[center][h3]Private Durandal[/h3][/center]
The young woman had been taking the opportunity to collect herself. Memories beyond a certain point became a jumble, and then a haze. She could try to remember, but nothing made sense unless she took the time to put them in order. It was a tiring exercise, a strange kind of fatigue that leaves you drained, but not physically tried. She wanted to move through her stances and forms, but there was no space. They were moving somewhere, though she wasn't sure where. She wished she had a map to study. How far was she from home?

No, she shouldn't get distracted. She'd probably remember if she put it all together. Or... if she read through more of this journal?

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Somehow, the more she read of the journal, she more she was filled with a profound sadness. She had a sense that she knew how the story ended. Really, the dogtags that came with the journal were story enough. She couldn't read much of the journal at once, but the man had become aware of a new addition to his squad, a lancer for their next mission. It was at this point in her reading that the APC stopped. She closed the book and tucked it away swiftly, looking up at the Sergeant. A tank...? She reached for her mortar, prepared to make a sprint.