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[sub][color=Silver][i]The Siege of Amone, September 27th - [b]What it means to be a Corporal...[/b][/i][/color][/sub]

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[color=Silver]	Kalisa began something rather...useful? Was this the first time the approach was more direct yet friendly in and of itself? When Jean looked up from his hands he saw Kalisa speaking down to him, and not metaphorically. She was actually making sure that she gave him advice, as if it were support to the ever-growing falter that was Jean's cascading lifeline. Beseeched by the smooth transition into said wisdom, Jean was pleasantly surprised by how little sporadic aggravation was introduced into the conversation. It was genuine help and not the kind that was crammed down their throat. Jean knew that it was his place to improve his ability as a leading figure, especially from within the ranks of the 15th Atlantic Rifles. He had the compassion to try and help others but he needed to also remove a dependency that anchored him forever against the seabed of human excrement and blood. Death would not wait for the weak, though it would also not wait for the strong. Whilst bravery felt pointless sometimes, he wanted to muster all the courage he could and show his squadmates all that he could offer. He had a legacy behind him, one of famous and honourable fellows who'd marched through obstacles and come out swirling, or at least died trying. From the days of exploration to the revival of the Robin-Charpentier connection, all the way down to the death of one Olivia Robin-Charpentier, taking charge and the prowess of undeniably scarce odds and using them to do the impossible. For those who didn't quite make it, they set a standard and example. His sister, Olivia, was told to have thwarted enough waves of Imperial aggressors to constitute for a medal of certification and outstanding achievement. Jean...Jean had his moments. For back on Hill 58 where he successfully gathered the Shocktroopers to their assaulting positions and the ambush from the armoured car, he'd taken the lead in places others hadn't. Perhaps there was that potential...perhaps.

	Until then, Jean was still scrounging around for answers. Who was he really? What could he do to improve himself? Kalisa was presenting the answers before him, and as she did so he felt his eyes drift into hers with admiration for her stern yet peaceful demeanour. She said it how the truth laid itself out for them. Taking ones false lies and deprecations of oneself and then forging them into something useful, non-aggressive and genuinely pointed in the right direction. Truly, Jean hadn't been too mindful of their separation at first but her absence had become more apparent now that she was here with him. Compared to the likes of Reyna and Diana, who were both equally as kind-hearted when they wished to be, Kalisa felt almost...like Jean had met her before. There were ways in which she spoke that reminded him of a certain girl he once stood by, who once stood by him and who once loved him just as he might love her. Suppressing those emotions wasn't healthy, but it at least kept his focus on what she was saying. Some of it was definitely correct, without a doubt. Yet, even with that wisdom being showered onto him he felt some conflict in what she suggested.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"Luke has been tamable in the past, or so...so someone like Isaac might say. Sporadic and ruthless, but he sometimes listens when he can. Obviously we don't see eye to eye and I think regardless of my command he'd always do what he thinks is best. Sometimes for the better. Sometimes...well...well I doubt he's outside regretting his actions like we are, Kalisa. If you heard, he's parading his kill like he deserves a medal. Dunno if he's...braindead but y'know, that's a common consensus around our Squad in our viewpoints on him."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Fumbling his fingers, he stood up and stumbled towards the other end of the tent, picking up his helmet and looking at the mud and blood that was still drying on its steel potted circumference. Beside the helmet, on the frail wooden desk, sat his rifle. The tool that had killed and would continue to kill was now his best weapon. The Longfield's design was sleek and angelic to some, though Jean only sought it to protect himself. Unfortunately, pacifism would never get him anywhere except at the bottom of the graves. Perhaps there were times where fighting would be avoided mutually, but in any given battle he would have to either kill or wound those who seek to reap his own soul before they could.

	His eyes stared intensely into the pale, drab tent walls, which pattered with the sound of water gently trickling against its fibre-surface. A sigh escaped his jaws and exhaled quickly through his nostrils, letting him rid of the held tension clasped within his lungs. A motionless expression gazed upon the weapon before him, knowing full well that this was his new life. Regardless of where the war went, or if it ever lost its momentum and concluded in an untimely fashion, Jean had no life outside. Without a family and only the formal education to carry onto mainstream jobs, he felt like there was nothing left outside of the war. He'd been born and bred in the fire of unyielding bloodshed like never before. Or perhaps...a writer? Why yes, a writer of these experiences! Jean's writing had taken a backseat to his troubled mind as the trauma had been building up, and yet he was prepared, now of all times, to scribble the horrors down onto the paper. Perhaps someone could learn from the experience. Perhaps those who hadn't yet seen the vicious fighting would finally realise the bombastic devastation that had rippled through all of Europa, and potentially even the whole world to a certain degree.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"Victoria...fucking...I don't get her."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]He slipped a small graphite pencil between his fingers and began to start fluently sliding its tip across the pages, beginning the stance of a writer once more as he spoke to the angel behind him.[/color] [color=Aqua][b]"She arrived after you left, said to have lost her squad or something. She...she's an enigma. A drunkard, a fucking idiot sometimes. It seems almost perfect for her to have gotten through this war alone. Besides, she influences Luke perhaps more so than I hoped."[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	He walked back to Kalisa and stood her up without warning, scooting her suddenly across the room with a gentle grip upon both of her shoulders. As he did so, his fingers sank into the beauty of the scarf he'd gifted to her. Its fantastic silky touch mesmerised his temptation into fluent admiration, a fluidity of camaraderie sweeping him off of his feet and almost into her arms. Obviously, that was metaphorically, he didn't literally fall into her arms. But as he did so, he threw some papers onto the place she was sat in and quietly apologised, his face growing slightly more serious. She was right about her pep-talk, more or less. And he needed to begin work on himself as soon as he got the chance. A leader was waiting to be made, and that could only begin in its journey the day tomorrow, where he and his fellow brothers and sisters in arms would begin their ultimate march and descent upon the radicalised Imperial garrison who remained. Besides, they all needed to enact some form of closure here in Amone; whether it be the completion and liberation of the city, or the simple sweet release of death on their own behalf.[/color]

[color=Aqua][b]"Uhm...Kalisa..."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]Another stutter. For the lords above, would he ever stop? Instead, he turned back to Kalisa and drew her in to a gentle, yet firm, embrace once more. He stood there, with her in his arms quietly, for a solid fourteen seconds, letting the time slip by effortlessly as it did so.[/color] [color=Aqua][b]"Thank you so much for stopping by. I...really appreciate your being. Please...after tomorrow's assault...I'll find a way to return the favour of your kindness. And I know you will make it through. So far you've been cheating death time and time again, you amazing Darcsen!"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	And with a chuckle, he began to shuffle her outside, waving her off with a kind and courteous smile. It wasn't over-exaggerated, but it was one of genuine gratitude. For he had a burst of inspiration. And whilst she sauntered away into the afternoon rain, he returned to his tent and zipped its entrances up. Yes...this was it! The time to put a confident paper down upon a page was now. At the top of the manuscript, he once again traced over his chosen title: [i]Eyes of the Rifle.[/i] A magnum opus that even he didn't know was awaiting to burst.[/color]

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[color=Silver]	The morning bell struck. No matter what the medical teams were doing, still catering to the far few wounded left within the remains of the Ragnite Shell's impact zone, Jean pushed the tent open and began to tie the helmet around his chin. Securing a steady protection over his scalp and hair, he walked with an estranged intent to get things done. Sure enough, Jean was frightened of the outcome of this war. For what he knew was that the upcoming offensive would claim many lives, both Imperial and Federation alike. He hadn't direct control over his squadmates as they were likely to be split in an unanimous fashion. Here, soldiers were directed to whatever site they were deemed most useful at. A small briefing could be given if the squadmates so wished to approach Jean minutes before they were due to set off. A bustling whisper unlike any other filled the streets as those who were kitted out waited in lines and in clustered their friendship groups saying their usual graces of good luck. Here, Jean looked at the watch he held closely to his chest. Rusty, barely functional, but at least helpful by whatever means necessary. September 28th. 1914EC. 0550 hours. A six o'clock start to the end of the lines. Assignments were more or less potentially done but those who wanted to run by their information could go to their squad CO to figure out their objective once and for all. The sappers had their chance to shine in the Tunnel offensive that was yet to be completed. For those around them, the variations of the assault on the cathedral, the push on the suspected headquarters, investigating the source of the giant shell and clearing out the streets. Here...Amone's fate would be tested with one fell swoop.[/color]

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