Victoria had kept quiet as the scouting party crept through the wasteland that had been Amone, hunching over subconsciously as if to press her tall form as close to the ground as possible, fighting the urge to crawl through the dust and grit like the rat who's skull decorated her hat. The destruction caused by the distant artillery fire was awesome in the literal sense of the word, instilling a sense of breathtaking fear and apprehension towards the engines of misery that could end scores of lives in a single explosive burst from far out of view. She respected them, what they represented: power. Power through force, power that could extend itself to reach thousands of yards away. No one was above them. You either paid the respects they were due or they took your life. Simple as that. Just like back, the strong took what they wanted. 

She knew of course just how monstrous it was to respected those engines of violent death, knew it was a symptom of deep troubles. But she was in no position to complain. That same repulsive glee at the thought of violence that had plagued her three years ago was thriving in this awful environment, flourishing in the bombed out rubble. The Rat was taking control just as it had in the fight at the party, the same force that made her gouge out a girl's throat and crush a man's skull into mulch with her rifle keeping her keen and wary. Rats cared only for their own survival and that was her only goal for the time being: survive to see Elizabeth again.

So the Rat kept going, her usual smirk drawn into a tight lip grimace that made her ugly scar stretch tight across her face. She didn't say a word, simply checking the remains of buildings when instructed with a workman like efficiency. Smoothly she'd wheel through each room, checking corners and opening closets with her bayonet, all the while scooping loose change and trinkets of varying worth into her pockets and bag with hardly a thought. Whoever had owned them before wasn't around to ask her to stop. Every now and again the though of looting one of those towers would cross her mind, tempting her with visions of gilded religious iconography relics of saints. But even she wasn't so greedy that her  common sense was dulled. Those were the most likely places for a area denial booby trap, a grenade rigged to go off or a knife attacked to a makeshift crossbow, hell even a rifle with a string around the trigger attached to the door. 

So Vicky just waited for the Darcian leader to give his next order, picking under her nails with her bayonet as he considered whatever it was officers considered and snapping to attention why she was addressed. The only answer Jean got was a thumbs up in response, creeping in with a silent snarl etched on her face, fully loaded and ready to kill. So it was a bit of a letdown when all that was in there were crates of ammo for the sandbagged guns and a few opened tins of food. Oh well. She continued up the stairs to the second floor, taking a moment to eye her squad through the window before taking a lazy look through the cabinets and end tables. Torn open envelopes, bits of a journal, scraps of cheesy love poems written by a truly artless Imperial soldier, nothing of value or interest.

Until she kicked at sloppily wrapped bedroll, dislodging a few dead cigarettes and a sheaf of papers written in Europan Common. The Rat moved to dismiss them offhand at the apparent lack of value but stopped cold as the words IMPERIAL DEFENSE PLAN jumped out a her. Curiosity now aroused Victoria squatted down on her powerful haunches and leafed through the sheets, brown eyes widening as she read. She was looking at the Empire's final desperate solution to hold Amone, reading a map depicting a tightly focused line of defence running through the Cathedral. It called for troops to be relocated, ammo and food and medicine to be stockpiled, new equipment to be issued all in the name of making themselves as hard as possible to dislodge. There were would be no rout, no falling back to regroup. The Imperial Army would have to be beaten to death and dragged out of their trench, driven from their defences and into the maw of the Federation war machine with bullets and bombs and blades. It was going to be costly for both sides no matter who managed to hold out longer. [color=#4F97A3][i]"Fine then cunts."[/i][/color] She thought to herself with a grin. [color=#4F97A3][i]"Let's see how long you hold up."[/i][/color]

She might've just earned herself a medal, or a promotion! That would be fun, a set of stripes on her sleeve to rub in Luke's face. Private white was gone, Corporal White was here to stay. Chuckling at her delusions of grandeur Vicky put the plans back in their folder and tramped downstairs, ready to show off her find when she heard the scream. Immediately the Rat kicked into action taking cover in the stairwell and clutching her carbine, waiting for any follow up sounds with her finger on the trigger. [color=#4F97A3][i]Let them come, let them come, let come!"[/i][/color] she repeated to herself, getting herself ready to draw blood by way of repeated mantra. But nothing came, Victoria calming down after a minute or so and walking out into the rain. Heavy drops of water pitter-pattered against her hat and rolled off her canvas cape, the Oceanic stepping towards Luke and Jean. Before she could reach the tram car the Francian had gotten to it, reacting in horror to unseen threat. She sprinted towards him with rifle in hand, boots leaving prints in the mud and dust as she skidded to a stop next to him.

She had been expecting to see an Imperial ambush of some kind, not corpses. She breathed a sigh of relief, a wan smile on her face. While the Rat had been craving action Vicky didn't exactly want to trade bullets if she could avoid. So the sight of bodies was welcome to her. The smell much less so. She was reminded of when the ranchers would burn their infected livestock, the charred flesh left to rot in a pit and stinking up the air. Her mother had once told her that meat was best when it was falling off the bone. By that standard the soldiers and civilians down the street were positively delicious. More roasted corpses choked the path, a feast for maggots and crows and a source of confusion for Victoria. Had they been doused with gasoline before being set ablaze? But why waste the time and effort? Was this just a show of power, or a test of some new weapon.

She turned to asked Jean what he thought but decided against it when he collapsed, inquires about his health dying in her throat as he vomited. Instead of asking if he was okay she simply pursed her lips and dropped her canteen next to him, the offer of clean water there if needed it. Once again she was having second thoughts about her squad leader. Was he going to break down every time he saw something horrific? They would never get anything done if every few blocks he started puking his guts out. The Rat wanted to drag him up by the arms and slap some sense into him, beat every last ounce of cowardice out of his system until he was a competent leader. But she did no such thing, simply spitting on the ground in disgust and continuing onward when instructed. 

The Gallian regiment proved to be of some interested, Vicky digging through pockets until she found a medal to compare to the one she had stolen during the gas attack. Just as she had thought, it was a Gallian decoration of some kind. The new award was placed in her pocket next to its older counterpart, the clinking of metal drowned out by the sudden sound of a shell arcing towards the camp. [color=#4F97A3]"Fuck!"[/color]

The explosion had been big, big enough to be felt all this way from the camp. They were really stepping up their game. But there was no time to consider that, not when a bullet caused some stray Ragnite to explode in a burst of flame and shrapnel. Instinctively she threw her cape up to protect herself from the searing heat as she dropped to the floor, dragging herself behind a pile of rubble and looking around to take stock of the situation.

Marathon was fucked. His leg had been suddenly and violently separated from his body, the limb lying in a pool of blood away from it's owner. All she could do was go pale in the face and tremble violently, a thumb jerking towards the rough location of the shooter. She simultaneously wanted to curl into a ball and cry and rush the shooter so she could tear them limb from limb, white hot rage clashing with fear. Rage won out, listening to Luke's plan through a haze of a screaming need for revenge. Her first thought was drag Thomas back into cover but the fucking sniper would be expecting that. Luke's plan was a good one, but she wasn't waiting for their piece of shit officer to find his balls and answer.

She was going to get shit done. 

With a roar of pure hatred the Rat exploded from behind their cover, using the natural gift of speed she had honed in back alley brawls and dusty footraces to propel herself past Thomas and his leg, past Jean and his weakness, past Luke and his mommy issues and towards the field gun. She screamed as she fired wildly at the tower, three shots burying themselves in the stone, challenging the Imperial bastard up there to take her out she blasted them directly to Hell. She was sailing across loose cobblestones and lead bullets, graceful in the way a rampaging tiger was, or an avenging angel dragging sinners down to eternal torment. Grace and fury melded into a single form... 

Until she slipped and smacked directly into the gun, splitting her forehead. The Oceanic killer swore violently as pain flashed through her skull and blood matted the strands of hair hanging across her face, forcing herself up from the ground and checking to see if it was loaded. It was, she was clear to start dragging the barrel of the gun into position. With a groan of rusted metal from the cannon and grunt of exertion from Vicky the barrel began to turn, the Rat focused on blowing the tower to high hell. Luke could come over there and help or stay there and confer with the piece of shit officer, it mattered little to her.

[@LetMeDoStuff] [@Jacky]