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[sub][color=Silver][i]The Siege of Amone, September 12th - [b]The Attack of the Dead Men[/b][/i][/color][/sub]
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[color=Silver]	Jean's heart paced around endlessly as the scavenge for life began. He could see some of the early risers getting into position already, including Luke who'd tried to admirably escort some of the citizens outside. It was hopeless though. Many who were leaving the exit he'd made were already choking themselves, some of them having inhaled a painful amount of gas prior to the open route. Jean's face sank when he thought of their lungs, bubbling and filling with saliva until they were unable to breathe and function properly. It was a scary thought. Why was this happening? What government agency back in the Federation looked upon this completely inhumane method of killing and decided it was fit for combat? Jean's breath could be heard building up, faster and faster, as the mask's inhaler and filter kept on doing what it was designed for: keeping Jean alive. His peripherals were slightly hindered by the mask's rounded goggles and eyepieces, but it sure did beat the unrelenting agony he could hear outside of the isolated, claustrophobic capsule his head and face was buried within. Suddenly, a palm slapped the back of his head and the familiar Oceanic shout caught him off guard. Victoria looked at him with a [i]level-head[/i], as she would call it, and tried to force Jean back into reality with the violent persuasion of physical force. It suddenly infuriated Jean, making him feel diminished and perilous to the situation. How did she imagine he was going to act? Frolicking around like children in a daisy field, pretending that the worst was to be ignored and a cool-headed demeanour had to be fluctuated through his mind and soul? There was no way in hell anyone could keep calm when watching a brand new weapon decimate the lives of those around them. Jean almost launched a hand out to grab Victoria's shoulder, letting her know that he had some form of makeshift plan, but he decided not to out of respect of the situation. Instead, he looked at her through the fogginess of his mask and blankly spoke out in an unusually coarse tone. If she wanted a toughened and focused squad leader, then she'd at least get something out of it.

	Jean's rifle sling was placed around his neck, allowing him to fully wander around without having it clutched entirely within his hands. Strange noises began to come outside as he heard the muffed sounds of choking and shouting clouding the streets as much as the gas itself had. There was no time to split himself into two separate entities, following the substances of dualism, and instead he had to make a decision on where he was most needed. Victoria was already in the progress of shouting her fucking tits off, making Jean more anxious about her involvement with the group. She was too hard-headed from the situation. Sure, everyone had their moments of aggression in danger, but even Franz wasn't this bad it seemed. Jean simply let her go upstairs, instead turning to Isaac, his trusty friend and second in command.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"Isaac, I want you t-to orchestrate the squad, please get them into position and prepare to leave this inn as soon as possible. I'm going to help anyone in any way I can, but I need you to help guide the personal evacuation of our group. I'm sorry, you can't prioritise the inn keepers first, Luke is working on that, but we need to make sure we make it out too, so I trust you with that!"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]As his breath drew short from the constant line of panic, Jean moved his head towards the windows as he started fumbling towards them, seeing the gas starting to slowly pour into the inn through the cracks in the glass. If it weren't for the devilish masks given to them, they would've been on the floor, writhing in the upmost pain imaginable. Even bullets seemed more harmless at this stage, as they had the capability to instantly cut off all forms of life without pain even being taken into account, if it was accurate enough. Hell, a blighter that turned into an infected wound seemed far more satisfying than the torturous glare of the yellow mist.[/color] [color=Aqua][b]"And k-keep an eye on that Victoria. She tries anything fucked up, tell her she can walk the streets alone."[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	As he made his way towards the windows, he clambered back outside into the depths of the gas clouds, shuddering as only two sounds seemed to accompany his lonesome wander. Splitting the darkness of the now gagging room behind him to the upsetting grim sky above, Jean let his boots fall down onto the patio of the inn before he unslung his rifle and moved out slightly, listening to the deafening silence of hissing still leaking out of the gas shell. Heaven's above, how was this even possible? What twisted mind sat in the cells of their very laboratories and thought this was a decent method of winning the war? Torturing the enemy was one thing, but scarring the minds of their own soldiers in the process, that was true madness. Jean's ears were suddenly engulfed in the endless silence that now occupied outside. For a moment, he could not hear the shouts and panics inside, nor the approaching sounds of footsteps or coughs coming from further within the mist. Jean's frantic mind had ceased for a moment as he quietly wandered out into the fog, just outside of the inn, unable to see very many metres ahead of his own place. With the spread of the mist, his mind and vision was reduced to nothing other than the glassed viewing platform that his gas mask had given, shielding him from the angered hissing of the tormented smoke. Jean's face kept on getting closer and closer, silently wandering around outside as if he were a stealthy fox prowling the streets for an answer to this sickly devastation. Eventually, he stopped, his hand and eyes suddenly seeing something out of the corner of his tight peripherals. As quick as his feeble mind would let him, Jean twisted around towards its direction with his rifle raised, the primed firing pin already indicating that it was loaded and prepared for the incineration of any aggressive attackers.[/color]

[centre][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IDBgRnBTHs0[/youtube][/centre]

[color=Silver]	However, he could not shoot. For before him once again was a very familiar face, dressed only in olive clad, whispering to herself in the deathly depths of this yellow vapour. Her face looked boiled, and scarred, as if she'd been plunged into the climax of a pot of water hanging just above the violent stove. Jean's rifle began to lower, once again shocked by the lone figure standing before him. He knew it...part of him knew that this was just another stupid hoax or hallucination he was having, and he would've been right to assume, but it looked so real to him. There she was. Olivia. In the flesh, or rather the artificial fragmentation of the mind. Her soul was before him, seemingly. Bags laid beneath her very weakened eyes, where tangents of bloodshot veins spread from her iris to the whites of her eye. Jean brought a hand up, trying to let it rest upon her frail cheek, but it simply faded through it, confirming that this was nothing more than the allusion of the mind. Jean's face still, however, was left in shock, blatantly staring at her with confusion, trying to read the silent words that she mouthed. Eventually, he began to hear her voice beckon him lightly. What was she saying? Well, Jean couldn't really believe what it was. Part of him couldn't even think, nor speak, of what she was whispering. What was it? What in God's name was it? The slurs of her language and dialect were on the tip of his own tongue but something seemed to distort that judgement and deception he'd usually have had. There was something old about her grimacing appearance, where she'd started to distort and almost fade in parts of her tormented skull. The same bullet wounds of before suddenly burst through her chest, letting an oozing sensation of false blood, clearly again a trick of the mind, to seep from her body, mimicking the impact of a machine gun directly targeting her. Yet, her body didn't flinch. Instead, she still stood, wide eyed and motionless, whilst her mouth continued to shape itself into silent sentences inaudible to even Jean. Quickly, he heard something behind him, the noise of another thick cough, before Jean turned back around to see nothing but the yellow mist, the apparition of his sister now vanished into the thickened smog that surrounded him.

	As his mind once again transitioned back into the state of panic, he realised that he'd dawdled outside alone for too long, reincorporating his focus back onto the sounds of coughing that were outside, away from the inn. Whoever was suffering, perhaps, just maybe, Jean had a chance of saving them and becoming a wholesome individual worth of praise and thankfulness, but instead his mind was left to the gutters as before him stood a man dressed in a scarily familiar outfit. Topped upon his head with a loose strap was the steel stahlhelm. Loosely slanted over, with the arching back contouring his posture, the Imperial soldier stood there, holding the rag to his face and violently spewing out in tears of hopelessness.[/color]

[centre][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fuCxYrru2S4[/youtube][/centre]

[color=Silver]	And so, walking forward, the covered darkness of the man's choking soon came into the dim light of the mist. The yellow particles of poisonous dust surrounded and engulfed their presence, Jean silently walking forward and stopping just a few metres before him. Instead of acting straight away, Jean was completely shaken out of fear. The Imperial was crying to himself. In-between every single gasp of air came the standard, pitiful whimpers of wishing to go home, hoping to return to the mother and father he'd left behind. He was just older than Jean, maybe by three years, but the weathering of his face from the coarse battles of the war had made him seem almost a decade older than he was. The rag seemed to be keeping him alive, though barely and still with the complete absence of comfort. Pain had enriched his vital systems and his throat was clogging up from the spray of gas pouring down and swelling up within his lungs. Jean continued to watch, within his mask. To the Imperial, the emotion in Jean's face was hidden. Perhaps the Federation didn't intend on hiding their own soldier's emotions from the enemy, but the daunting stare of its glassy, beady eyes made anyone else feel uncomfortable. Carefully, the soldier began to turn his head towards Jean, still coughing up a storm before finally looking at him and studying the uniform. Bloody hands slowly started to raise towards the Francian, pointing towards him with a sharp and crooked finger that almost imitated that of an elderly man. Jean felt a sudden surge of compassion and sympathy, followed by guilt and regret, soaring through his veins as he stepped forward, holding out a hand to quickly take the Imperial's arm with the intention of freeing him from the mortal coil of suffering. Who knew, perhaps Jean could still hold enough lucky time to ensure this man's survival?[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"Quickly, come with me."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Jean's voice, as expected, was masked and muffled by the mask. It wasn't inaudible clearly, and thus the Imperial heard him through the thickness of his coughs.[/color] [color=Aqua][b]"Follow me quickly and I'll get you to safety, I promise!"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	However, the reaction from the imperial was less than favourable. He suddenly began to reach for his belt, pulling out a spiked wooden club, slung together with barbed wire. Jean took a panicked step back, finding his balance after the shock of the unsheathed weapon caught his eye. A barbaric representation of adrenaline suddenly began to reveal itself as the Imperial lunged forward, sluggishly, and waved the bat around, missing Jean at first. His focus and overall strength was completely battered by the gas intake, and the more he moved the more he ingested its toxicity. But time and time again, the soldier swung at Jean, suddenly screaming in the middle of his words.[/color]

[color=Orange][b]"I...I'll...k-kill you, bastard!"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]As his war cry burst out into the open, Jean found the soldier becoming more and more sporadic, flinging his bat faster and more violently, becoming better with his aim. Still trying his best to dodge the attacks, he felt the weapon graze his webbing, though barely enough to create a small tear, and realised that there was no way out of this. Jean's voice tried to reason with him, but the sounds of his choking overruled his voice. Nothing other than the deathly final words of the soldier seemed to release into the air, before suddenly the soldier fell onto a knee, his face becoming cold and emotionless for the last time. There, he collapsed onto the floor, fully passing out and remaining unconscious after subsiding to the dominant air bleaching his lungs defiantly. Jean breathed heavily into his mask, hearing his own churned breath coming out loudly. He'd originally came outside to respond to the coughing, hoping to find someone who was in need of assistance, and instead all he found was the grimacing tones of death and its underlings. Quickly, he turned back, running in the direction he thought would lead to the inn, heading only to the walls of another building. The smog had almost blinded his pathway, creating a strange labyrinth of invisible hedgerows blocking his innate path. Jean cursed to himself more and more, clearly becoming frustrated and panicky over his misdirection, hoping he could return to the inn on time. His thoughts and prayers were left on the vitality of his squad, who were clearly not alone as the uproaring sound of Imperial gunshots seemed to target and come from within the direction he could now pinpoint. His voice trembled as he realised the peace had been broken. The use of gas had sent those unable to find protection into a state of desperate bloodlust, wanting to kill anyone they could before they themselves were taken down by its drowning yellow odour.[/color]

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[sub][color=Silver][i]The Siege of Amone, September 12th - [b]The Training[/b][/i][/color][/sub]
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[color=Silver]	Before the sound of artillery slamming into the road became a real concern and danger to the entire Squad, Lucia had been sleeping beside Michael's bedside again. She'd stayed up far later than he had, and instead went into his room after he'd finally drifted off himself. Last time she'd fallen asleep first and he comforted her slumber, but this time she was defiant to let the favour be returned. Once asleep, Lucia crept inside and sat beside his bed, feeling an urge to gently rub her hands through his soft hair from its recent cleaning. Her face lit up like the fireworks of the olden childhood she barely remembered. It was sad to imagine that there was never a childhood she could really remember at all, other than the torture and plagued tragedy of her tutor and guardian, Alexander-John Arthurs. The Captain had forced her into developing a sense of stockholm syndrome, falling into a paternal state of compassion for her elder and following his words, no matter what violent consequences would come about it. Even during the time she never agreed to it, like at Hill 58, where she would bawl and cry in silence over how horrific it was, she complied without raising any questions as his word was almost her law of nature. She'd been awake only a few moments when the glass broke and the windows were shattered by the ear-piercing sound of collisions outside. She'd squealed in such a frantic manner that surely anyone would've heard it, including her companion Michael.

	Once that had happened, she looked up, standing and grabbing her gear intensely from the corner of the room. Her webbing was already equipped onto her chest rigs and the rifle was all that was needed. Upon its tip sat the sharp bayonet that was far too brandished in comparison to everyone else's. Clearly she'd been paranoid over the lack of combat she'd actually been in and ensured her weaponry was to a top tier level, including the fact that her bayonet had not yet been used unlike Jean's or the rest of the squad. This was her time to at least gather her own safety. The calls for gas masks to be put on took her by surprise. Life began to slow down as the hissing sound of gas and the coughing outside began to flood her innocent ears. Lucia's eyes darted back towards Michael as she looked at him fearfully. Her mind was flooded with the calls to safety as she moved towards him, unquestionably grabbing his mask and beginning to fit it onto his small head, though their heads were roughly the same size. A flash of worry and fear was clearly glistening in her eyes and the trembling of her voice, revealing the sweet innocent girl that she was again. The tone beckoned for Michael's safety over her own in that moment, where she nodded unquestionably at the sounds of orders coming from a familiar Victoria further down the inn's corridors.[/color]

[color=A9FF7D][b]"You first. I'll get mine on now. See...w-we'll do it together, right Michael?"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]As she hesitantly fumbled around with the cords of her own mask, the slip up of her fingers were becoming more and more apparent as she'd shuddered in fear. Lucia felt her confidence breaking apart. Why did the war have to be so violent? She could not see who was making them, but the screams of the innocent were clearly audible from their room. Whimpers and squeals of pain left her soft, gentle lips as she knew that whatever was out there, it was coming for them soon enough. What were these masks for? Gas? Was it like the air, that type of gas? No, it sounded worse. It sounded like the noises the men and women made when they climbed out of the trench in Garnia, the ones who never returned, and the bodies that fell back inside the trench she was ordered to stand within.[/color] [color=A9FF7D][b]"I'm...s-scared, Mickey. What's going o-"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	Suddenly, a thumping sound of heavy boots approached their door quickly, violently breaching its hinges and throwing it open. Lucia was left sat still, suddenly turning her head out of fright and launching to her feet. Desperately, the two who'd entered were dressed down in a casual attire of the Imperial armed services, loosely having not been able to get dressed. They were amongst some of the few who still stayed and resided within the inn, clearly having been enjoying the small time of peace they'd had. One of the two's eyes were bloodshot red with fear, trembling and panicking whilst the elder of the two, dressed in a more officer's outfit, looked sternly and aggressively towards them without the notion to blink. A long temper seemed to be locked within his heart as they slammed the door behind them. Outside, the consistent flow of shouts and chaos had masked their entrance, letting them slip inside without anything of suspicion. The officer marched forwards, slowly beginning to draw a revolver form his pocket and holding it by his side.[/color]

[color=orange][b]"T-Those masks! Surrender them to us, now, and we'll let you live!"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Lucia stepped back in shock as he reached out a hand towards Michael's mask, preparing to raise the revolver towards the man she adored's head. His finger slipped onto the trigger, and for an instant moment Lucia's world became dark. The two wandering in, hoping to take the only protection against the gas they could find, and threatening them with their lives, most likely to kill them regardless, made her freeze in fear. No. She couldn't lose Michael. She couldn't lose anyone else. This was it. Her heart began to beat quickly. Images of strange amounts of flashbacks came to her mind, reminding her of the things she was taught by a man with almost no remorse now. If she were to survive, she had to fight. And if she had to fight, she had to kill. Lucia's head suddenly became focused on only one thing, and that was the task of protecting someone she cared deeply about, even if he didn't know it yet. And when the hands came too close to Michael's face, aggressive attempting to rip the mask from his tightened head, she suddenly felt her own innocent mind fade away. This was it. She had to do it. This was what she was trained for.

	Without a word, she suddenly moved forward, slamming the stock of her rifle into the officer's stomach and pushing him back away from Michael. As she did so, her fluent movement was far too...elegant, almost? It was like the ballet dancers of Francia, who gracefully glided along the stage with extreme perfection after many hours and hours of practice. The officer's finger squeezed the trigger, firing a shot past Michael's head and into the wall just behind him, ringing loudly against his ears at an ear-piercing volume. Once his shot had come off, Lucia quickly raised the sole of her boot and placed it against his stomach, pushing harshly against it to shove him to the ground. Once he was down, she prepared to raise the rifle again to bash it against his head with extreme prejudice, but another hand stopped her. The second Imperial grasped onto her rifle in an attempt to save his superior, only for Lucia to quickly swipe at his legs with her own. By knocking him back, she began to twist her rifle forwards, revealing the bayonet again. Her mind was focused on killing just as she'd been taught. Wildly, she precisely aimed her stabs and only grazed the soldier, spraying small flickers of blood against the walls of the bedroom. He called out in pain, yelling a name almost indistinguishable to Lucia. The natural bloodlust implanted into her mind by Alexander had forced her into a state of unsympathetic war-mongering. Closely by, the sounds of desperate movements came from behind, and Lucia moved around quickly to thrust the bayonet forward again, suddenly striking the shoulder of the officer preparing to strike at her once again. His teeth gnawed and gritted in harsh agony, but he persisted, having been a man of experience and pain all his life. Aggressively swinging back, he aimed the revolver again at Lucia, only for her to quickly disarm him with the forceful grasp upon his arm. She brought the arm down upon her knee, nearly to the point of dislocation, frantically making him drop the revolver onto the floor. Her legs danced around the screaming officer as she turned him around, putting him inbetween both her and the second soldier. But before he could react to the new positioning, Lucia shoved bayonet forward again after dislodging it form his body, suddenly driving it straight through his skull.

	His face became empty, yet she wasn't done there. Lucia dug the blade deeper into his cranium and forced it further and further, yelling with adrenaline surging through her body. To make amends to his threat, she even forced herself to pull the trigger viciously positioned towards the victim's head. As the bullet and gunshot rang out aggressively, it jerked and fell backwards, dislodging himself from the bayonet as the bullet drove through his skull and unleashing a fountain of blood out across the area. From the rear of his head, its encased innards were suddenly blasted open as a mixture of bone and brain splattered against the walls, some even drenching the second fearful soldier behind. Once crumbled against the floor, the second soldier stood in shock, giving Lucia another opening to lunge forward. Her hands dropped her rifle as she quickly swiped a blade from the corpse of the officer, still freshly cold and bloody from her interjecting ferocity, and clenched it tightly between her two hands. With as much force as before, she began to strike the blade directly into the stomach of the soldier, plunging it deep within him and slicing upwards with ease, suddenly forcing him to look down in shock as a strange sight of inside organs hung loosely out of his new open deep wound. No scream came from his mouth, mostly out of pure shock and trauma, whilst Lucia quickly spun behind him, finally holding the knife against his neck and slicing it smoothly against the skin, dropping him to the ground like a fly to a zapping light bulb. And as she did so...the room fell silent once more.[/color]

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