Ever since that first day, Europa had always been a changed place in the world. All of the landmass had been engulfed with the furious uproar of technology, politics and expansive settlements. No one was cautious enough to see their flaws and mistakes and now, in this bleak summer's end, there was war. A war like no other, some would say, that was to end all conflicts known to mankind. From the fiery pits of each capitals, churning out weapon after weapon for the hands of rugged soldiers, a descent into chaos only continued to fuel itself every day. Not a single day would go by where man would claim another's life. The dawn of each day was someone's last, their final dusk spent being lowered into some shoddy grave their comrades had to build on the fly. Nearly three years had gone by since the first sign of gunfire had been sighted. The flash from its muzzle started the on-going engagement that now positioned itself on the front of every news paper, book and radio broadcast back home. Hundreds flocked through the streets to sign up, knowing to them that it was their duty to spring into action. When the Imperials first struck, taking the borders of Assen without much of a sweat, the response was of outrage. Many saw this as a violation of human rights, despite knowing that both sides were desperate on the Ragnite stored within. The first Crossing of the Maren River was a devastating realisation that this war needed to be fought differently to the previous ones.

It began with one trench, temporarily made to save a platoon from a charge. Then it became two, and after that about seven popped up. It was a matter of weeks before a system of lines, going further and further into Federation territory started to be made. In response to that, those of the Imperial Army followed suit and forged their own, forming the very first stalemate. It was a strong stalemate that would last for, so far, nearly three years. The first two years had already been bloody enough, but details of such experiences were spared for those back home, who were only seeing the war as a glorious atonement to their duty. The Federation's formation made many rush to the volunteering offices, and soon the boots were filled and the guns were armed. Many went off to the field, many of which would not come home.

Jean knew that war was something where men and women died. It was an obvious statement in itself, and to think otherwise would make them an ignorant fool. But Jean didn't know the full extent of how much war took its toll on the people. Throughout every fifteen flyers pressuring the masses into enlisting there were the odd stories of those who claimed to have returned from the frontlines, stating that it was a brutal mess of slaughter and genocidal orders. No one, of course, would believe them. Not even Jean, who was brandished as a coward by his own people for not enlisting, saw their truths and continued to imagine the war as some romanticised station where honour, love and friendship blossomed throughout. It was somewhat true about the latter, but the first was definitely an overstatement. He had no idea of how much different the frontline would be, until that day.

He remembered signing up for the Federation Army. Shipping off to Edinburgh was no honourable dissection from his usual homesteads as the eyes of many carried with him. At the same time he volunteered for the Army, under the pressures of the White Feather movement, Jean remembered seeing some of the boys and girls from his home city stare at him, and this time not just for being a Darcsen. Half of the time it hadn't gotten to him and would proceed to be an afterthought, but the constant waves carried over to training too. Some considered him weaker than the standard man, seeing him as easy pickings for challenging. Those who were unable to accept his camaraderie at the time tried to shun him down, which was occasionally responded to by the officers. All of the physical stress was quite a deal. From the beginning, they learnt how to hold a standard rifle before trainers began to divide them into specialised categories. Even for a 2-year war, Jean was rather impressed with the amount of reorganisation the military had gone through to see these changes. However, though it was probably for the best, Jean was placed simply within the riflemen of the army. There was no problem with being there, as it did show that he was serving his freedom and duty without the need of a specialised position, but the stories of those who were brave and valiant came from those with different ranks. Stories like Private Turner, a farmboy from Assen, who commanded a gunning sentry position managed to halt an entire platoon or two charging their way. He received a lovely medal of great courage but soon died weeks later. It was a sad truth that wasn't kept from the public, but how he was taken from his youthful life was always left scarce. The methods of violence were not to be explicitly revealed, though no one really questioned why. Even Jean was ignorant to the reasoning, and just kept his training up like a good soldier should have done.

Training was difficult. The camp was filled with men and women of all ages, from as low as 16 to as high as their late 50s. Some were wise in the old ways of combat whilst others were virgins to battle like Jean was himself. When he was placed within the Rifleman's division of the training camp, he spent a lot of time trying to learn from others, improving his social skills and understanding the importance of trust. They were put into long holes in the ground, dugouts and what-not, to try and simulate what they'd be going through. Bayonet training was frequent and the adjustment to firing a rifle was an unsteady journey. At first, Jean was a rusty shot like most, but soon picked up and became talented enough to surpass his own expectations. It felt somewhat refreshing to achieve in a field he'd never dared to go towards and hoped that his family would be proud. Many times did he hear stories like his own, about how older siblings had gone to fight and never returned. Jean remembered Olivia's deployment like it was the day before and would use it to encourage him to push further. Basic needs like cooking, washing without actual washing kits and basic hygiene were given out regularly, yet many disregarded them knowing someone on the frontline was assigned to do it for them, most likely.

And finally came the day, after two months of training. His group were to be graduated and allowed for combat duty, to where they were all assigned their randomised regiments. Falling under the 15th Atlantic Rifles, he didn't travel over with many, if not any, of those who he trained with. According to some at the camp, the randomised regimental system was put in place after the failures of a Pal's Platoon system, where friends would join friends. Villages were rumoured to have lost entire generations of men and women, and now this system was put in place to try and minimise the effects of the loss of life. But on that day, something special came through. A recommendation, before he would leave on the boat back to the mainland of Europa, showed to his officers that he was due a promotion. The reasons were quite unclear, but apparently some communication skills in the zone of training let him brighten up to the next rank before he even left the deployment zone. Lance Corporal, he would be. And what a honour it felt...

The train was rugged. Everything after the promotion was nothing more than a rugged seat of discomfort and nervousness. It was a large railed network designed to transport them directly to their stationed frontline, but the amount of days it took staggered and frustrated Jean's inner anxieties. The realisation that he was going to war once again hit him and reminded the lad that this could have been his final decision ever made freely, one that could cost him his life. He would shake his head occasionally and deny such self-accusations, stating that it was a war that needed to be fought to end the wars of all generations to come. Whoever would win, between the Imperials and the Federation, would dictate the future of Europa. With one superpower out, there would be no need to fight. Peace could initially become a reality for some, though many saw the Imperial victory as a sign of impoverishment, danger and oppression. Many saw it as a black-and-white principle. One was good, the other bad. Jean himself admitted to feeling such a way during training, but he had second thoughts in that moment. And that was when the time drifted to the present day...

It was August 25th. 5:32am, to be precise. The weather was shit. The temperature was abysmal, yet there was a strange excitement in the air. No one knew why. For the past few days he'd actually been within the trenches, the 15th Atlantic Rifles were arriving in waves, so it was only natural for the platoon introductions to be left until all had been due to arrive. Because of that, Jean spent a lot of his time trying to get some of the mud out of the undersides of his boots. If it weren't for the duckboards, the summer bog would have engulfed half a leg by that time. But the noise was rather soft. Only a distant plunder of artillery shells could be heard on that day, as the previous days had many hours of bombardment coming from their own side. It was a ruthless and quite terrifying cannonade being orchestrated, but if it destroyed the enemy they were due to see then what would be his complaint to make? He was a Lance Corporal. He shouldn't be questioning orders unless they were his own.

Being in the rear-line was a bit more comforting than the stories of the front trench, which was only a few hundred metres towards the hill. On this Garnian Salient, strange mixtures of happiness and sadness seemed to engulf the masses. He remembered sitting in his dugout, listening to the conversations of the veteran soldiers around him tut to themselves about the new arrivals coming off the train, citing them as unlucky bastards and wasted casualties. It was here that Jean wrote his first poem, before hiding it in his breast pocket and tucking it away. He barely uttered any words on the first few days in the nippy conditions of the Salient, whispering to himself that this was natural to feel nervous. On the train, everyone had been told about the Big Show coming up, and that everyone was going to get their part to play the lead role. But he was awoken only ten minutes before, still dressed in his uniform from the previous day. It felt weird being within the same clothes for a few days, but again, he couldn't complain. This seemed to be the hardest inconvenience so far, but Jean had nothing much to complain about other than small titbits. There was no suffering, as far as he was concerned. That morning the blaring alarm of a bugler had awoken him and formed up an array of soldiers, all of different ages, gender and size. Many looked unfamiliar and only a few were somewhat recognisable, but that didn't matter. Before them all stood a man with quite a sharp face, as well as a tone just as sharpened.

"Platoon, 'tion!" Just as the many parade nights in training dictated, this was the call to come to attention. All of the soldiers were stood in small ranks, making up an organised presentation. Amidst the front of them all stood the NCO list. Jean hadn't a clue who any of his NCOs or Officers were and was thrown under the horse's carriage when being made to stand before everyone, silently awaiting the inspection and beginning of introductions towards the troops all around him. Quickly, he snapped with his arms beside his side, holding the salute everyone was inclined to do. The sharp-faced figure walked over with a bulking stare, glaring at those presented before him. His voice was of a very...aristocratic tone. His stiff expression eyed down those before him, judging them with every second that passed him. "Stand at ease, 8th Platoon. Welcome to my frontier, green-horns. I don't like having a chit-chat so we'll make this short, sweet and simple. I am 1st Lieutenant Middleton, and you will address me by my rank or by sir. I will not tolerate otherwise. Secondly, I must inform you that we are short on time to spend in the rear line. Two hours to the big-show, not a second longer. That means we have about an hour and half in these rear lines to get your uniform and gear set up, or to chat away to some other soldiers, I don't care. As long as you are at the ready point on the front trench by the dot, we won't have many issues, will we? Now to my right is an assortment of NCOs. If you have any issues, ones that we actually give a shit about, talk to them."

His gruffled yet superior tone made for a strange first impression. Jean didn't know whether to be annoyed by the pretentious style of wording he used or glad to know this man was in the right mindset to move things along. But it came clear that the anxieties of the poor Atlantic Darcsen were to be tested when the NCOs were being introduced one by one to the Platoon, by the Lieutenant himself. Many of the names he skimmed over, at least in Jean's mind, and then the final two stuck out with some resentment in hist one:

"And here we have...Lance Corporal Black and Lance Corporal...Charpentier? You Darcsens and your weird names, I'll tell you..." Though the last part was heavily muttered, he still heard it but remained visually unfazed by the comment and snarky remark. He didn't care so much as within a second later, the Lieutenant began to separate the groups by dismissing them, allowing for the soldiers to go around on their free will. Many began to turn to those they already knew whilst the more friendlier bunch went to introduce themselves. Many seemed cheerful to finally be here, on the frontline, to make a difference, whilst a select few looked rather miserable. Despite this, Jean was never the man to make his first impressions off the bat, and so he went over to a crate by the side, taking out his standard-issue notepad and pencil, and began to scribble away. He wasn't sure if anyone was going to approach him, nor was his paying attention to the threat two hours away, one that would change his life forever.

For Isaac, the war began a bit differently.

He wasn't one of the many who flocked to the enlistment centers, and he wasn't marked as a coward for wanting to remain behind, either. It was a funny thing, but he always figured he wasn't going to go to war, because he provided a necessary resource to the Federation. Three things, actually, because his family ran a farm. They'd poked fun when his family had originally bought this land, not far from the city, but enough that you'd have level grounds of dirt and grass and such. Oh, it was dirt cheap, and they'd laughed when they started calling it the Black Lands, a plot of land unfit for growing much, 'cept maybe some potatoes, if that. But then, the smiles changed hands as the only 'crop' that was brought out there was livestock. Not even milk cows, who required more grass than other varieties to make milk. Walking slabs of beef and leather is what the Blacks raised. Not just that, but mutton and wool. Yeah, that's right. The food on your plate and the clothes on your back, courtesy of the Black family, at least if you were in central Edinburgh.

So, you had those two resources, but there was a third, and here is where Isaac comes in. This family learns the way of animals, every last member, including if you married into the family. The farm has to keep going, no question about it. Some are better than others, and some have that certain something that puts them along the lines of the third important resource of the Blacks: Dogs. Dog-breeding has been around for centuries, ever since the first wolf approached a man hungry and that man fed him. But in order to get MORE dogs with fresh blood in the breed, you have to start from scratch. You have to have wolves, and you have to have someone in the family who's empathetic enough to the wolves that they can be on each other's wavelength, like radios. Isaac spent his young years to his current years becoming the alpha to a band of wolf pups, hybrid wolf-dogs that were a part of the more dangerous issue of finding a wolf willing to mate with a dog, like a husky.

Thus, the third resource is dogs, and Isaac was responsible for raising at least a couple generations from a young age to present, and then he had to take them to a buyer. They arrived not far from an army recruiter and his men, where he easily escorted his pack right in front of them, like it was nothing, and then...once he was out...hoo boy. The man was simply impressed with his work, so much so that he insisted that he have his name on the list. Isaac explained that providing what his family did was just as important as fighting the war, maybe more so. The recruiter did not agree. In fact, he disagreed with the help of two armed men, stating that the army will benefit from a man of his caliber, and that was final. So, Isaac was drafted, and he wasn't given any recourse, as he would otherwise be labeled as a traitor and probably shot, which he'd rather not have on his family's conscience...or his head.

Training found him quiet, angry, and driven to freak out the sergeant with his actions, seemingly too vicious to be allowed anywhere near a weapon. No dice. It was as he feared. His skills really were suitable for the front lines. He became a gunner, armed with a lead-spewing machine of death and a kind of blade they made for punching and stabbing foes in confined spaces, namely the trenches. He'd had to drill in mock trenches, actually did very well. He didn't like that fact, though. More and more, Isaac felt he was being distanced from his family, maybe distanced from that which was human, but one thing that he did notice was that these squads were reminding him alot of his work back on the farm. These people might die without him. Maybe not these ones specifically, because they randomized the units, but others. Dammit, just when he felt like he should really buck the system...he discovers a good reason for why she should not.

Time passed, and Isaac mellowed out, though he was always disapproving of those in authority throwing their weight around for the wrong reasons. Ultimately, he found himself more beholden to the orders of the war - Kill the enemy while still keeping your men alive - than those a little closer to home. This led to some rather interesting developments when he received his commission and found out that his rank wasn't private, but lance-corporal. He almost asked the sergeant why he didn't just get HIS job, but that would've been a punch in the face and a night in the stockade, if he had said that. So, naturally, he had to of course get going. Isaac didn't relish this. He didn't want this war forced down his throat. If anything, he was going to shove it in somebody else's face and make them pay for it. Just get through this with as many people alive as you can, and then you win. Simple, right? Hah.

And so, with murderous thoughts for the bugler the morning he was at his assigned location, Isaac got up to fall into form. No, he didn't have any trouble getting up. He'd worked at a farm, after all, and wolves only sleep maybe a few hours a day, so he had to get up at some strange hours then, too. No, it was just that racket, that's all. What a pain in the ass. Speaking of which, introducing Lieutenant Middleton! This guy was of a similar class of twit and arsehole that that recruiter was. Isaac already didn't like him, and it seemed like he and the other Lances were all being made his accomplices to his bad temper and callous behavior. Gets worse when he started muttering about the Darcsen next to him, saying 'Charpentier' was a weird name. Come on, Lieutenant! It's just 'Carpenter' with a bit of flair!

Anyway, Middleton had gone off, allowing the recruits and all speak as they will. Isaac noticed the Darcsen boy just standing there, scribbling some notes. He wasn't sure what it was, but he managed a quick chuckle as he spoke to the guy while looking over the others here.

"We're in for alot of work if we have to follow that into battle."

He now turned to the Darcsen, really not caring that he was a Darcsen. Really, Isaac couldn't even remember what people had against the Darcsens. For his own part, the young man extended a hand.

"Isaac Black. I guess Lance-Corporal Black really, but that's not what I'm here for. I'm here to keep people alive. How about you?"

@LetMeDoStuff

The ever louder report of artillery guns told Jonnie that he had probably made it to the front. He looked around at the scenery as the truck he was riding in the bed of moved along the road, and in the early morning sun he was just now able to spot the guns he had first heard thousands of meters away. It wasn’t quite the very front trenches, since he was to report to his platoon while they organized in the rear, but the tension here felt palpably different even if these were still just the reserve lines. Some of the others riding with him in the truck seemed relaxed, even eager. But Jonnie saw a sort of grimness in the faces of those he spotted as the truck carried through, and at this time he didn’t know what stories those stark expressions could tell.

There was one person on the truck, though, who had the same expression as the soldiers in the lines did. That one wasn’t a new recruit, Jonnie guessed; he learned that when one of the others, a talkative boy that seemed a bit younger than he himself, made an off-the-cuff remark about how excited he was to finally get a chance to stick it to the Imps. The veteran shot the boy a harsh look, told him darkly that he would change that attitude right quick, and muttered curses under her breath. That shut the kid up, and for the rest of the ride few words were exchanged that could break up the incessant clamor of the guns. Most of the others, though, were trying to catch a little more sleep and had been in no mood for talk in any case.

But Jonnie himself was wide awake, struggling to keep the nervous energy inside of him contained. It felt as if it had just been a short few days since Jonnie had disembarked from the train that had brought him to basic, but of course it had been months ago. The drill sergeants, the corporals, they had been strict, unforgiving disciplinarians. But Jonnie thought he had felt himself turning into a soldier under their orders. He followed orders, saluted, and kept his boots shiny, and that was enough to keep the noncoms happy, even if it sometimes drew snickers from the other enlisted recruits. In exchange, he’d learned to shoot, to dig trenches, to fix bayonets and charge. Now he wanted the chance to put that to use. He was going to fight the Imperials, after all, and was proud to do it. He took out his father's knife and turned it over in his hand, feeling the Fhiraldian leather on the hilt. For Fhirald, Jonnie was going to give the Imperials a bloody nose, and worse if he could manage it.

After a short while more, the truck stopped and Jonnie and all the other soldiers trundled off, headed towards their respective units. Another private pointed Jonnie out to the 15th Atlantic Rifles, which he promptly made his way towards. The intensity in the air was even greater now that the front was so close, and Jonnie only had a few minutes to orient himself before a bugle call caught his attention. He saw the colors of the 8th platoon, his assignment, and found a spot in the ranks to line up and pulled off a crisp salute. His new lieutenant Middleton gave a curt address. At some point in the past this attitude might have made Jonnie bristle, but weeks of training had made him used to taking orders from officers, as a good soldier does.

As the assembly dispersed, Jonnie took note of the two lance corporals Lieutenant Middleton had pointed out gathering together, one of them with a pad and pencil. By the lance corporal’s hair color Jonnie could see that the one with the pad was a Darcsen. Assuming the noncom was taking the roll, Jonnie came up to them and snapped to attention.

“Private Katz reporting, Lance Corporal Charpentier, Lance Corporal Black.”

_{@FalloutJack@LetMeDoStuff}

---

He couldn't believe he survived training...

Two months of rigor, he made it through, in one piece. As a sapper, this was a pleasant surprise. An engineer's task was always a tough and demanding role in the army. Not only would he have to carry over half his weight of helmet, gun and boots, but he also have to be hurling around tools that made up the identity of the title of the man. He did receive some slack with the basics, but ultimately at the end of the equation, it wasn't a good bargain. Perhaps he always had it in him, in spite of people's impression of such a filthy rich bastard from a noble white-collared family. Or perhaps it was pure survival instinct. A testament to Nietzsche's famous quote of resilience. He'd be inclined to believe it was the latter. But would it be enough for what was to come? For what awaits in the No Man's Land, what lies before the muzzles of Imperial machine guns?

Sometimes, Michael envied these young comrades, barely old enough to form a wisdom for themselves. The looks on their face, the smile on their lips, their shaking fists glimmering with excitement. If that was enough to survive war, it would have been a fairy tale. But history is violent. Do you think that those one million young men at the outbreak of the war full of sorrow so that they got themselves killed? How about billions of others in previous wars that soaked history with rivers of blood. There's no way they could put so many men to the swords so willingly if they weren't enthusiastic about it.

Despite not having seen it for his very own eyes, and perhaps this was a bad thing, Michael saw beyond the world that was carefully constructed by the rose scented dome of propaganda that the Federation attempted to build around the soldiers, so that they fight fiercer, charge faster, and die quicker. Perhaps you could experience relief knowing you die with honor of fighting for your country, but what about those you left behind? What about those who loved you, who was waiting in vain waiting for you to return, only to never hear from you again, and not even know where you have laid to rest to pay tributes?

Just as he said that, it hurt.

From his shirt pocket, he pulled out a small piece of paper, folded in eighth. The first letter from mother. He had read it to the point he already memorized every single words. He was hoping for a reply perhaps soon, but would he live to see another letter like this?

Michael was the only son of the Daunte family. He was at the very end of the line. His family wasn't one for many offsprings. His mother was an elegant and noble lady, but she was fragile. Strange medical problems plagued her youth, and her carriage almost led to her death. But for some miraculous reasons, she still lived on, with a healthy and wonderful child, although short statured, that is Michael. But a miracle wouldn't happen twice. Not so easily. And they wouldn't be taking the risk. And now their only son was leaving for war. A war that should've ended by now.

Michael put away the folded letter as he looked up to the sights of his comrades chatting in the cabin of his train wagon, gradually taking him to the spot where he would call home for the next few months perhaps, or maybe even his grave for an eternity. The group were particularly young. Fresh conscripts brought from home, though there were mixtures of the old veterans, a few even from the very beginning of the war themselves, and the middle ones, those who had bathed in the dirt and mud of the trenches, but had yet to feel the flesh and blood being redirected from a man's veins. They were among themselves, talking about what was to come, paying less attention to the short man with his book. There were occasional questions here and there, but mostly it was them mistaking Michael for a boy, despite him actually older than most of the conscripts in the cabin. He didn't mind it however. Despite the early morning, almost everybody were awake, as the train came near its destination, and that the Big Show is about to begin.

Being ushered out of the train, Michael was already forced in line, just like the drills designated him to. Greeting the commanding officers. And just like he was told to, he raised his hands in salute as the officer walked by. His first impression of this man who would decide the fate of Michael's life was that of shrewdness. His aura boasts of the stereotypical strictness that a child could imagine the military being. Michael doesn't know if he should be relieved or afraid. Strictness was a perfect tool to order, but placed under the wrong circumstances could lead to terrible consequences. There was only one thing that could prevent that from happening, and he wondered if Lieutenant Middleton would have it.

'8th Platoon, 15th Atlantic Rifles.'

Seemed like this was the right place.

As the two NCOs seemed to be occupied, Michael found his own spot at one of the tables nearby. Unstrapping a bit of his stuff down, he swung his rifle over before having an inspection over the parts. The bolts, the muzzle, making sure everything's in check for combat. He wouldn't want it to jam right in the midst of a gunfight. And once done, he would do the same for those a few others who came to him. His role and rank were embellished in his uniform, so people in the field would know who to visit.

He thought about the letter in silence. He thought about her face and he thought about the past he left behind. He thought of the training he endured and he thought of the officer who spoke aloud with words that penetrated little. Still, he got the basics. Call the man lieutenant, be back in two hours for the lethal theatrics, gamble your life away. Easy enough.

At the very least the temperature was colder than he expected. Even as a child he loved the feel of winter and rain. Maybe it was just his blood, but nothing was better than laying down on a cold rainy day. Well, assuming he wasn’t told to work the house anyway.

After the crowd dispersed Franz marched his way to the side, not particularly focused on making friends at the moment as he thought of what to make today. A flower? Maybe a dog? Amber? A mental sigh seemed appropriate. He didn’t want to snub the platoon but his spirits were low and as it was it was gradually being improved by the rain. He watched the rain pour, taking in every small splash and every bit of mud spread by boots marching by. Boots marched by without any regard of what they were stepping on. Sure, it was just rain in the mud, but the boundaries of that comparison to life being thrown away with people moving on made him wonder just how many lives would be forgotten. The propaganda was already in. The loser would surely be ill remembered if at all, but that was the nature of end war conditions. Even such a thought like that made him think of his dark hair and feel that something about that Darscen story was wrong.

He took his mind off such things for now, simply smiling at the other soldiers as he watched them in silence, wondering just how he could help make their lives a bit better during the- show as the lieutenant put it.

Adjusting to the military lifestyle wasn't as difficult as she had originally thought, but that could also be attributed to her ease of adapting to new situations. For a girl that lived on a farm, Britta found that she didn't have too much difficulties in getting used to life in the military. Training was tough, yeah but it wasn't nothing that she couldn't grit her teeth and clench her fist until she pulled herself through it.

The plucky lass thrived in the face of adversity, and this was just yet another of the challenges she faced in her life. Whenever she had moments of doubt or despair, she would think about her family back home, and remind herself why she was here. True, the deciding factor in her signing up to join had been the money, but then she realised that being able to fight for her country and its people from the Imperials wasn't bad either.

The routine had been different, and it had been uncomfortable in the initial adjusting phase, but once she managed to work out the routine, Britta quickly got herself used to the rigors of military life. She'd learnt how to operate and shoot a rifle, gone through obstacles courses and ate dry rations along with everyone else. It was only after basic training, that she was selected to undergo specialised machine gun training before becoming a full-fledged gunner. She had to get used to carrying around the heavy gun and its ammunition which was no joke.

Keeping physically fit was an absolute must, as a machine gunner must relocate with their equipment to a secondary position to avoid being zeroed in or flanked by the enemy. She did like the role of providing fire support for her fellow comrades, knowing that the crucial fire support they receive could make all the difference in a difficult combat engagement. Supporting her friends and teammates was just up her alley.

Britta soon found herself attached to the 15th Atlantic Rifles and got into a truck with several riflemen, filling up all the unoccupied seats on the back of the truck. The machine gun she had with her was configured into a light support weapon with a folding bipod detachable drum ammunition container. As the other soldiers assembled and readied themselves for the First Lieutenant to give his speech, and oh what a stiff serious guy he was. Well she didn't know him enough to know if he was really that stiff and serious all the time.

Finally they were dismissed and the groups dispersed as they began to spend what little free time they had left before they all headed to the front. Britta recognised the two Lance Corporals that were introduced earlier, and headed towards them to introduce herself, and it was also there that she realised that the Lance Corporals without the book had a gunner insignia as well. "Morning Lance Corporals Black and Charpentier! Britta Hagen." She said as she pointed at herself. Peering over towards the scribbling guy, she asked. "What ya writing?"

For a moment, he was undisturbed with a tranquil sound of nothingness. At least that would have been what he'd have thought if it weren't for the distant bombardments from other frontlines, the shouts of medics and cavalrymen walking around for their rations and the chattering of the new platoon's soldiers. It was quite a nice feeling to have that orchestration behind his own numb mind. Luckily for him, the pitter-patter of the rain above him was no longer trickling against his steel helmet anymore as the loose cloth above him acted as a temporary shelter whilst he tended to his poetry. It was difficult to think about what to write in that moment, seeing as he'd been in this mud-pit for only a day or two longer than everyone else. It was nothing much to compare to considering the front seemed eerily silent. Soon enough, the bountiful splutters of puddles kicking up beneath people's boots kept him in a sort of distasteful discomfort that he loathed in that moment, but he continued sitting in his posture and writing away as if the world no longer existed. But obviously, that silence was short lived, and soon enough the man stood next to him only moments ago in the not-so-welcoming party approached him to strike up conversation.

It wasn't that Jean didn't love conversation, nor was he, in that moment, regretting the feeling of having an individual hopefully of the same mindset approach him and talk both professionally and informally to get his attention. It was a good feeling of camaraderie and satisfactory friendship amongst those he did not know. He explained why he was there, slightly dismissing his own rank which went alongside his reasoning for being within the Atlantic Army.

"Take pride in your rank, Isaac. I'm not one for formalities but it seems like it'll help for your reasoning for being here." Jean gave one of his signature friendly smiles that he used to show back in his home towards his family. Olivia was the one who first noted that his smile was quite innocent and blessing towards her worries, saying it could cure a thousand ill-minded fools if they were on a terminal path towards sickness. The man seemed to be rather rash-and-bone from the first imagery, his uniform not doing him major justice to his appearance, but nevertheless Jean was still able to withhold any negativity. "Well, I'm here on my own personal accord. You could say it is to help others, or to simply be around those who also came. I can't quite tell you...But I do know one thing. I am here the same reason everyone else is here...It's simply because we are here."

Before he could continue, another voice picked up from nearby as a second, a formal private, boy approached them with perky intensity. He was strangely polite in his wording and prepared to give his undying loyalty towards them. It actually forged quite a small chuckle in Jean's first response as he failed miserably in hiding it. He didn't want to come off as rude and imprudent but the laugh was more directed in friendly banter and kind realisations. The two who'd approached him so far were such a lovely bunch, at least from their first glances and words.

"Welcome, Private Katz. Don't need to be so formal. I'm sure Isaac here would be more than happy to lend you a hand in settling down. After all, we are all in the same boat, so we can try to ease ourselves up with a bit of laughter, joy and maybe a drink or two. Usually before a big show I heard they hand out some hot tea or rum. Maybe you could snag some early if you're quick enough." He laughed and went back to scribbling away in his service book, writing down more and more to the poetry about the happiness he was feeling in that moment. He'd completely forgotten the minor harassment Lieutenant Middleton had shown towards him, clearly for being a Darcsen, but these two seemed very find and capable of respecting him no matter who he was. It was a refreshing feeling that he'd not felt in a while.

In that moment, Jean took the time to look over what he'd just written down so far. It was still a massive work in progress and required much attention towards it still, which he would not have the time to conclude considering the apparent big show approaching in less than two hours. That made him slightly nervous on the inside, but the jovial and all-round happiness of the majority kept him well and truly satisfied with the moment in question. His mind was torn between whether or not it was a good piece of literature in its two singular stanzas so far, but that was not for him to decide:


Another voice suddenly broke free of the sudden quietness of his mind. A girl, who was barely older than he was, looked over him with a pale and dazzling gaze. Her ash-grey hair dangled forward as she leaned in, looking down at the paper he was writing upon. Her friendly and relaxed tone made him feel slightly at ease with the thoughts of the upcoming show, knowing that someone like her had the ability to calm nerves in the blink of a weary eye. At first he was reluctant to answer, feeling slightly nervous with being on the spot, but he continued anyway. Someone like her deserved an answer, especially with such a friendly introduction. Britta, as her name was, wasn't exactly intruding anything. He could write through the end of the world, it seemed, if he so wanted to, but this time he chose to put down the pencil, turning the book somewhat nervously towards her with a blemished smile of embarrassment.

"Oh...This? I was just doing some more poetry; it's kind of what I do. Helps me keep track of my mind and reminds me of what is important." With slight hesitation, he handed her the small book, giving her the option to flick through and see the three other complete poems on previous pages if she so wanted. None of them were the patriotic anthems of the rising hopes that many had written at the start of the war, and more of an account, and a narrative, of the experiences he'd had coming towards the frontline. After she took a hold of the book, he reached out a hand, offering her a handshake in a kind gesture with his signature smile once more. "It's very nice to meet you, Britta. You don't have to call me by my rank if you wish. I'll easily settle for Jean."

This one might take a while to figure out.

Charpentier had a much different approach to things, he could tell. While Isaac was fairly straightforward, it seemed like the other Lance was a bit more of the soft touch. Pride in his rank? Okay, it was an accomplishment to start a rung up the ladder instead of down on the ground, but it wasn't that much higher than everybody else, so he wasn't gonna brag about it, either. Isaac guessed he could feel good that his skills had taken him this far and that they would keep on doing so, but he wasn't going to climb that ladder without making sure that those around him were following. It seemed to him like the Lance-Corporal was also something of the philosopher type. 'Because we're here' wasn't so much a reason as a...state of being. Not sure if it was some kind of pre-destiny kind of thing or... Wait, no. Manifest destiny. His father always said ancient conquerors had this feeling of destiny about them like they were too important to fail, like the weight of history itself would carry them to victory.

That didn't sound like what Charpentier was talking about. Maybe he was just accepting reality. At any rate, Isaac noticed he hadn't really taken to shaking his hand. Must not have felt comfortable. Were all Darcsens nervous now about opening up with people because of how they were generally treated? Well, he'd get the guy to feeling normal, sometime. Can't have anxieties on the battlefield. Problems like that had to be solved in quick order, before they led to real trouble. They were all probably a little antsy, what with the distant booms and blasts going on. Hell, one of the other soldiers came to them in full salute and official introduction. He had to be anxious in some way. Let's hope it was good old-fashioned fear that he could overcome and settle into normally. Over-confidence was not something that would serve them that well. Right now, Private Katz was being put pretty much into his care. Okay, he was alright with that, but...

Charpentier, you're not gonna keep everyone at arm's length, are you?

It seemed like after being cordial-but-distant with him that he was doing almost the same with Katz. It wasn't immediately obvious, but it did seem like the Private had just been displaced to him because the Darcsen didn't feel up to handling him personally. Boy, that racial divide sure was a strong one. Oh well, something to overcome. Better just deal with what was in front of him, for now. Like the man said, he should be helping out Katz now, not worrying about this. Priorities and all that. He smiled at the dark-skinned boy and spoke up.

"What he said. The Lieutenant may be one for formality, but we just want to keep the squad working together as best we can. So, what can I do for you, Katz? Any comments, questions, curiosities? Any idea what the Lieutenant's favorite color is?"

He wasn't going to throw their strict Lieutenant into the mud, so to speak, but letting the guy know in a sort of light-hearted commentary that he could just relax for now was probably for best. Asking a funny question like that wasn't gonna harm the Lieutenant, but he had to admit that the guy himself could probably use some calming tea himself, or maybe a full rum. Maybe he'd offer him one if he got his hands on some, just to get him to ease off the throttle of his command a bit. During this time, another soldier approached, a woman who looked like, ah yes, she had a machine gun hanging from her back, like he did. He could see the barrel and the 'legs' folded in. The lady introduced herself as Britta Hagan after a kindly greeting to them both. And it was here that the other Lance demonstrated what we will call 'proper informality'. He told them all his first name. Isaac nodded in approval of this.

"As would I be fine with Isaac. It's alot less of a mouthful than Lance-Corporal."

He looked again at the machine gun Britta had. She must've had a steady hand and iron constitution in training. They would need that here.

"I see you're a Gunner, as well. Guess that means the two of us will be looking after our squad the most."

Apart from just shooting at people in particular, their job would be to deter the movement and any funny ideas from the Imperial Soldiers. If the squad was advancing, they had to suppress the notion that the enemy could get an easy bead on their people. If they were withdrawing, the enemy must be informed that this was not an open invitation to follow. If they were holding in the trenches, the enemy was to be told that they cannot just waltz right in here. A Gunner must do all these things, and they must understand that their weapon can reduce a human being to giblets in seconds. That much had been demonstrated for Isaac in training when they destroyed a pig carcass on a rope. Blood and sinew all over the place. Britta must have done very well to become the same class of soldier as him.

@Rigmarole[@Symphoni]@LetMeDoStuff

Jonnie

Jonnie looked taken aback for a moment, then smiled and relaxed his posture, not minding that the lance corporal had gone back to his pad. "Am I relieved to hear that. Ah, poetry, huh? So you weren't taking roll after all." Jonnie chuckled a bit at himself, looking at the two lance corporals and the other private that had just showed up. "Sorry about all that. It's my first day here. You know, didn't want to chance spending it in the stocks for crossing a corporal."

Jokingly, he smirked and said, "Some of the noncoms back at the training camp would stick their whole leg up your end if you didn't address 'em right." Jonnie stood at attention for an imaginary drill instructor. "Yes sergeant, no sergeant, how-deeply-should-I-kiss-your-ass sergeant," he called out with a straight face, but that quickly turned into a laugh and a wide grin. "It was the same for you all, right? I bet every camp has at least one sarge like that."

The composure Jonnie had summoned up to contain himself fell away just like that, and now he felt as if all of his nervous energy was pouring out of him all at once. That was just making him act out in another way, of course, but it felt better to him than stuffy formality. The tension was working him up. Jonnie felt like the butterflies in his stomach were going mad, and the low vibrations in the ground from the steady fire of the artillery guns were just working them up even more. Though, as he considered the lance corporal's offer, he had a hint of a flush go to his face that calmed him down somewhat.

"As for the rum," he began awkwardly, scratching his face a bit with his forefinger and laughing a bit sheepishly, since the others seemed to be about his age, "I'm still a little too young for that, I think." He smiled gaily now, though, eager to move on. "Anyway, mate, if Britta here can call you by name, so will I. Good to meet you, Jean and Isaac, and Britta too. I'm Jovan. Call me Jonnie," he said, shaking hands with all around in turn. Then he curled a bicep as if to show off, giving a winking smile. "And if either of you gunners needs someone to haul the extra ammo, I'm your guy."

_{@Symphoni@LetMeDoStuff@FalloutJack}

---

Under his constant maintenance over the two months that the gun had been with him, as he had expected, the gun was basically flawless. The cocking sound of the bolt was just pleasant to hear, whilst the trigger pull was as smooth as slicing a knife through butter. Without the ammunition magazine attached of course. He wouldn't want to get into trouble the first thing in the morning. The magazine, now that it was mentioned, it was a peculiar design to Michael. When first issued the weapon, he thought that he would be issued multiple magazines to go with it. As it turned out, commands only gave him one, which was on the gun itself. Reloads would be done through loose bullets or, more commonly, a stripper clip. Sure, ten rounds was nice, but the user could accidentally hit the eject button and the magazine would be on the ground. Though a trained soldier could actually avoid that mistake, but on the battlefield, who knows what could happen.

Just as he finished with his gun, someone approached him with the same intention. It was a girl, her long blonde hair fluttered in the chilly wind. She was probably a little younger than him, judging by the look of his peers. Who knows, maybe she was just as old as he is, maybe even older. Sometimes being mistaken for a child soldier wouldn't be pleasant. But she was surely pretty with that pair of honey colored eyes. He wondered how she ended up here in the mud and blood of trench warfare. That was a stupid question though. Just like he did.

She actively introduced herself with a smile as she handed him the gun for inspection. She looked like a nice girl too. He wouldn't mind, as he was going to do this for others anyway. If they were going to die, they wouldn't die on a preventable jammed weapon. Michael simply returned the smile with his own, visible yet small, along with a nod as he received the gun with his right hand.

He proceeded to place the gun on his lap as he went over the previous process that he did with his own gun. Remove the magazine, check the safety, lock it, then go over the rest of the gun. It didn't seem to have any particular problem whatsoever. What may arise would mostly be from the reloading process. It would be on her and all of the soldiers then. Though to top it off, Michael's left hand slipped into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and briefly wiped through the gun. Until then would he reassemble the magazine and handed back the gun back to Paloma.

"It will be safe now." He gave a small polite smile, as he held the gun with one hand. The other offering her a handshake. "I'm Michael Daunte."

Briefly glancing at her shoulder, as a partial view of the squad insignia hit his eyes.

"...Are you in the 15th Atlantic Rifle too?"

_@Ambra

To the youth, everything up until this point felt surreal. In fact, the very moment in which he stood felt as if it was slipping away from his grip. Like sand in between the cracks of your fingers. Mikael couldn't fathom entirely that it's been two month since his departure from home, a year since his mother's death and one long train ride 'till he reached the epicenter of the war: The front lines. Stories had flashed throughout his thoughts, shared by brothers and father about the war effort and their experience with it. Most were bathed, laced even with glee and momentous joy but truthfully Mikael could sense that the better part of the stories was that they were alive and at home, at least even if momentarily for the case of his brothers. That every story that had a silver-lining was in fact one that herald blood and sacrifice. Mikael was scared and hiding it was his pastime throughout the course of this long journey. His boots needed maintenance, so he would distract himself with that. Two month of training could be considered suicide to most civilians considering that most felt unprepared or nervous, some had breakdowns and other treated it like any old walk in the park. Mikael had always been vigilant and sturdy in his training. Finding out methods and tricks from men with much more experience and even himself for situational and general combat. Before long he found that his upbringing had prepared him enough to be station as a Marksman, issued with the SM-Longfield Mikael had the responsibility to defend allies from beyond the line of sight.

Before long he draped himself with hood to hide his appearance withing the soil and terrain and soon enough he had learn how to blend and become invisible to the naked eye. Until that unfortunate, or perhaps fortunate letter arrived detailing the responsibilities he needed to undertake after training had concluded. Throughout many of the time where the soldier found R&R and took time to send letter to their families, young Mikael sat at his lonesome polishing his boots and adjusting to his rifle. Time wasted were life wasted. Issued himself the task to learn combat even if he was someone who should stay in the shadows, awaiting for an opportunity like a thief in the night. Close Quarters Combat came naturally to him. He could feel himself trace every movement, feel every muscle, sense the wind at his favor. It was almost as if he was a savant in the arts. Before long he had bested much of his comrades in combat, with the exception of a couple of elites. But this brought joy to Mikael, gave him a sense of purpose and drive he had lost over the year he spent with him mother.

But every now and again it creeps back to remind him that she was gone. Many thing came to mind about his mother, the beloved woman of his life. How found she was about the world and how proud she was of his growth. To some extent he blamed himself for her death, and to a much larger one he blamed his father. Cancer was something inevitable, it was ticking time bomb waiting to explode. But something kept driving Mikael further, a ignorant hope perhaps but it formed independence and strength beyond what even Mikael could understand about himself. But, it was like it was stated, it was only a matter of time. And he had to take some type of responsibility now that he hadn't a finished education, a home nor a family to return to. His father was a stranger and his brothers were in some place in the war. Mikael hasn't seen them yet, and perhaps he never will.

And so days after the arrival to the front lines, it was all a matter of waiting. Many veterans spoke ill about the new recruits, other pitied them while a certain other percent greeted them in warm, soldier-like embrace. Now in this very moment was a time where he would be put to the test. Still, would his training be enough? Anything that occurred throughout the time was either and inconvenience or bothersome, but it wasn't so much so that it would leave mikael in a bad mood. Soon after the 1st Lieutenant barged in and all stood at the attention stance, as he had taken the time to explain and introduce many and many of the soldier who were around. It was brief as brief can be. But hell, was it at least some type of beacon in the dark. Two lance corporal's were mentioned. And before Mikael could know it a whole platoon of soldier circled the men and started their introductions. Guess he should participate too...

"Excuse the interruptions Lance Corporal's and squad. I just wanted to introduce myself too. I'm Mikael Lauter, Marksman of the fleet, reporting in."

Poetry. Lance Corporal Charpentier, or Jean as he would like to be called, was writing Poetry. Britta didn't know much about poetry, if anything at all. She wasn't educated very much, even her writing and reading skills were something that was taught and learnt by her own efforts from her friends back in Westershelde. She made that known to him. "I don't know much about poetry. Maybe even nothing at all. I grew up in a farm. Poetry is not something people do around there." Brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face, Britta nodded.

"Hmmm..Jean it is then." The other Lance Corporal also followed suit, and requested her to call him by his first name as well, and she simply gave a nod to that. Jean and Isaac. It was always good to know the names of your leaders. Britta nodded in response when he pointed out the fact that she was a gunner as well. Both of them would be the squad gunners and their comrades would be depending on them, as far as fire support is concerned. Two was always better than one. Plenty of fire support was never a bad thing for an infantry squad to have.

The dark skinned lad with the dark hair introduced himself as Jonnie, and slowly but surely, Britta was starting to get to know the rest of her squad. The more names she knew the better. She most probably would remember them all now, but it was still worth trying anyway right? Jonnie also mentioned that he could help them carrying extra ammunition if they needed, and that earned him a thumbs up from her. That would always be good. These guns tend to eat up plenty of ammo, and who knows how much ammunition they'll need before the battle ends.

The crowd was beginning to get bigger as each minute passed. The newest one to join them was a pretty blonde by the name of Paloma Violetta. She even gave them a salute and all. Fancy. Thought they only saluted officers though. She did a mental shrug at the thought. Seems like Paloma knew something about Poetry unlike her. Britta would remain silent as the more educated folks began the talk about poetry. Not long after, another newcomer approached. Judging by the weapon he carried and his introduction, this one was a marksman. A sniper. Mikael.

In that moment, a swarm of soldiers suddenly gathered around him. Some were interested in his poetry, others just curious about why he was wasting his time with his pen to the paper. He didn't get a chance to fully respond to Isaac before another began to speak. Jonnie, once more, had answered the queries and responses he bespoke of, and made a few humorous jokes and anecdotes about the training days. It sent a few bad memories through Jean's head, making him remember his own NCOs and their abusive tendencies. Being branded a coward was bad enough as it was, a reputation which had unfortunately carried over to his training camp regardless, but having the body of a Darcsen worsened everything tenfold. They were not days he was fond of reminiscing of, nor was he happy with ever sharing those details. For the most part, the others around him had not yet brought up his Darcsen heritage, which made him feel slightly anxious about whether or not he was an acceptable candidate for their Lance Corporal. The boy's curling muscle and wink showed quite a lot of confidence, one that worried Jean a little bit.

"N-Now now, let's not get too ahead of ourselves in the confidence race, shall we?" Before he would continue, he turned over towards one of the newer investors towards the conversation. She was a very fair girl, of similar age but a much more questionable height, who bore the same gear as any other rifleman would have. Her blonde hair and honey-toned eyes shimmered through the darkness of the raining solstice. The hair she carried draped down fairly far, making him wonder if it would be a nuisance for the battlefield. Everyone here was yet to see the frontline and to take part in their opening mission, but Jean couldn't help but wonder how he and the others would do. Either way, Paloma, as she identified herself as, had the aura of a warming endeavour spreading beyond her own entity, something that felt ethereal and eternal. He gave her a beaming smile, one that he'd given to a select few beforehand. "I wouldn't call myself a poet as much as a failing one, but I definitely see the links to it towards music. It's very very lovely to meet you, Paloma. Oh...and you don't need to salute a Lance Corporal."

For once, his slightly playful side was shown as he winked satirically to further stress his point. These were all fresh soldiers, just like he was, so to crack down on misconduct was something he couldn't exactly do without a stride of hypocrisy. Thus, he tried to remain lenient on the matter and just give them a general reminder instead of a warning as such. He hoped she'd take it well and that it could help ease his own nervousness of her presence, but Jean was quick to be swarmed by yet another soldier. His name was Mikael, a marksman by all means. They were usually selected based on their shooting training and accuracy from within the camps back in Edinburgh, but whether or not those skills held up in real combat was a feature to be tested and trialled. There wasn't much to respond with, so Jean simply gave him a courteous nod and smile with glee.

Britta, the golden girl before the group, still spoke about her upbringing and misunderstanding of the poetry concept. By all means, this did not irritate Jean at all. Poetry was the only thing Jean had going for him, and intelligence was a battlefield trait he could not muster. He didn't want to alienate her with such trivial questions, but instead tried to reassure her that he wasn't anything special or was he ever going to be.

"You'll be as capable as everyone else, regardless of your or mine upbringings. Poems aren't going to help be at all in this war, it seems. What platoon would want some soppy degenerate of a Darcsen who likes writing to lead them into battle?" His attempt at cheering her up only seemed to distress himself more. His eyes shifted into a somewhat dull angle and were poisoned by the faintest memories of what life had brought him and his people. He didn't mean to go off on a slightly emotional tangent in praising her, but Jean's tendency to ridicule his own abilities was more than enough to rile up his feelings. And so, he tried to force the conversation back onto a happier path. "U-uhh...I'm happy to have you with me...us. All of us. Yes!"

Everyone had been chatting away for a while, more than he realised, when suddenly a booming tone broke their conversation. It was a familiar one, one that had been present only twenty or so minutes before. His undeniably strong prowess in the manner of speech he chose must have been satisfying for his own personal ego, but everyone else may have found it irritating by the sheer noise it created. Definitely an officer, alright...

"8th Platoon, gather your gear and webbings. Plans have changed. Advancement commences in 15 minutes, so haul-arse over to the frontline steps! Anyone who refuses to come is to be court-martialed, so let's get a move on!"

Time had passed, only five or so minutes, and now here they were. The once chattering noises of the platoon were strangely silent over the composition of pattering raindrops and precipitating clouds from above. A gloomy atmosphere engulfed the depths of the trenches whilst a strong stench suddenly erected onto the frontline. When Jean first arrived, leading his group behind Lieutenant Middleton closely, the smell was horrendous as a first impact. It smelt of rotting faecal manifestations, like the corpses of the thousands of undead warriors had all combined and collaborated into one horrific monstrosity. In comparison to the rear-lines and communication trenches, this frontline felt more and more unsanitary than the last. Grubby rows of men and women who'd been here for months and weeks beforehand were staring them down with dark looks, knowing that something awful was to come in less than 5 minutes.

It was quiet, far too quiet for Jean's liking. He'd heard news of the unrelenting orchestration of gunfire on most occasions, but the tides of war seemed to be all but still. Many were whispering amongst one another that the trek would be smooth-sailing. Some whispered that the boys back in Arty-town, a nickname given to the emplacements of heavy barrage cannons west of the trench, had knocked two bells out of the Imperials and sent them running from the hills. Jean had no idea how reliable these cannonades were, but he trusted their word enough to feel a little bit of confidence come back into his soul. To his left was Paloma, who stood shortly against him. Again, that warming aura she let out seemed to calm him like a fire in the wintry harshness. On his right, Isaac also stood, all in silence. Jean tried to start the first conversation, seeing that the pre-show speech wouldn't be given until Middleton had fully inspected his weaponry.

"Here we are." Jean nervously shuddered to himself, partly from the cold and partly from his temptation to lose all control of his breath. The wait was a hard bargain to deal with. He had no idea whether the topside of the trenches were to be glorious and full of royal pleasure like most stories went by at the home's broadcasting services or whether it were to be nothing more than a nightmare awaiting his attention. "We're fine. Should be fine. Right, Paloma? Fine...Fine fine. We're going to be absolutely fine. It's how we lose our combat virginity, anyway. Right?"

Jonnie

No sooner had conversation between all those newly gathered around had begun did the curt lieutenant give another order, and the promise of two hours of preparation melted into the air. Jonnie quickly found the platoon quartermaster and fitted himself out with his complement of clips for his rifle and his bombs. On a second thought he grabbed a few extra pans of ammunition for the gunners, as he said he would, shoving it into an ammunition pouch and tying it about his waist. He was all afire with urgency and a young soldier's sense of duty. Attack, attack! While the quartermaster gave him his arms, Jonnie counted the seconds.

Not even the onslaught on his senses could dissuade him as he jumped into the reserve lines, then the supply trenches, moving through the communications trenches cut into the dirt to the main fire line. The bombardment which had excited his nerves before were now deafeningly loud. A line of guns fired in staccato, each gun adding to the din before it became one great rumbling, shaking man and earth alike. The shells whistled in the air until they exploded in trenches opposite the Federation's own, and Jonnie imagined he could feel the shockwaves. Some shells whistled back, too, Jonnie was sure. But for whatever reason the return fire seemed scattered and intermittent, compared to the Federation's own, and he wondered whether they fell short of their targets.

And the smell, the rot. He had heard stories, but they didn't prepare him for this. He had only smelled once before something as close to being as terrible as this, in the ragnoline plant. A boy just a bit older than Jonnie at the time had accidentally spilled melted ragnite crystals onto himself, on the leg. For all the workman's clothes the other boy was wearing, it may as well have been bare skin, and the skin did curl away as it seared and the flesh underneath cooked. Jonnie never saw that boy again; he heard later that the boy had lost the leg, of course, but still died of complications soon after.

As he pressed himself against the sandbags in the main trench, waiting for the signal to go over the top, Jonnie couldn't say that the smell didn't bother him. As he wished for something to take his mind off the odor, he looked around and saw a young looking boy that had approached the group earlier, but Jonnie hadn't caught his name. The lad must have some courage to be here, Jonnie thought approvingly. The other boy had a roundish, almost sweet face, to Jonnie's mind. It was then that he remembered something suddenly, going through the pouches of his uniform.

"Hey," Jonnie said, tapping the young boy on the shoulder. He pulled out a tin from a pouch and shook it a bit. "Sweet chocolate, not like the bitter stuff they have at the canteens. My mother sent it right before I left the training camp. It's my last few bars. I'd like to have savored it if I had the time, but...Lieutenant's orders, you know. Time for the show." He held out the tin in offering. "Have a piece?"

@Conscripts

He got the nod from Britta and took from it that she had a complete understanding of their responsibilities. Isaac was not seeing her as Corporal to Private, but Gunner to Gunner on this. It was important - nay, vital - to think in that way. Having no words, but silent acknowledgement, of where they stood gave him some comfort. But to move on now...Isaac could tell he was gonna like Jonnie. Once he realized that the two Lances were normal people and not like, say, Lieutenant Middleton, he calmed down and addressed them like a pair of new friends. Well, if they were all working together and they were all against ramrod-stupid military officers who didn't know what they were doing, they may as well BE friends. Isaac chuckled at the comment Jonnie made about how Sergeants expect you to behave.

"I never kissed any ass. The Sergeant knew that I didn't wanna be there, so he was never gonna get the time of day. So, we both agreed that if he'd just do his job, I'd do mine, and that seemed satisfy him."

There was more to it than that. The Sergeant in question didn't really want to create more ire than was needed. He wanted Isaac angry, not trying to actively tear into him. Getting his compliance by holding back was as effective as laying into someone with a real insubbordination problem. It got results. That's all that really mattered. The only thing that bothered him after that - and being drafted in the first place, of course - was that his Sergeant in basic started using him as an example to the other men, saying 'That man gets the idea. He wants to live! What's your excuse?'. So, rather ironically, Isaac ended up making his training group a little more disciplined and dedicated. Strange...

Anyway, with Jonnie offering to be an ammo man for him and Britta, Isaac gave him a thumb's up of approval, saying "I'll remember that.", just as several more of their charges came up to them with introductions. They were all young, weren't they? Nobody here was about 20 years of age, and that was actually quite shocking. Paloma was very energetic. Standing among them all like this, it made Isaac half-think it was like a more pleasant gathering at home or in town, even though that was not the case. Paloma seemed like your friendly-neighborhood helper and spreader of curious news, not the Shocktrooper that her insignia implied. Isaac hoped she was ready for this. He'd seem what the troopers had to do. More than likely, the cover fire was going to be needed for her own attacks, to make sure that she and her ilk remained alive.

Damn stupid war... The Imperials need a fucking hobby.

A hobby that wasn't war, that is. Isaac shook hands if they were offered from those who came up, and he said "Just Isaac will do, unless the Lieutenant moans about it.", before Jean mentioned that they didn't have to salute Lance-Corporals.

"They don't? Good. I don't feel like a superior officer, anyway. I'd rather have someone's trust. I think we'll all do fine if we stick together, watch each other's backs."

That was for the benefit of all, but also to help Jean with that sudden lack of confidence he seemed to be having and wanting to break away from. However, things suddenly took a sudden swerve in the 'HUH???' direction as Middleton spoke out, saying they had to get their gear and rears in motion, because they were moving out in fifteen minutes. What the hell happened? The war couldn't wait another two hours? Hmmm...guess not. So, what followed was everyone gathering and heading out for the site.

It was not pleasant, getting there.

Rain, grim silence, distant sounds of battle... It was too soon. He'd barely gotten to know these people, people whose lives he wanted to keep from being snuffed out, and that he would entrust to do the same. Here they were, stuffed into the trenches with people who stank like...who stank like... Well, we're gonna be honest here, this wasn't all that unusual to Isaac. He lived on a farm. There was rank animal smell there that outranked any general, especially if it was his turn to clean up after their stock. That much...wasn't as bothersome. However, Jean's line about combat virginity kind of felt wrong to him.

"Ah, don't call it that. We're all graduates of the School of Kicking the Arse of Other People. We've all tested well, gotten our grades, and today's our first day on the job."

He had his gun out, looking over the battlefield as he even managed a smile.

"Let's show them the spirit of the Class of 1914."