Maybe there was supposed to be a romantic, grim undertone to musing about the laiden bodies of the fallen after a bloody and brutal fight for survival. A gruesome sight, surely, eyes missing and gashes larger than hands peppering the corpses like some carnal crimson bloom. Ines could have sworn she felt breaths along her neck, like someone in this sarcophagus still remained among the living. At this rate, Ines never knew. There was this almost primitive beauty to it, really, as if she were supposed to gaze upon this decaying coffin in remorse and fear, and be thankful she still stood. As much of a hand she had in the slaughter, she told herself she just put the nails in the coffin. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to question her actions, but who kills without ever wondering why?

She felt herself blink, like she was almost walking up from a dream, or a nightmare, more like. It didn’t go away. She didn’t even come to with what she had done. It was there. It couldn’t go away. And Ines knew what she did couldn’t go away, yet, there existed a lingering feeling in the back of her head which proclaimed her actions to be permanent. Justified, in a sense, out of sheer reality that which is done cannot be undone. 

If there even was a God, and we answered to him, or her, or it, and we pay for our actions in blood or sacrifice, Heaven or Hell, who was to judge God? To who did God answer? And if God answers to naught but themselves...why, when we answer to ourselves, are we lesser? Did we not deserve to answer to ourselves?

[i]Someone[/i] called out to them. Someone she recognized...Jean? [color=4682b4][i]“...that was his name...right?”[/i][/color] she thought. Her head felt pounding, rushing. Blinding. Resurgence of sensation flooded to and from every part of her skull, almost like someone would turn on and off the lights, like her own mind was toying with her senses. Everything faded in and out, coming into a faint, blurry field of vision after the murk settled in her brain. She blinked once, then again to refresh her sight. Less blurry. More clean, more focused. Her head was still rather fuzzy, like she could feel this ever so slight tingling through her thoughts, almost like when a limb fell asleep. 

The signal was straightforward; “Come back,” it beckoned, “The fight’s over.” Not those exact words, mind. Every sensation and thought melded together like a nebulous fuzzy fog. Just getting off of her feet seemed hard enough. 

Everyone who had returned from their division were welcoming, to be positive. Positivity of being alive was certainly a trait they seldom seemed to show, yet every soldier knew that was more an expression left unspoken. Nobody truly wanted to die, no matter what suicidal tendencies they showed when they charged or engaged, no matter what they said or did. In a place as dangerous as a warfield, those seeking death would have found it in spades, and they would be departed towards elysian fields long ago. 

Squad One was a sight to behold after such [i]sanguine[/i] exchanges with the Imperials. Ines was one such sight, now peppered, smeared, and sauteed with ample amounts of blood, dirt, and other unwanted grime in colorations perhaps concerning, otherwise best left unquestioned. A forearm raised to wipe it from her brow, at least partially clearing her battle-soiled face, while she looked down with her signature deep-set grimace of disgust. In one hand, she loosely carried her rifle by the foregrip and magazine, allowing the sling to freely dangle while it tangled with the ground. In her opposite, her helmet - now more of a set piece or a curio than any true protective wear - showed a stark indentation along its rear, chipped and bent from blow after blow, scratch after scratch. 

[color=FFB6C1]“I wonder how many times Ines is going to smack your face?”[/color]

[color=4682b4][i]“Not enough.”[/i][/color] Ines replied in her head. The dirt-head looked pretty roughed up. Even worse than she was, probably. And he might have been a no-good shithead, sure, and Ines found herself responding to his plea without a care for it. If anything, it’d be good to have a favor over him.

Her hand gently cusped around the bottom of his cheek, carefully pinching two fingers together on the firm grip of a wedged splinter, gently eking it out with a pustule of blood. 

[color=4682b4]“Be still, or I might mess this up.”[/color] Ines commanded, taking to work on clearing Luke’s face from splinters and fragments. One by one, she pricked every last shard out, his face inevitably peppered like a bloodied array of speckled scars. Turning his head over before releasing his hold over, the serious face of the woman scantily showed pity, but showed a cold, invested sympathy for the young man’s condition. 

[color=4682b4]“There.”[/color] the Darcsen announced, putting her hands on her hips while she looked at Luke sternly, [color=4682b4]“Say something smart, and i’ll slap these splinters right back into you.”[/color]

[color=FFB6C1]“Oh yeah, I forgot to add, a bit uglier? On the scale of 1 to 10, it’s now a five on the ugly scale. In terms of your face, Luke. I don’t think anyone could fix that as long as you are an asshole.”[/color] Ines would have nodded along, but with how her natural face emanated a natural death glare, narrowing as she began to pass right on by Luke, Ines became of the opinion she needed not repeat what had already been said. 

There was someone else here who needed, or…

[color=4682b4][i]“No, she definitely needs it.”[/i][/color]

So it was decided, then; Ines was going to help the lighthead with her little fidgeting problem. Nobody just stops staring out at an apartment block missing four floors, brushes themselves off, and tries to say, “Everything is fine!” with a stutter so bad it makes the San Francisco Fault look steady. 

[color=4682b4][i]”...shit. I don’t how to start this…”[/i][/color] Gay flirting wasn’t really her forte. Nor was any measure of comfort. Ines was a scrapper, not a therapist. Hell, she liked a girl as much as the next gir-

[color=4682b4][i]“God fucking dammit, Ines. Just pull yourself together and ask the woman…”[/i][/color]

[color=4682b4]“...are you...okay?"[/color]

Yeah, okay. Ines wasn’t the smoothest. By the way she stood there next to Freya, still looking like Bloody Mary after a double shift at the slaughterhouse, only giving a sideways glance to her, Hell, Ines was almost shy at this point. Though, that wasn’t all in all a bad thing for her; she expected for Freya to do the bulk of the talking.

[color=4682b4]“You look pretty shaken up.”[/color] Ines clarified, calm, clear, empathetic in tone.

[@Jacky] [@LetMeDoStuff]