[i]The average performance of the squad was pretty good, most got at least one kill. But their teamwork...[/i] It was chilly outside, the last gasp of winter slowly giving way to spring's warmth. Still cold enough for Harald to see his breath crystalise in the air before him, although granted, that may just be the cigarette's fault. He had gone over the reports from the day's mock battle, faithfully recorded by a dozen marshals dotted around the field and he wasn't sure that he liked what he saw. Annoyingly, there [i]had[/i] been a plan, one he had taken the time to explain to his troops before the exercise began; regardless of whether they simply forgot their parts in the excitement or didn't give a damn in the first place, it didn't bode well for the future. The next day's work would need to emphasise teamwork and basic unit cohesion... And Carn could learn to drive that damn APC properly while they were at it...

Presently, Harald became aware of another presence outside the barrack halls, of soft breathing just around the next corner. He tiptoed over to the edge of the wall, unsure of why he was being so stealthy and found Sykora messing with a notebook. [i]An artist perhaps? Or a writer?[/i] Harald would be the first to admit to being a philistine and had trouble reading at the best of times, but nevertheless he held a certain respect for people with such talent. Melancholic wistfulness perhaps, or just benign jealousy? It didn't matter. After a few moments of silent observation, Sykora suddenly stood. Panicking that he had disturbed or upset her, Harald pulled himself back around the corner hurriedly. The long silence that followed only grew heavier as Sykora stood staring at where he had been and in the end, Harald felt sufficiently guilty that he strolled around the corner with a nonchalant air, trying his damnest to pass it off as coincidence. [b]'Evening PFC. Getting some air?'[/b] He took a long drag from his dying cigarette and stubbed it out into a nearby dustbin. [b]'Never really had a chance to talk to you, Sykora. Mind if I ask where you're from?'[/b]


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Alonso's quiet coffee break came to an abrupt end as the squad's wall of a mechanic plopped down opposite. He wasn't in a great mood, but Alonso tried his best anyway. [b]'Hey. Pretty bad to be honest. A sniper got me before I even saw them coming; barely got out of the flag area.'[/b] His expression made it very clear what he thought about that. [b]'It ain't fair, they shouldn't be able to do that. And why were we, understrength, matched up with a full squad with a damn tank?'[/b] He could accept that the exercise was meant to simulate a real battle and those were [i]never[/i] fair, but the weakness of Squad Four irked him. It wasn't the people, it wasn't the equipment... it wasn't even the darkhair, as much as Alonso would love to blame it on him. The unusually large number of non-Gallian nationals might have played a part though; one of the guys was a Fed and he was damn sure that two of the others were Imps in disguise. [i]Fucking foreigners...[/i] [b]'I dunno, maybe tomorrow will be better. What about you? Heard you went one on one with that tank.'[/b]