There was a sour taste of silence lurking amongst the courtyards and fields of Eastern Gallia. It was as if a thousand voices had once flourished and thrived with jovial content, when they had the chance, before a sleeping behemoth had emptied all signs of life. The East was no more the East, but now a part of Western Imperialist ideology and militarised fortifications. Towns, settlements, homes and rooms had been vacated either forcefully or by the settler's choices, though there weren't many choices to begin with. The term Ghost Town would never be grand or broad enough to cover such expansive terrors which was the cease of Eastern Gallian life. Many had died already, many more were likely to follow. For the footsteps of an awakened monster tore through the lands and bonds shared by its inhabitants. The war had begun a lot sooner than people expected; the war had begun a lot sooner than people wanted. No one wanted the war, save for certain high-ranking personnel required to maintain their reputation throughout the ranks of their nation.

The people of Gallia were shaken; shaken down to their cores. Those who scrutinised the outbreak of the Second Europan War were lucky enough to draw themselves Westwards towards the Capital, whereas the rest either hoped the first line of forts on the border to the Empire were strong enough to withstand an invasion. Unfortunately, they weren't. The Towns-watch were the first call to arms outside of standard military provisions, with limited supplies of firearms being distributed around the nation. They acted as the military police unofficially running each settlement. These were the unluckiest, in the eyes of some. Whilst civilians were shot, many were captured if given the chance. The Towns-Watch were never given the chance to be taken far. All that stand in the way of the steaming battalions of hell bare no acceptance of mercy, so the Imperials think. It was lucky that the Militia were armed and primed...It would be the only thing able to stop the continuous massacres of Watchmen laying down their lives without justice or the fairness of well-equipped.

Otto was one of those who believed in such things. He was grateful, entirely, that the Militia had been re-established. It wasn't because of the universal conscription, not at all. That was his least favourite part about it. However, what he was grateful for was that it gave people the chance to fight in the towns whilst having the equipment to do so. The town-watchmen were limited in resources, relying on mainly semi-automatic or bolt-action rifles to keep them in the fight. Against the newfound expansion of automatic handheld firearms, Otto was surprised even himself, Iden and Yralith were able to survive the Battle of Ryben Hill alongside himself. Though the other two now well-acquainted comrades were tougher, they were expected to survive if Otto could. They were disciplined, but also able to speak their free-mind without too much hostility. Respect was their biggest strive to density and durability in combat. It made sense for them to become Lieutenants. But that wasn't something Otto could take on himself. It was never something Otto could take on himself.

There was an echo of footsteps bouncing around the concrete walls of the hallway on the Western Quarters of the Second Gallian Militia HQ. There were several bases of operations scattered along the West, though some bigger than others. The one he resided at and called his home was a series of tall, sturdy buildings that were clearly built with the thought of a Coastal Invasion in mind. It was nearer to the western coast, about a ten minute drive by truck to the beaches specifically. They were glossy beaches, golden and aesthetically awe-inspiring to the core. They were a symbol of hope in these buildings.

His footsteps creating such a tremolo tone were likely due to the thickness of the walls. Some called the Second Militia Headquarters the Fortress of the People's Army. Some of the higher officers within the military used the term `People's Army` to mock their expendable intentions for the Militia, yet those who bared the uniforms and titles of Militia personnel took advantage of such an insult and used it as a rallying motto for their conscripted soldiers. It was to give them hope, letting them know that they were the ones that had lived, suffered and set out to take back their homes that they had lost themselves. And in all honesty, Otto was starting to believe that being called an Army for the People was helping his own confidence himself. The Fortress gave him confidence as well. With walls able to withstand a decent amount of bombardment, as demonstrated during its construction in the First Europan War, it made him feel like if it came down to it, they could make their last stand in a place that had a chance of surviving.

Otto Mallaye was a man of worry, care and small fear for those around him, but that was what pushed him on in the first place. Fear was a driving motion that made him think tactically, imagining that those under his rank would have the chances of falling because of what he said. Yet it had its disadvantages, as every death could change his vitality against shock to an utter-collapse. This mind-numbing experience of thought was what decayed his confidence from taking the position as a Lieutenant. Thinking he could just fight alongside his comrades as equals, he could not escape the chain of command and found himself being placed as a Sergeant.

Being a Sergeant was quite difficult to take in. As his introductory meeting with Major Latell, one of the Headquarters' Commanding Officers overlooking multiple platoons within the 2nd Regiment, he was instructed to take up the role of Squad 11's subordinate: The IC's personal non-comissioned officer. It also made him the replacement in the event of their IC's death, which was also quite a staggering thought to cross Otto's mind. The trail of thought about his introduction to his Squad's CO made him focus on different topics.

He hadn't met anyone from his Squad that wasn't Lando Tankreith. She was a stubborn but well-rounded individual from first impressions. Being the third-day that everyone was at the headquarters since the arrival of the conscripted took place, there wasn't much chance for Otto to even introduce himself to the others. He knew Lando had though. She'd seen quite a lot of their upcoming squad-mates with the intention of getting a good and fresh-start with those under her command. Sure, she wasn't the tallest of soldiers to stand amongst the group he was yet to meet. She checked out, however, with an ability to supply knowledge tactically in training scenarios. Otto wasn't too different to her, in the sense that he wasn't the drill-sergeant type of individual to run amok the Militia. It wouldn't wear off well onto the sleeves of his comrades if he were to act in such a way consistently.

Otto realised he'd been static in the hallways for longer than he'd imagined. There was no one inside roaming around, save for a few other Lieutenants and the occasional group of Privates. The uniforms had recently been fully stocked and provided to every soldier, so it was likely that everyone was still making changes to how they looked or adjusting the personal touches they wished to add. There weren't many options of style that could effectively change their ability in combat, barely any armour-plating stocks had come through, as most of them were being used for the 3rd Regiment, the ones planned to fight in the North. His static position led to him picking up the pace, holding a light jog as he made his way towards the newly refurbished office of his commanding officer...Lando.

"Lieutenant Tankreith?" Otto cautiously exposed his loneliness by entering the slightly open door that was of Lando's office. When walking in, he saw her adjusting the cap upon her head, looking within the mirror as if she'd been attempting since the hours ago she'd received her uniform. It was still the early morning, but the Lieutenants could receive their uniforms earlier due to how easily outnumbered they were by regular Militia soldiers. "Ma'am, I've sent word for Squad 11 to meet us within the Northern depots, second workshop, for the introductions to one another and your speech. Do you need any form of escort to get there, the journey is a bit of a tangled pathway?"

The tall lad was never usually as polite as this when it came to casual conversations, but seeing as his brief but experienced encounter with communication to higher-ranking personnel from the Ryben Hill incident he knew he had to make the best presentation around those who held higher titles than he did. The smaller woman, roughly a few years older than him, looked from her mirror towards him with a nod and a smile of appreciation for his arrival.

"Well, thank you, Sergeant Mallaye. To answer your question, sure. I could use some sort of a tour there, I'm only familiar with the Southern and Eastern parts of the Headquarters." The two soon after began to make their way, hoping not to bump into anyone from their Squad too early. They didn't want to create an awkward introduction that seemed uncanny to how everyone else received theirs. They were lucky enough to miss that unfortunate opportunity, despite the appearance of soldiers now appearing from their dormitories all kitted with slightly altered or different variations of the uniform. The groups of insignia commemorating their role within their teams shone on their backs and chests. Each role and position within the Gallian Militia, at least to Otto, helped him find out what kind of a person they were. Some had the choice of their role, whilst others were unable to decide and placed based upon their achievements in the youth-academies in previous years.

Eventually, the duo of command entered the Depot workshop, where a few vehicles stood out. It was assigned as the greater place of comfort for the entirely new Squad 11. Two tanks, an APC and a LAV all laid waiting, though their condition could've used a little refreshment. There were likely to be talented engineers within their Squad, and those tasked with being Armoured Crewmen were also likely to be familiar with the maintenance of such vehicles. Speaking of which, there were a few soldiers who were already waiting for them. Some were yet to arrive, but that wouldn't take too long to get through. Otto and Lando both agreed to let the already occurring small-talk to continue until everyone was there. Lando, being the well-spoken woman she was, invited Otto to even converse with those within his Squad. For someone who was eager to meet his new comrades, there was a sticking sensation of hesitation. He felt compelled to not get too attached to his soldiers, but that would be ridiculous to do so. It still seemed that the events of Ryben Hill were a constant reminder...

He was scooted along, closer to the group, as he began to feel his legs carry him in motion. He slowly made his way to towards the split groups and stood where he was, looking around at the small few people already present. Part of him hoped the others would turn up quickly, whilst the rest hoped they wouldn't, meaning he could get to know everyone here well enough to build trust. Trust is important after-all.

The beetfield were silent. Dead. With absolute no traces of life remained on the old battleground. All could be seen were pure devastation of the fight that occurred not even a few hours ago. Destroyed tanks and APCs, both Gallians and Imperials, laid bare on the ground, either burning, without a turret, or both, ornamented with piles of dead soldiers nearby. A few of these vehicles were lucky to keep their appearance clean, in hopes of being recovered after the war, and maybe sent to a war museum, at best, but more likely under the shredder.

It was a powerful reminder. Of an ill-fated squad in the Militia, Squad 13, who had perished under the ruthlessness of the Imperial soldiers, and the incompetence of the Gallian Military high command. No wonder why they bore the number thirteen in their squad name. The Militia were pretty much the cannon fodder of the Gallian military forces, being sent to suicidal and unnecessary missions again and again by the Military. Squad 13 was no exceptions, being thrown into countless battles like that. Pragmatically speaking , anyone righteous person with a right mind would never ever put their soldiers into unnecessary danger like that, but considering most of the high command were a bunch of buffoons whose only thing they could see was their pathetic personal desire for glory and their own life, it was not a surprise. Even the incredible luck that pulled Squad 13 out of many predicaments did not save them this time. They were dead to the world now. Gone.

Or so they thought…

In the midst of the smoke, the stench of death and blood, there was a tank. A typical Gallian light tank, armed with the standard 75mm cannon, laid motionlessly on the muddy ground, thankfully not burning. The tank was especially ornamented with multiple sandbags at the front and a couple of tree logs on the side, with some armor plating in the turret, which is turned towards the side, the guns pointing down. On the side of the turret painted eight white letters, resembling a word in a particular language, and was also the name of the tank itself: Pacifier. At the lower glasis of the tank was a mark of an AT shell, either from a tank or artillery, still fresh and new. It did not punch through the armor, but it caused the area to bend in considerably. Although the tank wasn’t burning, it still gave the impression that it had given into its fate. That impression proved to be a merit to the crew inside.

“Ok I think this should finally does it.” Inaudible from outside, the voice of a blonde man nearing his twenties, echoed inside the tank, from the driver’s seat. He was bending himself in his seat, so that his hands were able to reach the tank’s hydraulic system, which contributed to the movement of the front wheels. The tank’s driver winced as he attached the two wires together, causing a slight zap that flashed his eyes one bit. It was bad damage, very bad.

“It should work.” Said another man with a slight Imperial accent, sitting above him, underneath the commander’s hatch, wearing the uniform of the Gallian Militia. He was also blonde in hair color, but was slightly and visibly older. His eyes were grass green, beautiful but hollowed, just like his history. He was no stranger to this kind of things. This wasn’t his first time seeing it. “We’ve been out here for nearly two days, no food, no communication, surrounded by dead corpses. I believe I don’t need to make myself clear of being sickened just by being here.”

The man in the driver’s seat clenched his teeth tightly, angered, frustrated.

“Those bastards in the Military. It’s their fault this had happened…”

The tank commander sighed audibly in exasperation

“What’s good with complaining about it now? You’ve been saying the same freaking thing for the entire day.”

“Those noble savages.” His curse rose. “Living off people’s skulls like that.”

“God damn it. Joachim, that’s enough.” The tank commander raised his voice against him, not too loud, but was stern and austere.

“Oh ok Hans. My whole squad died for some nobilities who cannot see anything but their own asses, and now you’re gonna stop me from saying anything about it?!” His voice was more sarcastic, but still very angry.

“So what? Are you gonna pour it on us instead? You aren’t gonna kill anyone with words you know. Shut up and do your work.”He finished, leaving the rash driver to continue his mumble on his own.

With a simple shake of the head, in irritation, he turned away from him, to another particular member of his tank crew. She was in her seat, but was kind of restless, looking back and forth, her braided black hair swaying around in motion.

“Sora, what’s wrong? Nature’s call again?” Hans asked.

She lightly shook her head

“I am wondering if it is ok to leave our friends like that out there.” She said, with melancholy. “I think they’re cold. We should give them proper burial.”

Hans’s head plummet, as he sighed again, but this time with more compassion, and less irritation, than with Joachim.

“I know they don’t deserve deaths here. We all know that. But we also know that we don’t deserve death as well. Let me remind you that we are still in the enemy’s territory. So it’s better that you resist your own temptation to put others ahead of you.” He said, as Sora simply sat down. He knew her feelings, but realistically speaking, going out there and dig massive holes together was a total bad idea. The Imperials wouldn’t be so noble to let three Gallian soldiers to live so that they can bury their dead comrades. Reality didn’t work that way.

“This is a war, not some fairy tales where you can do whatever you want to do. I expect you all to pull yourself together. At least until this conflict draws a conclusion.” Hans said. “Do I make myself clear with you?”

Only Sora replied with a slight nod.

“Again, do I make myself clear?” Hans repeated, sounding more serious and militaristic.

“Yes sir.”

“Yes sir...” They both replied this time.

“Alright.” He could note the discouragement in their answers, but he could just simply let it pass this time. “Looks like the coast is clear. Let’s get this tank back on its track again.”

Joachim stopped bending himself, after several hours trying to repair the damaged tank. The stretch was especially painful, but as someone who had known it for years before in the construction site, the tank driver was used to it. He sat back up on the chair, properly checking all the equipment, then tried with the hydraulic system again, to see if the wheels actually span as he would like it. For the first try, it did not went on. It was so for the second. Then the third.

“Work you lil-” Thankfully, the fourth was the final call for it. The tank’s wheels rolled again, pulling its track with them, after an entire day laying dormant in the bare rain.

The Pacifier had come back to life again. Its turret began to readjust itself to its righteous position, as the tank started to move. Turning itself around, it began rolling back to where it came from, silent, carrying the sorrow and unspoken desire of the dead to come with them.

---

The camp’s residences were especially unprepared for such emergence

A tank that was thought by everyone to be destroyed; its crew dead, was now rolling through the camp’s entrance. Even the camp’s guard didn’t even bother stopping them for a check. They were too shocked, as the tank continued rolling past them.

They were no strangers to these tankers. Their reputation for being one of the only, if not only, Gallian tank to destroy an Imperial heavy tank on a head-on tank battle, did not go unnoticed. Normally, Gallian tanks were mostly used against infantry and destroying fortifications, while it was the Lancers who were actually the main forces that destroy tanks, for the reason that Gallian tanks were normally outgunned when faced with the superior engineered Imperial tanks. Because of that, the Pacifier’s victory over the heavily armed Imperial heavy tank was a remark to the crew’s personal abilities as a whole. Hans did get a terrible injury in that fight, but he at least got a recognition medal for it.

Stopping at the camp’s ground, one particular officer, who had known Hans for a certain amount of time, along with his battle record, was standing right there. His face bore a myriad of emotions. Some happiness, some relieves, but mostly as shocked as everybody else.

From the top of the tank, from the hatch, the crew members popped themselves out. Hans quickly got down to the ground. It felt so distant, so luxurious for those like the three of them at the time. He greeted the officer not with a salute, but a formal handshake.

“Thought you were dead. Where’s the rest of Squad 13?” The officer said.

Hans looked back at the tank and back at his superior, filled with irony and sarcasm.

“We’re ‘it’.”

The officer was in no surprise, but his expressions right now were so hard to even be explained. While he was happy that his good soldiers were still alive, he found it more and more difficult to treat him now. He had seen many things, soldiers from the First Europan War suffering mental issues over their dead squadmates. Honestly, it was a bit cruel to admit, but it was better that an entire squad died at the same time than having one or two members alive and suffer from it.

But Hans were in no particular mood for dwelling.

“I believe my crew needs more than a simple rest. So can you either take us to a new camp, or settle us in now?”

“Ah, yes. Give me a moment. You guys can rest at your old squad’s common room. We’ll try to accommodate you in a minute. I’ll discuss this with some of the base’s CO.”

Hans wasn’t particularly happy with the suggestion, since his crew hadn’t really gotten over the deaths of all their squadmates. But in a circumstances like now, there should be no complaints over it

“Yes sir.” He replied, as he climbed back to the tank.

---

A few minutes he said, it took them a whole day to actually make the decision. The word was as expected: Reassigned.

“Second Gallian Militia HQ. Squad 11, under Lieutenant Tankreith.” Hans gave his two comrades a short briefing outside their tank before their sortie. “We will take a quick route through the forest, since we are quite late.”

“How late?” Sora asked

“A day late. We should’ve been there yesterday for settling in. But it can’t be helped that we suddenly return from the depths of hell.” Hans replied. “But if we depart as early as now, we can arrive on time for the introduction. Any questions?”

The two of them shook their heads simultaneously. Hans simply gestured them to take their respective positions inside the tank. Slowly, yet steadily, the tank moved again.

A few hours later, after emerging from the woods uneventfully, their new HQ came in sight. A series of tall and sturdy building, standing bare backed against the seemingly tropical sun. The weather around the area was especially refreshing, as the coast was only probably a twenty minutes drive from there. The base gave off the aura of safety and protection, the one that soldiers would desperately need at some point during this conflict. From the looks of it, it appeared to suit this tank’s preferences.

The tank soon came to the gate check, in which the notification paper helped giving them an entry to the interior. Luckily, the guard there was nice enough to provide information regarding where and when the briefing would take place, which was the second workshop of the Northern Depot. Eventually, the tank arrived at the destination. At the time, there were a few who had already been residing in the area, two of whom appeared to be commanding officers, as their insignias, postures and positions suggested.

The tank rolled past the entrance gradually, the sandbag and log ornaments made the vehicle stood out in comparison to the other motorized transportation and war machine in there, parked in an empty slot, and simply went silent, as the driver simply turned off the engine. The three crew members of the tank quickly climbed out of the tank, but did not exactly stood in line yet, as they noticed some of the people there were still in their own world.

It was a new beginning, with a new squad, new commanding officer, and new missions to come. In the heart of all three of these men and women, they hoped that it would not end so disastrously like the old squads. Perhaps it will. War never changed. But hopefully not...

Adrianna Holsten walked through the barracks halls still tugging at various bits of her uniform and making sure her lance corporal patches were sewn on right. As usual with the military, it was either too big or too small, and in her case it was edging on the latter and uncomfortably. The usual logistical snafu when it came to hasty mobilization (or maybe a quartermaster with a nasty sense of humor), one more thing to file a requisition for once she actually got some more battle time logged with this unit and thus more priority. Not that she minded a close fit in the confines of the tank, but it was annoying to have shifting discomfort in the clothes one wore. The only thing that felt reassuringly right was her Fouzen town watch leather cap and radio headset which she kept from her town watch outfit.

Striding through the assembly area, Adrianna took note of the two tanks in the space where Squad 11 was coming together. One of them looked beaten to hell, with the very visible mark of a armor-piercing round in the frontal glacis and the hodgepodge armoring of a crew desperate to augment their protection against the heavier Imperial guns. A veteran tank with a veteran crew, the same look her Can Opener had before she fired her final shot.

The other one on the other hand looked factory-new, literally. Several layers of paint were absent, and the tank was a plain flat hue of blue, likely from being rushed straight off the assembly line to equip the mobilizing militia. And judging from the serial number on the side, it was going to be her new ride.

"Corporal Hosten? Lance Corporal Hosten?" A young kid that looked like he barely made conscription age wearing a helmet called out jogging up to her, and by the looks of his uniform one of her tankers.

"Thats me. And you?"

"Private Miles Natch, your driver ma'am! And, wow, can I say its a real honor to be here. With you I mean. Its great to hit the field with someone with actual combat experience, real confidence-booster and all."

"I can bet." Adrianna curtly replied while mentally juggling whether to give the kid a headpat for his enthusiasm or a punch to try to get the naivety out early. From his accent and tone, he was from one of the southern cities that hadn't seen the war yet, a real FNG fresh out of highschool military courses. She decided to try being professional around him to begin with. "Listen kid, don't sweat it too much on your first day. You know your forward and reverse and listen to my every order and you'll do just fine by me. Clear?"

"Crystal ma'am! Oh, guess we might want to go get the rest of the crew since the lieutenant is here, we got one of the new three-person turrets so we're running with four." Adrianna nodded at that and waved her subordinate off to grab the other two tankers in her crew. Her old miltia tank was a three-seater, where the gunner had to load their own shells if the commander didn't pitch in. While it entailed deleting some ammo and some tightness in elbow room, having a dedicated gunner/loader pair would make it easier to focus on her job. If they were competent at their jobs that is, the level of training the other town watches and militia recruits was a bit concerning from what she had seen so far.

She only hoped the rest of the squad were better than these rookies as she waited for them to fall in while turning to face the CO's of the squad. Those two looked reliable at least, but there was no telling what they really were like until they introduced themselves. She heard some squads were ending up with college students in social sciences and arts in charge, and hoped she didn't end up with one of those ivory-tower types.

"The medical bay is that way."

What sense of direction Annelien had was worth not even a copper within the massive fortress she was supposed to report to. Annelien had seen the large buildings of her home city, but the militia headquarters were an entirely different matter. Winding tunnels and hallways that seemed to never end were everywhere, and while the base was designed for a coastal invasion, Annelien was sure she was lost without seeing a glimpse of ocean blue as much as she did see bleak gray walls.

Even her appearance was not in her favor, as many of the soldiers and officers she would ask for directions would simply direct Annelien to the medical bay. After the sixth time Annelien had appeared at the medical bay, one of doctors had finally came to her aid (perhaps out of pity for her). With their help, Annelien was on the path she should had been the entire time. Still, Annelien couldn't hep but to feel tunnel vision as she walked down the same empty hallways that appeared no different than the others.


"Look at what you've done, Annelien!"

It had been a simple mistake that anyone could make. Her father had requested a drink, an aged whiskey, and Annelien was expected to fetch it for him. And Annelien had done dutifully so, pouring the liquor in to a glass for her father to drink from. However, by pure accident, Annelien dropped the glass, which shattered on the floor in a sticky mess. Annelien knelt down to clean it up, but her father had different plans in mind as he usually had.

Swinging at his own flesh and blood as he gripped his daughter by the collar, her father had knocked Annelien into a chair and breaking it in the process. Annelien couldn't understand why her father had hit her, especially as he stood over her and muttered that she was a disgrace--nothing like her mother, and an ungrateful child. All Annelien could utter was quiet and meek apologies as she gazed up in fear of her own father.

"Clean up this mess. I'm going to the pub." Her father replied, snatching his overcoat without the slight glance towards his cowering daughter. Annelien sat there speechless, but as the door was slammed, the tears were flowing. Her tears dripping onto the floor, Annelien languished alone, wishing for a better fate, and to see her mother once more. Annelien wanted to be free from the bruises and scars, yet opportunity would never show.


Annelien shook her head as memories of her past surfaced. They had forged who she was, but Annelien felt haunted by her memories. Closing her eyes, Annelien stood in silence for a moment, before taking a deep sigh--she couldn't let her memories get the best of herself. They may had done so in the past, but like everything, things change. After all, luck would have it that Annelien was granted a chance to escape the torture and abuse her father had put her through.

Rolling up her sleeve, Annelien took a glimpse at her arm. A number of bruises and past injuries still stained the fair skin Annelien once had, as if she had already been in combat before. I can do this, Annelien thought as she pulled back her sleeve from its rolled position. Entering the depot workshop, Annelien turned to salute those that had seniority emblazoned on their uniforms."Private Annelien Duesterhaus, reporting for duty." Annelien responded, announcing her presence, albeit somewhat meekly.

---

To see Mara Samaria show up at the second workshop, one might think she was a wholeheartedly fresh faced recruit. In truth, she had been preparing for this moment for half her life at this point. She kept her uniform extremely clean as a matter of pride, not because she had yet to get it dirty. She had already seen combat at the time that the Imperials overran Belisa, and she had even killed someone already, not that she had been able to get a proper count, given they were routed in short succession. Mara believed she was ready, or more importantly she wanted to believe she was ready. This was going to be her turning point, it was going to be the moment the name "Samaria" meant something in Gallia again. Whatever was going to happen during her service, she would not only overcome it, but rise above it.

She could not rise above anything for now, which became evident upon entering the workshop. As she made her way in, a soldier that caught sight of her scoffed loudly and started to speak. "Well damn, it looks like conscription's in full swing if they're letting scum back in the ranks, eh?" He spoke aloud to his nearby fellow. This was nothing Mara hadn't heard before, but it made her pause for a moment. She had half hoped nobody would recognise her in this unit, but it turned out that was a hope in vain. Putting it out of mind, Mara carried on with confidence into the building. The man had not had enough, and decided to follow Mara closely. "Hey, hey, don't bloody forget, alright?" He told her as he followed her. "Your scumbag dad ruined a lot of lives in this country's military. He stole from honest, hard working soldiers. He should have faced a firing squad, and you pillow-fed poncy-ass family should have starved on the streets. You got lucky when they let you people go live the quiet life in the country. But I'll always spit on you people." He followed up on this by spitting at her feet. Her continued movement saved her from actually getting spat on. "Don't you dare forget it." Mara had no idea what his plan was, but it seemed he gave up on harassing her when she neared others in the squad. It appeared that even a man so confident in the righteousness of his cause feared being seen to be a bully.

Joining a growing group of people, Mara decided to wait in silence for when they were all ready to get down to business. She had no desire to announce her presence. The last thing she wanted was to get recognised again. There would be plenty of time to make herself known in this group when they finally started to fight. It was on the battlefield that Mara wanted to make her name shake the world, and that was precisely where she was going to exert her greatest effort. Making small talk could come after she had proven her ability.

Arturo woke up with a groggy sense of deja vu as he awoke in his bunk, it almost felt like he was at home waking up and seeing the daylight stream through the window. Realizing where he has changed his outlook as he got up out of the bunk bed, he was on the lower bunk - when he got up he saw the room was devoid of people. He slept in and no one had told him, he couldn't remember if he needed to do something or be somewhere but he did find himself dressing rather quickly. In a sleep state he marched onward to the washroom of the barracks, hot was a commodity he was able to tap into. Instead, a cold shower was what Arturo endured as the water washed the young soldier of sleep and perhaps sin.

Once finished, he began to fully dress and afterward he proceeded to the mess hall of the barracks. While it was empty, because of the time of day Arturo quickly scavenged some food. Stale bread and water would do as he nibbled down on the meager meal, passing soldiers spoke about a meeting that was called by the Lieutenant. Shit. Of course, he was going to miss that, getting up with what little bread he had left Arturo made his way to the workshop where the meeting was called but he had stumbled into something rather sinister as he arrived to the workshop.

An older male soldier was harassing a younger, rather smaller female soldier. While the conversation was a bit fuzzy the man followed her into the formation, Arturo quickly followed the man before he finished his rant by spitting at the woman's feet. Gritting his teeth, he tapped the man on the back of the soldier. As he turned, a fist came flying towards his face - stumbling him. "You like mistreating women, scum?" he growled as he moved forward. The two grappling with each other as they fought right outside the formation of militia members. Perhaps a sign of what's to come.

The last Night at Home
James and his family sat around the dinner table silently eating their supper. The only sound to be had came from the clinking of their utensils as they came into contact of the plate. Suddenly James's father stopped eating and put down his utensils gently and looked at James. " James I would like to have a word with you." He said as he stood and excused himself from the table. His voice mild and even tempered and uncharacteristically quiet. "Let's go boy." He says as he waits for James. Silently James stood up and followed his father out onto their front porch.
The night was cool with a soft breeze floating in from the sea. Being outside of town James had gotten used to the homestead life style with little to no contact outside of town.
"James...tomorrow morning you are leaving here and you will be reporting for duty with the militia." He said softly as he looked out down the dirt road that lead to town. "You have been called to defend the country...I know we have already talked about this... But I have a friend that can get you a nice post on base." He said as he walked town to where the front gate of their house. "Though I don't know why I asked...You made it pretty clear last time, I..." He said as he stopped at the front gate and turned around to look at his song. With a half smile James's father clears his throat and says "You know both your mother and I are proud of you... Between your mother and I we could have gotten you a desk post at a training facility for the regulars..." He said as James cleared his throat and spoke before his father had a chance to continue
"I know that father...I love and am forever grateful for everythinjg you and Mom have done...But I can't let others do my fighting. I know it must be hard for you to let Walter and I go off to war, there isn't much that could be done for Walter since he's with the regulars and all." James said as he thought about his old mustard yellow uniform laying neatly folded atop a pile of his old school books. "But I need to do this...this country has given me so much that I couldn't do anything else but put my life on the line for a country that I love, especially in it's darkest hour." James had never been a cruel or violent man, he hated the idea of fighting and he hated knowing there was a chance his mother may get a letter telling her her son had died in battle. The very thought tore at his heart strings and knew his parents would think about it every time the mail arrived. Yet so many more parents had would go through that. How many mother's would look at empty space at the dinner table knowing their child would never sit there again.

Second Militia Headquarters: second regiment recruit depot
James, along with over a dozen other new arrivals sat silently in the back of their canvas covered truck. Even with the back open many of the recruits were sweating. They had just entered the base when the truck slowed to a stop and the yelling began. "Off the trucks!" Someone yelled, as everyone in the truck began exiting the vehicle. Quickly the troops formed into ranks and the roller call began. After about an hour of calling names James was told where his unit was.
Quickly he found out his squad barracks and put his stuff away. Quickly James went to find his CO. After a few minutes of asking various people he got directions to the squads workshop. Upon arrival James sees several people speaking within.

Adrianna Hosten and crew

"For fucking Valkyrie's sake ya didn't need to hit me that hard Natch." Grumbled a dark-blue haired tank crewman as he followed the driver up to where Adrianna was standing and waiting for her crew to fall in, with a third large burly man following up from behind. The tank commander inwardly sighed as she began to realize Natch might be the blessing of the bunch.

"These the rest of the crew Natch?" Adrianna inquired, mentally grunting at the lack of another woman in her crew. It was gonna get tight in a three-person turret with this set of oddballs.

"Yeah, thats us. Private Reiner. Loader, engine-starter, backup machinegun operator madam." Commented the Darcsen, not even remotely trying to disguise how unmotivated he was to be present, with his uniform fairly disheveled and with a pack of cigarettes tucked into his rolled-up sleeves. Adrianna could tell he was doing to be a problem of the idle mule kind, even for a Darcsen. But maybe his limited role in the tank would keep him out of the way.

"Don't mind mister sourpus here, ma'am. I've seen him on the practice grounds, he can do his job just like me. Private Joey Parker. Gunner." Greeted the bigger man who stood a full head taller than her and offered a hearty handshake to his commander. "Ain't no cat on the 75 better than me."

"Spoken like a true FNG."

"Dog, I may be new but I know my stuff. Aced my tanker practicals. Anyway commander don't worry about me or mister dark-n-gloomy. Just keep me pointed at the right target and I'll do my thing."

"Good to know private." Adrianna replied, noting the man's strong grip even when being gentle. Her gunner seemed credibly earnest, though his lack of combat experience was still a issue. It seemed indeed she was the only veteran, such as it was, among this crew. A hell of a start, especially compared to the battle-scarred tank parked nearby. "Alright, straighten up and get ready to fall in. Lieutenant's gonna call up soon, so pocket those smokes trooper. Natch, can you get me the tank's charts? Maintenance logs?"

"Yeah yeah." "Yes ma'am!"

Rolling her eyes at Reiner's antics, but without time to give the man the proper dressing-down she'd give to any slacker in the mines, Adrianna instead turned to meet the rest of the squad as it was forming up. Given how the higher-ups of the squad were already there, might as well offer her greetings to the leaders she'd be working with before diving back to dealing with her oddball crew.

Stepping next to the girl that just came in with a number of bruises already on her face, Adrianna fell in line and saluted as well. "Lance corporal Adrianna Hosten, tank commander of Bravo-one-one reporting sir." After dropping her arm, it was only then she noticed how the person she was standing next to held herself oddly. Like someone who was trying to walk off getting hurt on the job. Was she another veteran? Or something else?

"Hey, you alright trooper? You look like you've been through a lot."

@Poi

Glancing around the hangar, Hans did notice that his tank appeared to be drawing some attention, due to the unartistic ornaments of sandbags and logs that he, Joachim and Sora placed onto his second home. It was definitely a desperate kind of measure that the three of them thought up to help survive Imperial guns, due to the lack of resources provided to the Militia. But hell, Hans wouldn't be surprised by that, given those incompetent buffoons in command of the army.

He did notice another tank parked nearby, with a blonde haired girl apparently being the commander of it, issuing orders to another kid, who was pretty much freshly conscripted. The tank was also a Gallian mass produced standard light tank, with its trademark 75mm short barreled gun. But the main difference was that the tank was brand new, freshly painted and unscarred from the war, unlike his, which was filled with shell marks. But soon, it will be.

"Hey...I know that girl." The tank driver, Joachim said, as he pointed at the other tank commander. "She was in Fouzen's town watch."

"She did?"

"Yeah, I remember seeing her fighting in a tank when the Empire invaded the town. Thought she was dead from all that destruction, but man...what a surprise to meet a fellow Fouzen member here."

"I beg to differ though." Hans replied "Fouzen is a valuable mine. Whoever holds that place has the upper hand, so I would be very surprised if the Imperials turned a blind eye to that area. It wouldn't be strange to meet people like you, or her, wandering and fighting in the Militia to regain the town. Between this and Imperial labors, it was an obvious choice, if given the freedom."

"Dude, stop it with this crap. You know I don't get those kinds of things." Joachim said, slightly annoyed.

"That's why you will never become not even a Sergeant." Hans countered, with a slight punch to his shoulder, which even made him more annoyed.

"Who the fuck wants that stupid rank? Too many shits to care about."

"Only you don't. Anyway, business time." Hans said. "Have you guys rechecked the tank for damage? I don't want any technical breakdowns later in the field."

"I have, on my part. Aside from the hydraulic system at the front, everything is intact. I've made the little fucker worked on the field, but there's no guarantee that it will not go eighty-sixed when we are on our tracks. But I'll see what I can do."

"Good. How about you Sora?" Hans turned to her, but she didn't listen. "Sora."

He repeated, but his words appeared to fall into deaf ears. She was absent-minded, as always.

"Sora!"

"Y-Yes!" The pull to Earth was a little sudden. "Everything's ok. The auto-loader's fine, the turret ring's fine. The 75 milimeters's ok, but there ought to be some improvements to it."

"What kind of improvement do you mean?"

"Performance improvement." She replied. "Like I once said, the gun is good against fortifications, but its accuracy is mediocre. The penetration capability is also inferior to the Imperial counterpart. To be honest, if we meet another heavy tank head on like that day, well, I don't know what's gonna happen to us then."

Hans grunted mentally as he reminisces that faithful day. His entire squad decimated by that tank, and he himself getting holed by that tank's MG. The feeling of getting blown open by it was something he never wanted a repetition. A recognition medal was not enough to replace that scar on his chest.

"Urgent upgrades are necessary, but unfortunately we don't have the conditions to do it." He replied, sternly yet sorrowful "Anyway, good work you two. Let's report our presence."

The two comrades smiled at his compliments, walking past him, as their commander looked at them, with the same expression.

"It has been a while..."

It was a little out of the norm for strangers that Hans was addressing his crew members so informally. Anyone who was familiar with military life at least. To Hans, they were the closest people he had ever known that were still alive and well. He didn't get to choose those he would be in a tank with. They were initially cautious, even hostile, toward him, but the three of them ended up being closer to each other more than anybody else in the world. It was a strange feeling, but it was a good one.

Hans stood in line, finally, along with his two comrades, addressing the Lieutenant, who was standing nearby.

"Corporal Hans Vallin, tank commander of the Pacifier. Reassigned from Squad 13." He made a quick salute, representing his own crew members.

After the introduction, Hans noticed another blonde woman heading toward the workshop, being followed by another trooper, who was saying something. He apparently wasn't her friend. His expression was too hostile.

The guy stopped his pursuit, only to be punched by another guy, who then proceeded to brawl with him.

As she passed by Hans, the tank commander casually, but curiously asked.

"You didn't seem well soldier. What's up with you and that guy?"

@Avant

Mara could not have been more embarrassed at what was happening. Only shortly after she had parted ways with her antagonist, somebody seemed to have taken it upon themselves to defend her honour. While she imagined his heart was in the right place, or at least she hoped so, this was not what she wanted. She had wanted to go mostly unnoticed, and now brawls were starting for her sake. People were going to talk about this. They were going to talk about it and ask why it happened, and the best source of information was her. Now her family situation was doubtlessly about to be the crowning gossip of the group. She wondered if it wouldn't have been better to just assault the man herself. That way, she could have gotten some catharsis before this all became a big incident.

Just as expected, somebody inquired into the issue as she passed them by. They were probably just concerned, but Mara deeply wished they just hadn't asked. One might think the logical thing to do in this situation was not to tell the whole truth, but Mara just wasn't that type of person. Someone had asked, and she was going to answer, wholeheartedly and truthfully. "I would hazard a guess that he is, or is related to, one of the victims of the embezzlement scandal my father confessed to perpetrating." She told him flatly. It might sound like she didn't bat an eyelid at saying so plainly, but her heart shook as she spoke the words. It would not be unexpected for someone to know what she was talking about just from saying that. It was a good nine years ago, but it was a fairly high profile military scandal. It had been discovered that someone was stealing funds meant to pay soldiers stationed in remote regions of Gallia. Before a full investigation could be launched, her father, Kieran Samaria, had publicly confessed to perpetrating the scheme and plead guilty before the court. It had been a huge embarrassment to the military, and they had jumped at the opportunity to divert attention from their failure to see the problem by painting her father as a villain. "Please, do not make an issue out of this. I do not wish for this to become more of a problem than it already is." She asked of the tank commander. She did not enjoy being harassed in the slightest, but aside from not wishing to make even more of a scene, the truth was that this man had a legitimate grievance. Multiple soldiers, all of low rank and generally from poor backgrounds, had suffered due to being severely underpaid. It was only fair that they were angry, even if neither Mara nor, as she believed, her father were truly responsible. At the end of the day, she just wanted it to buried, so she might move on.

@DeadDrop @Conscripts