Aside from whatever rays of light straggled their way through the cloud cover which draped over Amone, Inès scantily found any sight to awaken her aside from that dashing lighthead, Freya. A woman without any clothes on wasn’t what she expected to wake up to when she nuzzled her head against her forearm-construed pillow, but Inès wasn’t going to lie to herself and say the surprise wasn’t pleasant. It’s rude to stare, of course, but Inès chuckled at the sight. Quite a quaint thing, her. The brazenness was admirable, really, that unashamed going abouts in spite of the realities at hand. Maybe it was a bit dumb, yeah, but there was no denying Inès found it not endearing. 

[color=4682b4]“Good morning to you, too.”[/color] she would announce. As if she had gotten much in the way of sleep. Hard stone floors were what any tenement denizen found themselves accustomed to, yet the lack of any cushioning lead any lasting sleep to be a distinctive drilling experience, like a rock slowly grinded into the back of her head while she laid down to rest. To not return a woman’s smile was unacceptable, no matter Inès’ experience. Yet, all she had to offer to Freya were a pair of raised eyebrows, and her trademark defeated expression. For Inès, this was a show of affection, if a subtle one, and for a culture as overt as the Oceanic, the pass was likely too little to notice.

The shocktrooper hadn’t bothered to take her clothes off for the evening, and for that matter, hadn’t received a proper clothing change in what must have been weeks by now. Being stuck in that same sausage casing of a uniform while everyone else got some shiny new blue outfits didn’t really give her the greatest of impressions. Still, she supposed she’d rather have something over nothing where rain and cold were concerned. But if her helmet were any indication, by the time she may see a resupply, she may have had to fight The Great War in naught but smallclothes. Smallclothes were hell, on the other hand. Inès wasn’t packing two football-sized love-pillows under her fatigues, and neither could her chest be used as a grand prix motor course, but any girl who’d used them for long enough lived by one master rule; Bras sucked. Bras fucking sucked. When you wore a bra for weeks on end, you may as well have hung yourself by the noose around your chest. With how much sprinting the soldier’s life required, Inès likely had a lasting indentation around her chest in what was a case of rope-burn-turned-asphyxiation. She hated it, but it was something of a necessity, as well. 

Groaning off the whole ordeal, Inès dusted herself off for the morning, heading down the way for the morning sound-off. The injured were being lifted from their cots, while the others readied themselves for the day alongside her. She hadn’t made much conversation along the way; Hell, she didn’t even know who half of this crew were. She saw the other darkhead, though, and she was sure to deliver a quick, [color=4682b4]“Good morning.”[/color] while she passed him by. Franz - she remembered - that was his name. The Federal Imperial. However he got here.

There was some sort of spiel the Corporal had for the morning crew, and none of it interested Inès. Not by any lacking of Jean’s own charisma, mind, but because none of it contained substance. Another day, the rest, the orders; Inès tuned it all out while she tuned her thoughts in. It was a shitty assortment of days, this week, but still, Inès had a bit more pressing concerns to her mind. Snipers, for example. Maybe it was some primitive urge to hunt going off in her brain, or perhaps it was simple paranoia; Regardless, Inès knew it wasn’t the brightest idea to congregate in the middle of a street for long. When Jean gave the order to move on out, she kept herself ready, as she always had, scanning the rooftops, corners, and windows for the omnipresent opportunist. 

Yes, the city was a hellhole. Just as it was. To become accustomed to such widespread hideousness necessitated a shift in attitude few could truly undergo, for the vestige of what once was forever haunts the ruins, no matter how antiquated nor recent, extravagant or destitute, there existed the desire in all men to recapture that which had been lost. A mending of wounds, so to speak. Yet, what was reclamation to the impoverished? Had they truly so much of value to lose, that when it was gone, true tragedy had struck? Easy come, easy go, as went the idiom, and even for what still remained of the blackened city of Amone, a skeleton, for its ghastly decree, was still [i]something.[/i] Inès knew the lives of many were truly lost, displaced or disarrayed, but within her heart, she knew there was much more to be lost even in the sepulcher where she walked now. 
[hr]
Bars. Ostend was full of them. Alliances between gangs were born, broken, and reprimanded at your neighborhood pub, sometimes all within the same hour. And running a bar meant paying lip service to whatever powers that be in the neighborhood, unless you really enjoyed broken windows and stolen booze. But what about those on the corner of territories? That was all in God’s hands. Truces like the ones around here didn’t last for long. Bars and taverns and drinking holes all meant money to be made, and every gang on every corner wanted in on that slice of the pie. Of course, there can be the “unspoken rule” that the bar remain a safe haven, but really, if the Berangers showed up with bats and crowbars and rifles and firebombs and said “Oliver Levantine is a dead man”, what the fuck were you gonna do? 

That delicate balance, of course, meant whoever was running this little hole in the wall was paying for it. Unless he had a whole six-acre distillery composed of all the bathtubs in the south side of Amone in that cellar of his, someone needed to bring him enough booze on the monthly to supply everyone who came through. But sure enough, for as long as this place had been a thing, [i]someone[/i] needed to step up to fill Amone’s glass. And [i]someone[/i] was making a killing getting on-duty soldiers absolutely smashed. It was uneasy, but the whole god-forsaken city felt uneasy; That a saloon in the middle of a city-quarter-turned-brickyard was “uneasy” was moot at this point. To anyone in Amone, a place like this was paradise. 

There was a commotion before Jean had figured it all out, some manner of shouting match between him and another. A real medal-man, him, seeming to believe that walking around a combat zone with a lot of honors made him anything but a target. Yet there was far more to it than the medals; He was an older one, too. An older soldier in an occupation where you retired at 30 if you weren’t any way up the food chain. He was a target, but he was dangerous. He had bite to that bark. Name was clever, too. Have you ever seen a green fox before? Didn’t think so.

On the front deck of the tavern, there was a [url=https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/417199055349874689/551549140601929749/russian3.png]blondie[/url] out and about the balcony, leaning over as though he wished to land flat on his face. His eyes squint, then perk up while his whole body scrambled to get back to a normal posture. Conducting himself into form, what’s immediately apparent is that his right arm seems to be made of metal. And as he began to move, it became clearly apparent even in the poor light of the day, this one’s right arm was an artificial one, a crude and ill-reactionary device, no doubt, but functional, nonetheless. He was an Imperial, of note, yet tracked down Inès like the old friend he so clearly was. 

Inès knew the man; Max. Like an old friend, she kept him at a distance, only nominally acknowledging him, yet the memories were too fond and his enthusiasm un-curbable, and while Inès tried to downplay it, she herself was a bit dumbstruck by the his sight as well. The feeling was mutual, clearly, by the duo’s curiously pleasant gazes at one another, shocked to meet again in…[i]these[/i] conditions.

[color=4682b4]“...Max?”[/color] Inès questioned, clearly in disbelief at the blondie, [color=4682b4]“The [i]hell[/i] are you doing here? I thought they deported you from the Federation?”[/color]

[color=D2B45A]“They did.”[/color] he chuckled.

[color=4682b4]“...you’re fucking with me.”[/color] the shocktrooper responded in disbelief. He shook his head with a stupid grin.

[color=d2b45a]“Yeaaaaaah, and then I got drafted and I had to go through a whole training course and yeaaaaaah…”[/color] Max scratched the back of his head, that smirk of his still present like he had something to be embarrassed of. With good reason, of course.

[color=4682b4]“Right, right…”[/color] Inès turned away. She knew she had to ask.

[color=4682b4]“So you’re with...infantry, or-”[/color]

[color=d2b45a][b]“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck that.”[/b][/color] Max laughed back. With enough experience, you knew Inès slightly raising her eyes meant that she was relieved, and if not, Max’s repeated head shakes showed he clearly had zero desire to be anywhere close to a combat zone.

[color=d2b45a]“No, i’m just, like, with logistics.”[/color] He explains, [color=d2b45a]“I can’t do anything with two hands with this stupid thing. So nah, I just drive the supplies around. Basically, I get to drive around in a truck all day and tell people to load and unload stuff. As soon as any shooting happens, i’m [i]waaaaaaaay[/i] the Hell gone.”[/color]

[color=4682b4]“So what are you in Amone for?”[/color] Max looked to his side, then inched close to her.

[color=d2b45a][b]“Business,[/b] my girl.”[/color] He explained slyly. Inès nodded to his euphemism.

[color=4682b4][i]“An idiot trying to be a businessman. Good old Max.”[/i][/color] 

[color=4682b4]“At least you haven’t changed a bit.”[/color] Inès snickered back. For as long as Inès had known Max, he had the ability to get ahold of anything that wasn’t nailed down and locked behind a ten-ton vault. Sometimes, he wasn’t even that picky. Little man had balls, that was for sure, and that bravado sure costed him.

[color=d2b45a]“Heeeey, you know me! You’ll even get the [b]champion’s discount!”[/b][/color] he nudged on, painfully intent on giving Inès a hard time, [color=d2b45a]“Come find me whenever you aren’t busy. We can...y’know. Do business. Just like old times.”[/color]

Inès and him went their ways, the Darcsen clearly puzzled in measure by Max’s return. Pleasant, no doubt, but not without suspicion. They’d been friends before, long ago in the streets of Ostend while Max remained among the Federation, yet the change in circumstances was...curious, to say the least. She’d try to put it in the back of her mind, yet she knew everyone else was going to find it strange she was talking to an Imperial right off the bat. Didn’t help she was a Darcsen. Yet, why would a Darcsen be talking to the 

Max wasn’t a [i]bad[/i] guy - better than a lot of the trash she knew in Ostend - but he was far from a legitimate busInèssman, nor was he the upstanding “icon” soldier. Max took things into his own hands, for better or worse, and the outcome surprised people more often than not. 

She approached the bartop and rested upon it, forearms slightly crossed as she leaned forward.  

[color=4682b4]“I’ll have whatever you’re serving. And...some for them, too.”[/color] Inès asked, waving her finger around a small conglomerate that composed of [color=ffff00]Gwyn[/color], [color=a0410d]Luke[/color], [color=ff0202]Freya[/color], and [color=115da8]Franz[/color]. [color=03daed]Jean[/color] could get skipped out on without fear with how he so casually tossed away a Khandar spliff as though it were garbage. Inès - and everyone else for that matter - just needed a drink. And what better way to alleviate the pain than to drown it out?

[color=4682b4]“Do I get drunk first, or take a bath?”[/color] She turned to Freya, handing the woman a well-needed bottle.

[color=4682b4]“Or take a bath drunk?”[/color] She wasn’t the greatest with understanding Oceanic humor, but she thought she’d at least try to reciprocate the mood.
[hr]
It was pretty clear by the way he carried himself - mostly that he bothered to leave one of his eyes covered by his hair in the middle of a war zone, but if not that, then his goofy, big smile - Max was a mellow sort of fellow. But, if from what Jean may have overheard, that his job as a cripple was just to drive a truck around far from the frontlInès from checkpoint to checkpoint, well, Jean would figure that was a reason he was in such a good mood all the time. 

[color=d2b45a]“Heya!”[/color] he introduced, walking up to what he (rightly) believed the leader of Inès’ squad to be. By his wide-eyed expression, it wasn’t clear if he was happy or confused to see another darky in charge of the squad, or maybe he was just a naturally grin-happy sort of fellow, which, based off of his booming voice, wouldn’t be out of the question, either.

[color=d2b45a]“What’s up, bro? I’m-”[/color]

[b]CLUNK![/b]

His mechanical prosthetic fell limp, creaking while he tried to extend a handshake. Max’s expression fell flat, turning to a frown while he turned his arm into proper position.

[color=d2b45a]“Damn. Just-”[/color] 

[b]CREEEK![/b]

[b]CREEUUNNK![/b]

[b]SCREEEUKK![/b]

Screech after screech of the mechanical limb, and Max was finally satisfied with its’ awkward position facing forwards to Jean. He thrusted it - or rather, his whole body - to Jean, extending what Jean imagined to be the most rigid-yet-firm handshake he’d ever have. Part of him wondered if this was an advanced Imperial assassination technique used to dismember unsuspecting soldiers by crushing their hands. 

[color=d2b45a]“There!”[/color] He proudly proclaimed, [color=d2b45a]“Max! Inès and I go way back, [i]waaaaaaaaay[/i] back. Some street kids shit, yeah?!”[/color]

[color=d2b45a]“I love that girl, man, I love her. Inès ‘s a real one, The Champion, Chief One! Girl didn’t go 30 and ‘0 for nothing in the Ostend Underground!”[/color] Max laughed, chiding on the Corporal. And just to think, in a matter of hours, Jean went from paranoia to being buddy-buddy with the enemy right in front of his face.

[color=d2b45a]“And you know, any friend of Inès is a friend of mine.”[/color] He smirked, nudging Jean on his upper arm, [color=d2b45a]“I’m here for a few days, and, uh...if you’re looking to get, y’know, [i]accidental supplies[/i], I have a little [i]something something[/i] for sale.”[/color]

Great. First talking with the enemy, now getting roped into what was either “secondhand” supplies or contraband...and probably both. 

[@LetMeDoStuff][@CFProxy][@Jacky][@Brithwyr]