[color=00ffff]"No."[/color]

[color=4682b4][i]("No?")[/i][/color]

Inès shouldn't be the one judging, here. Be here as long as she may, and sharp she may be, Inès didn't know the entirety of Jean's picture. Perhaps she knew enough for insights into his surface thoughts - that may be true - even so, that left margins for digression all the same. How he commented on [i]her[/i], and...her tea. An odd tangent, certainly, yet that was what came to mind when Jean spoke of the brunette he so endeared. Inès narrowed her gaze slightly as Jean peered skywards as if he were being whisked away to a fantastic diversion, then widened those eyes as the picture came to view; Jean had quite the affinity toward her, certainly, but had not the words to describe how he truly felt. Second guesses got us all, certainly, but, as the adage went, [i]"within every crisis lies opportunity, and those accomplishments are forever out of reach to those who constantly fear failure."[/i]

He might snicker, one time or two, with Inès' comments on the topic of his love interests, in any display that Jean did not have incentive to believe what she told him. Her words were true; not an ounce of fib escaped in any of her proposals or evaluations. Yet that seemed ingenuine for her compatriot, never minding once to nod in approval, but how could he? Inès knew Jean was busy, certainly, and the weight of managing the mission must have hung him like a hangman's noose. In spite of this, they were in the isle of tranquility none of them knew existed nor was even possible not one day ago. In that one day, that one night, plenty of merrymaking attracted the sights and gave delights to the members of Squad One. Maybe to Squad One...spare Jean. 

Her hand motioned down, not guided, but rather, [b]implored[/b] by the Corporal's guidance down naught a centimeter or two. Had Inès wished, she would have kept her position dead-set on her superior's heart, but for the first time...Inès saw him smile. Tenuous, nebulous, murky and melancholic, it seemed to be, but it was a smile, nevertheless, and that was a first from her superior. No matter the exam, no matter the trial; A woman defined by trial, tribulation, and testament to turbulence, Inès knew that there had to be time to smile, even if for naught but one moment, for naught but a snide, and for naught but a bleak bravado in spitting in the face of the innumerable odds.

She shared his smirk back, and exchanged a chuckle. It was good to see the officer smiling, truly. Even seeing Luke getting reprimanded almost changed Inès' opinion on the man. She heard him spoke of his time at Hill 58, charging across a war-pleated field just to re-obtain his prized binoculars, and now that modesty, before spoken so humbly, showed in true form. Inès chuckled. Whenever Luke was involved, Jean seemed to be there to show his spine, she noticed. Perhaps if he continued to push his buttons, Jean could become a fearless veteran of the battlefield in due time, charging across No Man's Land with as much thought as the day's rainfall. 

...until [color=f7941d]Scarface[/color] came along, and so brutally executed Jean's confidence that even Middleton would have been declared a Saint by the Cruxian faith in comparison.

[color=4682b4][i]"Fils de pute..."[/i][/color] Inès sighed, seeing Jean's confidence vaporize with one simple moment.

Whatever intrigue he could provide by a card game, that lost itself, clearly, to the emotional maelstrom Squad One's members entrapped themselves in. Diana - the blondie - was still getting over Luke's tantrum. Luke himself hung his head low, almost drooping his hair over his plate by now. But Jean...

...

Inès saw him head for her. She smirked. Maybe the talk was good for something, after all.
[hr]
[color=a0410d]"What we really need to do here is get back to work and destroy those fucking tunnels."[/color]

[color=d2b45a]"I will pretend I did not hear that!"[/color] The familiar voice chuckled, coming from Inès' leftmost side. She pivoted around, met by the familiarity of her used-to-be-Federal-technically-Imperial acquaintance. Not without his famed grin, Max took a seat beside her, in the position now vacated by a socializing Jean.

[color=4682b4]"I thought you left with the other Imperials."[/color] Inès asked, turning for a moment in surprise.

[color=d2b45a]"And miss all of this glamour?"[/color] Max retorted, opening his arms as though he were a carnival host.

Inès sighed, turning back to what few scraps remained of her breakfast. Not smiling one wince, Inès displayed naught but disdain, even for a man as close as Max.

[color=4682b4]"I'm glad you still know how to laugh whenever it's not needed."[/color] 

Max frowned, dropping his prosthetic arm to the table with its distinct [b]*CREEURK*[/b]. He motioned slightly closer to Inès, leaning with his left arm upon his knee.

[color=d2b45a]"Oh, n-...w-w-would you come on?!"[/color] He protested, checking around to make sure he hadn't caught [i]too[/i] many ireful views. From how he frowned, looked down, and refocused back to Inès, he most certainly had. Inès smirked at him. Always the type to find trouble.

[color=d2b45a]"Well...[i]sigh[/i], look. We still have [b]business[/b] to do, eh?"[/color] Max reminded, hushing his voice this time, [color=d2b45a]"I still have a good selection! And..."[/color]

The blondie paused for a moment, smiling. Inès turned with the silence, raising an eyebrow at first the silence, then at Max.

[color=d2b45a]"...I have a little something for the [i]birthday girl![/i]"[/color]

"A little something." Just how little could it be? Even if he remembered her birthday - which, admittedly, Inès did find to be sweet of him - she knew it was on too short of notice to be anything too personal. By happenstance alone, the two caught one another here, and Max, while resourceful, Inès doubted he would send mail across a front line for the occasion. Still, whatever could it be such that Max would divert himself to not go back in safety with the other Imperials?

Inès breathed, smiling, shaking her head. She popped from her seat, gently sliding down from the barstool while she nodded her head.

[color=4682b4]"Okay."[/color] She accepted.
[hr]
Max had his supply truck parked around a corner from the Inn, still well within the zone of neutrality, of course, but in an area plenty shaded so as to provide the well-deserved privacy for his clientele. The bed of his supply truck was covered in a canvas tarp, plenty drenched from the morning's precipitation, but situated in a secluded spot, free from prying eyes. Inès had seen photographs of the trucks before in newspaper snippets, catalogues, and the like, yet still was impressed by the size of the great automobile. It was certainly larger than any horse wagon she had seen, and dwarfed even any automobile she had acquainted herself with. Only could she imagine the Ragnite engine necessary to power a vehicle of this size, and with that thought wondered how Max was able to pathfind his truck into so small and specific a spot. Yet, therein lay the answer to a lot of questions...and likely why he was put into service of munitions and logistics. 

Towards the very front of his cargo stash, amidst other countless crates and sacks, Inès had climbed around to Max's self-declared "special inventory", composed of a few nondescript chests and boxes. They were distinctly unlike the military crates around, and instead apropos a bedchest kept in houses far more furnished than what Inès was accustomed to. As the pair grunted and heaved, moving the chests into proper positioning, Max turned just away from Inès, grasping hold of an oil lantern with his right prosthetic.

[color=d2b45a]"Open them up."[/color] Max asked, the sound of a match striking away just barely audible against the downpour of the morning. In almost perfect sync, Inès unbuckled the chest, flinging it open as light spilled forth into the truck.

Max hunched down, moving just to the side of Inès, smiling at the contents of the boxes. At first he leaned forward, putting his left arm across his stomach in the form of a deep bow.

[color=d2b45a]"It is my honor to serve the legendary [i]Mademoiselle Lévesque[/i]."[/color] Inès snickered at his [i]faux pas[/i]. At the very least, even when he did attempt to emulate the fineness of Francian etiquette, Max still did manage wonders in humorous blunders. Specifically where working-class women were concerned.

Max had a full stock of varied weapons; some clearly in better condition than others. Blanketed in a thick cloth, several assortments of blades, maces, axes, knives, and even some tools repurposed into melee weapons lay in one crate. Just beneath, there was an assortment of other ranged weapons - old revolvers and pistols, all in varying states of repair, what she thought were grenades, and even a few clearly improvised fire bombs and powder bombs. In another large trunk, this one curiously coated in patches and other traveller's insignia - New Belfast, Buenos Vientos, Qi'an, Marseille, Weissendorf, among others - folded neatly among one another was a varied assortment of clothing, hats, and helmets, all in heterogenous form and origin. To her leftmost lay the final container, and within that were cans, tins, pots, and bottles of all manner of hard-to-acquire provisions. Fine cigars from Trinidad, ground coffee, chocolate, varied assortments of cigarettes, canned fruits and vegetables, whiskey, mead, beers and wines of all manner of brew and craft; the variety seemed endless from Inès view of what even was on the surface of this one container. 

She looked through the weapons at first. If the squad were going to occupy themselves in what Inès could only imagine were the labyrinthine tunnels of this city, she would do herself well to equip with something far better suited for the tight confines of combat. Scanning over the contents, her hand rummaged slightly through the assortment of sidearms, finding at first many old-timey revolvers she swore would have to date back well into the 19th century. As was expected, they were in rough condition; the cylinders were often very chipped, perhaps even corroded in a few instances, and Inès could not find herself the interest to trust her life with an antique. One, however, did catch her attention; A semi-automatic model, fed from a grip magazine, in contrast to the pistol she was used to back home. It bore a sleek, minimal design, almost as though it were a revolver sans the cylinder. She picked it up, still encased in its' worn leather holster, and drew it slowly.

[color=d2b45a]"A woman of class and taste, as always."[/color] Max applauded as she peered upon the handgun. With no doubt, he was earnest - and possibly correct - on account of her taste, yet class was another fib from him. However, while she venerated the sidearm, his hand slowly waved over hers. His face turned to awkwardness, a disappointed, strange smile on it.

[color=d2b45a]"...we may be close, Inès, but...I can't sell that to you."[/color] Max frowned, [color=d2b45a]"It's a risk, and i'm already not supposed to do this, nevermind acquiring ammunition, and what your superiors may say to you..."[/color]

Slowly, he wrapped his hand around the pistol grip, Inès relegating hold of the handgun. Max gently tugged it away, calmly smiling while he put it back into its' holster. 

[color=d2b45a]"Sorry, Inès, but...believe me on this. Erm- perhaps another time?"[/color]

[color=4682b4]"...another time."[/color] Inès relinquished. For now, there'd be no pistol, and at this rate, an unlikely endeavor unless she had the good fortune to scavenge one from a fallen Imperial - or Federal - officer. A shame, as she was far more familiar with handguns than she was rifles, yet she forsook the disappointment as she turned to her right, starting to look through the clothing bin.

[color=4682b4]"My last helmet got caved in."[/color] she announced, glancing briefly at Max, [color=4682b4]"What do you have?"[/color] 

Quickstepping around to her side, Max snapped into life, beginning his dig into the contents of that trunk. Beneath a few lines of fatigues, coats, and hats, he pulled out a few assorted helmets, some wrapped in cloth, others simply stacked on top of one another. All of them were secondhand - they had to be, given their scratches and far from perfect condition - yet you could make out the general designs from which they came. Some Imperial, some Edinburgian, some Francian, and some of a design Inès had never encountered before. Every Federal helmet she dusted upon had clear scratches on them, some running so deep as to create indentations around the helmet's interior space. Feeling each crevice almost gave her a morbid curiosity, a morose wonderance as to just how this piece of headwear was obtained. Many of the Imperial helmets had similar scars, some even still carrying the musk of sweat of their previous owner, as Inès disgustedly noted. An Imperial helmet likely was not a great idea, given that tended to be the first note of identification, but neither did she trust the condition of any Federal helmet on offer. It was to the unknown helmets, then, where she rummaged through, finding similar circumstances to the contemporaries, at first. There was one last one, however, that caught her eye.

It bore only superficial scratches, yet bore similarities to both Edinburgh and Imperial designs. The bottoms of the helmet were winged, protruding slightly downward, especially around the backward neck in fashion not dissimilar to Edinburgh designs, while it also contoured itself around the user's ears and face, typical of Imperial patterns. Bearing a covering on the top, just above the face, the cover primarily protruded some sort of cloth on the front, which was wrapped around the helmet by leather bindings. If needed, the helmet could carry a small item or two, Inès justified. 

[color=d2b45a]"That one?"[/color] Max commented, [color=d2b45a]"Kortrijk design, I think. That one came from when I did business with a performing troupe, actually. Said they found it while they were on the run in the South."[/color] 

Inès glanced over at him. His eyebrows slightly raised, as if offended that she question his integrity so. She felt along the helmet, tilting her eyes back toward the new investment, then facing Max headfirst.

[color=4682b4]"How much?"[/color] She asked, raising the helmet slightly. He pondered over it, a slow smirk steadily sketching onto his expression.

[color=d2b45a]"...for you?"[/color] Max declared, [color=d2b45a]"...mmh. Thirty."[/color]

[color=4682b4]"Eighteen."[/color]

And like that, the game was on.

[color=d2b45a]"Tsk. Ever the stiff one, Inès? Twenty-five."[/color]

[color=4682b4]"Twenty."[/color]

Max snickered, shaking his head. Streaks of his blonde hair obfuscated his hair, falling to a close underneath his eye as soon as his gesture ceased. His mouth formed a circle, then a whistle of a sharp exhale blew his hair from his view. His steady smile gave himself away; Correctly, he was under the impression their game was getting them nowhere.

[color=d2b45a]"Tell you what:"[/color] He prompted, posturing his good hand forth, [color=d2b45a]"Twenty-three, and I throw in that."[/color] 

Finger extended, he gestured to a deep navy scarf of a sort, something between a scarf and a handkerchief, twined with a discernible light tan color. The pattern took form of [url=https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/valkyria/images/4/4a/Darscen_pattern.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20110225074749]two lines, repeating in a wavelike hexagonal sine, each one inlaid with another, solid-colored hexagon.[/url] Simple as it was elegant, Inès knew she would need something a bit warmer coming up. The winter months bore little to enjoy, and the Darcsen was no stranger to winters without proper equipment...and how little she cared to repeat those experiences.

Inès paused, then pulled out her coin purse. 

[color=4682b4]"Deal."[/color] She agreed. Slipping out a few face bills, she exchanged the francs with the Imperial merchant, returning smiles and polite handshakes with one another.

[color=d2b45a]"And what about your [i]present?[/i]"[/color] Max halted, eyeing up Inès. Her face remained flat as her response. The Darcsen sighed for a bit, slowly turning into a smile, which earned Max's own grin as her reward. Snapping for but a bit, Max retreats to a crate just behind him, making a twirling motion with his finger.

[color=d2b45a]"Turn around, close your eyes, and hold out your hands...""[/color] He asked. More like suggested. Inès smirked, raising an eyebrow as her mouth so clearly hunched spoke the words "Are you kidding me?" without the need for her to waste her breath. Max sighed and shook his head, although her condemnation of his wish scantly deterred his own smile.

[color=d2b45a]"Fine. Just wait then."[/color] He resigned, turning his back behind a small crate in the front. A fair bit of shuffling and ruffling ensured, Inès herself wondering just how much logistical maneuvering this man was doing to conceal such an important present to her. Moments later, he'd come back with a small, nondescript cloth bag, roughly the size of a football. He presented it to her with both hands extended, preceded by the [b]*CREEEK*[/b] of his prosthetic.

[color=d2b45a][i]"Ta-da!"[/i][/color] he exclaimed, a grin only plausibly precedented by the eagerness of a gift waiting to be unwrapped. Inès took hold of it, quickly unraveling the binding of its' opening. 

Her eyes widened at it. First, was a dark amber bottle, large and rounded near the bottom, more akin to a Pasteur flask than a traditional bottle of wine or liquor. Emblazoned with imprinted, raised letters, the title upon the bottle was clear:

[center][i]Admiral Aufrey's Finest Centrolandic Rum
100 Proof
1.75 Litres[/i][/center]

Inès typically wasn't much of a drinker. She'd have the occasional night to enjoy herself, certainly, but liquor never quite tickled her fancy. Even as destitute as they could be, Inès' mother seldom failed to stockpile on wine, and that would be her drink of choice on the rare days where she needed to let loose. Even the most dilettante purveyor of alcohol, however, knew the fame that was Admiral Aufrey's. She had seen it fetch handsome prices in windowsills while walking through many of the more exquisite parts of Francia, sometimes demanding a score well into the double digits. Edinburgh did occasionally issue rum rations, of course, but the stuff was typically poor, sometimes even so coarse that there would be thick strands of molasses still in the liquid, and the liquor would instead function apropos a hard candy instead of a drink to soothe the nerves. A bottle of this quality was certain to be something to enjoy...

...if Inès fancied rum. Still, it was something valuable to trade where niceties such as these were few and far between.

The others? They more than made up for the questionable gifts. 

Encased well in a lacquered box, clear through a glass covering over its' hinged top, lay just what she needed - Khandar Rolls. Fresh, directly from Khandar, still sealed and stamped with the Gold Sultan's emblem on top. Even the aroma of the sweet leaves permeated well through their encasement, bringing delight to even the most stone-cold face. Inès couldn't restrain herself. She gave into it, smiling ear to ear.

[color=4682b4]"Are you trying to choke me?"[/color] Inès teased, poking fun at Max. He playfully shrugged back, feigning along with the joke. [color=4682b4]"...thanks."[/color]

[color=d2b45a]"You're welcome!"[/color] For once, Max yielded to some actual manners. Even getting a simple "thank you" from the Imperial was a notoriously hellish task.

Just as their business was about to conclude, Inès caught sight of a mask just below her gaze. Not any mask, mind, but the exact same mask that had been issued to all of the Federal troops headed to Amone. Yet, she noticed that among the Imperials, not one had a similar one, nor any mask she could feasibly make out on their persons. She had a merchant of all manner of goods before her, dubious or not, and perhaps, then, she may have found some sort of use for it. Pointing directly at it, she turned her head to Max, her serious demeanor posturing her query.

[color=4682b4]"What are these masks?"[/color] she questioned.

The blonde headed man turned, approaching the mask with a puzzled look about him. Hand waved over, he seemed to almost feel it out, etching for some manner of distinction about it while he jogged his memory on the subject. Puzzled, frowning, he turned back to Inès.

[color=d2b45a]"These? I only got this a few days ago."[/color] he explained, [color=d2b45a]"Someone said they found it in the city, here. I think they're supposed to be antiques. Mining masks."[/color]

[color=4682b4]"Mining masks?"[/color] She wondered. A concerned, confused look came about her.

[color=d2b45a]"Yeah. Back in old times, deep underground, there'd be buildups of sulfur or monoxide deep below, and what they'd do is keep a bird in a cage to see if the air was safe, since they'd be the little things to die first if there was poison in the air. But, over time, they just wanted miners to keep on digging without worrying about poison, so they made these so they wouldn't have to worry about it."[/color]

[color=4682b4][i]("What the Hell are we doing with mining masks?")[/i][/color] Inès wondered to herself. Her face fell a bit down with the explanation, visibly sinking with every point Max lectured on about. 

[color=d2b45a]"Still, the masks didn't solve everything. Some of that gas was so volatile, just the oil lamps would make it all ignite."[/color] He kept on, [color=d2b45a]"Any fire, even just a stray spark, would cause the whole mine to detonate."[/color] 

[color=4682b4]"...huh..."[/color] Inès nodded back. She wasn't telling Max. If it was about the tunnels, Inès wasn't going to go talking too much about their mission. She trusted Max, but she knew he liked to talk. That mudhead had already gone and expunged their mission in front of the entire Inn, and Inès didn't trust Max not to tell stories about [i]"The Darcsen Pro Fighter Who Went Into Explosive Tunnels"[/i] to his friends behind the lines. Rather late for that, she knew, but perhaps the less he knew, the better.

[color=4682b4]"Just curious."[/color] she finished off. 

Max tilted his eyes, widened them, then shrugged. Inès met them back with a forced neutrality, coercing him into a sigh. She would need to tell [i]someone[/i] about this. Just not him.

[color=d2b45a]"Well, then."[/color] Max declared, putting his hands together, [color=d2b45a]"That's my business here."[/color]

[color=d2b45a]"...it was nice seeing you again."[/color] he said, putting out his left hand, open.

[color=4682b4]"Yeah...it was...good seeing you, too."[/color] 

The shake was quick, concise. Nothing formal, no; little besides an awkward farewell, done out of necessity rather than savoir-faire. The encounter, however brief, still left the distance between the two reverberating, even whilst they stood directly across from one another. Inès knew, somewhere within her, this was, for all intents and purposes, likely her final goodbye to Max. Even if the two made it out of this war unscathed, there was no imagining anything good would come from either circumstance; Inès was a fighter of a race persecuted for centuries, such that even the foundations of history itself revolved around it. Max was a deported criminal, specializing in acquiring downright illicit goods. Even if he possessed a sense of kinship perhaps unparalleled, loyalty to others meant nothing in the long arms of the law. And those laws seemed to be the death of them both.

[color=d2b45a]"I...guess i'll be heading off."[/color] 

[color=4682b4]"...I'll...see you."[/color]

Inès took her time turning around, hopping off the back of that truck. The rainfall did nothing to slow her descent off. It was thinking that her friend may not make it that perturbed her. No doubt he thought the same, if not worse, considering how she fought on the lines themselves. 

When she hopped off, she felt a cold, steady drizzle soak her feet, even through her boots. Just behind her, she heard him call out, one last time.

[color=d2b45a]"Hey, wait! Before you go...could you...er...give these to that guy? The, um...your Corporal?"[/color] He asked. Inès turned back to him, meeting his arm outstretched, three texts stuffed inside his grasp. They seemed fairly new, judging by their hard backing and industrial paper binding. Their titles were engraved into the covers themselves, further etched in with some manner of gilded ink. Inès didn't look too closely at them, instead focusing on quickly putting them into her bag, as the morning's unyielding downpour threatened to ruin the books. 

[color=d2b45a]"I saw him writing a lot, so...I thought he'd like these. History, romance, epics...that sort of thing."[/color] Max commented, stepping down from his truck with the helping hand of Inès on his way down. 

[color=d2b45a]"Oh, and Inès..."[/color] He motioned back for the final time. Max chose a blank expression, meeting eye to eye with her.

[color=d2b45a]"...try to keep your voice down in the future."[/color]

[color=4682b4][b][i]"Goodbye,[/i][/b] Max."[/color] As angered as Inès was in her speech, Max smirked. He made Inès smile. And that was precisely what he wanted his last memory of her to be.
[hr]
The march through the rain to the inn was a short one, if it thoroughly drenched the shocktrooper down to her smallclothes. The sturdy canvas construction of her bag retorted any measly attempt at rain to devour her purchases, but the weather would receive no such victory. Inside, the Inn fell oddly quiet. Most everyone was sill asleep, or, more likely, had moved on into their assignment for their time in Amone. Even the residents of Squad One were seldom around, save the few who remained awake and downstairs for their morning breakfast. Luke seemed to have vacated the area, Inès noted, yet Jean was finishing up conversation with his [i]special someone[/i]. 

Inès smiled at the thought. Jean had likely received enough brunt from himself for his attempts at romance, nevermind the rest of the squad at large. Turned courier for the moment, Inès still knew better than to interrupt his moment with her, instead opting to dry herself with whatever spare rags or towels she could scrounge around. 

At the end of his most wholesome discussion - or failing that, some intermission between the two - Inès approached Jean for the second time that morning, putting the three tomes before him.

[color=4682b4]"Max wanted me to give these to you."[/color] Inès mentioned, [color=4682b4]"His way of saying goodbye."[/color]

Inès left as soon as she came, looking for the company of a few nearby. Franz was a likely bet, or failing him, likely could be found around Freya, but whatever be that case, she wasn't in any capacity to be holding deep-set conversations on the value of literature with Jean. Splayed in constituent order, Jean could make out the three titles pressed upon every book.

[center][i]23 Years - The Autobiography of Hugo Zimmerman[/i][/center]

"Hugo Zimmerman"? Wasn't he a criminal?

[center][i]Red Sail, Golden Age[/i][/center]

Red and Gold, was it? Judging by the printing, it had to do with something regarding the old Iberon colonies on the Vinlandic continents. The Age of Sail had their prized pieces of romance to them, of course liberally peppered with embellishments, but even the most aggrandized depictions had their seeds of truth strewn in them.

[center][i]Anya Karenin
By: Lev Nikolayevich[/i][/center]

[i]The[/i] Lev Nikolayevich? Even while he shared his sense of controversy in his Ruzhian homeland, the late Nikolayevich truly was a master of his craft. Nobody really came close to matching the man's prose, not even among the brightest minds in either the Empire nor any domain of the Federation. The poor author departed just before the war, as well, yet to live to see 82 years was far from a tragedy.

At any pace, this would give Jean quite the amount to dive into. A shame he couldn't thank Max for his tastes.

[@LetMeDoStuff]