Page 24 of Dark Shaman: Eternal Hope
"And yet you're here," Carol observed.
"Because that colonel, despite not being a complete monster, was still part of a machine that was demonic. Those seventeen men might not all have been evil, but they were enabling it." Greta straightened. "Perhaps if I'd gotten involved earlier, if others had realized where the rhetoric was leading and that appeasement was not the answer, millions of lives could have been spared. I don't want to sit on the sidelines and watch the world spiral into the same hell. If my skills can help stop that, then I'll carry more ghosts in my head. I'm in."
Carol nodded, feeling a mixture of pride and sadness. These five women were strong and brave, and they were going to pay for their sacrifice instead of being rewarded for it.
Perhaps the Fates would take pity on them and at least reward them with truelove mates.
"Then we begin," she said, returning to her seat. "Your first real assignment is to create a persona. Not for a specific target, but a practice identity. Someone who could exist in Los Angeles, with a full background, habits, preferences, fears, and dreams. You have one week to become her so completely that you could wake up from deep sleep and respond as her."
"How do we know if we've succeeded?" Grace asked.
"I'll test you," Carol said. "I'll create scenarios, challenges, situations where your real self would respond one way and your persona another. If you break character, you fail."
"And what then?" Marlene asked.
"Then we try again," Carol said. "And again. Until you can maintain a false identity indefinitely. Because in the field, failure doesn't mean trying again. It means exposure, capture, possibly death—and not just for you, but for anyone associated with your mission."
The truth and gravity of this statement settled in. These weren't games or exercises; they were preparation for operations where lives would hang in the balance.
"I'll send you each a packet tonight with more detailed instructions," Carol continued. "Create your persona's background, but more importantly, understand her psychology. What shaped her? What drives her? What are her unconscious habits, her tells, her dreams? If you need help, I'm here for you. Text me, email me, call me. I'm at your disposal."
"This is intense," Regina murmured.
"This is just the beginning," Carol corrected. "Next week, we'll start working on voice modulation, body language alteration, and emotional control. You'll learn to cry on command, to project emotions you don't feel, to maintain arousal with someone you find repulsive."
Several of the women shifted uncomfortably at that last point.
"I won't lie to you," Carol said. "Some of what you'll learn will feel violating, like you're betraying your own body and mind. But these are tools, and like any tools, are morally neutral. It's how you use them that matters."
"For the greater good," Teresa said, as if reminding herself.
"Yes," Carol agreed. "The information you gather and your influence could prevent wars, expose corruption, and save lives. Hold on to that when things get dark."
10
RUVON
Ruvon pushed open the door to Ingrid's design center, holding a box of pastries. The sweet scent of baklava and rosewater cookies wafted up through the cardboard, mixing with the showroom's usual perfume of fresh fabric and furniture polish.
Arriving with offerings improved his chances of getting useful advice, and today he needed all the help he could get.
Besides, his daily purchases at The Pearl were his way of getting to know Arezoo's mother and aunts better. At first, they'd welcomed him with forced smiles, but nowadays those smiles were genuine. He was a good customer, and he was always courteous. Maybe that's why he had been invited to a Friday dinner with the family.
It was a great opportunity to ask Soraya for her blessing, but he had no idea how to go about it, which was why he was bothering Ingrid again for advice.
She looked up from her design table, where she'd been arranging what looked like a hundred different shades of blue fabric, andgave him a welcoming smile, but he wasn't sure if that smile was for him or for the pastries.
"Are those for me?"
"Who else?" He put them on the edge of the table, away from the swatches of fabric.
"You are going to make me fat."
He chuckled. "If Atzil didn't manage that, I doubt I will."
Her partner was a chef, and Ingrid had told Ruvon that Atzil had won her heart with baked goods.
Ingrid rose to her feet and smoothed her hand over her dress. As always, she was elegance personified, the cream-colored dress fitting her generous curves perfectly. It was paired with heels of the same color that looked dangerous to walk in.
