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The rustle of the leaves announces her arrival before any sound that could be attributed to her. With her body back to its normal strength, once she is out of the streets Miria doesn't waste any time. She moves towards him with a speed that causes a wind to rush through the trees around her, like a personal wind tunnel.

Shortly after the sound can be heard, there she is at the edge of the trees, in the armor he saw her in, but carrying on her back a sword that's nearly her own height in length. Whether from that or the return of her strength, her entire bearing is somehow changed. She's complete now, even if she's definitely not human anymore.

She nods a greeting. Her eyes - now silver from the return of her power -rest briefly on the swords before returning to him.

"Hello."

He looks over at her admiringly as she approaches. She moves with such an aggressive beauty he can't help but stop and contemplate it for a while. While many would say he had the soul of an artist, Kyle knew he was a fighter at heart, and this was what he lived for: the thrill and joy of a fight. This was an opponent who he could match, and maybe she was looking forward to not holding back as much as he was.

They're no longer acquaintances, they're something else, and that sings through Kyle's own body as he stands. His ring glows, and he's dressed in his own uniform: green, black, and white with the insignia on the left side of his chest. No mask, because he doesn't need one in Keeliai, but small flames of green fire fall off him in wisps, disappearing into the air. It's maybe a little intended to impress.

'Hello,' he says, with a smile, as he approaches, adjusting the distance between them so that they're both comfortable.

They're not acquaintances. But they're not comrades yet. Not until Miria has a better idea of who he is, and what he fights for. She will admit, she's looking forward to finding this out.

She almost smiles at the show of light around him. His ring gives off no aura that she can recognize other than the light, and she reads that as a display of power, like a warrior carrying her own aura.

Nodding at the insignia of her chest: "That symbol. Is it your personal mark?"

She's wearing her own clearly on her chest and the blade of her sword. She hasn't notices anyone else wearing anything so distinctive, and if Kyle has one, it means another similarity that she shares with no one else she knows of.

His ring is reading an alarming statistic on her, as it adjusts his own strength to be proportional. Her speed, he already has some idea of: it was incredible. Whoever makes these super-soldiers, they do an excellent job (and the strength of the warrior was always a good gauge of what kind of enemy they faced. He shuddered to think of yoma).

'It was just mine for a long time, but now it's shared with my brothers and sisters.' That's the truth, without him saying I was the last one and it's one she'll understand, too. He nods towards hers. 'Is yours personal?'

That ring will have to do a few adjustments if she ever has reason to release her energy and increase her strength. She has no intention of doing that today, in a friendly meeting of swords. What he's reading now is just the baseline strength for a former number six.

She lifts a hand to her chest and two fingers touch her symbol as she hears the weight in his words. She understands, and it makes her think of a graveyard of seventeen broadswords.

"We are each given a unique mark by the Organization when we become warriors, to identify ourselves. No one will ever have the same mark - it represents my name, you could say."

And with that perfect opening, she draws her sword, holding it between them in one hand so he can see the symbol on the blade. The implication is that it bears her mark, so it is part of who she is.

There's nothing comparable: the ring identifies them by numbers which can be shared. Uniforms, perhaps, are the only thing are personalised. All of them have the same symbol.

He studies the one on her blade reverently, and nods.

'Is there another name they have besides "The Organisation"?'

"No," she says thoughtfully, and adds: "not that I know of." Because maybe they have another name in the larger context of the masters they serve; which Miria doesn't care about.

"But they are based in Sutafu, so people might refer to them as 'The Organization in Sutafu.'" Or the Organization of Claymores, maybe.

"What of the people who gave you your ring? How did they come to give it to you?"

'They're called the Guardians.'

Sometimes people referred to them as Oans, or Maltusians, but that's not a name Kyle will ever use for them. They might have others, like the Zamarons, or the Controllers, but that's not something he cares very much for either. It doesn't matter to his job. It's weird, he sees more of a comrade in Miria in these brief moments. Sure, he's met people with similarities, but very few warriors.

(And he was a warrior, first and foremost.)

'The enemies in our world are many, and powerful. Ordinary people can't defend themselves against those who can wipe them out with the wave of a hand, so a long time ago, the first few green rings were created.' He tilts his head, cautiously. 'Like swords, I suppose. Except... it chooses its wielder, and answers only to them. This one found me.'

"It found you?"

She repeats it with a mixture of confusion and incredulity at the edges of her tone, trying to imagine what it would be like to be chosen by a weapon. She fails, and ends up smiling at her own lack of understanding.

"I think I will understand your ring better if you show me what it can do."

She brings her sword up between them again, blade turnes up so she can see either side of it at him.

"If you are ready?"

'Yes, it found me.'

He flexes his fingers, and the ring creates a construct of a sword comparable to hers in size. It also encases him in dark green armour, with a visor covering his face, leaving only his eyes, now intense and keen, visible. In the centre of his chest, the same symbol on his ring is emblazoned in green and black.

Then, he takes up a stance. 'I am. Come.'

"Do not hold back," Miria says. "Come at me with all your strength."

That is all the warning she gives before she is darting forward at a speed that makes her hard to make out in motion, even without drawing on any of her yoma power. Her sword clangs against his armor, and she smiles as she tries again.

It is a long match, and a fulfilling one. They may be matched in strength, but with the powers returning, Miria's speed is fast enough that at times it seems there's two of her, even if she can do nothing to get through his armor.

At the end of it, she's huffing to catch her breath, a light in her silver eyes that's echoed in the barest hint of her smile on her lips.

"That's quite the ring."

It's like having one's yoma power on the outside, instead of sewn up inside. But it's more than the power, she thinks. It's the man who wields it. She's learned more about him in the last hour than all the conversation could have provided.

He doesn't reply verbally, and he meets her blade with his, darting and dancing as fast as he can. She's fast, much faster, but he's fought speedsters who use the same tricks she does, and it's not difficult to adjust.

He fights mainly defensively, to hold his own ground as he's usually protecting civilians, but there are glimpses, when she forces him, where true steel shows and he goes on the offensive, and the intent to kill flickers in his eyes and movements.

His armour holds. Every time she slices into it, it regrows. He is focused, and determined, and he shows no outward signs of tiring when they're done. Instead, he exhales, letting his exhaustion flow through and out of him, before he stands up straight.

'So they say,' he says, openly smiling, as the constructs around him disappear.

She watches that exhaustion drain out with an envy she doesn't try to hide, standing up while her breath returns to her. Her opinion of him hasn't much changed from first impressions, but her esteem for him has grown considerably.

"I am glad," she says, "that I will never face you in a fight to the death. The ring chooses you, and not the Guardians?"

'Me too.' A pause. 'Yes, the ring does. When I die, it'll go on to choose another.'

Once he is fully in control of his own movements, he lets his shoulder slump a little and changes back from his uniform to the simple clothes he was wearing earlier, and gestures for her to join him, where he's got a small meal and a bottle of water under a tree.

"But the Guardians made the rings," Miria says as she follows him. "Why? With the sole purpose of defending people who needed it? Do they profit from it in some way?"

With a thunk, she plants her sword into the ground by the tree, in such a way that when she sits down, she can lean her back against the blade and be facing him as he eats and drinks.

"I'm sorry if I sound overly cynical. The Organization claimed benevolence, but they charged for our services."

'For maintaining order, where there was chaos and suffering. You could say they control territory, and have influence,' he remarks, pensive. 'There's a number of warring factions in the universe, and we are amongst the most steadfast. It's still power, even if we use it to help.'

Then, he shakes his head. 'Don't apologise. No system, however it appears, is beyond question, or should be. The only reason ours hasn't collapsed is because we change with the times, adjust according to the needs of those we serve.'

"Helping people is an effective way of maintaining that power," Miria agrees. "The fees the Organization charged were a good way of keeping most of the towns in the world from threatening their power in the continent."

Add in the Organization controlling the yoma, and they effectively maintained absolute power over the continent.

"Could you have declined, when the ring chose you?"

She's building up to something now, that's been on her mind since meeting Zatanna. Something that Kyle, with his parallels, deserves to know about her.

He nods again. 'We didn't charge, and we aren't paid. Weren't, rather. Wages are new.' And unnecessary is there too, in the words. He hated that they were paid. It wasn't the right incentive to help.

At her question, his brow actually furrows in confusion. 'I... don't know. I never thought about saying no. It's possible but I've never heard of anyone doing it. It's an honour, to be chosen.'

If no one has declined, she assumes, somehow, they are not given the option to decline. That something in the process of choosing makes rejection impossible. Maybe something in the magic of the ring (because Miria assumes the ring in magic), or the culture that comes from the world where the Guardians have control. Maybe something else, she isn't sure.

Whether Kyle himself would have picked it or not is irrelevant, really. He may well have done, but she doesn't really believe he had a choice.

Like her.

She explains: "On my world, warriors do not have a choice. We are sold as girls by our villages to the Organization and transformed into monsters. Choice doesn't come into it."

He looks at her, his expression heavy, processing all that's unsaid in her words, and senses her anger. He makes a mental note to check the Corps' archives, to see if anyone has said no. He knows of resignations when the rules changed, but when first chosen? Probably not.

'I'm sorry.'

It's quiet, and intense. He feels it's supremely inadequate, but he offers it anyway. 'I wouldn't make a different choice, but I wouldn't wish this life on anyone.'

"Please don't be."

Pity isn't really something she can process. Anger she would understand, but it's anger that belongs to her and her comrades and she wants no one to carry it on her behalf.

"I just wanted you to know that for all our similarities, there are many differences between us, and the people who created us."

He nods, apologetically. He would've said something similar, to be honest, and he can't begrudge her that.

'There are,' he agrees. 'But cruelty isn't a stranger to either of us.'

They've both been forged.

"Nor is anger," she says; nothing more than a statement of fact.

"I can't go back to being human," she says. "Even without my yoma power these last weeks it wasn't anything real."

This isn't a contrast between them. No matter how external the source of his power, he's been changed by his experiences as much as she is. She acknowledges that even if it doesn't make her words.

"But I would not, even if I could. Not while there are people who need protecting."

So it's sort of like she's making a choice?

'Nor is anger,' he replies, and that's really all they need to say on the subject. He dips his head, pausing while he eats, and considers. 'Neither of us fit the other's definition of fellow... warriors? That was the word you used. We're not fellow warriors.' It's not condescension, he's simply working out what the boundaries in this are. 'But I think we're allies.'

He'd seen how she fought, after all, and he had a feeling she didn't speak about this to anyone outside other silver-eyed people, really.

She almost smiles. He;s right, and it's difficult for her. But there are things he needs to know if he's going to be her ally.

"A fellow warrior, maybe. A comrade? No." That's her agreeing with him. He's not one of her sisters, he's not even comparable to the male warriors that once were. "Ally is a good word."

Maybe eventually friend will be a better one.

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