[Author's Note: Many thanks to Chagan (see favorite authors) for help with the title and genre. :-) And for beta-reading.]

The girl sat in the interrogation room, her black clothing making a stark contrast to the bleached-white walls and her light blonde hair. Her hands shook violently, and she gripped the sides of the chair in an attempt to steady them.

She was the very picture of innocence.

The man in white didn't blame her for being nervous. After all, the troops had picked her up in the aftermath of one of the mass cleansings that morning. She was the sole survivor.

As the man entered the windowless room, the soldier in grey behind her gave a sharp salute. He was once like her, many years ago; he was one of the smarter ones – maybe she would be too. After all, it runs with the territory.

"At ease," the former told the soldier, and the latter returned to a more relaxed position. Only 15, and already a perfect soldier. Ah, how easy it was to reprogram the human psyche.

The girl shifted uncomfortably; according to the notes the man had previously received, she had only been conscious for an hour.

He sat down across from her, offering an encouraging smile. "Don't be nervous, little one," he said, his voice deceptively smooth, calming. It had taken years of training to get it that way, and he for one was pleased with the results.

She nodded, her face even more pallid than her normally light complexion.

"What's your name?"

A pause. Her eyes darted back and forth between the walls and the man, unsure.

"Einin, sir," she finally answered.

"Einin, such a pretty name – but no surname?"

Silence.

"I said, what might your surname be?"

Nothing.

"You do realize that my friend here will kill on my command."

She twisted around in her chair, taking a moment to study the soldier. Please, her expression seemed to say. Don't hurt me…

His expression never changed.

The girl turned back to face the man. "Bethan. Einin Bethan," she choked out. Her voice cracked, practically exuding hopelessness. She was broken; the rest would be easy.

Unbeknownst to her, a flicker of recognition glimmered in the soldier's eyes, but it soon disappeared entirely. The man smirked inwardly and continued his questioning.

"And how old are you?"

"Eleven, sir."

It was difficult for him to contain his surprise – she was older than expected – however, the man kept his face blank. It wouldn't do for her to take advantage of the incomplete information.

"Now Einin, you should consider yourself lucky – they let you live."

Again, silence. She lowered her head to stare at her black jeans.

"They deemed you suitable. They want you, Einin. We want you."

The girl held her gaze. The color still had not returned to her face, making her seem as white as the walls of the room. A camouflage of sorts.

"Join us; you can help fight the scum of the Rebellion."

"No." Her voice was very soft, but firm, and as she raised her head to glare at the man, he noticed a fire in her bright blue eyes. A fire of defiance, of a strong will.

"Oh, but if you don't, you shall die."

"I won't." There it was again, that stubbornness, that conscious disregard for authority.

The soldier removed the rifle from his back and held it ready.

"I assure you, we do not give second chances." The man was growing impatient now; he had never imagined that someone could say no.

Einin affixed her icy gaze on him. "I want to go home."

The soldier cocked his rifle and aimed.

"You'll die if you refuse – one last chance: will you join us?"

"I'm going home," she whispered, standing and turning to face the soldier.

"Very well then," the man answered. He nodded to the soldier.

The soldier pulled the trigger.

Hours later, as the man sat in his own quarters, he silently mulled over the day's events. They had lost the girl, yet the soldier had cemented his loyalty to the cause.

After all, only a soldier that loyal will shoot his own sister.