Since Jean gave the order to move out, Ines found herself curiously devoid of expression. Her eyes always scanned rooftops above, shattered as they were, for the omnipresent threat of sharpshooters, and her eyes returned blankness with every scan. It was more of a habit, really. A habit she’d done well to develop early, thanks to a past she’d rather forget, and in many ways, at both times wish she had been back to and also never experienced. Ines was hardly a stranger to fighting in rain-choked, fog-ridden streets. If anything, her derision of Ostend being a mirror image of Amone in its’ melancholic wreckage only forced her to see parallels. Even while she walked, every pebble, ever drainage pipe, every war-pilfered building eerily reminisced of an endless industrial district, row after row of barely-coiffed tenements hanging by a sheet of mortar that defined the city of Ostend. Maybe things never truly did get any better, if what she had signed on for was a replication of her home. Or perhaps she truly did have it worse off, that Amone - or any other city - was never supposed to be like this, and what, in fact, she had grown accustomed to was indeed man-made hell.

A droplet plopped upon her head. Then another, angled leftward, slithered along her hairline. Its accomplice soon followed, with a merry band of raindrops falling on her head while the weather progressed into an evening’s downpour. Her helmet was damaged beyond repair, for the moment, and Ines took great lengths to express her indignant resignation while she gazed upon it. It was battered beyond what any helmet would be expected to take. To say it no longer served its function was apropos a child defending themselves with a tree branch. She felt oddly naked without it. Grown so used to its position on her head, Ines always heard about how the most heroic and brave knights fought without helmets, as if to say that you were foolish enough to insist proper sighting of an arrow about to end you were worthy of respect.

Were things always this grim? Was there ever such a thing as “honor in combat?” Ines raced with the thought, and wondered if there was ever such a glory as to fight for a righteous cause in a field of honor. And yet, in her heart, she knew this was only half true, for no peasant waddling in the dirt could ever be on the same playing field as the knight or general. Knights had their codes, their laws, their coats of arms and proud insignia. Soldiers had a pike and a shield, if they were fortunate, and orders to go somewhere and hold ground. She imagined knights gaining glory, and the soldiers doing as they were told. And what was glory to those already in a glorious position? Was war really so divisive, so indulgent, that it was always little more than the rich and privileged flaunting themselves over?

*PLOP!*

A raindrop, square on Ines’ forehead, seemed to restore her to the reality of what she faced. Never was it exactly certain what they were going up against, nor what she would do with any of it. Was it better to be lost in some mind-plight, or waddle in the misery that was an unpleasant reality? Ines, knowing her background, knew herself not to be any manner of serious thinker - nevermind a true philosopher - and instead wondered what took about her to think such ways with her omnipresent grimace.

Yet the answer was true, and resounded like the echoes of the rain in a dead city; It was...oddly comforting, truly. That nobody was there, but there was someone who listened. Not spoke. Not to tell you that, “Things will be okay”, or, “You need to be this.” Like a muse, or a trance. An experience, not a conversation. A void in which your thoughts were projected, echoed, mirrored, and the greater they resounded, the more you saw your own self in what you spoke; How strange it was, how absurd the reality is, how you sound, absent of opinion, in a manner of speaking. And in times when all one needed was absence, to say nothing when something should be said? A quagmire genesized from a paradox.

“Don’t outdo yourself, Mephistopheles.” Ines warned herself not to think too hard about it. Any of it, actually. And that meant-

Ines knew this better than anyone; To what pleasure is greater than the will to defy? And to what would it mean to defy the self?

What she experienced was never something she could ignore for any meaningful amount of time. She would have to come to terms with that oddity, that sensation, that demon - eventually.

---

Jean went off on his pursuit of calmness in some sort of moonlit sonata. Ines almost wanted to say something. Did she? Of course not. Jean needed a listener. Listening, as it truly is, is an art, a skill, something refined, learned, practiced, constantly improved, and Ines possessed neither the years nor the insight required for the magnitude of pure madness this man needed to vent.

Would that painfully obvious observation halt our fair Gunner from foisting his speech upon him? No, not by any means. Ines looked over at him, her head resting on top of her crossed arms that formed the closest thing to a pillow she had at the moment. Her eyes narrowed, furrowing, then closing as she turned her head upwards at an obsidian skyscape beyond. She made a promise she would speak to him, and for whatever the word of a Darcsen was worth, that was a request she would see through. Discretion is the better of valor, as the saying goes, and Ines, failing all else, possessed the insight to observe this was not the time for such discussions.

What remained of the rug beneath her was a ripped, distorted thing, but truly, Ines was accustomed to such squalor. In many ways, the life of warfare was not dissimilar to the poverty she grew so fond as an adolescent; Living on a hairline budget, no guarantee of washings or basic amenities, it all resounded to her. Maybe she was intended to live a soldier’s life, after all. Or, more likely, she was making excuses for herself as to why she had gotten herself involved in this nightmare at all.

It was similar, in a queer sense. Ines, for all talk of needing money and stability, only found solace in the most dangerous of lifestyles. Very well could she have gone to work in one of the countless forges and factories, churning out thankless supply for the grinding gears of the Federation’s Army. Or at least done logistics, moving crates and boxes onto and off of automobiles and horse-wagons. Perhaps even been a courier, relaying messages as fast as she could. But no, she was to be a shocktrooper, the quintessence of danger in what was an already precarious occupation.

Even when she was still but a “legitimate” fighter, Ines always acquired a taste for agony. Perhaps towards herself, or that knowing what is there could suddenly be gone, like a gambler winning after loss after loss. Nothing compared to it, truly. It was...enticing? A clear focus, like a dream, almost. As if at the drop of an instant, nothing else was there, and there was but you and your goal. No distractions, naught but a blank canvas to build a wish on could be seen under the influence. And yet...that was the issue, really.

For a world where man was dependent on holding on towards one another's throats, Captain Wilhelm Von Harkvald was rather pacifistic whenever his job title didn't require him to go on the opposing agenda. Life was a sacred being to ultimately dictate whether or not the future was forever, or rather soon to be shot down. In reality, there was a lot of stress and sorrow to go through being a deity above the Grim Reaper himself. Most of the time, if not every single one, his eyes never met the ones that he killed. Personally, it was slightly better that way. There was less of a humane incentive towards keeping his enemy alive, no matter how much he wanted to. But for the people of the Imperial Autocracy, it was a foundation he had to commit towards, where each bullet could be the direct derailment of historical progression or submission. Under the title of Green Fox, he was a holy judge, one with the ability to decide within a split second whether or not the phantoms would gain another figure to their population. Every shot was followed by a sacred, and virtuous, ritual of blessing towards the life that he was about to end. It wasn't bittersweet, like most of the sadistic marksmen of the Imperial Army or Federation forces, as it held a true appreciation for the life they must've lived up until that point. Perhaps they were a sacrifice for the bigger picture, or maybe it was duty and destiny that would call the eventual shots for their last breath. Either way, all life was indeed sacred. Every particle of air breathed in and exhaled moments after was all part of one large mechanism in the reality of Europa. As much as Wilhelm hated the feeling of ending another man or woman's life, it was necessary that someone had to do it in order to protect the others.

The concepts of killing one to save more was truly a contradiction in his own eyes, even for someone who followed the faith as much as he had. Yggdism was a religion he truly believed in, but he wasn't a blind extremist that shunted out all other similar followings, such as the Cruxian opposition. Even in their holy city, he couldn't help but feel pride in their accomplished sense of community, and truly felt the pains of every Federation or Imperial shell that shocked the once peaceful boundaries of this sacred land. For some aspects, Wilhelm truly did appreciate what the Cruxian faith had offered for the Europan people in comparison to what he'd seen modern Yggdism do, hence why he still followed his contemporary outlook on the Valkyrian faith. If only his own pathway held a prosperous environment hellbent on removing war, rather that joining it as some sort of crusade, it would be ideal for the lasting peace of the lands. Yet, in these trying times, all Wilhelm could think of was being the judgement of lives that were still worth living. He tried not to think of those he killed, about their families or backstories, and was trained to try and see them as faceless soldiers simply out to kill him. His humanity could not stop their personalities from shining, especially when he saw the interactions in their facial expressions...

"Green Fox, this is Foundation, do you read, over?" He turned his head to the phone box left by his feet, where he lifted the microphone up and placed the quiet headset against his ears. The phone lines were a necessity for Wilhelm to easily communicate with his command and spotters, but the wires required to link the phone lines together were cumbersome and usually prone to damage, cutting the wires and severing communications easily. "Green Fox, this is Foundation, I say again, do you read me, over?"

"Green Fox to Foundation, loud and clear. Regulate message, over." Holding the telephone to his mouth, he spoke in clear, formal language in order to ensure an undisturbed mutuality of understanding. The mission was rough and the weather did not hold up any wiser. The night was definitely something to loathe for a marksman like himself, but difficulties came with the job description. He was Green Fox, the infamous marksmen of the people. He did not fight for the glory of his authorities, nor did he wish for appreciation from the Emperor, but instead he sought to look towards those who needed protection: the men, women and children, disabled and old, withered and weak, young and frail, who were dependent on every decision he and the soldiers on the frontlines made. It was his calling, essentially.

"Spotter T-1-1 has confirmation on Major Oscar Willis, moving to your location at bearing 250 down the main street. Accompanied by two officers, fourteen riflemen, three shocktroopers, a gunner team and one marksman. Can you confirm?"

Wilhelm held his tongue, telling the receiver to hold the call for a moment as he waited. In the moonlit avenue before him, the perfect uncovering from darkness on offer, he could see the movement of the supposed targets, roughly 230 metres at the bearing given. It was an easy line from the tower he lay within, the nest of his hunting technique, and the occasional fumes of fire left behind by a previous skirmish gave him some extra leeway on identifying who was who. With his binoculars, he'd scouted out the moving force, scanning who was who, and where each and every one was positioned. They moved with great agility, but with enough silence to mask their approach. As he stared, he could see the two front riflemen fire a single shot down the street, having seen a wandering Imperial scout, potentially working for the other marksman group further north. It was easy for soldiers of that role to get diverted from their routes of patrol, especially considering the Federation soldiers were pocketed around Amone without any formal line of occupation. Wilhelm grimaced at the sight of the poor scout being gunned down, but there was still a sense of understanding as to why the Federation would've done so. They were the enemy, just as the Federation was his. There was no real justification for sympathy on both halves, and most acted out in order to protect the ones they knew. If only Wilhelm could've taken a grey stance and sat out of the war for an eternity, not claiming any lives beforehand. Being a pioneer of the term sniper didn't help with his wish to remain neutral.

Having seen the officer in question, being less armed than the former soldiers of his patrol and armed with only a handgun, equally attired with a more formal dressing, Wilhelm re-engaged the phone line again and continued the preparations. They were likely moving as a group to another pocket to prepare for any upcoming offences.

"Confirmation on the target, Major Oscar Willis with his movement. My guess is they're moving documentation to another pocket, Foundation. They are planning something big, but I don't think taking out the Major alone will stop their group from delivering the documents and strategies." As much as they hated it, Wilhelm was right. Simply shooting the officer would not stop the entire group in the patrol from picking up the documents and continuing with the mission. Even if he wanted to lock down the street with immense gunfire, it was an uneven fight, even for his legendary status of a marksman. Calling in reinforcements would only lead to more unnecessary casualties and could even provoke a larger fight than necessary. It was an hit-list job, not a sabotage to Federation plans. Some things couldn't be stopped, even if he tried his hardest. "Confirm if mission is green, over?"

"Mission is green and ready, Green Fox. Taking the Major won't stop their mission, but it will deal a crippling blow to their command chain and morale. You know of the Major's status amongst the Amone resistance, we can't have his works continue any more than they have. Execute with extreme prejudice, Captain. Out."

With a sigh, the phone line was cut short for a second, giving Wilhelm his much needed silence to concentrate. He drew his rifle and aimed it vigorously down the street, pinpointing his target once more. As he lined up the optics to the moonlit Major, he began to speak his rites and passages of religious appreciation. In life, he was a formidable opponent that withstood every beating he took in Amone, but this was his finishing place. He lived as a beacon of hope for the Federation soldiers who'd been trapped here for months, and now he would die as one too. If only war wasn't as cruel as this was. Ensuring that it was clean, Wilhelm pulled the trigger and watched as the bullet dropped the Major in a single stroke. His subordinates quickly panicked, shouting and dragging his body elsewhere as a few shots were let off into random high places, clearly having not traced his round back to his gun. Wilhelm picked up the radio once more and crawled further into the darkness of his tower to conceal his position further.

"Foundation, this is Green Fox. Target is confirmed dead with a cranium shot. Received, over?"

"Understood; fantastic work, Green Fox. When you're in the clear to move, I've given the promised arrangements to let you and your scouts take some leave at the White Hart Inn, just as you stated. We'll beacon your morse-man when we need you for the next assignment, but you might have a day or two to relax. Take care, Captain. Foundation out."

And with that, Wilhelm let out a great sense of exhaling, finally breathing normally as he slowly began to pack up his things. At least for that day, September 10th, he'd be able to devote his time to peace and a lack of fighting in the best neutral zone of Amone...The White Hart Inn.

If it's any consolation to Lucia, the soldier who shot Michael was probably dead, unless he or she was in that monstrous armored machine gun car. Many of the soldiers out there had been gunned down by Isaac and Britta, and those who hadn't made it into buildings...where it was in all likelyhood that Ines, Jean, or anybody else who found such a soldier ended their lives. It would've been ironic if Jean was the very one who killed the one who injured Michael, in fact, or even Franz... It wouldn't sit well if Franz had helped out the one who shot the short sapper, but let's leave that for later. The truth of things was that despite the shock and terror of the attack, they had managed to acquit themselves well, back there, once again shedding human lives at the cost of their sanity. And while some were still in one piece, others were hurting badly.

All he could do was attempt to balance it all, somehow, because the people he worked with cracked themselves to pieces.

His own attempts to talk to Jean were an attempt to reach him, saying 'I'm here and I want to help, hell or high water.'. Nevermind if it was right or smart, for now. It needed to be done. There were already enough times, thus far, that Isaac wanted to take the brunt of Jean's pressures off of him, to soak up some of the pain and leave him just a little more secure in his mind. Isaac's anger towards his situation staved off thoughts of despair, but the thought of others not coping in that kind of perseverence made him feel bad. He should ask Britta about this later, though, as a thought about all this struck him. Well, if she was still up. Anyway, to Jean's predicament, which the Lance-Corporal remained jokingly asleep until the silence was broken.

Broken silence, broken spirits. Jean had tossed over a picture of a young lady in uniform, one that he identified as his sister, deceased. She was a casualty of the war during a fight on the Raloth River, and this among other things was on Jean's fragile mind. And we don't say that to give off the impression that the Corporal was losing his mind, but he was a caring sort, and his cup runneth over with blood and bad memories. He was drowning in 'em. He started to tell him the whole story, or enough of this particular one out of the jumble that may be laying at his feet, taking back the photo. Olivia was gone, and the rest of his family were, as well, and all because of goddamn race hatred. He was angry at Luke for his stupid big mouth and at himself for being just as pissed off that he had one. He had no one left in his life, except for maybe what he had here. And then he made a comment about two in particular that he...well...he didn't exactly say, but in his state...it wouldn't be hard for Isaac to piece together a few things, especially because of the poetry from before.

He isn't just pulling them towards him because he's good. He's in desperate need of their comfort.

Isaac let Jean pour out, just listening for the moment and not interrupting. He had stopped pretending to be asleep after he'd looked upon the photo of Olivia, and had just been looking his way, watching him carefully. The young Corporal wasn't thinking of suicide, but you know that someone who says 'I have nothing to live for!' isn't exactly thinking much for the long life he has ahead of him. That broken, terrified soldier...we back at the beginning of this, before the charge... Good god, to look back at him now... Was he even alive still, or did he buy it on the very day they all went out onto Hill 58? As Isaac was wondering this, Jean started ordering him to go, to leave him be. Dammit, not now, Jean! It's not to say that he had to respect the chain of command, because Jean wasn't really ordering him like a Middleton. He was pleading for him to go, and while Isaac didn't want to...it was a little hard to ignore what he was asking right now. Having already pushed, the Lance had only one recourse if he wanted to keep Jean's friendship and mutual understanding.

"Alright, alright... You win."

He got up to his feet, and then paused.

"I'm gonna process this, for now, but there's one thing you're mistaken about. You DO have friends. Or at least, I am."

He was resonating with everyone, right? That was another word for being friendly, understanding, even caring. It fit well enough. Isaac stepped away from Jean now. He found Britta not yet asleep yet and got down nearby after making sure everyone seemed at least comfortable.

"Well?"

"Everyone is intact, mostly. Lucia is worried about Michael, but I think he'll be okay. Ines looked like she'd been watching me, watching Jean..."

"And how is Jean?"

"Not good, but I think you guessed that as much as I did. I've done what I can, though, hopefully do more later when he can stand it. What about you? What's keeping you up?"

"Franz... He said he was okay, but you know there are people who say they're okay when they're really not?"

Isaac thought about it, and then nodded at her.

"It seems like he's got too much to think about, as well. Maybe it isn't the same impact as Jean, but it's not nothing, despite him insisting so."

"You'd have to be crazy to say there's nothing wrong with you."

"Anything wrong with you?"

"Yup."

"Wanna tell me about it?"

"Later. Been meaning to ask, but...actually tired now. Gonna go to sleep for real now."

He wasn't kidding, either. People like Jean were emotionally draining, to themselves and to others. They were good people hurt bad. It was inevitable. Britta watched Isaac close his eyes and drift off to sleep. She looked around to see if anyone was having any immediate troubles, then turned back to the Lance-Corporal for a moment.

Something he'd been meaning to ask... Yeah, me too.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>



Dull. Dull, dull, dull...and wet. Smelled wet. Hated the wet. The outside smelled of damp, of wet things putrifying, and he didn't like it. Only reason it wafted in was because of the window open in the upper room for the lookout, but the lookout wasn't looking out because it was so rainy out. The lookout would just get his stuff wet if he did more than look around the immediate area. The downstairs remained warm enough, but the smell of it made him groan. A sympathetic pat on the head answered his call, though, so it wasn't all bad. He remained on the carpet, not too far from the seated others, who did things at low light with the windows blocked so the light couldn't get out.

Time passed.

He dozed.

Then...noise.

Something different, a sound drew his ears up, his body taut as he stood up and growled low in warning. The others got to their feet and the one upstairs hissed down "It's ours!". He was then asked to settle down and he did. Apparently not an enemy, then. The door was unlocked after someone on the outside knock-knock...knock...knock-knock-knocked. The door was opened, briefly, and a wet man came in.

"What're you doing? You know we're in a heavily-contested area, spying on enemy movements. You could blow our cover!"

"I know, I know, but this was too important. Things may or may not change drastically, because of it."

"Well, let's have it."

"Major Willis is dead."

The room fell quiet, felt grim. He didn't know why, exactly. He didn't understand the explanation that followed. It was somehow important to them, and that meant that the wet man was no longer unwelcome, but rather the news he brought. All he knew was that something bad had happened, something important was lost. Maybe that's all that needed to be said.

Diana’s Brutal Reality – Dreams – Amone City’s Walls (Sept. 10th)

---

Diana was still tearing up at the whole situation being in a pretty bad situation. She held her pendant necklace in her left hand closed. It was a bit of a simple task of trying to get to sleep but she just couldn’t. Something was in the back of her mind that she couldn’t help but feel a bit helpless in this situation. ”What were the pressures did my mother Rebecca tell me? Something about peer, national and other type of pressures I think...” Diana thought to herself, with a bit of trying to remember what her mother told her. It bothered her that she felt like she forgot the specific other pressure that her mother tell her.

She felt like she was drifting into her sleep by the fact of she couldn’t keep her eyes opened. Therefore, she drifted to sleep, even though sleeping on the hard floor wasn’t a great place to sleep at the time. She missed a bed, however, the injured people were supposed to sleep on them. It was pretty much a common courtesy to follow certain things to the letter. That usually means orders or degrees by her mother specifically. She talked in her sleep by saying. “Mother I hope you aren’t mad at me.” Diana spoke in her sleep. After that specific what she said not loud enough for someone to hear if they weren’t walking by her.

---

---

Diana was crying in her sleep, which was a bit more likely since having that dream of simpler times, when she was only 11 years old. It was the first time her eldest sister Susan ever hit her in the face, but it would be the last time too. She was grateful at that at least, it gave her a smile in her sleep even though they were still a bit mean to her. ”Susie and Astra, I will show you sisters. But I wonder who was Astra’s Secret Crush… all those years ago though.” Diana thought in her sleep, while gently breathing in and out while sleeping. Something would have to give to make her truly hate her sisters, even though she wished they weren’t as mean to her. But Astra, her elder sister was a cruel bitch lately, she meant it. In terms of specifically what Susan said but about a known war instead, with what Astra said to her.

She could hope her Astra and Susan’s relationship could get fixed but the likelihood of that is slim since she’s so far away from them in a battlefield she was conscripted for. However, in the back of her mind it was still curious in what that mask is for. ”I really hate not knowing. But why would the higher ups give us information? About that mask...” Diana thought to herself, in her sleep. It wouldn’t wake her up since she was sleeping soundly even though her back would probably be hurting in how she’s laying down.

---

Any kind of injury was always a pain. Whether in war or not, being hurt with nothing to sooth the pain was very bothersome. Normally, Reyna would have had at least some kind of medicine on hand for this much pain, but the circumstances simply did not allow for such luxuries. After their engagement with the Imperials, Reyna did not come out unscathed. However, compared to others such as Michael her injuries paled in comparison, making her feel stupid for worrying about the paper-cuts she received in comparison. A few field dressings were able to stop the bleeding at least.

As they walked through the city, Reyna looked at her hands and bit her lip as the reality of the situation sunk in. She killed a man. A man that was perhaps just as innocent as the rest of them. Regardless, she committed that action and she could never take it away. The worst part of it was....just how easy the acts themselves were. It was difficult on the mind to take the life of another human being, but the actions that took that life were so simple.

She snapped back to reality from those thoughts when they were told to get into a building, which had better protection than out in the streets, as ruined as it was. Still....Reyna could not imagine living in such a place like a rat scurrying about. At best, it looked very uncomfortable and certainly was not the mansion she grew up in. She was definitely going to have a difficult time to sleep in this place.

Moving inside, Reyna noticed Isaac having a talk with Jean who earlier, she knew, had another emotional breakdown. The last fight was very stressful, and she felt like she'd have possibly broke down afterwards. However it was his charge and willpower during that fight that counted, not the aftermath they all suffered. Satisfied that someone was checking up on Jean at least, Reyna attempted to get some sleep, curling up somewhere on the floor. It was no use, though, as hours passed on the uncomfortable floor. Reyna could barely tolerate army cots, let alone the cold floor that they were sleeping on.

Eventually, Reyna had enough and, after making sure everyone else was for the most part ok with a scan of the room went outside to check on Jean. Diana was crying in her sleep, she noted, but she didn't dare try to wake her up to check on her. That could end badly after all. Moving on outside, Reyna had nothing to say and a foggy mind and the pain of her minor injuries making her slightly wince as she walk. But, she may be able to at least get Jean a nap. After all, it would be unwise to pull the entire night watch without someone filling in.

@LetMeDoStuff

---

It still hurts. Of course it would. It was just a makeshift to patch up the mess that was once his tool to manifest, to create and nowadays to kill. But it was certainly not a sloppy attempt. It was something meant for him at heart, done out of their own kindness and desire to see him standing on his feet right by their sides, not just because it was their duty. The rag of cotton that was once a lovely shirt was double knotted that hugged his arm like a human hand grasping sweetly yet gently on his arm. Like how his mother did when he was only eight when he fell on the pavement and she helped relieving the pain like an angel. It was good times, the times when he had not to worry a single thing about life, the times he did not have to worry about getting shot, getting enough food, enough rest or enough shelter for himself and for others too. He was just playing around the house and the city everyday, going to school, being loved by his friends, and especially being taken cared of by someone he could still not differentiate with an angel in the heavenly sky. He wished he could come back any day, when the war is over. He'd have to survive the war first though. It had proven itself difficult, but he had only one direction now.

But as he was still remembering the angels in his life, he turned around to the sound of another one.

It was Lucia. Again with the intrusion it seemed. He had clearly closed the door anyway. But for after everything she had done for him, it would just be petty complaints. As Michael turned around, the close proximity of her eyes intertwining with his like fiber strands dancing around each other and braiding into a strong thick rope made him take a step back in surprise. Her soft, soaked yet still silky silver hair fell down on her small shoulders, so gently yet for some reasons, it never did reflect her the same way he did. She wasn't the Lucia Michael knew at Hill 58, yet it was the Lucia he had always known. It was simply beautiful, nothing less.

"...But you still did a lot for me. Really much, I'll cherish this."

It did not slip his mind of how she had been so aggressive and determined to protect him, to the point that he began to feel abnormality in it, but it never came to his consciousness to make him ask. Not yet. For now, he was simply lost in thoughts just as Lucia wrapped her small palm around his wrist as she led him out of the room and onto his bed. Led but he never was not free. He just simply lent Lucia to her guidance. He didn't question one bit what she was going to do. He knew it, from holding his wrist to sliding her fingers and sewed it with his own, he knew it. He knew he was not going to go anywhere with this, nor did he want to go anywhere. His gentle descent into the dreamland did not come any longer after hers, and finally, for once in a while, he actually saw his cherished. Like Lucia said, he had arrived at his favorite place - nowhere further than his sweet home, his large yet cozy mansion, his favorite spot next to the fireplace in his study, on a nice comfy armchair with a book. But for today, that familiarity was broken. On that same spot, in front of his armchair was another one, and on it was a girl with long silver hair...
@LetMeDoStuff

The wind kicked up once more, showering down the precipitation on a more fierce level than before. If it weren't for the fragile roof still loosely hanging above of Squad 1, they'd have been soaked and humiliated by mother nature more than the Imperials already had. Jean could only feel the occasional flicker of a single drop going off course splash against his dirty, blood-stained face. A coarse suspiria had engulfed his heart once Isaac had left, leaving him alone in the winter rainfalls more-so. Many of the Federation soldiers, especially from Assen, Wessen, North Francia and the northernmost parts of Edinburgh were likely used to the idea of snow bearing down on their position during the eventual end-days of the year, however Jean was used to the fowl weather. Liege was never known for being an attractive site for the forecast's choice, leaving rainfall and other chilled mists to occupy its landscapes on a regular wintery basis. However, the more he looked at the rain, the more Jean began to think about the home he once held. It was a fragile life, yes, but one that came with minor details that he would scavenge day and night now to relive once more. Isolated as a child, the Corporal was definitely a boy of solitude. It was why he took up writing, and the act of expressing his inner-most thoughts from pencil to paper. The quills of his literature were always his most enjoyable subject to indulge, and even when he attended the tiny local school associated with certain children of a certain business, all he spent his time doing was writing. Jean was never one to talk, nor to love those outside of his bloodline. Never once had he fallen in love with another girl simply from the passing of curiosity, attraction or lust. Instead, all he did was write, and fall into a romantic connection with the words and letters presented before him on thickly informed book covers. It was a lonely childhood; Jean liked it though.

Now, the thought of his family came back to his mind. Whilst the deadened look in his empty, colourless eyes continued to stare into the bleak of the rainy night, Jean's hands fumbled around with the mechanisms of his Longfield, ensuring it was still in good condition as he thought of Olivia, mother and father. They weren't the happiest nor the most well off family. From the conversations he'd had, Jean had no upbringing like Michael or Reyna, but he was more akin to someone like...Thomas? Well, despite his legendary status, Jean was unable to really get much conversation out of him, except with the odd queries of tactical curiosity. Even now, in his injured state, he was quiet. Freya once told Jean that it was because he always thought of home himself, making him more humanised than anyone else on the battlefield. Even with his senses still locked firmly in place, he had the decency and the courage to face his biggest fear, which was never seeing the faces of his family again. He'd volunteered, hadn't he? Under false promises of more freedom from their dominant colonial master, he'd sold his soul and rights for as long as the war would rage on. Facing ambushes on naval warfare, surviving sinking vessels, charging beaches, cities, trenches, fields and rivers all for the sake of wanting to secure a better tomorrow for those he'd left behind. Most of his money was being sent back over there, apparently. Jean thought of what it would feel like having his small wages being sent directly back to someone he cared about. The thought struck another nerve within Jean's flagged mind and reminded him that even if he'd wanted to, Jean could no longer send any money home to anyone. He was the last Robin-Charpentier. There were no cousins, or grandparents, at least not anymore. He'd heard of one cousin, one that was an orphan as such but still related by blood, who was killed maybe a week before Olivia, at a battle 50 miles south of her. Jean didn't feel much sorrow, but he sympathised with the tragedy of yet another young death. Even so, the thoughts of his dear sister being killed clearly overruled that of the distant cousin.

Jean let out a deep sigh. What else was there to do? He was tired, yet unable to sleep. There was fatigue aching through all his bones, begging for some commodity, such as a leisurely bath or the warmth of a soft foam mattress. For a moment, he thought of what would make those two perfect scenarios of comfort any better, but all of those seemed to lead towards the same conclusion: alongside someone else. Well, perhaps not the bathing, but simply having the presence of someone special really made any situation better, no matter how bleak the world had become. Jean remembered holding Reyna's hand, or hugging Kalisa, the day before. A split-second of thinking saw his face lost in remembrance over how silky and gentle Reyna's hand was, spreading a sense of comfort and reliance straight through Jean's nerves before he even could pinpoint why.

Another footstep suddenly came from behind, emphasising the almost silent creaking of the broken floorboards beneath her feet. Initially, Jean shifted his head around quite suddenly, preparing his rifle but not aiming it. Half of him expected Isaac to come back for round two, an hour after he'd first seen Jean break down in place. As much as he appreciated having the gunner as a friend and ally, Jean didn't want his burdens to become Isaac's either. But despite the man's name crossing his mind, it was instantly wiped as soon as he saw Reyna standing, without a word to say seemingly, simply watching over him as his guardian angel. Even though only an hour before he'd been close to sobbing away again, Jean managed to muster a smile, sweeter than any one he'd done before, directly towards her. His eyes tried to not rest upon hers, despite how impossible it truly was, as he felt a surge of hope course through his thickly clogged veins. A moment of silence came between the two as he continued to watch her, smiling away quietly to himself once they'd finally came into mutual scrutiny. Eventually, Jean took a stand, painfully getting up onto one knee before slowly staggering towards the Vinlander.

It was a short walk, seeing how she was only on the other side of their broken room, but Jean felt like time moved at a snail's pace during his approach. Eventually, when he came face to face with her once more, Jean broke the silence, nodding quietly and speaking just louder than the whispers he used to call his voice. Intending not to wake up the others was a top priority, but seeing Reyna during the bleak time made his heart go to ease, and allowed him to talk quietly without the worry of getting too loud.

"Hey Reyna...Couldn't sleep, I suppose?" Whilst he hadn't noticed it before, Jean definitely saw it now. Since their last skirmish with the Imperials, Reyna didn't look like she was in any perfect state. There were some slight bumps, bruises and scratches pointing up here and there, but her stance on her legs seemed weaker than usual. Perhaps if he'd paid attention before she arrived he would've seen her limp gently, but the signs were there enough to make him worry just a small amount. From first glance, it definitely wasn't life threatening, but it sure looked like it would cause some inconvenience for someone who'd entered their first fateful battle. "I hate to ask and put this upon you, but...Are you okay? Please...come sit down beside me, ease any pain, if you have any. It might...It's the best I can do, sorry. I know my best is never any good."

Though this time he had much hesitation, Jean gently wrapped his fingers around Reyna's left hand to move her towards where Jean was sat before, slowly lowering himself back down to where he was. He left the chair available for her if she didn't want to follow through and join him on the floor, which wasn't exactly the most charming of invites, but the option was left either way. With that in mind, he hesitated to let go of her hand at first, continuing his conversation to try and finally learn something about her, rambling what was going on in his mind.

"Reyna..? Jean started slowly, but didn't seem to stutter or fumble in his words like he usually did. Clearly, he'd been thinking about this a lot, and thus had it mapped out quite clearly, at least in his own mind. "I...miss home, and I imagine you do too. Why...Why did you sign up to join the army, like as a volunteer? It's hard to imagine people like you, me or Diana even joining this conflict, Lucia included, but the other two seem to have their own minds set on conscription and forced service. And, well...we know mine was broken by uhh...well, her. But, what about you? I don't want to seem invasive or anything, but I've always thought about what it really means to still be fighting for home. I...I don't know if you are, or for the ones you love back home, but I lost that incentive a long time ago, especially after finding the news about my home and parents back in Liege City. I only hope that, at least, you find some sort of refuge or reason to keep on trying. I'm rather skint on my own reasons, but I know I have a few still within this Squad."

Completely unexpected, Jean actually began to faintly chuckle to himself, finally letting go of Reyna's hand once more to let her have the freedom she deserved. He didn't want to appear clingy or overenthusiastic about her stay, but in reality Jean was never more happy to see a face like hers since then. For a moment, he saw the chain of the pendant he gave her, still located somewhere on her personnel, and another smile cracked onto his face. Though, he didn't mention it, like he usually did, and instead changed the subject to perhaps simulate a more relaxed conversation.

"I should tell you this, as I haven't told the others. I heard some news from Thomas the other day, that he read from a paper laid on the street, that said the VSS-Apache, that Vinland cruiser, was sunk by an Imperial convoy. Apparently there were civilians as well as soldiers aboard, and it violated the agreements between the Empire and Vinland about involvement. Take it as you will, but...I think you're homeland may finally get involved, not to discredit your brilliant contributions so far, Reyna." Jean smiled again, prodding a small tease towards her at the end. It was a strange way to keep his happiness, trying his hardest to not break down in front of Reyna like he did before. It was unfair for her to feel his emotional baggage as something to rely on or care about, and Jean ultimately felt guilty that he had done it before. And so, he turned to her with a slight worried look upon his watered down face, now left without its helmet like before. "Reyna...I'm...I'm really sorry for being the way I am. I don't mean to be the damaging downside to the Squad, the one who needs to suck up his emotions for the greater good of our comrades, but...I just don't want to give the wrong idea that I want to help you guys. I want to help everyone, Reyna...and I want to help you, just at the very least to get through this war alive and to return home to a life you can enjoy, perhaps free and safe from my irritating commanding motives. But, just know...I am sorry, I am...so...very...sorry..."

As he said this, Jean's eyes fluttered whimsically before his head suddenly began to flop down, leaning gently against the side of Reyna where she sat. It wasn't intentional, but Jean really hadn't slept well at all for the past few nights, being unable to fully concentrate his attention to find that much needed rest and relaxation. Because of the fatigue of battle, on top of that, he'd simply just collapsed into a seemingly odd trance of sleep, gently finding comfort in the girl who sat beside him. Her voice and presence was enough to at least remind him of what was important, and it also reminded him of one of the two reasons he still fought to stay alive in the war. One was for the Squad, and one was for someone in particular.


The day became shallow and bleak. Once his eyes fluttered open, Jean stood up quickly and sharply, realising that by sleeping on the same position that he had his night watch on, he could've been seen as slightly exposed. He wasn't sure if Reyna was still beside him, either sleeping or watching over him, or if she'd gone back to another room to sleep, but with a quick stretch, Jean replanted his helmet atop of his head and quickly checked some of his weaponry. Stuff seemed to still be in fantastic gear, finding some relevance to its battle status within the mechanisms. Bolt and locking system? Admirable. Cleanliness? Up to standard. Adjusted iron sights? Fixated to the perfect degree of urban combat. Magazine count? Eh, enough, he supposed. They were here for a long time, it seemed, and though it was a grim thought they were never short of Federation corpses to potentially take some spare stripper mags from. If that were the case, at least it was the betterment of their own survival. Jean was no grave robber, but at least it was a peace of mind to simply know that every bullet had the chance of changing the difference between life and death. Though, seemingly when around the armoured car that had ambushed them before, it seemed unlikely that every situation was resolvable with a .303 round.

Jean made a quick peep outside the building, walking down the pile of rubble that led up to their unhomely hostel. The streets were far too foggy to really make out where anything was, but at least the rain had seemingly stopped, leaving behind only acres of puddles and drainage systems that had been disrupted either by the excessive rainfall or by the bombardment of the cities...or both. He let out a sigh of disappointment, knowing that the holy city of Amone, crucial to someone like Michael, was now left as some battlegrounds for sinners and heretics to their peaceful ways. Jean was no man of religious intent, but at least he was defiant to agree on some of their values and intrinsic beliefs, on a moral standpoint. Everyone was unique though, even those that follow the banner of a nation, army, religion or racial group. Be they a Yggdist, Darcsen, Imperial, Eastern foreigner, female, male, lower class, aristocrat or soldier of the Federation, they were all unique. It was what made Squad 1 feel rather...homely, for Jean.

There were already some muffles of conversation or groans of those waking up when Jean finally entered the rooms one by one, quietly getting them all up and gathering them for briefing. Some were...under-dressed, to say the least, as they'd been drying off their clothes. Whilst people like Michael had kept their essentials on, such as shirts and trousers, people like Freya were a bit more liberal with their drying. Sat only in the undergarments necessary to show all of her bare skin, Freya seemingly fumbled around their desolate room without a care in the world, even slipping on many of her clothing in delayed intervals in order to ensure everyone else had gotten up. Thomas didn't really seem to be in much of a good position by any standing point, but from Jean's keen eye he imagined that Michael was feeling at least a bit more consolidated. He couldn't help but tilt his head in happiness at the wholesome scene of Lucia tucked up in Michael's bed, the sapper clearly having given it up for her during the night of thanks and appraisals. Before she awoke, Jean walked up to Michael and whispered quietly, in a somewhat oddly cheerful tone:

"Count your blessings, Michael. You're in a holy city...with someone who seems to care a great deal about you. I'd sacrifice a lot to be in a similar position." Jean's smile faded slightly as he had realised that almost everything he stood for and loved had already been offered to the devil and grim reaper weeks, and years, before, where he stood alone in the tracks of his own destiny, potentially without the same compassion Lucia knowingly felt for Michael. Jean wasn't sure if their connection was romantic by any means, considering Lucia had always been very friendly with everyone, but she did have a special place in her schedule, mind and heart for the small Sapper, going out of her way to ensure he was safest out of everyone else. Persistent to not bring down the mood by his quite clear drop in facial expression and realisation once more for his familial loss, he tapped Michael on the back before leaving him to wake her up.

Soon enough, everyone was more-or-less gathered outside for a small briefing, rifles and gear mostly kept in check. There seemed to be a few losses of small equipment over the night, perhaps the stripped clip holder for an empty magazine lost but nothing too major. They were lucky as it was that they weren't snatched up in the middle of the night. Jean's eyes, despite the comfortable rest he had on Reyna's side, or at least for as long as he realised he was sleeping there, were still fairly bagged with a need to relax. There was a groggy and underwhelming presentation of him, demanding a bath and a comfortable bed to rest and recover within. His hand's bandages were now replaced with a cleaner one, and where he'd been sat on his own before Reyna showed up revealed the old blood-soaked field dressing used for the glass shard's cut.

"Uhm...well...Good morning, Squad 1. I...I can't really give us some good news, but it's best we don't stay around here for much longer. Last night I heard shots across from the city, and I get anxious that we may just be another scheduled point of interest for a random Imperial patrol. I'd say we keep moving now, like...right now. Sorry to be a pain, but we should leave if we want to ensure we can stay away from incoming pursuers. Who knows, that armoured crew with their machine of way may have a grudge to behold against us..."

Jean hoped otherwise, but knew that there was a chance that there were more cars than they'd come across. It seemed rather well refined for what it was, enough to make several copies successfully. With the unharsh terrain of an urbanised area, what better place to test and ponder over the wonders of mechanised and motorised combat. The age of horseback and cannon were seemingly nullified by its introduction, one that was far too quick to anticipate. Now they just needed to focus on moving to somewhere safe before Jean could finally find which way they were due to head. And with that in mind, Jean began to lead the group forward, descending down the piles of rubble once more before walking cautiously down the foggy street, rifle unsheathed from its sling. The moment seemed to be quiet and uneventful, despite the everlasting tension of roaming Amone's seemingly empty streets. Any moment could have a squad jump out from behind the broken walls of a garden or shop, gunning them down, but it never happened. It was almost as if the streets itself had eyes, or that the windows were going to speak in the familiar accent of the Imperial soldiers. Either way, Jean was surprised and glad that nothing ever came around in terms of violence, but the most peculiar sight came before them as they continued their travels.

Several wooden signs were laid out along the road, pointing with the words White Hart listed all over them. Other words like neutrality and peace were thrown into the mix, but Jean's scepticism seemed to get the best of him. He kept his rifle at the ready and walked with extreme caution, even going out of his way to search for landmines on the floor before stepping first. No matter what the conditions of the squad behind him were, Jean led the march forwards, for some reason being oddly compliant with the responsibility of going ahead. Jean wasn't sure if it was noticeable for Michael, Franz, Isaac, Reyna, Diana, Freya, Britta or Kalisa, but it was quite strange to see him becoming more...proactive? Was that the word Jean could've used to describe himself now? There weren't bullets flying at him, which was when his instinct to act smartly usually kicked in, but the looming threat of an ambush already seemed to hold the same similar effect. Whether it was the thought of being in some marksman's sights or not, Jean still could feel his muscles tensing up painfully at every known noise to occur in the fog.

Suddenly, before them, Jean stopped, raising his hand and clenching it into a fist, signalling for everyone to take a knee behind something as cover. Jean was the furthest ahead, at least by a few or five metres from the nearest follower, and held his rifle up to his eyes, optics trailed on the sudden sound of bootsteps in the distant fog. They were close. There was chanting and talking quietly ahead of them, and the sounds of voices were seemingly audible form their concealed, yet open position. Jean kept his rifle trailed into the mist, his breath running short. The boots stopped, and Jean held his breath, unsure of what to make of it. That was until a voice rang out.

"You coming in or leavin', Fed?" Jean was shocked, immediately, at the direct address of an Imperial sounding voice. It was...welcoming, but one that belonged to the supposed enemy they'd been fighting for so long already. Jean didn't move his rifle, but instead swayed it from side to side, trying to pinpoint the source of the speaker in order to get the upper advantage in the even of a shootout. For about ten seconds, no one answered, unsure of how to respond to the sudden cheeriness of another voice. Jean looked back slowly, eyeing up his comrades with a strict policy of breathlessness, panicking on the inside over the sudden outburst of a voice. This was all happening so quickly. "Look, we can see you. No need to trail the guns on us, we're all friends at this house!"

With the heavy concept of boots placing themselves slowly across the pavements, a figure emerged through the fog, dressed entirely in a rather smartly onlooked attire, equipped with several medals and accommodations. Jean kept his rifle aimed, looking back and telling those behind him to wait with a silent mouthing. His heart raced for answers, unable to keep a steady beat and the confusing fear that the situation held. Were they being led out into a false sense of security, or was this some sort of ploy to get them all distracted before an assault squad wiped them out from behind? Even so, Jean slowly stood up, moving out of the cover of the rubble to look more distinct to their approaching speaker. Jean's hands trembled as he did so, perhaps looking rather suicidal to the rest of his squad as he daringly left the protection to fully realise the situation. Even with that in mind, Jean did have the gun still trailed on the man.

"Woah, rules are rules here, Fed. No violence." Jean could see his face more clearly now, making out the blonde features of his hair and more mature look. He looked rather sophisticated, but not in an overly pompous or aristocratic way. He seemed to be rather, kind? Was that the right word to use? Why did his appearance suggest that straight away? Jean was confused as to how to react, but he hesitated in his speech, looking at the man with a sense of inferiority. "This your squad?"

"W-What's going on? What are you planning?" Even with the stammer, Jean's voice was remarkably strong and empowering, finding a sense of confidence and calmness to the real anxiety he felt in the situation. Was he about to be struck a bullet? He would never know until he asked. However, he got a response he wasn't yet prepared to receive.

"Did you not see the signs? This is the White Hart, just behind me. Dunno if the fog obscures it." He turned his head around, before nodding to confirm that the building in question was more-than-less covered up by the thickness of the misty morning. "Oh...uhh...well this is our neutral pocket. I don't come here too often, but it's one of those unstated laws that we have in Amone. You one of those new-waves of infantry that poured in the other day?" No one answered, but with a slight chuckle, the Imperial seemed to get it correct by assumption. Whether it was from a deduction that he had planned out in his mind or the simplicity that the squad seemed more pressured than before, it was clear to him. "Well, no violence is allowed to happen here. On any sides. Whether you're a Fed, Imperial or Civvie, no combat here. They set up this place for citizens of the city before they started to allow small numbers of soldiers to rest and relax here before they went out into combat. Just one rule, though, and that was to not fight. Pretend the war doesn't happen, we like to think."

Jean was sceptic, but for some reason he felt compelled to start lowering his rifle. There was a strange and charming tone with the elder man, smiling and chuckling along to his little explanation of why it was so quiet over here, and why there were chuckles coming from ahead, both of which sounded mildly Imperial and Federation in terms of their accents. There were clinks of drinks and some small little giggles from other individuals, perhaps the apparent owners of the Inn. Jean was very confused by this all, but he did remember the mentioning of neutral zones during his original briefing of Amone. Trigger discipline was advised, but not to this extent? Jean turned back around and suddenly looked to his Squad, before looking back at the Imperial.

"Are...I mean...uhh...This is all very..."

"Surprising? Hah, I thought the same. Years of fighting and we ain't never seen anything like this, have we? Besides, it should be calm for your boys and girls behind you. You guys look like shit, and most of us boys from the Imperial Marksman squads will be leaving later tonight, so the beds and baths will be free for yo-" He was suddenly interrupted when Jean quickly turned around, walking a little closer with a sense of hope in his eyes.

"B-Beds? Like...real ones? And...hot baths?"

The Imperial nodded and chuckled, still not having introduced himself. No one could have possibly told who he was from first glance, but the Imperial of Squad 2 was to be more than surprised if and when he was finally introduced to the unsung hero before them. Or at least, hero for the Imperials, demon for the Federation, however they looked at it. Jean was in the blank about who he was, but for some reason, he felt the need to trust him. The encouraging shouts ahead didn't seem forced enough for this to be a plot, was it? And it was likely to come across a neutral zone in this pocketed battlefield of the frontlines. Jean, keeping his eyes locked on the Imperial, waved his hand behind him to signal the squad, before walking ahead. The Inn began to come into view, where he saw the sign as he instructed: The White Hart. Jean's heart froze. Was this...time to relax and recover? Was this...a peaceful place in the middle of an entire warzone?

---

To the casual observer, Gwyn was a man defeated. Any psychologist worth his salt would look at him and come to the same conclusion: everything about him, from the haunted eyes and the sunken cheeks to his shuffling gait and his limp grip on his rifle spoke of someone who had been utterly, entirely, hopelessly routed. This, the shrink would say, was a boy coming home from a lost war. But then our theoretical psychologist would look at everyone around him, the tired but otherwise high spirited soldiers, and wonder just what was it that made him so miserable? Was he a traitor? Perhaps he had lost a close friend in the last fight. Or maybe, he had recieved some bad news from home.

Reality was far less dramatic, though no less harrowing for dear Gwyn. He had proven himself utterly useless in that last fight. While everyone else found their mark and performed their jobs admirably, Gwyn himself seemed to have all the impact of a baby sparrow in a glittery dress against the Imperial forces. Every shot rang out wasted. He offered no support, scored no kills, made no real effort. He was dead weight, and he knew it. That little fact dug its way into the back of his skull and made a little nest in his brain, and the wight of his uselessness hung on him like a great big pancake on his head. He couldn't even meet his squadmate's gaze without blushing and looking at the floor. He was just waiting for the inevitable bullying that was going to occur. He, the one who had been training his entire life for a situation like this, had been the least effective. Oh, the irony!

So perhaps it was no surprise that he stayed away from the body of the crew as they made their way through the streets. At Jean's instruction, he slumped against a wall and sat there, praying for a sniper to pick him out first. Go on, you pussy. Give him the excuse. No such luck. The Imperials they encountered were, for lack of a better word, friendly. Some aristo leading them. Gwyn didn't care enough to get a good look at him. Didn't pay to get acquainted with someone who would later kill you - or who you would later kill. Not Gwyn, though. He was firmly aware of his own uselessness, unless on of his companions cared to use him as a human shield, and even then, with his height, he wouldn't be much use even then. What a thing to think!

Still, if it was a trap, better he go than the others. He was skeptical of the Imperial's story - there was no way that there was just this oasis in the desert for them. This was war! They'd do everything they can to murder each other! They all saw what the Imperials did to the cavalry units. God knows, he was cleaning viscera off his boots all night.

Unbidden, and reluctant to wait for instruction, Gwyn got up out of cover and marched straight towards the place that the Imperial had said was neutral grounds. If his story was true, he had nothing to fear. If it wasn't, well, the squad wouldn't lose much. The Imps might actually be doing them a favour by getting rid of him.

"I'll check it out," he called over his shoulder. "If I'm not back in five minutes, don't bother trying to avenge me."

A long, drawn out yawn escaped Luke as a new day in the field began and let out a small sigh as he rested next to the entrance of their crumbling shelter, his rifle laid out upon his lap with an eager round just waiting to be fired. As the small piercing rays of the sun finally peaked through the window and assaulted Luke’s tired eyes he couldn’t help but wince in annoyance as the sudden light gained an irritated grumble from the young exhausted soldier. He attempted to rub the blurriness out of his eyes and just now realized how heavy his eyelids were, finding it to be a challenge to keep them open. With a huff of irritation Luke silently regretted staying up all night before pushing himself onto his feet and rotating his neck, a small sigh of satisfaction as a few cracks reached his ears and helped loosen up his body for the start of the day. He winced slightly as his face wounds were still a bit sore from yesterday. Since he had a plenty of time last night Luke used some of the basic first aid he’s learned from training to bandage up the right side of his cheek. With cheap bandages he’s at least insured that nothing would fall back into his open wounds. After a few more stretches and pops from his limbs Luke peeked out the front door and got a good look at the depressing looking streets, frowning at the heavy fog that seemed to be consuming the war torn city. “Lovely, this day is just gonna be a fun one,” he muttered, the sarcasm just oozing from the tone in his voice. Well at least this foggy morning wouldn’t be helpful for any snipers, though they’d be just as blind.

Luke’s mumbled curses of the day was soon halted as he heard the rest of the squad finally waking up to face the fantastic day. With a small sigh he began to put on his gear before noticing Jean coming in to get him for a briefing. “Already getting ready boss, hold your horses,” he smirked before gathering the rest of his gear and following after his superior to hear the briefing for the day. Luke entered the room with a heavy groan and cracked a grin as everyone gathered for Jean. “Well that night sucked, but at least no one's throat was slit by some sneaky Imp,” he chuckled before looking around one last time with an arched brow before seeing everyone’s throats were indeed still intact and nodded. “Yep, no slit throats,” he chuckled again before ruffling his messy brown hair and waiting for Jean to begin. After mentioning the shots from last night and giving an order to move out in case the Imps from yesterday wanted to go for another round. He nodded in agreement, for the first time actually, and strapped on his helmet. “Let’s get on with it then!” he declared before moving out with the squad.

After pushing out of the complex and continuing on through the abandoned streets of Amone, marching deeper and deeper into the heavy fog that enveloped almost every inch of Luke’s vision. He would never admit it aloud, but it was a bit unnerving. Any second now they could catch a hot piece of led and become more bodies upon the pile of corpses that are scattered around the city. So far though they remained hot led free and moved through the streets with caution. Luke glanced up front now and then, noticing that Jean was leading the team with care and couldn’t help but frown that he was taking point. If he went down then they’d be down a Corporal and put them all in a world of hurt. It was clear he cared for the team, but Luke silently wished he’d hang back just a bit and let someone else take point. He soon brushed off those concerns and simply moved with everyone else, ready to jump into action and kill anymore Imps that want to test their luck with them. Maybe he’d get to test his new grenade on a few, feeling a bit eager to see it in action and silently hoping to find a room filled with the bastards.

His hopes to test his new toy though vanished as Jean halted his advance and singled everyone to get down. Luke quickly fell to his knee and raised his rifle towards the heavy veil of fog that lingered before them, hiding god knows what that could probably kill them. He began to feel that same uneasy feeling from yesterday return to the bottom of his gut as he began to hear noises from up ahead. The grip around his rifle tightened as he swallowed a bit of nervousness as he swore he could hear voices speak out in the distance without care, as if they weren’t in a damn warzone. Though what really began to make him feel uneasy were the rhythmic footsteps that continued to grow closer to their position. “Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered quietly as his finger caressed the trigger of his rifle, ready to send off the first round of the day. Luke’s heart skipped a beat as a voice soon called out to them and arched a eyebrow as a bit of confusion washed over him. Soon a stranger finally emerged and Luke’s rifle quickly snapped to the mans head, his finger ready to squeeze the trigger, though before he could he noticed that the man never showed a shred of hostility towards them. In fact he looked rather calm for guy with a full squad of soldiers with their weapons drawn on him.

To Luke’s surprise Jean left his position to confront the fancy looking Imp. He clicked his tongue in annoyance before lowering his rifle slightly as he walked between his sights of the Imp. Though this was all very confusing and frustrating, Luke listened as the Imp began to explain the neutral zone they were about to enter. His eyes widen slightly as he explained the area and rules before scoffing in amusement. “Seriously? That’s just… odd,” he stated before rising to his full height with a small smirk. A neutral zone where both sides can gather and rest, just to head out later and slaughter each other? That was either brilliant, or the most dangerous idea anyone could come up with, especially if a bunch of civilians were mixed in here. Luke rested his rifle onto his shoulder and arched a brow as the Imp threw out the fact that he was part of an Imperial Marksman squad like it was no big deal. Luke’s gaze hardened upon the man after learning what he was. A sniper? Knowing that made Luke feel a bit more uneasy as his thoughts returned to the Imperial sniper lurking around the city on a head hunt for soldiers like them. He definitely didn’t look like an amateur, in fact he looked like a seasoned pro. It was honestly a shame they couldn’t just kill him here, it’d be one less pain to deal with in the future.

Soon Jean and the fancy Imp finished talking, Jean seeming a bit excited as fresh beds and warm baths awaited them in the inn. They sound nice indeed, but he could hear the distant clinks of glasses and cheerful laughter. That could only mean one thing! “Looks like we’ll have plenty to drink tonight!” he laughed before marching on ahead with a happy pep in his step and pleasant humming tune. He noticed Gwyn began to move up before him, offering to check it out and chuckled as he stated to not avenge him if he never came back. Luke grinned before slapping a hand onto his fellow rookies shoulder and chuckled. “What, ya trying to steal the first round of drinks mate? Not if I have anything to say about it!” he laughed as he walked happily beside him. As the inn came into view Luke couldn’t help but laugh some more, his thirst for a good drink almost overwhelming. “Come on then, if we can’t kill the Imps here, we can at least drink them under the table!” he shouted with excitement, hoping the Imps ahead could hear him. If this was a no kill zone, then Luke was gonna have a field day with the bastards.

@Brithwyr

Jean saw a few of his own squadmates begin to emerge from their cover and align themselves with the Imperial's unfathomable request of peace. Even though he'd been excited and led on by the mentioning of proper bedding and the sanitary conditions to wash, clean and relax within the confines of a large inn, Jean was still sceptical about the entire credibility of the remarkable situation at hand. It was enough to profile the Imperial as an enemy from first glance, mainly because they'd spent years fighting one another will little to no rest. This one being an exception amongst a sea of bodies and bullets made the Francian uncomfortable and unknowing of what the potential ploy may be leading the Squad towards. Nevertheless, he turned back to the officer, eyeing him up and down. He didn't have his helmet on, seemingly, and instead was wondering around with a large and fierce cape, draped from over his shoulders, similarly to that of the Oceanic troops. Unlike those expeditionary forces, however, was his grey tone of his own accessory. In one hand he held a small ceremonial drill-cane, one used for measuring foot paces and positioning of marching drills, not for the more obvious walking assistance one might think of. Jean knew these from his own training days, back when the Drill Sergeant would make sure that their muscle memory was close enough to near perfection when it came to standard ceremonial drill. Seemed like quite a waste of time, at least for Jean, as there wasn't really any time or places to engage in such formalities. With a closer gaze, Jean couldn't make out what his medals and awards seemed to be for. They were all of foreign formations, names and reasoning most likely, especially in comparison to the Federation's list of medals. Brass buttons polished to the brim were also dotted all over his officer's attire, until he eventually found the regular grey overcoats that most soldiers wore in these damp, cold nights. Jean narrowed his eyes slightly before lowering his rifle, now looking at him in his eyes directly.

"But...how am I supposed to trust you, Sir? I don't meant to be the pessimist, but the benefit of the doubt can sometimes be crucial in such obligatory encounters, wouldn't you say?" Jean's manner of speaking was mildly polite and formal all of a sudden. It mirrored the same tone that he would always use in the vicinity of Captain Middleton, worried that if he ever was to speak up without the proper use of dialect then he'd only be beaten again and again, like the past had shown. From first impressions, the officer before him seemed to be a far more coordinated, well-versed and emotionally stable individual than the dreaded Captain of the 15th Atlantic Rifles, but these could all be parts of the ploy, the facade that they presented.

"Do you want the honest answer, Corporal?" Jean felt a shiver spring up his spine, causing him to shake with discomfort at the direct address. The enemy was always this faceless being that never interacted or talked to their enemy. That's what they were told in their training camps. If you treat them or view them as humans with emotions, it becomes harder to pull the trigger and can cost someone their own fragile life. Him identifying his rank meant that the Imperial was well-versed in the native military ranks and insignia of his foe. Perhaps that left someone in Jean's position vulnerable to being a primary target, as officers tend to be better pickings.

Truly, what he meant by the honest answer flew over Jean's head. How often had someone on the frontlines been offered the full truth of a situation? Was it a blessing for someone to stand before him, let alone an enemy, and speak with the intentions of hiding nothing other than the reality of the world? Jean had known for a long time that people back home, all the citizens, workforce and children who played in the parks were lied to, given the glorified alteration of what the war was really like. Whilst in the recent year or so the details on how awful the conditions were had started to become more mainstream, there still wasn't anything less than a strong sense of honour and glory to go with it. The truth was not a natural thing to expect. People had become so accustomed to the lies that it seemed normal to appreciate them. Soldiers and civilians heard what they wanted to hear, not what reality had on offer. Why ruin morale for the sake of a few bloody lives or the deaths of those sitting within a six-foot trench, knee deep in watery mud with infections crawling around every corner they turn? No, the world was not that sort of a simple place. Jean knew that there was a sense of liberty and importance to being offered a true answer, knowing most likely that it would be dark, grim and full of bloodshed in its details. And in reality, Jean was not wrong.

"I can tell by your glare that you're intrigued to know." The Imperial officer gave a jovial grin and chuckle, showing some of his friendly nature once more. Jean felt slightly embarrassed for having such an easy-face to read. Was he really that emotional? Jean at least thought the majority of his squadmates were tired and loathing of his emotional distress, and so he'd worked hard to try and suppress it, but here it was like picking up a blank sheet of paper with clear writing on it, allowing the officer to easily analyse his thoughts. However, Jean's mind was then taken from that thought when the officer looked more grim, darkening his glare to fulfil the wish of honesty. "Reason in, Corporal, I would've already picked you off without you ever knowing you're life had been claimed. I will admit that I do even surprise myself with how many targets I can silence before my marksman rifle runs dry of bullets."

Jean froze, staring him blankly in his eyes with a sense of anxiety overruling all previous impressions he'd had. The man had given him his honesty, and at the very least it helped ensure that there was still a tension between both sides. Perhaps he was right in saying that if they were truly in the free-fire zone, the chances of Jean's squad even being alive were minimal. Something in his glare persuaded the Francian to really appreciate the peacefulness in this moment. They were enemies, and even their host seemed to be well-aware of this reality, to the point where only a fragile unspoken rule of politeness was stopping them from opening fire at one another. With the truth being lodged into his mind sharply, Jean turned around to look at his comrades and followers, a distressed look on his face once more. He felt scared for their safety, as his decision now could be the end of them all. But for that, they relied on a Corporal who could stand by his word and do what was best for himself and the Squad at hand.

And so, with a defiant nod of his head, Jean turned back around and let his body ease up in his muscular stress, finally letting out all the negative thoughts he had for the scenario they were plunged into. His mind was set on providing the best outcome for his squad, and so he decided to take the gamble. With a deep breath, he finally gave the order out.

"Gwyn, and Luke, seeing as you two s-seem to be ready to prepare, I want you to take Michael and Thomas inside, and to find them a room pronto. They need the attention. Everyone else...I guess we'll be going inside." Jean heard a minor cheer come from Freya's mouth, who was clearly excited by the fact that an inn usually meant food, beer and other little desirables for her Oceanic needs, which brought a small smile to Jean's own face. He turned back to the officer, who too shared similar intrigue and interest in the relief of the Federation soldiers, before Jean held out his words with pursuing query. However, his heart stopped when he finally received the answer. "May I have the pleasure of knowing your name, Sir?"

"Of course. Captain Wilhelm Von Harkvald...But you may know me better as the Green Fox."

Aside from whatever rays of light straggled their way through the cloud cover which draped over Amone, Inès scantily found any sight to awaken her aside from that dashing lighthead, Freya. A woman without any clothes on wasn’t what she expected to wake up to when she nuzzled her head against her forearm-construed pillow, but Inès wasn’t going to lie to herself and say the surprise wasn’t pleasant. It’s rude to stare, of course, but Inès chuckled at the sight. Quite a quaint thing, her. The brazenness was admirable, really, that unashamed going abouts in spite of the realities at hand. Maybe it was a bit dumb, yeah, but there was no denying Inès found it not endearing.

“Good morning to you, too.” she would announce. As if she had gotten much in the way of sleep. Hard stone floors were what any tenement denizen found themselves accustomed to, yet the lack of any cushioning lead any lasting sleep to be a distinctive drilling experience, like a rock slowly grinded into the back of her head while she laid down to rest. To not return a woman’s smile was unacceptable, no matter Inès’ experience. Yet, all she had to offer to Freya were a pair of raised eyebrows, and her trademark defeated expression. For Inès, this was a show of affection, if a subtle one, and for a culture as overt as the Oceanic, the pass was likely too little to notice.

The shocktrooper hadn’t bothered to take her clothes off for the evening, and for that matter, hadn’t received a proper clothing change in what must have been weeks by now. Being stuck in that same sausage casing of a uniform while everyone else got some shiny new blue outfits didn’t really give her the greatest of impressions. Still, she supposed she’d rather have something over nothing where rain and cold were concerned. But if her helmet were any indication, by the time she may see a resupply, she may have had to fight The Great War in naught but smallclothes. Smallclothes were hell, on the other hand. Inès wasn’t packing two football-sized love-pillows under her fatigues, and neither could her chest be used as a grand prix motor course, but any girl who’d used them for long enough lived by one master rule; Bras sucked. Bras fucking sucked. When you wore a bra for weeks on end, you may as well have hung yourself by the noose around your chest. With how much sprinting the soldier’s life required, Inès likely had a lasting indentation around her chest in what was a case of rope-burn-turned-asphyxiation. She hated it, but it was something of a necessity, as well.

Groaning off the whole ordeal, Inès dusted herself off for the morning, heading down the way for the morning sound-off. The injured were being lifted from their cots, while the others readied themselves for the day alongside her. She hadn’t made much conversation along the way; Hell, she didn’t even know who half of this crew were. She saw the other darkhead, though, and she was sure to deliver a quick, “Good morning.” while she passed him by. Franz - she remembered - that was his name. The Federal Imperial. However he got here.

There was some sort of spiel the Corporal had for the morning crew, and none of it interested Inès. Not by any lacking of Jean’s own charisma, mind, but because none of it contained substance. Another day, the rest, the orders; Inès tuned it all out while she tuned her thoughts in. It was a shitty assortment of days, this week, but still, Inès had a bit more pressing concerns to her mind. Snipers, for example. Maybe it was some primitive urge to hunt going off in her brain, or perhaps it was simple paranoia; Regardless, Inès knew it wasn’t the brightest idea to congregate in the middle of a street for long. When Jean gave the order to move on out, she kept herself ready, as she always had, scanning the rooftops, corners, and windows for the omnipresent opportunist.

Yes, the city was a hellhole. Just as it was. To become accustomed to such widespread hideousness necessitated a shift in attitude few could truly undergo, for the vestige of what once was forever haunts the ruins, no matter how antiquated nor recent, extravagant or destitute, there existed the desire in all men to recapture that which had been lost. A mending of wounds, so to speak. Yet, what was reclamation to the impoverished? Had they truly so much of value to lose, that when it was gone, true tragedy had struck? Easy come, easy go, as went the idiom, and even for what still remained of the blackened city of Amone, a skeleton, for its ghastly decree, was still something. Inès knew the lives of many were truly lost, displaced or disarrayed, but within her heart, she knew there was much more to be lost even in the sepulcher where she walked now.

---

Bars. Ostend was full of them. Alliances between gangs were born, broken, and reprimanded at your neighborhood pub, sometimes all within the same hour. And running a bar meant paying lip service to whatever powers that be in the neighborhood, unless you really enjoyed broken windows and stolen booze. But what about those on the corner of territories? That was all in God’s hands. Truces like the ones around here didn’t last for long. Bars and taverns and drinking holes all meant money to be made, and every gang on every corner wanted in on that slice of the pie. Of course, there can be the “unspoken rule” that the bar remain a safe haven, but really, if the Berangers showed up with bats and crowbars and rifles and firebombs and said “Oliver Levantine is a dead man”, what the fuck were you gonna do?

That delicate balance, of course, meant whoever was running this little hole in the wall was paying for it. Unless he had a whole six-acre distillery composed of all the bathtubs in the south side of Amone in that cellar of his, someone needed to bring him enough booze on the monthly to supply everyone who came through. But sure enough, for as long as this place had been a thing, someone needed to step up to fill Amone’s glass. And someone was making a killing getting on-duty soldiers absolutely smashed. It was uneasy, but the whole god-forsaken city felt uneasy; That a saloon in the middle of a city-quarter-turned-brickyard was “uneasy” was moot at this point. To anyone in Amone, a place like this was paradise.

There was a commotion before Jean had figured it all out, some manner of shouting match between him and another. A real medal-man, him, seeming to believe that walking around a combat zone with a lot of honors made him anything but a target. Yet there was far more to it than the medals; He was an older one, too. An older soldier in an occupation where you retired at 30 if you weren’t any way up the food chain. He was a target, but he was dangerous. He had bite to that bark. Name was clever, too. Have you ever seen a green fox before? Didn’t think so.

On the front deck of the tavern, there was a blondie out and about the balcony, leaning over as though he wished to land flat on his face. His eyes squint, then perk up while his whole body scrambled to get back to a normal posture. Conducting himself into form, what’s immediately apparent is that his right arm seems to be made of metal. And as he began to move, it became clearly apparent even in the poor light of the day, this one’s right arm was an artificial one, a crude and ill-reactionary device, no doubt, but functional, nonetheless. He was an Imperial, of note, yet tracked down Inès like the old friend he so clearly was.

Inès knew the man; Max. Like an old friend, she kept him at a distance, only nominally acknowledging him, yet the memories were too fond and his enthusiasm un-curbable, and while Inès tried to downplay it, she herself was a bit dumbstruck by the his sight as well. The feeling was mutual, clearly, by the duo’s curiously pleasant gazes at one another, shocked to meet again in…these conditions.

“...Max?” Inès questioned, clearly in disbelief at the blondie, “The hell are you doing here? I thought they deported you from the Federation?”

“They did.” he chuckled.

“...you’re fucking with me.” the shocktrooper responded in disbelief. He shook his head with a stupid grin.

“Yeaaaaaah, and then I got drafted and I had to go through a whole training course and yeaaaaaah…” Max scratched the back of his head, that smirk of his still present like he had something to be embarrassed of. With good reason, of course.

“Right, right…” Inès turned away. She knew she had to ask.

“So you’re with...infantry, or-”

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck that.” Max laughed back. With enough experience, you knew Inès slightly raising her eyes meant that she was relieved, and if not, Max’s repeated head shakes showed he clearly had zero desire to be anywhere close to a combat zone.

“No, i’m just, like, with logistics.” He explains, “I can’t do anything with two hands with this stupid thing. So nah, I just drive the supplies around. Basically, I get to drive around in a truck all day and tell people to load and unload stuff. As soon as any shooting happens, i’m waaaaaaaay the Hell gone.”

“So what are you in Amone for?” Max looked to his side, then inched close to her.

“Business, my girl.” He explained slyly. Inès nodded to his euphemism.

“An idiot trying to be a businessman. Good old Max.”

“At least you haven’t changed a bit.” Inès snickered back. For as long as Inès had known Max, he had the ability to get ahold of anything that wasn’t nailed down and locked behind a ten-ton vault. Sometimes, he wasn’t even that picky. Little man had balls, that was for sure, and that bravado sure costed him.

“Heeeey, you know me! You’ll even get the champion’s discount!” he nudged on, painfully intent on giving Inès a hard time, “Come find me whenever you aren’t busy. We can...y’know. Do business. Just like old times.”

Inès and him went their ways, the Darcsen clearly puzzled in measure by Max’s return. Pleasant, no doubt, but not without suspicion. They’d been friends before, long ago in the streets of Ostend while Max remained among the Federation, yet the change in circumstances was...curious, to say the least. She’d try to put it in the back of her mind, yet she knew everyone else was going to find it strange she was talking to an Imperial right off the bat. Didn’t help she was a Darcsen. Yet, why would a Darcsen be talking to the

Max wasn’t a bad guy - better than a lot of the trash she knew in Ostend - but he was far from a legitimate busInèssman, nor was he the upstanding “icon” soldier. Max took things into his own hands, for better or worse, and the outcome surprised people more often than not.

She approached the bartop and rested upon it, forearms slightly crossed as she leaned forward.

“I’ll have whatever you’re serving. And...some for them, too.” Inès asked, waving her finger around a small conglomerate that composed of Gwyn, Luke, Freya, and Franz. Jean could get skipped out on without fear with how he so casually tossed away a Khandar spliff as though it were garbage. Inès - and everyone else for that matter - just needed a drink. And what better way to alleviate the pain than to drown it out?

“Do I get drunk first, or take a bath?” She turned to Freya, handing the woman a well-needed bottle.

“Or take a bath drunk?” She wasn’t the greatest with understanding Oceanic humor, but she thought she’d at least try to reciprocate the mood.

---

It was pretty clear by the way he carried himself - mostly that he bothered to leave one of his eyes covered by his hair in the middle of a war zone, but if not that, then his goofy, big smile - Max was a mellow sort of fellow. But, if from what Jean may have overheard, that his job as a cripple was just to drive a truck around far from the frontlInès from checkpoint to checkpoint, well, Jean would figure that was a reason he was in such a good mood all the time.

“Heya!” he introduced, walking up to what he (rightly) believed the leader of Inès’ squad to be. By his wide-eyed expression, it wasn’t clear if he was happy or confused to see another darky in charge of the squad, or maybe he was just a naturally grin-happy sort of fellow, which, based off of his booming voice, wouldn’t be out of the question, either.

“What’s up, bro? I’m-”

CLUNK!

His mechanical prosthetic fell limp, creaking while he tried to extend a handshake. Max’s expression fell flat, turning to a frown while he turned his arm into proper position.

“Damn. Just-”

CREEEK!

CREEUUNNK!

SCREEEUKK!

Screech after screech of the mechanical limb, and Max was finally satisfied with its’ awkward position facing forwards to Jean. He thrusted it - or rather, his whole body - to Jean, extending what Jean imagined to be the most rigid-yet-firm handshake he’d ever have. Part of him wondered if this was an advanced Imperial assassination technique used to dismember unsuspecting soldiers by crushing their hands.

“There!” He proudly proclaimed, “Max! Inès and I go way back, waaaaaaaaay back. Some street kids shit, yeah?!”

“I love that girl, man, I love her. Inès ‘s a real one, The Champion, Chief One! Girl didn’t go 30 and ‘0 for nothing in the Ostend Underground!” Max laughed, chiding on the Corporal. And just to think, in a matter of hours, Jean went from paranoia to being buddy-buddy with the enemy right in front of his face.

“And you know, any friend of Inès is a friend of mine.” He smirked, nudging Jean on his upper arm, “I’m here for a few days, and, uh...if you’re looking to get, y’know, accidental supplies, I have a little something something for sale.”

Great. First talking with the enemy, now getting roped into what was either “secondhand” supplies or contraband...and probably both.

@LetMeDoStuff@CFProxy@Jacky@Brithwyr

It had been two hours. Two long hard hours since they'd arrived at the Inn and yet Jean was starting to feel slightly uncomfortable already. It was true, everything that had seemingly come from the infamous Green Fox's experienced lips. Part of him still felt like this whole endeavour was a plot to intoxicate the Squad, force them into a deep coma and then slit their throats in their undisturbed slumber, to which Jean himself shuddered. It didn't seem to match up right. Here he was, sitting on a table inside the main dining room of the White Hart, with several Imperials and an occasional Federation soldier co-existing without their guns raised towards one another's hearts. It was surreal, and unfathomable. Truces were unheard of on the gruesome fields of Europa, where no one had the chance to mutually agree to a relaxing sit down. Jean took notes that some of the Imperials were already shitfaced from the ground up, tumbling around one another with their arms locked around each other's shoulders carefully to ensure they didn't crash down into the tables beneath them. In a bittersweet way, Jean found the scenery truly unbelievable, like something out of the medieval fantasy books his mother used to read to him in the middle of the night on windy days, where storms and rainfall stopped the poor and scared Francian boy from having a decent sleep himself. It was ironic how even with the coming of age, now on the verge of hitting adulthood at 18, Jean was still full of anxiety and temporal dismay. To call him emotional would've been an understatement, and truly would've insulted those who were of moderate sensitivity. Jean was an entire basket case of thoughts and expressions, feeling most of his general decisions being thwarted by them on a regular basis. It was true that he'd been improving in general on whether or not controlling the anger, sadness or fear was an easy task, but it was still something he'd show every now and then.

It was strange to think back to the morning that had just passed. Jean had sat down with Reyna, very early into the morning's early hours, and poured his thoughts out relentlessly without any filter. In reality, it made him uncomfortable upon reflection of his own behaviour, and it was clear that if it were to damage his potential poor impression with Reyna then he'd have honestly shut himself off a long time ago. Already Ines seemed to have tucked in on her own drinks, indulging her own sweet dreams of the alcoholic roadmap, washing away a lot of her pains of a problematic past. Well, on second glance she hadn't actually started drinking, but she'd already stocked up on her own bottled friends for the time being. It was quite a quick settling in, one that really surprised Jean quite a lot. This was her first battle, at least in terms of a military career, where jumping into Amone was her way of finally joining in on the seemingly brilliant action of the Europan war. Those who'd been present at Hill 58 seemed to hold a more glum look, or had taken their time to prepare their R&R status within the White Hart. Jean was part of the former, having sat down in the corner table, which wasn't brightly lit like the rest of the room. The main dining hall had quite a lot to offer, having space for the regular patrons who'd have stopped by before the war came to Amone's doorstep. Electric or small ragnite infused lamps sat atop of the walls and dangled from the ceiling in an almost aristocratic fashion. It was very well furnished, even with the debris and destruction only outside. Anyone inside would've thought that a war was ridiculous or non-existent. Perhaps Wilhelm had a good idea of relaxation, seeming as he'd come here regularly apparently.

Speaking of the man himself, Wilhelm was a surprise to be sure. An enigma, perhaps, but a strong headed soldier and leader nonetheless. He held his infamous marksmanship and was dressed only in his formal attire to impress the men and women under his command and within the inn. It was all a psychological thing, no doubt. By proving his expertise, people would think twice about attacking him, no matter how large of a target he may have seemed. Jean was only waiting for the minute that Franz, the Imperial of the Federation's Squad, would come lapping at his boots, asking all about his adventures and triumphs for the Empire's war movement. Even as an enemy, some of the Federation's officers had learnt to respect his methods, being a shining beacon of propaganda and victory. In a strange sense, Jean saw him as an almost opposite version of their very own Captain Middleton. Both had the namesake and popularity back home, but only Wilhelm's, from first impressions, was genuine and heartwarming individual, bringing a wholesome morale to his men. For a while, Jean stared from his dark corner with admirable thoughts crossing his mind, musing over the true value of his commitment to his team. In a way, Jean began to start aspiring to be like how he was to his soldiers. He was loved, idolised and trusted with full responsibility under his belt. He had the looks, the awards and the talents to prove and justify why they loved him so very much, but Jean had nothing of the sort. So far, the Corporal had organised a suppressive covering fire on Hill 58, allowing the infantry to get to the top and also orchestrated the ruthless defence of the building against the Imperial street patrols. They sounded quite impressive on paper, but they were nothing in the face of true adaptability. Even now, Jean hadn't heard much appreciation or praise over his efforts as a Squad Leader or an NCO, and so he'd simply gone with the apparent consensus that he was indeed a disappointment to the chain of command.

He let out a sight and dug his face into his own knuckles, letting them barely hold up his head from the table's surface. Before this minute had passed, he'd previously spoken to the apparent landlord of the White Hart. He was a bold man, one with a plump composure and a jolly laugh to accompany it. It was almost like the sort of individual you'd expect at the top of a syndicate regime, or a capitalistic monopoly preying on the weaker organisations still trying to get a foot in the waters of his market. However, with his dimly dressed coats and scruffy look, Jean felt the humour and surprise of not seeing this man walk around in a sophisticated top-hat and wielding his own walking stick for the soul purpose of feeling important. For some reasons, the White Hart was thriving. It had exploited a market of traumatised, fatigued, drained and scarred soldiers who'd been fighting anywhere between a few days to a few years, giving them a place to stay, wash and breathe freshly without the looming threat of a marksman's bullet. Apparently, according to one of the skinny and lean waitresses that waltzed around in her polka-dot shin-lengthened skirts, he did it out of the kindness and sympathy of his own heart, not for a lust of money. Perhaps there was barely any money to gain from the usual patrons of a civilian life, but the satisfaction of being a hostel for those in need truly meant a lot to them, even for the invading opposition. For a minute, he heard the voice of strange limbed boy seemingly talking at a rapid pace. Jean eyed him for several minutes, unsure of how to respond or how to really answer any of the questions. Secret substances? Rations that weren't usually given out? Was this man some sort of drug dealer? Well, to call him a man would be a bad statement to men, to say the least. He seemed kind enough, but far too overly enthusiastic for what the war really was. Before Jean could fully formulate an answer, the familiar voice of Wilhelm, waltzing up to Jean's table, told him to leave, giving some space for the important ones to talk. Obviously he was joking and only trying to poke fun at the logistical teen, but it seemed to get a laugh out of himself.

Jean felt a hand tap him on the shoulder from across the table. Looking up, the descending of a man into the opposing chair caught his undivided attention and forced him to snap out of his trance. The transition between slouched and attentive postures seemed to amuse the officer before him, giving him a sort of empathetic smile, as if to say he too felt that same stress and lack of energy after fighting for so long.

"Corporal Jean-Robin Charpentier, is it?" Wilhelm nodded politely whilst taking a small sip from a neatly engraved flask of his own. The smells of his liquid were perhaps of an alcoholic substance, but not of the usual rum or beer that seemed to be popular amongst the common soldier. It smelt of the sweet and sour grapes found only in the Francian vineyards, close to where Jean himself had grown up. Liege City was known for that sort of thing, anyway. In response to his prediction or addressing of his name, Jean nodded meagerly. "Been here just over an hour and your Squad seems to be settling in quite nicely. Some better than others, perhaps."

With a chuckle, Wilhelm nodded his head towards Ines, who was striking up a conversation with Freya whilst holding her own drinks in her hand. Jokes about getting drunk, bathing or doing both at the same time even brought a faint smile to Jean's usually broken expression, making him feel like there were a lot of small things to appreciate here in Squad 1 over the rest of the war-mongering regiments of the Federation and Imperial allegiances. Jean nodded himself, pulling out a pencil and a piece of paper before writing away, scribbling with a strangely passionate form and font. Wilhelm was silent for a short second, watching intensely with great curiosity.

"What's that you've got there, if you don't mind me being so terribly intrusive?" He monitored Jean's face for a second, noticing the strange hesitation to tell him out of embarrassment, to which Wilhelm smiled and patted his shoulder again with a joyful guffaw to go with it. "Don't be embarrassed, Fed. I've met a Sergeant in my own regiment who writes erotic scripts to underground theatricals."

For a second, Jean went red in the cheeks, surprised to even hear that there was some sort of underground erotic theatre business in the Empire. Whilst the idea of it didn't interest Jean one bit, though he could imagine Diana or Freya playing a lead actress role down there, for a place so notoriously strict and build upon traditional imperial ideals to have such a scandalous, yet niche market was very surprising indeed. Jean found himself smirking uncontrollably at the small anecdote presented to him and was joined by a mutual chuckle from Wilhelm as well. They were getting on quite well, it had seemed, and that made Jean quite uncomfortable on the inside. As soon as both men would step out of the neutral zone, carefully marked with a few street signs, it would be a test of strength and dexterity over who killed who first. For now, though, he thought to just keep his mind on the compassionate peace these two had managed to find in the bleak midst of a war torn city.

"W-Well, I wouldn't put it as low as that, but...it's poetry. I write it q-quite often and use it as a way to sort of put my feelings out clearly before my very own eyes. Sometimes it kinda helps for therapeutic reasons, I guess. A state of mind." Jean turned the paper towards Wilhelm and gave him the opportunity to read what it was. He made it clear that this was a prototype poem, and not one that was anywhere near completion. For a second, Jean held his breath as he looked at Wilhelm's intense eyes glare down at the paper, sitting nicely between his two gloved fingers, with intrigue and interest. It was strange having his work analysed by someone else. Beforehand, the only other person who'd he known to have seen his poetry was Freya, which was its own level of embarrassment when the one play she revealed happened to be the one he wrote for Kalisa at the time. God knows what would've happened if she'd managed to find the one about Reyna either, which seemed to be more close to the reality of Jean's feelings. Eventually, Wilhelm handed it back to Jean with a nod of appreciation.

"Certainly a good passion to follow. There's good money and fame to go with it too, if you seek that, but in recent years the market has skyrocketed, especially in the Federation. What's that chap's name..?" With a cursive flick of his finger, he finally managed to pinpoint the memory and infamous name he wanted to know. "Ah! Belfried Bassoon, that's him. I'm sure you've heard that name before, Corporal."

"Indeed I have!" Jean spoke with enthusiasm for once, seemingly brightening up like a Christmas tree on the very dawn of that festive season. If anyone were looking, surely they'd be pleasantly surprised to see the miserable Francian he was known to be talk with confidence and passion over something, which was a rare occurrence apparently. "Tutor of the great Owen Wilfredson. Both of them have been inspirations for me since I was a boy, and with the war having broken out, they're honesty and true depiction of the war is unparalleled to anyone else. Voices of reality in comparison to the romantic poets who live comfortably at home within the propaganda department, you could say."

"You seem to know your stuff, I can see. Seems like you know the right path too, of where to put your ideas and mind towards when expressing such interests of yours. Whilst I may not be a writer myself, I can appreciate a good piece of literature. Sometimes they go unnoticed in the modern world." Jean nodded intently, looking at him with a great big smile on his face, finally finding the time to talk about something he had been passionate about since he first learnt to read. No one had really talked to him about his writing before, ever, really. It was a depressing factor that he never could hold a decent conversation with his squadmates out of the fear that he would bore them to death. And it was completely ironic how the first person to talk about it was...his enemy? Or was he? Well, for now they could be friends, but until their time at the White Hart was over the positions would flip to their more realistic approach. "You look like you're about to burst? Got something to ask, Corporal?"

Jean fumbled at his words, greeting him with the intrigue of Jean's tightly concealed face. He was trying to ask something, or at least conjure up the confidence to ask the supposed war hero before him about what there was. This wasn't like Thomas, who seemed to really go against his infamous stature amongst the Oceanic Troops, where Wilhelm was exactly as flamboyant, sophisticated and well-versed as his tales mentioned of him to be. Eventually he spat it out nervously.

"Don't take this the wrong way but...how do you earn the respect of your soldiers so easily? I...I feel like a bit of a burden to my squad, not being able to associate with them outside of the battlefield. Many of them seemed to have forged their own friendships, and two of them seem to already have their adorable little relationship awaiting to bloom, but I've just kind of been seen as the one who panics, falls under responsibility and can't control his emotions, being the one to subside to trauma. I...How do you face that?" Wilhelm looked at him for a few seconds, pondering his own answer from the strange tonal difference in his enquiry. Eventually, he simply shrugged and patted Jean on the shoulder again.

"I don't know. They seem like a wild bunch to me." And with a large laugh, chuckling at his own joke and even cracking a smile out of Jean once more, he stood up and grabbed his flask, turning towards Jean with a quiet wink. "Anyway, I'll leave you in piece. I've only got a few more hours here until I head back to the frontline, but there's a sweetheart named Veronica behind the counter who's been giving me some looks the entire night. Might as well see what I can do for the next few hours. Enjoy yourself, Corporal."

And with that, he stood up and left Jean alone, heading to the other side of the dining hall where the associated Veronica was, dressed in her own blouse of pink and lime shades resonantly contrasting against the grim backdrop of the war, Amone's streets and the rugged looking soldiers around. Some of his Sergeants seemed to chuckle and clap when he went over, reminding Jean that the general Imperial social barrier was that there was a competition for claiming a loved one. Whilst Jean didn't really follow their methods of...recreation, he could at least see that they were enjoying themselves, and with the darkness of the war at hand it wasn't exactly an misunderstanding as to why they craved so much need for a retirement. With that, Jean leaned back into his chair and continued to scribble his next notes of the poem, this time listing off the visual representations of love, compassion and camaraderie around him. It wouldn't be complete without the bleakness of his usual Belfried Bassoon-inspired writing style, but this one started to show a bit more colour and light into it, as it reflected the reminders that he should appreciate the small glistens of hope he had left in the world. And synonymous to the word glistening, in Jean's peaceful mind at least, was the name Reyna.

Near Ines, Freya shook her head and sort of gave a rather nervous chuckle. For once, she didn't seem herself, but she at least tried to compose herself whilst fumbling around within her pockets for something or the other. She seemed to be a little off-put by the absence of Thomas, who'd been brought upstairs by the staff working at the White Hart, giving him a place to lie down and rest, whilst getting proper medical attention from their staff. It was remarkable that there was this kind of treatment hidden away in the middle of Amone, ruthlessly known to be a battleground for desperate survival. It had her mind at ease a little, but still, Freya was nervous without her.

"D-Drink and bathe? I...I don't think that's wise, sorry. Though I used to drink whilst under constant fire, whilst on a beach in the Southern Frontier, whilst swimming in the sunny waters without anything other than my undergarments on so...I guess I'm not one to judge, right?"

“Ah, fuck…” She thought.

It wasn’t a good time. Or...a good anything. Right place, maybe, but Ines could tell Freya wasn’t quite feeling like herself. Even when she tried being humorous with her, the Oceanic undoubtedly wasn’t in a good spot. Still, Ines tried her best to put her at ease...the best a Darcsen with a resting scowl could do.

Her eyes raised more with every iteration of Freya’s response. Swimming. In your undergarments. Under artillery barrage. Ines could attest to a lot of feats of her own, sure, but they weren’t quite up to that scale. Bragging about swimming in filthy dock water wasn’t anything impressive. But...

“...i’ll take a bath, then.” Ines responded. Not really a point in it. She’d check up on her later, though, but for now it was clear that Freya wasn’t in a position to be chatting on the finer points of inebriated bathing.

That was gone, and out of the way. Jean, on the other hand, wasn’t too far over himself. And god, these two were awkward. Freya she never expected to be the inverse sort, but Jean she saw more of. He appreciated the company of himself more than any true manner of carousing, even when the opportunity presented itself. Though, Ines came to reason that it was unlikely that Jean had any manner of experience in little isles of comfort in what was otherwise a mad city where everyone was trying to kill you.

Ines threw her drink back, finishing off her bottle, then proceeded to lean a bit over toward Jean. He was back in his seat, upright as he seemed to tirelessly jot down note after note, verse after verse. Some manner of poem, Ines could see, as she leaned over to peek. Intrusive, yes, but from what she could see, this was of particular intrigue. A poem was easily turned into tune, and there was a slight accompaniment of instrumentality throughout the tavern. While Ines leaned, her finger nodded in tune with the rhythm of the ambiance, finding iambic meter to the syllabilic counts to each of Jean’s verses.

“One...two…” Jean heard her counting over his shoulder. Before he knew it, she swiped up his paper, holding it far away from him.

“Three-and-four.”

“I found myself laid inside,”

“On a cold and empty hall.”

You would not believe the sight had you not been there, yet Ines could sing. In volume great enough to fill her nearby surroundings, song took to the room in a pitch-perfect, cherubic encore, as if Ines had rehearsed the song hour by hour to the beat. And as she recited each verse of Jean’s poem through angelic songcraft, Jean saw something few had the pleasure to; Ines was smiling. Over that radiant cantation, Ines’ beautiful mezzo-soprano voice, Ines looked back upon him, and smiled.

She slowly moved away from Jean, outwardly holding his poem in his opposite direction, yet, her eyes looked right on Jean. She hadn’t missed a single beat, and she wasn’t even reading what he wrote. Every verse was right, recited in sweet, harmonic lullaby, even moreso than what Jean seemed to intend from his piece.

Jean knew that moment was coming; Reyna was about to be mentioned. It was almost like Ines knew what he was up for, like she had to be the one to do Jean’s job of proposal for him, lest he forever lose the prospect for anxiety. That notion was terrifying. What would Reyna think of someone who could never approach her, yet yearned for her? Was Jean just a coward, after all, needing yet again for the arms of another to do what he could not?

However, throughout the about-faced mood,

A glimmer shines through the bloody apolune

And whilst I recite her name in my mind,

All I can say is that this love is blind.

Is it love, or have I just fallen,

For the girl that walks above,

and I’m forever at the bottom.

And as she approached that dreaded meter, that dangling blade over Jean suddenly retracted. Ines paused, lowering the paper as her expression dropped to its’ dreary natural state. The paper flew, landing back upon Jean’s posterior, Ines reclaiming her seat next to Freya as she looked upon him.

“It’s not bad. Just needs a little bit of work, still.” She remarked. It may not have meant much, but with a girl like Ines, it was a true compliment. Yet, her gaze towards Jean meant one thing; She knew. She knew full well. And boy, oh boy, she was going to give him the experience now that she knew.

Still, Ines needed her bath. And that meant getting back up, going around, and finding wherever the hell this bath was...and that finally meant getting some new rags, and out of that god-forsaken constrictor around her chest...

Isaac did not wake up well, when he did. Unbeknownst to him, though, it was going to get better.

The reason he did not get up well was because his sleep was fitful, cold, and there'd been one moment he awoke with a start. His dreams had been the kind of disturbing imagery you'd expect: He was opening fire on Hill 58 and gunning down the cavalry that they'd all been around to see and hear shriek its last. In the middle of it all, he thought he'd heard a faint howl and that's where his eyes shot open. He thought he'd heard something, and thought he'd felt something. It was impossible to determine whether anything he'd heard was not a part of his dream, because nothing else seemed to present itself as evidence. As for what he felt, it was like someone jostled him slightly, and as Isaac checked, he discovered that that was exactly what had happened. Britta had been asleep next to him and for whatever reason - cold, nightmares, etc. - she had sought another and wound up leaning against it. No objections, he tried to go back to sleep, found maybe a bit more time of what he assumed was sleep, and then they were all told to get up. The passage of time was truly a mystery to one who is asleep, and so Isaac felt groggy, muggy, and dead.

Things would improve, later on. For now, though, he picked himself up and so did Britta. The silver-haired gunner seemed distracted, as well, and the reason was that her dreams hadn't been any better than Isaac's. Hers...was that she was pinned down in that room without Isaac, Ines, or Gwyn...and that it was the armored car that was doing the pinning. It didn't look to Isaac that now was the time for talking. Neither of them were in any great mental condition, you see, and they needed all the mental strength they had for machine gun overwatch. So, that was what they focused on. Now, you'd probably say that everyone should check their weapon for any sort of problems before heading out, but the two Gunners knew that their weapons were practically new. The only REAL concern was ammo count. Yes, you hope you find the enemy having some ammo for you to use once they're dead, but the truth is that Isaac and Britta's steady stream of kills did not leave them with much in the way of recup'd ammo. There hadn't been all that many Gunners on the streets here. Not unlike the machine guns on Hill 58. Now, fortunately, the point of a Gunner was that they filled you up with ammo so that you don't run into such problems easily. It's just that these two had the most people dead of all the people in the 15th. That still drank a fair chunk of their respective supplies. It would've been pretty bad if they'd wasted much ammo on the armored car.

It was very foggy outside... It reminded Isaac of the most temperate climates of Edinburgh. No city of his area was safe, and even the farm suffered from it, a bit. The fog was always thick in Hadleigh, and when he went into town, you ran the risk of running right into someone. Into...into... Isaac's eyes widened in realization. When he was a kid, he'd gotten lost in the fog and separated from his parents, and instead bumped into Mila Wagner! THAT was where he'd seen her! She was a wealthy socialite in Hadleigh, though at the time, Isaac had just thought of her as a stuck-up kid. It was a foggy day, he'd gottan lost, they bumped into each other, she got indignant on him, he shouted back, and it was after an argument about their given lifestyles and why theirs was the best...that Isaac's parents found him and that they could go home now.

Damn, and I didn't even attempt to make up with her. At least I know WHY she seemed so familiar now.

People began to pay more attention to the day once Jean basically called to attention and explained the plan for the day, which was to keep moving - carefully and quietly - under the concealment of the fog. It was a good idea, of course, but then it also meant their own visibility was going to be shit. Jean...probably shouldn't have mentioned the idea of the machine gun car deciding to take a 'liking' to them, as in a liking to use them all for target practice. Starting the day with 'We have to keep moving and keep ahead of the enemy' is fine, but don't add 'By the way, we might get hit by that armored monstrosity again'. That's what you call a morale no-no. Everybody knows that it could be lurking with intent. They didn't need it in their faces like that.

So! They moved out into the spooky foggy day. Visibility was, of course, very poor...which is why they had to be quiet. With thick enough fog, this was what the enemy would be looking for. Why did Isaac know? Because he was trained for this. There's alot of machine gun drills revolving around finding the best opportunities to spray an area with gunfire. In this particular case, he had been blindfolded and put in a constructed tower, then asked to determine the alligiance from sound along. Footsteps said nothing. Unless your man was sneaking around and the area was controlled strictly by your side, you couldn't tell if a man walking around was disreputable and kill-worthy or not. Even still, you get people who would fire anyway, and who wants to be at the business end of THAT? So, they tell you to be quiet anyway, just in case of trigger-happy fools, AND because it's your chatter that gives you away. Your accent and mode of speech is as damning as a fingerprint. You will marvel at how an Imperial soldier - Nay, any soldier at all - can tell the difference between an Imperial and some farmer from Hadleigh in Edinburgh. Or at least, he'll know it's not an Imperial territory dialect and shoot. They were spared this as they moved along and found indicators of something called a White Heart. Isaac had no idea. He turned to Britta, and the Gunner lady had a good answer for him.

"White Heart?"

"Could be a hospital."

Now, you ask if Isaac, Britta, Reyna, and everyone else noticed Jean's change in general action, and we will say 'Yes' to the two Gunners noticing. Not that Isaac disapproved, per se, of him wanting to look ahead for the safety of others, but his talk with Jean had revealed much, and he had been giving off the kind of talk a suicidal man might have. Asserting yourself is fine, but throwing yourself into something was definitely unhealthy. Isaac kind of hoped that nothing bad was going to happen to him as a result of this turn-of-a-new-leaf. There was...something up ahead, presumably whatever White Heart was. Whatever Jean was hearing from the fog, Everyone else would pick it up a bit fainter, but...that was people, wasn't it?

This was where someone called out, and Jean was approached by a man. They seemed to talk and...wasn't that an Imperial soldier with a bunch of medals? What's going on here? A man that decorated doesn't get that way by openly talking to a high-strung Jean with a rifle. When no promise of violence occurred from either men or anyone out in the fog, Jean lowered his weapon. After that, Gwyn and Luke decided 'The hell with it' and approached. Isaac wanted to, as well, but let's be perfectly honest here: You want him watching your back - and Britta his - instead of sauntering on up to give off the old 'What's all this, then?'. There's no question of it. It was his job, and he had to either be prepared to fire at a moment's notice, or wait for some indication that things were more relieving.

"Thoughts, Britta?"

"If it's a hospital, it's sounding awfully jovial. Wish this fog would clear up. I can't see it clearly."

After a further lack of gunfire or maybe even a sudden stabbing by the man talking to Jean, it became apparent that - for some reason - there wasn't going to be any battle here. Okay...and that left what, then? Well, in Isaac's case, enough was enough. Time to approach the place and see what the hell was going on. Isaac's vision became Jean's as he was able to see the building and...it was an inn! It was a most substantial inn. And yes, they were going IN the inn. Jean appeared to be taking the gracious invitation of...the Green Fox.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The full story of the White Heart Inn became apparent once they'd walked in. Neutral inn, open to everyone and demanding that everyone behave...within reason. Obviously, this place was for the purpose of removing one's frustrations, and that comes in many forms. Now, Isaac and Britta had come in after Ines had finished talking to...someone. Didn't catch who that was. No big deal, though, because after she apparently turned to the bartender and asked for one of what was being served here, those two walked in as the person had their back turn, and then suddenly saw more people in the same uniform and had to get some more. As a result, the two Gunners walked in...and were automatically handed two drinks. They were also informed of {A} beds (though Isaac had heard mention of that by Jean outside) and {B} baths. Holy shit, this place was truly a weighstation of paradise or something. Food, drink, the ability to get clean, and the ability to get rest. He looked at Britta, who had perked up at hearing these things. With a shared gesture of 'Bottoms up', the two tipped their bottles up and began to drink the house brew.

Time passed, and Isaac had used it on various conversations among Feds and Imperials alike, trying to explain situations and learn things. For instance, he had attempted to - while he was still relatively sober - gain information about the armored cars from a very inebriated Imperial soldier.

"How the hell did you get those machine gun cars?"

"We built them of course!"

"No, I mean how'd you get them here and nobody in all the Federation around here knew that?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you!"

"I don't believe it NOW, and I've seen one of these things!"

...then explain his circumstances to Fed and Imps alike while getting a bit gabby from having a few drinks...

"Look, I get it, alright? You all think you need to trade bullets, but you've got it all wrong. You need to trade money to get what you want. I don't need this war. You guys started it. You're the ones who decided that a simple bloody farmer - a man who makes you the FOOD you put on the table - should be off fighting your war. I was just minding my own business. It isn't fair that I have to deal with this when other people have got to eat. I raise cows and wolves and shit, dammit! What? No, not actually raising shit."

...and then, finally, comparing rotten COs.

"Oh, you think you have it bad? I've only been in this outfit two battles and I hate it, and I hate my commanding officer, of course. Now, I'm not going to name 'im because he'll literally kill people over this, but I have to... I have to... Hold on, I got this."

He stood up near the bar and got people's attention with a combination of knocking on the bar counter and going "Hey!". He then spoke in a manner that was surprisingly solemn and meaningful...which was thoroughly unsuitable for what he was about to say.

"I would like to propose a toast. Out there somewhere, far and away from the ensuing violence...probably...is a man with no morality, no sense of decency at all. He'll have you shot for desertion. He'll have you shot for insubbordination. He'll have you shot if you even call him the wrong name. ...fortunately, he's not HERE."

He'd checked. Isaac now raised his drink.

"To the ultimate asshole, Captain Grumpus."

Isaac snerked and drank his drink. He hoped that Middleton got wind of this, but with no context or details to give it clarity. I mean, look at some of the Imperials and the Feds who all raised their glasses. They don't even know who he's talking about! They just did it to be funny and they'd probably spread rumors or something! At least, he hoped they did, 'cause that would be funny as hell.

Meanwhile, Britta had had a couple of drinks, and then eyed a nice bottle of scotch that the bartender had. She asked to use it, fully intending to have a private word with Isaac. He'd wanted to speak to her about something before and...so did she, actually. Now was as good a time as any. After convincing the 'tender to say yes, she got two glasses and strode over to him.

"Isaac, do you think I could borrow you for a while?"

"It is possible, but I know for a fact that my legs have gone a bit stumbly."

"I can handle it. Follow me, or stumble and let me give you a hand."

"Alrighty. Lead the way."

They would be taking a room for this.

Luke’s laughter was cut off once Jean ordered him and Gwyn to take care of the injured and sighed in defeat before spinning around. “Will do sir,” he muttered in disappointment in the fact he wouldn’t be the first one to the bar, but as he walked to Michals side and helped him along he cracked a smile. “Come on best buddy, let’s get you somewhere a lot more cozy. Who knows, we may be able to get you a fine lady to help keep your bed warm for the night,” he chuckled, his voice a bit more hushed as he mentioned helping him get some company for the night. Luke chuckled again before they reached the inn. The smell of good booze, warm food and the welcoming atmosphere was truly a nice change from the depressing war torn city. After finding a room for the injured Luke decided to washed up a bit in a nearby bathroom, cleaning any dirt from his face and hands, changing his bandages and even used his bayonet to shave the little bristles of facial hair that was gradually growing on his face. Luke thought about taking a bath, the mere thought of the relaxing warm waters washing his worries was undeniable, but a small voice in the back of his head barked at him to go on without it. This may have been a neutral zone, but the fact was that there were still Imps down stairs. He tightened his grip on the edge of the sink while the rest of his body tensed up at the thought of lowering his guard too much before shaking his head clear, feeling satisfied enough with the clean shave and quick wash up.

After freshening up Luke made his way downstairs and felt a grin spread from ear to ear as the sight of the bar was finally in his view. Though his grin dulled slightly as he saw a few Imps nearby, laughing and drinking it up with no worries. Luke tensed up a bit, but he noticed his squad near the bar and quickly made his way to them, adjusting his loaded rifle slung over his shoulder. As he approached he managed to catch Ines gesturing his way as she ordered drinks for everyone and laughed in joy before he reached the bar, leaning on the table with an excited grin. “Ya heard the lady, let me get a drink,” he demanded with a quick slap upon the table. The bartender looked a bit annoyed in Luke, but only gave grunt in response and poured his drink. Luke mimicked his grunt right back as he snatched his drink and holding it up in the air with a bark of laughter. “Down the hatch lads! For the Federation!” he shouted with the largest grin he could muster before beginning to chug down his beverage.

A few dribbles of alcohol ran down Luke lower jaw, a couple of droplets falling to the floor, but Luke continued on without a care in the world. The taste of his freshly poured beer was almost heavenly, no… it was indeed gift from god for all Luke cared. After gulping down a few good mouthfuls Luke finally tore his lips from the rim of his mug before letting out a gasp of satisfaction. He chuckled as his parched throat was finally quenched and looked down into his mug, frowning in slight disappointment to see a bit more of his beer was left. “Damn, I used to be able to down it all in one go,” he muttered in even more disappointment in himself before finishing it off and slamming it back down onto the table. “Another round, keep em coming!” he cheered before leaning forward, his voice lowered for only the bartender. “Put my tab on the Federations bill,” he grinned. The old bartender simply arched a brow before pouring him another drink.

“You really think they’ll pay that tab?” he asked in gruff voice before he slid the freshly filled mug back to Luke. Luke shrugged with a chuckle before taking a swig of his beer.

“Hell if I know, wishful thinking I suppose,” he responded with a smirk. The old bartender scoffed in bitter amusement before shaking his head.

“You young pups these days, thinking just because you hold a rifle and kill each other means you get to have whatever you want without having to pay for it,” he mused aloud as he poured another drink for another patron. Luke chuckled and snatched up the drink with a grateful nod.

“Glad you understand!” he laughed before returning to his drink with glee. After some time had passed and Luke had managed to down a few cold ones he began to feel some of the tension of the day be washed away after every drop of alcohol ran down his throat. As he began to feel a small buzz and grabbed another drink from the bartender he heard someone began to sing. With curiosity he spun around in his seat to see the surprising sight of Ines singing and to his even greater surprise she was doing pretty good. He laughed in amusement as she finished and held up his mug. “Would you look at that, who knew such a ball crusher could sing! It’s a miracle!” he declared and gained a few chuckles from a few soldiers nearby, though he noticed some of the women in the crowd rolled their eyes and shook their heads. He couldn’t help but laugh some more before his attention was taken by Isaac as he grabbed the whole rooms attention. Luke listened to his speech with an arched brow before feeling his smile grow in amusement towards the end of his toast.

“Cheers!” he shouted in amusement before gulping down another mouthful. After finishing off another round and returning to the bar to get a new one a rather skinny Imp soldier leaned against the bar next to Luke and ordered his own drink before looking to Luke who was currently downing another drink.

“Geez, you’ve been downing those drinks ever since you got here. Are all Feds such alcoholics?” he asked with an arched brow and amused smirk. Luke gave a small sigh of satisfaction as he pulled himself away from his beverage and looked to the soldier with grin.

“Only the unstable ones,” he joked before jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. “I doubt anyone else in the place can hold their liquor like me,” he declared with confidence. The Imp laughed as his drink was delivered to him and arched a brow.

“Is that so?” he questioned before taking a moment to think. Soon a grin spread onto his face before grabbing his drink and leaning in closer. “Wanna put that to the test?” Luke paused mid drink and fully turned towards the man with a smirk, his interest clearly caught in the Imps question.

“You think ya can out drink me Imp?” he asked, the excitement clear in his voice. The Imp quickly shook his head.

“Me? Ha! I’m to much of a lightweight!” he laughed before pointing to a table of Imps and aiming his finger towards the biggest man Luke has ever seen in his life. Talk about steroid abuse. “I bet my friend there can drink you into a coma without even trying,” Luke chuckled before downing the rest of his mug and standing up with a large grin, slightly stumbling since he got up to fast.

“It’s on then! Let’s see what you Imps got!” he barked loud enough for the whole room to hear, earning several concerned eyes on him as it seemed a fight was ready to break out. The Imp laughed and smacked his hand on the bar before rising to his feet and calling to his large ally.

“Tiny, come drink this damn fed under the table!” the room visibly let out a breath of relief as they avoided a bar fight before all cheering out in excitement as a table was cleared for the twos challenge. The massive Imp soldier, Tiny, sat down with a sigh and looked to his comrade who set up the challenge for him.

“Again, Hendricks, you sign me up for something without my say so,” he complained with a smirk. The Imp gave him a quick wink before standing upon a chair and addressing the the audience that now surround the table.

“Alright folks listen up! This is a test of will and determination between men on different sides! The pride of both the Empire and the Federation rest on the shoulders of these two soldiers!” a round of cheers ring out around them and Luke couldn’t help but join in with a large grin. Hendricks gave them all a few seconds before continuing. “Now to make things even more exciting and to encourage our find young contestants to victory, we will place bets on the winner! So come on up and place your bets on the table by my side, come on now don’t be shy! The pride of our countries depend on it!” he laughed before making way for a young waitress carrying a tray of freshly poured mugs, the foam leaking from the top and making it all the more delicious looking.

“Good luck gentlemen,” she chuckled before leaving the table with a smile. After a moment of people shouting and placing their bets on the table Hendricks held up his hands.

“All bets are in and our brave contestants are ready to begin the duel of all duels!” he declared and managed to get a quick cheer from the audience. Luke smirked towards his opponent and grabbed his mug.

“Hope you’re ready Imp, I’ll show you what we Feds are capable of,” he stated with complete confidence and determination. Tiny simply chuckled and grabbed his own mug.

“Then I’ll show you Feds what we Imps are capable of!” he barked back with his own grin, a determined spark in his eyes that only clashed with Luke’s own spark.

“Bring it on!”

“Bring it on!”
They both shouted before knocking back their first rounds and earning another loud cheer from the audience. As the two drank their hearts out they could hear people cheer them on in encouragement. The Feds cheered for Luke to hang in there and the Imps cheered for Tiny to kick his ass. It was truly a match of the ages. As the two finished off the last of the drinks they both slammed their mugs onto the table and glared at one another.

“Another!”

“Another!”

They both demanded with determined glares, neither of them were willing to go down without a fight. The roaring of the crowd only increased as another tray was brought and the two returned to their intense battle.

The first thing Victoria did when she stumbled into the Inn was dig out a handful of crumpled bills from a pocket and toss them onto the counter. When asked what she wanted all she could do was gesture for the bottle that looked the cheapest, gratefully sinking into the motions of drowning with her sorrows with drinks that smelled and tasted like horse piss. Alcohol was her rock, the one constant she seemed to have in her life. It had carried her through nights spent sleeping on the street and brawling with the seemingly innumerable amount of other dirt poor street toughs, dulling the pain of hunger and cuts from blades and bottles. Almost all of her best memories were clouded by a haze of alcohol-induced fog. She had drained a bottle of dubious quality whiskey and collapsed in a heap of screaming and tears when the father of her child disappeared on her. She drank when she was happy, sad, horny, enraged, wistful and any other emotion that could be named. It was an every day event for her, either from the flask in her bag or a bottle scrounged up from somewhere.

One drink turned into two, then three, then five. Victoria was a big girl, standing at taller than quite a few men at 6'3" and she had had plenty of practice so she wasn't truly drunk yet, just tipsy. Her judgment was impaired enough that she became a bit grabby, a hand swinging out and slapping the ass of a passing Imperial soldier. She had earned herself a warm beer to the face for that one, the girl that had been the target of her affection muttering curses. Her target had been a rugged looking Federation trooper that had caught her eye. He was from Edinburgh, if the accent was anything go by. She got a good taste of it from the violent threats lobbed he lobbed her way. Some guys didn't like it when you grabbed at their crotch without a moment's warning, who knew?

This called for a change of tactics. One of the barmaids reacted favorably when Victoria offered to buy her a drink, only to lose any interest when asked how fast she could slip out of her skirt. "Bunch of fecking prudes, the lot of 'em." Private White thought to herself grumpily. That was it, everyone that had turned down her advances had been the problem, not her methods of approach. After all, she was a model of chivalry and good manners.

The final turn-down was enough for her to call it quits, the "Prairie Slasher" forking over yet more cash in exchange for a room the size of a large closet with a matress that could have passed for a stained lump of hardtack pressed into the corner. The walls were decorated with some mysterious brown substance that she didn't care to figure out what it was. So far, it was basically the same as home. The young woman dropped her shit to the floor and collapsed onto the "bed", wiggling out of her pants and tossing her underwear to the side. After a very satisfying date with the one thing that would never leave her she allowed herself to fall asleep next to her rifle instead of a warm body, a weirdly tall and aggressively emotional killer clad in a cape, bandoleers, slouch hat and nothing else.

----

She was back in front of the armored car, watching the destruction of her unit and the death of her friends. The vehicle was a hulking metal beast, advancing relentlessly under a hail of bullets and bombs. No matter how much they threw at it the monster still kept coming, an angry god of death supported by its rifle-bearing acolytes. Victoria stared in silent horror as a man got torn clean in half by a burst of machine gun fire, his mangled body getting pulped by the wheels of the Imperial's war winner. A grenade ended three more lives with a single blast of white hot shrapnel, pain searing through White's arms as she earned new scars. All around her men and women were gunned down like animals, blood pouring and bones shattering under the weight of a torrent of lead.

Victoria could handle bloodshed, she had seen her fair share of it back home. Hell, she had only been fourteen when she earned her nickname by shoving her knife through a girl's throat. What she couldn't handle was the utter helplessness she felt. She fired until she had no more bullets, threw every grenade she had, and the fucking thing still kept coming at her! Her comrades were all dead, she was trapped in a dead-end alley with nowhere to run. All she could was scream as the car rolled over her foot, sending her to ground as her femur was ground to dust. Her organs and ribcage were mashed to a pulp and still she screamed, crying out for anyone to save her until her skull was smashed into the ground and all went dark.

----

She woke up just after dawn, tugging the bottom half of her clothes back on and picking up her bags and carbine and before heading back downstairs. Breakfast was stringy bacon and hunk of bread washed down by more shitty beer, the meal was utterly tasteless. Victoria sat at her spot on the bar for a few hours, ordering new drinks in between bouts of stabbing the paces between her splayed fingers with her detached bayonet in a show of meaningless bravado. It was nearly noon when a fresh batch of dirty Feds clambered in, Victoria watching them with interest. With some luck, she had just found her new unit. Their highest ranked member appeared to be a Darcen which somewhat surprised her. She hadn't expected to see the double chevrons of a Corporal on the sleeve of a member of the most hated group in the world.

Before she could introduce herself the officer was engaged in conversation with some Imperial, Victoria tapping a boot against the dusty wooden floor as she waited. When the seat was freed she stood up and spat on the ground before making her way over, sinking into the still warm chair with a grunt.

"Private Victoria White, mates call me Slasher. she drawled easily, tipping her hat politely. Me whole feckin unit got smashed by the Imperial bastards, youse lot hirin?"

Her accent was heavy and somewhat hard to understand, not helped by her bastardized vocabulary taught by dealing with illiterate youths and spending not even a single day in school.

---

His dreams had ended long ago, as Michael's vision had long drifted away into the cozy, comfortable and unconscious darkness. And the day slowly passed. Or does it? Even though the sun had given its light touch of its beauty onto the world, it could never do to make amends the ugly painting created by the sinners and heretics of this land. The sky was just as bleak and cloudy as yesterday. The chilly humid morning fog began to creep into the room like a crawling snake running through the corners of Michael's cheeks, trying to leak into his unseen, unfelt, unheard darkness yet manifested into his jerking knees to the chill. And then Jean's call and tap on his shoulder began to pull him out of the otherworld, and back to his battered body, tattered by gunfire and fatigue.

To his own eyes, he was among the first to return to the lands of the living. His eyes were heavy, burning like sticky hot rubber as he slowly sat up from his bed. On normal weekends, back then, he would have been lying on the beds for hours on end, his breakfast skipped, his lunch delayed. Everyone said that it would not reflect good to be so tardy, but hell, you couldn't blame the physiology born from the love of the Lord to be a mistake. But here tardiness would earn him punishment. Once and twice he had automatically learnt to obey the call, even if he didn't like it or not.

Then he felt like he was holding something. At the very end of his arm was still that delicate hand. Both of them were still connected. That light chest movement and the cute purr of her lips. It was just like Hill 58 now and then. As much as he would like to let the angel be, he couldn't go anywhere without her releasing him. Literally. She had an abnormal strong grip. After a couple of tap on Lucia to make sure she woke up as well, Michael finally got his freedom. And he took that liberty to slowly make his way on his feet then onto the previous room he had dried his clothes the day before. He slammed the door shut and quickly checked on his bandages, seeing if it needed any replacement (it does), retrieved his hat still hanging dry along with Lucia's, put on his uniform properly then left for the squad's meetup.

It wasn't anything too surprising. They'd have to leave this ugly ruin as soon as it could get. The mission awaited. And Michael knew that. Autonomously, the sapper just nodded to Jean's command as they moved out into the fog. The chilly mist tightly embraced the squad in the fear of yet another ambush, but the same fear and thoughts had begun to grow old. He was still lightly but visibly shaking but nullified. Instead, he began to look around. The squad. Isaac, Britta, Kalisa, Reyna, Jean and everyone surrounding him, trying to protect him from threat. Did they have a good sleep? Probably not, but were they rested enough? It felt surprisingly homely to be at the very center at this cold morning, with the fear equalizing everyone.

The journey stopped right before an old house. No, it looked a little big to be a house. Perhaps a public house. A quick conversation was carried out by Jean and the Imperial, to Michael's surprise was Green Fox. No joke. The guy who Michael had feared for long appeared right in front of him. The man who Michael was afraid of ending his own lives now saving lives from misery. The whole idea of a neutral no-fire no-hostility seemed like a joke to Michael, but the way he spoke, the absence of stress and non-eye contact, it was messing the cogs in his mind. But then again, miracles come in the most unexpected of places. When the mere absence of humanity birthed more of them.

---

---

He was still staring in disbelief to what was offered in the inn, to which he had been informed as White Hart, when Luke offered him his support. A note of gratitude was given to the man as Michael was generously given a two-man bedroom thanks to his reference. It was nice getting a big room for himself. It felt like his old mansion a little bit. Not at all by much, but hey, at least he still got to enjoy the soft comfortable bed for himself only...but why though? Didn't the inn already have a couple of soldiers here already, along with his squad too? It would be pretty wasteful of a huge room for a tiny hulk of flesh like Michael. Was he actually serious about getting Michael a girl?

He waited for a bit, but no one actually came. Well, maybe he could offer a share to save spaces. But for this moment only, Michael enjoyed the solitude of his own company. His first task was simply unpacking his heavy equipment and then quickly removed his dirty uniform. The bandage had gone dry from the rain yesterday, and it was beginning to glue onto his skin. He spent the next hour just to deal with his wound. He'd never have the chance to have this peaceful of a day to regain his sanity after everything that just happened.

Gradually the bar downstairs and the loudmouths of a couple of Imperials and some who he personally recognized caught his allure. He left most of his stuff up the room before closing the door gently behind him. Down the stairs to the laughter and drunken ramble of so many people losing their minds in booze and alcohol, Michael couldn't help but half-jokingly muttered his thoughts.

"You all sinners..."

An amused smile spread across his face as he tiptoed past the new Europan War that had been established in this small inn. He enjoyed the happiness of his comrades and the peaceful, highly improbable but totally not impossible, treaty between the Federation soldiers and the Imperials. Between humans and humans. It was a sight of God's creation after all. It was his teachings that was universal love and respect, even to those who deserved it least. And that's where it was happening right now. But he really should excuse himself from the crowd. It was not in his keen.

From the ground zero of the war that probably would end up with both on the floor, preferably but probably not vomiting, with the hammer drilling in their heads the next morning, Michael retreated to the silent and more personal corner of the inn. Inside this cozy room was a couple of armchairs and bookshelves. The dim yellowish light perfectly carved the complete white to the blacks of the energy outside: the scene of calm, serenity and aloneness. His private study. He could probably spend hours on end on just one single spot on a soft cotton cushion of the armchairs.

But then he realized that he wasn't at all alone. In one of the armchair, almost obscured from Michael's point of view was a brownish figure. A man with ginger-like hair combing over his head, sitting with his legs crossed, his arms one on his cheek and the other holding a book that Michael could not see what it was about. He was silent. Dead silent. One could even think that he had suffered a stroke, having died in that exact spot with that same posture and that nobody had noticed him. His breathe was almost non-existent - his chest didn't even move. The only thing that Michael could discern the alive from the dead was his active eyes, as the thin layer of liquid seemed to serve only to magnify the curiosity and passion to learn more about the knowledge of humankind. The eyes that seemed to speak ambition and intellect. The eyes that quickly detected the presence of the Edinburghian sapper in the room.

His instinct almost caused him to reach for his gun, which wasn't even there to begin with. But upon seeing an injured man with a shallow chin and hopeful eyes, his muscles rested. But his voice did not. And the frost came almost defensively.

"What do you want Fed?"

Michael was taken aback by the cold response. But he was calm enough to stand up properly to him.

"Just to see if you mind a company next to you?"

His icy glare did not cease.

"No. But don't talk to me."

His eyes quickly went back to the book. Tentatively, Michael went for the bookshelf and grabbed one for his own before sitting down on the chair right opposite of him, making himself comfortable. Anywhere though but the book for his eyes, and his mind. He couldn't really keep an eye away from the other book, or the man holding it. His eyes found its way back and forth between the book cover page and his own almost withering yellowish paper. The dance of irises also caught the attention of the Imperial, as expected to Michael really. Seeing that he was acting suspiciously, Michael simply just closed the book and was about to voice his thought before...

"I said don't talk to me." Again the ice cold responses.

"I'm sorry I can't help but be curious." Michael replied, a little modestly at first.

"About what?"

"The book you're holding." The Fed pointed at the cover page. Engineering At Its Finest. A not very known book out there, but it was one of the best selling books of the field of engineering science. A must-have for any car or machine enthusiasts. Something that the Imperial found a little intriguing to say the least. He never knew this Fed, and he had nothing to lose from his solidly carved ideologue of the ignorant and arrogant pricks from the Federation, but the young Fed's restless eyes seem to say something beyond the veil he had been seeing.

"What about it that you are curious about?" The temperature began to rise.

"Well...everything." Michael could then finally rest his head on the chair. "I've always wanted to find this book, but it's not sold anywhere."

"I wouldn't be surprised." The Imperial sneered.

"I was going to try my university library, but I was never there before all of this happened." Michael didn't mind the passive-aggressive remark. "Maybe I will try there when I come back."

The Imp was now even more surprised. This Fed is university educated? That's rare. And yet he's at the frontline? With nothing on his sleeve to show his authority? Was this guy a humble individual and a complete idiot or he was actually for real in this one the soldier was trying to weigh the chances. But he was university educated. He couldn't be the former case.

"Say..." His glacial eyes were down. "I just want to know how well you know before I can lend it. What is the Royal Rose's first car ever made?"

"First car?..." Michael pondered shortly. "A 10hp, I remember. There is also the 15hp, 20hp and 30hp model soon after that also."

The Imperial's eyes seemed to miss a blink just as he tilted his head over to the right. "Impressive." He commented before handing Michael the book.

"You know..." Michael also found some newfound interest in this adversary in front of him. "Instead of enjoying books by ourselves silently, how about we uncover the veil to our common interest."

The Imperial shrugged indifferently, but with a light smile. Today had been his day of firsts. And the ground was grassed with wonders and knowledge...

---

The passage of time could not sway these two individuals from their shared endeavor. The two individuals who were once adversaries on the battlefield, archenemies who would spare nothing of the other party, now engage in a battle of wisdom and knowledge. A ground that ironed itself out of the bonfire that humanity had created for itself. Michael was surprised at himself as well. He'd probably had said much more in a couple of hours than during the two months he had spent inside that training camp and even during the time on the train. It felt so good to have a like-minded individual who knew what they were talking about, and understood what the other party was saying. And surprisingly so from an enemy.

"You know this has turned out unexpectedly." The Imperial sat up straight on his chair. "The most intellectual person I've met is my enemy."

"Likewise." Michael smiled briefly. "Not even my best friend could force so much out of my mouth."

The Imperial chuckled at the gesture, though his tone dropped quite steeply just as he made his point clear. "Though don't get me wrong here, that does not change my mind at all about you Feds."

And then there was the whole propaganda ideology from the Imps. It was probably inevitable that it came to this. His irritation clogged in this throat, but he couldn't find himself speaking out loud what he was about to say. He knew he wanted to return the favor. He knew he wanted to say shits about the Imperials too. They committed numerous atrocities. They weren't innocent at all. And many Imperials were even oblivious and proud about it. It was just hypocritical. But then again, like an unknown hand reached out and stopped his vocal chord from formulating a word. What good would it do to turn the table? The man had had such an interesting conversation with Michael. His morality aside, his intellect was something to be admired. Would he want to throw that all away? But perhaps more importantly...why? Like every intellectuals, the fundamental question had begun to formulate. Why? Why would he think what he thinks? Why would he judge people by simply their association with something? And why could both of them having two different viewpoints just like that, and both believed it to be from God's teachings? He wanted to know. As a discoverer, he wanted to know.

"...I'm not here to judge anyone. That's not our job." Michael muttered. "I just wanted to know...why?"

"Hmmm..." It was the first time it had ever occurred to the Imperial. He was expecting contempt, anger or frustration, or outright disrespect and condescending sneer. But yet before him wasn't that. It was something that had been sorely lacked ever since he decided to part way from his father, far away from his protection and love. It was something called...respect.

"Well, if you want to know then..." The Imperial sat up once again, now with a smile on his face. Not a confident, smug or condescending smile, but the one with the one intent to return what was given. And the talk continued. Man-to-man. Earnestly. Straightforwardly. And respectfully.

Diana’s Brutal Reality – Neutrality – Amone City’s Walls (Sept. 10th)

---

In the moment, Diana woke up with a groan slightly in pain with how she was sleeping. It was followed by a yawn that was pretty cute since she hadn’t really recovered from the dream, which she had. She couldn’t help but silently cry while staring at her pendant necklace. ”Should’ve counted sheep in my dream instead of dreaming that day when Susie smacked me in my face...” Diana thought to herself with a sigh. She shrugged her shoulders and noticed everyone is awake and walking around preparing themselves. It took awhile but she put her pendant necklace back to where it was, hidden even though it was pretty nonetheless. She probably knew she required to clean her silver pendant sooner or later since the outside is definitely required to be clean. It took a bit to make her realize she slept with her helmet on, which made her annoyed slightly. She rolled her eyes and felt like it was Luke’s fault she forgot to take off her helmet.

It took her a bit to realize where her rifle was since she needed to check on it to see if it was okay from dropping it. She picked up her rifle and checked over it and couldn’t really tell if there was any damage to it. It was pretty obvious, she didn’t know how much punishment these weapons could take, which was a good thing she gained a melee weapon. ”I would love to have a bed since sleeping on the floor was a pain in my ass.” Diana thought to herself, with a slight annoyance in her facial features. She was a bit irritable mostly at the fact of her dream and the fact she tossed down her weapon for almost shooting her commanding officer, Jean. It made her definitely need a drink, which was a bit stronger than what she drank. This feeling of uneasiness made her a bit afraid of her humanity compared to the other people whom probably killed more than her right now.

She exerted herself by stretching a bit to make her feel not as much of the pain of sleeping on the hard floor. It was pretty much the only thing that she could think on while trying to figure out if there was some place to rest and relax in this ruined city. She felt like a wreck and couldn’t help but feel like going back to bed but want to do it in a bed instead of a floor like what happened. She took off her helmet and held it for a bit, only because she needed to do a simple thing. Her hand moved on her hair to feel it and she sighed since she needed a hair soaking since all Vastergoth girls hate when their hair feels like this. ”Ugh, I so need a bath or something to feel better.” Diana quietly said aloud. She put her helmet on with a bit of irritation of the situation at hand, which never passed her thoughts that soldiers had to deal with these conditions.

Diana walked around while having her weapon on her back. Her entire body showed that she was definitely not happy with the situation and was a bit irritable at how she slept mostly. In terms of her family, if they don’t get a good night sleep they are more of a pain in the ass. It shows like the night through her entire body language. However, a bit later, she was standing outside, which made her a bit depressed seeing fog. The one thing that made her a bit down when she sees it. The only weather type she enjoys seeing is snow, mostly because her plain creativity with it is a bit amazing to see. Fog, Rain and other things just make her a bit depressed. Her thoughts were given a selfsame look over until she heard Jean say good morning. She did notice his injury on his hand. ”It doesn’t feel like a good morning, Jean. That’s definitely a good thing, I didn’t want to sleep on the floor again since its not comfortable...” Diana said, with a slight depressive tone to her voice. The leaving of this place was the only thing that made her a bit happier than usual but she was still depressive mostly because of the Fog, it wasn’t one of her favorite weather types. Not being able to see in front of you isn’t a thing she likes, but most seafaring vessels don’t like fog either.

She follows her squad, which was behind Jean since they needed to find someplace to relax or find that is more or less, a bit better than a ruin to call home. It was pretty obvious, which she was keeping her head on a look out, however, she saw some signs. This confused her a bit, what the heck is a ’White Hart,’ additionally there was signs with Neutrality. Her eyes went wide when she specifically saw that word since her father Gavin spouts neutrality sometimes in dealing with the more ‘violent’ people in Castleton. Even though, her mother Rebecca would usually beat the living shit out of those violent people in Castleton since she’s a loose cannon sometimes. ”Neutrality in a war zone… is that even possible?” Diana asked, with a confused look on her face. She looked at Jean, which was giving the signal to kneel down and get into cover with a signal. It was a bit of a strange concept of neutrality in a war zone, which made her even more confused. However, she heard a voice that spoke to Jean specifically or really all of them since it said Fed. ”What… why is an Imperial doing here?” Diana thought to herself, in a bit of a shock.

Diana was a bit confused, in shock, and couldn’t really feel any ill will towards them by these imperials by how they were acting. It kinda reminded her of how her father speaks of Neutral places that no one should fight in, unless they break an unspoken rule. However, it turned out that her father’s wisdom was correct on the money about what the Imperial had said in response to Jean’s questions. This is definitely something she enjoys neutral and pretend you are at home, with your family. The one of the many things she remember her father told her, but kinda forgot about it since she was conscripted into this war by Edinburghian’s military. However, the thing that peaked her interest was what the Imperial had said about ‘beds and hot baths.’ ”I definitely need that… sleeping on a floor isn’t much of a great experience.” Diana said, a bit aloud and with a tone of relief. However, she heard Luke say something that made her a bit irked, she wasn’t have a good day or morning because of the fact it was foggy to hell and back.

She couldn’t help but follow her compatriots to the Inn in question. However, she wanted to say something to Luke. ”I have a feeling, my mother Rebecca would drink you under the table, Luke. But its nice to hear some good news for once. I am definitely going to enjoy myself here.” Diana said. She was following the others into the Inn, which made more sense now than whatever the other people had said. It was pretty much obvious she wanted to sigh, it took her to feel a bit irritable to feel a bit bad for outright ripping Luke’s heart out and trying to play with like a piano. She couldn’t help but laugh a bit for thinking about it that way, it was weird and strange. ”That’s a weird thought… Never thought it about that way.. I think it’s why my family are so strange compared to everyone else.” Diana said.

---

She noticed Luke, and some people were having a drinking competition, which kinda made her laugh at what’s going on. It took her only a second to sigh about what’s going on, because she has a feeling the bastard Luke, is going to actually ‘win’ the battle of drinking someone under the table. However, she did say, he wouldn’t be able to beat her mother in a drinking competition. ”Uh, that’s pretty interesting. Luke is a pretty ‘capable’ person after all. I think I shouldn’t have been so mean, I suppose.” Diana said, even doing the air quotes while saying capable. It was pretty much a hilarious thing to see if what she said would fuck with his game in beating the imperial at a Drinking game. Since no one would be able to beat her mother Rebecca in drinking.

In a sense, she was impressed about Luke’s tenacity but she walked towards the other side of the bar and sat down. She ordered herself a drink and didn’t really mind what’s going on. However, it was pretty obvious she was still depressed from the morning fog. Her drink got there, which was had a person tied to the drink. ”Thank you for the drink.” Diana said, with a smile on her face.

The person who brought Diana her drink was a twenty year old female civilian whom lives in the war torn city of Anome. She smiled beautifully towards her, as it seems like Diana needed someone to talk to because of what is going on. ”Why are you down dear? Also, no problem for the drink. It’s the only thing that keeps me by, my name is Maria by the way.” Maria said, with a worried smile on her face. She did hear what Diana said to the two that are in a drinking war, specifically one of her ‘comrades.’ ”I must ask a serious question, why did you say that? To the one called Luke.” Maria said, a bit confused.

Diana sighed at the specifically the first question. ”The fog is depressing. Nice name by the way, though.” Diana said, with a slight smile. She, however, heard the second question and laughs a bit. ”Because of reasons… I was kinda mean to him when he first showed up. He said something that pissed me off. Therefore, I said some really mean things to him. You could say he rubbed me the wrong way. I guess, I was ‘trying’ to apologize to him without actually apologizing to him. It’s pretty much a given I don’t really like people who are cruel to whom my family protects in my hometown.” Diana said, but quiet enough to only where Maria could hear her. She couldn’t help but feel a bit frustrated specifically at these things. The past being dug up by her dreams, and she wanted to say a specific thing out loud for some odd reason.

Maria was a bit shocked in what she heard from Diana specifically and walked away. Because Diana was a bit weird of a Federation Soldier and it seems like every single soldier in the federation or imperials are a bit ‘weird’ or ‘strange. However, she decided to let someone else to give Diana some drinks.

She saw that Maria left and couldn’t help but sigh at what she specifically said. She chugged her drink down and outright sighed a bit loudly. ”Susan and Astra, my sisters are complete bitches. I hate them for being so mean to me when I was growing up. I wish they would stop being mean to me...” Diana said, a bit loudly. It was bothering her much its specifically a lot of compounding issues that was bugging her. However, she spoke it now and can’t take it back. It was pretty much a great thing to get off her chest.

A Imperial, female sharpshooter walked over to her and laughed at the silly little Edinburghian girl saying that out loud. “You are a bit funny you know that girl. Family is an important thing to never lose sight of. And saying you outright hate two of your family members is a bit odd. Didn’t your parents teach you manners?” She spoke with an unyielding nature of strong family bonds. She was fascinated with the sense of hate and vitriol coming from this one single girl, which chugged her drink a bit too quickly. She couldn’t help but giggle at that, however, she remembered a war that happened 500 years ago in Edinburgh. It’s pretty much a dead give away, whom this one specific girl was, the family who protects the dark hairs. “I might introduce myself, my name is Imelda. However, your specifics are very heart warming. I do hope you reconcile with your sisters. It’s always not that good to untie your bonds. They might turn around little girl.” Imelda said, with a tone of historical knowledge. It’s pretty fascinating nonetheless, it’s always good to know your enemies better than yourselves. In terms of what Imelda’s favorite pass time to do.

Diana heard everything from Imelda’s voice and it was shocking at what’s going on specifically. ”Wait… what does that mean exactly? Are you saying I should be nice to my sisters even though they aren’t nice to me or what?” Diana asked, with a confused look on her face. She could feel an uncharacteristic feeling from Imelda’s tone like, she knows everything of ‘her’ history and much more. Alike, the imperials know much of their enemies’ history but not caring about whom they have to conquer to get said resources.

Imelda laughs at her questions and couldn’t help but wanted to say something but the Imperials will be leaving soon. ”You’ll have to figure that out for yourself. At least you’ll be more knowledgeable about things and not show your hate to quickly. Knowledge is power, and the faster you learn that the likelihood of your survival in this world will go up instead of down, little Vastergoth, child. Your family’s hardheadedness is legendary you could say. I don’t really understand your family’s abandonment of wealth, it seems like that little detail in your history was stricken from the record.” Imelda said laughing at Diana. It was pretty simple in what Imelda was interested in, uncovering the truth but being a good soldier is also important too.

Diana looked at her and shocked to hear, hardheadedness and her last name from an Imperial, soldier. Who’s a sharpshooter, a sniper for the Imperial Army. This kinda shocked her a bit, however, she looked at Imelda and sighed. ”It would be better if you learned that yourself. The reason for my family’s reasons for being middle class.” Diana said, with a bit of a nerve struck. She couldn’t really like talking to this annoying imperial citizen, however, she wasn’t going to strike her since no violence is allowed in a neutral place. It was pretty obvious that Imelda knows who she is without even saying her name.

Imelda laughs again, and decides to go her separate way. ”I hope the next time we meet isn’t on the battlefield, Diana. I wonder… but I must go I do hope you have fun here with your friends.” Imelda said, with a bit of a tone in her voice. She walked off and decided to get prepared to leave with her commanding officer.

Diana shakes her head a bit since her feeling was correct when Imelda said her first name. It made her spine shiver by what she specifically said. She got another drink and drank it slowly since she needed to calm her nerves. After that long conversation with Imelda, which felt like it would take most of her willpower to stay in. However, now everyone in her squad now knows why she was crying in her sleep if they wondered about that. ”God damn it… this is annoying. Luke you better win, that drinking competition!” Diana exclaimed, with a bit of a cheering motion towards Luke. Her tone was an encouraging tone of voice instead of her usual tone.

However, something caught her eye specifically it was the female, which was taller than most people here that was Federation. It was nice to see another person who’s apart of the friendlies. She got up holding her drink, which she was drinking slowly. Even though she wanted to take a bath, she’ll let the other people do their thing first. She was the most polite of Squad 1, which she caught the name of the female in question and saw her talking to Jean. ”Nice to meet you Victoria.” Diana said, with a slight look of utter fear of what she said later. Even though she only understood smashed since its another saying for utterly destroyed. ”That sucks. I have a feeling we could use more people but its up to Jean.” Diana said, with a smile. She slowly cherishes this drink she was drinking, it’s pretty much amazing she’s not drunk yet.

In terms of certain things, she was definitely happy to meet another face. However, she was hopeful no one cared for her outburst about hating her sisters, besides that Imperial Lady, by the name of Imelda. It was strange to hear ‘family’ advice from an Imperial. ”Why do most people want to butt into your business? All I wanted was to hate my older sisters, since they deserve the same they dish out. They lost my respect, they need to earn it again.” Diana said with a tone of annoyance mostly. It was a self-filling prophecy in her mind, which she always wanted to say this to her sisters but never had enough courage to say it. Until she was away from them, it took being in a war far away from them to make her truly feel what they deserve and not what her mother tells her.

The sudden appearance of Ines went unnoticed for the first few seconds, as Jean continued to cross our and change many words on his list of verses. It was a lovely little poem, he thought to himself, and it at least helped him go at ease over the strenuous battlements of Amone's agonising presentation. It was a way of telling the people back home, if there was even a home still left waiting for him, that the war was not how it was made to be. The ignorant fools of the political agenda could've taken it as a plea for cowardice and a resonating pulse of nerve stricken against his forehead, but Jean was not writing the first half from his own perspective. The last two verses and stanzas were the only two that seemingly were from his gathering perspective, though in reality they too could've been from the perspective of this imaginary narrator he'd come up with. A few names flickered through his mind as to what this narrator could be called, from David to Charlie, Oscar to Alexandre. There wasn't a necessity for it, but having the ability to think of imaginary people, or real individuals coincidentally thinking the same things in their own minds, was a great thought experiment that kept his attention at its peak. Jean had thoroughly enjoyed his conversation with Wilhelm, actually feeling a strong shift in his emotional distress previously felt surging through his veins. Now, the mindfulness of his poem was starting to come to life. Images flashed beneath his eyelids as he saw the dreamy landscape of heaven, looking down upon the battlefields from above. Even in death, there was a sense of relief from the torment that happened on the Europan soil, one that defecated the true meaning of the countryside. Jean wrote the poem for that special individual who may either be dead or still alive in the war, recollecting the sense of hopelessness whilst still having a singular reason to fight. Jean, though, didn't just have one reason. The main concern was his Squad, not himself. He never fought for himself, not anymore. But it was very clear that the segment he wrote was likely derived from his feelings for...well...the innocent beauty.

Overwhelmed with surprise, he suddenly jumped up in his place, even hitting his knees against the table when the paper was swiped from beneath his very fingertips. Ines had taken it wildly and cleared her throat, inexplicably counting down without any form of warning. Jean's heart froze for a second, along with his expression, as suddenly the rough-neck Darcsen suddenly started to open her mouth and sing aloud. It was...unimaginably beautiful? It was the very last thing he'd expect from Ines, the one who seemed to show a lot of brash fidelity towards her moral compass in the war, directing herself to eagerly ending a life or two. It was almost quite reminiscent of the harmonic justice both Jean's mother and Olivia did together. His heart, at first, stopped because he felt the emotions reign through him as every vocal chord strung a perfect note. How was this hidden talent hidden so well? Squad 1 was full of surpr- wait was she singing his poem?!

Jean suddenly started to fumble around nervously when he realised that she was reading the lyrics of his poem, formulating her own tempo and time signature, key and harmony as she went about doing so. It was impressive yes, but embarrassing. Jean's face began to flush a straight crimson red, especially when she got to the dreaded final stanza. Whilst it didn't mention Reyna's name explicitly, anyone who knew Jean enough would easily guess who it could've been referring towards, putting his fictional narrator aside. He tried to find the words to stop her amazing performance, blended with his rather anxious writing habit, but words could not escape his fragile mouth. Jean was in full swing of nervousness, sinking his neck down into his collar slowly as she twirled around with the paper in her hand, almost taunting him from her point of spotlight. To grab it would be far too suspicious already, and Jean could not risk any more suspicion coming his way. He could feel the beady eyes of many Imperials and some familiar faces, voices and regiments lay upon both Ines and Jean. It didn't seem so bad for the singer, seeing as she relished in the thought of attention coming her way when the singing grew more and more passionate. Eventually, she finally ceased her closing line and sat down briefly to hand the paper back to Jean; he was surprised not to see a big 'fuck off' grin plastered onto her mischievous mug.

Stumbling for words, Jean lifted his finger and quickly tucked the poem away into his breast pocket, fumbling around whilst he searched for proper articulation. What on earth could he say? How could he politely show his annoyance in her unforeseen performance, but at the same time congratulate her for the ability to provide an angelic atmosphere with her audible appraisal. Even her review of the poem came across as genuine, but Jean's mind felt the hint of sarcasm potentially laid within her words. She was an enigma, one never to be properly understood by any known geniuses.

"I-I...I, uhh...Well that was...uhm...Very very good, of a performance, uhh...Ines. But...u-uhm...please ask next time, o-okay?" Jean's breath finally let itself loose when she turned to seemingly make her own way for the hygienic facilities nearby. With a great sigh, he leaned back into his chair and unwound his mind from the twisted state of panic it had once been in. For a few minutes, there was nothing but silence from the embarrassed Francian. Knowing Reyna, there was a potential chance that she may not have gotten the hint of the poem, which was both good and bad in their own ways. He didn't dwell on the matter too much as he mumbled ferociously to himself, letting his breath steady and compose itself once more. "I take it back, sometimes I think I'm not the only weird one."

Eventually, another individual sat herself down opposite Jean, looking at him eagerly with a strange glisten in her eyes. Jean opened his eyes when she sat down in his darkened corner of the inn, comfortably placing herself in the position of acquaintanceship before Jean had even the appropriate amount of time to scan her attire. All he saw was the wonderfully and iconic dressage of the Oceanic troops, unmistakably wearing the bush-hat and cape that all of her brothers in arms wore. It was quite amusing at first, her dialect seeming to be far heavier than that of Reyna or Thomas'. In a way, it put them to shame, but Jean seemed to get by in understanding her tone. As a Francian, Jean was used to many Edinburgh soldiers and tourists finding confusion towards his Europan accent, despite its vast popularity. When living on an island, it was harder for them to adjust to the accents of their fellow Federation allies, yet he understood completely why it may have sounded pompous or sophisticated for their own normality.

Despite this, she looked like utter shit. Jean didn't mean it to any offence, but stating it aloud would be atrocious. A mixture of deep alcohol whiffed off of her clothing and her face seemed to be a little tipsy. Of course, there was no complete loss of control, but she still seemed like she'd already comfortably sat down amongst the group. Some of the Imperials around her gave strange remarks and looks towards her when she wobbled over, seemingly sitting opposite the now well-composed Corporal. With casual instincts covering her tracks, she explained the disaster of her previous squad. Well, Jean could refer to it as a disaster, as death in general was, but she washed it aside like a regular occurrence in her life. The theory of such brash intent was also reinforced by her nickname: Slasher. Terrifying, it seemed. Jean had thought about giving nicknames to his squad mates to try and add a bit of banter amongst them, but something as violent and graphic as her name implied was not what he had in mind. It was quite comical how she toppled around with such laziness in her limb-movement, but it was obviously from either a lack of care or a potential lack of happiness left from the brutalised frontlines of Europa. He wouldn't have blamed her if it was the latter, but eventually, Jean finally sat back up to talk to her with a friendly smile, something NCOs usually didn't give to such informal requests.

"Well met, Victoria. I...I hope you don't mind me referring you by name, I tend to not like the whole formality of military ranks. But...I'm Jean...Corporal Jean-Robin Charpentier. You don't need to remember the long bit, people tend to screw that up quite a tad." With a nervous chuckle, he placed his arms back down onto the table, finding himself getting back into the emotion and mindset of being a general officer, giving an insightful input on the dire situation. He decided to at least give his empathy and condolences, whether or not it was clear if she felt any true emotion towards their deceased status. "I'm sorry to hear about your previous Squad. If it's refuge until you can find reassignment, I would be happy to offer you a place. There's...well there's a bit of paperwork I don't want to fill out, because that's a boring as shit, but a human life is more important than my will to write. We've got two Oceanics here already as well, transfers. They might mix well with you, culture and all. A certain Private Freya Baines and the, I guess popular, Corporal Thomas Carter, going under that weird alias of Marathon. Currently he's asleep, got stabbed and shot about six times in our last skirmish yesterday."

As he spoke clearly, and with higher confidence than he really intended, Jean realised that he was rambling on for quite a short while. Eventually, Diana came over with a blissful grin on her face, as she always did. As he saw her, Jean felt a small bit of grief stick into his lungs violently. He had essentially turned her down, hadn't he? The two hadn't spoken properly in a short while since Hill 58 and the train to Amone, where beforehand she'd confessed a sort of innate love for the Corporal before they'd even learnt one another's names. Part of Jean did feel a slight sense of appreciation, but as of now he didn't feel those same emotions back to her. Who knew that in a potential future or alternative timeline, he may have fallen in love with her too. She was attractive, no doubt, but Reyna was Jean's main interest. All this time, Jean wanted to have a nice conversation with Reyna, but had been caught up with several individuals waltzing over and discussing a multitude of topics in rapid pacing.

Diana gave her approval for Victoria joining the squad, which worked well with Jean's decision to potentially take her on board. As long as Victoria wasn't going to be a liability like Jean felt he had been himself, they could have a useful shocktrooper on their hands. Since the death of people like Mila, a long time ago now it seemed, they'd taken a huge hit to the numbers of shocktroopers they had. The Oceanics that had joined before Amone were a good fit, but their small scale in numbers demanded extra hands. Eventually, he stood up for a second, offering Diana a seat out of the courtesy of his kind heart. It could have seemed like Jean went to approach Renya, perhaps to strike conversation, but without fully knowing what she wanted to do, it was best to perhaps give her some space. A few times Reyna had been the one to approach Jean first, including the beauty of their first ever meeting where she comforted his broken mind, but the majority was from Jean taking that initiative. He didn't want to seem too attached to her, and he wasn't, but that didn't stop him from having a complete falling for Reyna at the end of the day. Love was a confusing word to put into perspective, especially when he wasn't sure if Reyna even thought he was a good person to start with, and so he felt the need to not call it that just yet. Instead, he followed his way to the room he'd been allocated, where an en-suite side room gave way for a bath, filled already with hot water from what he requested. And with that, Jean closed the doors behind him, preparing to take a relaxing wash for the first time in months.