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Oh joy, trench clearing duty. The shitty job that the piece-of-shit-Captain assigned to those stupid, disposable or psychotic enough to be good at it. Victoria wasn't surprised that this sort of work fell on her shoulders, she had done her best to prove herself as overburdened with those qualities and with her having found those battleplans, well...someone must have taken note of her dutiful can-do attitude. Wow, she was so proud she could just fucking puke.

The Oceanic was passing the time before the raid with art, scribbling on the torn off piece of paper that had been her focus for the past little bit. An amorphous blob of a blanket with an unshaven face peering out, a stupid little helmet perched atop and a few motion lines to denote shivering and she had a fairly accurate picture of Jean the Coward. In the interest of fairness she matched it with a caricature of herself, all sharp teeth and crazy eyes with gnarled claws for fingers. Victoria the Mad Rat and Jean the Frightened Mouse, a comedy duo worthy of vaudeville.

The Midget spoke and reminded her that she was among other poor bastards, Victoria setting down her well-chewed pencil to begin going through her kit. [color=4F97A3]"Carbine, pistol, knife, shovel..."[/color] She laid them out one by one on the table, well-worn instruments ready and waiting to be put to use. [color=4F97A3]"My armor and ammo obviously and something I like to cook up myself."[/color]

She finished the rest of her bottle in one quick gulp, cheap wine that she had been nursing the past two days. Out from her pack came the greasy jam tin filled with lamp oil and turpentine, the mixture freehand poured into the bottle with nary a drop spilled. Soap was next, a greyish lump produced from a pocket and shaved until a small pile of slivers formed.

[color=4F97A3]"Burns 'em right out."[/color]

Was she looking forward to seeing it in action as much as her manic grin would suggest? No. Yes. Maybe? It was hard to tell how much of her thirst for violence was acting and how much was genuine, her mind cracking in too many places to keep track. Just keep playing the gangster turned soldier, the woman who belonged on the battlefield and hope no one called her out as the frightened child she was, that was her mission.


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In an example of the infinite wisdom bestowed upon the upper echelons someone had assigned a sniper to a trench raid in the evening. Alex was a good shot, a damn good shot, but even he would be limited by both dusk and the constraints of space. Trying to take potshots from across No Man's Land with the sun down would result in friendly fire as often it did an enemy killed and it wasn't like his scoped rifle was designed with close-quarters combat in mind. 

So what did that leave him with? The Turner-Cable, a gift from his father that had been more symbolic than anything. His saber, a straight pattern made for stabbing and so infinitely more useful in tight trenches than the Europan models that necessitated wide swings. And Valkur, a hulking brute with sharp teeth and hatred for mankind restrained by nothing more than Alex's force of will. Absolute barbarism personified in the form of three items, the industrial scale slaughter of the conflict embodied by beast, blade and bullet.   

[color=thistle]"Valkur can handle whatever the Imps can throw at him, I'm just going to follow behind and put the stragglers out of their misery."[/color] He smiled at his own bravado, amusing himself at the thought of the enemy fleeing for the hills chased by his monstrous hound. [color=thistle]"But seriously, usually I'd be providing you overwatch but I doubt that's feasible under the circumstances."[/color]

He could feel his grin becoming bitter, the consummate professional allowing himself the slightest curl of his lip before removing the expression entirely like a good little tin soldier. [color=thistle]"We'll make it work."[/color] It was his duty to be an example for his juniors, no bellyaching could be heard coming out of his mouth. [color=thistle]"The raid itself doesn't worry me too much, the real trouble's going to be getting back to our lines with a couple prisoners in tow."[/color]  

Alex's only show of nervousness was lighting up a cigar, sweetly addictive smoke sucked into his lungs like some kind of improper savage. Little violations of decorum like that were how he stayed sane, the weight of the smoke brought deep into his body where it would hopefully be absorbed faster.