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Among the three of them, the other person who is not a Darcsen was the first to respond. Upon closer recognition, Michael realized she was the one whom he had helped up just hours ago as they both ascended the hill, separated during the final charge into the melee. That smile of hers as she spoke. It was the feeling of relief; he could hear it in the stress of her voice. Yeah, after all that destruction, that death and terror he, no they, had to go through, he wouldn't be any higher or lower than her right now. Though seeing her so clingy to Jean while smiling like that was a little...weird. Or maybe this was a common thing? He didn't dig deep into this aspect.

[color=bf00ff]"Oh yes. I didn't have the opportunity to introduce properly."[/color] Michael changed his posture, straightening up while he pulled his shirts a little bit. It didn't help that it was filled with mud and blood from the fighting, but in this world full of filth, it would be a little nice to appear more civilized as he could. [color=bf00ff]"I'm Michael. Michael Daunte. I'm from the city of Tyrelia, Edinburgh."[/color] He had his hand forward as a polite gesture. Now that he noticed, she was also the one who repeatedly said he was a child. He wasn't sure if he wanted to bring that up again. Probably not now. He would look rude, and honestly salty, to everyone. And to be frank, he probably wouldn't resonate as a child as soon as people hear him speak. His voice was deep, a little cloggy after going through hell but still clear enough to hear, and he seemed to know things that no child would be able to know unless they are some sort of genius. It's just that biology somehow puts a boundary on his physical growth. He liked to comfort himself by saying that 'he' did so so that he could grow mentally, but that would just be dishonest to the unknown truth. 

The moment of light-hearted fun quickly ended. War just had the habit of getting in the way of things like that. After Isaac and Britta, who came down pretty much without anything to say to the group, the other person was someone he knew personally. It was the same Darcsen that he had tried to treat earlier. The same one that waved goodbyes to him when he left him right before artillery hits. Now...he was a different man from before. The man that was so calm under fire, so chilled out that he even asked for a cigarette after he had a hole in his chest. Now he was as stiff and emotionless as what he could have expected from any person being thrown into the hellfire of warfare, but not from a person like Franz. He was about to wonder what happened when...[hr][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMJJWmxVkkk[/youtube][hr]
Mila Wagner? 

He did hear her name a few times. Rumor was a thing to be feared in its spread. Back then during the boot camp training, Michael would occasionally hear some of his fellow comrades, most of them females, talking about a tall blonde girl who liked to help new recruits through the grueling session, often giving them emotional support and such. Was it the girl he met earlier up the hill? The one who grabbed that Vinland sapper by the collar? The one who said herself to be filthy? And now she's dead? He'd like to think that she's not, that maybe she was just a case of similar looking description, but the truth that he did not know exactly was that she was otherwise. The girl that young girls love, devote themselves to and so aspire to become was now laying dead in the mud. Didn't care if she had Imperial blood, fighting for the Federation, being a kind and loving sister that nobody think she deserved such a fate. War made everybody equal. 

But despite not being a close friend, or perhaps because she wasn't that close of a friend, Michael felt as if the ground before him was fleeing from him. It was transparent. That feeling when you are falling and you are not. When would news like this be over? When those he had gotten to know of, those who were just his age, filled with potentials, with talents and ambitions, being ripped of it forever and be sent into hell-on-Earth, only to emerge a motionless and colorless corpse. When would that be his turn? Would he be able to get used to such a thing? And nonetheless...how many more must Michael HIMSELF send over? He shuddered to even look at his hand right now. He didn't want to kill, but he didn't want to die either. But they are mutually exclusive, and he was forced, every time, to pick one of it.

Jean was also heavily shaken. Visibly so. It didn't take a genius for Michael to see it on his face. As he ordered the squad to remain where it was, Michael suddenly found himself walking away from the group for a little bit. Where was he going? What could his conscious mind say but 'I don't know', or 'Just wandering around'. Wandering around may be a convincing argument, but why would it be wandering around when he was only going back and forth through one particular trench in the entire line? The place wasn't even that far away from the 15th Atlantic Rifle's gathering point in fact, one could go there in a few seconds. It overlooked the entire hill where he just ascended up and down in a single day, a hill now hauntingly silent from the sheer amount of souls lost in a single day. 

This was the place.

This was the place where a few hours ago, a few thousand people would still be alive. And Michael would be standing...somewhere over here. He would be waiting for the fateful charge, and a few minutes following that he would be ascending the ladder, only to fell down here. On by her. But now she's gone. He didn't even know if this was her blood or not. The rain had gushed everything together into a mess, and anything left of it would be a product of impurity. Had she been buried already? Where would she be now? The thought never ceased as Michael went across the trench once, twice then thrice, often glancing up the hill or the other way. Could she be here, or here? 

But it was no use. He didn't know her name, or anyone that she knew. In his fragile self right now, she only appeared to him as a cute petite girl - though still taller than him, only five foot five in height, with a pair of innocent and pure sky blue eyes and hair as natural as the pine oak tree near his house that was tied neatly into a single and simple braid hanging on her shoulder. Nothing else. He lost her in the charge, and now he couldn't find her again, even just for a final wish of rest in peace.

[color=bf00ff][I]'...'[/I][/color]

He placed a hand on his lips, paying no attention to the dry blood and filth on it. Now everybody is the same. His eyes began to blink. Quite slowly at first, then sped up like an accelerating car. Until he hit the ceiling, that was when he stopped. But that was it. He thought it would yield something, but nothing came. Nothing came...It was no use. He couldn't be like Jean or Lucia even if he wanted to. 

After a few minutes going around in vain, Michael returned to his squad. Just in time when Jean returned...with Lucia? She was placed right near him, as Jean ordered everyone to house her nicely. His statement that she was still alive lifted the nails off his shoulders. Scared? True though. Even a person like Michael was freaking out to the point that he had to draw a cross on his chest up there, not to mention a girl like Lucia. 

He knelt over Lucia once more. She looked just as when she was asleep: beautiful and innocent. He had his hand gently placed on her wrist, his eyes glancing at her chest briefly, whilst the other hand near her nose before glossing over her forehead. Jean was right. It seemed like nothing serious happened to her. She was just scared and fatigued from the stress of having to kill a friendly. She didn't need much treatment really. He just need to get her to the rear line to rest. 

Michael gently threw his gun around his left shoulders before placing his hands below Lucia's body, one letting her back rest on and the other one behind her knees, as he slowly straighten his legs up, thus lifting the small girl up. One may find it an odd and surprising sight, to witness a man as small and unimpressive as Michael being able to lift up a girl just about the same size, but Michael only turned to the squad once. 

[color=bf00ff]"I'll take her to the rear line."[/color] So that they know where he would be. If nobody had objected, Michael would gradually find his way back to the rear, after turning a few corners and asking a few soldiers directions, and a bunk for Lucia to rest on. And too he would sit on the opposite side. For once, he could breathe the air that did not wreak of tension. 
[@LetMeDoStuff][@Landaus Five-One]