Banned
The Siege of Amone, September 12th - Concluding the Horror
Most of the evacuees and soldiers had begun their escape; many had been drawn to the sound of Isaac calling Franz's name on top of the blaring deception of gunfire. For a second, Jean himself turned to think about the integrity of the squad before another reign of hellfire cut his thought off for a moment. By the stars above, why wouldn't they just let him be human for a moment? Quickly, the spread of automatic fire began to spread across the room, strafing from left to right in quick succession, pinning down all corners and crannies to hide within. Jean himself was nervous about his own hiding spot, which wasn't bullet proof if suppressed immensely with high concentration. Once the fire had moved to his right, he quickly popped up and aimed his rifle near the general direction of the gunner, shooting and clearly missing when his position was returned with a heavy execution of bullet-storm. Crawling his way beneath the window he'd been desperately cowering behind, Jean moved to a clearer position and breathed for a moment. His bearings needed to be gathered, and fast. There were troops still trying to secure the inn for the soul purpose of hitting back hard against the unknowing advocates for this painful intoxication of poisonous gas. For them, it was a matter of vengeance over a will to live. Those unable to get their own masks had already gone down, coughing and spluttering in their final demises if by chance they were drowned in futility. As for the ones able to fight, they gave all the hell they had to offer. Jean hoped that most of the squad was now outside, considering most of them began to move and vacate the premises. It was a case of simply getting up and spacing themselves as far back as they could. And attack as large as this couldn't have been made for unknown reasons, and something perhaps was planned itself following the incursion of fury. Awaiting the perfect time, Jean stood up and began running towards the exit himself, keeping his head low and his body lower. Another bullet scraped by the air beside him and slammed perfectly into the candles somehow unharmed by the consistent gunfire, well except when it got hit just then, and he tripped, staggering through the hole and lunging into the freedom of the yellow mist.
Carried only by the burden of survival, Jean was forced to press on whilst the chaos continued to ensue behind him. Familiar voices from every angle called out many different things, and panicked calls for help were starting to become more normalised than Jean hoped. This moment was unlike any other. Back in the fields of Garnia, even before he participated in the charge, Jean had seen only those who were facing the aftermaths of battle, weakly staggering alongside medical personnel to try and secure a tomorrow. Those who'd been killed before him mostly went down silently, or let out a short grunt of agony as the bullet strew through their organs. Terrifying in its own way, Amone had shown the suffering of those slowly dying amongst the fields of anguish. From the woman whose neck was sliced by glass shards to the civilians caught within the crossfire, here was a new layer to the already many floors hell had. Nothing came close. No one could anticipate or really rectify such horrors. As Jean continued to move on, he passed Isaac, who'd been tending to Franz as the call to his name had suggested. Jean took a moment to stand fast, quickly slowing down as he approached them. Luckily for the trio, the mist had thinned out around the back of the inn, specifically in the new street they had exfiltrated towards, yet like always another damned darkness surrounded the reunification. Seeing the body, sprawled and broken on the floor, Isaac had been struggling to control Franz's broken mind as he'd furiously slammed a weapon in and out of the Imperial's fresh, warm corpse. Damning one to death was one thing, but desecrating the already deceased was something far worse to witness in the heat of the moment. Jean stood still, unable to talk for a moment as Isaac continued to struggle in his assistance.
Isaac, nearby Diana, reiterated the command that Jean had figured out in its basic form only moments ago. It was great to see that his head was still in the game, focused only on the end goal and the task at hand: survival. Jean was never like that. If there was one thing that every single soldier would say amongst the sea of troops, it was that Isaac should usurp Jean and ensure he crumbled. Even so, if Jean were to catch a bullet, Isaac would've been left in command most likely, and would likely do a far greater job. His stern expression of concentration upon fixating Franz's mind was impressive and admirable, but also acted as a grim reminder to how poorly Jean realised his efforts were.
"We've...bought a tiny amount of time, only a tiny amount. We move now, and we need to move fast. Regroup when we can, but if we remain split, just find a way back to there!" Trying to ignore the corpse away, Jean quickly looked over to Isaac and forced him to look down his hands to where he was pointing. Down the end of the street, far at least, was the distant end of the city walls, led to directly by the streets itself. The gas caused confusion and disorganisation on all fronts combined, so it was inevitable that they were going to be threatened with splitting up themselves. "We...we move, as soon as we can! Now, and keep...k-keep ready, don't slack back!" Rapidly, Jean made headway for where the rest of the squad went. For now, this was all that was left to acknowledge. The coming days would be spent in agony, reminding themselves about the devastating aftermath that was the first ever use of chemical warfare on the field of battle.
He turned, quickly making use of the emptiness of the streets to closely hold his rifle, trying his best to navigate into areas that his squad may have followed through. It was a mismatch of disorganisation and utter panic, flailing many of the individuals within Squad 1 into states of manic depression, anger, sadness, fear and all kinds of negative emotions. No one was proud about what they saw, so Jean thought, and hoped that no man or woman could ever be proud of this weaponised mess. With that in mind, Jean continued to press onward. His bootsteps resonated gently in the quieter alleyways of the streets. Someone may have followed his misdirection, but at least it was away from the conflict that ensued. Now, it was a case of just finding out what happened next. It could take days, or perhaps weeks, to really settle for a placement. In Jean's mind, it made strategic sense for something big to follow from this devastation. No army had ever unleashed something so chaotic and not seized the opportunity to snag up enemy territory. Something would come from this, just anything really. It wasn't certainty, but Jean wanted to tell himself something hopeful to ensure he had something to focus on. Isaac was good at focusing. Jean needed to be better at focusing too. And when his mind unleashed its furious intent to continue pressing on, despite the chaotic backlash of the world all around him.
The Siege of Amone, September 26th - Time flew by...
Dearest Olivia,
September, 26th...1914EC. It has been 14 days since the first deployment of weaponised chemical ordinance, and the effects are still in place. Thousands of soldiers reaped the whirlwind of poison as it descended and clouded the entire world as we knew it. Amone, for a day, was completely submerged and engulfed in the stuff. All of it. From the front to the rear, top to bottom, every nook-and-bloody cranny was ousted with such riveting violence that even a sadist would've questioned its lethality, legality and true potential. Even those who claim to have been blessed with the fabricated lie that was the masks have now admitted to feeling the torture themselves. Some have uttered words of wishing to be amongst the dead. Few more even beg for the nightmare to be over. I know I did, Olivia. You were there when I did, I think.
I cannot stress enough how much this war has taken its toll on me, and those around me. People have changed, quicker than I even imagined. Some have grown used to the conflict, settling in sweetly with a bitter taste of acceptance. Others have fallen sick to the malpractice of murder, slaughter and dismemberment. Those controlling the artillery guns, the big ones, seem to feel the least empathetic. I wonder to myself how many Federation soldiers they might've accidentally peppered with shrapnel without even realising it. Perhaps if they found out, they would resonate with Lucia. Lord, it's been difficult with her. Ever since the day the gas fell and then dissipated, she's not been the same. I've heard words from other individuals questioning something about her. I didn't see it myself, but she apparently killed someone...no...two people, in an attempt to protect a fellow soldier of our squad. It seems so...out of character to hear it. I don't believe it nor do I want to. She is one of the few shining beacons still remaining true to how I met her in the first place. There are a few more, of course, but after that strange pledge to act as a sibling to her, I couldn't help but actually care more than I previously had. I've...gone off on a tangent, haven't I again? That was something I always did back then, before you went off to war. I know I was talking about the horrors all around me, but for some reason I can't help but distract myself with whatever nurturing thoughts that could come across my thin, weakened mind.
It took a week, Olivia, to rendezvous with the reinforcements. I had a hunch that a garrison unit was coming to sweep Amone after their inhumane assault, and I was right, but already they'd been bogged down about 3/4s of the journey through Amone itself. Even in constructed lands once filled with peace, No-Man's Land and free-fire zones have formed, except now this time it is far easier to distinguish whether or not you are in friendly territory or not. Following another week now and we still haven't completed our fucking (excuse my language) objective. Time and time again, we keep getting setbacks after setback. We are yet to meet up with our commanding officer, Captain Middleton, but I am sure in the coming hours he should be upon us like the devil incarnated. Our mission was critical, so I'm told. Many other squads from our blasted regiment have gone and either completed theirs or died trying. Liberating banks, offices and other large prominent structures...how interesting, they would say. We were given a demolitions task that we couldn't even complete or locate in the first place. Pitiful, I'd say. We can do better-...No...they can do better, I cannot improve. I've hit my limit. Everyone must be aware of that by now. Everyone must hear me sob at night, alone on watch duty as I endlessly squander in sleep-deprived trances. Delusional, hypnotic images of the past haunt my memories and twilight mishaps.
I need to give them credit where it is due, Squad 1 are fantastic. They've been kind to all but themselves, some even better than others, and I admire their ability to even find the courage to discuss topics of fear and complex problematique. During the week we spent alone out in Amone again, they spoke quietly amongst themselves, I think, and really hammered in their friendships and conversations. Some were open about stories of their past in order to cheer us up whilst others were content on simply providing a shoulder to lean on. I...didn't cry on anyone's shoulders. I should have. Olivia, it was always a blessing to have someone who could be there like that. Instead, the fool that was me curled up alone, two in the morning, whimpering about the world that I could've lived in if it weren't for the cruel fates of agony.
September 26th. We're back here, right? Well, September 23rd had us finally meet up with the three regiments now occupying our controlled frontline. Barricades of wood have been made on the edge of our border with the Empire in order to block any incoming armoured cars. That's what they're calling them. Cars seem friendly, if not for the automatic hellfire strapped on top of its swivelling mount. Turns out we were not the only ones to face them. In a way, it is lucky that you will never have to see any of this progression in technology, my dear sibling, for it makes you lose faith in yourself as well as the peers you are demanded to serve. But it's the 26th...we know that means I'm now of that age...aren't I?
The 25th. Easily the worst birthday gift was waking up to heaps of paperwork intended to be done for the Major local to the deployment zone. Hundreds, it felt like, of reports of casualties, events, day by day recollections and accounts of imperial numbers encountered, killed and still standing. I didn't tell anyone it was my birthday. I didn't tell anyone that I'm now the big 1-8 years of age...Eighteen. Strange, isn't it? People back home used to celebrate this age as a coming of maturity, where people would start finishing their education, finding true loves and hammering down on what they wanted in life. The war stopped that all. I'm surprised I even made it this far, Olivia. Most people are surprised I made it this far. Lucia doesn't even know. I'm sure you two would get along though. Even if not related by blood, she does have a real desire to earn our family name...unknowing its shame, funnily enough. Maybe if there is an afterlife in which we can all meet, you and Lucia can talk and gossip endlessly about the tidbits of your uniforms, rumours and wholesome topics. Give it some time, Olivia, and we'll be up there with you too, one way or another. Like a family, we'll be. Lucia hangs around with Michael a lot, so he could be a brother-in-law. I joke, obviously...though, everyone can clearly see his connection with the adorably pure girl. She's been gone for a while though, ever since we arrived and rendezvoused with our group. If memory served any of us well, she left to see her guardian...Or so he claims to be?
As expected, you don't get any birthday gifts if you don't tell anyone it's your birthday. Now it's the 26th. Time passed and I can't be bothered to really enforced gift giving in my squad. Hell, Luke had to have his birthday during the gas attack, I'm pretty sure. What a shit-show Amone has turned out to be. Cowardice from me, aggression from the others. I can't fucking stand it, Olivia...I just can't stand it anymore.
Jean stopped scribbling down onto the paper, finally giving in to the pressure of anxiety. What was he doing? The past twenty minutes had been spend sat on top of a wooden storage barrel, chipping away at the paper with pencil graphite slowly dissipating upon contact. For once, the rain had stopped, and so he simply sat outside where the air was somehow as fresh as before the gas fell. No one really spoke about it. No one mentioned the horrific weapon. Apparently a few more pockets of gas was still present in the city, though reduced to only small shacks and corners of gloomy alleyways. What seemed most peculiar though, to anyone who'd tried to read the letter, was that its supposed recipient was indeed Olivia. She was long-dead. Long gone. Fallen in the face of battle under the false advertisement of heroism and fanatic last stands. In reality, it wasn't going to be sent out as a letter. Jean wanted to write down his thoughts. Poetry had become mostly stale and brought back vivid flashbacks that he hated immensely. Instead, recounting things as they were, factually, with his own personal opinion clearly staged within, helped him relax and ease the mind of understanding. It'd been a lonely two days. He'd tried to integrate with the recovering soldiers of his own Squad but there was barely any time to do so. Many were spreading themselves out for needed rest after their week of separation, loneliness and continuous looming hostility. Since the gas fell upon the White Hart, and scattered around the entirety of Amone in unfathomable mass, the Squad couldn't have caught any breaks until they'd arrived here. Constantly being on the run, hiding from plain sight and the continuous patrols of blood-thirsty soldiers awaiting to exact their revenge...it was like something out of a horror story. Jean never liked painting the Imperial adversaries as faceless monsters, but when he saw the makeshift masks many of them carried, in preparation for another assault, he couldn't help but fear the very men and women who sought out to kill his Squad.
For a moment, his mind lingered on the surroundings for a moment. All around him, the scene was more lively to say the least. No longer was it down to quiet relaxations in the inn, occasionally being brightened up by the fantastic dancing of Jean's easily identifiable top interest at the time, and no longer was it a case of moping around in broken buildings, hoping to shelter themselves from suspicion and the guilt they carried with them. Ever since the 12th, Jean had been quiet. Entirely quiet. But all around him, the world was buzzing. Soldiers, both previously in Amone and newly arrived, wandered around in packs, unloading gear and creating an expressive environment. Some chanted and sang together whilst wandering around with their small rum rations, others nibbled quietly in the corner avoiding their potential squadmates. Murder was not on anyone's mind fortunately. Well, perhaps. Even with the upbeat and rag-tag environment all around Jean, he couldn't bring himself to smile then. Not now. He needed to find someone to talk to. Thinking over his facts, he planned to talk to Inés later, but not until he'd found some comfort in the others first. Part of him wanted to find Lucia, or to look into Reyna's eyes for a while, or even to discuss a lot with Franz and Michael. All that would come was uncertain, but something did catch his intrigue. It was a strange reunion, and not a welcomed one.
Steam must've been pouring from his snout as he peppered his way through the crowds, gently pushing past crowds of lollygagging soldiers who were contempt with the idea of relaxation and recovery. It was definitely the first time Jean had laid eyes upon him in a while, surprisingly. And just like every time before, Jean was definitely not in the mood to see what fury he was bringing. Alexander-John Middleton, Captain of the 15th Atlantic Riflemen. In his hands was a goal, an objective to say the least. Well, it wasn't in his hands, but rather his fists were the objective themselves. And just as Jean looked to see where he was going, standing up out of curiosity, the target was already located, and his destination was set.
The Siege of Amone, September 26th - The Source of all Good
His mind was furiously indoctrinated under the influence of anger. How dare he! How dare he even set a living finger against her soft body, out of disrespect for her purpose and calling to the war?! The little rat was nothing to be trifled with. Without realising it, Private Daunte was a fiend threatening her own reason for being alive. He was threatening her own very existence. And for one Captain Middleton, such a threat would need to be set straight as soon as it could. Emotions were taking over his body again. Closely behind him, well...not too closely, was the struggling Staff Sergeant Baker, who tried to usher him into a further state of relaxation himself. Forgetting about the boy was his top priority, but Alexander himself wasn't prepared to let such a delusional problem get in the way of almost three year's worth of progress. The brass wouldn't listen to him and his complaints, and now it was a matter of personal issue. Storming ahead, violently pacing around as he searched relentlessly, he could see the images of Lucia sobbing back at the tent deep within his head. She was begging for him to not approach Michael, or to confront him, and tried to assure the Captain that he was just a friendly squadmate who provided the safety he did when Middleton himself could not be present. The absolute...the...indecency of her words contradicted the statements itself, making her almost admit to having enjoyed the company of another boy. How...dare she! Had she forgotten the promise they'd made to one another? Had Lucia disregarded the training and the hard work just to muck around childishly with none other than some poncy upper-classed soldier who thought himself better than the Captain was. Perhaps he was, and the real Middleton would've said so too, but that was the past, and the present didn't like being challenged.
Finally, he came to the place he needed to. Somewhere, in a place less crowded with soldiers near the mid-line barricades, was a face that he seemed to loathe. And as his target was spotted, he grinded his teeth and prepped his hands for a potential execution. In all regards, morally what he could resort to would be unworthy, but with all the jurisdiction in the world and power that his rank held, he could add punishment for those who disobeyed the direct orders of leaving Lucia to her own devices and letting her function as a soldier, the way she was apparently intended to.
"PRIVATE DAUNTE! FORWARD FACE AND PRESENT YOUR ARMS, NOW!" And with a bellowing grumble, the command was already out, and the Staff Sergeant following behind stopped in his tracks, face dropping knowing that the point of no-return had already been crossed. Presenting arms? Presenting Michael's weapon...oh no...what was he planning to use as an excuse to reap fire upon him?
