[centre][hr][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/181005/fc898f921f53203bc3bc9106717c7c88.png[/img]

[sub][color=Silver][i]The Siege of Amone, September 10th - [b]Stress[/b][/i][/color][/sub]
[hr][/centre]
[color=Silver]	There were a few muffles of individuals behind preparing for their discomforting relaxation on the floor of a once standing building, but Jean paid little to no attention towards them. Luke's voice was likely the most prominent, and he wouldn't have been surprised if someone along the likes of Franz or whoever forced him to quieten down. Yes, it was the night, but the prowls of the marksmen, spectral hunters and warlocks of the Imperial war machine were still a viable threat for the unlikely band of survivors. All word had been cut off from the entry-point to the city. Amone was cut off, most likely, for another lengthened period of time. Perhaps the Federation had given up on trying to send more reinforcements into the fray and instead turned their attention to defending the outer rims, or putting their full focus elsewhere on the Europan Frontier. For a moment of small relief, the 15th Atlantic Rifles garnered a lot of social traction and fame for their breakthrough of the Garnian Salient. Whilst it didn't feel like much of a breakthrough at all, especially to people like Jean, it was still foolish to say that they didn't [i]win[/i] the battle in some way, shape or form. Jean was a pessimist, indefinitely, but even with his inhumane and immoral methods of contributing to the war effort, Captain Middleton did orchestrate the winning strategy. It wasn't much of a strategy, mind him, but it was [i]the best[/i] with what they had to offer. No one truly knew how to fight this war. People were either desperately holding on to the theories and doctrines of the pre-20th century conflicts. Others, however, were trying to find and scout out new ways to keep up with the modern tools of slaughter. Middleton, in some way, was a blend of the two. He'd disregarded the importance of surviving manpower, but at the same time using the tools like artillery had gone a long way in his favour during previous battles. On the train to Amone, Jean even snooped through the records of his military victories, and some were even quite admirable for someone as hateful as he was.

	Jean felt the stones beneath where he sat dig into his skin and scrape by unnoticed, whereas the chair beside him looked barely strong enough to hold his own weight. With his free hands, he started to gentle rub some of the grime from his rifle that had accumulated over the course of the battle, though most of it was simply the excess of rainwater that gently showered its interiors. Unlike Hill 58, where his gear was dampened in a thick layer of mud, grime and soil, here it was just the dried blood and rainwater that had managed to dress and decorate the Longfield. Every now and then, his eyes would dart back out into the wet streets of Amone, where the shallow showers from above lightly peppered the stone pavements. What rotten luck, this whole weather was. A dank depression encompassed the entire world around Squad 1, and Jean felt it the most. He clutched onto his webbing as he unclipped one of the phantom pockets located just before his heart. From within, Jean pulled out the smallest little piece of paper, smaller than the poetry Freya had managed to intercept those many weeks ago. On its occupied side, there was an image laid before him.

	A spirited, yet easily recognisable damsel stared at him with a beaming smile. The first image of her deployment. Jean gently rubbed his thumb across the body and face of the photographic memory, sighing to himself. In her stance, she hadn't been associated with the metallic headgear that the Federation troops were known for. She'd taken a knee, with one crystal-gloved hand resting easily upon it. On her head was the soft cap that held the Federation insignia. Specifically, it showed her regimental [url=https://media.discordapp.net/attachments/498628320745750528/548609611637456907/unknown.png]insignia[/url], where beneath its avian appearance read the infamous motto of a once ancient and foreign language: [b][i]"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." / It is sweet and proper to die for one's country.[/i][/b] Simply reading those words brought a tear to Jean eye, which dribbled down his cheek effortlessly and onto the photo he held. Olivia's face upon its white background made him feel insignificant, lost in the trance of memory and nostalgia. It was back then, during a time and day where Jean looked at that first photo with pride and a sense of happiness. She'd brought him up as his guardian, becoming more personally close than their mother or father could've ever related to. The day he first laid eyes upon her formal dressing, having finally heard that she'd made it through basic training, Jean was flooded with appreciation for all that she could do. How foolish he was, and now he'd been kicking himself for thinking such optimistic ways in the past. Olivia was gone. Olivia was dead, likely forgotten in a clouded drainage hole in some random Europan or Asseni field. Officially, she was murdered and ripped from Jean's poor clutches a few months after the First Crossing of the Maren River, specifically at the Battle of Raloth River.

	He still imagined her sweetened face, where she would use her age and knowledge of the world to further guide Jean through the wisdom of a good life. Those days were over. All of those happy days were nothing more than a faint and distant echo down the everlasting tunnel of disappointment and deceit. Now, he was stuck and left to conform to this wasting of human life. The Federation and the Imperials were locked in a deadly conflict for a single grand city, one that held much religious and morale-based significance to either faction, yet Jean couldn't of cared any less. There were those amongst his group fighting for a better tomorrow, or trying to protect those at home by doing the fighting for them, yet Jean was no longer committing to it for anyone. Whilst his heart was now only set on both the fantastic Reyna or the equally as elegant Kalisa, there was no nationalism, jingoistic or familial ties left to the war.

	Jean's mind was suddenly snapped from his existential suffering when the masculine voice of Isaac caught up and surprised him. Jean shuddered in his spot, visibly jumping in place when he heard the suddenly interception of his trance. With curiosity and a sense of worry, Jean turned his head slowly towards him as he jokingly indicated his slumber being legitimate. Unfortunately, the Corporal hadn't been in the mood for joking around at the moment, nor did he even crack a smile in that small second of humorous intent. Finally, Isaac beckoned for him to talk about the issue at hand, but instead Jean had other plans. In reality, he didn't want to relive the thoughts of stabbing a married woman before the corpse of her lover, breaking their spiritual and emotional bond with the slicing of a shard of glass. Jean instead turned around fully, tossing over the photo. It slid across the floor before stopping moments away from Isaac, revealing the vulnerable, yet youthful, face of Jean's now late older sister. A wild fury had been extinguished within Jean's eyes as his subsided trauma kicked in once more.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"My thoughts, Lance Corporal Black, lie on her."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Strangely enough, accompanying his cryptic expression of emotion, Jean only addressed Isaac in a rather formal way, uncharacteristic to his usual mannerism. Jean removed his helmet once more and settled it gently down beside him, revealing his Darcsen hair once more.[/color] [color=Aqua][b]"She...no longer grows older, and yet here I am, still. W-Who...who decides such things, Isaac? Which deity, religion or ideology allows for us to turn our blades, our guns and our cannons towards one another, ignoring the contemplation of peace and cooperation? S-She was sweet, I'll tell you. A real...angel. Dear sister Olivia, the shining beacon of Liege, some would call her. Always there to help, and never to be helped. It carried onto the frontline too. T-The...the image was taken before her first deployment to the Maren River, where a few months later she was brutally killed on the nearby Raloth River, one of its tributaries. Soon...s-soon I'm to surpass her resting age, Isaac, and I can't live with that. I..."[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	Once Isaac had enough time to study the image, Jean quickly swiped it back up and held it dearly to his heart, beginning to sob once more. Truly, from his natural self of confidence he once felt as a child, he'd lost all hope in his own emotional state. There was little that could fix his uneasy renditions of mental instability. He felt hopeless, and a wave of realisation finally broke out. Jean's mind began to flood with the very same expressive outbursts he'd been meaning to feel and show since the news came to him, but the pressures of being a good NCO halted him from ever thinking about their deaths.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"I-I...I have nothing left, Isaac. No home, family or friends. My mother and father were brutally murdered a month ago during training...because of some stupid...s-stupid anti-Darcsens who'd rather spill the blood of their neighbours than focus on anything more important. I...I struck a nerve on Luke's oppressive nature because of this aggression, this brutalisation of the innocent. Why...why are we being forced to tear families apart, like mine had? When you've gone through this pain, a thin line is created between wanting to continue in order to survive, or to simply let the enemy gun me down in plain sight."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]In that moment, Jean had had enough of the reminiscence of the melancholic realities of the cruel world. He turned to Isaac and looked at him intensely. There wasn't any aggression targeted towards him, but Jean knew that in order to get the peace he wanted, he needed to set something straight.[/color] [color=Aqua][b]"There...there are two small fucking things left in this Squad that are keeping me going, Isaac. Protecting you guys, my friends and allies, as well as looking out to the two I lo-"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	Realising how much he'd been spilling on his own emotions, which in itself was damaging to his own morale, Jean quickly shut his mouth and turned away, pointing towards the doors where the others were sleeping and resting. Jean didn't want or need any of the comfort that didn't extend beyond the valley of friendship and camaraderie. Without a real connection other than the friendship and unhealthy NCO conglomerate, Jean kept his finger pointing towards those doors as he finally spoke once more, a sense of agitation in his tone.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"Please...j-just go. I ordered you to watch over the injured and to ensure everyone is resting easy. You [i]need[/i] rest. And as my rank dictates, no matter what position you are in, whether it is the ethereal transition into sleep or bloody not, you will go back and rest. This is for your benefit. I can sacrifice sleep to watch over you guys because I will not sleep. If...If everyone wants me to be this perfect Corporal that the others can look up to in times of danger, then I need to show it. T-Thomas has that ability, and s-so should I. So...so please, Isaac...Just...please just look over the others. Make sure their safe. I'll do my part here, but you need to be the person they can resonate with, and the one they can talk to without fear or offending or upsetting, like I am to them. Do...do them all a favour, please?"[/b][/color]

[centre][hr][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/181108/62285f4ab6caabf9e7936d051c2d8c80.png[/img]
[sub][color=Silver][i]The Siege of Amone, September 10th - [b]A pledge to affirm compassion[/b][/i][/color][/sub]
[hr][/centre]
[color=Silver]	Michael had gone into a room of his own to remove the dampening weight of the rain. Lucia, herself, stood eagerly outside, resisting the somewhat dangerous temptation to walk in and help occupy the room. Even though he needed the privacy to go through and adjust his uniform accordingly, Lucia couldn't help but tremble over the fact that he might be murdered in the time it takes for her to realise. Standing outside left him alone and vulnerable, and by the training of her foremaster, Lucia knew that there was no boundary to safety if she wasn't there. Middleton had taught her that, through beatings and starvation, that without the protector and pledged allegiance, there was no guarantee that they would remain safe and alive. In a state of worry, Lucia tempted herself to knock on the door wildly to check if there was a response, but the courteous teachings had ensured she resisted that lustful urge to check on her one true idol. Eventually, when the noises of movement and the creaking of the bed frame made its arrival, Lucia slowly began to open the door and shut it quietly behind her, trying to ensure no one else could come in to disturb the injured Michael.

	As she entered, he hadn't noticed her straight away as he seemed to be admiring, or rather contemplating the integrity of, the medical bandaging surrounding the grazes and bullet scars left during that small incursion. Lucia hadn't been that close to the flailing of bullets ever before in her life, but for some reason she felt less exhausted by that than by the waiting in the trenches of Hill 58, where her mind was begging and pleading the gods above to not have her allies retreat, forcing her to gun them down in cold blood by orders of her own true master. Finally, Michael worded his appreciation for Diana and Lucia's craftsmanship on stopping the bleeding, nodding to himself to acknowledge the hard work they tried to put in whilst under stress. Once he said it out loud, Lucia finally blew her own cover of secrecy and giggled lightly, though with a broken undertone still laid within it. Knowing that her signature blessing of innocence would gather his attention, she slowly began to walk towards Michael, her hands clasped together behind her back. Every step had around a second interval before the follow up came by, making her approach long-winded but understandable for her sense of nervousness and worry over her closest [i]ally[/i] here in Squad 1. It took just under a minute before she came close enough to finally speak, barely less than a quarter of a metres' width away from colliding with him. Both of them were small, yes, but at least they could meet one-another in the eyes when they spoke to each other.[/color]

[color=A9FF7D][b]"I'm...glad you like our work. Diana is quite...she's good at it, isn't she?"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Her eyes looked away as she finally took off her helmet, placing it gently down beside where Michael's hat had gone. Her silver hair finally draped down from her shoulders, unfurling like a lotus flower down her back and letting itself free from all entrapment. When she turned back around to face Michael, she finally continued her statement.[/color] [color=A9FF7D][b]"It...it was mostly her work, though. I was too focused on making s-sure you weren't going to be harmed anymore."[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	Once she mentioned him being harmed, her mind ticked slightly. Her eye almost twitched as the notion of revenge suddenly took its toll. From within her natural spirit, she'd felt herself corrupt for one moment as she indulged the ruthless training of combat and resolve given to her by the masters of the Federation's prize-officer. She wanted to go back out there, into the night, with her bayonet drawn in order to hunt down the very man or woman who'd even thought about shooting Michael. She would've[/color] [color=gray]taken her sharp blade and plunged it deep into their pancreas,[/color] [color=black]drawing and quartering their insides until they drowned in their own mistakes. [b]Her friends were never to be harmed again, as long as she still breathed.[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	All of these derivative gestures of violence were obviously drawn from the same sentimental values of her teacher and captor, Alexander-John Middleton. No matter how innocent she wanted to feel and be, with her true emotions being buried beneath a thick and coarse layer of lies planted within her by the Captain's seeds of sorrow, there was always the incentive and natural reaction to pull the trigger on anyone who dared to challenge her innocence. Unfortunately, Lucia could not locate nor stop these sources of issues and feelings of aggression, for they had been blended into her supposed DNA and ridiculed her intentions of being a free-willed beauty that intended on waltzing in the era of freedom. Slowly, she began to walk towards Michael again, grabbing his wrist with dainty gentleness before leading him towards the bed to sit on. Once she placed him down upon it, she sat on the floor alongside the bed, knowing that by Jean's orders it was only for the injured and badly hurt to rest upon. Supposedly alone in the room, Lucia once again locked eyes with Michael again, moving her hand from his wrist to his hand, interlocking the fingers nervously, yet gently.[/color]

[color=A9FF7D][b]"You need to r-rest, Mickey...Please. I'll...I'll stay here, by your side, until it is time for us to wake up. Dream of your favourite place, with your favourite thought to accompany it."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Her face had appeared to blemish just a small amount when she realised how her hand had locked with his, but she remained confident enough to hold it in its place and to smile innocently to herself, ensuring that Michael would lay down and prepare to rest himself. She didn't want to lose him. For some strange reason, Michael was different from the others in Squad 1. He wasn't anymore compassionate than, say, Jean or Diana, neither was he more brave or more able than the strongest of wills dotted around, such as Britta, Isaac, Franz or Kalisa, but something about him just made her heart...drift away. Into the cosmos, it would flutter around and daintily blow in all directions until it eventually settled upon his own face and heart, similarly. But for now, those emotions were to be explored and confronted later when Michael was in a less dangerous place on earth. Until then, she continued to hold his hand and to sit on the floor on the bedside. She took off her slung rifle and slid it beneath the bed, hiding it from view in order to remove all sights of the horrors that war brought with it. And in her last breath, before finding herself falling asleep with her head only resting on the side of the bed Michael occupied, she whispered politely.[/color] [color=A9FF7D][b]"Don't leave us, Mickey. We need you, and I do too."[/b][/color]

[centre][sub][@FalloutJack][@Conscripts][/sub][/centre]