Clearly, what passed for a gesture for a handshake was lost somewhere in translation. Ines retracted her hand, straightening her posture in accord with Jean, looking the young NCO up and down. He’d seen more than his share, she could tell. You couldn’t really squeeze in a bath in the frontlines, sure, but from where Ines was standing, Jean hadn’t so much as seen more water than a bucket of washcloths in well over a month. 

[color=4682b4]“Tch, look at you. This won’t do.”[/color] 

She slips off her right glove as she approaches Jean, briefly checking for dust or grime on her hand. A pressed swipe against the corner of Jean’s cheek seemed to dust away a stream of crusted dirt, yet her clearly annoyed, teeth-clenched, frowning demeanor gave away there was much more work to do. Another pass came around, this one harder than the last, passing over the same little cheek corner as she rubbed the dirt off. 

Her off hand relieves Jean of his embarrassment, yet her right hand kept busy. Not yet content to go, her mouth frowns, clenching teeth slightly, as a slight pinch along Jean’s lower cheek seemed to grind away any midgen of dust left on his face.

[color=4682b4]“There. You’ve got people looking up to you, Charpentier. Have to look sharp.”[/color] Ines instructs, as if it’s in her place to be giving instructions to him. 

Not yet done with him, her hands run along the upsides of his jacket, grasping a corner of his cuffs as she straightens it out, finishing the ironing sequence with a few light brushes as nebulae of dust whirl from the fabric.

[hr]

[center][i]October 20th, 1910[/i][/center]

In the deep corner of her coat pocket, her keys snuggled themselves nicely into a corner, determined to snag on the quips and hooks of loose string a worn-out pocket provided. Arm in arm, hand in hand, Ines could barely maneuver around her two grocery bags to dig around her pocket. As it was, each bag felt so full, so heavy, Ines supported each bottom beneath her forearm and bicep for fear either bag might split, and stubborn as she was, setting the two down was no option when the key kissed her fingertips as she fidgeted about in her search.

Each bag of groceries would have been the week’s pay for Ines, given what she made off of her commission. A Darcsen’s commission, at that. One battle jam one week, then an exhibition match the next was a dangerous creed to live by, triply for any league that had so scant of rulings such as this. Two fights a week. Prize money coined in for 100 francs at Low Silver matches to start. Add on 10% of admissions if you won. Another 10% of all bets if you were the champion, too. 3 to 5 francs a ticket, general admission. Crowd usually drew at least 200 people, more for a big exhibition event. Even a small fight - if Ines could pull off a win - made you win almost double the base pay.

That pay was their bread winnings for the week; hers, and her mother’s. Joan Levesque had a job of her own, seamstressing at a textile factory for pittances a day, and it said something that a woman at the age of 16 was making more than her 34 year-old mother. More by the week, even. Definitely more by the month. 

[color=4682b4]”Finally…”[/color] 

That damnable key slipped into the scissor clutch of her two fingers, removing it from the gnarled inner pocket. A solid [i]CLUNK[/i] resounded through the tenement, signalling her apartment door unlocking. Without the dexterous maneuvering necessary to put it back in it's so snug confinement, Ines barged the door open, stepping forth as she leaned into the heavy-set wooden door. 

[color=4682b4]”I’m home.”[/color] Ines announced. Joan lurched an arm upwards, her whole body still covered beneath bedsheets strewn about their floor. 

“Hi, Ines,” her mother moans in turn, only barely peeking her head out from behind thick blankets, “Back from the market?”

The entire tenement quaked as the door slammed shut, Ines delivering a forceful punt to its bottom quarter. Turning leftwards, Ines would quickly approach their sole stovetop, setting both bags on whatever flat surface was available with a grunt.

[color=4682b4]”Got everything.”[/color]

Out of her other pocket she plucked a larger, slightly yellowed envelope. Distinct jingling of coin against coin ruffled as she revealed the letter, tapping the corner with her finger. 

[color=4682b4]”Here.”[/color] Ines declared, tossing the paycheck to her mother as it landed scant millimeters from her head, [color=4682b4]“It’s the pay from the last fight.”[/color] Joan squints, head tilted up while her strewn arm clamped down upon the envelope.

Ines exhaled sharply. As she leaned over in respite from the day, her faint, weary eyes squinted, narrowing from what she saw beside the stove. 

Nothing.

When there was clearly supposed to be something - charcoal or firewood at bare minimum - there instead collected dust. Soot and ash from countless previous meals convened apropos a dune in the desert, yet cinder and clinker would not fuel a furnace. And it was not for lack of resources on their behalf that their place beside the stove remained empty, but therein lay the problem.

[color=4682b4]”Mom.”[/color] Ines queried, [color=4682b4]”Where’s the firewood?”[/color]

“...what?” a groggy voice echoed back. The young woman stepped up with a stomp to shake the floor to rising dust.

[color=4682b4]”I gave you money last week. Where. Is. The firewood?”[/color]

“...” 

Joan slowly rose from the confines of her comforter, embracing Ines to her gaze. She stood a few centimeters shorter than her daughter, and bore a gaunt frame to her offspring’s developed body. Yet in those deep, bag-set eyes, Joan could not yet bear to match her child’s eyes.

“I-...”

[color=4682b4]“Mom. What did you do?”[/color]

Joan intensified her breathing, hurrying while Ines dug her heels.

[color=4682b4]“Mom...what. Did. You do. With. The money?”[/color]

“I...spent it.” A squeak replied.

And then all Hell’s gates burst loose into apartment 416, Fontaine Street.

[color=4682b4]“I knew it. I fucking knew it! You have been fucking gambling!”[/color] Ines roared.

“But I-oh, Ines! You have to lose some to win a lot!”

[color=4682b4] “Don’t talk to me about winning, when I have to win a fight until someone’s teeth are on a dirty floor in some theater basement, just so you can take 200 francs and, and...and just throw it all away!”[/color]

“Ines! Don’t talk to me like that! You know I-”

[color=4682b4]“If it weren’t for me, I don’t know wher-”[/color]

“Don’t tell me that, missy! Where would we be without you [i]this[/i] time! Is it in a prison camp in Schwarzgrad digging coal? Or still with the merchant navy? Or are we selling crepes to tourists in Versailles Square? You know, I [i]raised you!”[/i]

[color=4682b4]“Aunt Aline raised me! Not you! Every time you tried to raise me, or come see me, or just be a goddamn [i]mom[/i] you weren’t there! Instead, you’re at the bar so stammering drunk, you can’t walk! [i]I[/i] have to scoop you off the floor![i] Every.[/i] [i]Goddamn. Night![/i] I have to take care of you!”[/color]

[color=4682b4][i]“Which one of us is supposed to be the fucking mother?!”[/i][/color]

[hr]

The woman had her share of keeping up with people, sure. Those people were likely incapable of even supporting themselves, let alone a daughter who’d, against all odds and all sense of logic, try to become a better woman than themself. She had a sense on Jean. Not much of one, but she could see a few things about him. The way he stared off - how he’d turn his head and be whisked away - that man had seen some things. Hell, Ines knew she was guilty of that. For all the good that trying to focus on the present did. What was the point of focusing on the present when the present consists of being thrown into a meat grinder? He’d started learning how to take his mind off of things, at least.

[color=4682b4]“Have yourself a puff, mate.”[/color] Her left hand motions forward, the fuming cig drifting its smoke into the dilapidated metropolis. The call of another drifted her eyes left, heeding for another introduction. Fingers crossed over, she plucks her smoke between Jean’s fingers, his fingers not quite being an ashtray, but filling the role right now.

Another squadmate called to her, this one a lighthead. She seemed a bit tanned, but how she was shaped…[color=4682b4][i]“Don’t stare...don’t stare...don’t stare…”[/i][/color]

Love may bloom on the battlefield, they say, but practicality was another concern. Ines could oogle all she wanted to whenever they were out of danger, and somewhere far away from a city locked somewhere between the River Acheron and the Gates to Hell, where those neutral were damned and not even the righteous dared proceed. Where one received endless torment through wasps consuming the flesh and worms gorging the blood, there was no time for romance, for lust condemned the sinner to be flayed apart in an eternal tempest. 

She shook the thought from her mind, returning focus to the lighthead. An introduction, of course, and agreement with the Corporal. [color=4682b4][i]“Not bad advice…”[/i][/color], she thought. Turned to her partner-in-war, Ines nodded calmly in turn, not particularly focused on either Jean nor Diana.

[color=4682b4]“There isn’t a [b]good[/b] time to volunteer in a war.”[/color] Ines answered, almost with arrogance, some might say. Stern and unwavering it was, yet with no accusatory tone. It was more as if she were angry with the state of being rather than the faults of the duo before her, so omnidirectional was her ire. Yet, she would remain seriously faced, shaking her head once at the two.

[color=4682b4]"We'll get through this. Keep your wits about you, and we'll all make it home."[/color] she reassured the two, patting Jean on his shoulder.

Another darkhead came up to her, this one blank in his face. Handsome, sure, but notably flat in expression, professional to the point. Hand extended outward, Ines met his hand with her own, almost grasping his wrist, but shaking with whatever composure she could with the awkward grip. Her eyes motioned around his face quickly; her eyes seemed steady, yet widening, like she was sympathetic. Empathetic, almost. Almost as though she knew about Franz. Almost as if she could be there with him, and she'd known what he was about, and why he was always so serious. A face like his...Ines could see that stare on him, the thousand meter stare. He might have been alright, once. But there might be something left of him. Especially if there was an offer for a cigarette on the line.

The most useful skill Ines could was to suppress her inner disgust, and put on a pleasant demeanor whenever she could. If she had wanted to, Ines would be quite the lady to behold, proper of manner, and ladylike, to boot.

[color=4682b4]"I hope your skill at fighting is better than your taste in smokes."[/color] She replied, picking the cigarette from Franz's hand.

[color=4682b4]"But it's not hard to improve on garbage."[/color] Ines tossed the cigarette away, flicking it in a direction she clearly did not care to check. She reaches to her pouch - eyes steady on Franz - and pulls out a Khandar Cig from her case. That, she held between two fingers, and didn't bother waiting for Franz's approval; she put it in his hand firmly and decidedly. Ines was far from a charity case, of course. Not the type to let herself go without receiving some sort of favor for favors. But maybe this was her way of repaying Franz for his polite gesture, to give him a more exquisite treat for trash on the ground. Maybe she went a bit easy on fellow Darcsens. Maybe she was just a big softie, after all.

[color=4682b4]"This is the good stuff. Have one. You won't touch another cigarette after having one."[/color] the Darcsen reassured her compatriot. And for what was the first time, Ines smiled. More like a grin, of course, sly and stretching to one ear, but Franz earned himself a smile from the woman. If nothing else, that was an accomplishment. More than Jean got. Painfully clear that Ines was not the type for flattery - she was going to approach you, not the other way around - and by what had happened, by approaching her, she almost appreciated his guts. 

Stepping back from the group, she paced around, head tilted up through the barebone structures of old Amone. Amidst a sepulchral boneyard of lives long gone, Ines ambulated back, and forth, and back again, almost as if she were inspecting the ruins before her. 

[color=4682b4]“This place is a proper hole…Buildings beyond repair, people pushed out from where they have lived for years, and filled with people who would love nothing more than to put us two meters down a ditch…”[/color] 

Then...she started to laugh. A grin, a maddening cachinnate resounded through the blasted cityscape as she saw the old made new again.

[color=4682b4]“I love it here! It’s just like home!”[/color]

[@LetMeDoStuff] [@CFProxy] [@Landaus Five-One]