Yam I Am

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

Aside from whatever rays of light straggled their way through the cloud cover which draped over Amone, Inès scantily found any sight to awaken her aside from that dashing lighthead, Freya. A woman without any clothes on wasn’t what she expected to wake up to when she nuzzled her head against her forearm-construed pillow, but Inès wasn’t going to lie to herself and say the surprise wasn’t pleasant. It’s rude to stare, of course, but Inès chuckled at the sight. Quite a quaint thing, her. The brazenness was admirable, really, that unashamed going abouts in spite of the realities at hand. Maybe it was a bit dumb, yeah, but there was no denying Inès found it not endearing.

“Good morning to you, too.” she would announce. As if she had gotten much in the way of sleep. Hard stone floors were what any tenement denizen found themselves accustomed to, yet the lack of any cushioning lead any lasting sleep to be a distinctive drilling experience, like a rock slowly grinded into the back of her head while she laid down to rest. To not return a woman’s smile was unacceptable, no matter Inès’ experience. Yet, all she had to offer to Freya were a pair of raised eyebrows, and her trademark defeated expression. For Inès, this was a show of affection, if a subtle one, and for a culture as overt as the Oceanic, the pass was likely too little to notice.

The shocktrooper hadn’t bothered to take her clothes off for the evening, and for that matter, hadn’t received a proper clothing change in what must have been weeks by now. Being stuck in that same sausage casing of a uniform while everyone else got some shiny new blue outfits didn’t really give her the greatest of impressions. Still, she supposed she’d rather have something over nothing where rain and cold were concerned. But if her helmet were any indication, by the time she may see a resupply, she may have had to fight The Great War in naught but smallclothes. Smallclothes were hell, on the other hand. Inès wasn’t packing two football-sized love-pillows under her fatigues, and neither could her chest be used as a grand prix motor course, but any girl who’d used them for long enough lived by one master rule; Bras sucked. Bras fucking sucked. When you wore a bra for weeks on end, you may as well have hung yourself by the noose around your chest. With how much sprinting the soldier’s life required, Inès likely had a lasting indentation around her chest in what was a case of rope-burn-turned-asphyxiation. She hated it, but it was something of a necessity, as well.

Groaning off the whole ordeal, Inès dusted herself off for the morning, heading down the way for the morning sound-off. The injured were being lifted from their cots, while the others readied themselves for the day alongside her. She hadn’t made much conversation along the way; Hell, she didn’t even know who half of this crew were. She saw the other darkhead, though, and she was sure to deliver a quick, “Good morning.” while she passed him by. Franz - she remembered - that was his name. The Federal Imperial. However he got here.

There was some sort of spiel the Corporal had for the morning crew, and none of it interested Inès. Not by any lacking of Jean’s own charisma, mind, but because none of it contained substance. Another day, the rest, the orders; Inès tuned it all out while she tuned her thoughts in. It was a shitty assortment of days, this week, but still, Inès had a bit more pressing concerns to her mind. Snipers, for example. Maybe it was some primitive urge to hunt going off in her brain, or perhaps it was simple paranoia; Regardless, Inès knew it wasn’t the brightest idea to congregate in the middle of a street for long. When Jean gave the order to move on out, she kept herself ready, as she always had, scanning the rooftops, corners, and windows for the omnipresent opportunist.

Yes, the city was a hellhole. Just as it was. To become accustomed to such widespread hideousness necessitated a shift in attitude few could truly undergo, for the vestige of what once was forever haunts the ruins, no matter how antiquated nor recent, extravagant or destitute, there existed the desire in all men to recapture that which had been lost. A mending of wounds, so to speak. Yet, what was reclamation to the impoverished? Had they truly so much of value to lose, that when it was gone, true tragedy had struck? Easy come, easy go, as went the idiom, and even for what still remained of the blackened city of Amone, a skeleton, for its ghastly decree, was still something. Inès knew the lives of many were truly lost, displaced or disarrayed, but within her heart, she knew there was much more to be lost even in the sepulcher where she walked now.

---

Bars. Ostend was full of them. Alliances between gangs were born, broken, and reprimanded at your neighborhood pub, sometimes all within the same hour. And running a bar meant paying lip service to whatever powers that be in the neighborhood, unless you really enjoyed broken windows and stolen booze. But what about those on the corner of territories? That was all in God’s hands. Truces like the ones around here didn’t last for long. Bars and taverns and drinking holes all meant money to be made, and every gang on every corner wanted in on that slice of the pie. Of course, there can be the “unspoken rule” that the bar remain a safe haven, but really, if the Berangers showed up with bats and crowbars and rifles and firebombs and said “Oliver Levantine is a dead man”, what the fuck were you gonna do?

That delicate balance, of course, meant whoever was running this little hole in the wall was paying for it. Unless he had a whole six-acre distillery composed of all the bathtubs in the south side of Amone in that cellar of his, someone needed to bring him enough booze on the monthly to supply everyone who came through. But sure enough, for as long as this place had been a thing, someone needed to step up to fill Amone’s glass. And someone was making a killing getting on-duty soldiers absolutely smashed. It was uneasy, but the whole god-forsaken city felt uneasy; That a saloon in the middle of a city-quarter-turned-brickyard was “uneasy” was moot at this point. To anyone in Amone, a place like this was paradise.

There was a commotion before Jean had figured it all out, some manner of shouting match between him and another. A real medal-man, him, seeming to believe that walking around a combat zone with a lot of honors made him anything but a target. Yet there was far more to it than the medals; He was an older one, too. An older soldier in an occupation where you retired at 30 if you weren’t any way up the food chain. He was a target, but he was dangerous. He had bite to that bark. Name was clever, too. Have you ever seen a green fox before? Didn’t think so.

On the front deck of the tavern, there was a blondie out and about the balcony, leaning over as though he wished to land flat on his face. His eyes squint, then perk up while his whole body scrambled to get back to a normal posture. Conducting himself into form, what’s immediately apparent is that his right arm seems to be made of metal. And as he began to move, it became clearly apparent even in the poor light of the day, this one’s right arm was an artificial one, a crude and ill-reactionary device, no doubt, but functional, nonetheless. He was an Imperial, of note, yet tracked down Inès like the old friend he so clearly was.

Inès knew the man; Max. Like an old friend, she kept him at a distance, only nominally acknowledging him, yet the memories were too fond and his enthusiasm un-curbable, and while Inès tried to downplay it, she herself was a bit dumbstruck by the his sight as well. The feeling was mutual, clearly, by the duo’s curiously pleasant gazes at one another, shocked to meet again in…these conditions.

“...Max?” Inès questioned, clearly in disbelief at the blondie, “The hell are you doing here? I thought they deported you from the Federation?”

“They did.” he chuckled.

“...you’re fucking with me.” the shocktrooper responded in disbelief. He shook his head with a stupid grin.

“Yeaaaaaah, and then I got drafted and I had to go through a whole training course and yeaaaaaah…” Max scratched the back of his head, that smirk of his still present like he had something to be embarrassed of. With good reason, of course.

“Right, right…” Inès turned away. She knew she had to ask.

“So you’re with...infantry, or-”

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck that.” Max laughed back. With enough experience, you knew Inès slightly raising her eyes meant that she was relieved, and if not, Max’s repeated head shakes showed he clearly had zero desire to be anywhere close to a combat zone.

“No, i’m just, like, with logistics.” He explains, “I can’t do anything with two hands with this stupid thing. So nah, I just drive the supplies around. Basically, I get to drive around in a truck all day and tell people to load and unload stuff. As soon as any shooting happens, i’m waaaaaaaay the Hell gone.”

“So what are you in Amone for?” Max looked to his side, then inched close to her.

“Business, my girl.” He explained slyly. Inès nodded to his euphemism.

“An idiot trying to be a businessman. Good old Max.”

“At least you haven’t changed a bit.” Inès snickered back. For as long as Inès had known Max, he had the ability to get ahold of anything that wasn’t nailed down and locked behind a ten-ton vault. Sometimes, he wasn’t even that picky. Little man had balls, that was for sure, and that bravado sure costed him.

“Heeeey, you know me! You’ll even get the champion’s discount!” he nudged on, painfully intent on giving Inès a hard time, “Come find me whenever you aren’t busy. We can...y’know. Do business. Just like old times.”

Inès and him went their ways, the Darcsen clearly puzzled in measure by Max’s return. Pleasant, no doubt, but not without suspicion. They’d been friends before, long ago in the streets of Ostend while Max remained among the Federation, yet the change in circumstances was...curious, to say the least. She’d try to put it in the back of her mind, yet she knew everyone else was going to find it strange she was talking to an Imperial right off the bat. Didn’t help she was a Darcsen. Yet, why would a Darcsen be talking to the

Max wasn’t a bad guy - better than a lot of the trash she knew in Ostend - but he was far from a legitimate busInèssman, nor was he the upstanding “icon” soldier. Max took things into his own hands, for better or worse, and the outcome surprised people more often than not.

She approached the bartop and rested upon it, forearms slightly crossed as she leaned forward.

“I’ll have whatever you’re serving. And...some for them, too.” Inès asked, waving her finger around a small conglomerate that composed of Gwyn, Luke, Freya, and Franz. Jean could get skipped out on without fear with how he so casually tossed away a Khandar spliff as though it were garbage. Inès - and everyone else for that matter - just needed a drink. And what better way to alleviate the pain than to drown it out?

“Do I get drunk first, or take a bath?” She turned to Freya, handing the woman a well-needed bottle.

“Or take a bath drunk?” She wasn’t the greatest with understanding Oceanic humor, but she thought she’d at least try to reciprocate the mood.

---

It was pretty clear by the way he carried himself - mostly that he bothered to leave one of his eyes covered by his hair in the middle of a war zone, but if not that, then his goofy, big smile - Max was a mellow sort of fellow. But, if from what Jean may have overheard, that his job as a cripple was just to drive a truck around far from the frontlInès from checkpoint to checkpoint, well, Jean would figure that was a reason he was in such a good mood all the time.

“Heya!” he introduced, walking up to what he (rightly) believed the leader of Inès’ squad to be. By his wide-eyed expression, it wasn’t clear if he was happy or confused to see another darky in charge of the squad, or maybe he was just a naturally grin-happy sort of fellow, which, based off of his booming voice, wouldn’t be out of the question, either.

“What’s up, bro? I’m-”

CLUNK!

His mechanical prosthetic fell limp, creaking while he tried to extend a handshake. Max’s expression fell flat, turning to a frown while he turned his arm into proper position.

“Damn. Just-”

CREEEK!

CREEUUNNK!

SCREEEUKK!

Screech after screech of the mechanical limb, and Max was finally satisfied with its’ awkward position facing forwards to Jean. He thrusted it - or rather, his whole body - to Jean, extending what Jean imagined to be the most rigid-yet-firm handshake he’d ever have. Part of him wondered if this was an advanced Imperial assassination technique used to dismember unsuspecting soldiers by crushing their hands.

“There!” He proudly proclaimed, “Max! Inès and I go way back, waaaaaaaaay back. Some street kids shit, yeah?!”

“I love that girl, man, I love her. Inès ‘s a real one, The Champion, Chief One! Girl didn’t go 30 and ‘0 for nothing in the Ostend Underground!” Max laughed, chiding on the Corporal. And just to think, in a matter of hours, Jean went from paranoia to being buddy-buddy with the enemy right in front of his face.

“And you know, any friend of Inès is a friend of mine.” He smirked, nudging Jean on his upper arm, “I’m here for a few days, and, uh...if you’re looking to get, y’know, accidental supplies, I have a little something something for sale.”

Great. First talking with the enemy, now getting roped into what was either “secondhand” supplies or contraband...and probably both.

@LetMeDoStuff@CFProxy@Jacky@Brithwyr

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

Since Jean gave the order to move out, Ines found herself curiously devoid of expression. Her eyes always scanned rooftops above, shattered as they were, for the omnipresent threat of sharpshooters, and her eyes returned blankness with every scan. It was more of a habit, really. A habit she’d done well to develop early, thanks to a past she’d rather forget, and in many ways, at both times wish she had been back to and also never experienced. Ines was hardly a stranger to fighting in rain-choked, fog-ridden streets. If anything, her derision of Ostend being a mirror image of Amone in its’ melancholic wreckage only forced her to see parallels. Even while she walked, every pebble, ever drainage pipe, every war-pilfered building eerily reminisced of an endless industrial district, row after row of barely-coiffed tenements hanging by a sheet of mortar that defined the city of Ostend. Maybe things never truly did get any better, if what she had signed on for was a replication of her home. Or perhaps she truly did have it worse off, that Amone - or any other city - was never supposed to be like this, and what, in fact, she had grown accustomed to was indeed man-made hell.

A droplet plopped upon her head. Then another, angled leftward, slithered along her hairline. Its accomplice soon followed, with a merry band of raindrops falling on her head while the weather progressed into an evening’s downpour. Her helmet was damaged beyond repair, for the moment, and Ines took great lengths to express her indignant resignation while she gazed upon it. It was battered beyond what any helmet would be expected to take. To say it no longer served its function was apropos a child defending themselves with a tree branch. She felt oddly naked without it. Grown so used to its position on her head, Ines always heard about how the most heroic and brave knights fought without helmets, as if to say that you were foolish enough to insist proper sighting of an arrow about to end you were worthy of respect.

Were things always this grim? Was there ever such a thing as “honor in combat?” Ines raced with the thought, and wondered if there was ever such a glory as to fight for a righteous cause in a field of honor. And yet, in her heart, she knew this was only half true, for no peasant waddling in the dirt could ever be on the same playing field as the knight or general. Knights had their codes, their laws, their coats of arms and proud insignia. Soldiers had a pike and a shield, if they were fortunate, and orders to go somewhere and hold ground. She imagined knights gaining glory, and the soldiers doing as they were told. And what was glory to those already in a glorious position? Was war really so divisive, so indulgent, that it was always little more than the rich and privileged flaunting themselves over?

*PLOP!*

A raindrop, square on Ines’ forehead, seemed to restore her to the reality of what she faced. Never was it exactly certain what they were going up against, nor what she would do with any of it. Was it better to be lost in some mind-plight, or waddle in the misery that was an unpleasant reality? Ines, knowing her background, knew herself not to be any manner of serious thinker - nevermind a true philosopher - and instead wondered what took about her to think such ways with her omnipresent grimace.

Yet the answer was true, and resounded like the echoes of the rain in a dead city; It was...oddly comforting, truly. That nobody was there, but there was someone who listened. Not spoke. Not to tell you that, “Things will be okay”, or, “You need to be this.” Like a muse, or a trance. An experience, not a conversation. A void in which your thoughts were projected, echoed, mirrored, and the greater they resounded, the more you saw your own self in what you spoke; How strange it was, how absurd the reality is, how you sound, absent of opinion, in a manner of speaking. And in times when all one needed was absence, to say nothing when something should be said? A quagmire genesized from a paradox.

“Don’t outdo yourself, Mephistopheles.” Ines warned herself not to think too hard about it. Any of it, actually. And that meant-

Ines knew this better than anyone; To what pleasure is greater than the will to defy? And to what would it mean to defy the self?

What she experienced was never something she could ignore for any meaningful amount of time. She would have to come to terms with that oddity, that sensation, that demon - eventually.

---

Later that day…

Jean went off on his pursuit of calmness in some sort of moonlit sonata. Ines almost wanted to say something. Did she? Of course not. Jean needed a listener. Listening, as it truly is, is an art, a skill, something refined, learned, practiced, constantly improved, and Ines possessed neither the years nor the insight required for the magnitude of pure madness this man needed to vent.

Would that painfully obvious observation halt our fair Gunner from foisting his speech upon him? No, not by any means. Ines looked over at him, her head resting on top of her crossed arms that formed the closest thing to a pillow she had at the moment. Her eyes narrowed, furrowing, then closing as she turned her head upwards at an obsidian skyscape beyond. She made a promise she would speak to him, and for whatever the word of a Darcsen was worth, that was a request she would see through. Discretion is the better of valor, as the saying goes, and Ines, failing all else, possessed the insight to observe this was not the time for such discussions.

What remained of the rug beneath her was a ripped, distorted thing, but truly, Ines was accustomed to such squalor. In many ways, the life of warfare was not dissimilar to the poverty she grew so fond as an adolescent; Living on a hairline budget, no guarantee of washings or basic amenities, it all resounded to her. Maybe she was intended to live a soldier’s life, after all. Or, more likely, she was making excuses for herself as to why she had gotten herself involved in this nightmare at all.

It was similar, in a queer sense. Ines, for all talk of needing money and stability, only found solace in the most dangerous of lifestyles. Very well could she have gone to work in one of the countless forges and factories, churning out thankless supply for the grinding gears of the Federation’s Army. Or at least done logistics, moving crates and boxes onto and off of automobiles and horse-wagons. Perhaps even been a courier, relaying messages as fast as she could. But no, she was to be a shocktrooper, the quintessence of danger in what was an already precarious occupation.

Even when she was still but a “legitimate” fighter, Ines always acquired a taste for agony. Perhaps towards herself, or that knowing what is there could suddenly be gone, like a gambler winning after loss after loss. Nothing compared to it, truly. It was...enticing? A clear focus, like a dream, almost. As if at the drop of an instant, nothing else was there, and there was but you and your goal. No distractions, naught but a blank canvas to build a wish on could be seen under the influence. And yet...that was the issue, really.

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

This was one of those awkward situations where Inès, in a display almost uncharacteristic of her, didn’t know what to do. She knew why everything was why it was, and yet, Inès knew there wasn’t anything she could say now. Freya said it herself, that it was, “Best not talk about it, if you ask me.”. That slight smile, that broken face, how she tried to smile like she meant it, pretending everything was okay.

Inès wasn’t going to pretend she didn’t have issues. But neither of them knew what to do about them.

She took Freya’s offer for a handshake with more of a soft, splayed grip, more like the two were holding hands than shaking them. The two crept closer to one another, Freya whispering hints of advice into Inès’ ear, received by a woman who, herself, was a micron fracture away from staring into an azure oblivion. Inès hated it. She knew exactly what to do whenever she was fighting. She had fought her whole life, after all. Life was parallel to hell and a war changed none of that. But fighting someone in front of you and fighting something in you were two different things. Sometimes, you didn’t know what you were fighting, and when you did, you weren’t sure what to move. It was very much a sense of fighting yourself, for who knew how to counter one’s maneuvers better than the very same person fighting? Now there were four people she’d have to learn how to fight their inner battles against.

Why did she have to be the one with a conscience? Why couldn’t she just ignore it and only give a damn about herself?

Slightly tilted, her head eked back in turn to Freya. Her hushed tone was almost indiscernible from her regular pitch, thanks to the naturally smooth diction that was a Francian accent.

“You’re pretty important too, you know.” Inès responded, almost sighing as she did so. Her gaze goes out, peering upon her comrades deeply, as if looking out from above upon them. “It is...it’s like people do not know how to be themselves anymore, like it’s not alright to be yourself. It’s like there is this notion that if we ever feel like telling anyone what we’re actually like, nobody will believe us, or that they won’t really understand. And...it’s just…”

The Darcsen huffed in frustration, as her brow furrowed in either anger or disappointment. Taking a deep breath in, the shocktrooper closed her eyes for a brief moment, and as her head turned to Freya, Inès’ azure eyes seemed saddened, but calm, like the final acceptance of passing.

“I don’t know. But it’s not like we can just all pretend like things are okay. We’re just...we don’t want to show what we’re really like. It’s like we are afraid to be human, but we don’t want to stop being human. We’re afraid to live, and we’re afraid to die. And we can’t spend our lives waiting to live.”

Slightly, her head shook. Not a full shake, but more of a half-shake, stopping as she got to one side, like she stopped what she was doing. Relegating herself to her position, Inès turns back to the crowd, still addressing Freya.

“...i’ll...check on him soon.” She promised Freya, “I think some time to...just...take a break from this will be good for all of us.”

She wasn’t going to break that promise, of course, but there was only one Inès, and there were a lot of people, and she knew she couldn’t take care of everyone, especially if she herself wasn’t taken care of. Making mental note to check on Jean soon, she opted toward that other Darcsen around. “Franz, I think…? Yeah, Franz.”

The Silverhead was already right by him, but what was one more to him? She nodded off to Freya just once, then made her way over to the other Darcsen. By the looks of it, he’d been through a lot; Like they all had, but distinctly difficult to say whether he had it better or worse. Finally over there, she aske-

Dammit.

“Franz, are you alright?”

Well, maybe she’d take just a backseat for a bit. Show she cared.

@LetMeDoStuff @FalloutJack @CFProxy

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

Maybe there was supposed to be a romantic, grim undertone to musing about the laiden bodies of the fallen after a bloody and brutal fight for survival. A gruesome sight, surely, eyes missing and gashes larger than hands peppering the corpses like some carnal crimson bloom. Ines could have sworn she felt breaths along her neck, like someone in this sarcophagus still remained among the living. At this rate, Ines never knew. There was this almost primitive beauty to it, really, as if she were supposed to gaze upon this decaying coffin in remorse and fear, and be thankful she still stood. As much of a hand she had in the slaughter, she told herself she just put the nails in the coffin. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to question her actions, but who kills without ever wondering why?

She felt herself blink, like she was almost walking up from a dream, or a nightmare, more like. It didn’t go away. She didn’t even come to with what she had done. It was there. It couldn’t go away. And Ines knew what she did couldn’t go away, yet, there existed a lingering feeling in the back of her head which proclaimed her actions to be permanent. Justified, in a sense, out of sheer reality that which is done cannot be undone.

If there even was a God, and we answered to him, or her, or it, and we pay for our actions in blood or sacrifice, Heaven or Hell, who was to judge God? To who did God answer? And if God answers to naught but themselves...why, when we answer to ourselves, are we lesser? Did we not deserve to answer to ourselves?

Someone called out to them. Someone she recognized...Jean? “...that was his name...right?” she thought. Her head felt pounding, rushing. Blinding. Resurgence of sensation flooded to and from every part of her skull, almost like someone would turn on and off the lights, like her own mind was toying with her senses. Everything faded in and out, coming into a faint, blurry field of vision after the murk settled in her brain. She blinked once, then again to refresh her sight. Less blurry. More clean, more focused. Her head was still rather fuzzy, like she could feel this ever so slight tingling through her thoughts, almost like when a limb fell asleep.

The signal was straightforward; “Come back,” it beckoned, “The fight’s over.” Not those exact words, mind. Every sensation and thought melded together like a nebulous fuzzy fog. Just getting off of her feet seemed hard enough.

Everyone who had returned from their division were welcoming, to be positive. Positivity of being alive was certainly a trait they seldom seemed to show, yet every soldier knew that was more an expression left unspoken. Nobody truly wanted to die, no matter what suicidal tendencies they showed when they charged or engaged, no matter what they said or did. In a place as dangerous as a warfield, those seeking death would have found it in spades, and they would be departed towards elysian fields long ago.

Squad One was a sight to behold after such sanguine exchanges with the Imperials. Ines was one such sight, now peppered, smeared, and sauteed with ample amounts of blood, dirt, and other unwanted grime in colorations perhaps concerning, otherwise best left unquestioned. A forearm raised to wipe it from her brow, at least partially clearing her battle-soiled face, while she looked down with her signature deep-set grimace of disgust. In one hand, she loosely carried her rifle by the foregrip and magazine, allowing the sling to freely dangle while it tangled with the ground. In her opposite, her helmet - now more of a set piece or a curio than any true protective wear - showed a stark indentation along its rear, chipped and bent from blow after blow, scratch after scratch.

“I wonder how many times Ines is going to smack your face?”

“Not enough.” Ines replied in her head. The dirt-head looked pretty roughed up. Even worse than she was, probably. And he might have been a no-good shithead, sure, and Ines found herself responding to his plea without a care for it. If anything, it’d be good to have a favor over him.

Her hand gently cusped around the bottom of his cheek, carefully pinching two fingers together on the firm grip of a wedged splinter, gently eking it out with a pustule of blood.

“Be still, or I might mess this up.” Ines commanded, taking to work on clearing Luke’s face from splinters and fragments. One by one, she pricked every last shard out, his face inevitably peppered like a bloodied array of speckled scars. Turning his head over before releasing his hold over, the serious face of the woman scantily showed pity, but showed a cold, invested sympathy for the young man’s condition.

“There.” the Darcsen announced, putting her hands on her hips while she looked at Luke sternly, “Say something smart, and i’ll slap these splinters right back into you.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot to add, a bit uglier? On the scale of 1 to 10, it’s now a five on the ugly scale. In terms of your face, Luke. I don’t think anyone could fix that as long as you are an asshole.” Ines would have nodded along, but with how her natural face emanated a natural death glare, narrowing as she began to pass right on by Luke, Ines became of the opinion she needed not repeat what had already been said.

There was someone else here who needed, or…

“No, she definitely needs it.”

So it was decided, then; Ines was going to help the lighthead with her little fidgeting problem. Nobody just stops staring out at an apartment block missing four floors, brushes themselves off, and tries to say, “Everything is fine!” with a stutter so bad it makes the San Francisco Fault look steady.

”...shit. I don’t how to start this…” Gay flirting wasn’t really her forte. Nor was any measure of comfort. Ines was a scrapper, not a therapist. Hell, she liked a girl as much as the next gir-

“God fucking dammit, Ines. Just pull yourself together and ask the woman…”

“...are you...okay?"

Yeah, okay. Ines wasn’t the smoothest. By the way she stood there next to Freya, still looking like Bloody Mary after a double shift at the slaughterhouse, only giving a sideways glance to her, Hell, Ines was almost shy at this point. Though, that wasn’t all in all a bad thing for her; she expected for Freya to do the bulk of the talking.

“You look pretty shaken up.” Ines clarified, calm, clear, empathetic in tone.

@Jacky @LetMeDoStuff

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

Easy come, easy go. Whoever she thought was supposed to have her back went their own ways, the two gunners setting up camp to flush any Imperial sod down nine more levels of Hell. What she had to show for it now was being stuck with some white-haired twink and a knife that’d give her tetanus if she wasn’t careful. Not the greatest lineup, but she’d gotten out of worse with less. Come to think of it, maybe the twink wouldn’t be so bad; Less person means less to hit.

Corporal told her to watch the grenades, but Ines could give a damn. If that armored car wasn’t chasing them into the building, they’d sure as hell make a hole for it. They’d need explosives for that, and explosives always whatever brave soul was commandeered to make the march was the one who’d need covering fire the most. With how Silverhead and Corporal Scarface laid down firestorm after deafening Hellstorm into what was left of the street, if they were smart, they’d be making their way around and through that back way.

That left them with a backroom full of shelves who’d all seen better days. Those shelves were probably about as old as the Levesque family bloodline, and built to outlast it, too. Nothing resounded to a room like an artillery barrage, and to that disastrous cadence, they had a lively jig to tempestuous even the original owner wouldn’t know what was left where, but with how this place was kept, Ines didn’t imagine the last occupant of this place exactly was doing ledgers for the East Edinburg Trading Company.

But, a little maze was just what she needed.

---

January 12th, 1912

“Sshhh…” he went, trying his damnedest to speak the obvious in the heat of the moment.

Every goddamn time, Ines wondered why she kept around a piece of trash like Cedric. Deep down, Cedric would be hopelessly lost if his girlfriend didn’t unfuck every single spider web he casually walked into, and that’s likely why Ines bothered taking pity on him. Didn’t hurt he had the hold of her promised share.

The goon right in the doorway let out his little whistle as he took in the sights and sounds of a worn-down paper factory.

“What a dump, huh?”

Machinery dangled from the wall in every shape and contour, pipes weaving like vines atop the ceiling while they pumped out white frosty powder long after they were decommissioned. Conveyor belts couldn’t even be called them anymore; They were more like strands of fabric bolts thrown loosely over mechanical wheels with holes aplenty. “A dump”, it was, and Berangers weren’t known for their biting insights.

Berangers. Lively little crew, them. Probably had the biggest cut in the black market trade out of everyone in the port side. And they didn’t just have a gang. Fernand Beranger had a private army working in and out of the Ostend seaports. Hell, if everything came crashing down and Fernand decided he wanted to make Ostend into his own private country, the Federation might not even decide it was worth it. Fortunately for the pair, the Berangers were the ones Cedric decided to steal from this time.

Street fighting superstar or not, the Berangers could have gave a fuck about Ines. They made money ten thousand different ways, and a Darcsen screwing up their chance to rig fights was strictly small-time to them. Ines wanted to make sure that remained the same. And then Cedric came into her life with half-baked, barely-explained and even less thought-out plans, and all of that flying under the radar may have been blown wide open.

“When I say so…” Cedric whispered, still hiding underneath an old processing station.

The idea was stupid. Cedric was stupid. Ines was stupid for following him here and agreeing to this whole stupid plan. She was the real idiot for believing in him to begin with.

“Why the fuck did I agree to this...why the fuck am I here...why the fuck am I with this asshole...how did I get here...why is it always me…?”

“...ready…”

Ines knew her place. She was a disenfranchised ring-fighter, not a stickup kid working corners. Mobsters or a crowd of Darcsen hunters, Ines felt her fingers quiver along the trigger. It made her sick. She promised herself she wouldn’t kill anymore. She hated herself for going along with it. Hated why she was here. Hated the man who brought her into this, and hated herself for not saying anything about it.

“...now!”

A single shot could shatter an eardrum with how close everything was, packed together in here. From two desperadoes firing everything they had, inside a trap they weren’t even sure if they were caught in?

Cold as it was outside, Ines’ ears were fine. She hoped the shots drowned out every last scream and every last shout, and hoped it drowned out the guilt of not finding her way out.

---

KRAKAKAKAKAKAKAK

Machine guns sounded off the perfect cover for her shot. She felt the kick of the carbine, the flash of the gun, posed right out the window and into the party. One fell to their knees, clutching something, somewhere. But as he caught his fall down with his only spare hand, Ines ducked back down, realizing she had missed.

She almost sat frozen, ducking behind the concrete barrier. On her back, while her hand ran across the bolt, Ines felt the punching stings from the bullets hitting the wall, each reverb running down her back. Every little hiss of bullet colliding with plate reminded her of how close she came to paralysis, and each little nudge urged her closer and closer to the ground, until the woman came to a crawl, marching on toward the back of the room. As she marched on all fours into whatever crevice the big girl could fit herself into, she had to start weighing her options. Hard to do with a squad about six, maybe seven strong high on her heels. The air around her even seemed like it was going away. No matter how hard the Darcsen pressed her head against the back of a cupboard, she couldn’t suppress how heavily she heaved and huffed, almost like she was giving labor in the middle of a battlefield.

“Focus, Ines. Think...you can do this…” Self-talk for the disparaging soldier, Ines noted, “You know where they’re coming from...one way in...one way to point their guns from the outside...just...wait…”

They were muffled, sure, but the screaming told her what their plans were; Two on the outside providing cover fire, the rest were going down the rabbit hole. If any of them had grenades, they would have lobbed one through the window earlier. That made Ines a bit better, as if she somehow convinced herself having to fight only half a dozen people was somehow better than exchanging fire and grenades through a windowsill.

“...Heinrich, take point. Becker, left flank.”

Ines leaned down, peering through a slight crack in the cupboards cramming to get a better look on the advancing squad. Three so far. Had to be a few more behind them. She could seem them all coming around, funneling right into a hodgepodge Y-intersection made of broken building and old storage wing. The tiny opening just ahead, not even a few meters in front of her, that’s where she saw her move.

Creeping forth, Ines kept a hand alongside the cupboard display. In her right hand, she pulled a grenade from her back belt, pin and fuse still intact. From then on, it was a counting game, peering an eye around the corner.

“One…” They were trudging along. Four people, guns up.

“Two…”

“...”

*Ping!*

“...OH FUCK, GRENADE!”

The whole place shook while everyone scraped on to what they thought was cover. Ines darted behind her, pressing her body up against the cupboard. She drew her rain-rusted trench knife, leaning around the edge-...

*BOOM!*

The Imperial around the corner dove behind the cupboard. Ines helped him, dragging the soldier by the neck while she introduced him to a blade. It came quick and easy, putting a hole in his throat like that. Shouts from the corner of where he died echoed through the maze, signalling Ines’ mad dash from around the corner and into the frenzied array.

And just like that, the royale was on.

“You BITCH!” his comrade screamed at the top of his lungs, “You’re about to DIE subhuman!”

Boy had legs, that was for sure, but with how he held his rifle at his waist, all Ines had to do was get ready. She was still low to the ground, sure, but maybe he hoped to pin her head atop his bayonet like a skull on a pike. He thrusted his rifle forward with his whole body leaning in, and all Ines had to do was push right. Then, his whole form broke. Collapsed. Shattered in an instant. He was flat on his stomach, and made easy pickings.

Had Ines not bothered to catch herself off of the momentum of a falling body, she wouldn’t have had much else besides a loud grunt in a battlefield full of exertions to notice the knife swinging at her. Streaking silver filled the sight over her head, and whether Ines tilted back, or he just made a wild swing, she couldn’t tell in the heat of the moment. But a wide swing left him open, angry enough to grind his teeth to the bone, and that’s when Ines threw her riposte. When it came in contact with his head, she felt her fingernails raking the back of his ear, like she could feel his skin peel with her strike, but her clawed grasp gnarled itself onto the poor bastard’s ear all the same. He winced, thrown to the side while he grunted, but that wasn’t even the worst part of the Imp’s mistake. No, Ines had a lot more punishment in mind for his fuck-up.

She had her thumb right over his eye. His little, half-open, shiny hazel eye. Eclipsing over his tear ducts, she did what came natural to her. She did what was necessary. Ines took her thumb, and dug. Hard.

It wasn’t clear what she perceived first; some sort of sense like she was popping some sick little pustule dug deep in rotted meat, or whether this poor sod was Crying Kara from the agony of losing an eye. The worse it got, the deeper she got, the more it felt like she was digging into the fucker’s brain, and when she got to some sockets where she wasn’t sure what was what, it made her wanna retch and puke. Her hand slid up, clean through the bastard trying to recover the eye he didn’t have, and slid the knife’s edge straight into him.

Ines tumbled forward, still in shock from the impact around her. Without a helmet, she probably would have been finished then and there, and for the time being, it looked like she’d need to do without one. As she turned, the sight of an Imperial, rifle in the air like it was some great war club was her rise and shine for the occasion. From down where about she was, he towered over her, and from upright, he had to have a few centimeters on her, too. But no, he kept himself moving, and Ines tangoed with him. Butt of the rifle just a hairline fracture away from her face, Ines barely rolled out of the way in time. Instinctively, she reached over to the gun, wrapping her rock-steady hand around the grip of the gun, the two’s hands touching, even. One last mistake, she found. And, boy, oh boy, the look on his face while he looked up the barrel of his own gun.

His blank, dumb, face may have been marred by a 7.62 to the head - of which, he kept about half of - but while his eyes twitched, it took the sorry fool a moment to register he’d had his brains blown out. Slowly, his lifeless, fleeting body crumbled down, finding it nice to rest alongside Ines.

BANG!

No rest for the wicked. The shot of the KAR ripped through the maze, but with how close everything wedged themselves together, it was impossible to really tell where it came from from Ines’ beautiful view of the dilapidated storage room ceiling. Sprung back to life, hopping off the support of her left arm, there were two of them, stacked up in formation. One cycled the bolt, but the one behind him stood there, hesitating. They were both aimed at Ines, sure, and what Ines had was about 5 meters, a turned-over table that they used as cover, and a Big Empty of bodies and bricks. She had a second to act, to make a plan that’d save her or kill her.

The only benefit to her plan was that it was so stupid that nobody would have even considered it to be an option. Like a puma out of a mad sprint to dinner, Ines bolted forward into what the Imps conceived could be called cover. And for a bit, it worked. The one behind the pointman broke, doing the right thing and turning around and running like hell. Pointman’s hand racked forward, chambering the round with a smack. Ines kept her head up and charging while she huffed and heaved. Pointman couldn’t help but look down, just making sure his hand was in the right place. No automatic reflex? Just what Ines wanted.

An explosion shook the room as he fired off again, and Ines could feel the bullet swipe clean through her hair. She felt the sonic boom kiss her ear, like the old, abusive boyfriend trying to get his girl back. A mad Darcsen diving through the air with nothing to lose and a death grip on yesteryear. That’s what the Imp had to look forward to while the table flung back, and he flung back with it.

Rubble and rubbish hitting the bastard’s head was nothing compared to the fury a repressed Darcsen had in store him. Ines didn’t even give herself a millisecond before she unleashed her flurry of punches on top of the man, nevermind bothering to question whether the Imp in front of her deserved any mercy. Any question of forbearance was thrown out as soon as he fired the first shot. If Hell had no fury like a woman scorned, Ines was the paragon of femininity. It was two strikes, then three, four, five, six, to the forehead, nose, ears, eyes, ripping, clawing, gutting, hooking, and tearing, right down to his throat. And with each and every rip, he slammed his head, just a tiny bit, into a little brick’s edge, just behind his head. Every little tap, another bore into the back of his head, until it broke the skin, broke the blood barrier, broke the bone. Again and again and again and again, until there was some husk of a face torn apart like a forsaken animal right below her.

And then, there was her. Only one remaining. Couldn’t have been older than 16, 17, out here without a friend in the world left and at the mercy of some subhuman with a crazed look in her eye like she was some sort of slumdog angel-of-death. What they played Ines up to be was what she saw; Some angry Darcsen who didn’t know right from wrong hell-bent on destruction. And for the moment, they were right. Ines wouldn’t know right from wrong if one Imp gave her a million francs and the other killed her mom in cold blood.

Maybe there was supposed to be this odd act of mercy you only saw when the both of you had seen too much. The lighthead looked pretty calm, collected. Almost sorrowful, really. Just with how the two looked at each other, not word dared be exchanged, but deep within their eyes, they could return their glances and go, “Was this how we had to meet?”

Maybe she’ll think of Ines when she’s all alone, or when she’s in that big battlefield up in the sky where the grass is green and things actually made sense. Maybe there was some sort of odd irony behind everything she was doing, like out of a mindless killer she was supposed to give it all up and, like in one of those motion pictures, the two would set aside their hatred and realize they were both cogs in the giant war machine, and they’d hug and kiss and the audience would all swoon and cheer. Maybe Ines was just a giant softie after all.

And maybe, if she asked nicely to go their own ways, Ines would say, “Maybe.”

Ines flicked her head toward the door. No longer pointing her gun at her, she tilted her eyes out way when in the great big hole of Amone. The Imp, almost confused, but thankful through that gaze of frowning horror, turned her back, slowly heading out back to square one. It was almost impossible to make out what her lips made out to say amidst the growls of gunfire and acrimony of armored automobiles, but Ines read lips pretty well.

Ines looked across her maze, her territory. Her vestige and slaughtering grounds, across the wonders she had wrought. And amidst all the carnage, Ines made herself sick.

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

“The lion does not concern himself with the opi-”

SMACK!

A little welcoming gift for Luke on his way up from the rubble pile. Fighting with one’s fists closed was considered using a lethal weapon in the eyes of the Francian authorities, so it was that an entire fighting style was devised around the concept of an open hand. And boy, did it show. The sonorous SMACK resonated throughout the bellowing streets like a warning shot, to say nothing of the blistering red handprint now painfully present on Luke’s face. If only the woman had put more effort in, she would have knocked the poor sod clean into unconsciousness.

Ines glared down at Luke, not casting her full facial view, no, just slighted enough to dare him to gain her full intrigue. In a hostile land full of Imperials who would love nothing more than to bring the Darcsen woman to bleeding submission, she questioned if Luke wanted to be her biggest threat.

“You should know better than to attack someone in their home environment Don’t make me remind you again.” She thought, that inkling almost perfectly transcribed in her revolted bodily posture. Only an idiot could miss so clear an enunciation.

She looked forward to smacking Luke again.

But something was oddly - darkly - correct about Luke’s underhanded comment. What remained of the city of Amone eerily reminded her of the Calais Ports in Ostend’s poorest districts. Pile after pile of rummaged tenements and decrepit factories, barricaded warehouses and soot-brimming derelicts, firetraps patiently awaiting their incendiary ends. People made their homes and livelihoods around a city block with centuries and centuries of cobbled slums built on top of one another. Many structures were still carved from layered cobblestone from a bygone era, testament to their sturdy construction. The streets in many places did not have proper paving, or even cobblestone beneath them. Dirt tracked around the district, disrepaired roads laying to the side as earth and water pools took their place. And everywhere Ines gazed, she saw naught but a mirror of her home. The buildings were worse off, certainly, yet...all carried a faint familiarity that came with poverty, as if they had only been moved ever so slightly South.

Another Darcsen - someone important, by the wear of his clothing and the insignia on his sleeve, busied himself with talking to Jean; What Ines took from this was that it was none of her concern to be worrying about the captain or his crew. Yet when they brought over a crate full of weaponry, that was her cue to follow over. A veritable assortment of savage armaments, beckoning from a more carnal sense of warfare.

“Just like home.” Ines mused internally. If you listened carefully, you almost heard her snicker at the idea.

Bats and hammers, knives and bricks, that is what fed the constant struggles - for control, for reputation, for survival - in Ostend. Firearms were aplenty in the Mad City, of course, yet there was something so satisfyingly intimate about a gang with antiquated arms that garnished their antediluvian attention. The pile of improvised weapons, then, struck an all-too-familiar cord in their display. She was instructed to take one - and Ines would argue no further to such a display of generosity - but to what did she find most suitable for the urban march?

---

March 25th, 1911

Desperation forced the hands of men greater than compulsion to love, to live, to mate. It was the greatest motivator, turning the minds of men into servants of circumstance, no matter what the bounds of rationality told them. The occupants of the alley felt it mutually, for it was desperation that kept them going, and desperation that blurred the boundary between conscience and primal urge, murking the memory to haze.

Two beaten fighters had their kerfuffle in the mist-laden alley, just down to the count. Ines was one of them. Her opposite? He had a knife. A shining, argent beam against the moonlight of the evening, canted in sword grip as its’ curved grip caved just so slightly toward her. He wasn’t letting her go easily. Not without a fight. Not without something to prove. If you couldn’t even mug a Darcsen, you may as well have hung yourself then and there.

Oh, did it seep from her arm, all right. Even through the adrenaline, Ines could feel the gash widen. Almost felt like it went straight through into the bone, almost like she could feel her skin peeling open with every move she took. Her teeth bore down all the while, sonorous kiai while she fought through the pain, trepid as it was. She almost wanted to close her eyes, give in right there, make it go away, yet the truth of the situation beat down on her harder than the iron-laced mist of the evening’s humidity; The only way to beat an ambush was to push back into it.

Another charge, another dash. Another blur, and headed for her. And insight became reflex, instantaneous as she stepped left. Without knowing it, his wrist caught itself keenly in her good hand, stopping him dead mid-charge. She saw him stricken aside, heard the blade hit stone as the sound rung through the alley, yet this was no process. It was pure instinct, hard at work. A splitting tear along her left arm was what she could feel, almost like she felt the dagger rippling through her forearm yet again, and that’s what she immediately processed. Her attacker staggered back, reeling from the strike.

But she had another little trick up her sleeve. Pragmatism was the best tool you could afford, right next to creativity. In her overcoat rested her holster. Before her, a man bleeding, staggering to get his bearings. In her hand, now, her trusted piece.

And what stood before her? The wide-eyed, stupefied gaze of a man, shining deep with desperation as he looked into the barrel of the last gun he would ever see.

---

Even after she got her new steel, she couldn’t help but feel jealous of Jean’s new sidearm. It was an old revolver, but it was a revolver. Something for her holster. Slow to load, sure, but damn they were workhorses. Revolvers were the tools of choice for when times got going, when all bets were off and it was time to prove how many gangsters you could lay out on the street without breaking sweat. Firearms were supposed to be strictly regulated in Francia, but Ines had seen plenty even before she joined the force. For her, she preferred the self-loaders. Faster to shoot, faster to reload. More work to take care of, but they were the epitome of the new century. Her new trench knife found its way into a sheath on her belt, but her eyes always fixated themselves on Jean’s new piece. “What do I have to do to get another pistol…”

Nothing to do about it now, except groan about it in the rainy afternoon of a city torn apart. Nothing to gain from any of it. Sick of it, was what she was. Maybe it was just that she developed an acquired taste for agony after years and years of putting up with it, like how bedridden sickness becomes your life after days of fighting. Maybe there was just something it fulfilled, deep in the dark parts of your mind, tucked away under gilded pretenses of civilization and humanity. Maybe we were all savages waiting for a head to hunt, just another tribe of hunters and scavengers, living in concrete yurts. All just gentiles, waiting for the slightest danger to poke its head out.

Echoes of gunfire meant nothing to her now. It was almost a daily routine, really. Ines knew the dangers, of course, but wasn’t perturbed. She was ready. Ready to expect the worst to come, but with life parallel to hell, it’s just another way to maintain. A few troops, sure, but there was something else off in the distance. A faint rumbling, like the bellowing of an automobile engine. Every car Ines was used to was this clunky gizmo, more of a curio than anything reliable. “Someone has to be crazy to try and drive an automobile through a-”

Just the sight of that metal monster brought her into some fold of reality she never wanted to accept. This wasn’t your average Sunday driver with goons hanging on the side. No, this was a fully mechanized iron ship, fast and ready for combat. Some scientific slaves toiled days away on perfecting this beast of iron, and accepted nothing short of perfection from the laiden war machines of the future.

There was this odd flash of inspiration that only facing sudden, uncertain death could grant you. It was almost like a fantasy of sorts, a protective mechanism. Being whisked away to a realm of flight and fancy-free in the imminence of danger. Almost like a dream, an idealized vision, where nothing yet everything is clear. You can almost think straight, and your senses blur out as you zone into and out of reality. Ines dreamed, but did not think. It was a trance, more like. Instantaneous reaction that overruled any sense of rationality that came to. A dilapidated city was her home, and what the Imperials so easily forgot was the most simple rule of the wild;

The cornered animal is the most dangerous one in the jungle.

There were blurs, some faint flutterings in the background, yes, and for all their attempts, no order nor cry from friend or foe beckoned her focus like the iron beast before them. A simple stand would be a heartbeat away from death, the wrong move, a trip to the grave. But therein lie the advantage, and such close encounters were nothing for a Darcsen. Death always was a heartbeat away - on the fine line between conscience and limbo - for those cursed with dark hair. And that line, no matter how emaciated, provided greater clairvoyance than any tactical advice shoddily crafted by a lightheaded wastrel could ever hope to provide.

Franz called to her first, then Isaac soon after, yet she moved of her own accord, to her own intuition. When they looked upon this woman, they saw someone clearly not of their own sound mind, for she peered forward in unflinching, uncompromising gaze. She did not remark, nor turn her head for any purpose of acknowledgement; human communication would no longer do for her. Her newfound comrades were accessories, at best. Liabilities at worst. They did not control her; suggesting as much is as laughable as saying a sea captain could control the winds. Thoroughly entranced, Ines posed herself, grenade in hand, as she prepared her next move.

Ines was not at war. This was a hunt. Franz, Isaac, Gwyn, Britta? They were simply along for the ride.

@FalloutJack @CFProxy

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

Clearly, what passed for a gesture for a handshake was lost somewhere in translation. Ines retracted her hand, straightening her posture in accord with Jean, looking the young NCO up and down. He’d seen more than his share, she could tell. You couldn’t really squeeze in a bath in the frontlines, sure, but from where Ines was standing, Jean hadn’t so much as seen more water than a bucket of washcloths in well over a month.

“Tch, look at you. This won’t do.”

She slips off her right glove as she approaches Jean, briefly checking for dust or grime on her hand. A pressed swipe against the corner of Jean’s cheek seemed to dust away a stream of crusted dirt, yet her clearly annoyed, teeth-clenched, frowning demeanor gave away there was much more work to do. Another pass came around, this one harder than the last, passing over the same little cheek corner as she rubbed the dirt off.

Her off hand relieves Jean of his embarrassment, yet her right hand kept busy. Not yet content to go, her mouth frowns, clenching teeth slightly, as a slight pinch along Jean’s lower cheek seemed to grind away any midgen of dust left on his face.

“There. You’ve got people looking up to you, Charpentier. Have to look sharp.” Ines instructs, as if it’s in her place to be giving instructions to him.

Not yet done with him, her hands run along the upsides of his jacket, grasping a corner of his cuffs as she straightens it out, finishing the ironing sequence with a few light brushes as nebulae of dust whirl from the fabric.

---

October 20th, 1910

In the deep corner of her coat pocket, her keys snuggled themselves nicely into a corner, determined to snag on the quips and hooks of loose string a worn-out pocket provided. Arm in arm, hand in hand, Ines could barely maneuver around her two grocery bags to dig around her pocket. As it was, each bag felt so full, so heavy, Ines supported each bottom beneath her forearm and bicep for fear either bag might split, and stubborn as she was, setting the two down was no option when the key kissed her fingertips as she fidgeted about in her search.

Each bag of groceries would have been the week’s pay for Ines, given what she made off of her commission. A Darcsen’s commission, at that. One battle jam one week, then an exhibition match the next was a dangerous creed to live by, triply for any league that had so scant of rulings such as this. Two fights a week. Prize money coined in for 100 francs at Low Silver matches to start. Add on 10% of admissions if you won. Another 10% of all bets if you were the champion, too. 3 to 5 francs a ticket, general admission. Crowd usually drew at least 200 people, more for a big exhibition event. Even a small fight - if Ines could pull off a win - made you win almost double the base pay.

That pay was their bread winnings for the week; hers, and her mother’s. Joan Levesque had a job of her own, seamstressing at a textile factory for pittances a day, and it said something that a woman at the age of 16 was making more than her 34 year-old mother. More by the week, even. Definitely more by the month.

”Finally…”

That damnable key slipped into the scissor clutch of her two fingers, removing it from the gnarled inner pocket. A solid CLUNK resounded through the tenement, signalling her apartment door unlocking. Without the dexterous maneuvering necessary to put it back in it's so snug confinement, Ines barged the door open, stepping forth as she leaned into the heavy-set wooden door.

”I’m home.” Ines announced. Joan lurched an arm upwards, her whole body still covered beneath bedsheets strewn about their floor.

“Hi, Ines,” her mother moans in turn, only barely peeking her head out from behind thick blankets, “Back from the market?”

The entire tenement quaked as the door slammed shut, Ines delivering a forceful punt to its bottom quarter. Turning leftwards, Ines would quickly approach their sole stovetop, setting both bags on whatever flat surface was available with a grunt.

”Got everything.”

Out of her other pocket she plucked a larger, slightly yellowed envelope. Distinct jingling of coin against coin ruffled as she revealed the letter, tapping the corner with her finger.

”Here.” Ines declared, tossing the paycheck to her mother as it landed scant millimeters from her head, “It’s the pay from the last fight.” Joan squints, head tilted up while her strewn arm clamped down upon the envelope.

Ines exhaled sharply. As she leaned over in respite from the day, her faint, weary eyes squinted, narrowing from what she saw beside the stove.

Nothing.

When there was clearly supposed to be something - charcoal or firewood at bare minimum - there instead collected dust. Soot and ash from countless previous meals convened apropos a dune in the desert, yet cinder and clinker would not fuel a furnace. And it was not for lack of resources on their behalf that their place beside the stove remained empty, but therein lay the problem.

”Mom.” Ines queried, ”Where’s the firewood?”

“...what?” a groggy voice echoed back. The young woman stepped up with a stomp to shake the floor to rising dust.

”I gave you money last week. Where. Is. The firewood?”

“...”

Joan slowly rose from the confines of her comforter, embracing Ines to her gaze. She stood a few centimeters shorter than her daughter, and bore a gaunt frame to her offspring’s developed body. Yet in those deep, bag-set eyes, Joan could not yet bear to match her child’s eyes.

“I-...”

“Mom. What did you do?”

Joan intensified her breathing, hurrying while Ines dug her heels.

“Mom...what. Did. You do. With. The money?”

“I...spent it.” A squeak replied.

And then all Hell’s gates burst loose into apartment 416, Fontaine Street.

“I knew it. I fucking knew it! You have been fucking gambling!” Ines roared.

“But I-oh, Ines! You have to lose some to win a lot!”

“Don’t talk to me about winning, when I have to win a fight until someone’s teeth are on a dirty floor in some theater basement, just so you can take 200 francs and, and...and just throw it all away!”

“Ines! Don’t talk to me like that! You know I-”

“If it weren’t for me, I don’t know wher-”

“Don’t tell me that, missy! Where would we be without you this time! Is it in a prison camp in Schwarzgrad digging coal? Or still with the merchant navy? Or are we selling crepes to tourists in Versailles Square? You know, I raised you!”

“Aunt Aline raised me! Not you! Every time you tried to raise me, or come see me, or just be a goddamn mom you weren’t there! Instead, you’re at the bar so stammering drunk, you can’t walk! I have to scoop you off the floor! Every. Goddamn. Night! I have to take care of you!”

“Which one of us is supposed to be the fucking mother?!”

---

The woman had her share of keeping up with people, sure. Those people were likely incapable of even supporting themselves, let alone a daughter who’d, against all odds and all sense of logic, try to become a better woman than themself. She had a sense on Jean. Not much of one, but she could see a few things about him. The way he stared off - how he’d turn his head and be whisked away - that man had seen some things. Hell, Ines knew she was guilty of that. For all the good that trying to focus on the present did. What was the point of focusing on the present when the present consists of being thrown into a meat grinder? He’d started learning how to take his mind off of things, at least.

“Have yourself a puff, mate.” Her left hand motions forward, the fuming cig drifting its smoke into the dilapidated metropolis. The call of another drifted her eyes left, heeding for another introduction. Fingers crossed over, she plucks her smoke between Jean’s fingers, his fingers not quite being an ashtray, but filling the role right now.

Another squadmate called to her, this one a lighthead. She seemed a bit tanned, but how she was shaped…“Don’t stare...don’t stare...don’t stare…”

Love may bloom on the battlefield, they say, but practicality was another concern. Ines could oogle all she wanted to whenever they were out of danger, and somewhere far away from a city locked somewhere between the River Acheron and the Gates to Hell, where those neutral were damned and not even the righteous dared proceed. Where one received endless torment through wasps consuming the flesh and worms gorging the blood, there was no time for romance, for lust condemned the sinner to be flayed apart in an eternal tempest.

She shook the thought from her mind, returning focus to the lighthead. An introduction, of course, and agreement with the Corporal. “Not bad advice…”, she thought. Turned to her partner-in-war, Ines nodded calmly in turn, not particularly focused on either Jean nor Diana.

“There isn’t a good time to volunteer in a war.” Ines answered, almost with arrogance, some might say. Stern and unwavering it was, yet with no accusatory tone. It was more as if she were angry with the state of being rather than the faults of the duo before her, so omnidirectional was her ire. Yet, she would remain seriously faced, shaking her head once at the two.

"We'll get through this. Keep your wits about you, and we'll all make it home." she reassured the two, patting Jean on his shoulder.

Another darkhead came up to her, this one blank in his face. Handsome, sure, but notably flat in expression, professional to the point. Hand extended outward, Ines met his hand with her own, almost grasping his wrist, but shaking with whatever composure she could with the awkward grip. Her eyes motioned around his face quickly; her eyes seemed steady, yet widening, like she was sympathetic. Empathetic, almost. Almost as though she knew about Franz. Almost as if she could be there with him, and she'd known what he was about, and why he was always so serious. A face like his...Ines could see that stare on him, the thousand meter stare. He might have been alright, once. But there might be something left of him. Especially if there was an offer for a cigarette on the line.

The most useful skill Ines could was to suppress her inner disgust, and put on a pleasant demeanor whenever she could. If she had wanted to, Ines would be quite the lady to behold, proper of manner, and ladylike, to boot.

"I hope your skill at fighting is better than your taste in smokes." She replied, picking the cigarette from Franz's hand.

"But it's not hard to improve on garbage." Ines tossed the cigarette away, flicking it in a direction she clearly did not care to check. She reaches to her pouch - eyes steady on Franz - and pulls out a Khandar Cig from her case. That, she held between two fingers, and didn't bother waiting for Franz's approval; she put it in his hand firmly and decidedly. Ines was far from a charity case, of course. Not the type to let herself go without receiving some sort of favor for favors. But maybe this was her way of repaying Franz for his polite gesture, to give him a more exquisite treat for trash on the ground. Maybe she went a bit easy on fellow Darcsens. Maybe she was just a big softie, after all.

"This is the good stuff. Have one. You won't touch another cigarette after having one." the Darcsen reassured her compatriot. And for what was the first time, Ines smiled. More like a grin, of course, sly and stretching to one ear, but Franz earned himself a smile from the woman. If nothing else, that was an accomplishment. More than Jean got. Painfully clear that Ines was not the type for flattery - she was going to approach you, not the other way around - and by what had happened, by approaching her, she almost appreciated his guts.

Stepping back from the group, she paced around, head tilted up through the barebone structures of old Amone. Amidst a sepulchral boneyard of lives long gone, Ines ambulated back, and forth, and back again, almost as if she were inspecting the ruins before her.

“This place is a proper hole…Buildings beyond repair, people pushed out from where they have lived for years, and filled with people who would love nothing more than to put us two meters down a ditch…”

Then...she started to laugh. A grin, a maddening cachinnate resounded through the blasted cityscape as she saw the old made new again.

“I love it here! It’s just like home!”

@LetMeDoStuff @CFProxy @Landaus Five-One

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

Ines Levesque

---

If Ines was anyone else, she should have - and would have - been home by now. If she weren't such a headstrong Darcsen with a bad reputation and a peculiar gift at narrowly avoiding death twenty times a day, she'd be halfway to General by now. But all the higher ups had for her were slim escapes from disaster at the brink of utter annihilation. When you're a Darcsen, you don't expect a promotion. Ines certainly didn't. She expected the worst to come of anything, and because of that, she surprised herself a lot.

Look at it this way; when even the slightest shift of the fragile, temperamental mindset of a lighthead is what determines life or death on the daily for a Darcsen, you get to know them pretty well. Ines knew she wasn't going to be winning any Silver Crosses or Iron Crowns for...anything, actually. She might get a stripe, someday, but she wasn't hopeful. It was moreso a miracle she had gotten to where she was now, even, and that somewhere was boarded towards another deathtrip destined to another deathshed in No Man's Land. Couldn't be worse than a Ostend Riot.

Oceanians were supposed to be tough, capable. Rugged and forged from rocks and desert. What she got instead of a bunch of mountain men were kids barely younger than herself getting giddy on being shoved onto a meat locker. "The Imps couldn't last a day in the outback", she heard. "Imps aren't anything but a bunch of old coots playing pretend on some knighthood dream." Spoken like someone who'd never seen a battle before. Should she have told something? Did she have doubts about them? Of course. But they weren't going to listen to some stone-faced bitch go on about how they're setting themselves up to get killed. Nobody listens to a Darcsen until it comes to bite them in the ass. If she was supposed to be cramped back in with some group of hillbillies from a backwater town with 50,000 people and 3 last names, she was in for another ride. At least she could tell which ones had seen combat. If they talked to you, they were green as grass. If they talked to you about being a Darcsen, it's 50/50. Talked about kicking Imp ass in a giddy kid-at-the-candy-shop voice? Never seen a gun before they went to basic training. Word to the wise; don't try to chat up the Darcsen with a resting bitch face that makes it seem like she's on her fifth tour and she's the last of the 500 draftees in her pool. Most of the new guys around here got that. Most.

Still, even off the train, Ines had new orders. She didn't bother really taking a deep look into them; Without opening them, she knew what it was going to be. Who she'd be under, what band she'd hang around with, who'd be telling her to do what for how long. Out from her coat pocket came the tiny folded letter, stamped in cheap black tar that still smelled like steamship exhaust.

---

Private Ines Levesque,

You are hereby commanded to be transferred under the command of the 15th Atlantic Rifles, Squad 1. You will report to Corporal Jean Robin-Charpentier as your squad leader, and you are instructed to remain in the company until further notice. You will report to your new CO, Captain Middleton. Show this letter to your squad leader for confirmation and to receive orders.

- 1st Lieutenant Pierre St Martin

---

Not even an in-person briefing? Ines wondered. She was surprised, is what; they typically didn't bother too much with the letters if you weren't an officer. St Martin was a weird one, Ines knew. Dammit, she was starting to like him.

Everyone got into their positions for the speech, all huddled together and packed like a meat tin. Ines found herself wishing she'd done the smart thing and found a place to hole up. Now she's out here listening to some lines of drivel from Captain Middle-Child-Syndrome. Names here, some ranks there, he's the captain and we're not; Ines wasn't too keen on taking notes on his little speech. Ines got to know a lot of Middletons in both of her careers; She walked their graves every day. If you give some upper-class twit drunk off power and a uniform with 'special' written on it, eventually someone's going to decide they aren't that special. People like Middleton always had bark, some bite, maybe a bit of brains, and no balls. Middleton was going to put every man, woman, child, dog, cat, and living being between him and some Imp looking for his first officer kill. None of them ever thought long-term, nor did any of them have bite to match when the push came to shove. Always in the back, always the first one to shoot a deserter and the first one to retreat. He could have his pride on killing four men in hand-to-hand combat. For a Shocktrooper, that was called "Tuesday."

Fuck, I wish I still had my pistol... she thought. Left it behind when she got signed on. Her mother had to have something to keep herself safe - as safe as she could be in that shithole of a city - though it was more of a gesture of security than a measure to protect her. Real thing of beauty that thing was, too; Archambault Model 1907 Naval, blued finish, 10 rounds of 8mm on tap. Would have been great to have around the trenches - those things were always appreciated for close encounters. The emptiness of her holster bothered her, too. Felt like she was supposed to have something there. Or because something used to be there.

If there was a feeling worse than a missing pistol, it came when Ines looked up and saw a band of horsemen, given rifles in a perfect line. They all had smiles on their faces, each and every one.

Oh no...don't tell me...

What do you do when you know someone's about to die, but you can't do anything to help them? Where they were, she could yell all she wanted, sure, but orders were orders to them. Either they went to the lines or went home in boxes, courtesy of the Court Marshall. It was so eerie, too. Did she have any doubts, any traitorous grievances against sending people to their deaths? Sure. But she kept them to herself; Not out of fear of reprisal, no, but out of futility. Out of the fact she knew they were in whatever God even gave a fuck by now's hands. How they sung, all in unison, almost like the procession to the funeral-goers. Like they were singing the incantation to their death warrants. It wasn't a war song. It was more like a hex. A steady, wavering, undulating chant. And they raised their swords, high as could be, like sacrificial daggers to a horrific cult, and they went on their way.

There was that bark of machine gun fire Ines was too familiar with. She could almost feel how the bullets rippled and whistled as they passed from hundreds of meters away. What they were doing wasn't too dissimilar to what she did, really. They made bigger targets, and they had none of the training, none of the instincts to duck or weave or dive behind the hill. No grenades or smoke or covering fire. Pure fucking lambs to the slaughter. No tactics. No sense behind it. Not a single fuck given. Dozens - hundreds, even - of men and women on horses, just wasted like that. May as well have just shot them right at camp. And it was that disregard, that apathy, that festering sense of fucking stupidity that drove Ines. It drove her straight to her stomach in sickness. She didn't weep nor cry, nor shed a single tear. She scowled, long and hard, and finished it in a disgruntled scoff.

Way to go, Captain Moron. Ines thought, You just fucking killed a hundred people for no good reason. You've really outdone yourself. Your mother must be so proud of you.

"Did they teach him that at officer training, or did he come up with that himself..." she scoffed, blankly staring out to the field of corpses. Eyes from all directions turned their attention, but with how they turned their heads - their eyes all wide and canted - they didn't dare disagree. Not to a truant. Not to a traitor. Not even to a Darcsen. You never got far out here without a dark, morbid, really just fucked-up sense of humor. It was one of the only things that kept you something close to sane.

All that was left to do was to put it past her. Detachment was key. She felt bad - you had to feel bad, for them, for knowing it could have been you, for not doing something to stop it - but there wasn't any chance in Hell she was going to save any one of them now. Wherever those cavaliers were now, it was a long ways from here...and more than likely, somewhere better than this Hell on Earth. She especially felt for the few who'd live through this. That's something she knew they were going to have to carry with them. That wasn't leaving them anytime soon, having their horses collapse under them, their friends blow into bits. And they weren't getting any medals for their valiance, either. They were getting told to suck it up and keep on marching like good little soldiers. And they wonder why desertion's such a popular way to go.

Corporal Jean Robin-Charpentier. Darcsen guy. Should be an improvement over the past few squad leaders she's had. Not to get her hopes up, of course - Ines knew better than that - but it would beat farmboys who only got promoted because they kept their heads down longer than the sucker in front of them. Look for the guy with blue hair and a chevron. Can't be hard.

---

Those cigarettes from Vinland people passed as currency around here weren't worth shit if you knew anything about having taste buds that worked. That cheap, dry shit should have been tossed out as mulch, not sold to people at premium. You may as well roll up ration wrapping paper and smoke it. She didn't bother taking a drag from cigarettes now, just the good stuff. That Kandahar Kush. Stuff from the southern mountains, just beyond the Imperial border in the east. Once you had that stuff, there was no going back to tobacco. It wasn't like it grew on the ground where you walked, but it wasn't something some craftiness couldn't get around. Ines would gladly fork over a whole carton of cigs just to get a few nips of that stuff. And in her case, she still had a decent set to go off of, if she played it conservatively. Striking a match alongside the rigid, charred side, Ines held her breath, lighting the end of her cig to take a lighting puff.

A steady stream of puffy smoke exhumed through her mouth, still chomping away at her roll. And just through that smoke, there was the man of the hour; The Darcsen himself.

---

From where Jean was standing, it seemed like Ines was some sort of veteran of ten thousand campaigns, walking toward the squad like she knew better than them. Bright blue eyes came around, locked onto him with a sheer determination a woman with something on her mind had a monopoly on providing. And boy, by the way she was puffing on her light, that woman really did know a lot. Didn't help that she didn't bother smiling the whole way while she walked. Instead, she was dead-locked on Jean, and she wasn't giving him any wiggle room to divert his attention elsewhere.

The left sleeve of her jacket - still an old iteration - showed its faint scarring of patches sewn and ripped, several times, as unfinished stitching lined the vague bright shadow of what used to be a patch...or even series of them. Ines' face didn't seem much easier on the eyes, either. She gave him the eyes that looked like she'd killed more people than he'd ever met. Clearly she'd been through a lot, even for a Darcsen. Being a Darcsen was probably just the icing on the cake for her. Someone could imagine that woman talking via her choleric demeanor, demanding someone take the initiative to ask her to put out her smoke.

Go on. Ask me to put it out. Make my day.

Talk to me, and you're a dead man.

Don't waste my time.

What the fuck do you want? You think you're hot shit because you have a little arrow on your sleeve?


The list went on and on. That face said it all for her. But, as she puffed through her sweet, short drag, her eyes narrowed, eyebrows raised, and shoulders rolled in preparation for her first words for Jean.

"'Sup."

Two fingers plucked her cig out of her mouth, lowering it to just above her waistline, almost out of courtesy to her new superior. Her shoulders lowered, relaxing, and her upper body almost exhaling tension into a relaxed posture. Those eyes were stern as ever, of course - sharp as knives and so keen you felt her glare - but the way her mouth rolled into a slight slope expressed her sympathies.

"Levesque. You must be Charpentier." Ines greeted. Her right hand stuck out, almost jabbing toward his abs like an arrowhead, yet stopped in slightly splayed openness.

"I'll be part of your squad from here on out."

@LetMeDoStuff

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

It's ya boi, Simone Torre's Number 1 Fan, comin' at'chu once again with a character sheet.

Character Sheet

Work in progress; it'll get updated as it gets completed.

Basics:

Name: Ines Levesque

Gender: Female

Age: September 16th, 1895 (Aged 19)

Sexuality: Bisexual

Race: Darcsen - From Ostend, Atlantic Federation

Height: 178 cm / 5’10”

Appearance:

If you knew anything about Ines prior to seeing her, you’d know two things by looking at her; She’s been in a lot of fights, and because her face doesn’t look like a pulped assortment of overcooked mashed potatoes, she’s won those fights. For gutter trash hewn from the back alleys and dirty streets of Northern Francia, Ines is very well-developed woman. Her back would make some circus strongmen put their shirts back on, to say nothing else of the rest of her. Nobody’s perfect, but a commonwoman without flaws is a rare thing, and Ines has flaws aplenty all along her sinuous, scar-tissue peppered body. She’s not bad looking by any stretch of the imagination, even if she often looks like she spent most of the day taking a mud and blood bath in a minefield, but Ines isn’t really the type to doll herself up, anyway.

It would be black in any other light and by any other eye, but in direct noontime daylight (or under the headlamp of an Imperial interrogator), there’s a faint, radiant, midnight blue shine to her long, semi-splintered hair, betraying her Darcsen heritage. Most days, she’s fine with it being tucked into her undershirt and covered by a helmet.

Her uniform is likely to be the nicest piece of clothing she owns. That a dirt-stained, patchwork overcoat mended and stitched back together more than any article of clothing has a right to be released from its’ eternal torment says enough about what the woman bothers wearing otherwise. She doesn’t bother ironing out the wrinkles or folding out the creases when the whole thing will just get dirty again. Jewelry tends to just get caught in things, and that’d also give the impression that Ines fancies carrying around a chunk of silver around her neck anyway. Across her chest lay her pocketed bandolier, each filled with stripper clips for her necessary ammunition, with the bottom two pouches remaining empty for used clips, or whatever else might need a pocket on the battlefield. Belt supplied with a simple leather holster - clearly secondhand from the numerous scratches, water stains, and restitching across the top - as well as a larger pouch situated near her back. Grenades would run along one of her various belt notches, ready to be primed and thrown as needed.

Personality:

You’d call her “apathetic”, but that’s not a good descriptor for her since she isn’t going to let you do something incredibly stupid without getting yanked back to the ground where you belong. “Bitchy” is a closer one, but there’s a lot of times where you’ll come to appreciate her unique sense of honesty, and more often than not, she’s a fairly relaxed person. And somewhere along those fine lines, the brutally honest, hard-knock, debatably hedonistic, yet ultimately empathetic, comraderous, and utterly fearless to the point of lacking common sense image of Ines forms in a sea of fine lines. Within the mindset of Ines writhes a burn-down-your-house, rob-your-family, steal-your-girl, and “generally not into fair fights” mentality, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t follow rules. There’s plenty of unspoken rules she’ll never bother to tell you about, because if they bother verbal repetition, it’s honestly a miracle you’ve gotten this far in your life. Somewhere while she walks the fine line between vengeful and merciless, Ines shows a quaint sense of loyalty few come to truly appreciate. After all, actions speak louder than words, and Ines is a woman of few words.

Ines isn’t a “model soldier” by any stretch of the imagination. When you give Ines an order, what you’re really doing is giving her a suggestion and praying she follows up on your sage advice. Regulations? What HQ doesn’t know can’t hurt them. Curfew? Make sure you fix your hair and chew some mint before you crawl back into camp at dawn so you don’t look like the rolled-off-a-bar-floor drunk you actually are. The things Ines *haven’t* tried at any point in time can be listed on one hand.

Now, that being said, does that mean she’s going charging off to go kill a land-ship with a hand grenade and a bottle of whiskey? Of course not. Ines isn’t stupid. She won’t make stupid decisions and put everyone in jeopardy because the orders aren’t as good as “they could be.” Just don’t be surprised when she starts “making improvements” to the orders you give.

It’s almost needless to say that there’s scant difference between her demeanor on and off the line of duty, yet for an occupation necessitating such ardent of discipline as hers, it’s prudent to mention.

Details:

Rank: Private

Role: Shocktrooper

Equipment:
SM Longfield Carbine
Shrapnel-Ragnite Bombs

Potentials:

“Don’t Tell Me What To Do” - Ines didn’t get as far as she did with some silver-spoon university officer breathing down her neck along the way. Nobody told her she wasn’t doing something right when she fought off thugs with knives and cudgels, or when she practiced 15 hours a day just to get a shot at a fight. Saying she finds herself estranged from most officers is a futile endeavor in understatement, and Ines much prefers to work as independently as possible. Pull her leash too hard, and she’ll yank back until she’s dragging you through a river of mud that game of tug of war.

“Calm Like a Bomb” - Ines is a sub-zero, ticking time bomb waiting for anyone to challenge her. She’d fought off who knew how many people in her life, and she made sure they all took back with them a new lesson about trying to mess with her. What was giving one more lesson to her? What better place than here? What better time than now? She might be cool for a second, but once you set her off, all Hell can’t stop her.

“Gant Argente” - Brass knuckles and sap gloves and boot-stowed steel knives, a bolo thrown through the air while it sings; These are a few of her favorite things. Close combat goes from chaos to absolute madness faster than a junkhead’s brain spins on a New Year’s Day, and Ines has learned well that the ability to use anything as a weapon is how you get through encounter after encounter in tight corridors. Rifle butts, knives, boots, sandbags, chairs, coffee pots, you name it; if you can put it between you and someone else hell-bent on making your smile stretch ear-to-ear via shiny steel, Ines will use it.

Background:

Ines’ life was set up for failure since the day she was born. It only took her mom 4 months to realize she had gotten pregnant from her now-ex-boyfriend in a drunken affair on a New Year’s Day, and living on the shoreside of an inner city shanty town wasn’t any place to raise a child. A child without a father, no doubt. And the worst part? Her mom was a Darcsen.

Ostend, Francia. Worst place in the world. That dockside city stood on the corner of nearly four countries, and sitting on the corner of 3 different continental powers meant someone always wanted something. When there’s a strong enough desire for it, people are going to get whatever that “it” is. That meant you could walk for half an hour and pass through two dozen cartels, gangs, mafias, and “militias”, their turf, and get yourself acquainted with the largest assortment of weaponry you’d see outside of the national armory. Let’s just say that not all of those gangs were interested in sharing their slice of the pie with some nasty Darcsen bitch walking all over their street.

Ines came into the world fighting for her life, and one by one, the world conspired to make sure she was going to keep fighting if anything she ever had meant anything to her. Ines fought every day, with everyone and everything. They said she’d grew up to be nothing but a hoodlum, either dead, in prison, or being yet another ganger where there needed no more.

She became a great fighter, no doubt, and given her lengthy history of picking fights with street rats and wannabe thugs, whoever her role model was in life told her she needed to do something with her God-given talents, and for once in her whole life, Ines took the advice of an authority figure. Northern Francia was steeped in a culture of street fighting, born and bred from years of experimentation and practical knowledge. Ines joined an underground fighting club and never bothered looking back, convinced that a ghetto-born bastard Darcsen with nothing to lose and everything to win had nowhere to go but forward.

Money came quickly, and so did problems following that money. The woman won, no doubt about it, but really, who is naive enough to pay even a half-Darcsen in full? And who’s of sound mind to so quickly convince themselves Ines was an honest fighter, that those victories were hers and not those of an unseen fixer? Better yet, who wouldn’t want to beat up the best fighter on the city block, and take the champion’s name for themselves? The more she fought, the more blood flew; the more solutions she made, the more problems sprung up in their place. Good friends were a luxury Ines could scant afford; with friends like hers, enemies would have been a far more welcome substitute.

The night she won the highest title - Gant Argente, begrudgingly granted to the greatest masters of martial arts - that title was not a reward, in spite of her victory. That was a farewell gift. The draft came to her city, and with it, the denizens of the poorest were offered up to the plate, most of the best fighters included. Nobody left dared fight her, either of fear or of superstition. And without fights, there was no money. She could teach, maybe, but who was left to teach? Ines had no other skills, no other fruits of labor to sell herself for. There was enough to worry about with debt and demands of tribute.

So, what good was there to be locked away in a gilded cage? A big name title for being the best fighter really meant nothing when the city stood at the brink of invasion and her life at the helm of collapse, the slow realization that Ines had to do the only thing she knew how to do was how she would get out of this. She’d fight her way out of it, kicking and screaming, and dammit, she’d stand on a mountain of Imperials if it meant she’d just get a quick ducket.

Walking into the recruitment office was just like the ring; With nowhere to go, nothing to lose, and everything to win.

Affiliations:

Joan Levesque - Mother (Alive)
Olivier LeBlanc - Father (Estranged)
Guy Levesque - Half-Brother (Alive)

Relationships:

Nobody. Yet.