And at last, Lucas tucked his pen back into his left breast pocket. Was it nearly out of ink? Probably. He didn't care, he could have just swiped another from whichever greenhorn came to replace the recently deceased. They'd become his form of currency. Most of them were easy to scavenge by when his eyes were turned to the correct places. Five months before a local officer stationed nearby was fragged by his men, all of whom were charged heavily with the bullets of those who caught them. Lucas didn't know the guys, instead he grabbed the pens from the aftermath of it all. A pen without ink gave him anxiety. Anxiety was something that instilled discomfort within his head. Discomfort usually led to a lack of focus. And when his focus found itself in shadows he'd find himself never being found again, sprawled across the bedding of nearby fauna. Thinking about losing his last pen took his mind away from a place of reconciliation. Lucas promptly closed his journal and tied it back up, placing it back into his flock of personal belongings. Now out of sight, Lucas returned to the real world, the gritty and distinctively more ghastly one rather than the one written on paper.

Somewhere nearby, the same radio played the same popular song requested by the same platoon in a different part of Vietnam. Johnathon Rogers' distinctive voice would occasionally break in between songs, throwing in a quip or two to help alleviate the men and women in green, easing in that reminder of what the American homeland sounded like. Four hours felt like four weeks and four days felt like four years. Home was a distant memory. Home was not really a concern anymore. To some of the soldiers scattered around Firebase Ember, the war had no threat to the United States, except for the men and women sent in to deal with it. Lucas didn't remember where he stood, or what he believed in, and took each day slowly, with a rifle in one hand and a flask in the other. Life wasn't always that miserable for him. Sometimes the other infantrymen would get him to play a round of baseball with them, or have a large sing-along to whatever terrible songs they all found utterly hilarious. When Weber was around they'd occasionally chant old Germanic war songs, in jest of course. Weber always found their awful German dialects to be hilarious. Lucas sometimes did too.

There were many things that Sergeant Whittaker had been expecting that day. More artillery shells or another attack were some of the lesser important ones. On his mind mostly was the apparent arrival of a reporter, a war correspondent of sorts, being attached to his very squad, or what was left of it. Those under Whittaker's command were loosely spread in every direction. Corporal Mucker had always been by his side since the last eight months had passed. Lucas would've been grateful if he didn't find him insufferable to work with. Some other names he barely remembered filled up some other boots: Hilton, Granger, Murdoc, Bishop and Bolton. Five men, two women. It was barely a squad anymore. If the war correspondent were to be attached to the Sergeant's accompaniment, then Lucas only hoped that they knew how to handle a gun if they really wanted to take some good photos. To him, a good photo was one taken by a photographer who hadn't been killed yet.

Occasionally, the woman in Ao-Dai came back to his mind. Hatred followed. Or was it genuine fear? He didn't know. He didn't want to see another woman like that. An old part of himself would've hoped she'd made it back to her home alive. Lucas instead swore for her death to at least come quickly before she split another skull open. Why she attacked the Firebase was beyond his understanding. No one ever truly understood the enemy, that was what made them so demonic.

"Ey, Lighter, you got one?" And just as the spawns of hell answered his stray thoughts, he turned up to add to the day's shortcomings. "Murdoc told me to suck it when I asked for her one."

Slipping his helmet by his side, Lucas too one clear look at his interceptor. Corporal Alfred 'Mucker' Muceroni. Fogged up on each lens, Lucas could barely see the man's eyes beneath his spectacles. Mundane and barely changed, his uniform still somehow retained an original pristine sharpness to it. Creases were few in numbers and its muddy complexion had been washed out through hard work and a general waste of time, at least in Lucas' eyes. The GI held out a hand, gesturing for his Sergeant to hand him his own lighter.

"Would you be surprised if I told you to suck it, too?" Deadpan in his glare, Lucas waited for his Corporal's response. He seemed to withhold his confidence, stepping back as if shocked to hear his crude and impolite Sergeant crack out yet another insignificant answer to the insignificant problem. Before Mucker could say much, Lucas smirked to himself before looking into his pockets for a few seconds. "Where is your own lighter, Corporal?"

"I don't know, Sergeant." Even in his formal responses, Lucas couldn't help but be slightly annoyed by his presence. He quickly challenged his lack of knowledge with a raised eyebrow, quietly slotting his gaze into Mucker's dishonest pupils. In his silent interrogation, the nearby shudder of Huey blades soared across the valley and the arrival of a few truckloads of soldiers revamped the awkward inactivity of the Firebase. "A-Alright, I lost it whilst I was doing the last cleaning round..."

How this man had survived eight months in Vietnam was beyond his understanding. What also baffled Lucas was how the man was a Corporal. The aforementioned Murdoc would've made a better candidate. Rough, hardheaded and easy to lend a hand if lives were at risk, she was the sort of squadmate that Lucas enjoyed having around. She wasn't exactly a conversationalist though, much like the rest of their merry band. In a minor way, he hoped the arrival of the replacements, nearby grunts, approaching war correspondent or anyone yet to be acquainted was going to strike up a conversation he desperately wanted. Besides, the day would end quicker for him. Worst case scenario, he always had the brothels of Saigon if the day truly was that dull.

"You're really wasting your time, Corporal. Not even the officers care if you look like a rat's ass. Stop losing stuff." Lucas tossed Mucker his own personal lighter, letting him quickly light his own cigarette before him. Once the Corporal had settled his qualm, he handed it back and stood there, puffing away desperately for that ashy release. "Anyway, can you go tell Murdoc we aren't going on patrol today? I've gotten us moved to tomorrow. Need another day's rest."

"Really?" Mucker perched up, straightening his back and letting a smile slip through his miserable tone. "Glad to hear that. Each day we spent out of the trees the better. Can't stand the shi-"

"If you're going to break into another monologue you can go stand over there where I can't hear or see you, thanks." Mucker looked to where he pointed, sighting the nearest officer's tent layered with hundreds of radio communcations equipment. The Corporal frowned yet he still submitted to the request of departure. Quietly, he nodded and walked off, muttering a small ounce of gratitude towards Lucas sharing his lighter. Personally, Lucas didn't think he was a bad guy, but rather just one who wasn't suited for the war. There was the greenhorns, the protesters, the draft dodgers, the volunteers, the veterans and the hardasses who didn't see anything as morally questionable. Mucker was stuck in the mindset of a GI bound with pride, at least in the sense that if he copied the mannerisms of some Napoleonic NCO maybe he'd be seen as efficient. The guy could barely shoot, at least when he was needed to. Lucas was sure that Mucker hadn't even killed a single Charlie since their reassignment to one another, whilst Lucas had counted each of the nineteen he'd put down in combat. Specifically the ones that were in combat. Sometimes he refused to count the ones from executions or fleeing from arrest. Sometimes he liked to pretend they were never really there in the first place, as if to keep a state of mind worth holding on to.

With the song on the radio coming to a close, Lucas switched his sights on to his surroundings, hearing the remaining Huey's land. Far above the sky, two Hardy aircraft flutter on ahead towards some other engagement, far off beyond Firebase Ember's reach. If he wasn't going to have any rest or relaxation in the base itself, he was prepared to move to Saigon for the remainder of the sunlit hours. Until that decision came forward, he simply sat down and took yet another sip from his flask, helmet by his side and eyes drifting across the landscapes he seemingly never got tired of, despite the fear of them. Another thump of an artillery gun shook the floor. Lucas smiled to himself, muttering in a croaked response.

---

Linde had always had a heavy distrust of men, specifically because she wants to protect her lover’s sensibilities from them. There’s only one person she hated talking to the most of all the men in the Firebase, which was the Corporal. Even though, she’s a greenhorn on the battlefield she just rolls her eyes every time Mucker comes over and tries to talk to her. At least, she doesn’t smoke really at all because of her childhood life with her mother. However, she is off-duty in the Firebase Ember today because of the fact she needed to unwind from everything basically.

She did listen to the conversation that was between the Corporal and Sergeant. All she did was roll her eyes, mostly at the incompetence of the Corporal losing more things. However, she did hear the Sergeant say Seventeen, which confused her a bit. She wanted to ask the dumb question of specifically what the Mech Technician on the firebase probably asked the Sergeant. It was always an odd thing to hear the Sergeant say something about numbers or what not. However, when she first got on the base the firing of friendly artillery towards the jungles did freak her out a bit. ”What the heck is going on, isn't this a normal thing that people count random ass things? Ugh, men always constantly being a bit weird but he's my superior...” Linde thought to herself, with slight hint of confusion on her face.

The only thing going for her is her uniform is well upkeep and her hair is much more in regulation than other women on this base. Because she always like her hair shorter than most people, even though she wouldn’t ever want to change her lover’s pigtails. Therefore, she decided to walk to the entryway and ask an equally dumb question. ”Oh how are you two doing? Sergeant and nice to meet you, what's your name? Miss.” Linde asked, with a slight smile on her face and behind towards the African American woman, which is in the entryway. She was always enjoying to chat with people as long as they don’t show certain advancements to her lover Theresa. She’s a bit too much as a protective hen to her lover, as much as her lover is to her.

The Promise Ring shimmers on her right hand, ring finger. It’s a bit of a prideful thing she enjoys since her Jessica, gave her this as a graduation gift. This was the most wonderful thing to be handed to by her mother Jessica even though it would be much better if Angela wasn’t such a bitch. It is the only reason why she has a smile but her smile is much bigger around Theresa though. ”Theresa, can you please come here?” Linde asked, with a smile on her face. She knew that Theresa would hear her since they are in the same part of the firebase off-duty right now.

---

Theresa was moving her promise ring on her finger, because her finger slightly itched. However, she did hear her lover's voice, which she decided to look up. Linde was by the tent were probably was, the Sergeant was at as well as a Mech Technician. They were both greenhorns since it took them until this year to be deployed in Vietnam. She didn't really mind much of the Corporal, even with his slight annoyance of constantly losing stuff or that's what she felt like from the conversation she witnessed. ”How many times do I have to ask to be much more respectable to commanding officers? But this artillery is ruining my mood though.” Theresa said, with a caring tone in her voice and slightly teasing her at the end.

”T-Theresa, I'm sorry but you know I can't help it. Please stop teasing me though its a bit embarrassing to say the least.” Linde responded to what specifically Theresa said. She was constantly taught that military Etiquette requires introductions and what not. It's a bit hard to that sometimes because of certain reasons of not really trusting men as far as she could throw them in the case of Basic Training. However, she decided to stop for a second and cough a bit. "I'm a bit sorry for the interruption, Sergeant Sir. But my name is Linde Kayla Heartily-Walton a new recruit to this Firebase." Linde said, with trying to hide the fact, slightly bit an annoyed only because she had no real idea why the Sergeant was saying Seventeen.

She got up from her sitting position on a chair or stool and walked towards Linde, with a definite beautiful and elegant step in her walking. It was obvious she was more used to wearing dresses that fitted her personality of looking beautiful. However, she was wearing the standard uniform that everyone wears since that’s just how the Walton Family does everything when they are in the Military. It doesn’t take her long to reach besides Linde but she does stop messing around with the promise ring on her left hand, ring finger. She basically brightens Linde up a much more since she’s always been dealing with Angela’s cruelty. Basic Training was so much more harder on her than Linde because of the fact her family are successful at being apart of the US Marines. She starts messing with one of her pigtails by rolling her hair by her finger. ”Ah, its nice to see you Sergeant, sir. Oh hello, who are you Miss Technician Lady? Can't believe you actually done it Linde, but my name is Theresa Linde Walton, here as a new recruit to this firebase, Sergeant Sir.” Theresa said, with a smile and was directing her question towards the Mech Technician specifically. She was always happy to tease Linde every once in a while but this time she was definitely proud of Linde for doing what seems like a bit of a hard sale. Warming up to men, is always a bit of a hard thing to do for her since many things in her life were hard specifically Linde's biological mother.

Theresa always enjoyed chatting with her fellow Americans, even though its a bit harder to do in a war environment because of what she heard from her grandfather and father. However, she hasn't really tasted the horrors of war unlike her grandfather and father has all those years ago. It'll probably take something really major to break Linde and her in these jungles since they chose this to fight in this war. The Vietnam War is going to be a thing, since she heard of the enemy constantly attacks the base from all sides. It's probably why Linde and her were assigned to the Firebase to help out the Sergeant out. This is the primary reason why her submachine gun is on her shoulder right now because its better to be prepared than not. Even though, this will be the first time she'll be forced to take a life in, which still scares her.

@Nyxira@LetMeDoStuff

Fucking Murphy's Law...

You go out into the wilderness on a patrol to find, kill/capture Vietnamese getting too close to Firebase, find nothing, start your way back, and every fricking Vietcong in the world seems to rain down on you. They hadn't seen 'em, of course, because they were lying in wait, and damn good at it too. The going theory in Elliot's head right now was that they'd waited for the team to go out - all serious-like - hellbent and loaded for bear, and then when they got little or no contact, THAT was when they opened up. So, Ego was flapping his lip, and of course he wasn't paying attention as some of their assailants rose out of a gully and opened up, shutting him up. There was a shout of "Down!" from multple voices, including himself, and he'd chucked a grenade as he did so. Last one, bit of a Hail Mary, but he made it. There was a sound of panic and a BOOM, but not silence because Friend Charlie was in a double act, his back-up singers stationed up the hill and working on a crossfire. Elliot got moving, he saw Dwight moving, Mel was...he didn't know, and he thought he heard the Sarge groan.

No idea where Grace was in all this.

She didn't think like other people, or if she did...it was somewhere between survival instinct, his training her, and the Vietnamese themselves. She'd been here for a long time, all on her own. Elliot didn't think Grace had been hit, but...he worried about her, sometimes. He was making his way for the gully. It'd been obscured by brush, and now it was good cover that he was crawling to. The Corporal smiled when he heard the single shot of a rifle, followed by a brief silence. They found one wounded out of three that'd been too close to the grenade to get out in time. He was gashed up. Elliot silently finished him. No time to be shitting around. They'd been had, and good, but this wasn't over yet. The next burst of gunfire was meant for Grace, trying to take her out, and then there was another few bursts that weren't aimed around their positions at all. Elliot looked over at Private Dwight - younger man, nervous in a healthy cautious way - with his eyebrow raised, but then they heard it.

"Filthy Bastards. That'll teach 'em. Alright! All clear!"

It was english, and it wasn't just parroting it. The speaker wasn't garbled or sounding like he was reading from a book.

"All clear!"

But the accent was a bit heavy, the tone about as disingenuous as how nice it would be to have been rescued by a convenient patrol. Elliot didn't buy it, and he shook his head at Dwight, just in case he did. Grace wouldn't pop out unless he called her in. Sometimes, she didn't even take Sergeant Rupert's orders without a nod from him. Pissed him off... Elliot waited.

"Come out, Joe."

That was the end of the speaker's patience, it seemed. It was getting to be a fairly-regular thing. Happened in the last war too. Open up on the enemy, then go quiet or pretend you've been driven off. Then, when they least expect it, speak up in their language, getting them to come out. When they poke their heads up, shoot 'em off. Being perfectly honest, he'd asked Grace to do it herself, since she spoke Vietnamese and rather well. Enemy soldiers were trained to speak a few phrases in english to draw out the unwary, but they were also instructed not to wait too long for an answer. The men who'd come down a little from the hill between the trees still got one, though it wasn't the ones they expected. They were braced for gunfire, and they got it, but it was just a couple pistol shots from their left, which they opened up on. Grace was, in all likelyhood, behind a tree when this happened. Elliot and Dwight rose up and opened fire while they fired, plugging them where they stood. Dwight let out a breath.

"I'll be thanking my lucky stars for having her around a while."

"Yeah, fine, good. Go check up on the others, will ya?"

"Right, gotcha."

He scanned around, M60 ready to sound off again. No sign of movement, not even Grace. He didn't expect to hear much. She was almost always quiet. After a moment of Dwight mumbling, he asked.

"Well, how's our jabbering idiot?"

"Not much left of his face."

"Mel?"

There was a pause, then "Dead. Fuck...", which caused Elliot to shake his head. Mel - Private Melissa Jones - was their radio operator, main map reader, and a decent soldier. She'd also been standing closest to Ego and got herself riddled with bullets. Dwight liked her and they'd shacked up a few times. He moved on from her motionless form to the Sarge, whom he reported was still breathing.

"He won't be seeing action in a hurry, but if we get him back-"

"No one's around now, Elliot."

Enter Private Hart, AKA Grace. She got around quietly in a crawl, practiced shallow breathing daily, kept her ears open and her mouth shut 90% of the time, even in safer places. The one disadvantage she had, which made her extra certain to exercise as much stealth as possible, was that she was Albino and therefore had curiously white hair. Nevertheless, as she slid into the gully with him now, it wasn't obvious she was coming apart from subtle sounds of motion and her head poking out of the brush.

"Alright, thank you, Grace. Dwight, get Mel's radio, report in and tell Ember base where to clean up...all this. Then, you and me are gonna haul the Sergeant back and get 'im fixed up."

"...I dunno. I think we should take-"

"The Sarge, who's alive. I know you liked 'er, man, but it's done. Let's get our man back to base. I'll buy you a drink."

"Can I have a cigarette?"

"I'll think about it."

The two men would haul the Sergeant up to his feet, hauling him back to Firebase Ember. Grace would be on watch, since she wasn't a strong case for lifting heavy weights like their current boss-man. The war will probably be over for him for a while, if he lived. IF that was the case, the three remaining here would probably get reassigned. Well, that was for later. First thing's first, right?

This fucking country, how the hell did people manage to live here? The schizophrenic weather that jumped wildly from blazing heat and bone dry to merely hot and wet enough to drown standing up, the snakes and bugs that swam through the mud and up your ass, the lack of infrastructure in the pits that most of these rice farm fucks called home, it was like going back into the medieval age. You couldn't step off the path to go piss without stumbling into a dead water buffalo or failed rice paddy, not to mention the tiger traps and landmines left as little go-fuck-yourselves by the VC. No wonder Má had gotten out as soon as she was able to. And now Miracle was here, the stupid white-washed daughter who had decided to pick up a gun to win her father's love. Who knew if it worked, Dad hadn't been especially responsive when she told him the news. He had just grunted and sank into his armchair with his usual five PM beer and back pain, looking down his nose at the tiny little mongrel who refused to tame her choppy hair. It was a signature look of his, he had given it to her when the police dropped her off stumbling and throwing up on herself and when she announced proudly that she had won her boxing match by TKO.

He was sizing her up, trying to figure out if she had the balls to keep going. "Really? Good luck then." He hadn't said she'd need it but it was definitely implied. And it turned out he was right. Boot camp had been relatively simple, getting screamed at and doing intense physical labor wasn't new. But six months into her deployment and she was seriously regretting her decisions. Every patrol that came under fire frayed her sanity a little more, every time some gook with a Jap made mortar opened up on the firebase she wanted to screamed. And each trip down into the suffocating heat of the pitch black rat tunnels made her feel like she was walking directly into Hell. The thought wouldn't leave her even when she was out on R&R, sins real and imagined haunting her as she bet on cockfights or trolled bars for drinks and drugs. Má's favorite priest had warned her that her substance problems would send here there sooner or later, Dad had told her much the same in his off-handed manner when she tried to hint at why she hadn't bought any boys home. Hell was her final destination, the end of the road, and Vietnam was the loading bay.

At least she wasn't out in the shit at the moment. No she was lying on a steel frame cot trying to will her busted fan back into operation with mental power alone and debating whether or not she should bother getting up. The answer was yes, simply because walking would be something different to do. Miracle saw little point in putting on more than her plain white tank top and issue pants, far too hot to wear her full fatigues unless ordered. A single hand scarred and bruised from many a thrown punch, dug into her pocket and produced a cigarette and lighter. Smoking was the probably the least destructive of her vices, Morgan puffing away as she wandered aimlessly.

Within a few minutes she had managed to find herself some company, the sergeant that had been here six months longer, a splotchy skinned Negro grease monkey and two soldiers who she didn't recognize. "Hey, how're you all doing?" Some people were capable of coming up with cool quips and sly entrances on the fly, commanding the room with the power of their presence. Morgan would never be one of them and that was fine with her. The heavy stomping of her boots and her rough tone was as good a greeting as any. "He's counting the artillery going off. That's seventeen." That was her assumption at least, made recklessly without any thought. Just like most of her decisions. The two FNGs set her on edge, Morgan idly tapping her fingers against the pistol holstered at her side. The way they talked and acted suggesting complete novice-hood to the service. Theresa and Linde were either going to learn quick or get themselves killed.

"You know if we're scheduled to go out again soon boss?" Christ she hoped not, if she had to crawl around another fucking tunnel she'd scream.

"Seventeen what?" The sudden interception of his silent thought came from another voice, a low and sombre one. It was a change from the irritant familiarity that came from Mucker's personal conversations. Changes were sometimes welcomed by Lucas...sometimes. He lifted his head from his dazed cognition. As if the heavens had dumped the polar opposite figure from the pale-faced, tight-necked Corporal that had been following him around. She, on the other hand, was definitely something else. Greased with the dirt and grime plucked straight from engines she'd familiarised herself with. Mechanics weren't too common around the Firebase, but indeed they were a crucial asset to maintain operational support from walkers, tanks and vehicles alike. She'd seemed to have caught onto his private ramblings, quizzing his counting at least. He spent so much time wandering around in his thoughts that he eventually heard a second intercepting voice split through the two of them. Another woman, this time.

He didn't know the second any more than the first, but she was again far more different than the previous accomplice he'd been tortured through conversation. In turn, they spoke to the mechanic with a short but almost intrusive ponder. Bingo. She'd guessed it. Artillery counting: the soldier's alternative to counting sheep. Those European cattle-like animals weren't exactly something Vietnam could hold dearly. Too dangerous, Lucas thought to himself, and far to wild. The actual wildlife of Vietnam was still mostly a mystery. Reptiles and birds, equally outnumbered by the countless seas and mounds of insects, roamed free in the depths of the jungles and mountains alike. The woman had almost stalked into the scene without Lucas properly realising it. They conversed very lightly, more so on a one-sided note, whilst Lucas simply rubbed his eyes to alleviate the stress of waiting. Always, the waiting was the worst part.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Counting artillery." His unenthusiastic voice dribbled into the conversation lightly, beginning with a seedy implant of short responses. Knowing full well it wasn't satisfactory to the conversation, and considering he'd been almost wishing for a new talking partner, he continued to respond to her original question beforehand. "How am I? Fuck if I know. My hand hurts a little bit from earlier, caught it on the hammer of my 1911 during that morning raid. Ain't exactly bad, but every little thing adds up, I guess. What about you Private-"

He tried to search for some sort of collar or name-tag written upon her, but with his blurred vision he couldn't exactly focus on any sort of dog tag. Instead, he left the question there, rubbing his eyes once more to wake him up a little more. Turning back to the mechanic, he simply nodded, pointing at the second infiltrator's position as if to say she already answered her question. Counting was something simple, something almost sane in the dire depths of Vietnam. They weren't too far from Saigon, maybe fifty minutes or so by car if the roads weren't bogged down. To call Embers the depths was almost a lie, no matter how far into the hellish landscape it was. Nothing ever really felt distant from the war itself. Old wars had frontlines, ones that established truly where the fighting would happen. In Vietnam, it was anywhere at anytime. In cities, any wandering citizen could be just another Charlie waiting to gut them. Chances were sometimes too painful to take. It wasn't uncommon for a cautious soldier to intercept the nearest stalking Vietnamese cityfolk with a bullet.

Clearing his mind from its tangent yet again, he returned to the world of the present. Momentary bliss flickered his mind as he felt the sudden urge to talk more, but his mouth simply remained shut, unable to really add anything of value. He was a Sergeant, not a conversationalist. Eventually, the tank-top woman spoke up a second time, asking him a more direct question he could properly answer.

"Out? Oh well, I mean me and my group aren't heading out until tomorrow. Day's off today. Pulled those strings to grant us that extra time. They'll prolly send someone from Charlie Company instead. You're coming with us, I guess?" He unscrewed the slippery lid to his flask and swung another swig down his coarse throat. The bitterness of its tasteless punch really hit the target, scratching the same itch he'd felt earlier that morning. It was a nice way to properly relax, especially considering the Australian group previously stationed there had taken all of their marijuana back with them. Outsourcing was going to be a requirement for that full stress-relief urge many of the Firebase's staff yearned for. "I mean if you're with us for a bit I gotta warn you for a bit. You'll be stepping into some shoes a few of my squadmates would rather not be filled. Standard stuff, you know. Guess they're still new to the fact people drop like flies if they aren't careful."

Left rambling, he only then realised the presence of two greenhorns entering the scene. Unlike the other two, this seemingly comedic couple ran through a formal, yet disjointed, procedure of introductions. Linde and Therese, coming in straight away with an embarrassing set of innocence dragged into his presence. Innocence. He'd forgotten what it was like for someone to simply be that naive. The situation was going to get worse for them, so he simply built himself up on the inside, planning what to say with a short pause after they'd finished. By all means, Lucas wasn't trying to deter them from being around him, only reminding them of their place here in Vietnam.

"Oh geez, here we go..." Lucas sighed, standing up and holding his helmet beneath his arms again. He tucked his flask deep into his pockets and stretched his back, arms and legs for a second. "First things first, stop calling me Sir, I'm no officer. It's either Sergeant, Sarge or whatever substitute that works, just not Sir, please." Going back to their introductions, he listened to their names in his head quietly. Specifically, the latter caught him off guard, realising they shared the same surname. At first he passed it off as siblinghood, but when the thought crossed his mind yet again he realised that the differentiation was just...well it wasn't as clear as he imagined. He pondered the alternatives before quietly muttering beneath his breath. "Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to put a couple on their first assignment?" Having cleared his rant in solitude, he looked back up to the pair and sighed, nodding in uncertainty. He didn't really know how to react to the two that had approached him. "You two are serious wet wipes, no offence. Either way, I guess this is your welcome party then. Don't really know what you want."

For reasons he wasn't sure of, he felt particularly spiteful in his delivery, sharpening his words and instilling a piercing energy to his words. Perhaps it was the death of Weber that was still aching his very cold and desolate heart. After all, friends were still friends, even if their deaths were to be expected coming towards the second year of his Vietnam service. He didn't want to go home to face the happy-go-lucky society that Therese and Linde presented, not after what he'd become accustomed to. Instead, he simply sat back and nodded back at the mechanic.

"So who're you? Guess it's always nice to meet the behind-the-scene gals and guys every now and then." Not too long after she started her response, a tap came on his shoulder. Behind him stood a weary private, nodding and mouthing silently that someone was here to see him, or vice versa. He couldn't tell. Lucas took a second to remind himself of the correspondent, the one who was going to be attached to his squad like a leech, photographing the true nature of the war for whatever philanthropic reasoning she likely had. Deep down, he really hoped that she was able to pull a trigger when needed. He'd seen her work, at least the bare minimum required to understand her tale. He forgot her name in the heat of his tiredness, but did recognise her notoriety throughout her junior journalistic years. Now she was stepping into some bigger boots, getting her feet a little dirty. Maybe she expected a puddle of mud, unaware she was about to sink into ten feet of shit. Lucas excused himself from the group and went into an empty mess-tent, one where his normal patrol gear was waiting, rifle and webbing included. Perhaps she wanted some early shots, perhaps not. Either way, she'd meet him there, and it was only a matter of waiting. Besides his own equipment was a handout of defensive clothing for her to don, amusing but probably as worthless as the helmet upon his head.

---

Linde couldn’t really believe anyone in their right mind would really actually count Artillery as if it was sheep. It sounded a bit out of this world, however, her thought was interrupted by an unfamiliar voice. However, the voice sounded friendly enough in terms of the woman’s question. ”I’m doing pretty good, its nice to meet you, by the way.” Linde said, with a smile on her face. She was trying to be as friendly as possible towards the woman who’ve asked how they were doing. However, whenever she said what still made no sense in her head it irked her. Why would anyone ever think of counting artillery is beyond her. She would rather count the strands of hair on her lover’s hair than anything. ”Ugh, that just seems like a crazy men thing, I suppose.” Linde thought to herself, with an eyebrow raised to the whole situation of counting artillery like sheep.

She felt like her skin crawled slightly only because it felt like she was being yelled at by Lucas. Only because Theresa and her called him sir, she absolutely didn’t actually know the procedures of properly addressing Sergeants. She kinda thought Sergeants were officers, its how the Sergeants in the Bootcamp wanted to be addressed by new recruits. ”Uhh, sorry about that Sarge. But the boot camp Sergeant wanted to be called that...” Linde said, with a slight embarrassment to her voice. It was definitely something to get used to compared to boot camp, which will be a definite change. Hopefully for the better, however, life doesn’t give you challenges to be easy.

Linde noticed the Sarge mutter something under his breath and couldn’t help but think it was bad or otherwise. She couldn’t help but roll her eyes since its usually men mutter something under their breath anyway. No matter what it seems like it was clockwork or something but it would probably not be a good idea to ask what he said. However, when he called Theresa and her Wet Wipes it kinda ticked her off a bit, but its true. They are wet behind the ears in terms of they have no idea what actual combat truly is. ”It is true, Theresa and I are a bit wet under the ears in terms of our lack of combat, Sarge. No offense taken and thank you for the welcome Sarge.” Linde said, with a slight bit of annoyance in her voice at how Lucas said welcome. She just rolled her eyes a bit and sighed because of certain factors alike first impressions are always important. She’ll try to deal with this blow to her esteem a bit. ”This is so freaking annoying. It feels like the Sarge was being a bit spiteful towards Theresa and me for some odd reason. I really hate this why did it have to be a man leading us?” Linde thought to herself, with a very deflated look on her face like the only one to cheer her up would be Theresa. She didn’t really notice where the Mech Technician went since she was too focused on Theresa, Sarge, and the other woman who entered to talk to the Sarge. Only because of the fact, she did seem friendly enough but could just because she wasn’t truly showing how she is really. She just got there with her lover Theresa to Firebase Ember.

---

Theresa was in a different mind about what she thought about counting artillery. It made her a giggle a little bit because its just a bit funny to say the least. However, her entire thought and imagination was interrupted by unfamiliar voice, which was attached to a woman. It made her smile happily and wave at the new arrival. ”I’m doing pretty good, how are you doing? Linde why are you not being much of a conversationalist?” Theresa asked the woman and Linde at the same time. However, she had a small smirk on her face with her question to Linde.

Linde, however, looked directly at Theresa and sighed at the tease about not being a conversationalist to people she doesn’t know. She couldn’t really help but not really like when her lover Theresa is in a teasing mood, its endearing and all but at the same time a bit annoying. ”...Theresa… can you stop please? I’m sorry for not being much of one but I like to get to know people that are of our gender than you know...” Linde said, with obviousness in her voice. It was slightly a bit nervous too since she doesn’t really like admitting this much in front of complete and utter strangers but Theresa is one of those lovers that like to embarrass her quite too much. She tried to calm herself down from the whole situation.

Theresa giggles slightly from Linde’s reaction and it was definitely endearing to say the least. However, she was taken aback from when the Sarge got up and basically felt like he got in their faces without being. It made her completely realize that Sarge Lucas wasn’t a Drill Officer from Boot Camp. This in question made her outright go a bit like shit. ”Shit… sorry Sarge… Guess Boot Camp is still drilled into us… even though it has only been a year since that… day at Boot Camp to go here.” Theresa said, with a kind smile. It was pretty much a definite lack of judgment from Linde and her to specifically realize this is a war zone and not Boot Camp still.

She noticed the Sarge mutter something under his breath as well, in sync with Linde. However, she had a slight hint on what it would probably have been since they are a couple on a battlefield. It was a guess that’s what he muttered but she didn’t really want to ask about what he muttered. However, Linde’s probably thought about it was different as usual with her. ”No offense taken, Sarge. With what you said is definitely true and I am very welcomed to this party of being in the jungle.” Theresa said with a smile on her face. Its a bit of an oddity but she couldn’t really help but look at the Sarge and the new woman for a bit.

She than put her most of her attention on her lover Linde since she could tell she was heavily deflated and in a slightly bad mood. However, when she turned around the Mech Technician was gone alike she had to get out of there for some odd reason. She didn’t really know why or for what reason to be honest. However, she decided to look at the new woman in question and decided to ask something. ”May I ask an important question, what is your name?” Theresa asked, curiously and nicely to specifically the one wearing the tank-top, which is the woman whom asked how they were doing. It was only for curiosity sake since its always nice to meet new people, the Walton’s are always wanting to know you for the sake of being friendly. However, in the back of her mind there was a singular thought. ”Hmm… I do wonder where the Mech Technician went, since I do want to know her name. Hopefully Linde and my introductions wasn’t a bad first impression with her… But I have a feeling our first impression with the Sarge was bad…” Theresa thought to herself, with a similar feelings as her lover Linde. However, the only good news was the fact that they arrived before a combat operation happened.

@LetMeDoStuff@Smike

So, he thought about it. The answer was yes.

Well actually, it was "Not while I'm hucking a full-grown man across a frigging jungle.", but it amounted to the same thing. Ole' Rupert wasn't turning into a walking blood stain as they moved him along and Grace wasn't spotting any foes along the way, so there was hope in hell of him coming out of it alive. This is why I wanted to be attached to a damn mech unit., thought Elliot. It wasn't outside of his experience. Alright, he and everyone else at home had trained in a more basic unit than what they had out here, but he still had it down! He could drive, he could shoot the gun, he could range-find! Hell, just being support infantry for one would be enough, just so they had it there to give Charlie something to think about! He could never catch a break... Meanwhile, Dwight almost tripped 'cause he was watching Grace's butt instead of what he was doing.

"Hey, watch it!"

"I am."

"Wrong 'it'."

"Yeah, yeah... Maybe it's the sudden lack of sweetheart, but I can't help but notice stuff, ya know?"

"And you know what happened last time someone tried something with her, right?"

"Ego nearly lost his thumbs. I'm just saying you got something good here. Speaking as one who took full advantage of mine, you oughta'- What?"

Elliot was just glaring at him. After a few seconds, Dwight held up his free hand as a sign of defeat.

"Okay, whatever. Not my business."

People noticed him and Grace, sometimes, but they didn't know anything more than what they saw. Lot of 'em didn't really care. Maybe two in every twenty wondered if there was something going on there. Those that knew Elliot to a degree knew that the first thing you'd think was going on really wasn't. He hadn't had her in the sack and he hadn't tried. Apart from wondering if Grace even understood the first thing about relationship and all that goes on in one, the Corporal was pretty sure that Grace just didn't relax. Like...ever. If she went to sleep and, in a few minutes, somebody disturbed or went near her, she would immediately put a knife to the person's throat. If you did the same thing, but waited an hour, three hours, ten hours, it was largely the same result. Working with Grace wasn't like taking in a human being. It was like adopting a feral cat...or a tiger.

In any case, the four of them returned to base, calling for medics to come and take the Sergeant off to get the holes in his body patched and the insides of his person looked after. Here was where Elliot busted out his cigarettes and lit up for the both of them. Dwight took a drag as he puffed a bit, scanning the horizon for whatever presented itself. The younger soldier pulled out Mel and Ego's dogtags, saying that they should report in about what happened. Elliot was shedding his heavy gear a bit when he said that, talking while the ciggy was gripped in his mouth.

"I don't wanna report in right now, and neither do you. I want a fucking drink."

"What, now?"

"Yeah, now. Someone'll be drilling us, later. Better now, before they get started."

"Couldn't we at least get Grace to do it?"

Despite himself, Elliot laughed at this before turning to Grace, asking "Hey, Grace. D'you wanna report to a captain or major or something 'bout what happened?". Naturally, she shook her head, slowly. She wasn't very vocal, but that was a definite 'Hell no' from here. The Corporal told Dwight it could wait for as long as it took to get the image of the day's event out of their heads. The only problem was, as they headed for the makeshift bar, there was a problem. Dwight muttered "Uh oh." about the same time Elliot thought it. The tent sounded loudy rowdy and there was a woman standing outside, sipping her drink. That was a definite sign of crowding. Over-crowding, even. Grace kept her distance from the way in and the two men were getting that 'I dunno...' expression now.

"You go ahead, man. Just bring me out something."

"Wait, what? Gimme a break. If I go in, I'm in.

"Hey, I gave you a cigarette. You get me a drink."

"I guess that's fair. Whadya what?"

"I dunno. Something out of a bottle."

"Alright. Grace? Want anything?"

The Albino tilted her head, thinking for a second, then went "Soda?" with a shrug. That was enough for him to go on and Dwight soon disappeared. Elliot glanced over at the woman standng next to the entrance. Her attire said soldier, like everyone else here, but the way she carried herself suggested otherwise. She was about as not-soldier in body language as Grace was, and then there was the grease. A mechanic, maybe? There were tanks and at least one or two of the mechs on-site at Firebase. Might be from one of 'em. Elliot let off a smirk, then.

"He gonna have any trouble in there?"

She had managed to guess correctly. Really it had been simple. There was a grand total of jack shit to do here besides get high and figure out new ways to waste time. Counting the cannons going off was one she had used before. "Those things will take your whole finger off if you don't watch it and run out of ammo just when some fuck gets right up in your face with a bayonet. Switched mine out as soon as possible." Morgan gave the pistol holstered at her side a pat, unwilling to go unarmed even behind lines. "My Hi-Powered is just as deadly and carries more bullets, plus it won't snap my wrist in half when I fire it. And I have a Python for I really need to fuck shit up." Just soldier's talk, a simultaneous dick measuring contest and a way to kill time. "It's Morgan. Miracle Morgan, cuz it's a miracle I'm still alive." She let out a harsh bark of a life, like a rabid dog warning others not to get to close. "And you're Sergeant Whittaker. I'm a leatherneck but they have me just filling in for whoever needs it right now."

That's all she was, the one who did jobs too dirty for others and took the place of people who got themselves shot or blown to pieces or hit with a Section 8. back at boot camp she had gotten saddled with handling the M60 and now there was always some dick was always calling for her to translate what some ditch-digger was babbling about or telling her to get on her belly and crawl into snake infested holes to blow up ammo caches. "That's what they're telling me. If you need a dink to get shot to shit, detonated or spoken to I'm the one who does the shooting, detonating and talking." The angry little bitch rolled her eyes at the warning and took another long drag on her cigarette. "What else is new? If they have a problem we'll work it out." By which she meant she'd feed them their fucking teeth.

And the FNGs opened their mouths. There was a misconception among civilians that Marines were all just rough and tumble ready to roll killing machines. Clearly that wasn't the case, some of them were apparently brain dead bimbos who just narrowly avoided blowing their stupid heads off when they held their first rifle. "Don't call him sir, he actually works for a living."Her rebuke was quick but Lucas was quicker, telling them off immediately. Better he than her honestly. Her reprimand likely would have come as a slap to the face. The Negro mechanic was still there opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water. Couldn't keep up with the conversation huh? Oh well, it wasn't Miracle's job to sit there and wait for her like a kindergarten teacher.

The Sargent's under breath comment hadn't gone unnoticed, Miracle ruminating on it as the fresh meat apologized and he fucked off somewhere. She was adept at hiding her uglier feelings, keeping her face stony as she dealt with her stomach tying itself in knots. "Can you two knock it off with the faggot shit?." There was something especially heart-rending about that kind of language. Her casual racism was easier to explain away, the people here weren’t her mother. Mà was a hard worker who tried her best to make a better life unlike the rest of these coolies. But seeing these two was different. Looking at them meant confronting something she wanted desperately but would never be able to find. "I mean for Crissakes go find a broom closet or something."

Piece by piece and day by day she was growing to hate herself more and more.

Cynthia preened as she stepped out of the armored truck that delivered her to Firebase Ember. She’d been travelling for the better part of two days straight, and she was beginning to come apart at the seams. She took time to look herself over with a small pocket mirror, following a small grooming checklist before continuing with her day. Hair combed? Check. Make up? Needs a touch up. Baggy eyes? Prevalent. With a groan she touched up her lipstick, at the very least she could make herself a little presentable for the sergeant she’s set to meet. In one continuous move she’d roll up the sleeves of her white blouse and don, big spectacle glasses to cover the bags under her eyes. She wasn’t exactly wearing her Sunday best, but she figured for now. Her white blouse and blue jeans would do.

After checking herself over she’d make a b-line for the first soldier she could see. The man tried to look anywhere else, likely trying to avoid an interaction with the woman. “Excuse me. Excuse me!” Cynthia called to the marine as she jogged over to him, the camera worn around her neck bouncing up and down as she approached the man. The marine turned to face Cynthia, a scowl seemingly a permanent fixture on his face as he addressed her.

“Yes ma’am? How can I help you?” The exasperated marine half grunted at Cynthia, not bothering with a smile for pleasantries.

“Hi, yeah.. I’m the journalist from the Times. I’m told I need to meet with a..-” Cynthia paused to look at her notepad, the name of the sergeant Jeremy, her editor, told her to meet escaped her.

“Sergeant Whittaker! That’s right.. Can you be a dear and point me in his direction soldier?” Cynthia asked as sweetly as she could manage despite the rudeness, a bright smile on her face.

The man didn’t respond verbally, he’d just grunt and point toward a large looking tent further into the base. Cynthia smiled at the man and nodded before striding for the tent at a brisk pace. The quicker introductions were through, the quicker she could rest and then get to work. Jeremy expected the first of her interviews on his desk on friday, and she just so happened to have arrived on base an hour and a half later than she had anticipated. She had no time to lose.

She strode into the tent confidently, the sergeant surely wouldn’t be doing anything untoward here, it wasn’t their barracks after all. She’d smile brightly at the man inside, striding in and towards him with a hand extended for shaking.

“Hello! You must be Sergeant Whittaker, truly it's a pleasure. I’m Cynthia Ward with the New York Times. I was told you were expecting me. Sorry for the wait.”

@LetMeDoStuff

The wait was long and quiet. Even with the passing of Hueys and F-162s higher up in the humid stained air only a silent mumble could be heard not too far away. To avoid dwelling upon the blackened thoughts he'd been accustomed towards, he tapped the table with his fingers, creating an additional ambience to surround and shroud himself in. Managing his thoughts was important. Every second that he let his mind trail into that unforgiving darkness was another second closer to insanity. Lucas couldn't even tell if he was already insane. He'd become acquainted with the war, the death and the violence that had been brought into his daily life. Death was around every conceivable corner with disease and murder holding closely onto his collar. In the frantic heat of his dissonance, he swore beneath his breath and felt his hands scavenge around the gear he'd laid out for their new arrival. A flak vest and helmet, something that was intended to keep the correspondent safe. That was the idea of it. It was more of an environmental protection, maybe something to dampen any nearby explosives as well. Chances of her surviving any sort of direct impact was minimal at best. Hell, he hadn't even thought about who this journalist truly was outside of her name and her career. After a while he began to fiddle with a firearm laid upon the table. It was there purely for the photographic aesthetic she may have wanted upon arrival, all neatly kept and assembled as if it were ready to kill. All that was missing was the addition of a human hand to pull its trigger.

Eventually, his lonesome voyage into procrastination was finally put to rest when she walked into the tent. Ms. Ward, striding in with a full load of confidence empowering her entrance. A sudden flash of brightness entered the loosely held-together room he resided within. It was indeed a luminosity he hadn't seen in well over a year, maybe even two. A pure, crystal whiteness from her blouse, topped with the alienated addition of makeup, tore his expectations in two. In the seas of green foliage, orange sunsets, fiery yellow napalm strikes and brown flickers of mud, blended with a final topping of crimson blood, her attire was more than a refreshing contribution to the day, maybe even the year. None of the people in Saigon came as close, though he didn't expect them to. It was as if Mother America herself had just came to remind the world what nation they came from, and how incredibly pointless it was for them to fight a war in a nation so separated by culture, ideology and style. Well, at the end of it all the spread of Communism was their final goal, wasn't it?

Lucas found himself returning the smile to hers, albeit a little less perfectly and with a rugged complexion struck with fatigue. She was seemingly tired too. Those clear marks of irregular travel must have taken a large toll on the usual sleeping hours, something she'd have to get used to. Originally, Lucas pictured a military fatigued, weapons trained fighter with a camera, but the idea of someone straight out of the newspapers was almost too hilarious to be true. It wasn't that he minded her sudden presence. After all, he needed to freshness of newly untainted faces to differentiate the war from the world he'd left behind.

"I'll tell you what, this was not the kind of correspondent I was expecting, not that I'm against it." Through his faint grin he extended his own hand, at least the cleanest one, and returned the friendly gesture with a small ounce of respect for her confidence. In reality though, he knew a cocky reporter with an attitude like that was only days away from getting her head placed on some shit-stained punji spike. After their soft, tender shake was concluded, he looked back at his hand, suddenly feeling the rush of a freshly dressed citizen arriving within his presence. He hadn't seen a single American not dressed for war or war-based business. This...this was something new, to say the least. "Nice to meet you, Cynthia. Would say I'm glad that you're here to follow and document my Squad's journey, as well as whatever else you find, but you know...you're going to hate it here."

He laughed to himself, before turning around and pointing towards the tables and chairs left barely arranged. Atop of the wooden counter was her new gear, coated in a layer of bagging to keep it clean. There wasn't much point in doing so considering how easy it was for clothing to stain red, but perhaps it was simply made for the kind gesture towards their sweetheart guest. Either way, Lucas still had a bad feeling about her arrival.

"So...New York Times, huh? I probably have read some of your work a few times then, not that I can name any of it." He made small conversation with her, at least hoping to prove to himself that he was as capable of conversing with the Western world as he remembered. If things were okay between them then maybe, just maybe, he could go home someday and face society again. Until he could confirm that, he retained his killer instinct and peered outside of the tent several times, knowing that keeping his eyes off of his surroundings at any moment would bring nothing but fear and confusion if something did break out. He hoped she didn't notice his anxious spying of the exterior world, not that it wasn't subtle at all. "That's some lovely clothing though, but I hope it's not from your best wardrobe. The shit here sticks to you. Either way, here's some of your gear. Feel free to take any pictures you want, I guess. And...well I guess I'll be here for the next while. I can introduce you to the rest of the Squad if you really want, or what's left of them. I won't keep you too long though, you'll need your beauty sleep ey? Especially with what we're doing tomorrow."

Pretty reasonable statement. Elliot nodded at the woman's answer with a knowing grin and inclined his head to the albino who remained mostly silent.

"Grace, what's your assessment of Private Dwight?"

"He's as awkward as awkward can be."

"So, he's toast, then?"

"Yes, Elliot."

He nodded again with an "Alright.", looking into the tent-that-was-a-dive to check his progress. Yup, he was really struggling to get by in there. Maybe a step-and-a-half from tripping himself up. Thank god he'd asked for something bottled. Anything else, he'd spill on someone's lap with that place going down the way it is. Elliot then arrived at a decision.

"Okay, Grace. It's up to you now. You know what to do."

"Right."

Basic step of any mess tent or drinking place out here was simple: The food and drink, along with the one serving it all was in the back, away from the entrance so they could see the people coming and going. That meant that the supplies were against the back 'wall', which was just canvas or tarp, not anything solid. Grace was heading around back to sneak her way in to get a beer and a soda ahead of Dwight. While she did this, Elliot was whipping out his codebook to mess with - it actually SAID 'Secret Codebook' - but quickly looked up when he heard a female voice asking someone around where to find-

"Ah, Whitaker's in town. So much for downtime. Just as well. I could use a chance to get a little revenge for today. Bastards..."
Whoever that was asking for Whitaker, he had to scoff just a bit. The Times? What the hell does the news want out here, where life is in the shitter? He then looked over at the as-of-yet unidentified woman nearby and asked...

"Hey, you know any Walker pilots needin' some time outside? The 'Congs are gettin' smart around the foot-patrols and I need someone to go stomping around ta' show 'em what's what."

---

There was one thing that Linde somewhat liked about the angry small woman, it was how she spoke. In terms of everything, she spoke a similar language of how she had to deal with being raised. However, she somewhat rolled her eyes at the measuring contest in terms of the pistols she wields. Only one of the pistols actually got her attention, which was the Python. ”In terms of everything, this woman knows her weapons.” Linde thought to herself, with a slight like not really wanting to involve herself in that dick measuring contest.

Linde heard the small woman’s name, which was interesting to say the least. However, it was a good name in terms of Linde’s thoughts on the matter but she did notice Morgan’s actions in not getting close to people. It was mostly in how she spoke mostly an angry at everything in the world type of woman. ”It is nice to meet you Morgan.” Linde said, with a smile towards Morgan. In terms of how she spoke was mostly in a friendly matter towards Morgan. Even though it would probably take Morgan a long time to be friendly with her or will probably never change in being an angry bitch.

In the case of Morgan’s job description, she basically blew shit up, translated and shot the enemy. It was very straight to the point to say the least much better than the usual demeanor of everything. She was grateful for that at least, however, what came next was a bit annoying and she sighed. ”That is a bit obvious, which we did apologize for Morgan.” Linde said with a slight snide retort back to Morgan. She wasn’t trying to be annoying with her comment but its was a bit slap in the face with what Morgan had said.

Linde couldn’t help but be shocked with what Morgan had asked of them to stop doing. They are in love and they can do whatever the hell they want, which she kinda annoyingly rolled her eyes. It’s mostly because she is highly protective over Theresa and doesn’t like anyone insulting them. ”That’s pretty petty of you to use that form of sexism, bitch. Theresa and I are in love and that’s not going to stop, Miss Angry Small Fry.” Linde said, with a bit of an angry look on her face. However, what Morgan had said next made her go like, uhh really on her facial expression. ”It’s not like we are kissing right in public or anything.” Linde replied to Morgan other comment.

---

Theresa was in a similar boat as her lover in terms of liking how the small woman spoke about certain things. Mostly of the weapons she was talking about and including the enemy’s quick movements in the jungles. It was a bit terrifying to be honest to listen to her, but then it came to the pistol. She had a smile on her face since she loved weapons, which her father and grandfather collected in the two great wars. ”Those pistols are definitely great, even though Linde and me only have M1917s Pistols.” Theresa said, with a smile on her face. She enjoyed doing that type of measuring contests since it gave her great joy.

In terms of hearing the name of the small woman gave her a smile on her face. She loved meeting new people, which is why she always showed people with as much kindness as they deserved. She did hear what her lover said, which is pretty much in agreement from her. ”In terms of meeting you, its a pleasure, Morgan.” Theresa said, with an honest tone within her voice. It was a wonderful name nonetheless even though her reaction to giving out her name was a bit of a stay back type thing.

Theresa was specifically listening about her job description in these jungles and it felt like a hard job. It was straight to the point and easy to follow to say the least. However, something that irked her, which felt like a slap in the face by Morgan in terms of what she exactly said. But she heard what Linde said and sighed a bit much. ”Linde, you don’t have to be so crass in your speech to Morgan. Please think about what you say to others.” Theresa said, basically trying to not start a cat fight since they just got here. It was one thing to be coy with someone and another to start a fight among comrades.

She was going to make Linde to hear her thoughts in how to properly talk to people later. However, what happened a bit later made her gasp in shock in hearing specifically what Morgan said. It felt like it cored out her heart for a second, but stopped since she heard Linde say it instead of her. ”That’s a bit mean to say to us. We are just trying to be as caring to each other as possible, isn’t that right Linde? However, you throw that curve ball at us just because you don’t want to see a cute relationship between two women?” Theresa asked, the last question was directed directly at Morgan. However, what Morgan said next kinda made her blush slightly since they actually did that once. ”Umm… its like what my lover said…” Theresa said, with her cheeks slightly red.

Linde sighed that she didn’t answer her lover earlier but she looks at Theresa specifically and noticed her lover blushing. She slightly giggled at this but it wouldn’t be a fun thing to deal with a lecture from Theresa. ”Uuh, I am sorry I didn’t respond to you earlier. I’m sorry for what I’ve said to you Morgan… Language is important, is what my lover would say anyways…” Linde said, with trying to be as honest as possible mostly for the petty nickname she created up for her. It was hard to keep up with Theresa’s teasing, lectures, which are very tiring to keep a straight face and not blushing constantly.

@Smike

"Sure, likewise."

Morgan passed smoke through her nose as he sized up the pair, unsure just what to make of them. The blond was touchy it seemed, overprotective and looking for trouble. "Do you have a problem with my name, Linde?" The half-Viet put the same emphasis on the word, locking eyes with the riflewoman. "You made a mistake and I corrected you. Don't take it so fucking personally, you're going to have to listen to people who know what they're doing if you wanna make it two months. Jungle'll chew you up and shit out bleached bones if you don't."

She picked lazily at a speck of dirt under her nail, still not taking her eyes off the bitch. She wanted to mad-dog her? Fine. "You'd better not pull that shit out there either. The President himself could be standing right in front of you during patrol and you don't call him sir, you don't salute, you don't even look at him differently. VC snipers spot that and they'll know just who to shoot. We only do that to officers we don't like.

Oh joy, she was dealing with a fucking comedian. "That's not sexism you fantastically stupid cunt, I'm calling you a faggot. Get it right." Was she fucking dense? How much glue had she sniffed on the trip over? "Hell I was really being polite. Did you not hear what I was saying about the gooks? You only have a problem with me now cuz you're a thin-skinned little dyke that doesn't like when someone calls you mean names.

It was a skill to keep her voice so even while spewing such awful vitriol, Morgan's stomach twisting itself into knots as she went on.

"Oh you're real original. I'm still tall enough to feed you your teeth you inbred backwater white trash. I'll bet your mother is your sister and you were only a virgin as long as you were faster than your brother!

Theresa at least knew they were outmatched, trying her best to defuse the situation before her girlfriend ended up decommissioned. Morgan was fine taking the out, scratching under her chin and nodding carelessly at the apology. "'S no problem, don't worry about it. Just busting each other's balls a little.

She was going to die of a fucking heart attack long before Charlie got to her. Combat was simple, all you had to do was stick close to the ground and pray that the people in the trees were bad shots and try and avoid walking into landmines. The traps laid in every conversation were much more insidious and Miracle had to make sure she triggered them to keep her cover. Miracle Morgan, the hard ass and brusque bitch who took shit from nobody and doled it out to everybody, was the shield for Bian Nzuyen, the scared little girl who didn't understand herself and didn't really want to.

@Landaus Five-One

A smile? Well, sadly, Elliot wasn't watching that carefully, teacup or no. He was too busy, at that moment, trying to think up new confusing phrases or other signs to write up as fake codes to trip the Viets. God, if he could manage to get something like that in the hands of someone important, they'd be screwing up for maybe a month. That'd be funny as hell. But hey, down to the topic at hand. He was striking up conversation with the dark-haired woman got information's sake and because he was waiting to see if a beer was coming his way. Elliot was going to be disappointed on the first part. Not so much because of the woman in question, but rather due to her circumstances in being new here. One plus, though: She was apparently a Walker tech, which was certainly a start. She needed to report in properly and get a bit of orientation. Well, at least he could help with the latter portion of her problems. Elliot lowered his 'codebook' now.

"I mean, yeah. I could head on over to the Walkers and bother 'em over that. I had priorities, of course."

Namely, beer.

"Anyway, it's not so much who does what, but where does what. People are comin' in and out of here all the time. New people come in, get their assignments, gone for ours or days, come back and move on, or maybe they get their asses shot. The who part changes around alot, so it's more about the right tent. Ya got your mess tent, your dispatch for intel and supplies, your officer tent for reporting in and gettin' shipped out on assignment..."

He was gesturing to different spots on the base that he'd been around long enough to memorize and, possibly, find his way to with his eyes closed. After a bit of this, his pointing hand extended a bit more towards the tech lady.

"Name's Elliot, by the way. Could probably use a tech. Could probably use a whole team, to be honest. But hey, I'm gunning for big guns this time out, so yeah, I'll see if I can get you settled and saddled with a decent Walker."

Should point out that, while this conversation was going on, Grace had already made progress in lifting a rear spot in the mess tent to have a look around, get her bearings before taking anything. The basics were still all in the same place. It was all just a matter of making some quick and quiet grabs while the mess officer was busy.

Elliot didn't believe himself better than everyone else, so he wasn't really the sort to talk to you and forget you ever existed unless you were a real pain. Right now, it was more the damn VCs who were the problem for him, and a Walker worker/technician just what he was looking for. Besides, he was use to talking to people who kept to themselves like he did everyone else. How else could he talk to Grace? Of course, chances are, Ferra was actually giving her real name, whereas Grace might've been - and probably was - a fake name she was using for personal reasons.

Handshake done, Ferra began to explain that she'd be perfectly fine with getting some deployment with him and whoever he's with...provided she could get the go-ahead of the man in charge. Ah, yeah... It leads right back to Sergeant Whittaker. Strictly speakin', he and the Sarge weren't on the same wavelength, sometimes, but he understood that Elliot was a decent soldier doin' the job he'd been training for. That he was a bit cavelier when the moment wasn't so important didn't always jive with 'im, but he'd listen to him about this. Getting attached to a Walker crew and blasting out some of the hidey-holes was a damn-good plan at a time like this. The 'Congs were getting too bold, so they needed to get their asses blown off for a while to set them straight.

"I'll get his attention. Guy's busy, but he won't want me idle when I wanna go out. That means making a team, and that means getting a say in what I need."

After all, he made an excellent case for Grace, who was now returning with bottles in hand, the beer offered to him without a word. He gave an appreciative nod, putting away his codebook to crack open that sucker and take a drink. After that, he indicated his head to the Albino who was quietly drinking her soda.

"This is Grace. She joined up with us a while back. Been here years. Speaks the language perfectly. Doesn't really talk much, though."

She just nodded at this, affirming her usual silence. Elliot would handle things once this little break of his was done. He didn't exactly wanna go bothering the Sarge with beer in hand. He wouldn't like that very much. Not fucking at all, to be honest.