Banned
The Siege of Amone, September 9th - The Skirmish
Jean burned a bright red when Reyna referred to him as a flirt. One of the many issues Jean had was socially identifying whether or not he was actually being flirty when he meant to, though for Reyna part of him was glad and embarrassed that she realised his was intentional. He turned away with a shuddering look of emotional rush, breathing to himself. Inhale. Exhale. It was a small process of calming him down as his heart raced from the top of his head to the very bottom of his toes. He'd never bantered or even flirted with a girl to this physical extent before, not even with Kalisa. That in itself was something that made him nervous. It dashed his entire progress of holding confidence in his flirting, but Jean simply insisted on smiling in complete and utter anxiety. Her giggle. Oh how he yearned to hear that again. It was almost...now Jean rarely used the word beforehand, but it was adorable. Jean couldn't help describing it as such. It was pure, vastly comforting and exhilarating to listen to. Every moment she spent giggling away it reminded him of a girl who'd once been there to laugh with him before, however this time there was more of an attraction than a sibling camaraderie. Her antics kept him on his toes and drove his mind away from the disasters of the war, only half an hour earlier, for when they began to get closer and closer to the breach in the City's walls.
As they got closer, Jean's attention was temporarily driven away from the glory of Reyna when Ines started to wipe some of the corroded and dry dirt from his cheeks. Jean froze for a second, feeling a strange motherly complex being thrown upon him whilst she attended to his dirt-ridden face. Part of him looked completely taken back by the lack of hesitation in her action, expressing such strange concern for his appearance. He stared at her face as she concentrated, wiping away the patches until it looked somewhat presentable. Jean was slightly surprised by her action, having realised that this was the first major time someone had gone out of their way to clean him. There were barely any cleaning facilities. Only several stops along the train journey proved effective in watching their bodies and chests, but not their heads and faces. Jean retracted himself from her motherly attendance and flinched slightly, a confused and surprised grin plastered onto his face.
"U-Uhh...Private Ines, why...uhm...you don't need to. Really...i-it's uhm...N-Now don't get the wrong idea or...oh God, why am I always the child..." Jean gave up in his fragile attempts of dismissing her acts, dropping his head and sighing heavily. Soon after, she plonked a small cigarette into his hands, almost ordering her superior to hold the smoke to his mouth and to take it. Without a second thought, Jean quickly flung it away with fear, having been brought up in an environment strict on its laws of tobacco and other recreants, depressives and more. Not to mention, with his isolated childhood, the sight of one being placed between his hand caught him by surprise, also contributing to him throwing it away with such instinct.
Soon after, she retorted to his advice, stating about how there was never a good time to enter war. She was entirely right, and Jean believed this wholeheartedly without a doubt. War was something based around deluded sacrifice. The ages of honourable sacrifice had now long-gone and made way for the new era of horrors, extremities beyond the nature of human civilised conflict as previously practised in the world before then. For a moment, once more, Jean's mood almost completely changed. He looked down, fumbling his hands together and tugging at his own sleeves in a worried fashion. Even with the new uniforms, Jean had the habit of shifting in his clothing whenever he lost himself in deep thought. He began to reminisce of the weeks before, where he was forced to leave the ungrateful safety of the muddy trenches to charge up the violent hill of suffering. The war had descended into chaos within the first battle. Even with Amone, proving to hold more mobility and less statuary combat, he was frightened that the slaughtering would just continue. No longer were they soldiers, but instead Jean everyone, himself included, as underappreciated cattle fed into the grinders of the Imperial War machine. So far, it had taken so much away from him in such a little amount of time. And with that side thought, his face almost became broken, shattering and dropping all sense of happiness as he began to think over the war. It had claimed his sister, the only girl so far that Jean could relate to with dignity. It created a whole in his heart. Then his parents were brutally murdered by riots, Darcsen pursuits in his home city of Liege. It created a whole in his life. There was nothing to go back to. There was never anything other than the barren nether-realms of humanity's mistakes. Jean was a victim, and a victim he would remain. His hands trembled and shook with anxiety as he placed one on his helmet, taking it off despite being out in the field. No tears spewed from his eyes yet, but the almost empty stare of his once confident self began to show. The real Jean was starting to show up once more.
And then, in that moment, he ticked. What caused and spun the sudden tick, one could've asked? Well it came in the form of conversation he heard. A soldier, nearby, by the name of Luke spoke in derogatory tones. During Ines' humorous comment on the landscape, the bigotry the man showed around the Darcsens indicated that these were people of lowly stature, unimportance and justified negligence. Jean suddenly turned, a strange and unseen anger suddenly fuming within his face. He pushed past Ines and moved forward, zeroing in on Luke's laxed comment and body. Without thinking, his hands lunged outwards and tightly grasped around his collar, pushing him backwards until he had a strong grip on the shirt. Jean had never done anything like this before, ever in his life. And as he held onto the collar, Jean stared at his face with a strange anxiety and anger blended together. Finally, he began his inconceivably out of character attempt to speak his mind towards the oppressive nature he presented.
"I'm sorry, Private. I don't know who you think you are, wandering into a squad all high-and-mighty with a bloody superiority race complex on your mind, but this isn't going to fucking stick around, you hear? How about you treat some of us, your newfound allies, with respect before someone grabs their rifle and...and..." Jean froze for a second. His mind took over his instinct once more as he suddenly began to let go of Luke's collar, shuddering with his own hands as he looked back down. Quite visibly, his arms and hands shuddered in the cold and out of regret, anxiety and unfathomable stress. Jean entirely meant what he had to say, but he could've never found the confidence or real sense of aggression to have ever said that by his own will. It triggered the inner defensive mechanisms of an eternity's oppression, launching out as some form of ballistic barrage of words upon the newfound soldier. He looked back at the boy, Luke, with a sensation of fear for what he'd done. How was he so weak, so fragile as to fear his own ability to stand up for himself? How was he so weak that the thoughts of the war were barrelling him down to nothing but vermin? How could he be the soldier everyone kept wanting him to if he couldn't control the emotions that plagued his personality? He began to step back quickly, looking down to his feet as he turned around, trembling his final response. "S-Sorry...that...I...I wasn't...I just couldn't really-...L-Let's just go."
Jean pushed past the majority of the Squad, making his way to the front and avoiding eye contact with anyone who was around him. The stress of the upcoming battle and the trauma of Hill 58 had seriously wounded and spilt the blood of his spiritual containment. He hadn't been able to contain the emotions of his own personal beliefs and irrationally lashed out at Luke. Whilst some could call it rational due to the bigotry present, Jean still found himself on the back-foot, having taken the foreground of the group without uttering another word. With a shuddering hand, he placed his helmet back onto his head and continued the regrettable journey into Amone, making sure everyone was still behind him.
The breach in the wall engulfed them. He couldn't tell how high and wide the diameter of the gaping hole was, all he needed to understand was that it was large enough for them all to fit in. Jean, alongside his squad of Federation and Oceanic soldiers, entered, being one of the many squads to have already set foot within the city as acting reinforcements. As soon as Jean's right foot landed onto the stone paving of the roads, located on the opposite end of the breach, he felt a surge of emotion and imagery flash through his head. He imagined the piercing bullet of a marksmen or machine gunner breaking through his skull and ending it all, then and there. At least by that quick and easy death, Jean would no longer have to fear the life he had been cursed with. During the times of silence, the Francian would constantly get strange illusions of bullets whizzing above his head, just like they had at Hill 58. The feeling of intensity and ferocity always brought unease to his sleeping patterns and made him fear for his own existence every step of the way. The war was a cruel one, one that could end a thousand lives within the space of a single day. He still hadn't said another word to his Squad since his anxiety outburst towards Luke, and had a hard time blocking out any questions or calls to his name. Instead, he did what he thought people expected of him: to act like a soldier.
Not long after they had finally surpassed the breach in the wall, several storied complexes of Francian-styled infrastructure littered and towered above them from every conceivable angle. They were currently in a light shadow, mixed of both the lack of sunlight and downpour of rain from above, filling the streets with endless amounts of puddles and grime. The assembly of squads and platoons beginning to spread out down different streets laid before them. There must've been around three hundred individuals, all soldiers, within the complex they'd arrived in. The space of the interception point was rather open and held a lot of breathing room, despite the overshadowing of the buildings. Some of these towering flats were breached with artillery impact spots littered across them. Others had gaping holes in their walls where explosives and potentially past combat had taken place, making some of them look far more abandoned than the city was presumed to be. At the front of their expedition into Amone, Jean moved forward, seeing a heavily dressed officer stand around, giving orders to many squads. The rain had picked up extremely hard and the sounds of the downpour were quite drowning, sometimes making Jean's ability to think difficult. It was a distraction, and the rain itself was far worse than that of Hill 58's precipitation. At least there wasn't mud for them to sink in this time.
Jean approached the officer, who'd been identified as another Captain. For once, it was a Darcsen Captain. It was strange that this one was willing to go into the City, despite the refusal from command to let Middleton join the siege. Perhaps this wasn't a Captain of any public importance, as far as the civilian war effort was displayed. The two met closely and Jean gave a semi-weak salute to indicate that they were reporting in. The Captain leaned closer and shouted over the heavy rain, ensuring that both him and Jean could understand one another.
"Corporal, what Squad are y'ah with?" The rain had completely soaked the overcoats of everyone's uniform, but at least the chest and legs were relatively dry on the undershirts. Even so, the sound of his shouting took Jean by no surprise. It was irritating to have the elements cut off what you had to say.
"Corporal Robin-Charpentier, Sir. Squad 1, 9th Platoon of the 15th Atlantic Rifles. Under Captain Middleton's command." The Darcsen Captain raised his hand, as if to tell him to hold on for just a minute. Despite the rain, he quickly began to flip through some recently laminated papers, a rare technological advancement for paper management in harsh conditions that was only recently introduced in the coming months of the offensive. On the papers were a list of squads and their assigned objectives, indicating that the well-organised and structured offensive of Amone would at least instruct them of where to go.
"Got y'ah name here. You're on the demolitions duty for the tunnel system, lad?" Jean nodded, the weight of the rain beating down upon his helmet consistently. "Aye, that's a hell of a long way to go, Corporal. Without resistance it could take about four hours to reach there with all your gear, but word has it the Innies are everywhere within this pocket. Can't tell how long it'll take you, but I'll be damn proud if you even get past the first street."
"S-Sir?" In confusion to what he meant, Jean nervously questioned the motives behind his strange wording.
"Amone is a shithole, Son. Unlike anywhere else there's no clear indication where to point your guns. It's not like there's a clear frontline, just endless pockets of either Federation or Imperial resistance dotted all over. Apparently yesterday there was an entire Platoon moving as one down the Eastward streets and were obliterated from all angles, soldiers shooting at them from the houses above and the streets in front and behind them. Amone may have technically been under siege for some time, lad, but the Imperials have mastered it better than everyone."
Jean looked behind himself helplessly at the squad following him. No one, including himself, were exactly a crack team of specialised soldiers bred for war, prepared for this major conflict before anyone else. Those who'd been fighting in wars before the breakout of this great war were mostly dead from the first year, the year where a huge chunk of veteraned soldiers were slaughtered in the wake of new tactics. The rain was beating against them heavily now, forming more puddles to drizzle down the built-in drainage system of Amone. Everything was indeed a shithole, the Captain was not wrong there. To think that they could be attacked from any angle, instead of from a widespread charge or directional artillery cannon made him fearful more. What if...What if Reyna got hurt? What if anyone got hurt, or worse died? Jean wasn't prepared to deal with more death than he already had, but that clearly wasn't going to be the case.
Without warning, another Private emerged from behind the Captain with a crate full of strange contraptions and blunt objects. He clearly and strongly saluted his superior before standing aside, allowing the Captain to explain what was going on. He picked out a large club, lined with spikes and braille-like contours of metal all across it. After inspecting it, two other Privates joined the pack and began to hand out all of the strange, asymmetrical blunt weaponry around them. Everyone got a different kind of weapon, or was at least offered them. Those who didn't want it were strongly persuaded otherwise, though the attempts of persuasion weren't always able to convince the soldiers to take the weapons if they so chose to.
"Sad to say it, but this ain't your usual trench warfare, boys and girls. Our Sappers in the base-camp outside of Amone have been making anything handheld a lethal tool of bludgeoning, stabbing or cutting away at the Imperial opposition. According to the lads who've been in this City for months before we arrived, they're more effective than just having a knife. Plus if you lose your service knife rifles aren't ideal for CQC in most situations, but at least it's enough to get the job done." Even with the good intentions for Squad 1's survival, Jean awed upon the blunt and serrated melee weapons with fear. Had the conflict really devolved into something so medieval and primitive already? When the private approached him, a flat wooden club with no sharp edges was shown before him, blistered with a coil of barbed wire wrapped around its head. Was this seriously built for killing a man? Had this simply been some form of tool for the regular citizen improvised into a bludgeoning tool? It made him feel sick in the stomach, something that hadn't occurred since Hill 58's slaughter. "As for you, Corporal, seeing as you are acting as the IC of Squad 1, you can take this. There's some ammunition in this pouch for it, should be better for the closer engagements."
As it was placed into his hand, Jean felt the lightness and agility surge through him when he gripped the weapon. Far more compact, with a chamber centred clearly in the middle and a cocking hammer engraved with someone else's name, he'd been handed a regular officer's service revolver. Revolvers were always given out to those leading raids, operations and more. They were low in numbers and weren't being fully serviced for all soldiers, only those who held some importance in the command chain. One of the Privates attached the holster to his right hip, whilst also tying up the wire that would go around Jean's wrist in use. Another placed the ammunition pouch onto his webbing, ensuring it wouldn't fall off in the rain either. Fear engulfed the poor and anxious Francian, knowing that they were simply kitting him out with more ways to end more lives. What tragedy had fallen upon Europa to cause this?
Jean broke the barrel down, splitting it from its fixed position to reveal the six-chamber holding cell for the bullet casings. He looked between the Captain and his newfound tool of destruction. Simply, the Captain nodded as if to tell him reloading was the next thing to do. Water droplets carefully circumnavigated his handgun as one by one he began to place the bullets into its chamber. Once all six had entered the revolving house for its shells, he snapped the barrel back into position and slid the gun into his holster, his hand still trembling from the thought of what damage he could do with such a devastating and agile weapon.
The Captain looked at him in the airs, glaring through the dim rain and pittering of precipitation. Jean prepared to conclude the conversation with a salute, but the officer in question had more to talk about in terms of orders. He adjusted his helmet, obviously having swapped out the ceremonial officer's cap for something more practical in the field. He raised his arms and pointed a gloved finger down to their right, showing an assortment of twisted streets darting in and out of rubble. Not many soldiers had yet gone down there.
"Down that street should help with going in the right direction. Won't be easy, Corporal, but as long as you prepare to go from room to room, building to building and street to street, you'll find your way. Squad 7 from 4th Platoon might be down there too. Don't get caught in the open, and don't get yourself trapped. Oh, and watch out for civilians, I know that there is a neutral pocket somewhere along there offering shelter to soldiers of both sides. I personally think it's a trap, but you should focus more on the mission, for it could take a week with the fighting we're facing. Dismissed, Corporal...And good luck." Both of them saluted one another, the rain suddenly being joined by another deafening blast. Around 400 metres to their left, behind the buildings and more, an assortment of small bursts of fragmentation and gunfire could be heard echoing throughout the stormy atmosphere. Another pocket had just received its ultimate demise, on either side. "Now go, before the Imperials catch this rendezvous off guard."
Jean, albeit with extreme caution and anxiety, turned towards Squad 1. They'd all had the chances to accept or deny their makeshift weapons and now the Corporal himself had the additional firearm. In the density of the rain storm, he raised a hand to indicate and synchronise all of those under his command. He held the rifle tightly in the hand he raised and began to start moving, getting ready to move at a steady yet fast pace in order to avoid being caught stagnated in the bloody streets of Amone. Even with his hesitation and anxiety, Jean shouted loud and clear enough for them to hear, keeping a substantial confidence in his tone.
"Squad 1, we're heading out! Keep your gear tightly checked, don't lose focus and be prepared for combat. T-This might be a hard shell to crack, this time." With Lucia following closely behind, Jean led the way first, beginning with a light jog. Every boot-step echoed and splashed the rippling puddles beneath his feet, the thumping of army boots traversing the streets. They'd already covered enough distance to disappear from the rendezvous point they'd arrived within, separating them from the line of sight of their allies. Their rapidity and quick progression was something Jean had been advised to. Stay in one place for too long and you lose your head. Stay in line and-
It was a frightful and horrifying sound. The awfully confusing noise suddenly forced Jean to stop and turn around, rifle raised with instinctive fear for the lives of those around him. Now closer than before, the repeating sound of gunfire spreading and murdering those they'd just been talking to. Echoes of the male and female screams breached the sense of peace that had previously been left behind in the breaching gates of the city. Had they already been routed, the newcomers? Jean started to wave his hands, silently ordering the troops in his squad to move behind him and take up more defensive positions. A strange sound that was reminiscent of a motor engine roared once the machine gun fire ceased to exist. It was beginning to rapidly head towards them, spreading its speed and ferocity quickly. Was it a truck? What was it? Before the mist and street corner could reveal it, a shot quickly shot past Lucia's head and hit the stone beside them. It had come from behind.
Lucia screamed, falling over in panic as Jean turned quickly, seeing Imperial soldiers running towards them. The first shot had lost their element of surprise, but without any time to reflect the streets were now being assaulted from either direction. Jean's heart raced as he raised his Longfield and aimed. The infantry behind were just under a hundred metres away, giving him a rightful line of sight. And so, Jean fired the first shot, grabbing Lucia by the arm pushing her into Michael.
"Get into the fucking buildings! Left of us! Gunners go to the right-side buildings and take Private Gwyn with you as a sapper. Gwyn, set up some small bits of cover, block off the entrances to the rooms behind you and brace for potential room clearances. Gunners, lock down the street. Everyone else, with me to the left! F-Fucking move!" The sound of gunfire began to ring out in quick succession. Bullets skimmed the stone and barely missed those who were still darting for cover. Jean managed to get off another shot, this time seeing his target fall to the ground without any time to react. A few of the Imperial comrades that escorted his kill stopped, running back to pull them into cover, to which Jean, regrettably, fired and hit one of his rescuers again. Whilst his soldiers began to dart into the house, he looked back the other direction to realise the motor was now upon them. He saw it. Lined with armour, thickened with the sheets of metal and carriages started to slowly drive towards them. Atop of them was an emplacement of machine guns, mobile and fully armoured from the bottom and sides. Immediately, upon seeing the Squad, it opened fire. Jean darted for the inside of the tall apartment complex to his left, hoping the soldiers to his right also got there fine. "F-Fucking hell...is...is this it?"
