---

---

That voice.

By the Valkyrur, that voice.

His voice.

Alexandre’s mind plunged into civil war. The sight of… The sight clashed against the walls in his mind, built and fortified by half a year of self-loathing – and made purchase. Memories long kept at bay now tore at their structure with the reinforcement of immediacy. Alex Schäfer had been his deputy and friend, his companion-at-arms. He had valued his sense of honour and calm conscientiousness. Alexandre had found someone in Alex whom he could trust, laugh with, lead beside. A half-dozen days flashed before him, all from Bihain, all so joyous and righteous and –

He was dead.

I led him to it.

Alexandre shut his eyes, exerting his force again on those walls. No. No. This is past. Those are memories and I am now. And, indeed, as his eyes opened again, Alexandre found details. The two were alone, the trench empty where it had been full of soldiers. When he spoke, though he could not make out the words, Alex did so in the same considered tones he had always done when issuing orders. The man was still in the uniform he had worn on that day, now beaten and stained from the horrific fate that he had condemned him to.

Alexandre knew ritual better than he knew theology. Even so, somewhere in the recesses of his mind-fortress, some part of him could still recognise what this was.

The stories of confronting a draugr… They are wrestled to a point of submission, then… Decapitated. The strength of the Valkyrur, followed by the mastery. Steadily, deliberately, the Gallian reached up to his neck, clasping the spiral amulet there, and then raised his other hand.

Every step seemed a league. He fought to keep his gaze locked forwards and his expression held at determination, sallying against the onrushing waves that only grew stronger themselves as he approached, staring at that face, those dark hair and eyes that shouldn’t be familiar but were, oh so much… Feeling his hand trembling, he clutched his spiral and launched himself across the remaining distance.

Though his push was feeble, Alexandre still felt a warmth through the fabric against Alex’s shoulder. Fully shaking now, his hand drew upwards to lie against the other’s face and neck. The heat, the life there pooled against his touch, and yet it was shivers that coursed down Alexandre’s arm, torn away, the man stumbling back until he reached the trench’s edge, the memories surging now to surmount the walls he had so carefully built. He stared downwards; Tue-Tyran felt as the weight of a star at his hip, blinding in its reminder of everything that should have been.

The last holdouts in his mind pushed him to look back, then stand to face the man before him. Struggling for anything coherent, Alexandre brought forth the only expression of his mental state that he was barely able, intoned with a mote of strength behind it: “How.”

@Smike

There was something strange about dealing with Mehetabel, a weird mix of déjà vu and amusement. Watching the woman explode had been like staring into a funhouse mirror, the reflection distorted yet still holding some recognizable qualities. The chip on her shoulder, the aggression bottled up inside, the disdain for authority and the belief that war should be fought in as brutal a fashion as possible, all traits Victoria possessed but was perhaps a bit better at controlling. For example, Vicky wouldn't be flipping her shit just because someone whistled at her.

"Yep. Figured you could use something after that display."

Her smile was a vicious one, baring teeth and making the scar across her face distort.

"You really went in on the sarge, not that anything you said was wrong. Too many jumped-up NCOs hoping to win a commendation around here."

Alex and Jean were pretty much the same damn person as far as she could tell, the same hand-wringing little bastard unwilling to actually get a little dirty while fighting a war. Just like the corporal had frozen up and gotten Thomas killed so would the sergeant make some sacrifices in his quest for honorable glory or some other rubbish. And that made Mehetabel the same as Victoria, a violent punk who knew the way forward was through a sea of mud and blood.

The Oceanic threw up her hands in mock appeasement, grinding a bit of dirt beneath her boot heel as she glanced back towards the pub. "Nah, I'm not really trying to go back in their until he comes looking. All that moralizing makes me sick." It hardly seemed like the sort of environment fit for a battlefield looter. "You seemed like better company."

'Better' was a strong word. More fitting company certainly but there was very little actually 'better' about either of the pair.


Alex was a Darscen, a Vinland Darscen specifically and damn proud of it too, but his people's practices and philosophies had never really been a source of light for him. He had an interest in all the tales and customs obviously and wore the pattern with pride yet never turned to his heritage when he needed guidance. Yet now he was wishing he had turned out to be more of a spiritual man because having some sort of higher power guiding him would be very useful. The other Alex had somehow survived getting cut down by Imperial machine guns and walked back into his life years later with a lower rank and a new name, seemingly just as surprised to see Schäfer as the other way around.

Valkur sensed his master's discomfort and moved forward to expect the stranger only to find his path blocked. Alex grabbed the dog by the face and pushed backwards, a maneuver that would cost anyone else their hand but with him was simply taken as an order to be followed without question. The hulking brute of a mastiff settled his bulk on the floor with all the weighty lumbering of an ox, leaving the two men alone to figure out what the hell was going on. Still reeling in shock Alex reached out for any sort of mental handrailing, scrambling to keep himself upright. Imperial. He'd switch to Imperial, force his brain to refocus.

"You went down, so did most of the others. I rallied the survivors and we rode away in retreat. The cavalry charge died that day so they reassigned me and here I am."

Easy. Simple, clean-cut and devoid of any mystery. Alex's circumstances could not have been more straightforward. Alexndre's on the other hand, his was a mystery. Now he would have to explain his side of the story.

"Quite the demotion you've been hit with. Care to explain how a son of Roland-Florence ends up as a mere soldier of the line?"

His tone was perhaps overly flippant but it was what Alex needed in the moment. Put up a barricade until everything made sense, keep some distance so that he could grapple with the fact that the boy-lieutenant he had mourned was a living, breathing grown man.

@Nimbus @AdmrlStalfos19

From the corner of his eye, he made clear the intrigue of one Corporal Romijnsen. The split-second takeaway that he'd forged in his mind was that he had zero clue to her question. She stared at him with some sort of intrigue, yet he felt as it were simply the routine check of a far more experienced and developed soldier among incredibly unscathed soldiers by comparison. Sure, the 15th Atlantic Rifles had been dragged through shitter-after-shitter: an important, concentrated geographic assault and a pivotal offensive that sliced the scalpel blade over the frontline, casting the shadow of the Federation across the liberation of Essen. She, by word of mouth, had been here for as much as the start. She too was a Valois-born soldier, but if she were a warrior, a professional conscript at worst, then he was nothing more than a young man playing dress-up in her company. At first, it discomforted him to have someone of equal rank when they'd taking hit after hit for so long, as he assumed she had, but at the same time it gave him a sense of comfort. She at least knew what she was doing, and the pitiful misfortune of getting killed that far into the war made it clear to him she'd likely had no intention of dropping dead so early. If only he could've said the same for himself a month prior.

Her question was perplexing. It was so very simple, yet that little, poetic, nonsensical tangent that came about in his head did so at a lion's pace. To ask such a question that was so simple had always unpacked a thousand questions: was one okay, or was one in dire need for comfort yet again? Had the loss of his obsessive source for warmth in a time of winter's blight done so much damage that he had rejected all prospect of granting himself security, all in the name of appeasing his subordinates as a soldier over a coward? He thought of his answer with a deep and overly pondered weight, before he slipped out his answer.

"Uh, yeah - sure, I'm good." He lied as he breathed. Worse still, he could almost imagine she knew he was lying. But that did little to dissuade him from talking. He simply recited the confidence as everyone had asked him to, because that was all he had been good for in the last two or three months - reciting the wills of others. Though, he did walk closer to her as he lowered his voice, lest those like Lucia would hear. "They say it's routine but - god, I don't know. Something might be on the way, and I heard a Sergeant - uh - a Sergeant McDuffery mention there was something coming."

Her remark, though done in the most passive of ways, of his paleness did sharpen his self-disappointment. He looked around and fiddled with his rifle for a bit, before doing one last check of the barbed wire pack of one of his engaged associates. It was so bitterly in-jest that he couldn't help but smile, genuinely for once, if but a little curl of his cracked, dried-up lips. The frost on his scruffy appearance danced as he, for once before a horrific event, gave a prod and pride in wit.

"I'm pale? Compared to all the well-groomed imbéciles we all are?" He hadn't quite noticed how much of a difference such a remark had made to his mood. Were he to pay attention to his health in proper, he would've thanked her then and there with the most a man could give in gratitude. "You could say: Je me sens comme le gel. I feel like frost."

---

---

This was nice. It was a brief respite in the world of war, but it was one that even she needed. Between the desperate and the demanding it was here that she felt she could be a simple woman of the holy order once more. The gardens she tended to… she wondered how they were. Even with Brother Mithal’s assurance she thought often of her children. How beautiful had they grown? How tall were they now? There was yet still the creeping thought that had began to etch its way into her mind. ‘Would she live to see them?’ If she could physically wave such a thought away she would. It would certainly save her the trouble of praying for strength. But she was thankful that she was unburdened with such thoughts on a regular basis. Still, it had only caused her to come to the conclusion that she had failed somewhere. It wasn’t beyond her and it certainly was expected but where she looked she could find no clear answer. Even as she gave her cheerful nods to Jean and a healthy smile she couldn’t really figure out what it was that bothered her so greatly in this moment.

Lubna provided a new character for her testament, one that she didn’t recall meeting with very often, though with how many faces she saw from day to day it didn’t surprise her that there were just those that escaped her. She spoke. She spoke and…

It was like a drop landed in the middle of a puddle before her. The ripples echoing words that were never meant to cause such stir. But why? She had simply been polite but with every passing moment she felt the ripples around her begin to grow. Tired eyes blinked and looked to heaven for an answer. But as she looked to God for a sign her eyes came crashing down to the bolt of the holy that showed her the way. Those ripples grew to waves as eyes widened in revelation. In the time she had taken to seek council the poorest among them had abandoned her.

Pain seemed to swell within as a dark reality touched upon her spirit. For all those she had touched and all those she had given comfort to there yet remained one among her flock that she had left to wander to the den of wolves. Even for all the rumors and all the words she had found every convenience that left her to abandon the very notion of a successful shepherd. Throat tightened tightly, the demon on her shoulder grasping tightly.

“Look upon your failure and soak in the sight. It is the one you left to the wild. It is the one you failed. Now- instead of turning to your God- he turns to the world. Cold and alone and never to return. For all your victories, you will never save him.”

“Leave me, demon!”

Her throat finally loosened, the gulp passing without more than the faintest of noises. But even with this release there was something that she could not shake. Hand came to heart as she reflected over Jean once more.

Where had she been all this time? She had made time for so many people and thrice over. She enjoyed the comfort of those who loved her presence and the joy that others had brought her without her say so. Even Franz, who had found the love of his life, still received her blessings and more than he had ever asked for, but in her distractions and her regularities she let slip someone who she thought was so essential to the team. As she took a step forward to approach him she felt a twinge in her chest, a sharp pain that left her to ponder a simple question.
“Has my heart cracked?”

Resolve took her once more. No more running away from this. It was time to start making things right. Feet moved her to stand beside Jean. Radiance emanated from the curls of her lips as eyes closed some to show sincerity to the both of them.

“May I offer a blessing for the beloved?” She began, pressing fingers together with gentle hands.

@LetMeDoStuff@TGM

There was something ever-so soothing about the native tongue of another. Her words had often flowed like the rivers once untouched by war, but it held that mental preparation seen in those that had tasted its wrath before. She was an experienced soldier, no doubt. And as a Corporal of four years, he could have only imagined the true grit she'd pieced together to speak of such blissful indulgences. Behave normally, she uttered, as if he could have sensed any sort of normalcy. At the least, it brought upon the great question to his focus. What was his normalcy? Had it been the innocence of a child long passed, but to which way could he act similarly when all that came before the war, all that was normal to begin with, had been reduced to ashes and dust. Olivia was dead. His parents were dead. His comfort-sense of normality, of neutrality, in which he'd sit there and know that at least he had those basic needs in life covered, was a mere memory. And it wasn't that he didn't want to do what she suggested, for it was the most sound advice she could've given to a stranger she most likely didn't care for. Well, not in a way he understood at least. The intimacy of war had bludgeoned his comprehension of all that surrounded him, and so he - at first - nodded to her advice.

Truth be told, he was uncertain when she stepped closer to him. The words she said were true to all optimists, or those who still had the heart to soldier on - as soldiers did - but that soldiery was all but deafening for his faint hearing. It encompassed that entire cloak that he warmed himself up in. She then, still close to him, drew a comb and made best for her appearance. Before, she had stood out to him amongst the soldiers simply for the fact that she at least had an eye for natural prettiness, but the moment she tidied herself up, it sent an odd signal to himself. He saw great confidence in that she, a soldier of great experience, had smoothened her hair moments before she was to crawl back in the mud. Maybe that's what a good leader was. He looked in on himself, internally, and remembered just how disgustingly horrendous he must've looked, with all but the daily shower he was allowed in Trebin and the scraggly facial hair that the officers had given up on suppressing. And in his group, he looked around and felt ever the more different, even as a Darcsen, for that sheer factor of being the inconsequential leader.

Her final words were bittersweet to him. She said something so dearly and kind that he hadn't believed it came from actual understanding or reason, but as a method to refocus his mind back on the prize - if not to grant him that tiniest bit of confidence. And it had worked, somewhat, and he loved hearing such a thing. It was undeserved, at least in his mind, but he still relished in the beauty of its curled tongues, the soft velvety feel to each pronunciation and the brilliant temper that came with it. But it had to be artificial, he reminded himself in bitter gloom, for that was how the world treated the faint and forgotten.

"Well - I...I definitely see you've mastered it. Initially, he staggered on his words just a tiny bit, but it was enough to notice he needed a correction. He hadn't moved away from her, nor the smile she made or the glisten of her eyes, but he had drifted back into the mindset of that soldier people wanted him to be, not the man he was supposed to become. "If I become normal now, I won't have any normalcy to strive toward. I - well, I thank you, though, for what you've said."

But as he finished, he was granted the sight of the angel of the frontline - the well-recognised queen of ice and hearts; Senja had joined his side for the first time in what felt like forever. She brought a hand forward, and clasped it with another, as she unleashed a heavenly smile unparalleled by all of her God's other servants. Jean hadn't seen much of her since her arrival back at Amone. She had been an addition to all of the regiment, and the company, but especially to those like Franz. She was the beacon that sat on the peninsular, guiding ships and rafts to the ports they were destined to sail to. She had a beam fixated on her brow that had played with the hearts of a thousand sailors, all for the sake of rest and recovery. She was the rehabilitation to the soldiers of the night, those that were the rats in the mud and those that were the knights on the prairie pastures. In essence, she was their heaven.

So much time had been dedicated to Franz, the lost soul who needed love, that Jean's central position in the platoon had once again faded, for the betterment of the company, of course. His centre-line figure simply drew attention from the superiors onto soldiers who were already burdened by the weights of survival and sanity. And when Franz had secured the love of his life, so he had thought (and heard in the inn) then Senja had worked wonders. Not to fix the poor fellow, but to place him where he could do it himself. And truly Jean had been jealous of Franz. The man was one of the few he could have truly related toward. He was down, brow-beaten and had a hard time accepting the flowers that many planted for him, but he was that little extra step closer to heaven, whilst Jean still fought in the fields of hell. But that was just him pitying himself, and that was entirely the problem many had suspected of the man in the first place.

Those like Senja were to be yearned for. They were the craving of any cursed man, of any silenced soul that had felt nothing but the grimacing reality of war press against their throats. And he couldn't have been happier, right then and there, to have seen her approach him, and to have held out her hands in prayer. What she said was hard to believe.

"The...beloved?" His mind stumbled at who she could've meant. Those who dearly love are family, and Jean needn't have reminded himself of where they were. It could have also been the lovers that held on to his hearts, of which none he knew existed. And finally, it could've been the dear friends, but in truth he couldn't have felt more distant to this fellow soldiers as he had ever been before. She meant it, it seemed, and that placed him in a somewhat uncomfortable spot of confusion. "I'd...love a blessing, please. If you can settle it in before we-...well, do our job, as we should."

Many had bigged up Senja to be something of an angel. And it could've been cruel to have placed her on a pedestal. A thousand more hearts would ache if she were hurt, let alone murdered in cold blood by the Imperials she resisted through duty. A million eyes would weep for her desecration. And Jean, in that moment, felt that maybe she could've been all of that. What saddened him the most was the fact that after all these times, and in all those days of yearning something so pitiful as affection, he received it moments before he went out to die again, instead of where the soldiers scattered to enjoy their brief freedoms.

The fact is, even in the darkest of times, someone had to step up and be the emotional support in a situation where none could otherwise be found. Neither Isaac nor Britta really wanted to be here like this, walking through ditches in miserable cold while dancing between potential atrocities of war. Between the one who never wanted to be here (Isaac) and the one who believed but mainly to protect her family and way of life (Britta), there would always be a general distaste for how things were. Though their opinions differed on matters, they both agreed that it had to be done, and so they found themselves fighting this war so that the person to their left or right - so to speak - lived through it. Britta was the more optimistic of the two, but her commitment was one of necessity, not enthusiasm, and that was why she had always sympathized with Isaac, whose recruitment was less than ideal. Isaac was, of course, often in the state of 'Well, they say I have to be here, so I may as well do some good.', and so that was what they were here for: To save lives on the battlefield by keeping the enemy at bay.

Alas, they could not break through that impenetrable wall that was Jean. Not really. Jean was always depressed, and as well he had the right and reason to be, but it only worried them that one day, they were going to find him doing something terrible, like walking into No Man's Land with his arms outstretched, as though to say 'Here I am. I am ready.'. There...had been some bad times, obviously, in the war...and some had crumbled under the pressure. Isaac often said that, in spite of it all, the pressure on Jean would turn him into a diamond, and Britta hoped so too. So far, no trouble yet. Nothing that they were aware of, anyway. What their Darcsen friend had said, though, was surprisingly candid, although he played it off as a joke. Jean's perception of the two aside, Isaac seemed surprised and Britta put a hand to her face to stifle a brief and possibly unwanted snort.

"Well, we don't quite do that far..."

"I mean, I could ask around, but to set something up, I mean...there's Rikes."

"Definitely not what I meant."

"I know, but he's a good boy."

The dogs of the military - the real ones, not the people - were all task hounds, trained to do their job and how to foil an enemy, but really what they did without the training was act as walking morale boosts. That's why it was important to share. There was this creature that, while aware of everything going on around it, only marginally understood the horror in comparison to others. It only knew that you were unhappy, and if it was disposed to, what it wanted was to make you feel better. Still, Jean didn't have anything he wanted or, in fact, confess any sort of particular need to get through the day. Well...his unusual request was probably somewhat genuine, and really they wondered how it was that he hadn't attracted anyone when people who weren't brass or against Darcsen found him charming. Well, be that as it may, the partnership offer was also shot down. Jean was a poet, and what he wanted was to be so, not to run a store. It was understandable, and to each their own...as long as he stayed sane, somehow.

The time to get underway with the mission, and while Isaac and Britta were both made some last-minute checks on their equipment, the others were taking the wound packs of barbed wire. As a result, you could take this scene the group grimly preparing for a mission, or in another light...it might've looked like two machine gunners forcing the others to work at gunpoint. Isaac immediately pushed the thought away, not liking the image. He and Britta had had...unusual thoughts, disturbing imagery in the form of brief hallucination and dreams. It wasn't anything wrong with their eyes. It was just...you don't kill as many people as you do at the end of a gun barrel without feeling something. They'd been on both ends of these things, luckily not killed and having properly killed a fair amount. Putting yourself in the shoes of the enemy wasn't hard when you had something like this going on. It had eased on down, since they hadn't had to shoot as many people here as in Amone, but it was still...you know...there. You had to tense for it, ignore it, see things through. Your squadmates depended on that.

What made them pause after a bit was not the thought of what might happen in the heat of the moment. They did what many did in this scenario. The minds would disassociate from the here and the now, the world would fade away, and only the necessity to open fire and reload would remain, with them bearing witness to it all and having it linger thereafter. No, what made both of the Gunners look up from their work was the conversation happening. Jean went to check upon Lubna and Senja - two soldiers that they admitted they didn't know very well - and in turn Lubna began to check up on Jean instead, noticing what Isaac and Britta knew for a long time: He was in a bad way, and there was very little that could be done, sometimes, to check it. Lubna confronted him, and Jean's voice seemed to crack, or his attitude seemed a kind of different for a second. It seemed like he wouldn't be able to hold himself together, right then, but Senja also came over - probably noticing this, as well - and offered a blessing to their mission. This seemed to help, as Jean agreed, and the two Gunners rested weapons on their shoulders for a moment. Britta smiled at Senja, appreciative of what she was doing. Out of Jean's view, Isaac looked her way and gave Senja a nod, mouthing 'Thank you.'. He needed it.

In a few moments, they would be climbing up into No Man's Land. But for now, let there be a little peace of mind.

---

The atmosphere that both the Sergeant and the newcomer created was heavy, but the sapper failed to pick up any tension among them. From the mannerism, the way that the Sergeant stood dumbstruck and the quick order to get both himself and the Private a room, it wasn’t difficult to discern their unspoken pain and bond. And for that, Michael did not have any reserve to respect their wish. He too packed his belongings and made his way out to where Elliot and Jakou were.

“Well, my typical guess would be that they just lost each other in a battle, and now just discovered each other again.” Was Michael’s response upon arriving and hearing the question. It was way too common nowadays, squads decimated, cut down by machine guns or artilleries in a vain and desperate attempt by the higher ups to gain like 200 yards of territory. In fact, his squad wasn’t doing that much better at Hill 51. That unnamed Cruxian woman who gave him that first sense of reassurance. Now she’s 6 feet under. Same goes with Mila, Gwyth and others he knew but was now dead or missing; the former a lot more common than the latter. “Other than that, who knows. I’d love to ask them when they are more comfortable about it.”

Emmerich watched in silence as the woman began openly displaying her hatred towards imperials, speaking about torturing them with a morbid glee in her voice. So many times Emmerich had heard similar words. Truth be told, Emmerich couldn't bring himself to feel anything as he heard the woman's words. Any signs of patriotism or even any feeling he could have for being an imperial were long gone, along with honestly, most other feelings he could have. Regarding the war, his superiors (both the old ones and the new ones) and most other things and so, Emmerich simply watched in silence, no emotion in his eyes as he simply sighed.

Hatred ran deep in both sides of the war, a misguided hatred that was implanted on the heads of soldiers, thanks to inflamed speeches, propaganda and lies from the ones on the top, only to feed their own greed and selfish desires. To them, soldiers were nothing but pawns on a chess board. Nameless pieces in a gigantic chess board that only existed to be used and then thrown away.

"Back to waiting..." he thought to himself, with an exhausted expression as the NCO who admonished the woman shooed the rest of the people away after the girl stormed away and the commotion ended.

As the NCO began talking with one of the newcomers, Emmerich walked away, looking for a bench or any place he could sit down to wait for his next orders. After all, that was 'life' for him. A constant cycle of waiting, killing and then waiting again. Being 'alive' was too strong of a word to define what that was. For Emmerich, he simply 'existed' and nothing more.
Just as he got out though, he saw a small gathering of people who were talking to each other. The first had asked what the soldier and the woman had with each other, to warrant such blatant display. After hearing that, two others who were passing by joined the conversation, each one with their own ideas and views.

"Whatever it is, is either too personal or too important for us low soldiers to hear." Emmerich said in an emotionless tone, a few steps away from the others as he walked away from where the NCO and the other newcomer were.

Elliot nodded at everyone’s responses. The Rennesian simply stated that he didn’t know, the Tyrellan made his own theory as to what had happened, and the Imperial said that it didn’t matter. To the marksman, they were all valid answers.

“True enough.” He said, acknowledging everyone’s words. “Me, I don’t know what to think, myself.” Elliot sighed. “...Not that it matters much, anyway.”

The young man then turned to the sapper who had been assigned to them. So... He starts. ”You’re the one in charge of squaring us away. Do we need anything else, or are we covered?”

“It’s good to be aware I guess.” Michael shrugged his shoulders. He probably never would have anything to do with them in the future. Hell they might even be dead on the same day. But who knows what the Lord had in store for him. He wouldn’t want to misstep on relationship issues, even unintentionally. “But he’s right, beyond this is just gossiping, so let’s keep it that way.”

And thankfully, it was kept that way. Elliot changed the topic over to the trench raid mission. On that note, Michael was reminded of what he was told just earlier.

“Ah, yes. You’d need a wire cutter. Remind me how many people are on this mission and I’ll get on it before we depart.” The sapper scratched his temple, pondering over what else to grab. Fighting wasn’t the only part of the mission; there was also getting there and getting back. And for a human mortal, the barbed wire is the most annoying and painful thing to cross aside from the bullet, so he wanted to make sure the team didn’t have to waste time doing that. “Other than that, not really. There’s no tool specifically for capturing prisoners, so you just gotta bring what makes you best. Whatever that may be.”

Michael sort of rolled his eyes away at the last sentence. Hey, if human lives weren’t going to be preserved, at least the mission could be finished. He knew the higher ups probably wouldn’t get anything out of the prisoners that isn’t misery, but he just suppressed it for now.

“On another note, I don’t think we’ve properly met each other. Call me Michael, your local sapper of the squad.” He gave a friendly smile to the group and a slight bow with a hand on his chest. “How is everyone doing today? Prepared for some close quarter fights?”

The topic of their NCO’s former relationships with the mysterious arrival was soon relegated to the background, something Elliot was thankful for. It was good to hear everyone’s thoughts on the matter, but he also knew that it wasn’t good to linger on it.

Soon, the topic shifted to raid preparations. The marksman nodded in turn, making a mental note of Michael’s advice. Wire cutters made sense for a raid like this, and it was good to be mindful of the task at hand. As for tools that would work well on this mission… Elliot didn’t have much in the way of nonlethal options as a marksman-- the garotte might seem like a decent option at first glance, but if it is used as intended with the correct technique… it would shatter the victim’s windpipe, crush their throat, cut their arteries, or a mix of the three.

Not to mention that it was exceedingly difficult to actually use. It was far more likely that the raiding party would get spotted and have to resort to firearms before they’d be able to sneak up on any half-decent sentry.

...still, if there was any mission where a tool like that would shine, it would be a nighttime raid. There may be some merit in a garotte made of softer materials like cloth or fibers for nonlethal takedowns, as opposed to lethal assassinations. Something to think on, he supposed.

Before Elliot could think more upon the mission and the preparations pertaining to it, Michael had said something that snapped the marksman out of his reverie. The sapper introduced himself to the other two-- that’s right. Elliot didn’t actually know many in this platoon, seeing as he was transferred here only recently. Might as well get acquainted. He waited for Michael to finish, before speaking in turn.

“My name is Elliot.” The young man said to the other two, giving them a polite nod. ”As you can probably tell, I’m a marksman-- not that my scope’s going to do me much good in a raid like this.” He gestured to the scoped rifle slung around his shoulder.

“I suppose today’s been a good day-- though I can’t say that I’m exactly… excited for the mission ahead.” Elliot sighed. Close quarters wasn’t his forte, after all. “...But we’ll get it done.” His tone was matter-of-fact, as if failure wasn’t in the cards.

Soon after each one of them gave their own brief opinion about how the NCO and the newcomer knew each other, soon the conversation moved to more important matters, such as the oncoming raid and the preparations for it, more specifically, the only tool that was basically omnipresent in any engagement in the type of war they were fighting: wirecutters. With both sides making ample use of barbed wire to protect their trenches and their positions, any raid of any kind or even any advance towards the enemy lined required a wirecutter. After seeing what happened to unfortunate soldiers who got entangled upon barbed wire, no soldier dared to complain about the added weight of the equipment.

It was then that the sapper introduced himself as Micheal, waiting for the others to tell their names.

"Emmerich, I'm one of the disposable pawns the higher ups like to call "shocktroopers"... Not that different from the Empire, to be honest." Emmerich said with an acid chuckle, his words too close to the truth to be considered as a joke.

"If nothing goes wrong, we will be fighting in real close range, without much space to move around. In that range, a pistol and a knife do their job as well as, if not better than a rifle." he mentioned, after Elliot, the marksman, mentioned that the scope wouldn't do him any good on the oncoming raid.

“Jakou”, saying it while rising his right hand as to make a short wave to the group. “And I am also one of those disposable shocktroopers too.” Disposable, he hated hearing that word but, it is true. Someone has to do what they do, charge at the enemy in the first wave. Someone running into gunfire and barbwire to clear a trench. Someone has to and he ultimately chose this role to his near regret.

“Well, I am prepared to fight in close quarters and knock someone out”, pulling out his trench mace. “Just a need a good swing to the head and it should knock someone out.” If not give them a concussion he knew that but, chose not to say that part. Granted command’s orders were to capture a imperial alive, they did not say the condition. A morbid thought, that Jakou quickly buried in his mind. Only do the damage needed and nothing else, he thought.

“Oh nice.” Michael leaned his head a bit as he saw the trench mace in Jakou’s hand. “That’s at least something meant to take prisoners.” Whether or not this guy was as much of a character as that Darcsen girl earlier was in his mind but at least Michael could give a bit of benefit of the doubt to him that he’d do his job properly. He was glad to have a couple of dedicated ‘disposables’ to cover his own disposable presence too.

“I wouldn’t say I have the best setup for a trench raid.” Michael said as his eyes gestured towards the shovel and carbine on his back. The shovel would be his best friend there, but it was still a bit clunky to use. If he’s too close then it’d be hard to swing it with full force, so he’d just have to watch his distance. “But it’s not bad to use in close quarters. I had some…” He shrugged. “‘ok-ish’ experience with them.”

Elliot looked over at three other soldiers present. It seemed to him that the others expected to die. They very well might-- and so could he. To the marksman, if the thought of probably dying on the battlefield would help steel their nerves, then there wasn’t much harm in it, he supposed.

Michael then spoke up about his own equipment, and an experience he had with his shovel at close quarters.

“I’m glad to see we’re all satisfied with our lot in life.” Elliot chuckled inwardly. “If we all come back from the raid in one piece, how about we all get a drink? You can tell us about that little experience you had too, afterwards.” He suggested, gesturing to Michael at that last sentence.

Truth be told, Elliot wouldn’t normally be the one to suggest something like this, but he figured that by having something to look forward to at the end of this, things would be better for everyone involved. Besides…

Drinking alone was no fun for anyone.

Emmerich listened to their words, nodding in a silent greeting as each one introced themselves, mentioning a bit about their skills or the oncoming raid. After the introductions ended, Elliot mentioned if they were okay with having a drink if they all got back safely, which made Emmerich raise an eyebrow, surprised for the offer.

"Are you sure you want to be seen sharing a drink with an 'imperial scum'?" Emmerich asked, with a dry, sarcastic chuckle.

"Usually, I drink by myself if I can get my hands on something that's at least decent enough to swallow. Having someone to share a drink with once in a while might not be that bad though." He said pondering about the invitation a bit, before accepting it.

“Certainly, that would make for an interesting storytime session, wouldn’t it?”

If that meant they’d get to know how he brutally killed an Imperial he spent a few nights before chit chatting with, or bashing another’s skull with a helmet, yeah…sure. That normally would be a horrific and traumatic event to retell, but Michael had already grown to accept that blood stain on his conscience. He should be able to even joke about it as long as he is aware of its nature.

Speaking of Imperials, what Emmerich just mused about himself was certainly an interesting personal detail. That got Michael to wonder how many of his fellow comrade in arms were formerly Imperials. Hell, what counts as Imperial scum here. There are Gallians living, studying, working in Imperial territory longer than in Gallia, now returning because that country doesn’t want them anymore. There are half-Imperials whose circumstances drifted them into Federation services. There are defectors, refugees and all other sorts of unfortunate circumstances like that too. Too much complexity to feel anything resembling hatred for the ‘imperial scums’. If anything he hated that term itself. So reductive and meaningless.

“Well, I shared a drink with one, I’ll do it again.” Michael said, seemingly very casual about it, “Besides, what can possibly be the problem with that?”

"Did you?" Emmerich asked, raising an eyebrow, surprised as he heard Michael mentioning that he had already shared a drink with one.

Truth be told, people like Micheal were rare. Emmerich didn't really know if Micheal had the same thoughts about the war and the prejudice between both 'sides' of said war, but even though, it was still rare to see people who saw people by what they were and not by their birthplace or something.

"People tend to lose themselves to the war... Fall into an endless spiral of hatred, born from the pretty words of a few big-shots that never even stepped into the battlefield themselves..." He said with an sarcastic chuckle.

"They end up hating and killing the wrong people, for the wrong reasons..." he said with a deep sigh, the sigh of a man who had seen war from up close on both sides. From a man who had healed, drinked and killed people from both sides.

"It's good to see you are not one of those though, Michael." he said, nodding to him with a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

Wrong reasons…. The words echoed in Jakou’s head. Those words that Emmerich said stayed in his head. Did he join for the wrong reason? Sure he enlisted by choice while most were probably conscripted. Forced to fight a war that they may not wish to fight and die for. And his reason to find glory in this miserable war. Against his parents’ wishes to keep their beloved paragon alive and safe from the war.

He can just imagine how his parents felt or reacted to his enlistment. And imagine what he will do once this war is over and he returns home. If he returns home that is. War is cruel but, so far he has managed to survive this long. But, did he join for the wrong reasons and are now killing for the wrong reason? All for glory, he will find a answer sooner or later but, for right now. Jakou is leading to the wrong reasons.

But, snapping back to the present from his thinking, did Jakou speak. Albeit with a unsure tone. “Drinking with an imperial? Uhhh, I do not know about that. Maybe after the war but, right now…. Well kinda, weird to talk about drinking with them when we are going on a mission to capture one.” Weird to him at least, “But do I know, I am just a shocktrooper that survived this long.” Putting on a shrug and saying no more.

It was honestly a little bit funny hearing the responses of the two larger men grappling with the idea of sharing a drink with a supposed enemy. Emmerich was full-on philosophical about it, while Jakou found it strange. It so happened to be that they both represented Michael’s emotional state at a certain point in his past. He too wondered how it would feel like being friendly to an enemy you will be killing the next day, and he too lamented the state where he had to kill someone so akin to him.

“Thanks,” Michael inclined his head slightly at Emmerich, before turning over to Jakou. “If you don’t know about it, how about drinking with a friend?”

He figured this Imperial shit is enough. Let’s actually try to approach human interaction from a human perspective. Eliminate all this Imperial-Federation crap from this conversation.

“How about this? We’ll have a drink together when we return. And until then, let’s remember each other by something that isn’t nationality or heritage!” He said, looking at the three gents before him with glimmering eyes. “I’ll start. I study engineering at home before the war, loving cars and all sorts of automobiles. I also love my little home of three, so much so that I still cuddle my mama from time to time. No shame.”

Michael stated that with pretty much no embarrassment. He knew it might sound soft to a lot of people, but who cares. He doesn’t care. If one is willing to be petty about it, he’d pity their existence.

Elliot watched them all discuss the possibilities of drinking together. As far as he was concerned… when everyone’s in the muck of the trenches, it doesn’t matter what nation you were born in, what star you were born under, or what flag you were waving… in the end, everyone’s the same at either end of the rifle.

So while Emmerich expressed his concerns, Jakou, in turn, spoke of his doubts. Michael, ever the diplomat, decided to stop using races and heritage, even going as far as to offer up information about his personal life to break the tension, before turning to the others with bright, expectant eyes.

Elliot thought about this for a moment. No matter what, the possibility of one or all of them dying on this raid was ever-present. In that sense, there was no reason *not* to get along. Shrugging, Elliot stepped up to say his piece soon after Michael did.

“There’s not much to say about me. I joined the war to get away from my family, and yet… strangely enough, I’m here for their sake as well.” He said/ “...I don’t have many hobbies, but my father’s an engineer, and my brother’s a watchmaker, so technical stuff has rubbed off on me a bit, even if I’m not exactly educated on it properly.”

The words that came out of his mouth were strangely… rehearsed. Keeping things intentionally vague and riddled with half-truths was easier than maintaining a completely different cover story, in his experience. Any discrepancies could be explained through a slip of the tongue or a gap in memory-- it’s not like most strangers would know the ins-and-outs of it unless they knew where to look, anyway.

Still, there was truth in his words, as vague as it was, and Elliot was genuinely interested in what the others would say themselves. Thus, he stood in place, waiting for them to speak.

Emmerich listened to the others in silence as they spoke a bit more about themselves. Their words made Emmerich remember of the child he used to be, of the person he could have become... The fond memories he had of his time with his mother and even his father, before his mother died and he dedicated his body and his emotions solely to the war...

"Before the war, I was studying to be a physician, a surgeon, just like my mother, before she fell ill and died. She was a brilliant woman and a kind, attentive mother, despite her fragile health. My father, despite being rarely at home due to being a soldier was a good man. He used to take me to hunting trips, which I ended up getting a taste for and became my hobby as well. He blamed himself a lot for not being a present father and husband after my mother died." Emmerich said.

"It wasn't long until the war took him... Fought and bled to death by people who didn't even know his name. Alone, I wasn't able to continue my studies. The two years of mandatory military service offered me an alternative. Without much choice, I ended up pursuing a 'military carreer'..." He said with a sarcastic chuckle.

"Not much to say other than that. Saved a lot of lives with the knowledge I learned studying to be a physician. Ended just as many." he finished with a bitter smile.

The sky soon fell back to its whitened palette. The drain of colour was frantic as little snowflakes began to fall from the sky. Their amount was miniscule, but it was enough of a warning for Jean. The time was now. He pulled himself away from Senja and Luba, albeit a little reluctantly, and he made his way toward the step ahead of the rest of his group. The fog of war formed before his eyes as he exhaled up a storm. Of course he was nervous. Only those who accepted that they were dead held still their breathes as if absolution was to come. But Jean had been taught to have some hope. And it was a crux to the poet, and to the soldier, for hope gave the false notion that there was light at the end of the tunnel, and that he had something that could be taken away from him at the crack of a rifle's shot. Luckily, he was not aboard the group lurching into the enemy trenches, in the deadened winter's dew, and he counted the blessings to not be trusted with something so hastily. Of course, in hindsight, Jean would've pled for himself to refuse if he were to know how mere minutes apart their mission was from the opening act of the New Year's orchestra.

Captain Middleton made steady pace toward the two groups, separated by tens of metres down trench lanes and bodies. A few sentries were left perched on their firing steps, watching the icy prairies carefully. The fog had grown rather tremendously, but they could still make out the distant edge of the Imperial frontline, mostly made up of layers upon layers of barbed wire. Their voices were to remain hushed at the hour, for the quietest frontlines had the most eager ears.

"Alright, don't linger for too long," the Captain addressed the wire-layers, "and patch it up as quick as you can. You know the rules: stay low, stay quiet, and stay alert. As soon as you're done, pull back. If the trench raiders take too long, don't wait for them. They'll make it back on their own accord. And most importantly," his eyes fell upon Lucia, who's back was laboured by the weight of her wire pack, "get back safe. It'd be bad enough to have to write out a third of a platoon's worth of letters home."

He moved onward, more or less giving the same message to the trench-raiders. Their rules were articulated very differently: get in, grab one or three Imperials, and get out. Be fast. Be swift. Be merciless. Hesitation was their enemy. It seemed odd to a few as to why both tasks were happening simultaneously, but the growing paranoia of a Winter offensive was still fresh on the minds of every officer and soldier. There were some hopeful of a quiet snowfall, like that of 1911, but the strain and attrition each side had taken forced many to play their cards without mercy.

Jean had listened to the whispers of the men and women in Trebin and beyond. The words were no longer that of 'It'll be over when the snow falls' but they new that sooner rather than later, one side would break under the pressure, if not both entirely. The death toll was in the millions. Several generations had been shaken dry by the robbers of life. And if it were like such in the Atlantic Federation, then it too would've been the same in the Empire. Vinland had arrived, yes, but their Europan allies were reaching a breaking point. How far would their officers, their generals and leaders push themselves to defeat an enemy? He saw it in the cynicism of the Captain. He no longer spouted of glory like the young officers of yesteryear. He remained bitter. Jean didn't like him still, for the man had his prejudices, but at the very least Jean had the faintest idea of how tired all men were for the crimes they'd been drowned in.

So he snapped himself out of his thoughtless trance. There was a mission ahead. Lubna had told him to remain normal, or as normal as one could be, and he buckled up his webbing tighter than ever. He looked at Lucia, who's nerves showed in their own small way. Then again, there was a fire in her eyes. And Jean had heard things about her, back in Amone, back before they were introduced to one another, and before the 15th Atlantic Rifles.

"Alright, you know what's happening." He murmured aloud to his selected group. Whether he liked it or not, he still held rank over all but one woman, who's senior was only displaced by what little time she'd spent with that platoon. "Isaac, Britta, set up whatever positions you can that give us the best arc of fire. Make ready, but hold unless we're fired upon - or if instructed. Lucia has the main wire set, but I need a volunteer to help wind it through the fence posting. Other than that, everyone do what you can to unwind broken bits of wire, clear out any shrapnel and reinforce any fencing if need be. On your way over the top, grab a small log each."

By his feet, a small basket of wooden logs, stripped of their bark, were piled together. They were sharpened at one end for burying into the icy earth. And with what broke the fence in the first place - artillery fire and cannonades - the chances of repairing the fence itself were all but inevitable.

"If you're not doing something, stay low and keep rifles at the ready. We'll clear it up as quick as we can. The last thing we need is for the trench raid to alert our position and have us caught in the open. Are we all good?" He looked over to the nearest Sergeant, who was looking at his watch eagerly. He turned back to Jean and nodded. The affirmation was clear. There was no chance to revert back to the warm yet dilapidated room he'd sheltered himself in the night before. Any soldier's worst fear had arrived: not the bombing of artillery shells or the charging cry of the enemy, but setting foot beyond their trench walls and out into a land meant for slaughter. Jean grabbed a log for himself, and moved halfway up the ladder. "Alright, stay close, voices low, and let's move."

Jean ascended the ladder first. The pressure to do what he was asked of laid upon his shoulders immensely. So much judgement would come from his cock-ups and little would go towards his successes. He didn't care though in that moment. There was a job to do and as much as it pained him, he had to do it long enough to make it back alive. He lurked in a squat just at the top of the trench, whispering and holding a hand out for those who clambered up behind him: Cienie, Romijnsen, Black, Hagen, Vastergoth, Farris and Penttilä. All soldiers of different standards.

He made himself among the middle of the crowd, crawling and staggering their way into the first crater. A pit, six feet deep, waited for them just on the other side of the ladder. The dirt was cold and solid, tipped with the white frost that surrounded them. Jean could immediately feel the chill of the snow soak into his uniform and his hairs stood on their end, but he kept moving as to keep himself warm. They had to be slow, but at the same time hasty enough to get in and out without a moment too long. He looked behind him and saw Lucia struggle to clamber out the shell pit they'd first gone into, and he reached below and struggled to pull her up under the weight of the wire pack. He quietly waved a free hand back to keep the others moving so they could secure the fence hole ahead, whilst he struggled the last bit with Lucia to get her over out. She collapsed by his side, wheezing a little to herself, but the ever-looming threat of lingering forced Jean to push her back into motion. Lucia clambered out of the snow and crawled ahead with her Corporal.

Five minutes felt like forever. They couldn't have travelled more than thirty five metres at most, but the constant wreckage of the earth beneath them brought every covert movement to a halt. Fallen logs, splintered and cracked open like firework tubes, great pits where skeletal remains had been buried, and the devastation of corpses spread far and wide. A preserved horse's remains in the cold - the arm of an Imperial that stuck out from the earth, as if pleading for someone to pull them from hell.

The fog grew in density, and his voices became far more silent. He dashed between the rubble, and soon their broken fence was in sight. He lowered himself all the way down to his stomach, and with his hands he signalled for the others to begin work, with Lucia unloading the wire pack beside them. In the distance, there were gunshots from other sectors of the frontline, and he hoped they would remain there. But as the trench raiding group moved up, with not much time left before the gates of hell unknowingly opened, he remained defiant in working on their task with those he'd been assigned with.

"Yeah, I bet," Mehetabel glowered over the thought of it. What Victoria had said was so true; there were way too many NCOs wanting to raise through the ranks, as if this was supposed to be a mere corporate ladder. They already had Cpt. Middleton as the man in charge of leading the platoon; wasn't the kissing of his ass enough for them? That's what angered Mehetabel most about chain of command.

She looked down at her pint, and sculled down the rest of it. She didn't know why she ordered it to begin with; after all, it was never gonna ease the burden that was her rising anger. But then again, it was a consistent action she undertook every time she finished her training for the day or was summoned for the briefing of a mission. It was clockwork at this point.

"Well, thanks for giving me my drink back anyway," Mehetabel tossed the glass back Vicotria's way as she said this, "I might see you when the mission actually gets off the ground..."

With that, Mehetabel went back to base. She had a loadout to revise, and just enough time to do exactly that and nothing else.

...

Mehetabel already announced to the others that she was gonna take her Typhoon Mk II machine gun, and she had every intention to stick with that ultimate decision. But this time she affixed a strap to the aforementioned gun and pulled said strap over her shoulder. This way, the machine gun would be on her back, but still positioned in a way that it was easy to reach if she needed it. But it would stay there for as much of the mission's time as she could afford it to stay there, ideally only being used for emergencies.

She then closely examined the other gun she'd chosen to be issued to her; a Levnette Pistol. Mehetabel hated handguns; she was never comfortable with them, and she'd much rather have a rifle, a shotgun and or any other two-handed firearm. But this was supposedly the best gun of the worst type. She'd have to get used to the feeling of it eventually, that she knew more than anything. But not this time. This was a stealth mission, and any firearm shot by any soldier was more than loud enough to give away that soldier's position; it didn't matter what that firearm was, exactly. As such, Mehetabel might as well have stuck with the firearm she could count on to actually get her out of a jam if things ever went south. She tossed the pistol aside, and looked through her bag.

It was here that she found her trusty hatchet. She could swing it. She could throw it. And most importantly, she could make a dirty Imp bleed with it. It was perfect. A shame, then, that Mehetabel didn't have a second one. She might have to see if she could liberate a second melee weapon from someone; preferably one that she could also throw. Hell, Mehetabel was even willing to accept a second of Michael's shovels if he had one to spare. She took a few seconds to ponder over the acquisition of a second melee weapon, but figured she'd cross that bridge when she came to it and kept searching the bag and her pockets. Perhaps there were some auxiliary items that could benefit her in some way, should she bring them along with her. Two of such items had inspired her.

The first was the box of matches that she offered up during the game of cards. Mehetabel had no medical expertise, and her mindset was far off from the correct one to learn about such treatment. But she did hear of a theory that one could extract the gunpowder of one bullet, pour it over any wound a soldier had suffered in the line of fire and set it aflame in order to cauterize said wound, and those matches reminded her of that exact theory. The Imperial soldiers that her team was supposed to keep alive would be the perfect guinea pigs for a practical application now that she thought of it, and even if it proved unable to hold water as a viable medical procedure, she'd use it as a torture strategy instead.

The second was an empty water canteen. If she could wash away any blood stains from any injuries she was more than likely to inflict, Mehetabel might just be able to eliminate her presence there, which would be ideal for a stealth mission such as this. She was originally thinking she could just splash some water over said blood stains, but if it looked like blood and flowed across the soil like blood...

That inkling of doubt alone was enough for Mehetabel to reconsider. She brewed some hot coffee and poured it in a flask, opting to take that instead of the canteen that originally inspired her thought process. A different colored liquid was more likely to disguise the blood stains successfully, especially if it also had a different smell to it.

Satisfied with her revised loadout, Mehetabel set out to join her squad-mates in No Man's Land.



This was it. Mehetabel's first official mission since she transferred platoons. An entire array of new faces. And yet somehow almost the exact same assortment of personalities that were all jumbled together. Allies that were weary of her. An NCO that was trying too hard to reign her in. A lot she had to prove to everyone around her. Those feelings felt as though they were a mere day apart.

Suddenly, Mehetabel started to receive a hangover. This caused her to immediately regret sculling that pint earlier, and be thankful that she brewed some hot coffee earlier and that the flask that contained it was able to keep it warm. She unscrewed the flask's cap so she could take a sip, and then screwed it back on and put it away again, hoping to all hell that single sip of coffee would be enough to relieve the hangover. There was no telling how much she needed to reserve for what she brought it for in the first place.

Cpt. Middleton said a few words to the team that Mehetabel was half-listening to. Mehetabel had a feeling that very little would be said that couldn't have been said during the briefing itself; perhaps most of it already was. But she figured she should give him some attention at least, divided as it would be. He seemed to have a 'don't-fuck-with-me' vibe to him after all.

No doubt the sergeant would want to address the group next. Mehetabel could've stuck around and, if he said anything that contradicted Cpt. Middleton's words, reminded him that Middleton outranked him in a quippy, sarcastic manner. But she had too much to prove to everyone to fool around like that, and risk getting worked up over some trivial bullshit. First, she had to prove that she could take this mission seriously. She also had to prove that she could approach it intelligently and resourcefully, and not just foolishly cast herself off to die. And to prove that she was more than capable of getting results, even if she'd prove herself to be a loose cannon. But most importantly of all, Mehetabel had to prove to everyone out here that her bloodlust was a necessary evil in the battlefield.

And so, without the slightest fraction of a second's delay, Mehetabel went into the trenches ahead of everyone else. She felt better off working this whole mission alone, and she'd be damned if she were to let any one of the others get in her way.

---

---

‘son of Roland-Florence’. The words bit like the cold winds from far to Gallia’s North, sweeping over the frigid mountain lands there to rid them of rain and leave them with frost alone. His gaze now stuck, not on his former friend but against the axe at his hip – its gravity wrenched at him, pulling him towards that awful fire once again, the fire that he had forsworn. Fire that had seemingly died – so why did it still draw him so?

Better the cold. Far better the cold.

“Reassigned?” Alexandre struggled, forcing a quivering smile onto his face, even as the rime gathered in his gut. “Yes… Yes. Of course.” And even with those words, the thought: At least the Che… At least they are safe.

The ones who…

Iron. Flesh. Carrion birds.

‘son of Roland-Florence’.

Do not tell him, his mind pulsed with fear. You cannot. Too different – he would lose all sense of you. And thus you him. Not now. Not with him back.

“I am… I… Cannot be that, any more. That is how. I am…” He closed his eyes; raised his head; opened his eyes to finally meet those of his former friend. “I am still Alexandre, but Alexandre is this now.”

Once more, Alexandre’s eyes were drawn to that terrible, blazing, impossible weight at his side; once more, he pulled them back. A laugh, to ineffectually cover the slip. “And I am here, and can fight. That is the crux of it, no?” The smile felt easier, now, the pattern reasserting itself; he stood straighter, even as he did not move. “And the Valkyrur send me the man I know to be as noble a warrior as they are as my officer. They look on us kindly today.”

@Smike

He had noticed the other Alex's gaze fall to the heirloom he still carried, the weight evidently too much for his friend to bear. "What else could they do? They weren't going to let a Vinlander lead one of Gallia's proudest regiments, not that there was much of it left to lead after that."

Alex was mildly impressed by the ease at which he was slipping back into the rhythms of the old Imperial tongue. Many of his journal entries were written in that language but it had been some time since he had actually spoken it. Perhaps the shock was to blame, his brain so rattled by the resurrection he was witnessing that it didn't have time to stumble about. It found the words it needed instead of wasting time.

The "explanation" explained nothing. Alex kept his face devoid of emotion, responding to the non-answer with clinical impassivity. "I see." He of course saw nothing but he would simply have to deal with the blindness for the time. Alexandre's assertion, while charming in its poetic notions of camaraderie blessed by the heavens, seemed inaccurate.

Alex played along, breaking his mask so that a genuine snicker could shine through."The Valkyrur haven't ever looked on a Darcsen with anything less than disgust, it's the reason we're in this mess to begin with. Let's hope they like you enough to keep from smiting me for another day."
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And then the time came.

The Captain kept it simple, relaying the orders without explanation or expectation of questions. It was best that way. Alex's wartime service had taught him a very important lesson that training had neglected to instill: to find the intelligence of the average soldier one simply had to take the average civilian and cut whatever intellect they had in half. In the case of fractions you always rounded down. There were plenty of cunning soldiers to be sure, every branch absolutely infested with card sharks, smugglers and men who could could concoct all manner of schemes to shirk their assigned duties but the fact of the matter was that the Federation didn't sent its most educated to die in the trenches.

At least not without an officer's cap and a pistol at their side.

Captain Middleton spoke to the sensibilities possessed by every trooper, the ones instilled by boot camp if nothing else: kill them quickly and get back in one piece. His orders were dumbed down for the lowest common denominator and thus there was no excuse for failure. Everyone knew what they had to do, the only question was how many of them would come out of it alive. As much as Alex would have liked to say 'all of them' that killjoy common sense kept him from jumping to conclusions. The brass had proven his theory about military intelligence by assigning snipers and machine gunners to a close-quarters raid where there would be no time to compensate for mistakes born from a lack of experience fighting up close.

Things would be interesting, he was damn sure about that.

He felt naked without his rifle but had decided against trying to the maneuver the thing in the confines of the trenches. At those ranges the showpiece pistol his father had given him would do well enough. A knife tucked in his waistband and a couple of grenades were the only other weaponry he brought. He could manage with them just fine.

Unless of course the fool gunner ruined things by bolting in without support, there was little he could do about that.

The sergeant watched as she dropped into the trench with no plan and no backup, all sorts of violent words swarming around his head before being distilled into an urgent command.

"White! Make sure she doesn't get killed."

It was punctuated with a gunshot, Alex drawing a bead on the poor Imperial nearest to him and blowing his brains out of his skull.



"On it."

Oh sure, send the Occie ahead to babysit the psycho dirt-hair, of course. Victoria hadn't been involved with the whole Breached Gates shitstorm but it still found ways to ruin her life. After that mess her nationality just put a target on her back, a big fucking sign that read 'Forlorn Hope here! Will take part in suicidal charges for shit wages!' What gave it away? It was probably the hat. Well, that and the fact that she was huge and had a background in street brawling. And her specific training based around fixed bayonet, whites-of-the-eyes type close-in killing.

Ah the life of a shocktrooper. She lived for that stuff.

Boots slid across muck-coated wood and bits of brain matter, Victoria scrambling forward like a rat who had sighted a defenseless chick. There had been no chance of their whole team slipping into the trenches unnoticed, thus why the boss-man had wasted one of the enemy already with his giant .45. The game now revolved around a simple question of speed. Could the Feds get what they needed before the Imps swarmed in and shot them all to death? Could the Imp that had just watched his friend die recover his wits and get a shot off before Vicky flattened him?

As it turned out the answer to that second one was no. Victoria had simply surged ahead too quickly and planted her bayonet inside the unfortunate boy's belly. A couple hundred pounds of madwoman putting all her weight into the stab forced the air from his lungs, the scream his body wanted to release nothing more than a choked gurgle.

Two down and more to go.

They stood at the ready now, the sky hanging over them in perpetual overcast.

To be fair, the weather being 'against them' wasn't all bad. This dingy, dirty, wet and soggy day with no sunlight to speak of would do nothing to illuminate them. They would not be loud, and what little noise they might make would not carry. Furthermore, they looked about as uninteresting and uncatching of the eye for the most part that the enemy would have to have a pretty good and far from miserable eye to spot anything. So, on those grounds, this job had its merits. It was not suicide, out of hand. It was only suicidal in the general sense, because of how immediately life-threatening any gunfire would be, whether it was shot out at random to spook people or done with purpose, once they were spotted. You never can tell where things are going to go. Isaac personally hoped that the Imps were just as low in moral as their enemy, and that that would allow for this other part of the plan to take place. He didn't so much as want Middleton's plan to succeed, you understand. Just for people to not DIE in the process.

Speaking of Captain Grumpus, he was now addressing them as the fog began to thicken heavily. When he got to the part about not waiting for the trench raiders, Britta gave Isaac a knowing look and he nodded. They were probably going to ignore the order, not the team. If they saw people trying to pull themselves out of the fire, there was going to be some damn cover from the other side! And frankly, no one was going to believe the faux concern Middleton spouted on the same breath as 'ignore the other team', so he could stuff it. The only person Middleton really cared for was Middleton. Anything else was pure speculation and coincidental self-service. People wanted out of this war. Isaac never wanted to be in. They'd made this thing a part of his life, and he hated it. It was stuck to him, like glue, and he wanted nothing more than to go home and wash it off. The only good thing to come out of this were the people that he hoped would survive to carry on their lives.

But let us not dwell now on the state of things and the what-might-bes, for now. Time once again to stand aggressively in the present, to see nothing but what is in front and be in the now. Their focus was needed to keep the squad safe, as Jean addressed him and Britta both. They knew what they were doing, but they followed Jean's words with the respect he badly deserved. They knew what was at stake, and would keep their shots to a minimum, where possible. Their real commanding officer also instructed them all to take a small log out with them for the posts of the wire fence. They'd need that, and the Gunners had no issue with the added baggage. Ever since the change-up of the machine guns, the packs were a little lighter and less cumbersome, and with these, they barely noticed at all. Also, when Jean mentioned the need to keep low in case they could be spotted from the sudden unrest of the trench raid, Isaac chimed in, as well.

"And be just as careful yourselves so that our presence doesn't cause them to spot the raiding team ahead of time. They need the quiet and everything as much as we do."

"We are good to go, though, Jean."

They ascended, assisted by Jean with logs somewhere on their person. Lucia was the one with the wiring, someone not on Gunnery duty would help her set. With that in mind, he and Britta both spread out. The classic pattern for the two of them was for a Gunner to be at either side of the group - rather than taking point and taking rear - with these positions giving them a wide area of fire without being bunched together. The rest of the team would spread out anyway to prevent everyone getting shot up or blown to pieces, anyway. However, it should be noted that this setup was rather common, and in anticipation of the idea that the Imperials would start thinking to aim for certain people right off to be sure, Britta had elected to use her lighter equipment to the fullest. Namely, she could get around the battlefield more.

Once she was a further onto the right, she was down even lower than all of them, with the RAR dangling under her. Moving around the low cover with little concern of potentially getting bogged down by weight - because she wouldn't be - Britta was be just a little ahead AND off to the side to perk her ears up and keep her eyes pealed for the enemy. Isaac was the main protection, while she was the anticipation and the unexpected strike from an angle you weren't a keeping watch on. It took them time, but they were all soon in position, at this...the shambled remains of a barb wire fence, the likes of which would probably be eliminated tomorrow. Nevertheless, the two Gunners watched the area with intent, that intent being to kill if anything Imperial showed themselves. Britta was positioned to get the first shot while away from the group, while Isaac was the overall protection. Should her position need to be given away, she wasn't near the group and she could reposition to prevent any personal injury.

And now...we wait with bated breath for the outcome under the rain.

---

Unlike other soldiers and shocktroopers, who more often than not were advocates of 'the bigger, the better' mindset regarding weapons and equipment, Emmerich's equipment was kept to the bare minimum. Wielding only the standard federation sidearm and his trench knife as his weapons and only taking the most basic tools, even his shocktrooper armor seemed to be less 'bulky' and have less protection overall than the others. While he knew very well how effective rifles could be on the right hands, when the combat happened in such a close range, a pistol and a knife would often show themselves to be way more effective and less cumbersome than a long weapon. After all, be it a pistol a shotgun or a rifle, a bullet was a bullet. When well placed, just one was enough to end a life.

Cpt. Middleton's explanation was kept short and simple. Every soldier there knew what they had to... or so Emmerich hoped. That mission could be quick and fast if they pulled their cards right. Being an Imperial himself, he knew very well how the empire liked to build their trenches. While they may appear confusing to those who weren't familiar with their layout, if one paid enough attention, they would realize that they were all designed and built in a very similar manner, with a very similar logic behind it, so every soldier could quickly memorize their layout and knew how to navigate through them even when being transferred to another battlefield. With that knowledge, it should take him only a few minutes to situate himself and know exactly where they should go to raise their chances of finding an NCO.

Unfortunately, no matter how efficient Emmerich's plans were on his own head, they proved to be useless when the gunner, Mehetabel, ran ahead of the rest of the group, throwing herself into the trenches without any support or plan.

"Shit..." Emmerich said to himself, cursing as he watched Mehetabel rushing in.

It didn't take much for the first gunshot to alert the imperials of their presence. With the element of surprise gone as Alex rushed behind Mehetabel, shooting the first imperial in the head while Victoria used her bayonet, brutally impaling the second soldier. If being silence wouldn't work anymore, they would have to be as fast as possible and get out before the imperials could call for reinforcements.

With fast and agile movements, Emmerich rushed inside the trench just to see an imperial soldier a few meters away, recovering from the sudden shock of seeing the two other soldiers suddenly killed in such a brutal manner. The very moment he started raising his rifle to aim at them, Emmerich was already close. With experienced movemends and a cold efficiency, Emmerich knocked the soldier down with a knee to the stomach, making his rifle fly away from his hands before he buried his knife on the soldier's throat.

---

Here we go, Jakou thought as the mission started, and he, along with the trench raiders, made their way quietly to the enemy trench. They knew what they had to do, just capture at least two imperials and get out. Simple enough as order-wise, but in practice? Well, Jakou is just going to have to see for himself if it is that easy. As long people do their job and do not try anything to alert the imperials. He would rather do this mission as silently as possible and not get into a firefight if he can help it. Glory can be found here but, there is no glory in failing a mission.

Which for this mission, like most shock troopers, he is using his usual equipment. Though if everything goes right, he will only need his trench mace. Certainly better in close quarters and better at knocking out an imperial than his rifle. Just need a good swing and blam, knocked out imperial. Jakou hoped that it would be as easy as it sounds. But, he has gotten good practice with it in his war.

As he started to see the enemy trench, to his surprise at seeing Mehetabel rush ahead of everyone and into the enemy trench alone. Jakou only mouthed the words, what the fu..., before a shot was fired and the element of surprise was gone.

Jakou gritted his teeth in annoyance as he rushed with everyone else to the trench and saw that his teammates had killed at least three imperials. Well, those three are gone and more to deal with. He thought as he moved ahead pass past Emmerich and saw that there were no more imperials in this part of the trench. At least for now anyway.

Makes him wish those three would not dead but, can't change that now. They are here and the imperials are alerted to their presence. Need to find two to knock out fast. So Jakou tightly gripping his rifle decided on checking the dugout of the top part of the trench. Maybe there is a soldier there, solo if he is lucky. So Jakou headed there and hopefully he can knock someone out if anyone was there. Hopefully, being the keyword here.

Unsurprisingly, Mehetabel just had to have the worst amount of luck. She already found two Imperials together with no way to hide from either of them and, unbeknownst to her for the moment, there would be a third that could spot her should she attempt to engage either of them. This called for a new plan of attack... which meant she'd have to try and retreat...

...

...except before she could take a step anywhere, the glorified idiot-in-charge decided on a whim to shoot a guy; the one thing that was never meant to happen in a stealth operation. Then the other guy died before Mehetabel could possibly react. The third soldier that was there had presumably been dealt with as well, just to rub salt into her wounds.

"Oh, I just love it when a plan gets pissed all over! Makes my day just so much brighter!" her words rich with bitter irony, Mehetabel ripped a rifle off from one of the nearby corpses, before frisking that corpse for any additional bullets and stuffing the ones she found in one pocket, "I'm taking these."

Quite literally running on fumes, Mehetabel trudged down the pathway to the nearby dugout. Evidently, one of her supposed allies had seemingly thought to explore that same dugout, so the hope of ditching everyone wasn't in the cards for her. But she could expect a distinct trio of possibilities as to what could be waiting at the end of the dugout:

A.) An NCO. Probably with another grunt or two patrolling the route to be on the safe side. This would be the perfect scenario; she could kill the grunt(s) to let off some steam, and then cut off one head to possibly scare the NCO into surrendering and coming quietly. A perfect plan for a bloodthirsty psychopath like Mehetabel to execute, if said bloodthirsty psychopath didn't say so herself.

B.) A trap. That wouldn't be surprising considering this was a trench full of dirty Imps she was dealing with, but in all technicality, it was worth concern nonetheless. Still, it could be worse. After all, the machine gun was specifically designed with crowd control in mind. As such, Mehetabel wouldn't be trapped with the dirty Imps; they'd be trapped with her.

C.) A dead end. No doubt the worst possible outcome of the three, as that meant all that exploration would be a waste of time; time that the raiding party no longer had. There would also be no doubt that Mehetabel would be even more furious than she already was.

She took but a single moment to ensure no-one would come up from behind her before pressing forward, machine gun raised and trigger finger at the ready for whatever lay ahead of her at the end. There was only one way to find out after all...

---

It was easy enough to slip past the No Man's Land under the gaze of some inattentive sentries. Elliot had known their routines at this point, and knew he had little to fear. Following his commander's orders, the marksman and the rest of the raiding company had made it through to the enemy trenches. He kept a steady hand on his sidearm-- a John-Wissel Revolver, standard issue for marksmen like him. He briefly questioned (again) as to why he and the other marksmen were dispatched on a raid like this, but at this point, it was too late to complain. All he could do now was carry out his duties.

And that much, he could manage.

From their elevated position, it seemed that the most direct path was to enter the trench, and then head either east or west. As they deliberated upon this, however, Mehatabel, the furious gunner from a while back, had leapt in by herself. In turn, the rest of the team quickly followed to cover her assault. Elliot merely blinked, gripped his revolver tighter, and followed the rest of the raiding party in. Now that shots have been fired, it was only a matter of time until the enemy had realized what had happened, and raise the alarm...

...but if they were quick enough, they might be able to pull off their mission without many casualties. To be in and out before they could rally a defense. To be sudden enough to leave them scrambling away in confusion.

To strike like lightning from a cloudless sky.

"I'll cover you. Go!" He said n a hoarse whisper to nobody in particular-- just loud enough to be heard in the fighting of the trenches, but just soft enough to not give himself away.

The first shot from the sergeant had taken one out, and a myriad of fine cuts and rough stabs had reduced the other two men to nothing but bodies on the ground. True to his word, Elliot was several paces behind his companions, solely focused on keeping their rear and flanks covered. Holding his revolver in front of him, his eyes swept from corner to corner, doing his best to ensure that there were no survivors on the ground, or stragglers hidden in a corner of the trench.

As long as the rest of the raiding party could handle whatever's ahead, he'd handle the rest, and keep them from being surprised. It paid to be prepared-- trouble sends no warning, after all.

---

As much as Michael preferred (and boasted about it earlier) to go almost bare-handed and melee-only into this mission, he ended up reconsidering, mostly because he didn't feel safe without a rifle. He surely wanted a spade for in case they got pinned down somehow in No Man's Land. He didn't know how, but the thought of it already guaranteed that, a rifle in case he had to fight in straight trenches, a couple of grenades for good measures, and several wire-dismantling tools. Soon enough, he had pretty much the same loadout as his normal missions. But 'that's fine,', he told himself. He had carried and fought in uglier situations.

Prior to the missions, Michael had handed all the trench raider team a wire-cutter, but just to be safe that someone actually do the job properly, he was at the front to dismantle the Imperial wires. Once he was finished, he signaled Alex to get the team up, but not everyone got the message properly or was willing to obey the orders of the Sergeant. The one first forward was that Darcsen girl earlier, and she already did not respect the stealth aspect of this mission. And well...everyone just followed suit. Whatever plans the Sergeant cooked up in his head were probably frustratingly being shoved down that Imperial he just shot.

'Guys...' Michael groaned quietly. When he gets back, he'd squash something. But fine, he'd follow along. He was the last to jump into the trenches in which three Imperials lay dead on. Since Michael felt like the team didn't need more coverage, he went around the area they just infiltrated and searched the corpses of the three Imperials. There were rifles, tools but no pistols, something Michael would very much prefer over his bulky rifle. But he found a couple of grenades on them, and he quietly tucked it into his sack. Those gunshots likely had attracted the Imperial's attentions, and they'd very soon flood in from all sides. Whatever firepower he could lay his hands on, the better.

---

---

The smooth, rolling hills and fields of Bihain, occasionally broken by ancient wood or rushing stream, were idyllic and beautiful – and perfect for fox hunts. The equestrian legacy of the family that would become the de Bihains was strong in those lands and the stock of their horses equally vital, and so hunting was a regular pastime that they hosted for the well-to-do of the region, leisure over which connections might be forged with one’s guests, of higher or lower status. Alexandre had ridden since he was a boy and, as the first son of his family, had been obligated to participate in many such events – and yet he was not a keen hunter. He adored the dogs, of course (and so hadn’t been entirely terrified when he finally caught sight of Alex’s new hulking mass of muscle that he hadn’t noticed standing right there the whole time), and the horses were beyond glorious, but the act itself felt meaningless to him. What chance did the foxes have? There was no contest in it, no honour or glory at stake, only an opponent that couldn’t hope to fight back and an act of meaningless death. When he… Before, it had been better – still compelled to plan to take an opponent off guard when one blazed forth against a foe, yes, but an opponent who would have stood a meaningful chance otherwise and could still rally after the moment of the charge.

The shadowy forms of those thoughts passed through Alexandre’s mind as the soldiers of the 15th Atlantic Rifles stormed the trench. The imperials died in an instant, bullet and bayonet ripping at their flesh like metal teeth. With it, what small fire he had stoked through the approach amongst the chilling frost that he had gathered around himself for months was snuffed out. Even as he dropped into the imperial trench and saw the – flesh twisted, crushed, blood seeping into the ground and crows drinking from – he swallowed down the nausea, armouring himself with frigid pragmatism.

Shots taken – there will be reinforcements shortly. Alexandre scanned the field – the Darscen woman leading the path down into the dugout and most of the others piling in. If we all go, we will be pinned down, without question… They would need a rearguard to keep the way back secure – one more sizeable than a single… Marksman or woman? Difficult to tell… Regardless, they had the numbers to use; thus, with a strength belying his wiry form, he crouched down and pulled the body closest to whence they’d come back behind the wall of the trench, out of sight. Sparing a moment to trace the Valkyrur spiral over the man’s chest, he turned to the black-haired… Individual. And that is an Edinburgh accent, no? “I have the right – keep… If you keep the left secure,” he intoned in their native tongue, his mind registering only after a moment that this was an equal rather than inferior. Energy was, after all, racing through long-untrodden paths in his mind, carved at Lanseal in what little they had taught of the actions of individual infantry sections.

He could not see a great deal of the left, admittedly, but it seemed the trench ran straight for a stretch, ideal for a sharpshooter to lock down and pick off their targets at will. The right, on the other hand? Enclosed, the approach defined by a single, short passage. It almost brought back memories.

Alexandre stood, his hand going to his hip. In one motion, the blade was drawn, brought above his head to be blessed by the aurora, then to his lips before coming close to his side as he put the other against the same wall he’d placed the body behind. A single lunging cut would reach the other side of the trench, he knew, before anyone in between had a chance to act. The other hand reached down with it…

The weight.

…and drew his revolver.

And Alexandre centred himself and listened. And his heart quickened in his chest, for his opponents now would be more than foxes.

@Hawthorne