scene, the
little boy clutched tight by his bruised mother, the white-haired old woman
twitching feebly as she tries to stand, the ten armed men's bodies splattered
over the scene, all still silent.

	]Knowing that these men will never mutilate another young woman or
burn another village, priceless[

	The other villagers start to return, and a young man in bright clothes
rushes in, grabs up the limp, bloody form of a young woman, and sobs
soundlessly into her lifeless chest.

	]Some things in life money can't buy.  For everything else, there's
MasterCard[

*

	`I can't believe they played that!' Willow says, hiding her eyes in
the curve of Tara's neck.

	`Why not?' Ranma asks, Buffy's head pillowed on her lap, nearly
asleep.

	`Because!  It's so,' she shakes her head, `It's prime time,' she
finishes.

	`The death squads won't go away just because we ignore them,' Ranma
says.

	`What do you mean?'

	`I mean several governments in Africa are still running them, and
they're still getting recruits for them, even now, eight years after the,'
Ranma pauses, `Counter-terrorist teams, I think it translates as, were first
introduced.'

	`Those were actors, right?'

	`That was combat footage, did you notice the blur on the lower left
where they removed the date, time, and ID watermarks?' Ranma asks, stroking
Buffy's side.

	`What?' Willow exclaims, looking green.

	`Humans can be as bad as demons, you know that,' Tara says, softly,
holding Willow close.

	`Yes, but, but,' Willow buries her face in Tara's cleavage, and goes
silent.

-*

	`So,' Moon rounds on the captive, his hands cuffed behind the back of
his chair, long black beard rumpled, black hair covered by a red-checkered
cloth, `Where did the money come from?' she asks in passible Pashtu.

	`The U.S.' the man says in the same language.

	`How do you know?'

	`I helped funnel it for the CIA,' he says, then clamps his mouth
closed, eyes wide.

	`Who did the planning?'

	He shakes his head, determined not to speak.

	`Who did the planning?' she ask him in English.

	`We got the plans from--' he clamps his lips shut again, and looks
like he wants to cry.

	`How far up in the CIA did the plans go?'

	`I don't know, as far--' he shakes his head, biting his lip so hard
it bleeds.

	`Did the president know?'

	`I don't know,' he sobs, fat tears dripping down his face, pink
droplets falling on his grimy brown robe, spreading darker brown patches.

	`Did his father know?'

	`I don't know,' he shakes his head, `How could I know?  I'm just
supposed to be a mole, deep cover, observe and report.  I didn't join so I
could train murderers to better kill Americans.  I didn't know, I didn't want
to know, I just moved the money, shared documents, and trusted that the people
in charge knew what they were doing, were doing the right thing.  I didn't
know,' and he goes incoherent, sobbing into his beard, bloody tears dripping
out of it.

-*

	`Get someone to help clean him up, put him in PC, and let him sleep,'
Moon tells the youma orderly outside the interogation room.

	`Roger,' he nods, and talks briefly into his headset.

	`That's the fourth one with that story,' Ami says, `All of them
higher rank, none of them, apparently, aware of the others.'

	`It's like Al Quaieda is just a front group for the CIA,' Umi shakes
her head, `It's sick.'

	`Osama was a key player in the fight against the Soviets,' Kail says
softly, `So it wouldn't be too far-fetched.'

	`So, what are we going to do?' Rei asks, wrapping her arms around Moon
from behind and resting her head on the slightly shorter woman's shoulder,
`About the US?'

	`Right now, nothing,' Moon shakes her head, `We'll pretend we don't
know.  All of the agents so far have broken under what they've done, so we'll
just keep them.'

	`What if they talk?'

	`To who?  Their government, who put them out here, and then used them
to betray what they believed in?  These aren't the crooked ones they have
running coke out of South America, they believed, and now they don't.'

	`Why?'

	`I don't know!  I'm not the damned CIA!' Moon punches the concrete
wall with her free hand, burying it to the wrist, `Oops,' she pulls her hand
out, shakes it off, `Have a work order put in for that, please,' she tells the
orderly.

	`Roger.'

-*

	`So,' Buffy says, `You have a job, and I,' she pauses, `Don't.'

	`You don't need one.  Go back to school, or find something you'd like
to do, or hang out with me and be my assistant,' Ranma smiles at the woman
curled about her hip, the blonde head pillowed on her breast.

	`I didn't really like school.  Maybe I could work with Xander, and
build things, that might be nice, instead of smashing them.'

	`Maybe,' Ranma looks at the clock, glare from the late afternoon sun
making it hard to read, then checks her watch instead, `Five thirty, I'll need
to get up soon, I don't want to be late for my first class.'


	`Mnnmmph,' Buffy articulates, and shakes her head against Ranma's
breast.

	`Stop that,' Ranma says, and sits up, one hand on Buffy's shoulder,
the other levering the two of them upright.

	`I don't want you to go,' Buffy whines, softly.

	`Then come with,' Ranma says, grabbing her LBV.  She tosess it over
her shoulder as she pads barefoot to the closet, silk boxers fluttering about
her thighs.

	Buffy just watches, entranced, mouth just slightly open, as Ranma
pulls on her Class Two uniform, the red-brown pants, paler shirt, and matching
jacket.  Ranma fastens the belt around the jacket, attatches the katana on her
left side, then checks the two M1911s on her shoulders, adjusts the katana for
proper draw, and tucks a couple stakes into the interior breast pocket.

	`Are you coming?'

	`not yet,' Buffy says so softly she barely hears it herself, then
blushes bright red.

	`If so, you might want to wear a little more clothing,' Ranma smiles,
and ruffles Buffy's hair on the way out the door, mirror-polished jungle boots
in hand.

-*

	`I've taken care of the bills,' Cologne says, popping up next to the
breakfast table, where Ranma is slowly coaxing a second helping of pancakes
into Buffy.

	`Good.  Dark Kingdom funding, or Council?'

	`Council business, Council funding,' the old woman scowls, `The
Western Council need their asses beaten.'

	`They don't seem to do a very good job at keeping slayers alive,'
Ranma agrees.

	`I've been reading through Gile's records.  They do their very best to
make sure they don't survive to adulthood, let alone middle age.'

	`Slayers get stronger as they get older, just like vamps, so what's
their problem?'

	`I don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised if they don't like having a
woman with that much power.'

	`We're weapons.  Treat us right, and we'll keep the world safe, beyond
that, what do I care for power?'

	`Other slayers have wanted more -- to be allowed to love who they
want, not to starve, not to have their families starve.'

	`That's sorta "Treat me right", isn't it?' Ranma asks.

	`The Western Council feels that's above and beyond, apparently,'
Cologne shrugs, `Megumi and Ami want to examine the Buffybot.'

	`Oh?' Ranma asks, `What does she have to say to that?'

	`She seems pleased by the idea.'

	`Non-destructive?'

	`Of course.'

	`Buffy?'

	`I don't want it to look like me,' Buffy says, and shudders.

	`Ami can probably do that, or at least change her hair color,' Ranma
says, and gives her a hug.

	Buffy clings tightly, then pulls back after a moment.

	`I'll arrange transport for her, then,' Cologne says, `You're taking
Buffy with you today?'

	`Yes,' Buffy says, `I'm going with her.'

	`Good.  I'll see you for at your break, then,' and the old woman
bounds from the room.

	`Does she know where we'll be?' Buffy asks.

	`No, but she'll find us,' Ranma smiles up at the taller woman, `She's
good at that.  Eat your sandwitch, you've just got a couple bites left.'

	`I don't -- '

	`Eat much.  You've told me.  Eat.'

	Buffy scowls, and takes another bite.

-*

	`So, how many of you are here because of a mandatory sentence?' Ranma
asks the gathered crowd.

	About half raise their hands.

	`That's good, actually.  Many Darkies think they know how to raise
children because they were children once, and chew it up enough that they get
placed.  Admittedly, a Darky can get placed for a lot less than an American,
but it is nice to see so many in this class voluntarily.'

	A few faces look guilty.

	`Buffy's going to sign you in during the second half of class, so be
sure to show back up after break,' Ranma smiles at the crowd, `My name's Ranma
Saotome, and I'm the new Special Agent for southeastern California.  This is a
three-day class, and you need to attend all three days for credit.  If you
complete the class, your workplace is required to pay you for any missed time.
If you don't, they don't.  Any questions before we begin?'

	`What can you teach me in three days that I don't already know?' an
older woman asks, scowling.

	`That depends on what you already know, of course,' Ranma smiles at
her, `But generally quite a bit.'

-*

	`Wow,' Buffy gushes, gathering the smaller woman into her arms,
`You're good at that.'

	`Maybe.  Depends on how many of them I need to see again, really.'

	`Well, I think you're awesome,' Buffy kisses the small woman soundly.

	`What're you having?' Cologne asks, appearing as if from nowhere.

	`I was thinking Mexican,' Ranma says, `There should be a good burrito
place around here somewhere, it's California, after all.'

-*

	Ranma finishes the last bite of her lunch, which had been bigger
around than the thickest part of her forearm and almost as long, `Quantity's
good, quality could be better.'

	`I think it's pretty good,' Buffy says, nearly finshed herself.

	`Gristle, not enough chile, not enough avacado, too much salt in the
guacamole.  Better than you'd find in Japan, but not what I'd expect from
California.'

	`So you're a food critic, too?' Cologne asks with a smirk.

	Ranma grins at the gruesome expression, `Always have been.  Can't cook
too well, but I know what I eat.'

	`You cook quite well for one your age,' Cologne counters.

	`I can follow a recipe.  That ain't the same,' Ranma shakes her head.

-*

	After the night's class Buffy drags Ranma to the Expresso Pump, `Glory
of modern consumer coffee, or something like that.'

	`It'll be midnight soon,' Ranma comments over her second triple mocha.

	Buffy's just watching, a little awed, as Ranma packs away a ninth
pastry, `Yes?'

	`So shall we go out looking for things to kill, or just head home?'

	`Umm,' Buffy says softly, distracted, again, by the sight of Ranma's
face, loosly framed by her touseled blood-red hair.

	Ranma smiles, `Lets go for a walk, then, through the cemetaries.'

	`O.K.,' Buffy lets Ranma hand her out of the chair before hugging the
shorter woman, `I hadn't realized how tiny you are.'

	`I'm a full four foot six, I'll have you know,' Ranma grins up at her,
`And I make up for any lack of stature with a surplus of mean.'

	`I like that,' Buffy leans down, `Kiss me?'

	`Pleased,' Ranma leans up and does so.


---
log:
3171/Confusion/??:		Commercial written
3171/Confusion/60:		story begun
3172/Aftermath/2:		wrote a bit more
3172/Aftemath/24:		Wrote a bit more