ORIGIN

Vargas paced along the tunnel, heading with his permanent savage grin toward Doctor's niche, and the little warren the silly self-titled Sentinels of the Sands had formed themselves.

Mostly, the Overseer let them do whatever they want; let them play at self-determination and deliberate service to him. He didn't care what they did, when he didn't need them. But right now, he needed them. The dragons would be a problem. He knew that, now. He needed them under control, and he needed their stones, because that was an issue that, if left untouched, would come back to bite them in the ass--hard. The last thing he wanted was to have to face Astraea and explain why out-of-control draconic beasts were rampaging, uncontrolled, through the caves. Of course, it wasn't exactly Vargas' fault, but that wouldn't necessarily stop the blame from heading right his way.

And Vargas was not, in any case, the sort to sit passively by. For all his viciousness, he was cunning; and there were things he knew about this new generation. For one thing, they'd never felt the sting of betrayal from within. The terror of trust, of never knowing if the fellow refugee begging for succor was being trailed by Vargas himself, ready to wipe them out. The fear and distrust, alone, had been every bit as strong as the true betrayals, and the hunt, for if they could not trust one another enough to work together, they were alone. And alone, everything was easy prey.

The dragons, he knew, would be much harder to split up. But if they could be infiltrated he could at least learn their strengths, their weaknesses, and their habits. And knowing the enemy was the first step to defeating them.

If that failed? He'd hunt them, and kill them, one by one, and use their stones to make his own damn army.

...He'd been considering, lately, the idea of dragons as attack beasts, but with their backs lined with ten or twenty tiny monkey-beasts who also happened to be masters of magic. Imagine, he thought: a flame-breathing flying monster, with a dozen little bastards flinging sickness, blindness and disorienting crashes of pressure magic at their foes! And then--what if the tiny ones have wings, too? The dragon can rise up and just dump off all these little things--things that wouldn't have made it on their own across the battlefield but who, once safely there, would be adept at sowing chaos in the enemy's ranks. Ooooh, yes.

...He'd have to figure out some way to propose that one to Astraea, though. "I'd like permission for a project: a dragon covered in flying monkeys" was a bit of an odd way to start.

Ahhh, well. First things first; and first, was a spy. "DESERT ROSE THIRTY-FIVE?" the Overseer bellowed, coming at last to Doctor's abode, and the warren.

Vargas turned, utterly oblivious to the deep thoughts and worries plaguing (as always) the poor anxious Desert Rose.

Instead-

"Good!" he boomed. "I have a task for you. Those dragons are going to be a thorn in our sides," Vargas said, turning to the Desert Rose; there were no formalities, no niceties. He launched right into it. "We'll need access to their designs--their stones--and we need to get them under control before they either kill half of us or, worse, before Astraea turns up and asks why the hell we haven't dealt with it. Why they're running loose, stronger than we are." Again, no real explanation as to why this would be their problem; just one more pressure to lay on Desert Rose's overtaxed shoulders, really.

"You were always a rules-abiding sort. Obedient. Dutiful." Vargas loomed, now, staring intently at Desert Rose. "There were things in the cave--I don't know how much you knew of them. The rebels, for example. They hid, here and there--scattered, refusing trials, refusing service!--the selfish little beasts. But there were always infiltrators. Little voices that led them astray, either from within or from the likes of Nemean," and at that memory, Vargas laughed. "These dragons are a new iteration. They don't know of the worries of venomous voices from their own allies. How it'll drive groups apart; how never being able to trust one another weakens--no, crumbles!--rebellion. And there's something else, too. The Masters always controlled Raheerah. Not physically, not magically--he was a weapon, and one that obliterates!--I think these dragons are spawn of his, somehow. But we'll need to find something to control them with. Something they care about that we can take, and keep hostage. Or some way to trick them."

Vargas leaned closer, leering. "I'd like to task you with this. You have wings," he went on, as if this would make it easy for Desert Rose to infiltrate, "and you're known to be one of mine, and they're known to be rebellious. I want you to go to them and ask for protection from us, say you're a refugee, a rebel now, things have gotten too much, whatever," the Overseer went on, waving one forelimb dismissively. "Choose your own approach, but join them, be taken in. I'll send another scout to take your reports, periodically, in Orion--somewhere dark. They'll go with you, to begin with. Are you interested?" he finished, six eyes glowing, unblinking.

Whether he was interested wasn't really the question; but it was polite to ask, regardless. And Vargas, even past the murder, was certainly polite. Desert Rose, he knew, was liable to jump at the opportunity for advancement regardless. "You needn't join further trials, if you succeed in this. And there's something else I want to ask you," he added, remembering his plans for the other young scouts.

He couldn't trust them with infiltrating the dragons--they were young, unproven--but it was time to test them, to find out whether they could be trusted in the future.

Vargas nodded once; there was no praise, but he went straight to business.

And reward.

"Good. My question: which of them do you think should take your reports, and how often--and where? You'll need to decide what works best for you. It can be Hemlocke, or one of the children. I plan to put them into training, soon, so they can do things like this as needed--I cannot trust any of them with this as yet. They're unproven." A pause; "I don't know if you know them better than I do! A terrible thing for an Overseer to admit," he added, with brief, harsh laughter afterward. "But if there is one you favor," and here, Vargas leaned a little closer, peering down intently, "and if you trust them not to ruin a very, very important task, this would be a good mark on their record." The implication was here--oh, and a high-pressure decision, no doubt; did Desert Rose refuse the risk of an unproven kid in this very important spy task? Or did he favor one, and trust one, enough to risk it, both to prove the kid and to perhaps save them from some unpleasant fate should they fail their other trials? Vargas made the offer both because he believed Desert Rose would be honest in his gauging of the kids' abilities but also because he'd earned that slight reward: to pass his favor on to a chosen child.

"And after you decide that," he added, and drew his claws slowly, thoughtfully, through the sand across the warm rock, "you may choose to take a name while amongst the dragons. You may even choose to keep it, afterward, should you succeed in your given task."

A double reward; and as strange and mild as it might have seemed to someone of this era, Vargas knew that Desert Rose would grasp the value of such an offer.

A surprise, that--if not a strong one; Garnet-Delta was perhaps the most promising of the scouts. The Desert Rose's honesty--and strength of insight--was noted, and Vargas dipped his head.

"Take your time in deciding, then. I'll call them together to give them various tasks; and if you choose one, then, that one will be given an additional order: to take your reports however you instruct them to go about it. A decision," he added, "for which you may wish to ask for others' advice, if you are unsure. Hemlocke may have suggestions," the Overseer finished.

A nod, then, that six-eyed gaze unblinking. "Go, yes; and be ready for my call in the coming days."

Vargas turned, leaping with one great bound onto one of the other higher ledges and there he curled, almost cat-like himself, to rest: watchful, but in his own thoughts, for now.