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[sub][color=Silver][i]The Siege of Amone, September 26th - [b]White feathers and Black birds[/b][/i][/color][/sub]
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[color=Silver]	At first, Jean wasn't sure how to approach the sudden question Michael presented. It was a query that he never really got around to explaining to anyone, nor did her see how Michael didn't [i]know[/i] it already. Perhaps it was a generational thing, or perhaps it was only popular in certain hotspots within Europa as a whole. Ideally, the social differences were the best conclusion Jean could come to, but all that sorted was one inquiry as to why the topic was being raised in the first place. The White-Feather movement? The chances of its despicable popularity were probably well known to those around the world but its actual purpose or drive were sometimes left unknown to the common ear. Jean himself had been a victim to its scheming, immoral and devilish pressure, ensuing an ever-growing false sense of duty upon his shoulders. Putrid, the following was. White; previously a representation of purity and cleanliness through all other mediums, Jean could only now see it as a tainted tone of corruption and misconceptions for violence. Its level of discrimination was unheard of, where it would target any man or woman who simply [i]looked[/i] competent enough to hold a rifle and charge out into the plains of Francia, Assen, Wessel and the many other theatres of war. Cowardice was a common insult for those who refused to join the frontlines, no matter who they were or what their reasons were. It didn't think about who they placed the feather upon, only the fact that they were still living a civilian life and not doing their apparent duty the world expected of them. [i]'Quell all evil'[/i], they would announce vigorously, [i]'And take arms against those who line their own sights to your very homes. For your wives, husbands, brothers and sisters.'[/i]

	Ironically enough, Jean could imagine that most of the wives, husbands, brothers and sisters they mentioned in their defaming motto were either already pressured to join the frontlines or had been killed as a result of it. Mindless drones wandered the streets daily and picked their targets at random, ensuring to stalk and pounce upon their prey during highly populated moments. Where a dense crowd of eyes could stare towards them and judge their every move, anyone who was a target was surely to fall prey to it all. If they refused, the public would deal with them accordingly. Abuse and insults, all of the horrific slander that was only damaging the Europan spirit from the inside further more: everything was bludgeoned by their ceaseless movement of aggression. Jean knew this better than anyone else. He'd seen countless outside his house be shamed for it, only for him to find the blame seethe into his own life.

	Jean looked at Michael with a sort of vapid glare, trying to think of the correct words and phrases to describe how vanquishing their motives were. A criminal to society, one would call them. Hunters of the innocent and stalkers of the mighty, pawns of the war-mongering high-chariots that profited from the deaths of many others. Marxist beliefs like that were a common target against the White-Feather movement. Many were. Many still were that day.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"Only the most cruel punishment for those who have a sense to survive. Anyone who was caught wandering the streets, no matter their face or their background, without a uniform to go with it was stopped in the middle of any highly-dense populated area and shamed. All it required was a single white feather to be passed onto them, and words were barely spoken if they didn't react."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Jean began to motion his hands, as if acting out instinctively what it looked like to receive one. His eyes dimmed and flashed many blaring flares of coarse tertiary shades before refocusing back on the matter. As his voice reconsidered the past, recognising the point of no return, his mind was brought back to that time, where he stood amongst the market square with the pale, crystal white feather plastered directly between his fingers. Its spiteful softness was the only comfort left as the eyes and ears started to slowly descend upon him, judging him silently or audibly without any consideration for his age or personality.[/color] [color=Aqua][b]"It's a fiendish tactic to scare people into joining, and yet it still works. I had fallen prey to it. The eyes, the threats thrown towards your family's house afterwards...It...shames you. No one wants that, nor do they want to go through it themselves. The public turns a blind eye and pretends to be on its side in the hopes that the feather doesn't get passed onto them. Devilish, I say!"[/b][/color]

[color=5D7CFF][b]"Holy fuck..."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Thomas gasped whilst his mouth was still full of Diana's succulent cookies. He seemed to have snuck two from her tray and indulged in their sweet bakery, no matter how cold they may have become from their long travels to the frontline. Either way, to him it was better food than the stale biscuits usually given out alongside their soup rations.[/color] [color=5D7CFF][b]"Talk about being stubborn, but this Francian government doesn't like to fuck around, ey? Back in Oceania all they did was just promise us more land, money and some additional rights. Sold us on that. Bish, bash and bosh-it all off, ay cunt?"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	The differences were there. Socially, all three of them were different. Well, four if Isaac was to be counted alongside them. Two farmers, though one from the other side of the planet. A rich Europan and a moderate Francian. Corporals and Lance Corporals, privates and dead men, all were strangely unique despite being labelled under one uniform, one flag and one faction. All completely different. An animal man, a philosopher, a charismatic foreigner and a nervous writer. From their congress there, they couldn't get any more socially different if the gods themselves beckoned. Jean simply began to smile to himself as soon as Thomas' outlandish personality once again revealed itself to the community. All the strange dialects and odd cursive tones were far too comical for him to almost ignore, causing him to faintly chuckle to himself and turn away before recomposing his mood. Yet just before he could respond an equally as comedic sense, another unfamiliar voice suddenly intercepted their conversation.

	Sliding up to Jean's side was a spry young face that felt entirely shadowed in naivety. None of his facial features really spoke of a combat experienced individual, and so Jean inferred that he was one of the fresh recruits they picked up on the train ride to Amone those weeks ago. It felt quite upsetting to see the slimy grin of a childlike innocence beaming from his ignorant face. Either way, he spoke timidly and with a seemingly unfathomable amount of praise and respect, as if everyone who wasn't Thomas were a war hero too.[/color]

[color=Yellow][b]"Corporal Robin-Charpentier?"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Straight as a schoolboy in assembly, the soldier turned his head and scanned the group for Jean before meeting eyes with him. Jean didn't even get a chance to answer back before he seemingly belted out the message he'd been told to pass on.[/color] [color=Yellow][b]"Staff Sergeant Baker wants to see you at the street's barricade, as soon as possible preferably."[/b][/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"Uhm, thank you Private?"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Before anything else could be commented on the matter, the Private rushed away into his own private group, sinking in with another wave of freshly carved faces pulled from training. Jean pitied him as much as he pitied himself. The chances of those boys and girls surviving were as low as the sea's depths could go. War was indeed unfair, such as life in the Europan theatre was. Jean turned back to the triage surrounding him and bowed his head with respect towards his parting. It was always a distressful thought to be pulled out of relaxation to speak with any member of a higher rank, especially a so-called Staff Sergeant he'd met potentially only once before.[/color] [color=Aqua][b]"Well, I must beg my leave. Isaac, please tell Britta that she's supposed to be cooking our squad something tonight. One of the Sergeants gave all the squads who entered Amone first the chance to cook up somethin' special and Thomas seemed keen on voting her to try it out. Sorry to depart so early. I'll be back whenever I can be."[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	Leaving the group was obviously the easy part. The hardest feat was wandering around and locating Staff Sergeant Baker's position. Several walls and barricades were set up a few hundred metres away from where the group had formed, where huge assortments of wooden furniture, barricades, sandbags, makeshift vantage points and machine gun nests had been forged in order to repel any counter assaults. Even now, days after it'd first been formed, soldiers were still being given the duties of reinforcing its stature and ensuring every little vulnerable spot was patched up immediately. Whether it was damaged from the atmospheric weather or the simply raiding parties that occasionally took to their wall, everyone seemed to have done their part in their construction bar those pardoned from its menial labours. Eventually, Jean found his target.

	Baker stood with his head poking firmly over the walls, watching through a pair of binoculars not too similar to Jean's own. The face seemed somewhat similar, though only from a few interactions back at Garnia. The Staff Sergeant looked far more presentable, yet approachable, than Middleton could've ever been, with a loving sort of paternal gaze in his resting expression. Even as a liaison between the lowest ranks and the highest forms of command, Baker still kept a down-to-earth look in his uniform. Several parts were slightly torn and muddy from previous incursions whilst the main physical features were neatly kept to the standard of any appropriate and well-trained NCO around. Upon his back was a slung rifle, hanging loosely by the threads of his strap. [url=https://i.pinimg.com/736x/b9/ef/54/b9ef54a551c50ff1719d1c72f9587deb.jpg]Up close[/url], the sandbags only went up to his chest, and the helmet atop of his scalp remained as the only line of defence between a bullet and his skin. Though despite this, he kept his duty as a sentry seriously and continued to roam his eyes across the vapid wasteland of previous bustling market places.

	Jean began to ascend the makeshift steps up to him, sinking into the hardened clay-like sandbags that bridged the way up. Like solid bricks, his feet barely moved an inch whenever his full weight was placed upon it, and yet the ascension felt evermore uncomfortable than any other steps before him. Just as he arrived to Baker's side, Jean pondered over the possibilities of one of them getting their heads swept clean off of their shoulders from their exposed levels of sentry-duty, but if Baker himself was up there then Jean felt a little more safer in doing so.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"Staff Sergeant? Corporal Robin-Charpentier, as you requested?"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]At first, Jean expected for him to silence his introduction, or to give the usual snarky remarks most superior soldiers were known to throw out there. However, Baker simply lowered his binoculars and shifted his eyes over, before smiling and welcoming him with a solid pat on the back. The feeling was strange, entirely alienated to the usual treatment officers gave. Indeed, Jean was quite pleased.[/color]

[color=Orange][b]"Corporal! Ahh, yes! Right on cue, good man!"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]He began to clear his throat before turning back to the open vastness of the clouded streets ahead. As the mood settled from the cheerful introduction, Baker began to point a finger out into the distance, Jean following it with his own eyes.[/color] [color=Orange][b]"D'you see anything out there, Corporal?"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	A few seconds of silence paused as Jean scoped his own binoculars and eyes in onto the street, where nothing but rubble and dust settled into the distance. For a few moments, Jean wasn't really convinced there was anything of note, and maybe Baker was leading himself up to some sort of joyful joke towards the emptiness of the streets. It was as if the Imperials had packed up and gone home at first glance, but Jean knew better than to judge it so foolishly. He didn't have an answer to satisfy him though, and so instead he just shook his head and quaintly shrugged at the query. Humoured by his answer, Baker simply pointed again and nodded exactly at the lack of a response.[/color]

[color=Orange][b]"Nothin', I know. But that's what worries us. We don't exactly know what's waiting ahead. Now, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Corporal, but in a few days we're expected to push forward and seize the rest of Amone once and for all, or however the big shots up top put it. Problem is, estimating how the Imperials have reacted to our import is...rather unfitting for such an operation's complete success. I was told that your squad was quite capable though."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Suddenly, a sickly feeling came into Jean's stomach. He didn't like where it was going, and with good reason. Seeing the vapid quietness of the streets somewhat reminded him of the horrifying emptiness of the gas-ridden streets two weeks before. Oh, how terrifying it would be for such a day to come back again.[/color] [color=Orange][b]"I want you to take five people with you tomorrow morning and head out there. Not my call, clearly, but the Majors back home want to be sure we're able to send the masses forward. Think you can do that?"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	At first, Jean was completely silent. More orders that could've led to indefinite demises? Of course he'd be absolutely bed-ridden by their unruly sacrifice. What if Jean never made it back to the barricades, or perhaps his friends and those he took with him were eviscerated. Eventually, Jean seemed to clear his mind and turn back to Baker, looking at him sternly with an obedient nod towards the order. Without even giving a simple confirmation, his response was enough to reinforce the idea that Squad 1 were the proper people for the job.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"How far will we be required to go, and what can we take with us?"[/b][/color]

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[sub][color=Silver][i]The Siege of Amone, September 26th - [b]The Plot[/b][/i][/color][/sub]
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[color=0AB100][b]"That fiend! That deviant little shit!"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]With an exasperated roar, Middleton threw his clipboard towards the wall and broke it into two in doing so. Lucia, still silent from the fear of his outrage, sat quietly on a small wooden stool and waited patiently for him to finish. A fit of rage had engrossed his soul yet again at the thought of being challenged. She didn't want to interfere, yet here she was, being puppeted once more to bend to his will. Alexander continued his blasphemous bellows of profane slurs as he sloshed around in the room, violently thrusting a clenched fist against any wall that stood before him.[/color] [color=0AB100][b]"Does he not know his place? Does he not understand the damage he may cause?! Well, Lucia? SPEAK UP!"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	A twinkled shimmer of tears in her eyes caught Alexander off guard, her face slowly crumbling up into a silence sob once more. He stood, unknowing what to do. He didn't want her to cry. He never wanted her to cry. She needed to be stronger, that was it, wasn't it? That's what everyone had been saying all along, before the slaughters in the fields, the forts and the forests that year ago. She couldn't be left to rot away as some feeble tool, not to Michael nor to anyone else. Middleton wanted to snap into change, before turning around and plotting directly to himself.[/color]

[color=0AB100][b]"N-no...I'm sorry, little one. Don't cry. But do know, I will take the life of those who are tampering with you if they continue. Be it that fiendish Edinburgh pompous twat, or the rest of his blasted squad...Anyone who threatens you will die by the edge my my blade, mark my words, Lucia. You understand that too, don't you?"[/b][/color]

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