The Siege of Amone, September 11th - A sense of authority
Slowly, his eyes fluttered open as the knocking of a fist against his door ruined the perfect night he was having. It was blissful, right up until that moment. The warmth of the bed and the comfort of the pillows and duvet: everything around him was just glorious. The only way it could've been better was if Reyna or Diana had been curled up with him, but Jean knew that the latter of the two was occupied the previous night with her own strange enigmas, ones that slightly saddened Jean whilst he tried to block it from his mind. After the wholesome conversation they'd had, it felt a little odd hearing Diana go off with what seemed to sound like Victoria, the new girl. Just another way to rub it in the face, he supposed. Can't have anything nice without fourteen negatives accompanying it like some enriched prison guardsmen. Damn, the world really liked to kick him down whilst he was at it. It was this sort of time that Jean would probably get out of the bed, try and find Reyna and just have a nice wholesome experience with her over a cup of tea, which in his mind sounded like the most splendid idea for someone as respectful as herself. A deep conversation was needed between the two, one that could at least let Jean learn more about her, and vice versa. The inn did seem like the perfect place to do such, but in reality Jean was too worried that he might be invading her free time and ruining the only experience at rest and relaxation she may ever get before one of them bites the bullet. The harsh reality was that the chances of both Reyna and Jean making it out alive at the same time were incredibly low. Human life was sometimes measured in not only months but days or hours here on the Europan Front. There were individuals who were killed the second their head and body became exposed from the outside of a trench, not even having the opportunity to meet face-to-face with the opposing Imperial soldiers who were responsible for their slaughter. The harsh reality was that, just that. People were not expected to survive.
The quote went 'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori', 'It is sweet and proper to die for one's country." Jean had heard that ring out many times during his studies of creative writing and poetry, far too often it had seemed. The names of men and women who were lucky enough to dodge the drafts or conscription by acting as some poncy propaganda writers, they disgusted Jean. Many of them used it as a way to earn hundreds, if not thousands, of undeserved piles of cash, where they would sit comfortably in their new mansions or manors all over the Federation's cleanest landscapes. For a reason yet unknown, Jean felt like his involvement in the war had given him some purpose: to be the honest writer who tells everyone back home what the war had become and why it seemed all but futile. The other writers back home spoke of honour, glory and duty, as if any of that really mattered out here. They were shepherds to the slaughtering pits, where they narrowed hundreds of thousands of young men and women into joining the army. The practice was...it was frightening. To know that one of the real villains of this episodic war was the pen which made contact with the paper.
The knock came again, flipping his mind out of the philosophical gutter it had just dipped itself within. Jean rubbed his eyes with the tips of his now-clean fingers, still noticing the fresh bandages around his hand. It was nice that the inn staff had actually replenished the wound and disinfected it, despite how painful it really was to do so. The bandage was now a crystal white, and more spares were regularly given out to ensure it didn't become anything less than the purest colour. Jean called out for the individual knocking to open the door and to come inside, to which he was met with a familiar female who worked for the White Hart. With a golden flow of hair crawling down her back, she was the embodiment of beauty for most of the soldiers here. Apparently, for the older soldiers of the Imperial Army, she was a very popular attraction for them, having many suitors who'd challenge one another for her love, which she clearly didn't reciprocate. Catherine, of course, was her name. She'd been assigned to Jean's room and gave a lot of guidance in terms of medical awareness, making sure he was fully understanding on how to treat any similar wounds should the situation come around again. As she walked inside, Catherine bowed extensively to show her true politeness, before walking around and beginning to tidy a few things up. At first, Jean sat there in silence, scrambling to put his own undershirt on out of common courtesy, but she seemed to engrossed in her duties to really make a fuss out of the whole situation.
"Had a good sleep, Mr Charpentier?" With her manner of speech and elegance in movement, Jean almost pictured her as a slightly older version of Reyna. That wasn't a thought he wanted to develop too much, perhaps out of courtesy for Reyna herself, but either way it wouldn't exactly be an insult to the Vinlander. Jean nodded slowly, rubbing his eyes again before slipping his legs out from under the duvet covers to drape over the side of the bed-frame. Luckily for both of the two, he was at least clothed with his trousers still. "One of the waitresses passed some concerns about you, so we wanted to make sure you were at least comfortable for last night. Glad to see it worked well, our beds."
"Yes, thank you very much. But, uhh..." Jean looked over, concern of his own flushing his eyes completely, devoid of all confidence for just a moment. "You can tell the staff not to give me any special consideration. My friends deserve every bit of comfort ahead of me, no matter the situation. I appreciate the concern, at the very least, but do put my friends before me, if that is okay with you?"
Catherine let out a rather elegant giggle of her own, even bringing the tips of her fingers right up to her own lips to almost conceal the laughter she had built inside. It seemed really odd for someone of her excellence to be surrounded by such common soldiers, all flushing down their drinks and fucking like rabbits, if Jean could have made a comment on the amount of activity last night. Once Jean stood up, she instinctively began to start dressing his bed once more, replacing its sheets and eventually flattening it out across the mattress to make it seem like it'd been preserved for years and years in such a pristine manner. Jean was impressed by her finesse and ability to add near perfection to every action she did, and so he listened further to her response.
"Oh, don't ask if it's okay with me, Mr Charpentier. Without sounding too profession, even for my own standards, your comfort is paramount." What she said next resonated well with Jean, as he too had felt rather similar to what she had to say. It took him by surprise when she managed to keep an utterly straight face of joyful smiles, as if she had learnt to never let the horrors of the world engulf her. "I've seen what this war does to people, and there's no feeling worse than one of loneliness. I was here when Amone first got invaded, and occupied, and have been here ever since, refusing to leave these walls until either the fat lady sings or I can smell freedom. Until that time comes around, though, I'm going to wait here and give you soldiers, no matter of what allegiance, the comfort you need to stay strong."
Jean nodded with his own friendly smile. She seemed to have her heart dead-set in the right direction, not even faltering to fall akin to the corruption. Her home city had been invaded and yet she still sat here with open arms, even to the soldiers who were responsible for bringing the war to her doorstep. It must've taken a lot of courage to really put forward that kind of obligation, but she was more than happy to oblige by it. Jean gave her a courteous nod and excused himself, giving her one last thank for her consideration and kindness. The descent down the stairs was rather rotten, not because of the conditions of the stairs but rather the loud tempo of the early-morning consumers. Luke and Ines were the first two notable ones to really be taking a stance in the morning meal, already having a large plate full of food before them. The full Edinburgh Breakfast, if he wasn't mistaken. There used to be several small cafes and restaurants in Liege that sold those, and Olivia used to take some home for Jean to eat, considering his rather isolated upbringing. Those were the days to live and die for, it seemed, though Jean didn't really feel like dying again. Eventually, Jean reached the bottom step and took a deep breath. Outside there was still a lot of rain showering down upon the pavement. If it weren't for Amone's drainage system the entire road would've likely been knee-high in precipitation by now, which in and of itself was a really unsettling thought for the anxious Corporal.
As he walked down, the first stop he made was to the bar table. Jean knew that there was no upfront costs, or any costs at all, for the living space provided, but Jean felt that it was necessary for his own spending. Unlike Freya or Thomas, there was no one back home for him to send the money towards, and so what little the army gave him in response to his enlistment would just pile up until it collected dust. Jean placed down a handful of Francian money directly onto the counter, looking at the surprised barmaid behind it. Jean nodded, and before she could protest he simply shook his head to deny any form of questioning. It was a tip, one that would be distributed throughout the entire staff of the White Hart, at least. Eventually, he continued in silence, across the room, until someone seemed to beckon him over. Inès, it was. How peculiar.
Once he sat down, Inès pressed the jokingly awkward question about whether or not Jean spent the night with a special someone of his. At first, Jean looked as if he were about to fluster, as his reddening face indicated, but instead he tried to not make as much of a big deal as he could. The vagueness of who she was talking about made it unclear whether she was referring to Reyna, Kalisa or Diana, but the obvious presumption was the former. Reyna was indeed at the top of Jean's interests, mainly because of all the positives that came with her. Jean hadn't exactly striven to formally claim her, as some of the unadulterated suitors of the Atlantic Army may have stated. Jean wasn't the kind of individual bent on those sort of formal methods of love, either way, and so he simply waved his hand before his face as she assured she hadn't told anyone. If it was that obvious to her that she knew, it worried him about how everyone else perceived his staggering intrigue in the art of love. Jean let out a thin sigh before opening his small flask, still with its own hot tea inside of it. In reality, Jean had taken some of the tea Reyna had given him to his own hip-flask and insisted on the White Hart's staff to keep it heated until the morning. Whilst it didn't have the succulent freshness it had when Reyna first gave him the wholesome mug of purely made tea, it still had all the wondrous hints of beauty laced within every taste. Jean could be seen smiling with satisfaction and a sense of relief, as per his expression.
"No...no I didn't. She's a sweet girl, and it isn't my place to stride into her life if she didn't want me to. She gave me some tea, and it was beautifully tasteful. Couldn't get enough of it." He leaned back into his chair and took another large sip from the flask, smiling as he looked up to the ceiling. For once, Jean seemed to be balanced with some form of mutual relaxation, the night's sleep having clearly taken a good toll on his mood. There was still the odd hint of sadness, broken-hearts and anxiety with every word he uttered, but at that point Jean couldn't argue that it wasn't part of him. His confidence had a long way to go, indeed.
Inès kept the good mood going when she complimented his writing again. Part of Jean felt like the appraisal was superficial, but that was more because of how selective he'd been with who saw his writing works. He appreciated the comment nevertheless, finding it to be a genuine surge of happiness in his spine. Having never shown someone his work, only for them to catch him off guard and still find some sort of respectability within it was a very heart-warming thing to hear. He doubted that the same sort of appreciation may have come from the individuals whom the poem was directed towards, but at the end of the day, no writer was perfect. Jean wasn't perfect at anything, or would he ever be, but the talk of his scribbling endeavours were enough to help rest his mind furthermore. He clipped the carabiner to his belt again and leaned forward slightly, giving a silent nod at first to her comment. When Inès referred Reyna as a proper individual, Jean couldn't help but smirk humorously at the comment. Whilst Reyna, in comparison, was more like a princess than the street-wise person the Francian before Jean was, she wasn't completely proper. Something about some of the thought processing Jean saw her make within her facial expressions sometimes suggested that she was not always someone who had thoughts of crystal clear colouring, no matter how pure and wholesome she really was. Jean appreciated that sense of honesty about her, and it made her feel even more real as an individual, where previously Jean only saw her as an angel from above.
She began to talk about his confidence. It made him slightly uncomfortable when she was as straightforward as she had to be, but the truth was there. To Inès, Jean wasn't the bravest, by a long shot it seemed, but he had a sense of compassion still laced within his system. Even as self-deprecating as he was, the Corporal could not argue that he was without compassion. It was the only thing keeping him alive, or rather in such huge danger. With a prod to the chest, Jean looked down at her finger whilst she briefly mentioned a previous NCO or two, which caught his interest. He didn't want to push the story any further, not yet at least, for fear that it might've dampened the mood completely for him. Jean, only for a second, held Inès' wrist to move her finger down a centimetre or two, chuckling as he did so.
"If you were meant to point to my heart, you missed it by a centimetre. I mean, unless you're saying I have a lot of true ribs." He laughed to himself quietly, finding a slight bit of surprise at his own attempt at lightening the mood. Inès didn't really know Jean a lot, though she acted like she knew all that there was. She clearly wasn't there at the Garnian Salient when things took a turn for the worst, but Jean felt a small, though very small, sense of pride for how he orchestrated the soon-to-be squad during that charge. "Back at Hill 58, Kalisa said I had a lot of balls, which was awkward enough as it was. It was when I dragged a Sergeant's body out of the open line-of-sight of the Imp machine gunners, just to get a pair of binoculars. Y'know...the same ones I still carry with my uniform today. Took a shot to the head, but the bullet skimmed my helmet. Never been more afraid of death in my life, or as close as it seemed."
Just as his anecdote came to its short conclusion, Diana showed up with a glum look about her. Hangover, of course. It was a good thing Jean was still yet to announce his prohibition on alcoholic substances for the day, but he wanted more individuals to turn up downstairs before he made such an announcement clear. She asked the usual questions, of course, about how everyone was and their sleep, the usual, before looking at Jean in secrecy about what he mentioned to her. Diana was going to tell someone, of course. Why wouldn't she? Knowing Diana, you couldn't tell her to hide the secrets of where the cookie-jar was, and without torture she'd still tell the enemy regardless. As cheerful, lovable and funny as she was, Diana was far from tactful. It was probably one of the main reasons Jean hadn't shared any major secrets with her so far, out of fear that it'd essentially be signing a contract saying 'Diana is allowed to blurt this out, sorry'. Jean let out a thin and nervous sigh, letting his expressive actions speak for themselves rather than him actually raising his voice as his concern. Either way, he couldn't object to her. Jean did tell her to tell people if she wanted to, though more mistakenly than he anticipated. Perhaps this was for the better, or the worst, that she did go around and tell his romantic interests what he felt about them. God, that'd be embarrassing.
But it was in the next minute that the conversation and mood took a nose dive. Luke was nearby, clearly minding his own business, when Diana provoked him. It could've been a playful tease, but she seemingly did share a similar distrust and disliking to Luke, though Jean wasn't in a similar position to just insult him. It surprised the Corporal that Diana was prepared to provoke him so easily, as if something had already happened between the two he did not yet know of. And following that, before Jean could give a telling-off to Diana, Luke thrashed out with some harsh words. He ironically told Diana to shoot him, going into some graphic detail about how he wanted her to load a round and point it to his head, which suddenly set off a fuse within Jean's own head. He'd...it was almost as if he knew what Jean tried, but clearly he didn't. Luke wasn't that sort of person to blurt it out if he knew it, would he? No...only Isaac knew, at least explicitly. Britta didn't know the details yet but she likely knew that Jean's own mental state was still at a major threat. No, Luke didn't know, but there was some irony to what he yelled at. There was a thin silence in the room before Jean stood up, pulling his chair to face Luke directly from across his table. Jean took a seat, and for some reason, didn't feel any sense of aggression or anxiety towards him. A sort of confidence, but not a surge of it, had swarmed inside his muscles and mind, making him talk and think rationally, as if this had been planned out for ages. A sense of authority, one could say.
"Luke...I'm going to be honest here, you're one of the few people I know who somehow acts more of an arsehole sober than when they're drunk." Once again, Jean's uncharacteristic swearing was accompanied by another uncharacteristic collected tone, all calm and without too much bite to it. It was only the start of his small telling off, at least for now, which would find its way to Diana too for her provocation. "Now I don't want to make this a big deal, but I understand that Diana pissed you off, which she shouldn't have done in the first place, right Diana? Being an arsehole does not make any of you better than the other. But, Luke, what grinds my gears is what you think. Diana mentioning family might not have been the best move, and it wasn't by any means. She didn't know, clearly, but at the same time you didn't think about what you had to say. You're in a room full of soldiers, some older than us and suffering for longer. Don't talk about putting bullets to people's heads so explicitly. Diana didn't know what you may have gone through. And at the same time, you don't know what others have. Keep your mouth in check, and your head in the right place, and we can all just get along nice and well. I don't want to fall out, not like the last time you showed bigotry, but I want to remind both you and Diana not to make things harder...for everyone. Otherwise who knows, maybe you might regret what you painstakingly ask for."
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