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[sub][color=Silver][i]The Siege of Amone, September 26th - [b]Confronting the demon[/b][/i][/color][/sub]
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[color=Silver]	Jean settled down, the high of the garlic bread finally ceasing to exist once he'd finished his entire roll. It was glorious, nonetheless. Such flavours had been absent from his life ever since he'd enlisted into the Army. Even so, before he'd considered joining the military these beauties of the sensory world were still quite a rarity. Rations would occasionally hit Francia on a regular basis, though apparently Edinburgh themselves didn't face this issue much. All for the war-effort, here and now. It brought a question upon Jean's mind: with Francia rationing its food, leaving the best meals and foodstuffs that were on offer to the army, why didn't the army actually have such good meals to eat? This was the first tasty delight that Squad 1 had managed, excluding the White Hart's hospitality. Were bigshot generals with thousands of unworthy metallic medals feasting away upon it all? Maybe it'd explain the size of half of those armchair soldiers he'd come to despise. Thomas always buggered on about them, how he'd actually [i]approached[/i] a Iberon General back when he was on the Southern Front. Sounded ugly, to be honest. Didn't seem like the wise decision to step out of line and humiliate a leading [i]professional[/i] with his charm and wit. At the end of the day, he did gain more popularity with his Edinburgh comrades and soldiers. Probably was the only reason he hadn't ascended to Sergeant...amongst a list of other incidents.

	Mustering the strength to memorise the past, the flavours themselves were a treat. They spiralled around the cognitive strands of his brain, collecting and re-assorting them into a better light. Images of his blessed kitchen, where both Mother and Father danced, hand in hand, lovingly together by the small gramophone whilst Olivia and Jean both giggled from behind the door. After that, they'd sneak a piece of garlic bread once more from the table and rush back to their rooms, where an assortment of shoddy wooden toys were littered around. Without much intention of leaving the home to purchase some, both Father and the children worked together in the basement workshop to commandeer their own designs and toys, making outrageous figures that looked barely human, yet still friendly. There, Olivia and her younger sibling, the one she so cherished, would nibble away at their prize and talk of their victories as if they were thieves of the olden era. That night, Olivia would always go to Jean's bedside, from his youth to the final day they spent together, and would whisper she's always under her shield. To her, no harm would ever come to Jean until the day he writhed away of old age, scuffing into dust peacefully without a painful anguish to accompany it. Life would be rough, but comfortable for him. Olivia had taken her own motherly compassion, even from an extremely young age, and protected Jean where anyone else couldn't. She [i]was[/i] his shield. Partially, for once, Jean began to think positively.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"No...she's still my shield."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Taking a final chunk out of his meal, he hummed happily with a wild chirp, entirely blocking out the war around him. Now, in that minute, nothing mattered. There was no violence. There were no suffering injured men or women. This was all that mattered. The loaf that fed the sorrowful boy. A charitable philanthropic mindset overcame him as he blurted out to Britta, the chef of course, and politely smiled to her.[/color] [color=Aqua][b]"Make sure we do not eat everything here, for there is too much! Give some to our fellow soldiers, who watch rather eagerly with the jealous thought in their green eyes!"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	During his poetic formation of words, commanding Britta to share at least some of the food with nearby comrades from other regiments and squads, the happy mindset was doomed when a face walked beside him. A wobble would show his instability, the very fragility of his approach was rather jarring indeed. Luke. The boy, or man if he was considered one by his comrades, walked with a stench of alcohol dripping from his uniform. Whilst not soaked, the scent itself doused him and leaked off like the gas that had previously engulfed the city of Amone. The whiff was...uneasy. It made him feel floozy and queasy altogether, as if he himself were drunk or under the influence of yet another wretched booze. Jean frowned, but took the offer up when he was told to talk about something important. At first, he was unsure of what there was to talk about. A half-drunk racist spouting perhaps information about the upcoming mission? It seemed unlikely. Yet again, something felt really off about his formal address, or rather informal. [i]Boss[/i]? It...felt condescending, and yet Jean didn't know why.

	And so, Luke began. Honestly, it was surprising. An apology...of sorts? Jean didn't interrupt him, hoping that as he continued it would perhaps become better, and could be a gateway to connecting the two mutually. Yet...Jean just felt...more offended? Was that the right term? No...it was bittersweet. Its sweetness came from the apology, and the concept of having some repent for their actions. Unfortunately, the bitterness was far stronger, much like the smell of his bloody alcohol and the splash of vomit still smeared on the side of his lip. And eventually, he concluded, offering his services within an upcoming mission. For a solid minute, Jean didn't speak. He stared at him, half-shocked and half-taken back. How could he react? What was the appropriate thing to say? Should Jean hold his tongue and simply accept his attempt, seeing it as potentially a road to redemption ? No...Jean didn't take it like that. He...he just didn't know what to say. And because he didn't know, he simply stood there with a troubled mind. Eventually, he plucked the thought and courage to at least respond...speaking an honest mind.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"You really think it's going to be this simple, or has someone advised you to apologise?"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]He tried to keep his voice low to not attract and unwarranted attention, yet sometimes he felt the passion of his words slip a bit louder than anticipated.[/color] [color=Aqua][b]"I can see you still struggle to even put us on the same level. 'You people'? Darkies? Honestly, Luke...it disappoints me. No, it sickens me. It really makes me think that something so rotten will be swept under the rug with a simple sorry. I can empathise with you being threatened by Darcsens in the past but why did I...or our allies, or anyone else deserve such flak? Such abuse was...unwarranted. It hurts, Luke. Like a knife. Even here, with the scent of death reeking off your clothes, god forbid, you still call me a Darkie. Have you no tact?"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	Desperately, he looked away. As he spat his words, his teeth gritted as he quietly scolded the man before him. It was harsh, yes. Jean felt at least appreciative of being apologised to in the first place, but it fell apart with the slurs and detachment of cooperation thrown within it. He wasn't in any state to apologise, but with the alcohol inside him Jean felt it was more of a reflection of his true personality, simply doing someone else's bidding to apologise. He'd spent time with the other Francian, which was at least a step in the right direction...yet...Ines also didn't represent all Darcsens. Jean was not going to go down and bend to his apology so easily. Jean...was...hurt. Hurt, badly. Like a knife, he felt the serrated edges of his words bleed him dry, scratching away like a cats claws until he was but a dry lump of skin and bone.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"Know, Luke, that it truly hurts me to speak my mind so vigorously, but I think you are rather ignorant, or incompetent, at realising the weight of those words you said. It's not that your apology isn't unwelcomed, at the very least I can appreciate the [i]effort[/i] behind it, but you know nothing of Darcsen history yet continue to throw spite because of the wrongdoings of criminals that don't represent us all. I...I don't like that ignorance, it scares me. And I'll be honest Luke...[i]You[/i] scare me. I am terrified...completely."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Jean backed down, looking away as he felt his arm hold his other from across his stomach. He didn't want to talk anymore. But there was still at least one more thing to address. Jean plucked the courage once again to open his mouth, this time mumbling his words instead of actually speaking like before. Perhaps he was wrong to at least tell Luke he was scared of him. Even if he tried to prove himself in battle or protect him in a situation...he'd be scared of that drive to kill.[/color] [color=Aqua][b]"You...can come on the Scouting Mission tomorrow. Not to prove anything...no...This time it's because I would rather have volunteers than for me to choose soldiers myself. We leave...at 0500 hours...tomorrow before sunrise. Don't...just...please just clean yourself up, you look and smell like shit."[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	Quietly, he began to return to the group, only to not feel his drive to talk anymore. Jean instead gently wandered around from person to person, patting them on the shoulders before saying he was going to turn in for the day, even though the waning hours of the sunlight were still forever plentiful. From Reyna to Isaac, Michael to Franz, he silently apologised for his early departure and left, picking up his helmet and wandering to a nearby tent, where he zipped up the entrance and buried himself inside, turning into the hermit he'd tried to break out from once again. It wasn't Luke's fault entirely. No...this time it was Jean's fault. Just as it always had been.[/color]

[centre][hr][sub][color=Silver][i]The Siege of Amone, September 27th - [b]A familiar silence[/b][/i][/color][/sub]

[youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uTVU7wIERzQ[/youtube]
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[color=Silver]	0440 hours. Twenty minutes clicked by on the clock. As per his orders from Staff Sergeant Baker, their equipment would be ready for collection at any time's notice. There was no need to load ammunition or webbings, only to grab the rifle, equip the helmet and get going whenever the clock stuck its deadline. Jean...he felt tired, tired and ill-willed. Something about the previous night had disturbed him, made him fear the upcoming squander into No Man's Land. Jean was scared. He hated the thought of going out and potentially never coming back. Death, even for someone who tried to put it upon himself, was a concept that terrified the living shit out of Jean. Forever. He would fear it. Nevermore would he feel safe outside those walls. Even so, the potential importance behind the group's actions and findings. They could find something that may change the way the battle the following day may play out. Who knew? Jean didn't. Jean never knew, he just did what he was told. Like the good little soldier people wanted him to be, Jean tried to appease both his friends and his superiors, yet failed in most fashions. Jean was not a leader, but a straggler put into one's boots. Now, he simply laid there, in his tent, tying the laces on his boots and preparing to head outside, meeting his supposed team and preparing for the mission he dreaded. Those who weren't coming could sleep soundly, and entertain themselves behind the closed doors of their humble resting grounds. Jean wanted mercy, but he knew that outside of those crooked walls they'd get nothing of the sort.[/color]

[centre][sub][@Jacky][/sub][/centre]