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[sub][color=Silver][i]The Siege of Amone, September 27th - [b]The Shot at Dawn[/b][/i][/color][/sub]

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[color=Silver]	In the midst of the Autumn rain, Jean reached into his breast pocket and slowly unwound the chain of his pocket watch. Its brass encasing was tightly knitted between the small links of metallic beads that usually clipped itself to his pockets. Instead, Jean had simply wound it up and placed it within his pocket, hoping to make the least possible noise as he could manage. Mustering the faint effort to read the listed time, he noticed that they were due to conclude their patrol shortly; at least, they were supposed to be heading back shortly. The journey itself would take maybe another twenty minutes if they stuck to the cautious route they'd taken, but it could've easily been scrambled in ten if they were more reckless about it. Jean sighed heavily, wiping a single thumb across the glass screen of the watch, clearing it of the cold foggy vapour that had trickled atop of it. The weather was extremely aggravating, ruining their focuses. Looking around, he took a small peak at Thomas again, he was fumbling around with his revolver for the hundredth time. Who could plame him? There was no way he could fire a rifle with the state his arms and shoulders were in. Whatever had happened during the bombastic engagement with the armoured car and its sturmtruppen, the soldier who'd engaged Thomas had left a nasty infliction upon Thomas' well-being. No matter how much he smiled, Jean could see his teeth grit with discomfort whenever he moved his arms too much. Even two weeks after the wound, he felt the pain, almost as if it were a phantom occurrence still haunting his body.

	Jean lifted his head upwards, searching further down the street. The remainder of old barricades, machine gun nests and sentry posts were left abandoned and derelict. They didn't seem unfit for service, but perhaps their placement was less in tune with the potential defensive strategy that the Imperial Army had planned. Whatever it was, their concentration had clearly been pushed back elsewhere. Spreading their numbers thin was harmful, and funnelling the Federation into some sort of a street could be more effective than their previous occupational movement. Countless amounts of wreckage littered the city streets where pedestrians would've previously been. Bodies of prisoners of war were also scattered amongst them. It had seemed like the Empire had gotten what they desired out of their prisoners, and disposed of their burdening presence to psychologically break the will of the Federation. Every body Jean passed he held his breath, hoping it wasn't going to be a face he'd recognise or met before. Even now, where he was crouched, a face-down corpse resided in its olive uniform. Similar to the old uniforms previously worn by the squad at Garnia, Jean enveloped a strange distaste for the lack of smell the corpse let off. It felt almost new, natural perhaps. Nothing seemed to eat away at it, or decompose the body. Along its sleeves and shoulders laid a few insignia and identification discs. Jean scrutinised closer, peeping down and reading what regiment or force they'd belonged to.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"One hundred and seventh Royal Grenadiers?"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Whilst rambling to himself, Jean slowly flipped over the corpse, unsurprisingly being met with a pale and white-faced individual who was devoid of all colour and emotion. It felt weird to inquire on a corpse, and the fact that he was seemingly capable of going through a dead body again, but the amount he'd seen had began to numb his experiences with the deceased. Especially after the previous corpses he'd seen...[/color] [color=Aqua][b]"The fuck...This is a Gallian regiment?"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	Looking back towards the rest of the Squad, he silently ordered Victoria to go investigate what could be the last building they needed to search and beckoned for Thomas to make his way over to them, Inés following behind. Knowing Victoria was busy handling whatever she could, and with Luke potentially watching further down the street, he put his investigative mind to ease as he lifted a small metal disc from beneath his collar. It read out [b]Private J. Thompson, 107th Royal Grenadiers.[/b] Thus, the confusion was confirmed either way. From what Jean knew, the Federation were supposed to be [i]rushing[/i] to the aid of Gallia, hence the Northern Wessel campaign's purpose, but this seemed rather different. If it were a Gallian Volunteer that may have made more sense, but this was without a doubt a regiment of their stature. Royalty was not really embraced elsewhere in the Federation as much as the Gallian community loved to. Jean pointed at the corpse and whispered to Thomas, hoping he could shed some light on the situation.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"The hell is a Gallian doing here? This make any sense to you?"[/b][/color]

[color=5D7CFF][b]"No clue, mate. Might be something to do with that whole Federation-Gallian relationship thingy? More like a dysfunctional marriage, but that's my best guess."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Before he could inquire further, Thomas seemed to speak in a darker tone, knowing very well that the others who were reliant on his morale-boosting were nowhere near him.[/color] [color=5D7CFF][b]"Unfortunately it doesn't really matter, Corporal. It's another dead man, and we're seeing loads of them around every street corner. Let's refocus on the task at hand and get back pronto!"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	Jean sighed heavily, before standing up and looking further down the street. A large set of rubble was seen not too far away, and Jean wanted to ensure that they kept their eyes out for anything worth notifying the command chain about. Thomas too spied ahead, looking out and staring into the abyss before them. Both of them sighed to each other. Instinctively, Thomas slowly got back onto his feet and clutched his revolver tightly. Halfway down the road, he passed an assortment of small tin cans and a seemingly empty fuel canister, all silently taking in the excess rainfall into their containers. Muttering to himself at Jean's small hesitation. It was more of a playful mutter, at least it seemed like it, but perhaps Jean's recent reluctance to head into the fray first and foremost was starting to dampen his actual involvement in their journey. Times like those were the worst, where Jean felt himself fall behind in the journey through life. Everyone began to solidify their futures and their places in the squad, whilst Jean simply fell under the title of a failed leader. How typical...

	Suddenly, out of the damned morning bleak, a thump shook the world. Several hundred metres further into the Imperial territory, a enormous explosion of sound and noise blasted into the silent rain, spitting agonising tension throughout the sky. Jean leapt in his place and Thomas ducked where he stood, their heads quickly fluttering into the sky. Whenever they looked upwards, the specific sight could not be located and the trickle of rain kept landing in their eyes before they could triangulate it. The eruption of sound shook the very foundations of Amone, and following its explosive prelude came the whistle of a...was that a shell? The familiar sound of an artillery gun firing, yet with the firepower of an entire regiment, burst into the sky. The whistling stream of a singular ordinance soared highly through the misty sky, carrying onward. Jean's head turned back when he saw the direction it must've been heading.[/color]

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[sub][color=Silver][i]The Siege of Amone, September 27th - [b]The Big Shell[/b][/i][/color][/sub]
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[color=Silver]	All of her uncomfortable nightly dreams were shaken from their tender slumber when an excruciating burst of noise banished all silence from the early morning air. Sitting up in bed, her breath drawn to short intervals of panic, she heard the uproar of shouts coming from outside. The early morning walkers were heard shouting sightings of an object, hurling towards them. Freya struggled out of her bed, clutching onto Naomi's jacket and walking to the window in a half-tired limp, letting her free hand rest against the window frame whilst she poked her head outside. A whistle sounded in the sky, acting as a crescendo interlude following the opening act of bombastic cannonade. By the time she'd scanned the sky, it was too late. Her eyes began frozen in place, and the plummeting metal drill slammed onto a street or two away from where she spectated.

	Almost immediately, she was flung back, the force of the shock and explosion cracked the windows, shattered the mirrors, broke the bedframes, blistered the bodies of those lucky enough to escape its blast radius and scorched the streets in an eruption of smoke and plume. Ash spewed around every corner as Freya screamed, panicked by the intrusion of the now unexplained infestation of death that had brought itself upon them. As she was flung back, a shard of glass scraped by her finger, narrowly missing her burning eyeballs. The heat could be felt, even from the other street, and the blast rendered all of the slumbering Federation soldiers in shock. What...what hell had just been unleashed upon them?[/color]

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[sub][color=Silver][i]The Siege of Amone, September 27th - [b]The Limb[/b][/i][/color][/sub]

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[color=Silver]	The explosion's intensity was felt even from their further scouting positions. Jean's eyes lit up like firecrackers, sparked with an unrelenting fear for the destruction they'd just witnessed. What had fired? What had suddenly brought chaos to the resting soldiers of the Federation army? Turning behind him quickly, the noise still echoing throughout the morning dew, he turned to Thomas and opened his mouth to speak. And before he could even get a word out, something worse struck the squad's vision. From the small tins next to Thomas, a single bullet slammed into their metallic body and burst a furious flame into the sky, sending Thomas flying to the side and across into the middle of the street. The far smaller explosion personally forced Jean and his Francian companion into cover, holding their helmets down as the marksman's shot skewered the very peace and safety of their distant spectator-ship. With the burst of what seemed to be ragnite fuel, Jean reemerged his head slowly to see where Thomas had landed, his mind constantly praying that the Oceanic had made it out alive. A few seconds passed and he scoped out the body, struggling and wriggling around on the floor. Life! Life was still in his soul. And before he could smile, Jean noticed something different.

	As Thomas crawled back, trying to drag himself across the street, part of him remained in place. A trail of blood soaked into the cobbled paving as his shouts of pain sprang into view. Where he crawled, part of his leg remained. Jean's eyes widened tremendously and he screamed out Thomas' name, finally realising the separation of his limb from his lower half. The sight of a familiar face snapped from their left leg tore his mind into pieces and he began to think irrationally, hiding behind the cover and poking his head outside as he called for his name, over and over again. All that he got in return was the screams of Thomas' agony, a striking fear of perhaps his time slowly coming to an end. Time was ticking away, and yet what they had to do was so unclear. A sniper had been introduced into the fray, and now they were pinned into a stalemate like nothing before. A personal battle of wits and choice had begun. Jean turned to Victoria and Luke, his voice trembled with confusion, fear and anger.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"W-Where did that shot come from!? W-Was it a marksman? Answer me, someone!"[/b][/color] [color=Silver]His senses began to return slowly as he put his back against the pile of rubble he hid behind, breathing heavily before shouting one last time.[/color] [color=Aqua][b]"T-Thomas, keep yourself still! They're going to see you!"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	Little did they all know, now a Fox had began to sniff them out. With their sights trailed onto specific points, and the very best attempts and reducing his exposure, Wilhelm had found the perfect bait to relinquish his anger upon: those who'd gassed his friends. Now came the decision. Does the man live, or die? And it could come down to one fateful decision...[/color]

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