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[color=Silver][sub]December 30th - Trebin --> Supply Trench Briefing[/sub][/color]

[sub]Heading out with: [@FalloutJack][@CFProxy][@Landaus Five-One][@Samakama][@TGM][/sub]

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[color=Silver]	In all honesty, there was something so bright about the way Isaac and Britta talked together; they were a tandem bicycle in motion, moving in continuous cycles between one another until they succeeded in telling a full load of questions, stories and anecdotes in response. They'd achieved that graceful status of a 'young married couple', and the unkept smoothness in their voices made for a somewhat relaxing conversation. Alas, Jean's temper was at its lowest, and even the finest confidence from some of the pair that said, in confidence: [i]"Well let's just get on with it, alright,"[/i] wasn't quite enough to quench his thirst for melancholy. Jean's revelling in dismay had done him little service that day. Nonetheless, their shine indeed did the job of the sunless sky, and with that he couldn't help but mutter an internal smile, even if he hadn't done so clearly. His huff and puff, with frosted condensation spewing from his lips like ash and plume from an earthly eruption, clouded the faint greyness of his eyes. The Darcsen was tired and hungry. It had become so typical of his place on the battlefield that what was and wasn't in his stomach was an immediate priority. He fumbled with that thought for a moment more; it was a healthy distraction.

	Jean then clicked his tongue and looked around. He was given an open request: something from the store? Well, he thought about it long and hard. What could he have that he already didn't? A rifle in his hands, a shrapnel grenade on his rigging and a pack of cheap cigarettes for favours was all that he needed to have gotten by. But he had ever the more lacking that was dug up from desire. And they were nothing more than that: desires. That was why he paid little attention to that which kept him sane.[/color]

[color=03DAED][b]"If the store could get me one thing, it'd be a sweetheart and a date. Maybe someone like that lost beauty Reyna, or Kalisa. Or - ah, fuck it, first come first serve."[/b][/color] [color=silver]He looked over at them and for the slightest second, perhaps due to his distorted view of what actually was, he felt as if he were flashed a concerned glare. Now he could've been entirely wrong for that matter. Britta and Isaac could have smiled the brightest of smiles, or laughed the giddiest of chuckles, but the man himself had seen them as frowns and otherwise glum glances either way. It was just the picture he had painted of the world. He quickly readjusted his tone.[/color] [color=03DAED][b]"I was - uh - just joking. I mean, I wouldn't complain, but the supply for you probably isn't too good."[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	Then came the second suggestion, and with his thumbs in his pockets he looked around. It was a kind offer - no, a generous showcase of friendly intent. But the man had to throw it off to the side. He wasn't built for the tools of trade, at least not yet. There was much for him to unlearn before he could, and killing was one of those. Besides...[/color]

[color=03DAED][b]"Partner? Ah, sorry mate. The only things I provide seems to be,"[/b][/color] [color=silver]he washed his hands in a flapping motion, mimicking the pen at work,[/color] [color=03DAED][b]"these poems, here and there. I couldn't get a bâtard to read it even if they wanted to. Brings down the mood, you see?"[/b][/color]

[color=Silver]	Then, the silent nod. From across the supply trench came the wilful command of a tilting neck and brow. Captain Middleton gave him the cheek and brushed their conversation over with a stubborn, and most definitely stern, expression. Time was no longer an ally of the peaceful. They were to head over the top. That was just how things were. And Jean, in his hour, would maintain the heading of the wire party. The honour of those who'd lay would be one Lucia, Diana and Cienie, whilst the rest maintained security and assisted with trimming small sections for the wire to be thoroughly placed. Three layers, it was to be, and the rest would be filled in by mud and rain. Jean had a small amount of additional wiring on hand to frilly up the middle sections with additional clutter, all for the purpose of snaring an advancing platoon's sleeves for the residential gunners to make holes in.

	Those who were due to make the raid were given the heads up as well. They were headed off to the dummy trenches for the quickest route in and out, but also to at least mimic the activity of said fool's hideout. The wire party were to make way to the frontline dugouts and to just simply walk over the top, with their bodies clung to the dirt the best they could in order to avoid the marksmen and gunners on station. And during the daylight, with but a thin fog to keep them in cover, it was all too annoying. But it had to be done. Something had to be done about the clearing in the wire gap, for any assault that dawned could have slipped through unopposed if so.

	Jean raised a hand and led his group away. Lucia tagged along just barely behind him, with a coil of wire kitted onto her back like a school-bag. It sat on a wooden, splintered platform that had a panel in place for the wearer not to prick themselves. It didn't impede the mobility too much other than its weight of iron barbs waiting for deployment. A few other members, like Jean himself, held additional wooden pegs and short poles to stab into the ground if none were found out in no man's land. Then, with a callous thought, he reached the frontline trench and took a look at those around him. Diana was of most familiar. God, he could hardly believe that but a few months ago, she had appeared madly in love with him. Well, madly was an extension of a desire for importance, likely just interested. But he could barely tell then and there. Maybe she did. Maybe she had moved on to real men and women, like she had in the inn - the fateful day he tried to pull that trigger on his skull.

	One Cienie: a name he barely knew. The guy wasn't from around there. Not a lick of Valois or Edinburgh in him, which he couldn't tell if he respected or not. By respect, of course, he meant for the decision to go there, not the place he came from. Maybe he never got to decide. For some it was easier to have the decision of duty made for them, but for most it was a case of cruelty at the highest order. And he felt as if he missed home, much like how he imagined the unfamiliar Private may have, but there was little left of a real home to return to. Then there was the Corporal Romijnsen. She looked more of a Corporal than he did, and he knew nothing of her. A woman from the same soil he'd stemmed from, but the age in her was barely noticeable. It was comical that the earth and fatigue made everyone look a hundred years older. He'd already scanned Britta and Isaac enough to know the lovers were living the life he wished he could have. It wasn't [i]that[/i] much different from his current life, but there was a dependent co-prosperous human that might as well have been wedlocked. Lucia was there, too, with her hand on his sleeve. Had she been a normal and more approachable individual, he would've imagined her with the other sophisticated lads in the platoon. Lest that were true, her supposed actions at Amone had shown that she was more capable a killer than the majority of the men around her, even with the innocent aura about her. And then there was Senja.

	Everyone must have loved Senja, he thought to himself, for they should've enjoyed the company of an angel. Every John, Jerry and Sarah was at her heels, lapping up the air she breathed and pleading for her holy healing magic to cast away their woes. Jean surely wanted and needed that, but he wasn't of her time, or perhaps he wasn't a victim enough to deserve it. He was just Jean. That was how it was. The comfort of some village girl hadn't really don't that for him, for they sometimes had their ways with a lot of dishevelled men. It wasn't their reason to stay in a war-torn home, but it was treated like it were a duty, one that Jean considered most unfair - though then again, he had seen that side of village life himself.

	He looked around and made for the first steps. A watch in his pocket ticked by with as much pain and agony as he had. It was pained, and he too felt it in the mechanical chicka-chicks it made. In a desperate plea for something to amend what could be another day at the office or a day in which he perished, he looked behind him and eyed the group.[/color]

[color=03DAED][b]"We're on a small job. We get on doing what we do, and we'll do it well. Then, we'll be back before the Imperials can say [i]Schwartzgrad[/i]."[/b][/color] [color=Silver]It was just a minute left to go. And with that lump in his throat forming once more, he looked at Diana, then to Senja, and flashed the most unconvincing of smiles he could.[/color] [color=03DAED][b]"You two good? Just keep on my heels, right?"[/b][/color]