Yam I Am

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

To Mother and Father

It's me again, the family's resident fuck-up. To answer your previous letter, yes I've been adjusting well, no I haven't been drinking, yes I have made some friends and no it's not that bad out. I've see some combat but it's been brief exchanges of fire where our bullets miss them by a mile and the ones from the other side don't get any closer to us. It was a bit nerve rattling at first I admit with the sounds of shellfire but the Imperials manning the big guns seem to be just as poor shots as the ones using rifles so I'm not really in harm's way. Besides that the only danger I'm in is from dying of boredom. The food is shit and the pay is poor but you know I don't eat much and there's nothing for me to spend my money out here anyway. I'm stationed in Amone right now, a decent sized city in Gallia. I never thought that I'd up working outside Oceania like the rest of the family but who knows? Maybe the White clan is destined to make it's fortune while living amongst the Gallians. It couldn't be any worse than the life we had in Prairie.
It's funny that the Feds only give a shit about me now that I'm wearing a uniform for them. They make sure everyone here has enough food and coffee and water and changes of clothes, but where was all this when we were starving to death? Where were all the nurses and doctors they have running around when I was lying flat on my back on the kitchen table, screaming as some poor novice midwife made push out my daughter? Sometimes I wonder if the Federation doesn't care about all the backwaters and slums in it's possession or if Oceania is the only place that's neglected. It make sense that I was born there. An unwanted child who always seems to mess everything and is only kept around out of some sense of obligation. I feel like that describes me and the land. You don't have to try and refute that, don't worry. I can remember very clearly the yelling and screaming, how you guys would whisper to each other when you thought I was asleep about how I was making everything much harder. The best thing that happened to the three of us when you threw me out to make it on my own.
I don't blame you. I was a stupid girl who ran with a bad crowd and got herself knocked up. I'm quite frankly amazed you dealt with me as long as you did, especially considering I contributed nothing to the household. Thank you. I do have two more asks of you both: First, can you send me the address Johnny, Ed and Mary? I'd like to write to them as well. Secondly, if the worst happens and I die out here (not likely to happen, trust me) please make sure little Liz knows that her mummy loves her. She needs to know that everything I'm doing out here I'm doing for her. Anyway I have to go. All my best to everyone back home.

Victoria

For My Little Elizabeth

Hello my little Lizzy. Obviously you're not going to be reading this anytime soon. In fact there's a a very good chance that I'll be dead when you actually do. But that doesn't really matter to me. Hopefully I can manage to make it another year or so, that should be enough money sent home to keep you and Grandma from having to tighten your belts too much. It's nice having a real paycheck now. I have more than enough cash to give to you and have enough left over to spend on cheap moonshine and dirty pictures that some of the boys draw in exchange for a quick buck. Too much information? Probably. It's nothing you won't hear about later in life, or experience for yourself if you end up being anything like me. I hope you don't in that regard, or at least manage to control yourself. I love you more than you could possibly imagine but having you was incredibly dangerous. At that point in my life the last thing I need was a child. You were a mistake, just like I was.
It might seem harsh for me to tell you this so bluntly, but I would disagree. For years my parents tried to convince me that I was wanted, that my conception had been more than a tragic accident. It was a lie and I knew it. I figured it out from the comments from the other kids my age, whispers that I was a bastard, my mom was a whore and my father a horse, the kinds of hurtful shit you'd expect from children. I went home and asked about it. They hesitated before answering and I knew it was true. That I wasn't wanted, that is. Obviously my father wasn't a horse, it'd be somewhat difficult to write this with hooves I imagine. But part farmyard animal or no, I was still nothing more than a particularly annoying pet. Every time they tried to deny it just hurt worse, like they thought I was too weak to handle the truth. I'm going to ensure that you're not weak, so by the time you read this you can handle it. It's simply a fact. I was drunk and stupid, and the result was you. It doesn't mean I love you any less.
But you must learn not to let anyone walk over you. You likely know by now that I ran with a gang for a time (the Scarlet Slicers we called ourselves, possibly the stupidest name I've ever heard.) I got myself jumped in the next time I saw those kids who taunted me. The biggest one opened his mouth to say something and I silenced him with a brick. Shattered two of his teeth and broke his jaw and nose in a single hit. In an instant I was surrounded, a pack of viciously feral children assaulting me with sticks and fists and chains. I swung back, refusing to go down without a fight because even then I knew that the worst thing one can do is show fear. I fully expected to be beaten to death in that moment but the pack was called off with a shrill whistle. I had impressed the boy in charge of the little group, the one one who I had attacked first, and he took me to see his brother. By the end of the day I was laughing and joking with them. I was still an unwanted bastard child, but I had earned my place in their group.
Why am I sharing that with you? Because you need to know that you can't ever let anyone see your worry or fear. It's perfectly fine to feel these things, in fact they're necessary for survival. But don't ever let someone else know you are or have ever experienced them. It's a sign of weakness, a sign that you are easy prey. You will be torn apart, raped and tossed aside like trash, robbed and shot before being left to die in a ditch. Averting your eyes shows the loan shark that you're an easy mark, the violent thug that you won't put up a fight as he takes what he wants. Flinching when you're barked at means that people can just walk all over you. If you let them think that then you deserve whatever you get. Never forget that.
The first time I killed another person was at the age of 14. I was at a party, completely shit-faced like I usually was, having a good time with my comrades. A rival gang showed up, an all girl group that went by "The Women of Limbo" (I take it back by the way, that's the stupidest fucking thing I ever heard) showed up and it got heated. They were a tough group of bitches, they had to be if they wanted to be respected by the male dominated gangs. I had a begrudging respect for them, but that didn't keep me from a picking a fight with them. It's amazing how angry you can make someone if you tell her that her and her friends are all whores that buy their safety with their bodies. As expected one of them stepped. She pushed me, I pushed her back. A crowd gathered, circling so that there was no way out until the fight was over. I turned to smirk at some cute boy as if to show how much of a tough bitch I was when the bottle broke shattered against my face. that's where I go the scar over my eye, the broken glass ripped through flesh and caused blood to pour into my eye.
Half-blinded and screaming in rage I tackled her to the ground and drew my knife from my pocket. The first time I stabbed her it skittered across her ribs, making an ugly scraping sound as it connected with her bones. I can never forget that noise, nor the wet squelches she made as I drove my blade into her chest, stomach and throat. I don't know how many times I stabbed her, just sitting there atop her as I was splashed with hot blood with each thrust. I can remember a red film blocking out everything but her, a piece of meat there for me to carve up. Eventually I was dragged away and given a drink and a new nickname. I was no longer the Bastard, I was Slasher. I wasn't just respected by my crew but all the others as well.
It was a good experience, one that prepared me for war. Had I not be so experienced with violence I likely would have frozen in place when I encountered the armored car. A massive metal beast armed with machine guns and seemingly impervious to everything. I watched my unit get cut in half from the fire of it's guns and crushed under it's wheels. I managed to survive because I crushed my fear deep down inside me. I did the same thing was poison gas flooded the streets of Amone, making people cough violently and choke to death on their own vomit. A dying Imperial soldier tried to rip my protective mask from my face and broke his fingers before crushing his skull with my rifle. The first blow didn't kill him and neither did the second. He was a pulped mess, looking up at me with bloody eyes and a disgusting black cavernous that spewed vomit and blood. A few more good swings and his skull cracked, spilling his brains over the dusty floor.
And that's the kind of world we live in. I deal with it by drinking and fucking anything that moves. You might cope by drawing, or writing, or singing or a thousand other things. All of them are fine, as long you never go soft.

Always loving you,
Mama Vicky

The days after the gas attack had passed in a blur of drinking and digging through the pockets of corpses, Vicky doing her best to ignore the bloody vomit that had pooled in the cups of their throats or the scratches in the cobblestone they had left in their last moments of life as they tried to drag themselves to safety. There was no use dwelling on it, she still had to make it through the rest of the war and focusing on the plight of others would just get her killed.

So she focused on her grave robbing. An Imperial captain’s coat had a lovely flag sewn into the lining, Victoria carefully undoing the stitching and tying it around her neck like a bandana. A elderly Gallian man had the keys to a small house where she found a scattered bills and medal from the armed forces. Had he been a soldier? Or had it been earned by a son that had gotten himself killed? Didn’t matter, the silver and bronze cross was detached from it’s ribbon and pasted to the butt of her carbine.

A particularly racy picture of some young Francian’s girlfriend was tucked into the band of her rabbit felt hat, along with the skull of a rat that she had boiled clean. It seemed fitting for her to carry the talisman, a charm from the species she felt most at home with.
By the time they had made it to their new camp Private White had managed to scrounge up some paint in shades of midnight black, blood red, and fiery orange and yellow. Her gas mask had saved her life so she figured it deserved some livening up. The drab canvas was decorated with images of bloodied blades and charred bodies, a copy of the flag worn around her neck depicted burning on the side. She was proud of her work, it represented what she was trying so hard to mold herself into.

As a reward for finishing her art project she decided to sniff out some of that rum she had heard about, carrying the drying mask with her. She found that she had beaten to it by Luke and the bitch that had stubbed a cigarette in her mouth. Or at least she thought the girl had. That night was hazy.

”Oi, cunts.” she said easily, screwing off the top of her flask so she could refill it.

---

Luke grinned as he took a drag from his cigarette, his attention fully on his Darcsen drinking buddy. He wasn't sure how long they had been talking as time seemed they sat in that tent for hours, the rum they had been drinking not aiding in keeping track of time. Honestly he didn't mind, it was relaxing. He looked to the bottle of booze and frowned with flushed cheeks. "They should add booze with our rations, we get shot at almost everyday so the least they could do is put a bottle of the good stuff in our hands when we have some downtime," he muttered before blowing out smoke through his nose. Soon he heard someone calling the two of them cunts and looked over with an arched brow to see a familiarly tall women. He chuckled and rose from his seat, wobbling a bit before lifting up his arms to welcome her.

"Vicky! How nice of you to join us!" he laughed before plopping down back into his seat, nearly falling and laughing as he fixed himself in his seat.

"Sit down and pass that flask of yours, we're runnin low on our own stuff!" he grinned before taking another drag from his smoke.

---

Just the most smidge of haze came over the Darcsen woman as another voice made her sonorous announcement, beckoning before the two as if she were royalty. Inès knew roughly who she was, and while she looked up, couldn't help but fixate her eyes on the dashing little photograph Victoria picked up and propped beside her hat. Her eyebrows raised, a bit impressed. Victoria knew how to pick them, apparently.

Inès motioned over, readjusting her cross-legged seating while she straightened her posture once again. Her face coursed over, smidging through words and errant thoughts, ever so fixated on the tale she was telling to her newfound friend.

"I was just telling him about my ex." she explained, looking briefly up at Victoria.

---

Victoria nodded to Luke as she stepped into the cramped quarters, a crooked smiled brightening her scarred face at his greeting.

"Thought I could smell a little bastard taking all the fucking grog! You need to wash up more boy, your scent scares the carrion dogs off 'n' let's the bleeding Imps know just how to find us!" Her words were harsh but her tone was light, the Oceanic simply greeting her acquaintance in the typical fashion of her culture. More atypical was the warm hug she pulled him as soon as he opened his arms, the taller female embracing the young man tightly and thumping him on the back. She held Luke there for a few tender moments, the mother holding her adopted son in a reassuring grip.

Seems like you've knocked back a few already." she noted, watching him slip and stumble back to his seat before tossing him the flask. "Fill 'er up barman!" If he wanted to bum a drink off of her he'd be sorely disappointed. Vicky had run dry the day before, all the good whiskey she had saved from the White Hart Inn drained after the gas attack. She noticed the Darscen's gaze falling on the unnamed broad she carried, grabbing her hat by the brim and flinging it towards her.

"Look all you like, I don't even know her name! Fan of redheads, are you?" More of their first meeting was coming back to her but Vicky didn't especially care. That was in the past, now they were simply talking. The digger girl leaned up against the tent post, face darkening at the mention of an ex. "I have stories to tell about exes of my own." she spat hatefully, fingering the brass pendant around her neck.

---

Luke embraced the hug from Victoria with a chuckle as he patted her back and stumbled back into his seat. He looked to the flask with a bit of disappointment before shrugging and poring bit of rum inside. With smirk he happily took a sip from the bottle before handing her back her flask with a nod. Luke watched as she tossed the her hat to Ines before looking back to her leaning on the tent post, the look of hate on her face as she brought up her ex. He couldn't help but chuckle in amusement at the two girls and shook his head.

"I swear, the guys who pissed you off must be insane, or have death wish," he said before sighing and taking a drag from his cigarette.

"I feel left out really, never had a lady of my own in my life. Thank god for that, would be to much of a pain to deal with. Especially now..." he said before leaning back, "Wouldn't want another person mourning my dead corpse." he chuckled bitterly before blowing out a wave of smoke through his nose.

"Anyway, exes." he said before motioning with hand for them to continue their conversations about failed lovers.

---

She prepared herself with a usual comment on Luke's relationship status being an unsurprising revelation, yet out of some newfound courtesy, spared what was to be a light exchange for another time. Yet, what he said just before forced a bit of a wince from the woman. Mourning, so it was. It wasn't an unfamiliar sensation to the Darcsen, not by any metric; For that, Inès seemed not to take to the lightness at which Luke proposed, even if such bravado even she found necessary to get through the discomfort. But his prompt was best taken, for Inès herself nodded in agreement that she continue. Back aligned with the posts, parallel to her seat, she looked over the two, apparently ready to continue.

"Exes..." Inès nodded. A light, strangely nostalgic smile came about her face, shaking her head as the memory made its vivacious marks across her pleasantly consternation expression. As if she only smiled because she knew not whether to kill him or thank him.

"Cédric was..."

She shook her head. A heavy sigh dragged her body and head down.

"God, he was a wreck. He...he used to be so great, and then he would...he'd..."

"He'd come to me, and knock on my tenement door, wake everyone up and he'd yell my name, completely dirt-faced drunk. 'Inès! Inès! I'm so sorry! Please don't leave me!'...and i'd tell him, 'Cédric, you're drunk; I'm not leaving you.', and he'd just..."

Inès pulled her head up, a crooked frown trying so desperately to crack a smile expressed toward the pair, as she brought up a time she would have rather forgotten.

"I remember he'd never let go. And he'd cry. And cry until he didn't have any tears left and he lost his own voice weeping to me...about how nobody cared about him. He'd say, 'Even my mom's thought i've lost my mind. She doesn't care about me, Inès...my own mother doesn't care about me!' And..."

She huffed.

"...It was...it was sad. Because he'd rob and steal just...every. Single. Day. And...he never saved the money, and just...always got himself into more and more trouble. It was just...it's like watching someone lose their mind, and him just always saying how...I was the only person who mattered. Being the only person he cared about...and knowing that, one day, he would just...kill himself."

---

Victoria spit on the ground before knocking back a third of the flask's content, seething in contempt for her former partner. "I'll say he fucking does. When this fucking war is over I'm going to find him and slit his throat." she promised. "And trust me, you're not missing anything. All relationships bring is trouble and unwanted burdens." Her tone made it clear she was speaking from experience, boot kicking dirt over the puddle of spit she had made.

"If you ever try to shack up with Diana - like we all know you want to - or any other girl, you make sure you leave on good terms. If I find out you left someone with a bastard to care for. I'll cut your balls off and feed them to you." There was no malice in her voice, no bravado. It was a promise, a statement of fact like saying the sky was blue. She might have had a soft spot for Luke but she was not going to let him do what had been done to her.

"Besides, at least you know people who will mourn for you." Her lecture done Victoria fell silent, taking another drink of rum as Ines spoke. This Cedric she spoke of reminded her of Charles and even herself. The drinking, the stealing, the way they had promised to be there for one another. And then he had taken off, leaving her with a baby and burning hatred that fueled her through this bullshit war.

"I understand that." she muttered, "Thinking that you're going to be with someone forever, through thick and thin, only for it to turn into a lie. I met a man named Charles, a two bit thief and card shark. We'd meet every night and I'd give him all the money and valuables I had shaken out of people or taken from them after I shattered some bones. He'd take it and gamble it all away, always saying how just one more win would put us over the edge. Sometimes he won and we'd drink, party and fuck during week long benders. Other times he'd 've lost and we'd scream at each other, throwing things and punching."

A hand flicked open her necklace, showing Luke and Ines the picture of Elizabeth.

"This was the final straw. He knocked me up and left me alone with a baby girl and no way to feed her. I did the only thing I could and signed up to be with you fuckers. We all have to live with the consequences of our actions. Better to only deal with those and not weigh yourself down with someone else."

---

Luke choked and the smoke he had inhaled as Victoria talked about him getting with Diana and coughed, patting his chest with his fist before looking to her with flushed cheeks, though that was still thanks to the booze.

"Like I'd ever be with her. That little girl isn't my type," he said, though he looked away with a bit of embarrassment. He held up his hands as she threatened him if he ever left, and chuckled.

"Easy, mama bear. I'm a dick, but I'd never do that." he declared before taking a sip from the bottle. Silently he listened to the two talk about their failed lovers and could only shake his head and scoff with a smirk. "Jeez, and here I was feeling left out about being single. You two make being in love to be a shit deal. I may never fall in love at this rate!" he chuckled as he inhaled the fumes from his cigarette. As Victoria showed them the picture of her kid Luke paused for a moment, staring at the picture with a small frown. A loud groan escaped him before he rubbed his face and chuckled bitterly.

"I hate this shit; the love talk," he scoffed before spitting to the side, "Every time I hear someone talk about it, I can't help but get annoyed. I just don't get it sometimes, how you two could have stuck around pieces of shit like that. There's no possible way that love was worth it, was it?" he questioned before sighing rubbing his chin.

"Call me a dick all you want, just sounds pointless..." he said and leaned forward before clutching his hands together, trying to get his mind around it. It could have been the booze talking, but after hearing the two talk about their failed loves, it sounded ridiculous to stay.

"I'd rather just focus on killin' Imps than who I want to love." he stated. inhaling another wave of smoke into his lungs.

---

To her left was a man - doubtlessly one who'd never felt anything so much more than the bare minimum of comradery - who so readily denounced love and would rather take up murder as an occupation than those of loving another. To her right was a mother - one Inès didn't question would grow to be an embittered scowl, at this rate - eager to slit the throat of a dead man for the sake of someone she said slighted her just weeks ago. Could she shake her head? It'd be pointless. No reason with reasoning, it seemed, and for whatever sense this war could make, others so readily rejected while they went about their days. Inès mulled the two over, indecisive as to whether or not she found herself in good company.

"No." she answered, staring split down the middle from the two's positions, as if addressing both their proclamations, "I loved Cédric a lot. And...I knew that he was hopeless. But, I tried. And we had fun. So...no. I don't regret it, actually."

The sight of a young earthhead still lingered around Inès' mind; Victoria was evidently younger than her, apparent even through her numerous scars and snarls. She was already raising one of her own, or, failing that, making an attempt to. Yet...

Inès looked up at Victoria, a soft gaze in her stare. They did not beg, for the showed no water nor wavering in their steadfast posture. Nor did they command, as their vibrant color and directed focus did dictate. Instead, they kindly asked - like that of the mother Victoria wanted to be - for her to put aside her anger

"You know...my mother was about the same age as you when she had me." the Darcsen commented.

---

"You and that 'little girl' are the poster children for will they, won't they." Vicky snickered, very much amused by Luke's spluttering reaction, "I bet you get hard every time you think about her! And I can't blame you."

That crooked smile had returned, a sign that she was just trying to get a rise out of him. It seemed like she had gotten her wish, the Oceanic chuckling as Luke looked away. "I hope not." the "mama bear" responded, "But you'd do well to avoid children in general. It's not a burden you take on lightly."

She shrugged at his proclamation that love was worthless, not feeling particularly strongly about the statement either way. She only had her own experience to go off of, and that didn't exactly give her a bright view. But then again, she was one person of untold multitudes throughout history. It seemed rash to decide one way or another based off such a small sample size.

"I'd be willling to bet that what I had wasn't love. It was on my end, but he certainly didn't love me"

Victoria simply listened as Ines's shared that she didn't regret her past relationship. It wasn't her place to judge. For all she knew this Cedric had been the best person on the planet in all of history. If Ines wanted to hold onto memories of a man she had left or lost that was her decision, albeit one that she couldn't understand. Why would you want to hold onto the past like that? Surely it just hurt, constantly going over what one used to have or what could have been? The only reason she still thought about Charles was because he made a useful goal. Once she made it out of the war and her daughter had some money saved away she could track the piece of shit down and murder him. She stared back as Ines looked up at her, somewhat perturbed by the softness in her eyes.

"If you're going to stare at anyone like that try the broad in the picture." she joked halfheartedly, only for the words to die on her lips.

"The same age I am now? Or do you mean sixteen, when I got pregnant. Either way...I'm so sorry."

If her mother was anything like Victoria, growing up must have been a real struggle for Ines.

---

Lukes cheeks grew warmer as Victoria continued to talk about him and Dian before scoffing slightly, knowing she was just trying to get a rise out of him. Sad thing was she was doing a good job of it. Luckily Ines gained his attention as she stated not regretting being with Cédric and shrugged.

"Good for you then, no regrets is always nice/" he said with a nod before glancing to Victoria as she stated what she wasn't love. From what she said about the relationship he wasn't to surprised, sounded toxic. Luke tensed up for a moment though as Ines brought her mother, a small frown crawling onto his face. He shook his head and scoffed.

"Mothers..." he spat with a bit of venom, a flash of disgust on his face. Ever since he walked into this city he's seen more and more of that witch in his dream, or even in the shadows from the corners of his eyes. That soulless bitch was still haunting him and causing several sleepless nights, even when there was no fighting.

"Even that word sounds meaningless..." he muttered with a scowl before taking another sip of rum.

---

Inès discharged Victoria's pity with a tilt of her head. Even Luke seemed distraught at the turn of tone, reaching straight for the bottle at the mere suggestion of such talks. Such a topic Inès could go on for, endlessly charading and beloving her mother as effortlessly as breathing may have been. Yet, there was no use in opening up wounds while they had yet to recover from those most recently patched, and so it was that Inès looked about her company and decided a bit of change was necessary.

"Don't worry about it." she assured Victoria, inspecting what remained of a nearby rum bottle before washing a light drink down with a coarse cough, "She has a lot of problems, but...we get along."

"Though..."

Inès sighed, placing her hands upon her knees as she set the bottle to her side. A few nods repeat themselves, taking passes at both Luke and Victoria while her lips purse in reflection.

"...out of all the love i've had..."

"...it's worth it for the sex."

---

Vicky nearly snorted at Luke's apparent disgust at the very concept of motherhood. Did he just have issues with all women? That seemed unlikely considering that he was talking to two of them with relative civility. Whatever it was it clearly eating him up inside.

"I guess fatherhood really isn't for you, then." she stated dryly, finally dropping into a low crouch scratching at her leg. "And I'm glad you're able to talk to her. I wish I still had that with my parents." The muffled snort escapes at Ines's final reflection, Victoria nodding in agreement.

"That's fucking right!" she crowed, "I might have fucked myself over, but I had fun doing it!"

The alcoholic turned back to Luke, cocking her head in curiosity. "So if it's not Diana - which I don't believe for a goddamn second - then who is it? Who are you hoping will pin you to the wall and make you man up?"

---

Luke glanced to Victoria as she mentioned something about fatherhood and shrugged. He had no idea if he had what it took to be a father, but there was no reason to worry about it now. The war was where his focus should be on. He nodded towards Ines as she said she was still in a good relationship with her mother and silently envied her to have a mother that didn't hate her guts.

As Luke sighed and let the two talk, he arched a brow and glanced to Ines as she said the sex was worth it. He chuckled in amusement before inhaling his cigarettes fumes into his lungs, the nicotine satisfying in calming his nerves. Unfortunately his calmed nerves didn't last long as Victoria asked who it was going to take to make him a man. His cheeks grew bright red at the question and looked away with a frown.

"I-I don't have anyone in mind, I just need to focus on work." he declared, though silently he thought about her question and her mentioning Diana. That little firecracker of girl who kept giving him a hard time was his first kiss, but that didn't mean anything... Right? He shook his head as he remembered that night in the Inn and ignored the rapid beating in his heart before looking to Victoria and Ines, hoping to switch the question on them.

"What about you two, huh?! Who out of the squad got your eyes?" he questioned with a frown, wanting to steer himself away from giving an actual answer to her question.

---

Inès glared at him.

"The entire Inn could hear Franz and I fucking in the bathtub, and Freya and I weren't much quieter, either." Inès answered promptly. Booze confidence be damned, for it turned Inès into an unashamed monster at this pace.

"If you don't like anyone, fine, but don't give us wishy-washy answers and not expect us to ask questions when we're trying to help."

---

Luke's evasiveness didn't go unnoticed by Victoria either, the Oceanic taking a drink of rum before answering.

"Fuck, let's go down the list: I already fucked Diana as you well know, Jean's not bad looking, who doesn't want to fuck Thomas?...Ines here seems fun, and I'd bet that I'd enjoy ruining you for any other girl." She had nothing to hide. Hopefully the way she had said it all so nonchalantly would rattle him some.

"Now, back to you. Who're you keeping an eye on? No half-answers, or me and Ines will hold you down until you tell us."

---

Luke flinched a bit as Ines told him her and Franz had been together, news to him since he was to drunk that night to know. "I-I... uh..." he wasn't able to speak much more after she gave him a hard time not answering the question, wincing as she said they were only trying to help him. He frowned and scoffed.

"I didn't ask for help..." he muttered before looking to Ines began to run down a list of people that had her eye, though he didn't listen to most of them. He stopped listening after she said she had sex with Diana. His eyes widened a bit in surprise, again another set of unheard news. He stared at her for a few seconds, the fact they had slept together forming a ball of unknown emotions in his gut. Was he... bothered by it? No, he couldn't be. Why would he, Diana was just a comrade. It had to be the rum, that the only explanation. His face was clearly bothered by the fact they were together and tried to look away, a frown on his face.

"I... I didn't know you two were together." he muttered as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Soon a heavy sigh escaped him as the two continued to pry themselves into the topic and held up his hands to calm them down. "Fine, fine, relax." he said before rubbing his scared cheek.

"I-I guess...you two are okay. Not that bad on looks and easy to talk to, well...sometimes easy to talk to." he said glancing up at the two with narrowed eyes before looking back down with red cheeks. He paused for a moment before taking a deep breath and continuing.

"D-Diana too, I guess..." he added, rubbing the back of his neck with a groan. "Man, you two sure are nosey aren't ya'?"

---

The Darcsen woman giggled at Luke's final confession, watching the perfect crescendo as his face turned more and more red the more the two went down their list of sex. Although, to Inès at least, it came as little surprise that Luke fancied the sandhead - she knew of two good reasons why - finally nodding to Luke's declaration of interest.

It didn't help Luke's case that he had made the incredible play of making racist sentiments against Darcsens, then making offhand comments about Inès in nice clothing, then that of either romantic or sexual interest in her. Perhaps luckily for the young man, Inès had no intention of touching the dirthead with a 50 meter pole, nevermind letting him inside her. She even seemed to shudder at the notion. All in good faith, of course.

"So you like dark-haired girls, awkward rich girls, and tough girls?" Inès smirked back at him, the light imbibement already forcing her to tease him a smidge.

"Diana has a fucking big pair on her..."

---

Vicky was glad to see that her words had the intended effect on Luke although she was confused that Luke didn't know that she and Diana had slept together. Hadn't the silly girl invited him? She had told her that she was welcome to. Apparently, she hadn't, or maybe Luke had just she was bluffing. Either way it was clearly a shock to him and Victoria decided to seize on it.

"She's so fucking cute in bed! Inexperienced obviously, but very eager to learn. And she's a screamer." When the boy admitted that he was attracted to her and Ines she stood up and held the edge of her fatigues, giving him a little curtsy, "Why thank you Luke. You're not exactly awful looking yourself." When he finally said Diana's name she clapped her hands in mock excitement, "It's a miracle! The man can tell the truth!"

She nodded vigorously at Ines's assessment of Diana's chest. "I would know! You have to see them to believe them, they're fucking huge on her tiny frame! I can try and get you a picture next time if you'd like?"

---

Luke's cheeks only continued to grow red as Ines began to tease him on his answers and looked away with a frown, huffing through his nose in slight annoyance. He glanced to Victoria as she started to talk about Diana in bed, looking away with a sour frown as she went on. This wasn't supposed be a big deal, who cares if they did it? Was no skin off his back. It still bothered him for some reason though. He clicked his tongue in annoyance before taking a sip from the bottle. Luke looked back to Victoria as she said he wasn't bad looking and chuckled lightly before rubbing the scars on his right cheek.

"I'd say this doesn't help with my looks, unless people are into it." he said before frowning as she said him telling the truth was miracle. "Not like I had much of a choice..." he muttered bitterly before ruffling his hair with a groan as they began to talk about Diana's chest. He tried to ignore the two with the frown, the more they talked about it the deeper his frown got. He glanced to Victoria as she offered to get a picture of them and shook his head.

"No, I don't need a picture. I also don't need to bother with getting with anyone because I didn't come here to hook up. I came to fight, simple as that." he said before letting out a frustrated sigh and rubbing the back of his neck.

"Besides, I wouldn't know what to do. I'm... I'm not sure if I ever will..." he muttered before lowering his head and scratching his chin as he thought on the whole conversation.

"Jeez, this whole conversation is a mess..."

---

Now, Inès would be a lying woman if she said she didn't take pleasure in this conversation. Perhaps it was a far cry from, 'a day with the girls', true, but the relaxed, nonchalant discussion of their sex lives was always a bit of a raunchy and fun topic, but that seemed limited to only Victoria and herself. Truth be told once again, she couldn't quite admit that seeing Luke brought so low as when not weeks ago he so readily dismissed Darcsens as wholly villainous was not even slightly intriguing to note. Yet Inès harbored little bitterness towards the earthhead, and seeing low remark after low remark, coupled with his sullen, hunched demeanor as he secluded himself further and further into his shell, she didn't particularly enjoy his more retracted expression.

Inès frowned. Her hand reached to Luke, nodding along in sympathy to his plight.

"You're not a bad guy." she comforted, shrugging to Luke's self-demeaning claims.

"You're an idiot, and you can be a jerk sometimes, and you're a know-it-all, and you said Darcsens were perfect for living in blown-out holes in the ground, and you could use a few more centimeters down there..."

"...but you're not bad. And..." Inès snickered. She realized she wasn't off to the greatest of starts, sure, but what was a little brutal honesty to the fearless Luke Godfrey?

"You're kind of sweet."

---

"Hey, you got a problem with scars?" Victoria asked cheekily, jutting her chin out so that Luke could take a good look at the one that was carved across her face. "The marks don't matter, it's how you carry them." She lifted a sleeve to show her friend the wounds left by shrapnel before brushing aside her hair so he could get a good look at the chunk of her ear that was missing. "If scars were what made men ugly, I'd be shit out of luck myself." She snickered when the young man talked about how he wouldn't know what to do.

"Luke, no one does when they first try. It's instinctive, animal-like. We put you in a bed with Diana and you'll figure it out right quick." The Oceanic laughed as she spoke, gulping down another portion of rum and wiping her mouth with the Imperial flag around her neck.

Vicky nodded at Ines's evaluation of him, agreeing with everything she said. "You have the emotional intelligence of a sheep in rut, but you're not evil." she said not unkindly, "And you're not lacking that much down there, you learn a bit of technique and you'll be good. Besides, once you stop acting like a moron you're quite nice to talk to."

---

Luke chuckled as Victoria questioned what was wrong with scars before showing off her own. He examined them with curiosity before snickering a bit as as she mentioned throwing him in the a bed with Diana to figuring things out.

"Like I said before, not happening; Work comes first." he stated before taking a drag from his smoke.

He arched a brow as he heard Ines tell him he wasn't a bad guy and glanced up to her in curiosity, not expecting that from her. He chuckled lightly as she began to list down his flaws, each one making his smirk grow more in amusement. It was true he had a lot of them and honestly he didn't care enough it got him into trouble. Made things interesting. He chuckled as she called him sweet before rolling his eyes.

"Sure I am." he said with a sarcastic tone, though a small smile rested on his face as he silently appreciated her attempts to lift his spirits.

Luke looked to Victoria as she threw in her two cents about him and couldn't help but laugh in amusement before shaking his head with a grin. "Well, I guess it's good to know I'm not a complete lost cause." he said before leaning back in his seat with a heavy sigh. "I need to get out of this camp and back to work before I start to get to chummy with you two..." he chuckled with a grin before ruffling his hair with a sigh. He was definitely starting to feel useless sitting in this camp when there was still a city that needed to be taken.

---

Luke exuded his restlessness in every mannerism he displayed, from how he constantly mentioned wanting to resume "labor" to how he so blatantly listed off his priorities. Inès half-smirked, wondering for a moment if Luke possessed either impeccable work ethic, or if he was just a glory hound, looking for something to tell his folks back home. She shook her head. Inès met a lot of Lukes throughout her months-long military career. She sent flowers to their graves every month.

"A lot of 'work' is waiting for something to happen." Inès told Luke, "Rest up. Otherwise, you might end up being a psychopath like Victoria."

---

Victoria wondered is Luke actually believed what he was saying or if he was just bluffing like she was. He acted awfully interested in their shared "work", did he have a vendetta against the Imperials? Or maybe he was just loyal to the Federation. Or he maybe the only way he could get off was with a gun in his hands; Vicky had met plenty of guys like that during her time in the service.

"Why do you care?" she asked finally, "About the war, I mean. Why does it matter so much to you? Do you just like violence?" She gave a good-natured middle finger to Ines, but didn't refute the point. That was basically what she herself was worried about. "Seriously, I said it once and I'll say it again: the army is not the right place for you, it's for fuck-ups like me who can't do anything else. You should leave as soon as you can."

---

A chuckle escaped Luke as Ines suggested just resting while he can shook his head. "Rest? I've been working non-stop since both my parents passed, there's no way I'm gonna start now. Can't afford to." he said with a heavy sigh as he thought back on most of his childhood. It was filled with nothing but hardships and back breaking work. Hardly any fun, or joy. Just an endless spiral of pent up anger and remorse.

The only thing he had to look forward to were his sisters. Luke was brought out of his thoughts as Victoria caught him off guard with the question of why he cared about the war so much. He shook his head as she asked if it was the violence.

"No of course not, I... I just wanted to do something else with my life, to be more than a damn peasant farmer." he said before feeling a small frown come onto his face as she began to talk again, telling him he shouldn't be here, that he didn't belong there. He shook his head and scoffed in annoyance.

"Ya' know what?" he muttered before rising from his seat with a heavy frown on his face and set his hardened gaze onto her. "I'm tired of hearing that shit, that I don't belong here! How the hell do you know where I belong!? Huh?! I'm tired of hearing of what people think I should do with my life, saying I'm not cut out for this! Fuck that!" he spat before smacking his chest roughly.

"I'm here to make my mark on the world, to show everyone that I follow my own path! So if I end up dead so be it! I signed up knowing full well I'll most likely die in this fucking war so at least I can die happy knowing I died following my own path!" he finished, his fist clutched tightly before letting out a heavy sigh and falling back into his seat. The booze must be fueling him on, but it felt good to get that out.

---

"Luke. Shut up."

Inès commanded him staunchly, a scowl on her face stronger that would make a drill sergeant avert their eyes. She held up two fingers, almost ready and poised to silence whatever attempt to speak up, and another open palm Luke could correctly guess that Inès would be more than happy to reacquaint with his face.

"Listen to yourself. Is that what you want? To die? Do you want to go back home to your sisters, and tell them, "I joined the war so I could die."?" Inès didn't shake her head. She kept her ironclad glare steadily upon the frustrated young man, almost as if she created a steady haze above Luke's head that forced him down like a sad dog.

---

Victoria didn't respond verbally as Luke launched into his tirade, content to let him him stand up and pound his chest like a big man. He was nowhere near the scariest man that had tried to intimidate her. She simply stood up herself, rising to her full height and tucking her flask.

"That's fucking right, some real emotion!" she crowed, "Anger is so much better than self-deprecation, lets you know you're a killer! C'mon Luke, if you wanna scrap, let's go for it! I won't even try to dodge the first hit!" This had taken an interesting turn. Maybe the army was the right place for him with the way he just suddenly went off. But then it left him, Vicky watching the man fall back into his seat with a huff. And just when she thought she had met someone with some balls...

"Ah c'mon, leave him alone." she said to Ines, "It's good when someone is honest about their life. I'm in the same boat as him, if I die here it doesn't matter. I guess we're alike in some ways, just a pair of cunts that aren't good for anything else." She wasn't drunk off alcohol, intoxicated by the rush of meeting another rat. A pair of scavengers that didn't fit in polite society.

---

Luke scoffed towards Victoria as she began to look more than willing to fight him. Honestly at the moment it seemed like a good idea to blow off more steam through his fist, but he knew it was the rum getting him all riled up. It'll only get him in more trouble. He noticed Ines's iron like glare directed towards him and scoffed as she began to ask if it was really what he wanted, if he wanted to die and leave his sisters behind.

"N-no, I just... I cant pretend anymore. To be happy with my life, that nothing bothers me. So...I thought if I were to die, I'd at least die setting an example for my sisters that they can do whatever they want with their lives..." he said before hanging his head and ruffling his hair.

He chuckled as he heard Victoria spoke up again, saying they were both not good for anything else. "I guess so..." he smirked before raising his head and letting a drained grin roll into his face. "I just dont give a damn anymore. I've stopped caring a long time ago, ever since...she..." he paused for a moment, his grin falling as he began to feel an ungodly chill run up his spine, as if someone ran their frozen finger tips along his spine. Then, in a brief moment he heard a chilling whisper before snapping out of it, realizing he had spaced out for a moment. He shook his head before rubbing his face.

"N-never mind, let's just drop it..." he muttered before pulling out another cigarette to light and inhale.

---

A steady glare passed over Luke, Inès' rough eyes watching the same fate, over, and over, and over pass over with no indication it would go much differently. Pulses tingled through her back, begging that she reflexively retract, no matter how much it may disrupt her current comfort. Not much was worse than seeing the same story prevail, the cautionary tales strung by veterans falling upon ears deafened by naïveté. Yet, it is in everything left unspoken where tragedy is made.

But what was there left for Inès to say?

The dirtheaded mother didn't help. Many of the survivors seldom did, even as was their apparent duty to guide those more or less fortunate to have fewer experiences behind them. Victoria had an interesting clamor for life - one shared by the many experts, adherents, or lovers of their lives of ill-coincided adventure - and one Inès, too, saw before. Violette never was much of one for helping others find their way, too.

She sighed. Two broken, dreary eyes aged twenty years in an instant, and that fractured, breathy resignation from Luke and Victoria signified disappointment full well. Inès stood, positioning her hands forth, like a pose to a presidential address, even, dropping, waving, fidgeting, twitching while she found and lost so many of the wrong words to say at the right moment.

"...fine." was all she could sputter out, bearing an unusual heaviness within the flowery Francian accent.

"See you later."

Inès left the space for the two. With any luck, Victoria might be able to be a mother for once. Inès didn't hold her breath.

---

Victoria sadly as Luke admitted that he had intended to die, or at least had expected to. It always made her sad to see people who had potential following the same path she had written herself into. It was a little irrational to decide that he could do better with his life based off such little experience together, but she knew his story. Anyone who could go through what he had while caring for two young sisters had the strength to do whatever they put their mind to. She wanted to embrace him again as he cut himself off, guessing at who "She" was. Vicky couldn't blame him for changing the subject, keeping her mouth shut as Ines stared at them with... disappointment? Or was it just disgust? It was hard to tell.

The Oceanic watched the Francian female stand up and fidget with her hands, waving a lazy goodbye as her acquaintance left the tent. "Have a good one." she called back, turning to face Luke. The mother didn't say anything to her adopted son, simply crouching back down and looking at him. She held the awkward pause for a moment before pulling him into another tight hug, one arm wrapped around his waist while the other dragged a blanket up and around them.

"Shut up and cuddle with me." she ordered, not willing to leave him alone with his thoughts for the time being.

---

A long heavy sigh escaped Luke as he ran a hand through his messy hair, his mind and body suddenly feeling so exhausted. How did it come to this? He had been laughing and talking not to long ago. Now here he was, feeling as if he had just been thrown down a flight of stairs. He took a healthy drag from his cigarette before hanging his head and holding his suddenly aching head. Soon he heard Ines rise and glanced up to her only to see a gaze of disappointment directed towards him. He showed no reaction to the gaze, but it did make him feel lower than he already was. Weaker. He looked back down towards the grounded and nodded before inhaling more smoke into his lungs. "Thanks for the rum," he muttered with a weak voice, any type of boldness or confidence no where to be seen. As she left he let himself become consumed into the silence that filled the tent. It felt so comforting, being alone in his thoughts. His lonely mind being the only place he's felt safe. Soon though he noticed a figure grow closer from the comer of his eye and prepared himself to be tormented by the visions his beaten mind haunts him with. It never came though, instead he was pulled forward and welcomed into a comforting warmth that only tightened around him. Luke tensed for a moment, not understanding what was happening at the moment, but as a blanket was pulled over him and Victoria's familiar voice reached his ears. His tensed body quickly relaxed and let his cigarette fall to the ground.

He gave no resistance to Victoria's hug and let himself sink deeper into her embrace, resting his heavy head on her shoulder. So much weight was taken off his body and mind as he rested with Victoria, a heavy breath of relief leaving his nostrils. His eyes began to grow heavy and his breathing became steady, but before he closed his eyes to rest his mind he saw a blurry black figure linger in the shadowy corner of the tent and held Victoria's shirt tightly.

"She won't leave..." he whispered in a shaky voice before finally falling asleep, a warm embrace ensuring him he was no longer alone.

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

She pondered over the little ruby ring, nearly pawing it like she were a cat toying with its dinner. Luke and her had made some headway with their belated birthday celebrations, yet the gift was an unexpected one. Deserved, yes, she mentally noted, yet planned? No. Luke was guiltier than Max was in that regard. At very least, Max and Inès had history which extended beyond slaps to the face and inflammatory remarks. Luke afforded himself no such luxury, and instead Inès smiled as the glistening of the rose gemstone reminder of the renouncement of Luke's racism for a nice gesture.

It had cost her a bottle of rum, of course, yet what was something she hated for a new friend and an expeditiously planned present? Another pass of her thumb strewed across the top of the ring's set-piece, the gilded jewelry firmly illustrating in the fading sunlight of the evening. She'd seldom wear it, of course. It wasn't to her tastes, much like necklaces, bands, and other frivolous accessories. A wrapping of spare cloth concealed the little gift, as she firmly tucked the protective covering between the ring's loop, folding the leftover cloth bolt to form some vaguely circular textile.

Her satchel flipped open its sturdy canvas top to reveal the several compartments within. Most occupied themselves with the contents of either necessity or memoir, sometimes a pleasant reminder of better times, others bitter tokens of lessons learned the harsh way. Inès smirked, half borne of nostalgia and the other of dejection. The little lull of time passing, the calmness between the storms, each little memoir within her bag couldn't help but remind her of the time spent in her previous deployment. Rough, it certainly was, yet for all the hell she had gone through, Inès found herself - ironically speaking - missing the misery.

---

May 29th, 1914

Such was the travesty of Squad Seven that finding refuge in a dilapidated Francian estate was more a worry than blessing. Never before had a trench seemed such a sight for sore eyes in that cellar the remnants of the 3rd Platoon and other accompanying survivors than in the sepulchral basement within a manor left abandoned for the better part of years, by this point. The courtyard above blossomed with such carelessness, becoming more a grove than garden by the three odd years since a tender last performed his or her duty. To say nothing of the vineyards east, overgrown was a polite way to describe the veritable jungle which had steadily eroded any sense of agricultural order. Interiors echoed with rotted decor, echoing the footprints of those who entered, like the members of the 17th knew full well they trespassed upon an area otherwise considered haunted. Yet circumstance drew the better of them, and fortune, this once, favored the bold, for as its time as a wartime ruin, it seemed as though none of its brief visitors were brave - or desperate - enough to relieve the old dwelling of its treasures.

Its old oak door swung open, even with the residence of the manor in play, the door did release its cloud of dust as though it had not seen use in centuries. Inès, yet accustomed to her new dwelling, signaled for her Lance-Corporal comrade to follow in her footsteps, carrying the front end of what was a large wooden crate, on both sides and its top (incorrectly) labeled, "MUNITIONS - DRY, LONG-TERM". Even as the trek weighed down on her, the slight soreness of the long hike back from that lucrative raid paid obvious dividends. All the same, Inès spoke her mind.

"Was that really necessary?" Inès questioned, looking back to the one before her, known by many descriptors; Darcsen. Former Gang-Leader. Lance-Corporal. "Violent". Friend.

"Getting soft on me, Lévesque?" She hollered back. If Inès appeared rough before when Jean first acquainted herself with the maitre, Inès would have appeared to be a blue-haired angel if she stood beside Violette. Nothing about Violette - from the eyepatch so clearly from long ago that she would most gladly tell you she obtained prior to the start of the war, to how she walked with such savage elegance that the esteemed Francian mannerisms tied with the callousness she exuded like the radiance off of gold, and how in her most vicious state, Violette would make even Victoria White appear saintly - spoke to any sense of fair mannerism. Yet Francian culture bore its mark upon the woman, and for what brash remark she may have had for Inès, even came through so light and flowery an accent that even such a venomous retort seemed innocuous.

"We're having Darcsen bitches tonight, boys! This'll be fun!" Violette half-recited, half-mocked in a vulgar mockery of the Imperial accent, "Would you have liked for him to go free, mmh~?"

"Qu'il aille se faire foutre." ("Fuck him.") The repulsion in Inès voice spewed pure hatred as she recalled the libel of that debased Imperial. "Him, I understand. But, the other ones?"

Violette shrugged, grunting in symphony as the crate thudded to the stone floor below. Rose pink lips came together in slight smirk, just so poised upwards so they gave no uncertain indication she took pride in her work. Once a thief, always a thief, so did the mantra go. Her single visible eye tilted down, indicative of such a smug questionnaire as Violette herself. "And they were just going to let it happen if they captured us? Please. They knew what they were getting into."

Inès lowered her eyebrows, almost resigning such remarks. Such was the fate of talking to walls, she supposed, yet Inès wished she could find the right words to express her dissent with such opinion. Groupthink to such degrees showed full well their willingness - as Inès knew yet wished was never the case - to simply allow the Imperials their full defilement as some manner of ramification for Squad Seven's audacious attempts at abidement. Even in Ostend, the mentality was the same, and for all the hate Inès had of it, such phrases rung true half of the country south during their time of war; It was them, or us.

A sonorous *clunk!* thundered through the cellar, the supply crate finding residence from one squad, one faction to another, for this one would be put to better use feeding its more desperate occupiers. Both the women rolled their shoulders, creaking their necks as they sighed off the laborious march from camp to dwelling. First did the Private look back at her Lance-Corporal, then abruptly twitching her head back to the cellar's door as the following footsteps of their comrades carried whatever else came of their needful pillage. The faces - familiar and otherwise - bore their own specific burdens, a Vinlandic redhead carrying great/ unmarked white sacks, while two shorter Darcsens, a man and woman, carried a crate not dissimilar to those of Inès and Violette, all clearly struggling from sweat and fatigue born of days labor in the Francian late spring. Just behind, while the companions did labor, a mighty, hewn man, topped with snow-white hair and glistening pale eyes, walked among Squad Seven. From his chevron-printed arm, he extended a finger firmly to his left, just along the wall.

"Here." His voice clearly bore the east accent of the Ruzhians, powerful and commanding, and so similar yet so different from those of the Imperials. What immediately was apparent as the Sergeant did speak was how his accent permeated every aspect of his speech, like the body himself was born into made its mark upon every word he uttered. When he looked, it seemed so distantly focused that a thousand-yard stare snapped instantly as he turned, like he danced so effortlessly between fantasy and reality that such distinction needn't even process. Ruzhians never smiled. Misha seldom smiled. There was very little to smile about, regardless.

At the very least, everyone was happy to be back and away from their retrieval mission. With some supply secured, Squad Seven's current occupants tagged around one of the sole "tables" of the basement, itself simply a few stacked empty crates with old boxes serving as impromptu chairs. The surface was flat and smooth enough to suit their needs aplenty however, and in mutual agreement of their job done, Inès and her squad almost naturally took their seats around the table. Without formal declaration, everyone still had their nearly unspoken assigned seating at this sort of "round table". Inès situated herself directly next to Marie on her right, while to her left Misha typically occupied. Across from her sat Violette, and next to her sat in the company of fellow good Darcsens Sévérine and Claude.

"Who's playing?" asked the snide Darcsen, as if to take command of her compatriots even in consolation. Even with her brash and downright violent demeanor, those among the squad were in unspoken agreement that even one so unhinged as Violette was a more apt substitute for the late Corporal Westing. God rest her soul, of course.

"I'll play!" The cheerful demeanor of Marie Beaumont spoke with a slurred - some would call "bastard" - accent indicative of Francian tongue, yet of the perky, upbeat character the Vinlandic South was renown for. Such was what was referred to as, "Southern hospitality", wrought of Lafayette's thoroughly unique blend of Europa and Atlantica.

"Right here." Antoine waved up. In the dim light illuminated by whatever scant fuel the double lanterns of the cellar provided, it became impossible to discern what marks across his face were his lengthy brown hairs, and what was in truth grime earned from his strenuous work as the single sapper of the present troop. His exhaustion had no such concealment, for his lengthy sighs and hunched-over posture spoke of fatigue only wrestled by his history of arduous working hours.

"I'm in." Inès responded promptly. She guessed her squadmates would use their newfound riches as currency for this card game. For once, Inès was incorrect in her predictions, it seemed, for as the chips were divided and cards distributed, there was never a mention of what one stood to lose.

In short time, the multi-colored, worn chips of the game threw out their little and big blinds, Violette clearly caring little for the savoir-faire of poker faces. Inès looked over in naturally stern gaze to meet Violette's nearly-instinctive grin, clearly as if to let the entire table know just what cards she had to play. Marie coursed over every one of her two cards extensively, certain to keep her eyes down. On the chance that her light crimson eyes did shyly peek from her hand, Marie chose only to briefly take glances at others, and dared not to give even the slightest of eye contact. Sergeant Dostoyevsky won many hands, and Ruzhian standards of good manners made certain he was difficult to read, for all he had to do was, different from everyone else, act natural. As the first hand made its primary, the creaking of the cellar door turned their heads naturally, and the sight to emerge dictated the game to a halt.

Even though his thick, circular glasses, the heavy, blackened marks of sleepless nights branded themselves beneath Lieutenant St-Martin's eyes. He postured himself firmly upright, yet bore few signs of formality, even tilting his head down as the Squad rose instinctively to salute him. The silver-haired leader averted his eyes, almost staring downward like one misstep would cost him his life. Yet, as his gaze did dart away, he knew full well that that was the reality they found themselves entangled with.

"At ease." He commanded calmly, his dropping hand seeming to parry the salutes of the entire room. Slowly, he made his way over to the table, taking a light seat as the head of their game, not caring to make passes at the newfound material of the recent raid. The LT reclines somewhat in his seat, peering slightly down upon the table as if there were something else to read besides its swirling pattern, almost hopeful he'd find answers.

"Supplies, Sergeant?" St-Martin asked calmly, yet firmly, not glancing up toward the Ruzhian Sergeant.

"Ve vere triumphant." he answered, "Ve now have supplies for anoter veek." His prompt answer earned a sigh of relief from the Lieutenant, yet Inès' steady eyes remained fixated on their leader, knowing full well with the atmosphere that this was far from over.

"Good." the Lieutenant expressed, "Private Fay. Our communications?"

Antoine shook his head. "There's a telephone line, but it's out for good, sir."

"Are they rusted?"

"No, sir. They've been burned clean. I can't fix them with the tools I have; I couldn't fix it even if I wanted to. The ports are soldered shut, sir." Antoine's words turned the room bereft, certain the news bore little good for their already grim emplacement. St Martin peered up, only to slowly cast his gaze aside while a long breath exhaled.

"Sergeant, what does the local force look like?"

"Ve hid our tracks very well." he replied confidently. The one stroke of confidence of every last report, it seemed. "Your orders, sir?"

The Lieutenant stared forward blankly.

"...sir?"

His head hung slightly forward, near ashamed; first that he had been responsible for this mess, then that to get out of his own failure, he seemed to be stuck with choosing the best of bad options. The silver-haired officer gradually raised his gaze, unleashing a soft, resigning sigh.

"From what we know, we are ten kilometres east from the front lines. We cannot resupply, in occupied territory, outmanned, and even if there is an offensive planned, it will take reinforcements months to get to our position. But...sigh, at least, nobody is specifically looking for us."

"Can't we regroup, sir?"

"With who?" Just those words forced the room silent as he peered up from his slight slouch.

"So, we wait." he announced conclusively, "Come morning, I want reconnaissance of our surroundings five kilometres north, east, and south of our position, that includes all eyes and ears. In the meantime, I want everyone using captured Imperial arms, if possible; It will make it easier to resupply, and the ammunition casings might make it harder for them to identify us."

"Deal me in."

Inès sighed. They all knew they were going to be here for a while. If the Lieutenant spoke through actions alone, then he spoke clearly; Best to make themselves comfortable.

---

"Inès!~ Where are you?!~ I want to speak with you!~"

The sweetness of her tone so thoroughly prevailed through Senja's cries, it almost made Inès sick to behold. Come as no surprise, almost, that Inès would find so lispy and wet a tone as the nord's to be an usual pluck from otherwise melancholic reminiscence, it mended not necessarily as bittersweet, but almost disjointing, as Inès visibly twisted to the outcry she beheld. She blinked once, twice again, shaking her head slightly at the outburst. It was not as if Inès were a particularly nondescript individual. Could she not find her of her own accord? Yet, Inès slowly closed her eyes and sighed, for such honeyed outbursts were, as she realized, her means of finding her on her own, and so it was that Inès departed from her memory back among the land of the living.

Inès found the crier, so pleased with the sight of the Darcsen her mouth hung agape in beloved relief. Inès, opposite her, was less than thrilled, to say few details of the pouty scowl she so effortlessly bore.

"What is it?" She almost scathed, clearly rather irritated by both Senja's booming voice, as well as the unfamiliar face that demanded her immediate attention.

"Aww, there you are!" the green haired Nord most cheerfully replied, keeping her jaunty expression even in the face of Inès' annoyance, "You're friends with Franz, right?"

("...who are you?") Inès thought. Such inklings were shot down by circumstance, as Inès simply looked forward at Senja.

"Yes, but-" she cut herself abrupt with a light puff. Inès knew Franz wasn't doing so hot, and left it to the events that transpired within the past two weeks that he needed some time to himself. Or perhaps that is just what she told herself while she focused on the tasks at hand. They seemed blurry to Inès, those traumatic moments, like for the life of her, Inès could only remember vague bits of so intense an event. Selective memory, she supposed, for such selections seemed best for her health to not recall such needless horrors.

"Well, i'd like you to check in on him. He hasn't been very responsive to me or Anneli, and he hasn't eaten very much. I know you're busy, but could you make some time for him?"

Her face dropped, eyes rounding out as Inès took in the Nord's words. Inès had, in full appearance, showed regret at the Franz's development. All earnesty aside, Inès remained hopeful that Franz would come over the events, but...well, this was something she knew she had neglected for far too long, and such gravity voided apology. A slow sigh came over her, Inès' eyes reopening to meet Senja's.

"I'll go check on him." she stated, a thorough calmness in her voice nevermore saturated with the consternation of Senja's sudden appearance. Senja smiled back at her, to which Inès raised eyebrows at with amiability. The mixture of hot and cold, so it seemed, and for that, Inès couldn't help but wonder why someone so cold was the only one who could warm Franz's senses.

"Franz?" Inès called out softly from the exterior of his tent, slowly peering her way in through the sole flap which called it an entrance. She met Franz through vision, first, exchanging something of a relieving sigh, then slowly made her way to sit alongside Franz. One leg crossed over the other, Inès resting her hands in her lap while she softly looked down a bit. ("Dammit...") she thought, regretting not coming to see Franz earlier.

"How have you been?" she asked soothingly, looking at her fellow Darcsen, "Did...you want to talk?"

After all, Inès had handled one mental breakdown before. What was one more?

[R6] Whispers of The Blazing Sky

Two of them stood at what they could only assume to be the final set of doors through the corridor, each clutching their prescribed buzzer. The tall man to Koryak's left held it loosely, almost dangling it from his fingers, while the short-haired woman to Spearhead's right clamped onto it from her palm, enveloping it in a firm contradiction to her fellow operator. They almost didn't care talking to one another, even as Spearhead did make occasional glances downwards, if only to see a particularly devout Russian woman staring cleanly forward. The sight almost made him frown, himself. Yet with ever pass of his eyes, he reverted back to matching her straightforward expression.

A cool breeze seemed to flow back like an unleashed floodgate, just as soon halting as the two entered the last briefing room, row after short row of chairs obviously vacant. The South African looked down and to his right once more, exchanging light glances with his new coworker. She lightly raised her eyebrows, him tilting his head left for. She nodded, silently thanking him while he paused his motion. Koryak wasn't expecting any commendations for being prompt with time, yet didn't mind the sole sight of just these two; She never was one for being, "fashionably late".

Beckoning to a small set of chairs near the front and right, Koryak was prompt in her motions to take her seat, situating herself upon the rightmost chair available. Arms folded, she sat, awaiting introduction or orders. Spearhead trailed appropriately behind, attempting to be more mindful of her sense of space. Where he was from, Spearhead was accustomed to being shoulder-to-shoulder with others, often shaking hands close and being face-to-face for introductions lavished with small hugs and other small niceties. When working with others, Spearhead learned rather quickly this was called in other countries "claustrophobic", and decided it was for the best that he keep safe distance from his new fellow operator.

He took up residence in the same row as her, sure to keep a chair between himself and his new comrade-in-arms. Her posture remained upright, placing her hands in her lap with the buzzer nowhere in plain sight. In this sternness, however, one could sense her comfort in this stringent state, as if to be relaxed were to be in a proper position. Spearhead, with his slightly slouched posture, made passes across each side of the room, almost clearly rather out of his element.

"Spearhead." he introduced, reaching over the chair as he turned to Koryak. His hand extended, palm open for a handshake. She looked back at him calmly, not reciprocating his ever so slight grin a centimeter.

"Koryak." the operator shook his hand back lightly.

"Nice to meet you."

"Likewise." her curtness, by Spearhead's apparent nodding, was much appreciated, if the slight cusp of his lip wished she were just slightly more talkative. He adjusted himself in his seat, slightly positioning himself toward the Russian woman while he rested his arm across the seat. His head turned back to Flak, almost as if addressing the entirety of the room, yet pivoted back to Koryak.

"How did you fin-"

"I'm here, i'm here!"

The woman entering did nothing to conceal her conceived tardiness to the meeting, yet that announcement wasn't quite the reason for the heads turning alone. Her face suggested Chinese, Japanese, or Korean background - neither Koryak nor Spearhead were all too versed in the discernment between the three - yet what came from her mouth was an Irish accent so thick, the acuteness of Koryak's raised eyebrows spoke her thoughts aloud; She questioned just how fluent she was in understanding English.

"I amn't trying to make a fierce fuss." everyone presumed she apologized, "How's she cuttin'?" walking up the short isle, her hand's already extended, ready for her round of formalities.

"Oh, i'm Owl! Not right or proper to skip out on myself, is it?" the Irishwoman greeted, grasping the first hand she happened to find willing and open.

Spearhead appears to have broken from his now-shortened conversation with Koryak, yet the Russian's closed and rather straightforward demeanor arguably spoke to the possibility of her not having a particular interest to begin with. Clearly she found this "Owl"'s overly friendly behavior unbecoming, yet she wasn't going to ruin her mood questioning her outgoing mannerisms. She sat politely and waited her turn, eyeing over the group conversation while Spearhead, too, was taken aback by her outburst.

[R6] Whispers of The Blazing Sky

Koryak

Name:
Eleonora Volkov

Callsign:
Koryak

Age:
34

Gender:
Female

Nationality:
Russian

DOB/Birthplace:
April 15th, 1985 / Perm, Perm Krai, Russian Federation

Special Forces Group:
Special Operations Forces (SSO)

Appearance:

General Appearance

Combat Apparel

At a height of 1.6 meters (5’6”), Koryak is fairly unassuming in terms of height, only slightly compensated for with a slightly stocky build. When in full equipment, the width only grows, making her seem quite a bit larger than she really is. Coupled with her height, it doesn’t quite make her an imposing target on her own, yet her slightly shorter than average stance gives her a good blend of offense and defense. If anything, being smaller simply makes her a harder target to hit, and that, she has no quarrel with.

In line with the latest Ratnik equipment, Koryak wears the standard 6B45 body armor, protecting the majority of her body with powerful new armor, as well as 6B46 combat webbing with dotted woodland camouflage. Outside of battle, she is more accustomed to wearing more conservative clothing, opting for longer sleeves on all limbs.

Psych Profile:
Disciplined, Loyal, Supportive, Quiet

Before any training in the SSO, the pedagogy of Russia is imbibed thoroughly into each and every entrant; Loyalty and discipline above all else. Ability is useless if it cannot be controlled. Before a recruit receives any order, they must prove their willingness to commit themselves to an action. Discipline, too, is worthless if it is not without motive, yet Koryak has her own reasons to fully commit to her duty. In Russia, with the stakes of an entire country fringing upon the actions of a few brave souls, this duty is not to be shirked, and as such Koryak does not take well to foolery on the job.

Perhaps in line with this ideology, she is not the biggest advent to small talk. Koryak does her best to be polite and courteous, but does not believe that one should mix business with pleasure. On duty, she keeps her mind on the task ahead of her and cares little besides. Off duty, or when missions are accomplished, she may be more willing to conduct conversation, but caution should be exercised; Unsurprising for one who does not like small talk, the best conversations are the serious ones, yet there are many points of discussion Eleonora prefers to leave buried beneath the earth.

Relationships:
Dominic “Bandit” Brunsmeier [Punch-Clock Friends]
Elżbieta "Ela" Bosak [Begrudging Mutual Respect]
Shuhrat "Fuze" Kessikbayev [Friendly]
Seamus “Sledge” Cowden [Friendly]

Role:
Defender

Armor/Speed Ratio:
Armor: 3
Speed: 1

Equipment:

AK-12 (Primary)
_{PBS-4 5.45mm suppressor (Optional)
Foregrip
EOTech Model 558 holographic sight
Quadstacked magazines}

PKP Pecheneg (Primary)
_{PO 4x17 4x optic
Foregrip
Flash hider}

MP-443 Grach (Secondary)
_{Laser sight
Suppressor}

OTs-33 Pernach (Secondary)
_{Laser sight
Extended magazines}

RGO Hand Grenade (2x)
MON-50 Landmine (1x)
Smoke Grenade (1x)

Gadget:

VGM 93.100 Thermobaric Grenades

The GM-94 43mm grenade launcher is used by Russian Special Forces as a high-explosive weapon intended to be safely used in room-to-room combat, as noted by its detonation range of 5 meters. VGM 93.100 thermobaric grenades use fuel instead of shrapnel as their primary means of damaging targets, and the massive shockwaves produced by the grenades are reported to cause debilitating internal wounds, such as ruptured organs and internal bleeding. Those caught near the blast often suffer the effects of the shockwave, reducing the Speed of afflicted targets.

Biography:
The Nineties were a difficult time for Russians. Just one decade ago, they had security, prominence, and welfare. They lost it all in only two years. Decades of Soviet infrastructure came crumbling to pieces, and in its wake the wolves descended upon a country that had sheltered itself from the markets of the outside. Thousands were scammed in Ponzi schemes, and crime ran so rampant they practically became legitimate businesses. It would easily take a decade for the dust to settle, and when the Nineties came to an end, the new Russian Federation was a hollow shell of its former self. Eleonora’s father, a veteran of the Soviet-Afghan War, grew resentful of the Nineties, and equal parts ashamed and aghast of what came of Russia, often told Eleonora tales of better times throughout the hardships. He often blamed poor decision-making for the fall, and through his rants, a common theme emerged; A New Russia would need to emerge, better than before…and better than the one in place.

Eleonora’s later childhood would see the dust settle, yet she found little to interest her. At 23, she went into the recruitment office, declining desk job after desk job, insisting that they let her join the infantry. With some reluctance, they accepted, finding her to be a quick learner. Such diligence landed her in a position with the esteemed Russian Airborne Troops, and within a year, she would find herself putting herself to the test. War with Georgia loomed over the horizon, and airdropped troops would make their match in the mountainous regions, and prove her worth she did.

It would not be until the Crimean Crisis where she would be noticed for selection into the Russian SSO. Handling the operations within Crimea exceptionally well, she was offered for selection into the training corps of the revered Spetsnaz. Eleonora accepted without hesitation. Inside that service, she [CLASSIFIED INFORMATION]. To this day, those moments are ill-discussed, for she never was certain if that call was the best to make.

Service Record:

• Russian Airborne Troops (VDV) - (2007-2014)
  
  • Russo-Georgian War
  • Annexation of Crimea
• Special Operations Forces of Russia (2014-2019)
  
  • Syrian Civil War

Spearhead

Name:
Kai Van Schalkwik

Callsign:
Spearhead

Age:
29

Gender:
Male

Nationality:
South African

DOB/Birthplace:
January 22nd, 1990 / Cape Town, South Africa

Special Forces Group:
South African Special Forces Brigade (SASF)

Appearance:

General Appearance

Battle Dress

An old scrum-half in rugby, Kai maintains a deceptive amount of speed to what many would assume to be a powerful, yet slow build. At 1.9 meters (6'3") and 96 kg (206 lbs), Kai's frame could easily be described as hulking to some. He keeps his hair as short as he can, finding hair usually more cumbersome than it's worth. Whilst in an operation, Kai utilizes the woodland camouflage patterns of the SASF, which incorporates older iterations of Israeli webbing, a matching helmet to round out his protective needs. In a more casual environment, however, he chooses to dress rather modestly, showing a bit of skin in accord with the warmer climate of his home country. If he feels particularly nostalgic - or if the game is on - you may be able to catch him wearing his old rugby jersey.

Psych Profile:
Roughneck, Hardy, Adamant, Communicative

When Spearhead has a set goal in front of him, there is very little that will digress him from achieving his destination. Only a direct order otherwise will suffice, and even then, experience from South Africa leads to mastery of two essential affairs; Bureaucracy, and how to avoid bureaucracy. In that way, Spearhead is no stranger to austerity, and intimidating him is a monumental task.

Preferring to know just what company he finds himself in, Spearhead will take to getting to know the members of his coworkers and comrades quite quickly though regular chitchat. He will be open to answering questions - within reason, of course - and expects questions answered to be candid in return. Of note, Spearhead is repulsive towards racism, seeing it as fundamentally antagonistic towards the values of post-Apartheid South Africa, and therefore what he has fought for so long to protect and progress.

Relationships:
Zayden Van Schalkwik (Father)
Elise Krige (Mother)
Adriaan Van Schalkwik (Younger Brother)
Naemi Van Schalkwik (Older Sister)

Role:
Attacker

Armor/Speed Ratio:
Armor: 2
Speed: 2

Equipment:

IWI ACE-52 (Primary)
_{Trijicon ACOG 4x32 gunsight
Foregrip
Laser sight}

HK416A5 (Primary)
_{EOTech HHS III 1x/3x variable holo sight
Angled foregrip
Laser sight
Suppressor (Optional)}

MAG-7 (Secondary)
_{Adjustable choke}

Vektor SP2 (Secondary)
_{RMR2 Red dot sight
Laser sight
Suppressor}

Breaching Charge (2x)
Frag Grenade (1x)
Flashbang (1x)

Gadget:
Ultrasonic Pulsar

Utilizing the latest advancements in ultrasonic imaging, the Ultrasonic Pulsar (USP) is a device that can accurately picture objects through walls of up to 10cm thick within a range of 25 meters. This can allow to see the positions of set objects, such as landmines, barbed wire, and even personnel from beyond walls, yet the nature of ultrasound imaging means that opacity is not rendered, and thus material constitution is not accounted for in imaging. Therefore, on a superficial gauge, it would be difficult to discern glass from sheet metal, as the two would still be displayed as solid objects. Each ultrasound pulse necessitates an 8 second delay between refreshes.

Biography:
Kai looks white as can be, but in Apartheid South Africa, he’d have be a coloured man. That the end of Apartheid came as soon as he turned one was the first of his many blessings. The law was one vector by which it came, but centuries of systemic disparity would not come undone in a simple year. No, the Nineties had much in store for South Africa, and unity and progress would prove to be a long, grueling task for its denizens.

Through the tribulation, however, there was something that kept all of South Africa afloat; Rugby. Even if it drew skepticism in it the early days, South Africa would be united under the sport, for the first time seeing blacks and whites come together as one new South Africa. Almost quite as soon as Kai could walk, he picked up a rugby ball, and with whoever he could play with - and whoever would play with him - Kai would practice, even if that meant playing on his lonesome tackling sacks of rice or throwing the ball behind, so he might pivot back around and catch it. Such drill were calming, even therapeutic as a break from the discord of day to day life in South Africa. The end of Apartheid did not spell the end of South Africa's troubles, and for as nice as the troubles were, the scars the state did bear dug their heels. Many South Africans were still impoverished, as Kai did lament. Crime found itself omnipresent. AIDS/HIV spread like brush fire, even with its veil of mysticism as a mystery disease unveiled. Rugby was a vector for him to maintain his spirit, of course, yet for all the discipline Kai learned through his experiences, his secondary school rugby coach would heed him his best advice: "The biggest problems find the strangest solutions."

Post graduation, Kai found himself enlisting in the South African National Defense Force in 2008 and would see entry without much fuss. Yet, Kai found himself wanting in the position, never wavering in the knowledge that he could do better. He wanted to aim for the top, he knew, and South Africa was a goldmine in both senses of the word; Mining dominated much of the economy, true, and there would always need security men to ensure their business conducted without hiccup. Private Military Companies and Security Contractors ran amok in South Africa, and only grew more lucrative by the day. Yet, when he asked himself that question, Kai knew he wasn't a mercenary, only in it for another paycheck. He wanted to be someone, stand for something, not only be another buffoon with a gun.

The Special Forces were...dubious. Less so than any mercenary company, true, yet their past deeds could be called under scrutiny by any metric of morality. Yet, this was a new age for South Africa, one where its people could hope to put the past away in search of a new future. Its requirements - graduation, knowing at least 2 languages, in addition to physical and mental fortitude - were hefty, at least, but not skills Kai found lacking. He would apply for the Military Skills Development System (MSDS), and be accepted in with flying colors. By 2011, Kai was a fully-fledged member of the South African Special Forces.

SASF had a brutal reputation to maintain, and an even more brutal handiwork. His tour would take him well throughout the Central African Republic, the DPRC, and more often than not, the lines between military and police work had to become blurry, if that's what it meant to achieve their goals. Kai would maintain it all; Perhaps not without question, from time to time, yet for whatever those questions held, he held this reputation without hesitation. From both of these reputations, Spearhead was invited to Rainbow Seven, of which he accepted, too, with no hesitation.

Service Record:

• South African National Defense Force (SANDF) [2008-2011]
• South African Special Forces (SASF) [2011-2018]
  
  • C.A.R. Conflict
  • M23 Rebellion
  • Somalian Maritime Expeditions
  • [Classified]
• Rainbow Seven [2018-Present]

Owl

Name:
Maeve O'Callaghan

Callsign:
Owl

Age:
27

Gender:
Female

Nationality:
Irish

DOB/Birthplace:
Cork, Ireland / August 18th, 1992

Special Forces Group:
Army Ranger Wing (ARW)

Appearance:

General Appearance

Battle Dress

163cm (5'4") and 68 kg (150 lbs) are by no means impressive, but they are within the norm for a woman of Owl's becoming. On her head, she wears her LFMM headset, covered typically with a boonie hat, but when circumstance is right, will instead be accompanied by a helmet. At very least, her hair will be brushed back or tucked in, ensuring it is well out of her face. Her civilian clothing is considerably more open, and is incredibly situational depending on the season.

Psych Profile:
Headstrong, Bold, Sociable, Hardy

Admittedly, Owl has much to be proud about. Trials for the Irish Rangers had been open to women for 30 odd years, and she was the first to succeed. Coupled with a rather lively background, Owl is not one for shirking off a bit of roughhousing. Things done too properly or too "by the book" are, in her view, too cold for anything beyond brief business, or are inexperienced and looking to compensate through formality. Owl still retains manners, of course, and often comes across as warm and a very open person. She will often make an attempt to introduce herself whenever in the presence of new faces, and otherwise holds a quite outgoing demeanor.

All this being said, Owl does need a bit of "her time". While she is open - even to the point of perhaps having little sense of privacy - accepting criticism is a subject she finds herself needing to work on. Insofar that she is concerned, as long as the big picture is complete, the finer details don't matter; A philosophy others might call, "Sloppy". Owl accepts that she has her own quirks and methodology, and expects others to acknowledge and respect that.

Relationships:

Role:
Attacker/Defender

Armour/Speed Ratio:
Armour: 2
Speed: 2

Equipment:

Steyr AUG A3 (Primary)
_{Steyr A3 Factory 1.5x sight
Foregrip
Laser sight
Suppressor (Optional)}

FN Minimi (Primary)
_{Trijicon ACOG 3x24 gunsight
Foregrip
Compensator}

Benelli M4 Super 90 (Primary)
_{EOTech XPS3 Holographic sight
Angled Foregrip}

SIG P226 Mk. 25 (Secondary)
_{Laser/Flashlight
Suppressor (Optional)}

C4 Charge (2x)
Flashbang (1x)
Smoke Grenade (1x)

Gadget:

Linear Frequency Modulation Microphone (LFMM)

Similar in many ways to a laser microphone, the LFMM utilizes Linear Frequency Modulation in order to improve the detection ability of the pulse. The end result is a microphone that can effectively pick up minute sounds of all kinds, from the most minute churning of gears in drones to what would become thunderous footsteps from down the hallway. The signal requires a trained ear to discern sounds from one another, and an equally trained operator in order to adjust the pulse duration to guarantee the best use from the device.

Biography:

As far as she is concerned, Maeve is an Irishwoman. Her "real" parents had given her up for whatever reason, and her adoptive parents she took to as her real ones. They were the ones to support her through everything she went through, and supportive they were, almost to a suffocating degree. Maeve was coming of age, and of course the question came of what she was to do with her life. She had an idea, of course; Go somewhere very, very far away, so she told herself. And conveniently to her, the military of Ireland engaged in UN peacekeeping missions. Very, very far away.

In a way, she bought completely into the idea of the army being an adventure seeing the counties and countries alike, applying for the infantry with only a second thought or two for what she was leaving behind. Yet what could lay ahead seemed to sweet, too much to pass up on. For years, she pushed herself in basic training and station, aiming for the big leagues. The posterboys of the Sciathán Fiannóglaigh an Airm, as it were. Women had tried for 30 years, she knew, and for 30 years, whatever small amount got into initial testing invariably all failed examination. Maeve knew if she was going anywhere, nevermind anywhere very, very far away, she would need to make very well sure she was going to pass selection.

Come to the rank of 3 star private, and she would attempt for entry. Maeve was very well fit enough, she knew. They knew full well, too, and passed physical examination with flying colors. Already that was a feat for anyone - nevermind her - yet the same thing she had been told her entire life came back once more; Her methodology was more than a bit too errant for true completion. While she did pass one section of examination, she could not receive the full title of "Ranger", and it would take her another year of vigorous reevaluation before she would pass the remaining four sections and earn her green beret.

Two tries in, and Owl would be out in the world's many scenes of contention, as per diction of the ARW. Though she was certainly a capable ranger, she could sometimes be a bit of a loose cannon. Owl demonstrated she had no qualms about being in the thick of it, and it was that ability to maintain composure against all odds she had shown time and time again that caught the eyes of Rainbow Seven.

Service Record:
Irish Army (2010-2015)
Irish Army Ranger Wing (2015-2018)

• Classified

Rainbow Seven (2018-Present)

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

The Day Before

(With permission from @LetMeDoStuff)

Freya seemed to be back to her genial demeanor, a significant improvement over what Inès had to see from yesterday. Her humor...well, Inès admitted she was far from a comic, for what her rather serious neutral expression could purvey only lightly ceased as she raised her eyebrows, and even her smile - while beauteous, make no mistake - could not avert her naturally sharp glean. Such acuteness made Inès doubt her appearance, addending to her other hesitancy; If clearly not humor, what else could Inès have to offer her? For what could Inès possibly hold a candle to that would make the ecstatic see virtue in the sullen?

Even so, Inès loved Freya. Who would one be to deny that?

Her acquaintance dressed in a way many would call "scant", yet Inès paid no mind on two accounts; Her own attire was far from proper, focused more upon ease of comfort and allowing her skin to at long last breathe, and that notion that Inès was, again, frankly accustomed to seeing people with few garments on. She had trained every day in naught but the lightest of apparel, for hours upon end. Thus, decreeing that Inès "averted her gaze" would be falsehood; there never was a gaze to begin with.

"Hey!" Freya interjected. Inès was thankful; it saved her a brusque insertion to the conversation.

"Hey." Inès reciprocated. Her voice was a fair bit lighter, clearly a bit keen on talking.

"Looks like Jean is finally having fun." She snickered. The two turned their heads back, exchanging looks back at one another, then to the scene of Jean enjoying the first - and what was hopefully not the last - dance with Reyna Hall.

"Ooooh, Charpentier’s out on the prowl~!” Freya cooed, fawning over the couple’s lively jig, “It’s time Charpentier took her around. He wrote about her in his little book, going on how stunning she is. “Oh her darling little face, every detail in place!” After this, he had better take her to a room upstairs and finally give a girl a proper evening.”

"Don't hold your breath."

“Aww,” she frowned - if done so with the same reciprocation to Inès’ own playful dismissal, “You don't wanna see Jean finally pop her cherry? If I were her, i'd have already taken him around and shown him that Vinland treatment. I'd take his trousers and give them a good yank so he'd be showing what God have graced him upon his birth."

"I don't think Jean could even get his trousers off without apologizing." She laughed. Jean could be a sweetheart, of course, but sweetness and spice? A combination he, in Inès' opinion, was unaware of. "Maybe she likes the awkward and cute boys, so, either he gives it to her while kissing and holding hands and his first time is this special magic moment...or, it's a disaster and turns Jean away from sex for another year."

Freya laughed, pivoting chuckling glances between Inès and Jean, then back to Inès, who she returned to sharing her laughter in a more hushed presentation. Her arm positioned back to the bar's counter, leaning herself back in such fashion that her body canted intersectionally to each pair, such that neither her view of Jean and Reyna nor Inès herself were obstructed by her positioning.

"He might have some bite down there. He can't keep so puckered up for so long, because if he did, he'd be spinning around all the time looking for a way to pop himself off, if you know what I mean. If you don't, I mean that there's no way someone like Jean can really go without getting his drops off from his hose. Look at 'em, he can barely take his own eyes off of-"

(“She really doesn’t stop, does she…”) Inès knew even from side conversations that Freya was a loquacious sort. From even in her moments where she had refrained from an entire rogation regarding any tangent, Freya went on into her famous commentary. When only a simple response would do, good enough was not, and Freya would then interject with an experience if only to hone her point.

Inès found the small, shared soliloquies quaint. Cute, she might say. Certainly flavorful. And endearing enough to force a smile from the sulky Darcsen.

It was because of that insubordinate determination by which Freya adhered to that Inès admired. Who but the strongest of spirits could withstand the austerity of belligerence on such scale, and through pain and perseverance, find it within herself to do naught but be a beacon to others? All things considered...it was a feat Inès found herself jealous of. Never before could she truly find it within herself, in spite of what she knew to be truth for the matter, that her mien extended far beyond naught but a determinant, defiant smirk.

"-nd when he finishes off, I can bet he's sitting there with twinkles in his eyes, too!"

"C'est la vie en rose."

Freya squints, chuckling with Inès' retort. Pursing her lips, she repeats:

"Say la vee in rose?"

Inès poses upwards, Freya naturally responding by more directly facing her. Lessons began, as whole as they could be, and if Inès were capable of instruction by accord of a fighter's glove, then perhaps a lesson in pronunciation may be a test of extrapolation.

C'est."

"Se." she giggles.

"La vie."

"La vie."

"En rose." Last one. With Freya's last improvement, Inès spoke quicker.

"Ahn rose."

Inès smirks, holding up her leftmost, dominant hand. Posed, she broke up each word, each syllable, each accent:

"En. Rose."

"What's that mean?" Freya asks through her interlaced laughter.

Inès turns her hands over, visibly fidgeting whilst Freya bounced about in her seat. Topicality was chore for her, not withstanding any desire to give Freya what she deserved. And she deserved nothing less than an explanation. Darcsen rocking her head back to back, side to side, her neutral face seems to stare off, slightly down, eyes just missing contact with Freya's by a hairline.

"It's...hard to explain." Inès simply opens, "It means, "That's life in pink", but "life in pink" is..."

"It's when you start to look at things differently, like, when you look at things and see how wonderful they are. Like, nostalgia, except...not really."

Freya squints at first, smiling while Inès took her time searching for the correct train of thought. Inès' eyes flashed with the Freya's striking blues, and with a focused blink, found Freya to have moved herself to meet Inès' natural stare.

Why did Inès like her? What did Freya see in her worthwhile? Inès wasn't anything like Naomi - not by any stretch of the imagination - and Inès could never be a Naomi. A Naomi was a beacon of light so illustrious her mere grin outshone the sun itself; If one were so insistent upon getting Inès to so much as smirk, they should sooner consider taking up waterboarding as a hobby, if they wished to indulge in such a harrowing hobby. A Naomi was the day by which conversations drew and the events which transpired did enjoy themselves while their time lasted; When Inès came, night fell, and what might remain were the brave, few, desperate souls whose wishes for eyesight no longer transpired.

Yet...therein lie the intrigue. Inès was distinctly different. Freya was distinctly different. Inès in so many ways didn't remind Freya a thing of Naomi, and in so many more could Inès never hope to emulate any bearing of which Naomi could bring. And in so many ways, that was most certainly a positive. Naomi talked. Inès listened. Naomi was, but Inès did.

"Aah," Freya adjourns, nodding along. "Yeah...

"It's...fucking awful, really. And...well. We all have our own reasons for fighting. Tommy up there has his whole family back home, and you know, being the older brother of his lot..." Freya looks up, flashing an uncharacteristic grin as she turns back to the swaying couple. Her eyes flash for a moment, Inès almost instinctively knowing she wasn't looking at Jean nor Reyna, but...she was deep in thought. Inès related.

"He's got a good lot to come back to when everything's over, you know?"

If the so affectionately-named "Tommy-boy"'s own phrase were to be used, even in ways Inès couldn't herself admit, she was, "The best thing to happen". Maybe not to anyone here, or even now, but she was, at some point. For what it was and what it will be, Inès was someone who meant something. That alone amused Inès, just how has-been champion ringfighter a thousand miles from home meant something to someone out there. In a quaint sense, it was humbling, that someone Inès never knew and likely would never know was their idol, their champion.

"That's good." Inès softly responds. Turning to Freya, a tilt in her gaze, she asks, "Who do you have back home? You know...your family."

"Just my mum and dad." the Oceanic dotes back, "Getting letters back home is a bloody nightmare. But...well, from what I last heard, they're doing well. The war doesn't help anyone, yeah, but...they're okay, yeah?"

Inès nods. "Good."

Perking up, Freya blinks rapidly, settling in the thoughts of just what she was fighting for. Down there, she imagines Inès not necessarily having it any better, with her seeing her home country torn asunder, just like the North Territory the few years ago. For something that had happened so long ago, Freya felt it so...closely. So much had happened between then and now. And Freya had to stop herself from shaking when it clicked; That was why she remembered it all.

In a way only Freya could, she set in a polite smile to mask the thought. Politeness and Oceanic demeanor known to foreigners never coincided the same thought, but Inès judged it not. That she was willing to put up with all was reason enough to undo suspicion.

"What about yours, love?" Freya inquires. Her polite smile bursts into a wide, mouth-agape grin. "Do you have a brother? Is he haaaandsome~?"

"Sure. If you happen to be into who run off and never send money back." Inès chides.

Freya pouts, yet maintains her smile at the same time. Pity was what it was. "Fuckin' tosser, huh? What about your mum and dad?"

A query such as that had not an "easy" remark to it. There weren't many particular ways even one so clever as Inès could dodge the inquiry. If Freya had shown such amnesty thus far, why would Inès reject it? She looks up, casting her sight just slight away from Freya, and glances a sideways frown.

"I...never knew my father." She slowly answers, "I don't think my mother knows him, either."

“Oh, he was just a cunt.” Freya cheers up, “Not like he would have been a good dad if he hung around. Nobody needs a drongo like him in their lives.”

Inès shrugs, her eyes conceding to Freya's prudence. Freya spoke true in her words, and for whatever muse or sorrow came from a life spent without a father, Inès herself always dismissed as another case of wishful thinking. Even if he had stayed and discovered that Inès was born, there was no guarantee that a man who had so irresponsibly laid with a woman on a one-time drunken escapade was, by any stretch of the imagination, suited for fatherhood. Even Inès thought that dealing with her own mother was a handful; Another like her mother? Unthinkable.

The Darcsen's line of thought found itself perturbed by Freya's nudged knuckle; followed by a short tilt of her head. In which direction she did point lay a lone, near-open book, folded downward and only slightly ajar, yet unmarked and bearing the softer, more hewn binding of a journal. Writings and note-taking in any setting were bound to be filled with something of remark, Inès did figure, and had both possibility to be either mindless drivel on the days gone by, or perhaps a most important documentation of troop movements, inventory, ciphers, and likewise. A real gambler it took to leave such out in the open, indeed.

“Whose is that?” Inès shrugs. The girls exchange glances at one another, each returning back with slight smiles to their faces. Silently, they agreed; They’d need to look it over to see who for certain.

Inès certainly knew right from wrong, and wrong it was to look through someone’s belongings without permission. Yet from what there was - or rather, what there was not - to rightfully discern whose journal this was on outward appearance alone was an impossible task, and thus finding its rightful owner necessitated drawing upon the innards of this little drawing. Freya, with the famed initiative of an Oceanic shocktrooper, flipped open the little tome, the two young women leaning into one another as they flipped page after page of...

...of...

...both women turned to another. Grins etch. Eyebrows raise. Freya suggestively motions hers, a coyote's perverse smirk coming across her face while Inès laughs, and obliges with a dirty, subdued smile of her own. Certainly, whoever took to jotting their ideas down in their free time had an...active imagination, indeed.

---

(With permission from @Bushman501)

Be the virtues of public conversation as they may, Inès and Freya were - even after brief investigation - under the thorough impression that privacy was in their mutual interests while they indulged in the contents of this journal. Any vow of secrecy, however, was declared void by line after line of gaudy giggles from each of the women along their ascent along the stairs. Freya's lodging from the previous evening went unshared, it so seemed, and thus, a perfect place for an evening of indulging in the secrets of others perhaps best left unopened. Or, perhaps not.

"What's a good one!? What's a good one?!" Freya asks and laughs at the same time, the bolt of the door behind her sliding with a slight click!

"Hrmmm, let's see..." Inès flicks through the journal, incessantly scanning every line and every saucy detail for finding the right one to indulge in. A literary critic Inès was not, yet had read well enough to know that the author in question was...far from accomplished. Breaks in flow, syntax irregularities, jumbled names, to list a few errors. What, then, was so important? Just another search for trashy erotica to lighten the mood of war?

"Let me see!" Freya nudges in, Inès obliging, tilting the text to her right side. Pages flip and the women mutter, scanning over each page while searching for the right fix.

"No." FLIP!

"Not it." FLIP!

"...maybe?" Freya suggests, turning to match Inès' nonreciprocating eyes.

"It's too...stiff." The blondie giggles; Inès shoots her an approving, disapproving smirk. FLIP!

"There's gotta be one in here-!" Page after page flips, two pairs of blue eyes beading over every verse and each corny line, written like a true dilettante of sexual affairs. Deviant smiles were shared thoroughly, yet nothing quite satisfied the urge t-

"Oh."

Inès nods. The two turn, expecting shared grins from one another, and to what they expected they did receive. This would be the one. A most...fitting title, as it was.

"It's not hard to figure out. I don't know any 'Cassi''s or 'Naej''s in my life." Freya laughs, brightening with her next line: "Ufu~...maybe they wanted to be found out!"

"Which one do you want?" Freya inquires, giddy in her tone, almost brimming just to recite the entire piece of her own accord.

"I'll take Scarface." Inès declares, just as soon clearing her throat. She had always found the Edinburgh accent arrogant; To Francian demeanor, to be more arrogant than a Francian was, as they said, panache, or in more common tongue, overzealous flamboyance. Freya, for all the bravado the Oceanics were famed for, smirks and emboldens herself, ready to put on her haughtiest display of stereotypical Francian-ism yet. Inès needed a clearance of her own; Whether this was of some coy reciprocation or her unfamiliarity with an Edins accent, she made opaque.

The first page flips to light, Freya presenting her hand upon her bosom in elegant contour, as if about to sing. Inès herself sparsely contained her own amusement at the lines within. Chuckles were sealed to minute giggles, Freya opting to channel what potential laughter to flamboyant vigilance.

"Monsieur Black~!" Freya did mimic, lightening her tone and lisping her verbiage so slightly to create the stereotypical Francian accent, "I have...a proposition, yes?"

"Jean, my dearest old mate!" Inès recites, a wide smile plastered on her deepened voice as she did imitate - many would say mock - the voice of Lance Corporal Isaac Dog-Shagger Black, "Why the long face? No need to lull about, lad!"

"Fucking hell...!" Freya turns in pure harmonious, blissful convulsion, Inès soon following. It felt cheap to take so low blows upon the writer when they so clearly hadn't the slightest clue of affairs in the bedroom, yet the couple did make it at the foremost of their attention to make the most of this faux pas; If not of true literary value, then from lack thereof.

“Oh...I-Isaac, I was expecting you to be...well endowed…”

"Isaac, mon amour!" Freya cries pompously, "Is...is it in me? I-I feel something! B-but it's...aaaah! Oh mon dieu, I-I-I've felt more intensely in a room thinking o-of Diana!

"Hyou~! Think~! Hrun-I~! Can-rngh~! Make~! This~...rougher~? Oh Jean!"

"Even tphou-"

Ah, the Francian pronunciation of the word, "though" came to place. Inès' mouth contorted into a near-perfect circle, eyes widening and face forming to a near-perfect V-shape. And yet, her exercise in phonology was cut abruptly by Freya's outburst, having the Oceaninc nearly keel over from her - self-aware - expression.

"It's hard!" Inès roars in laughter back, barely catching herself falling forwards, "It's a lot of sounds we don't usually make!"

"You look like you're sucking someone off, love...!"

"Fuck. You." Inès whispers back. Oh, that laugh on her face concealed itself in no fashion, her cheeks redder than cherry tomatoes in spring and so wide a grin hyenas would find themselves ashamed.

Freya flipped a few pages too many. And how her face did change with that revelation, too...she did escape her concealed exhilaration, now in signs of clear, delirious euphoria as she cries, "OOOOH~! FRANZ AND INÈS TOGETHE~!

"Oh no you do not!" Inès snatches, pinning down one of Freya's limbs as they tussled and twisted, laughing while Inès manages to pull Freya down. Squirming her way up, she cries out a starting passage from the fic, only to cushion herself between soft mattress and Inès' topside. She giggles, barely fighting her way upwards as the book slips from her grasp. Inès remained on top, pinning the woman down. She smiled. Freya laughs, slowly steaming down to a warm, comfortable smile. How she did play with her, from actions to movements...Inès did enjoy it.

And for those brief moments, Freya saw the Naomi in her.

"...i'm supposed to be the one on top."

Inès chuckles. Her hand brushes just a faint strand of blonde away, not ruining Freya's precious image one bit.

"And?" Inès teases, "Does that bother you? Mmh?"

"I dunno...I kinda like the view."

Inès warmly smiles. Their hands loosen, slowly cusping about their priceless expressions. The Darcsen's cool hair dripped in meld with her warm blonde, yet both pairs did brush away any strands which threatened their view of the other.

Each saw a reflective shine in their eyes. Calm. Steady. Perfectly sided in their beautifully curvy frames. And as they notice details, it got...warmer. Blushing. Breathing. Huffs and giggles escaping from their mouths.

Inès leans down. A slow exhale blankets the two in mutually-assured warmth. Closer. Warmer. And a zip across their spine, a shiver through their body. Warmth as their softness met one another. Wet. Deep. A kiss. Another. A shared hold upon their necks, and an entire evening to explore.

Sex. Dreams. Sunset.

---

September 12th, 1914

Bird song nor sunshine graced the small hours of the morn, and neither seemed to dare test the patience of the city of Amone. For however their remnant occupants would have found the occasion, the dreary setting seemed to insistent upon some dolorous scenescape that defied weather or mood. In the slightest hours of the morning, the rain appeared to let up, yet for whatever small pittance the weather did allow for the denizens of that sepulchral city, it could perhaps only mean another slog through mud or cobblestone. Yet, to Inès, this was, for the time being, a faraway illusion, the likes of which not to be tested. She had a beautiful woman by her side, and her own life to be thankful for - if not thoroughly intact, then as a shattered, reforged mosaic.
t
It was not to the sound of birds that she awoke to, but the light pitter-patter of the Corporal himself giving his dues. Voices muffled themselves through the creeks of wood, to where even that light conversation came as nothing but a hushed drone before her. Yet that was enough for her to know that morning had come, and the time for their mission came afoot. Inès rolled to her side, Freya still maintaining but one arm around her, and lightly nudged her companion's side.

"Freya." Inès calls, Freya lightly nudging back with her own motions, "Freya, it's morning."

"Mmh, i'm uupp..." she responds, rolling her face into a pillow. Inès smirks, hovering her hand just over her shoulder, just to plant a light rub, back and forth, back and forth, right until another mumbled moan came from the blonde.

Jean had told them to go to sleep in their uniforms, true, yet their activity for the light necessitated all garments be off. When the two grew tired and retired for the night, they threw the most important bits back on - pants, smallclothes, and socks - yet the bigger accessories to their wear still hung themselves from either walls or hangers. Inès' helmet and Freya's hat suspended themselves in couple along the wall by the door, while the Oceanic's bandolier lazed about the floor like a sprawled-about cat. Their jackets lay just beside, Inès picking hers up, and beginning with the lowermost button. One by one, she would work her way up, securing her top while she watched Freya fop about in bed.

As Inès herself could tell, the energy exerted last night got to Freya. So much for that "Oceanic prowess" as she did proclaim, while Inès smirks at the sight of her making attempts at awakening. Assistance would be required, certainly, and in that closest corner lay the kerosene lamp. She slid open a dresser, fumbling and feeling through its' papered contents, until the coarse edge of a matchbook did her fingers meet. Between two fingers, she plucks it out, just as quickly, striking a match to flame. The lamp's lowermost chamber opened with a *crick!*, and with a tick of her fingers, the room radiated with firelight. Of course, the last thing she desired was for Freya to be responsible for the burning of the White Hart Inn, and thus she kept it well in her mind to have it hover over her while she did call Freya's attention.

Freya, however, was a responsive sort, no stranger to awakening at dawn's first call, and as Inès turned about, found the blonde upright in their bed, if her hair was splintered and let loose with no hair tie nor hat to restrain it.

"G'morning, love..." She greets in a tone some might say "exhausted", yet clear from her droopy eyes that she was still in the "awakening" stage of her morning. From corner to edge, her fist rubbed her exhausted blue eye, descending to look to her right.

"Hand me that?" Freya requests, pointing lazily in the general direction of her decorated coat. Inès swoops down, grasping it with her left hand, then kneeling on the corner of the bed, perching the coat along her shoulder.

"You forgot something." Inès reminds her. Freya looks up. A hand reached around her back neck, running through the underside of Freya's morning hair, before her lips felt that familiar softness of a morning kiss.

Freya huffed a short laugh. At very least, the day for her would begin with a smile. Inès was sweet...in her own unique way. Freya knew Inès wasn't normally her type, but even that wouldn't dismiss her from interest. At most, Inès was rough around the edges, but as soon as her icy exterior melted, her insides flowed rich from her heart of gold.

Then...something familiar sounded off.

It...whistled. High in pitch, screeching to ear. It flew, and it fell, like the rise and the fall of a siren if it were to be put into a vulture's tune. And as it did foretell, it was unmistakable as it grew lower, and louder.

It was an artillery shell.

"SHELL!"

And for just one second. One perverse moment. One demented frisson, hanging by a moment Freya would never forget, Freya grasped hold of Naomi's jacket, and pulled. And never dared let her go.

Not once.

Not ever again.

And the only thing that was missing...was the impact.

The whistle came - they had both certainly heard the same fell whistle - but no shockwave nor sonorous roar erupted through the sky. Freya held on still, her grip slowly loosening as they breathed in unison for what was. Inès held her back, not knowing if this were her last moment. But, as their holds upon one another secured into comprehension, they still knew not what wait before them in the earliest hours of twilight. The Darcsen nudged her companion, even with what light they had, looking over her in the dark. A silent response exchanged, staring into one another's shaded blues, and without exchanging words, knew they would have to wake up and face the day.

Inès creeps so slightly toward a window that not even the floorboards squeaked. Mice's attempts at silence did her actions no justice, for Inès moved so carefully that she expected a sharpshooter to be aimed through. Her head slowly turns out, eeking out whatever was possible in the hour before dawn, even Freya as an observer did wince and wish to retreat.

From the listening of the sparse moonlight did shine the cloud. A sickly cloud, of color Inès had only heard of in the whispers of industry workers and other urban fairy tales.

Then...it came together.

---

"Someone said they found it in the city, here. I think they're supposed to be antiques. Mining masks."

"Yeah. Back in old times, deep underground, there'd be buildups of sulfur or monoxide-"

---

("Those...little...")

"Freya...go...get Marathon and make sure he's safe..."

She only checked to see if Freya had followed her instruction, and by whatever time Inès had to rogate her command, the sound of a once-drunken Oceanic flooding the halls with cries to put on her mask came clear. Even from what was a normally soundproofed upper floor rung with the unmistakable sounds of chaos from below. Windows screeched while their panes shattered. Shouts of all voices reverberated while squadmates flooded out. Many headed downstairs, yet Inès dared not go anywhere without her "mining mask". Inès looked upon it and saw only death, for nothing good came for when their masks were given. And that good nothing came to, like all sins do, in good time.

Much of her time hazed by like a distant fog, growing only more obfuscant as the gas crept in. She would heed the Oceanic's demands, immersing herself into a choking claustrophobia all its own as she embraced the gas mask. The slight weight of the canister below her hung like a noose dangling below her, that device which kept her breathing threatening to strangle her with every movement she took.

And as she did proceed downstairs, after the pleas of Jean and his compatriots, she saw what the meaning of the masks were for: Nothing. Nothingness came in the form of Imperials, much like the ones she learned this information from, as they stormed in the building, masks brazened as their own. Inès had behind her Freya, and upon her - she imagined, as she dared not take her eyes away from the faceless before her - Thomas, whom she could only imagine came with a mask of his own. This faceless before her beared arms, much like the faceless she was, and so too, made flight upon her life. No matter how insulated her face may have been, it returned no such favor to mute the roars of gunshots around her. Instinctively, even while the lenses gave way to a cracked, permeated twilight, the glistening nickel of a handgun poised her way had her duck behind whatever cover she found, and whatever she did find did that bullet graze overhead while its whistle did ode to the symphony of battle.

There were no thoughts to her lunge, to how she found herself throwing the entirety of herself around one corner. As soon as she thought, she noticed, and there to any crack! of the glass shattering nor the wheeze as he did crumple, Inès saw the faceless become faced of her own doing. His mask tore, ripped right with red, as the noxious mist ran his eyes red while he grasped onto his purple-bruised throat. What breath of life that remained sputtered out in crimson, hopeful a hand clutching a gun might clear a throat for a walking man who knew not he stumbled only toward his grave.

Who was to come next? Another. One faceless. Yet Inès thought not, for thought and emotion in the moment paved no way to the moments. Moments and memory came as soon as they left, and for what Inès did sense did blank out immediately. There was another, she knew. People around him. Some alive. Some not. There was chaos, turmoil. A bar. One of many...

...one of many. One of too many. The sounds which rung, of battle, of discord, rung deaf to the world which she could tell. No cry of a corporal nor the shuffling behind her, the wheezes of those impaled by toxic cloud, all did blend to incorporeal shroud. The moments came...so soon. Warm one second, then suddenly gone...

There was a faceless before her, yet no sound did emanate from the horrified eyes which would fatefully puncture his filthy lenses. Inès recalls little; Only the shot of a pistol, and the last gasp of a dead man.

---

("Est...o mon dieu.")

Was it anger? Disappointment? Disturbing nostalgia that brought Inès' full focus forth to the sight of a fellow Darcsen. He so decided to drench himself in the ichor of others that he partook so religiously in how he so seemed to devour the Imperial below him, as each stab descending did the blood fly like a scene from horrific human sacrifice. Yet Franz did seem to compound his fury with every shattering blow, every ripping, tearing, piercing thrust carving a new cavity into his target, as each new wound did seem to reflect those he knew. Inès, for what was that moment, co-

"Franz?!"

"PUTAIN!"

"He's dead! He can't hurt anybod-!"

"Éloigne-toi de lui, imbécile!"

Inès darted forward, brushing off any comment whatever the dirthead could dare throw her way. "Positivity" and his pathetic attempts at morale showed their worth in the moments it was most needed. At very least, Inès deserved it to Franz that she look after him. She promised. He did no such thing.

"Franz?! Franz!! Franz!"

She kneels to his side, grasping to him, nearly restraining while her unmistakable huff permeated the mask. Even through the hearty respiration, those...breaths...were...familiar...

"E-est-ce que tout va bien pour vous?"

It was the only way Inès could think. They were the words which erupted from her mouth. She cared not if any could understand her, for her voice was the only one in a hail of fire, and the siren to dawn's break.

---

September 25th, 1914EC

"To Pvt. Inès Lévesque"

Dear Inès Lévesque,

To whatever it may be worth, I hope this letter finds you well. First and foremost, as your former lieutenant and commanding officer, I bid you the best of luck in your future endeavours in service of the 15th Atlantic. Captain Middleton is a peerless strategist before he is a brother or a son. Though his years of service, I have heard much of him throughout the words of the officers. At times, I have seen him show limitless compassion; At others, heartless brutality. I do not understand that man. Yet, I have no doubts that you will serve finely no matter your station, and that you may evade or persevere through any injury that may come your way.

If it so interests you to know, my reassignment had me in command of rear echelon troops, serving as vanguards for our flanks. Many among the officer corps would have called it a thankless task, yet I took pride in my work all the same. Yet as I did the morning rounds one fateful day, an Imperial marksman - perhaps by the grace of God, or perhaps by Lady Luck - missed my spine by half a centimetre. I was immediately hospitalized, and thanks to the steady handiwork of Monsieur Vivier, I only now have trouble on occasions breathing. If I am to be forthright, I have found the alleviated stress of such a placement has done wonders for my esprit de corps.

I'm sorry about what happened to Marie. She was a fine soldier, and an even finer woman. Her family has been notified and reimbursed for her unfortunate passing, and her body has been sent back to the State of Lafayette in Vinland for burial. Wherever she may be, things will be easier for her. If it brings you any solace, know that she no longer suffers as you last remembered her.

If you happen to be in Loudeac, come by for a glass of wine, anytime.

Sergeant Dostoyevsky sends his regards.

Yours truly,
Pierre Saint-Martin.

"Happy Birthday Inès!"

My Dear Inès,

Joyeux anniversaire, mon ange!

To think that my little girl from all those years ago is a 20 year old woman, valiant and strong. It's a feeling that brings joy to a mother, no matter how old or where in the world they are, and it's a feeling I know one day you'll be able to cherish as well. To see my angel sprout her wings, and soar in the air, in the heavens above among the cherubs of Taranis is a feeling indescribable. I knew from the moment you were born you were destined for great things, and I know as your mother that you will aspire to more than I did.

I know the war must be hard on you, but you must never lose faith, Inès. We the Darcsens believe in the good air and bountiful sky, and with pure water and hardy land, our earth is bountiful and joyous, yet everchanging. In all walks of nature, there is brutality, yet like the rivers and mountains, we carve our ways into our world while everything else may change. We know, as Darcsens, we are to be the river. We are to be the sky. We must persevere; We must survive.

For a long time, you have been my sky, and never for a moment have I doubted you. I know we fight, like all mothers and daughters fight, and like I fought with my mother before me. I know I am not a perfect mother. I'm a deeply, deeply flawed person, Inès. I've always had you there for me to keep me from leaning too much one way and going astray, but I don't want you to worry about me. Ever since you've left, there have been no more debtors coming to our door, and the Berangers have been quiet. Sometimes, the city is uneasy with the effects of war, but I remain safe. Guy has offered me refuge in New Belfast if the Imperials ever invade or shell our city. Perhaps unlike me, I have money set aside for this occasion, I should say, inspired by your insistence upon my protection with your leave.

I think about you every day, Inès. Every mother wants nothing more than to see their daughter come home safe and happy. There is nothing more in the world that I want more for you than to be happy. Years ago, I would have never pictured myself saying this, and yet if you are to find yourself a suitable woman who treats you well, then I will accept them with as welcome of arms as though they were a wonderful man of strength and integrity. It breaks my heart to see you upset. I hear much about the war, unfortunately. Madame Glancour has lost five of her seven sons throughout the war, in addition to finding herself widowed early on. I cannot imagine being a mother to a deceased daughter, Inès, no matter how dignified your death. If nothing else I say can persuade you, then I would prefer you to leave knowing that I could not imagine my life without you. Please, before anything else, promise me that you will take care of yourself.

I love you, forever and always.

Meilleurs vœux,
Joan Lévesque.

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

"No."

("No?")

Inès shouldn't be the one judging, here. Be here as long as she may, and sharp she may be, Inès didn't know the entirety of Jean's picture. Perhaps she knew enough for insights into his surface thoughts - that may be true - even so, that left margins for digression all the same. How he commented on her, and...her tea. An odd tangent, certainly, yet that was what came to mind when Jean spoke of the brunette he so endeared. Inès narrowed her gaze slightly as Jean peered skywards as if he were being whisked away to a fantastic diversion, then widened those eyes as the picture came to view; Jean had quite the affinity toward her, certainly, but had not the words to describe how he truly felt. Second guesses got us all, certainly, but, as the adage went, "within every crisis lies opportunity, and those accomplishments are forever out of reach to those who constantly fear failure."

He might snicker, one time or two, with Inès' comments on the topic of his love interests, in any display that Jean did not have incentive to believe what she told him. Her words were true; not an ounce of fib escaped in any of her proposals or evaluations. Yet that seemed ingenuine for her compatriot, never minding once to nod in approval, but how could he? Inès knew Jean was busy, certainly, and the weight of managing the mission must have hung him like a hangman's noose. In spite of this, they were in the isle of tranquility none of them knew existed nor was even possible not one day ago. In that one day, that one night, plenty of merrymaking attracted the sights and gave delights to the members of Squad One. Maybe to Squad One...spare Jean.

Her hand motioned down, not guided, but rather, implored by the Corporal's guidance down naught a centimeter or two. Had Inès wished, she would have kept her position dead-set on her superior's heart, but for the first time...Inès saw him smile. Tenuous, nebulous, murky and melancholic, it seemed to be, but it was a smile, nevertheless, and that was a first from her superior. No matter the exam, no matter the trial; A woman defined by trial, tribulation, and testament to turbulence, Inès knew that there had to be time to smile, even if for naught but one moment, for naught but a snide, and for naught but a bleak bravado in spitting in the face of the innumerable odds.

She shared his smirk back, and exchanged a chuckle. It was good to see the officer smiling, truly. Even seeing Luke getting reprimanded almost changed Inès' opinion on the man. She heard him spoke of his time at Hill 58, charging across a war-pleated field just to re-obtain his prized binoculars, and now that modesty, before spoken so humbly, showed in true form. Inès chuckled. Whenever Luke was involved, Jean seemed to be there to show his spine, she noticed. Perhaps if he continued to push his buttons, Jean could become a fearless veteran of the battlefield in due time, charging across No Man's Land with as much thought as the day's rainfall.

...until Scarface came along, and so brutally executed Jean's confidence that even Middleton would have been declared a Saint by the Cruxian faith in comparison.

"Fils de pute..." Inès sighed, seeing Jean's confidence vaporize with one simple moment.

Whatever intrigue he could provide by a card game, that lost itself, clearly, to the emotional maelstrom Squad One's members entrapped themselves in. Diana - the blondie - was still getting over Luke's tantrum. Luke himself hung his head low, almost drooping his hair over his plate by now. But Jean...

...

Inès saw him head for her. She smirked. Maybe the talk was good for something, after all.

---

"What we really need to do here is get back to work and destroy those fucking tunnels."

"I will pretend I did not hear that!" The familiar voice chuckled, coming from Inès' leftmost side. She pivoted around, met by the familiarity of her used-to-be-Federal-technically-Imperial acquaintance. Not without his famed grin, Max took a seat beside her, in the position now vacated by a socializing Jean.

"I thought you left with the other Imperials." Inès asked, turning for a moment in surprise.

"And miss all of this glamour?" Max retorted, opening his arms as though he were a carnival host.

Inès sighed, turning back to what few scraps remained of her breakfast. Not smiling one wince, Inès displayed naught but disdain, even for a man as close as Max.

"I'm glad you still know how to laugh whenever it's not needed."

Max frowned, dropping his prosthetic arm to the table with its distinct *CREEURK*. He motioned slightly closer to Inès, leaning with his left arm upon his knee.

"Oh, n-...w-w-would you come on?!" He protested, checking around to make sure he hadn't caught too many ireful views. From how he frowned, looked down, and refocused back to Inès, he most certainly had. Inès smirked at him. Always the type to find trouble.

"Well...sigh, look. We still have business to do, eh?" Max reminded, hushing his voice this time, "I still have a good selection! And..."

The blondie paused for a moment, smiling. Inès turned with the silence, raising an eyebrow at first the silence, then at Max.

"...I have a little something for the birthday girl!"

"A little something." Just how little could it be? Even if he remembered her birthday - which, admittedly, Inès did find to be sweet of him - she knew it was on too short of notice to be anything too personal. By happenstance alone, the two caught one another here, and Max, while resourceful, Inès doubted he would send mail across a front line for the occasion. Still, whatever could it be such that Max would divert himself to not go back in safety with the other Imperials?

Inès breathed, smiling, shaking her head. She popped from her seat, gently sliding down from the barstool while she nodded her head.

"Okay." She accepted.

---

Max had his supply truck parked around a corner from the Inn, still well within the zone of neutrality, of course, but in an area plenty shaded so as to provide the well-deserved privacy for his clientele. The bed of his supply truck was covered in a canvas tarp, plenty drenched from the morning's precipitation, but situated in a secluded spot, free from prying eyes. Inès had seen photographs of the trucks before in newspaper snippets, catalogues, and the like, yet still was impressed by the size of the great automobile. It was certainly larger than any horse wagon she had seen, and dwarfed even any automobile she had acquainted herself with. Only could she imagine the Ragnite engine necessary to power a vehicle of this size, and with that thought wondered how Max was able to pathfind his truck into so small and specific a spot. Yet, therein lay the answer to a lot of questions...and likely why he was put into service of munitions and logistics.

Towards the very front of his cargo stash, amidst other countless crates and sacks, Inès had climbed around to Max's self-declared "special inventory", composed of a few nondescript chests and boxes. They were distinctly unlike the military crates around, and instead apropos a bedchest kept in houses far more furnished than what Inès was accustomed to. As the pair grunted and heaved, moving the chests into proper positioning, Max turned just away from Inès, grasping hold of an oil lantern with his right prosthetic.

"Open them up." Max asked, the sound of a match striking away just barely audible against the downpour of the morning. In almost perfect sync, Inès unbuckled the chest, flinging it open as light spilled forth into the truck.

Max hunched down, moving just to the side of Inès, smiling at the contents of the boxes. At first he leaned forward, putting his left arm across his stomach in the form of a deep bow.

"It is my honor to serve the legendary Mademoiselle Lévesque." Inès snickered at his faux pas. At the very least, even when he did attempt to emulate the fineness of Francian etiquette, Max still did manage wonders in humorous blunders. Specifically where working-class women were concerned.

Max had a full stock of varied weapons; some clearly in better condition than others. Blanketed in a thick cloth, several assortments of blades, maces, axes, knives, and even some tools repurposed into melee weapons lay in one crate. Just beneath, there was an assortment of other ranged weapons - old revolvers and pistols, all in varying states of repair, what she thought were grenades, and even a few clearly improvised fire bombs and powder bombs. In another large trunk, this one curiously coated in patches and other traveller's insignia - New Belfast, Buenos Vientos, Qi'an, Marseille, Weissendorf, among others - folded neatly among one another was a varied assortment of clothing, hats, and helmets, all in heterogenous form and origin. To her leftmost lay the final container, and within that were cans, tins, pots, and bottles of all manner of hard-to-acquire provisions. Fine cigars from Trinidad, ground coffee, chocolate, varied assortments of cigarettes, canned fruits and vegetables, whiskey, mead, beers and wines of all manner of brew and craft; the variety seemed endless from Inès view of what even was on the surface of this one container.

She looked through the weapons at first. If the squad were going to occupy themselves in what Inès could only imagine were the labyrinthine tunnels of this city, she would do herself well to equip with something far better suited for the tight confines of combat. Scanning over the contents, her hand rummaged slightly through the assortment of sidearms, finding at first many old-timey revolvers she swore would have to date back well into the 19th century. As was expected, they were in rough condition; the cylinders were often very chipped, perhaps even corroded in a few instances, and Inès could not find herself the interest to trust her life with an antique. One, however, did catch her attention; A semi-automatic model, fed from a grip magazine, in contrast to the pistol she was used to back home. It bore a sleek, minimal design, almost as though it were a revolver sans the cylinder. She picked it up, still encased in its' worn leather holster, and drew it slowly.

"A woman of class and taste, as always." Max applauded as she peered upon the handgun. With no doubt, he was earnest - and possibly correct - on account of her taste, yet class was another fib from him. However, while she venerated the sidearm, his hand slowly waved over hers. His face turned to awkwardness, a disappointed, strange smile on it.

"...we may be close, Inès, but...I can't sell that to you." Max frowned, "It's a risk, and i'm already not supposed to do this, nevermind acquiring ammunition, and what your superiors may say to you..."

Slowly, he wrapped his hand around the pistol grip, Inès relegating hold of the handgun. Max gently tugged it away, calmly smiling while he put it back into its' holster.

"Sorry, Inès, but...believe me on this. Erm- perhaps another time?"

"...another time." Inès relinquished. For now, there'd be no pistol, and at this rate, an unlikely endeavor unless she had the good fortune to scavenge one from a fallen Imperial - or Federal - officer. A shame, as she was far more familiar with handguns than she was rifles, yet she forsook the disappointment as she turned to her right, starting to look through the clothing bin.

"My last helmet got caved in." she announced, glancing briefly at Max, "What do you have?"

Quickstepping around to her side, Max snapped into life, beginning his dig into the contents of that trunk. Beneath a few lines of fatigues, coats, and hats, he pulled out a few assorted helmets, some wrapped in cloth, others simply stacked on top of one another. All of them were secondhand - they had to be, given their scratches and far from perfect condition - yet you could make out the general designs from which they came. Some Imperial, some Edinburgian, some Francian, and some of a design Inès had never encountered before. Every Federal helmet she dusted upon had clear scratches on them, some running so deep as to create indentations around the helmet's interior space. Feeling each crevice almost gave her a morbid curiosity, a morose wonderance as to just how this piece of headwear was obtained. Many of the Imperial helmets had similar scars, some even still carrying the musk of sweat of their previous owner, as Inès disgustedly noted. An Imperial helmet likely was not a great idea, given that tended to be the first note of identification, but neither did she trust the condition of any Federal helmet on offer. It was to the unknown helmets, then, where she rummaged through, finding similar circumstances to the contemporaries, at first. There was one last one, however, that caught her eye.

It bore only superficial scratches, yet bore similarities to both Edinburgh and Imperial designs. The bottoms of the helmet were winged, protruding slightly downward, especially around the backward neck in fashion not dissimilar to Edinburgh designs, while it also contoured itself around the user's ears and face, typical of Imperial patterns. Bearing a covering on the top, just above the face, the cover primarily protruded some sort of cloth on the front, which was wrapped around the helmet by leather bindings. If needed, the helmet could carry a small item or two, Inès justified.

"That one?" Max commented, "Kortrijk design, I think. That one came from when I did business with a performing troupe, actually. Said they found it while they were on the run in the South."

Inès glanced over at him. His eyebrows slightly raised, as if offended that she question his integrity so. She felt along the helmet, tilting her eyes back toward the new investment, then facing Max headfirst.

"How much?" She asked, raising the helmet slightly. He pondered over it, a slow smirk steadily sketching onto his expression.

"...for you?" Max declared, "...mmh. Thirty."

"Eighteen."

And like that, the game was on.

"Tsk. Ever the stiff one, Inès? Twenty-five."

"Twenty."

Max snickered, shaking his head. Streaks of his blonde hair obfuscated his hair, falling to a close underneath his eye as soon as his gesture ceased. His mouth formed a circle, then a whistle of a sharp exhale blew his hair from his view. His steady smile gave himself away; Correctly, he was under the impression their game was getting them nowhere.

"Tell you what:" He prompted, posturing his good hand forth, "Twenty-three, and I throw in that."

Finger extended, he gestured to a deep navy scarf of a sort, something between a scarf and a handkerchief, twined with a discernible light tan color. The pattern took form of two lines, repeating in a wavelike hexagonal sine, each one inlaid with another, solid-colored hexagon. Simple as it was elegant, Inès knew she would need something a bit warmer coming up. The winter months bore little to enjoy, and the Darcsen was no stranger to winters without proper equipment...and how little she cared to repeat those experiences.

Inès paused, then pulled out her coin purse.

"Deal." She agreed. Slipping out a few face bills, she exchanged the francs with the Imperial merchant, returning smiles and polite handshakes with one another.

"And what about your present?" Max halted, eyeing up Inès. Her face remained flat as her response. The Darcsen sighed for a bit, slowly turning into a smile, which earned Max's own grin as her reward. Snapping for but a bit, Max retreats to a crate just behind him, making a twirling motion with his finger.

"Turn around, close your eyes, and hold out your hands..."" He asked. More like suggested. Inès smirked, raising an eyebrow as her mouth so clearly hunched spoke the words "Are you kidding me?" without the need for her to waste her breath. Max sighed and shook his head, although her condemnation of his wish scantly deterred his own smile.

"Fine. Just wait then." He resigned, turning his back behind a small crate in the front. A fair bit of shuffling and ruffling ensured, Inès herself wondering just how much logistical maneuvering this man was doing to conceal such an important present to her. Moments later, he'd come back with a small, nondescript cloth bag, roughly the size of a football. He presented it to her with both hands extended, preceded by the *CREEEK* of his prosthetic.

"Ta-da!" he exclaimed, a grin only plausibly precedented by the eagerness of a gift waiting to be unwrapped. Inès took hold of it, quickly unraveling the binding of its' opening.

Her eyes widened at it. First, was a dark amber bottle, large and rounded near the bottom, more akin to a Pasteur flask than a traditional bottle of wine or liquor. Emblazoned with imprinted, raised letters, the title upon the bottle was clear:

Admiral Aufrey's Finest Centrolandic Rum
100 Proof
1.75 Litres

Inès typically wasn't much of a drinker. She'd have the occasional night to enjoy herself, certainly, but liquor never quite tickled her fancy. Even as destitute as they could be, Inès' mother seldom failed to stockpile on wine, and that would be her drink of choice on the rare days where she needed to let loose. Even the most dilettante purveyor of alcohol, however, knew the fame that was Admiral Aufrey's. She had seen it fetch handsome prices in windowsills while walking through many of the more exquisite parts of Francia, sometimes demanding a score well into the double digits. Edinburgh did occasionally issue rum rations, of course, but the stuff was typically poor, sometimes even so coarse that there would be thick strands of molasses still in the liquid, and the liquor would instead function apropos a hard candy instead of a drink to soothe the nerves. A bottle of this quality was certain to be something to enjoy...

...if Inès fancied rum. Still, it was something valuable to trade where niceties such as these were few and far between.

The others? They more than made up for the questionable gifts.

Encased well in a lacquered box, clear through a glass covering over its' hinged top, lay just what she needed - Khandar Rolls. Fresh, directly from Khandar, still sealed and stamped with the Gold Sultan's emblem on top. Even the aroma of the sweet leaves permeated well through their encasement, bringing delight to even the most stone-cold face. Inès couldn't restrain herself. She gave into it, smiling ear to ear.

"Are you trying to choke me?" Inès teased, poking fun at Max. He playfully shrugged back, feigning along with the joke. "...thanks."

"You're welcome!" For once, Max yielded to some actual manners. Even getting a simple "thank you" from the Imperial was a notoriously hellish task.

Just as their business was about to conclude, Inès caught sight of a mask just below her gaze. Not any mask, mind, but the exact same mask that had been issued to all of the Federal troops headed to Amone. Yet, she noticed that among the Imperials, not one had a similar one, nor any mask she could feasibly make out on their persons. She had a merchant of all manner of goods before her, dubious or not, and perhaps, then, she may have found some sort of use for it. Pointing directly at it, she turned her head to Max, her serious demeanor posturing her query.

"What are these masks?" she questioned.

The blonde headed man turned, approaching the mask with a puzzled look about him. Hand waved over, he seemed to almost feel it out, etching for some manner of distinction about it while he jogged his memory on the subject. Puzzled, frowning, he turned back to Inès.

"These? I only got this a few days ago." he explained, "Someone said they found it in the city, here. I think they're supposed to be antiques. Mining masks."

"Mining masks?" She wondered. A concerned, confused look came about her.

"Yeah. Back in old times, deep underground, there'd be buildups of sulfur or monoxide deep below, and what they'd do is keep a bird in a cage to see if the air was safe, since they'd be the little things to die first if there was poison in the air. But, over time, they just wanted miners to keep on digging without worrying about poison, so they made these so they wouldn't have to worry about it."

("What the Hell are we doing with mining masks?") Inès wondered to herself. Her face fell a bit down with the explanation, visibly sinking with every point Max lectured on about.

"Still, the masks didn't solve everything. Some of that gas was so volatile, just the oil lamps would make it all ignite." He kept on, "Any fire, even just a stray spark, would cause the whole mine to detonate."

"...huh..." Inès nodded back. She wasn't telling Max. If it was about the tunnels, Inès wasn't going to go talking too much about their mission. She trusted Max, but she knew he liked to talk. That mudhead had already gone and expunged their mission in front of the entire Inn, and Inès didn't trust Max not to tell stories about "The Darcsen Pro Fighter Who Went Into Explosive Tunnels" to his friends behind the lines. Rather late for that, she knew, but perhaps the less he knew, the better.

"Just curious." she finished off.

Max tilted his eyes, widened them, then shrugged. Inès met them back with a forced neutrality, coercing him into a sigh. She would need to tell someone about this. Just not him.

"Well, then." Max declared, putting his hands together, "That's my business here."

"...it was nice seeing you again." he said, putting out his left hand, open.

"Yeah...it was...good seeing you, too."

The shake was quick, concise. Nothing formal, no; little besides an awkward farewell, done out of necessity rather than savoir-faire. The encounter, however brief, still left the distance between the two reverberating, even whilst they stood directly across from one another. Inès knew, somewhere within her, this was, for all intents and purposes, likely her final goodbye to Max. Even if the two made it out of this war unscathed, there was no imagining anything good would come from either circumstance; Inès was a fighter of a race persecuted for centuries, such that even the foundations of history itself revolved around it. Max was a deported criminal, specializing in acquiring downright illicit goods. Even if he possessed a sense of kinship perhaps unparalleled, loyalty to others meant nothing in the long arms of the law. And those laws seemed to be the death of them both.

"I...guess i'll be heading off."

"...I'll...see you."

Inès took her time turning around, hopping off the back of that truck. The rainfall did nothing to slow her descent off. It was thinking that her friend may not make it that perturbed her. No doubt he thought the same, if not worse, considering how she fought on the lines themselves.

When she hopped off, she felt a cold, steady drizzle soak her feet, even through her boots. Just behind her, she heard him call out, one last time.

"Hey, wait! Before you go...could you...er...give these to that guy? The, um...your Corporal?" He asked. Inès turned back to him, meeting his arm outstretched, three texts stuffed inside his grasp. They seemed fairly new, judging by their hard backing and industrial paper binding. Their titles were engraved into the covers themselves, further etched in with some manner of gilded ink. Inès didn't look too closely at them, instead focusing on quickly putting them into her bag, as the morning's unyielding downpour threatened to ruin the books.

"I saw him writing a lot, so...I thought he'd like these. History, romance, epics...that sort of thing." Max commented, stepping down from his truck with the helping hand of Inès on his way down.

"Oh, and Inès..." He motioned back for the final time. Max chose a blank expression, meeting eye to eye with her.

"...try to keep your voice down in the future."

"Goodbye, Max." As angered as Inès was in her speech, Max smirked. He made Inès smile. And that was precisely what he wanted his last memory of her to be.

---

The march through the rain to the inn was a short one, if it thoroughly drenched the shocktrooper down to her smallclothes. The sturdy canvas construction of her bag retorted any measly attempt at rain to devour her purchases, but the weather would receive no such victory. Inside, the Inn fell oddly quiet. Most everyone was sill asleep, or, more likely, had moved on into their assignment for their time in Amone. Even the residents of Squad One were seldom around, save the few who remained awake and downstairs for their morning breakfast. Luke seemed to have vacated the area, Inès noted, yet Jean was finishing up conversation with his special someone.

Inès smiled at the thought. Jean had likely received enough brunt from himself for his attempts at romance, nevermind the rest of the squad at large. Turned courier for the moment, Inès still knew better than to interrupt his moment with her, instead opting to dry herself with whatever spare rags or towels she could scrounge around.

At the end of his most wholesome discussion - or failing that, some intermission between the two - Inès approached Jean for the second time that morning, putting the three tomes before him.

"Max wanted me to give these to you." Inès mentioned, "His way of saying goodbye."

Inès left as soon as she came, looking for the company of a few nearby. Franz was a likely bet, or failing him, likely could be found around Freya, but whatever be that case, she wasn't in any capacity to be holding deep-set conversations on the value of literature with Jean. Splayed in constituent order, Jean could make out the three titles pressed upon every book.

23 Years - The Autobiography of Hugo Zimmerman

"Hugo Zimmerman"? Wasn't he a criminal?

Red Sail, Golden Age

Red and Gold, was it? Judging by the printing, it had to do with something regarding the old Iberon colonies on the Vinlandic continents. The Age of Sail had their prized pieces of romance to them, of course liberally peppered with embellishments, but even the most aggrandized depictions had their seeds of truth strewn in them.

Anya Karenin
By: Lev Nikolayevich

The Lev Nikolayevich? Even while he shared his sense of controversy in his Ruzhian homeland, the late Nikolayevich truly was a master of his craft. Nobody really came close to matching the man's prose, not even among the brightest minds in either the Empire nor any domain of the Federation. The poor author departed just before the war, as well, yet to live to see 82 years was far from a tragedy.

At any pace, this would give Jean quite the amount to dive into. A shame he couldn't thank Max for his tastes.

@LetMeDoStuff

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

Oh good God, this was hurting him. She had been so honest with him so she wouldn't hurt him, and all she bought was more pain. Franz couldn't even bear to look at her for just that moment, nevermind anymore to come. What was she supposed to do? Lie to him again? Suppress how she felt? It wasn't as if she didn't like Franz! Quite the contrary! Inès dared not to carry the burden of another one's life in shambles because of her own mishap. And...dammit! Why could she not so callously decry him like she did a foe in the ring, on the battlefield?! Why did these things matter?! Why couldn't she just not care?

Nothing. Silence. There was a pause for a moment, just while Franz tormented himself over the "truth" Inès brought to him, wondering why love itself was so fleeting he almost seemed undeserving of it. That was never the case. Ines tried - and failed, it seemed - to ensure Franz could still be that one. Franz was no miscreant nor sycophant. Awkward, unsettling, perhaps even morose, yes, but...behind blue eyes, Franz was...in many ways, a beautiful soul. A poet. An artist. He saw things nobody else could see, in shapes undiscovered with wisdom unfathomable. Admittedly, those feats were difficult to view. Yet Inès had, and what is seen is not so easily unseen. Clenching, gripping, a tightening grip welled up around her chest, progressing up through her spine, with every minute motion of Franz's fingers twining itself within her gentle gesture, searching for comfort. For answers. That feeling chased after her, pulsed through his twitching touch, but was that hate, or love, or envy? It melded together like the scent of a rose lost in the haze of a city gale, and entangled it in an opaque cauldron of ever-changing, ever-clashing emotion.

Ines swallowed. She hated this moment. She felt like apologizing, like taking it all back. That action almost came, and Franz's motioning mouth put an end to what petty drivel Ines would have to reconcile.

There was...a girl. From some time ago. A face as sullen as his found the softness in which he spoke simply oxymoronic, yet Franz remised his melancholy gently. Gracefully. The grave image of the self-proclaimed "Tour guide to Hell" with his one special angel, from so long ago, with such dedication to his maiden that he might save himself for their special moment...well...it was like Inès had despoiled a nun of their sacrilege, almost. Not on any higher virtue, no, but of how Franz spoke of her. Still he cared about her. And still she cared about him. And...well...

...he wanted her to be happy.

"You're not losing me..." Inès comforted. Her eyes slant down at their hands, a lugubrious look to her, "It's not like we're dead. I'll still be here. No matter what happens."

She sighs, her eyes returning up as her brilliant blues met his awe-striking azures. Glances exchange, hanging by a moment there with them.

"I...I just want us to be sure. And, I know, it's not easy, but...y'know. We've, kinda...met and had sex..."

("Fuck, there isn't a good way to say this...") Inès visually disappointed herself with her phrasing. Veracity and amenity often worked in antagonism to each other; that itself reminded Inès of why the right words were so very elusive to her.

"...sigh...Franz. You're...you're..." She paused. A smile etched.

"...I think that girl hasn't forgotten you. And, you know, it sounds like you still love her...so..."

Inès held their conjoined hands with her opposite, cradling it softly. Tugging it close to her, Inès lowered it, such that nothing would distract the duo from their shared gaze.

"We should just make sure about...how we feel about other people. See other people. And...you know...i'm not going anywhere. We'll still talk and see each other. Because...I don't want to lose you, either."

It came slowly, but still did it envelop before a reaction could partake. Inès let go of their grip, wrapped her arms around Franz, and hugged. Her exhale came soft, assured, relieved, while Ines slowly held the back of his hair in comfort. That little bit of warmth, of compassion, so true an expression was that of understanding. Franz wanted her to be happy; Inès wished likewise. Even so, that could not come at the expense of his own vivacity. Her own feelings couldn't be denied; She enjoyed Franz's company, certainly, but for now, her romantic feelings lay elsewhere. She dared not impression baggage upon Franz for which she could not truthfully provide, like she so regrettingly did to Cèdric. Above all, Inès needed to be honest.

"And...if you need to talk about anything, come to me. I won't hold anything against you." Inès promised, slowly breaking from her hug.

Rolling over, Inès slowly rose from her prone position, and as she turned about the sights of the likely-ruined bathroom, Inès laughed at so grand the mess they had made. A fine piece of work they wrought about it, setting forth havoc like the tempest of emotions they so lasciviously stormed while in the act. She looked around, then looked back to Franz, first rising to her own feet proper, then extending a hand to her companion.

"Come on. Let's get some sleep." she offered. If nothing else would soothe Franz's anxieties, then a good sleep in a bed proper might. They'd share a bed for one last time.

"...where the hell did I put my panties..."

---

Morning of September 11th, 1914 EC

Who knew how late the two got to bed? Ines awoke with her smallclothes on, at least, and Franz right by her. The first rays of the day were her alarm to awaken her, even as a lifestyle regime of demanding training tuned her internal clock to awaken at the earliest hours of the morning. Even so, there was a certain liberty in awakening to her own accord, rather than that to a morning bugle, or if the day felt particularly daft, artillery fire. She pushed herself to upright position, the blankets beneath her slowly falling off. The beds were quite the luxury; in tenement lifestyles, beds were seldom afforded to their space, and it was more common for a bedroll and comforters to be stashed in either a closet or hung from the walls or outside clothesline, then brought indoors when the time to sleep came, where their owners simply slept on the floor with their sheeting separating them from cold stone. A bed wasn't something Inès was used to. It was...oddly soft. She'd gotten the best sleep she could recall in a long time, even with the bright reverberance of gunfire and grenades permeating the night.

Inès rocked Franz slowly by his shoulder, nudging her Darcsen friend awake.

"Franz, it's morning." she said softly. Inès rose from the bed, allowing that to be her advisory, and instead relegating herself to preparing herself for the day.

It was force of habit that she stretch her legs within 15 minutes of awakening. Front, back, up, diagonally, calves, thighs, shins; Inès was no stranger to contorting herself in all manner of odd directions with her years of practice, for if she wasn't able to, one of her many instructors would certainly throw a fit. Within minutes, Inès found herself done, her muscles lithe, nimble, and ready for the day. She threw on bare dressing for the day; A simple singlet, her trousers, and her boots in the event she needed to go outside. Retrieving a small dish of water, she splashed the cold water in attempt to refresh herself for the day to come. Truthfully, it was a way to refresh herself on the now. Inès, as soon as she had awoken, enveloped herself in memory, in muse, and it never ceased, only shifted direction. As another wipe came to her face, she thought of her old unit. St. Martin, Lèon, Antoine, Dostoyevsky...Inès couldn't help but wonder if they were doing alright. How they held up in their new standing...if they were still alive, grim as it may be. People came and people went, as they did while fighting in Ostend as well as in war, yet that made it not lighter as grievous wounds took to people fighting for their lives.

Inès descended from her muse, wishing Franz a "See you later." as she departed for breakfast. Not many people were at the bar at this hour. Her favorite loser sat at the bar, partaking in a voracious consumption of sausage. Quite something, considering his little show for display last night. Embarrassment for the sake of everyone else's delight was, in her eyes, just reparation for Luke's famed acts of jerkassery.

Yet, the thought of poking fun at him was overturned by what he had on offer; A full course of breakfast. Even outside the theater of war, Inès had few selections for what to eat, at most typically being some combination of fruit and some form of grain with little else on selection. The itinerant style of the military left little to be desired, and was not dissimilar to the bland tastes of working-class breakfast. A full selection plate on offer? Inès hadn't had a complete breakfast like this in what felt like forever. Even when she was able to afford a complete array of ingredients, Inès often didn't have the time in her hectic schedule to make it all herself.

Inès pulled up a seat, sure to keep a seat between herself and the apparently starving Earthhead. She rested her forearms on the table, and waved over the attending barkeeper.

"I'll have that." Her head tilted towards Luke's plate.

"Coffee?" The barkeep offers.

"I hate coffee." she sighed.

The barkeep looked at Inès and got her resting bitch face. That would be a firm "No."

In due time, breakfast would be served, Inès expressing her gratitude with a simple enough "Thanks." Flipping a nearby fork into her left hand, she begun her dig into the most important meal of the day, taking her time to enjoy the ever-so-cherished contents of fresh, home-cooked food. She didn't care much for making conversation with Luke, although he could swear her casting occasional glimpses at him, and just immediately after, he almost could hear her giggling.

And in more due time, the Corporal himself would descend down from the staircase. His appearance suggested he, unlike so many here, it seemed, attained what was least similar to a good night's rest. Last night, for how much she drank, and for everything that happened, still resounded. She had promised Freya that she would check in on Jean, and now, more than ever, was the time to make good on that promise.

"Morning, Jean." she greeted. She seemed oddly polite, for how informal the ruffian Darcsen seemed to personify herself, "How are you holding up?"

Inès pulled up a stool next to her, off to her right - she didn't particularly think Luke hearing this conversation would be a match made in heaven - and so averted situating the two adjacent to each other, with Inès acting as the shield between the two. Motioning him with a slight nod, Inès offered up the seat at the bar.

"Spend some quality time with that special someone last night?" Inès quietly queried, her face positioned at her plate, but eyes clearly glancing sidewards at Jean, as not to draw attention to him. Say all he want about her being loud; she could keep a lid on it whenever she very well pleased.

"Lighten up." Inès snickered, turning back to him with a hushed, subdued smile, "I know about it, and no, I haven't said anything to her."

Her hips pivoted, her body more directly facing Jean now. She leaned slightly to the side, and slightly forth, not to be intimidating, no, but in a clear attempt to offer some privacy between the two while it lasted. An earnest, down-to-earth chat.

"Come on, i've seen you write. It's good stuff, you know. And you know her; A real 'proper type' like her would melt her heart out over a sweet love letter. You don't have anything to be ashamed of."

"You might not be the bravest or fearless, but...you have something not a whole lot of people out here do." Inès drew her off-hand, hovering it over Jean for a brief second, before giving him a light touch upon his left-center chest. Right above his heart.

"At least you're not my last officer."

@LetMeDoStuff @CFProxy @Jacky

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

Ines had closed the door behind her to ensure Franz the luxury of privacy, most certainly, and yet...Ines did not want to abandon him. Even in her impaired state, she knew Franz wasn’t in a good place. She had made him feel pleasure, as she felt pleasure - an experience they shared, but did not equivocate. Franz was a fine companion, certainly, but there were…things she knew that he did not. Ines knew that moment would have to come eventually. But just as soon she brushed it out of her mind, headed down the hallway as she prowled in search of her promise.

And just beyond a peculiar door, just near that section of the hall, that familiar voice of her NCO spoke out. No, it had to be Jean. That awkward diction, the uncertainty in ever passage of his voice; It could be no other. Jean was an attractive man, of course, yet...as Ines listened over his every phrase, nothing but the sprouts of a growing cynic came. And as the saying went, “inside every cynic, there is a disappointed idealist.” Every person had their insecurities, no matter how extravagant their paintings be, yet Jean ensured every wordage rung with the poise of a flag amidst a tempest. In just that moment, just that second, Ines wanted to barge in, almost; Throw herself in, just to tell Jean it would be alright - that they would be okay, that this was but a temporary affair and for the suffering of untold millions, what they fought for was but the grim bastion, pushed to the edge against an unyielding force in which the Darcsen people suffered naught but unrelenting servitude.

And yet...no.

She was not the one for that conversation. Someone else was for that task, and that special someone occupied that very room, for now. Ines was not his mother, nor his girlfriend, nor his sister. And as much as she thought it a good idea...somewhere, in the shallow resonant waves of her heart, she knew through noostic means that Jean would be alright. Dammit, she promised Freya even a few days ago she’d check on him. And yet...checking up on the Corporal would have to wait. Perhaps not long, perhaps all night, if his luck waned into a blossom. Inside, Ines hoped Jean had gotten some fine company for the day; He needed to relieve a lot of stress.

Down the stairs she went, down to the den of debauchery itself where it all began. In her pocket still remained her precious case, and within that case, of course, lay her ever-so-necessary Khandar smokes. Striking a match against its coarse side, Ines lit a match in a moment just necessary to ignite her smoke, taking a light puff simply to confirm the ignition of her smoke, then resumed her steady march down the staircase. The smoke munched sideways in her mouth, a steady, beady orange emanating from the cig as she fumed her way down the stairs. In a way, it had a sobering effect on her, providing stimulus once lost, and yet still a sensation pleasant, as if she were walking on clouds.

Ah. That sight of the floor did nothing to relegate her to any prior state - not that such mattered amidst some blissful haze of inebriation, mind you - but rather situated itself as a welcoming area. Off to her right, she noted the first action of the midday, that of a little contest, apparently, between the lighthead and her opponent; The brunette mudhead who claimed her drinking spirit was indivisible, in a tone some might call risible. Ines couldn’t help but salute both of the women for their confidence in the matter, especially with that other mudhead strewn about the floor like the doormat he was. Luke was in a pathetic state; while another rather gaunt earthheaded woman had taken the time to start undressing him, she positioned him on a pedestal, showing him off before the entire room like he were a game trophy. So sorry a sight could only elicit laughter from the Darcsen, and only confirmed the weak will of the mudhead against his spurious bravado. And even as her lightheaded friend confirmed her placement against her adversary, Ines remarked her promise of speaking to Diana following her fateful encounter. She approached the table with swagger, smiling as she steadily enjoyed her cig.

“Only dirthairs think drinking is a sport.” Ines chuckled, plucking her smoke from her mouth only to find Victoria’s mouth a suitable ashtray for her smoke in the meantime. In that same sentence, she picked up some random beer from the table, not particularly caring who it belonged to in that moment, and threw it back with such swiftness that she likely consumed it all in a single gulp.

Soon as she was done, Ines snatched her little spliff back from Victoria’s mouth, taking light puffs as she looked upon the struggle with intrigue. Inès could give a damn if Victoria had something to say to her; her decisively stern and nonchalant expression made that unquestionable. Victoria was her ashtray, and whatever sound the tray made was just the creek of the wood. Considering the expense of acquiring things from Khandar, allowing Ines to pop it in her kisser could even be seen as a complement.

Besides, Victoria was probably used to putting things in her mouth.

---

Well, Ines couldn’t be insulted for trying. Truth be told, her drive for the itense ménage à trois fizzled out after a bit of searching, and even though she told Franz otherwise, the more time passed at the floor of the inn, the more she got the feeling she would do well not to keep him waiting. And as entertaining as the proposition seemed, the dialectics of convincing a fellow soul to engage in said activity was...easier thought of than performed. “Yes, hello Freya, my new boyfriend is probably traumatized and I wanted to un-traumatize him by getting him into a threesome, and i’ve also had a stupid schoolgirl crush on you since we’ve met, can you help a girl out?” “Hey Silverhead, I know we haven’t ever talked before, but you like Franz and I do too and we need to cheer him up. You get top half, I get bottom half?” “Oh, hi Diana! Listen, you keep talking so much about how much your family loves Darcsens, so do you wanna give up whatever dignity your bloodline has left and get sandwiched between two Darkies?”

(“Yeah, that’s not happening.”) Even as it was, Ines found herself chucking along to those ridiculous queries almost aloud, picturing their priceless reactions. Enticement of the proposition almost made her want to commit to it, yet as she approached anyone with it, the better part of her halted her from following through. She took comfort in knowing that her wits were still about her, though, even God-knows-how-many drinks in she was. Better that she save her and a few other women the embarrassment, she thought.

With that being dismissed, it wasn’t prudent to keep Franz waiting for much longer. Ines turned her back, steadily marching her way back to the staircase...but caught Luke out of the corner of her eye. If an arrogant mudhead on display without his clothes were the stakes of their game, Ines didn’t want to miss the rest of it. She hung around until the end of their little escapade, a wolflike grin on her face while she took slow puff after slow puff, eagerly awaiting the inevitable foolishness of Luke Godfrey before she met Franz once more for Round 2.

---

Ines laid there next to Franz after countless hours of rigorous activity. Ines hadn’t felt this exhausted since she first started training as a kid. Believe her, that was a good thing; Ines hadn’t had this much fun since...she couldn’t remember when the last time she really had fun was, actually. The war had turned it all into a bleak vortex in which dark fatalism of the vapidness of life was the most fun a girl could have. When was the last time she saw her loved ones smile? That...Ines genuinely drew a blank trying to remember she saw someone grin prior to this day off. It made it all the more special, these fleeting joys. She turned to her side, seeing Franz equally exasperated by their time together.

War brought out every emotion imaginable. Love, hate, friendship, bravery, fear, horror, repulsion, life, death...to have that much stimulus all at once would overwhelm even the most iron-hearted of men. No wonder, then, that so many had to cut themselves off if they were to survive. It was almost as though you lost all of your senses at once, only for them to return with a blistening charge of ten thousand experiences in some maddening euphoria. Yet, this was a coveted moment. There was but one thing to feel. Intense, of course, but it was focused. Pure. Unrestrained. Ines was thankful, truth be told, that she could share just that little moment of order in a crazy world with someone else.

This brought up contention. Actions had consequences, Ines knew, and the actions of them both in a drunken escapade served to be grave, indeed. So it was that she started her recourse with a sigh, preparing herself for the inevitable talk. She couldn’t repeat her mistake with Lili again. She needed to tell him.

“Don’t worry.” Ines smirked, running a hand through Franz’s admittedly short hair, “If I didn’t have fun, I would have told you.”

She dropped the joke quicker than her hand fell to his side, however. That grin faded into her serious demeanor, though her hand rested upon his. Little amounts of comfort like this, as their fingers danced to entwinement, were...they were needed.

“But, you know...we need to talk...about things going forward.” Ines’ deep, wispy tone encompassed hesitation, but it was clearly prudent. She made no difficulty to show she didn’t look forward to this talk. “And...no. It’s not to say you aren’t good enough, or…”

She sighed. The pain was palpable, just even from a glance it was as though she felt herself being stabbed in the throat, so much did it well up. What was in order needed ordering, nevermind the discomfort. Ines opened her eyes, looking, staring outward, upward, into something clearly only she saw.

“...when I was with my ex boyfriend, Cedric, it was...I loved him for a while. But then, just over time...I knew he wasn’t going anywhere. No matter what I said, or how I said it, nothing I could do could ever get through to him. He...he was going to be a mobster for all his life. No ambition. No care. Just...nothing. And just after too long, I...I didn’t love him anymore...but I couldn’t tell him that. Cedric didn’t have anything. I was that something. I was that someone to live for, and I...I didn’t love him.”

“Then...I met Lili. She was...heh.” Her smile was wrenching to do, almost like she was being slit with every word she made, “...she was...perfect. She understood everything I said. She never judged me. And...I still remember meeting her. We could just...talk. For hours, and...we would connect with every moment. And we’d ask about what we wanted to do in life, and...and that was just...never there with Cedric. And so I...we...we kissed. And it was like everything was okay. But…”

“We...I...then-...”

“I...threw away the woman I loved...because I couldn’t...b-be honest with her.” Her breath nearly exhausts itself. Each word comes out like a choke, a faint rupture in pain.

“A-and...I made love with a man I didn’t...just so he could have something...but when...Lili...we…”

She blinked rapidly. Blue eyes met the cold floor, blank. Empty. Deep.

“And...Cedric...died. Waiting for me to tell him I loved him. Waiting for me to lie. And Lili...just...how could she…”

“She...found. And...left me all alone.”

There was the harrowing notion of what to do in his final moments. Ines still heard him scream. How could you not, when you are the bastion in a world gone mad? And just to think...seeing your lover in your arms, just as you made peace with the world...only for them to drop you. To abandon you. To say they never loved you. “I don’t love you, anymore.”, your final farewell with this hellish earth? How could one be so callous?

Lili could not be helped, either. First did she sin with cheating, second did she sin with lying. Third, did she collude with Cedric, even against her own wishes. Ines could not lie, and she could not tell the truth. Ines loved her, and yet could never be honest with neither the one she did love, nor the one she did not. What said that of herself, if she could not even do something so simple as be honest?

Even thinking about her was stiffening in the moment. It paralleled everything so...perfectly. Like a mirror in a book. It didn’t judge her. No, it cast down no judgement on her, and Ines, in truth received few reprimansions for what she did. Instead, it reflected it back at her, showed her for what she was, and let her be the judge. Lili nor Cedric nor even Joan never once antagonized her. It antagonized herself.

And...for just once. Ines had to be honest. For one time in her life, when it mattered the most. She needed to tell him.

"I...I need to tell you, Franz...I...kinda...like Freya. And...it's stupid. It's just this stupid kiddish crush where you share lunch and you want to be married, but...there's something about us I have to say...because there's something between us, anyway. And...I need to try. I need to know." Ines felt stupid for saying it, no matter how brutally honest she was being. In expression, she seemed disappointed. Not in Franz - she glanced at him in assurance, knowing he did nothing to deserve what she had just done - but in herself. In likelihood, she was repeating the same mistake once more. And Franz was just...idly watching.

He didn't deserve anything she told him. Maybe she should have lied to him, like she did to Cedric. But that would have meant she didn't love Franz.

“...I think we should figure things out before we go into anything. You know...see other people. Just make sure.”

She closed her eyes, then exhaled. It was coarse, rough, like a choppy gale in the winter brushing over the freezing mist of a river.

"And...this isn't goodbye. It's not 'no.' I just...I can't hurt you."

@CFProxy @Smike @Landaus Five-One

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

Ines Levesque

---

"Excuse me, what?"

When baths were mentioned, usually they were under the pretext that these baths were intended for one person at a time only, with variable degrees of privacy available, depending on how much you valued the ability to cleanse yourself without pry. Franz came by, and with naught but a simple phrase, shattered that contemplation with the most brazen proposal short of asking her to bed him.

Mind you, it was not that Ines was opposed to the idea of bathing around others; That was a luxury not afforded to tenement occupants. In an Ostend tenement apartment, if one were wealthy enough to procure their own private bathtub - which Ines would have been had her mother's habits not burdened them so greatly - it was typically in the kitchen, the bedroom, or in most cases, simply, "The room"; The common factor between the trio being they were unconventional, out-of-place locales in most households. Even the concept of a private bathroom estranged itself from tenement living. Any business was taken care of in the outhouse array in the rear alleyway, just next to the street outlet beyond. Public restrooms also meant public bathing. Now, the unspoken rule that you should always cease sight to the opposite sex always applied, even in such squalid conditions. Clotheslines with whites and sheets could form impromptu shades and dividers, but it was far more typical to simply become very familiar with the human body's many shapes and forms.

Ines' face dropped with the query, exasperated. Clearly taken aback by Franz, the Darcsen closed her eyes, nuzzled her nose down, and placed a few extended fingers upon her forehead. Exhaustion got the best of even so seasoned a veteran as her, and that this came out of what she thought was, in fact, not from nowhere, but instead a feint to inspire a specific emotion. If said emotion Franz wished to inspire within her intended to be that of expectation-shattering confoundment, Franz succeeded in a tale for the century. Her eyes reopened, gazing upon the five-finger splay in front of her; beyond that, a floor where she traced the wood lines along, hoping they'd give her some sort of comfort in how they curtailed about like rising steam patters. Right, the little patterns. The little things. Things to calm yourself. "Calm down, Ines. Just-"

"Hey Ines, what’cha doing?"

"Deciding if I should slap Franz."

The slapping would have to wait, if it ever came. The thought was enticing at the moment, sure, yet all in all, what Ines wanted was a bath and time to think things over. But, she promised she'd talk to Franz, and she tired herself thinking it over, and one by one, the reasons not to eclipsed any notion of ill-conceived privacy eroded under the simple desire to get herself clean. She shook her head, raising her eyes, and responded simply.

"You know, just...okay. Just...don't stare at me." Ines declared, the unsteady pulsation in which she carried her words carrying with them a weary resignation. "I'll talk to you in a bit, Diana."

Almost a shame. Franz was far from bad-looking, but she was more hopeful to share a bath with Freya.

---

Franz Blau

Franz didn't take much of her reactions at the time. His demeanor had been of a stone wall and even the acceptance of his offering did little to actually change his facial expressions. For all intents and purposes it appeared on the surface that he had no particular interest but there was a slight change in his expression as if to confirm her words.

Truth was that Franz couldn't properly think at this time and while that was to be expected from someone who was currently struggling with his own thoughts and potential insanity one could also argue that he wouldn't be so far from being grounded in social norms. But whatever the argument was, it did not match to what his mind processed. The very concept wasn't very far gone from his own mind as well as Franz had not been one to sexualize too often or, at least, has gotten so used to similar situations that he was unwilling to be subject to tripping all over himself in this moment.

He gave her a nod and opened the door to the bathing room, pulling off his backpack and placing it to the side against the wall.

"It's nice to be in the company of another Darcsen. Few and far between it seems at times." He was almost monotone in ways, seeming to hold that endless stare as though watching the world overhead as he shamelessly stripped off his clothes and folded them neatly piece by piece. He had stopped for the moment to wash his hands and arms off after he had taken off all of his upper body wear. He seemed methodical at least, not a single step done without purpose and certainty in a more calculative mood as he adjusted the water with a couple of turns of the valves.

"Feel free."

---

What on earth was she doing? Well, that was a redundant question, of course. Ines knew precisely what she was getting into; That would be a bath in the company of one of Squad 1's finest. Perhaps, then the better question was how. Yet, she knew the answer to that as well; He had asked her, and she had agreed. When put into greater context, however, the sheer...circumstance of her appearance and choice seemed less than elucidating to her strange dance of fate, instead only complicating it beyond fathomable circumstance. Just an hour ago, they awoke between pillars of rubble, clinging to their lives with no certainty they would see tomorrow, and just as soon, almost at the drop of a hat, they found food, shelter, tranquility, like the oasis in the desert.

And at the end of it, Franz opened the door. And at the end of that...Ines was excited. Perhaps that was not the most appropriate word? It wasn't a particularly new experience, and yet, it was. She had seen other men and even bathed in their presence, before, yet that was of necessity, not of choice; Where Ines found herself now, there was that choice of bathing alone in blissful solitude, and yet, the - and her head still spun from the oxymoronic conglomeration in which she could describe Franz - Imperial Darcsen, had offered himself in company of the much-desired bath. Truth be told, it was a difficult proposition to believe, and yet, there underlay concern for the man. In his monotone, blank, faceless demeanor that carried so much expression as a rock in the fields.

His comment on the company of another Darcsen had registered, although such a riposte needed time for Ines to comprehend, for her mind still riddled itself with the wonders of her now-companion's thoughts. He opened the door for her, in true chauvanist style, and Ines thanked him for his gratitude. She could find the room herself, assured, and yet, Ines could not help but blush in the sight of him. No doubt, Franz's intentions were difficult to discern, even at the best of times. She appreciated his virtue, yet...

He began to throw his clothes off in the room in audacious fashion, without couth for decorum in the face of clearly better opportunities. Yet, Ines thought of it not - not in the face of moral virtue, no, for whatever prudish dictation may lay in the face of this clearly had not experienced the realities of life, of love, of emotion - no, Ines found it strange, that is all. Strange that he so simply would disrobe himself before what may as well have been a complete stranger, for that is what Ines was. Ines knew not his station or his history, nor demeanor nor ambition. Yet, war brought out the truest forms of us, as did all hardship, and in that calamity Ines knew Franz to be a quick thinker, unwavering in the face of adversity.

And that, perhaps, was why he so simply stripped down, thinking of it as one might the day's sunlight.

She did the same, in a way, yet past the discarding of Franz's shirt, Ines turned her back, yet whether that came from courtesy or shyness, she herself could not say. It was reflex, at best, and while that intuitive sense acted upon her, so did that rational actor when it came to terms that she was still here to bathe, and thus it came to that Ines would begin to strip in much a similar fashion to Franz. The Darcsen faced toward the wall, removing her outmost bandolier first, then her jacket, pants, and smallclothes until she stood with nothing separating the pair but eye contact.

"So, Franz...what did you do before the war?" A socialite of the Francian aristocracy Ines was certainly not. The silence grew thick, and Ines saw it fit to thin the brush, no matter the cost. Admittedly, she was curious about him, and as she reasoned, the pair should at least learn about one another if they were to partake in so intimate an experience.

---

Franz continued to move, his motions still being sorted by the architect within. The artist of motion spun another gear. A thought proded his mind. What more was there? What could they need more? Logically speaking, the squad would have been worn and looking to relieve their burdened shoulders than a healthy dose of artifical happiness?

It was at the time that she asked that question of his past that he swooped down as the graceful beast of the lake dipping for water upon its beak. What was more was the consideration of the soldier. The question didn't seem to be so simple. It begged attention that he wasn't currently giving it proper. In the face of a soul asking to step into his shadow he began with a slow rise. He thought of it long and well as he adopted the posture of ancient statues. Stripped down to the whole of a man he examined the bottle and considered it well.

The bottle was aged. Its person held within to be enjoyed by those who found themselves upon it. Yet for as old as it was, was it mere coincidence to have found a substance so strong and mature? Was it reflective of the man held within? Building up in strength and looking to burst upon being undone from its prison to leave its shell a empty husk incapable of hosting another such as the one before. What all did it mean? Did it mean anything at all? These were but the thoughts of the man caught in the spotlight.

He turned his head to the side to better view the bottle in the light as he brought the bottle down to be held at waist level. A quiet breath. Then, life came from the lips of his person.

"A man of my being? Uninteresting as it may be, I served as a body guard to a friend. My service was proud... even if some things never healed. I found catharsis in stencils and canvases of which I often took part in using while within the borders of an 'enlightened' city with nothing to prove but its own hubris. Yet still, there were generous patrons who commissioned my work when I could afford to upkeep my suit properly and secure a vehicle for travel."

He put the bottle down gently upon a counter.

"It really didn't matter what it was. The ground which we walked, the rule of man, the flight of the butterfly, and the waves of the sea. There were individual commissions of great value to single households and even took part in creating memories for groups of higher standing. It was a baffling experience to be invited to privately paint for the wealthy, not because I was special, but because I was a Darcsen who impressed them. And as we know, because we do not matter in the eyes of society, I was given my time to work, but only within clearly stated rules. I joined the military to pursue honest pay for my friends who I considered family."

He then leaned over to feel the water, judging it quietly before standing straight and considering his actions. Continue with conversation. That was the sound choice. "What about you, Ines? What of your past?"

---

Ines couldn't help but smirk as Franz explained himself. He spoke almost as though he were in soliloquy, and yet, in such a thought-out eloquence as if he was required to impress her. Truth be told, Ines knew only roughly of what he was saying. What Franz spoke of echoed the words more a distant philosopher high in the hills rather than a normal person. Alas, Franz was a queer sort, but there wasn't anything wrong with being a bit strange, was there?

At the end of it, Ines pondered why he refrained from much simpler a syntax than the sermon Franz chose to gave, in spite of the satisfactory nature in his little proclamation. Mind you, things still resounded to Ines; That notion that the Darcsen, in Franz's words, "did not matter" rung true, if perturbing. It was an experience she knew well, but, strangely, in a way also knew did not matter. If what Ines had known through her many years on this earth had resounded with any veracity, it was that people were born, then they were proven. For what Ines had of her meager birthright, she had made the best of what she had, as paltry as that may be, and for whatever pittance that may be, Ines found a certain pride in overcoming the odds.

Her head raised slightly, more in a natural pose, thinking her words over as her own query rebounded to her. Candid she would be, yet, Ines harbored anxieties towards the release of her past. Ladylike was not an adjective often suited towards Ines, and even the idea of your typical Francwoman needn't apply to Ines, even in many of the most basic cases.

"Before the war...I was a streetfighter. A professional, too; I fought in scenes, in front of a crowd, and that's how I made our money. Since I was 13, that's what I did. That's what I had to do; either that or be a gangster or some other menial job. My mom has a job, but..."

Her voice audibly hushed, and even while her back is turned, Franz could sense her cusped frown form from the the acrimonious thought. The disappointment was almost palpable, like it hung with the mist from the filling bath.

"My mom is a mess." She started, chagrin watering her voice, "She crawls home in the mornings after spending all of her money gambling or drinking or trying to impress someone. If we lived off of her income, we couldn't eat. We couldn't pay the rent. We couldn't do anything except squat in an old factory."

"I have a brother, but he's not any better. My mother sent him to Vinland when he was a little boy, and now he's a big and mighty ledger manager in New Belfast. He doesn't talk to us anymore. Won't even return our letters or send money home aside to boast and brag."

A sigh escapes, Ines taking a deep breath from the reflection. Her family was a mess, as was so painfully clear, and even the mention of it drove her to discomfort mentioning them, the embarrassments they were. Perking up, she turned her head slightly, noting the slight splash of Franz's movement in the bath. Peeking over, the edge of her eye looked back to Franz, barely noting his back turned to him, as it should be. She slowly headed to the bath, covering her important bits with her hands as she approached the bath. Ines didn't look down at Franz - though the thought crossed her mind, no doubt, from that natural curiosity that pervaded everyone in the presence of others so exposed - and instead quickly moved around to her end of the bath. Faced forward the entire time, she quickly lifted one leg over the tub, then the other, taking residence in that half of the water so clearly designated as hers.

In the bath, Ines deeply sighed in relief, the rushing warm water coming over her body as it came over, like she could feel every bead of the foamy bath unwind every tight and clenched muscle in her, from her sore, ripping calves, up her thighs and unto her clenching, aching back, still rather red from the wear of a combat load. Hand cupped, she threw water over the rest of her body, taking time to start cleaning herself off.

Ines chuckled. If she was already here, she figured, she may as well tell Franz a little something to pass the time.

"You know...when I was a little girl, do you know what I wanted to be when I was a grown woman?"

---

She was a fighter. It seemed that she was not just a fighter as in the metaphorical sense that so often resonated with so many others but an actual streetfighter as well. To be a professional for-gold-and-glory fighter was something that seemed like it would have paid well, but even that didn't seem to be enough. Probably something of screwing her over for her hair no doubt, but he had no idea what she needed to sustain. Medical care would have likely have been much harder to get without money and it was something he remembered Markus becoming angry about on several occasions and eventually got to the point where he hired on a doctor who had lost his medical license for medical expenses in a not so fortunate and arguably abandoned makeshift hospital. If they couldn't fix the wounds there then it was off to a major hospital which meant actually shelling out cash that the gang couldn't honestly pay as they happened to live in such a place where Darcsen had to slide over more money. Typical.

The answer to his inquiry came immediately after, listening to her begin to crumble as she explained what a regretful mother she had. Franz couldn't relate. His mother was taken from him and he felt as though his birth was a tragedy more than anything. Not that he wallowed in self pity all day over his mother being a rape victim and being a child of such matters, but he did know that his father did not even attempt to make the situation better. As it was the only reason he allowed Franz to have the freedom to study books in his time was because then his father, seemingly smart enough to think so, could use him for financial gain. However, Franz refused this and were it not for that he wouldn't have been here to listen to Ines drip with welled up emotion.

Then there was the brother. Not much to note about him other than wanting to grab him by the neck and strangle him to death with a piano wire. He was a nobody living life with money but no substance. Bastard.

So there she went. He heard her move and felt the tension melting somewhat as she took her spot. He stayed in place for a moment, wondering how he could help. Yes, although he felt quite detached from his world and perhaps a bit empty... he began to feel sympathy. Nobody deserved a life so unfit. Nobody needed to live such a horrid existence without some kind of help.

So there he went.

1844. Crimson Swan.

He wasn't much of a wine drinker himself, but one dated that far back? Well he had thought about the detail before, but he wondered what the significance of those old old drinks were again. A wine enthusiast, who often found himself laying in the back of an alleyway, once spoke of old wines as though they were treasures to behold. A certain prestige about them held in his eyes as it send him into a blackened slumber with a grin from sea to sea.

So... using the cork screw that he almost forgot to grab... Pop.

"Not poor, certainly." He responded, attempting to provide some humor to the conversation.

A trickling poured into glass as he filled it mostly and moved to Ines's side. From this angle, Franz had perhaps exposed himself to her, but she was a woman in need of something and that something came in the form of a universally used creation which served the purpose of bringing joy through borderline poisoning. With the glass in his hand, he presented it roughly in front of her. She had asked him not to look and so he did not.

Once it was in hand he moved to the door to ensure it was secure. The lock being in place gave them the privacy they had earned and as he took his place in the water he settled quietly after a long, drawn out, satisfied, steam released sound of a train taking its place in station.

---

His hand extended to her, and that was what Ines could note while she saw a hand extend from her back. It threw her for a curve, certainly, for what came with the distinct pop of a wine bottle's cork did leave her with many a question. Yet, what she saw was a wine glass specifically for her, and for what she had now...that's what she needed. A drink, good company, and a good bath. The war could wait. She had better things to do.

Ines snickered with Franz's approach to humor, taking the glass gently from his palm. She took a brief sip, admiring the smoothness of the rich red wine. It didn't burn at all on the way down; whatever Franz had must have been at least 10 years old. Where on earth did he find this little treasure?

"I wanted to be an opera singer." Ines revealed, smiling as she sighed, "But being a Darcsen in entertainment never works out as well as you hope."

---

Franz smiled at the thought. A singer? She must have had some passion for it. There was much he wanted to do and he knew what she meant, or at least thought he did, when she mentioned how hard it was to be a dark hair in the industry. Even if they accepted you there was no way they were putting you where the public could see you. There was even the dirty move of people stealing your art without any protections. It truly was a dark world for Darcsen but...

It was strange. Simply staying in the bath and taking a sip of his own glass made him feel... no. It wasn't the bath or even the alcohol that he was now trying to get used to... No what he was feeling... It was Ines. It was the raw feeling of having someone who resonated with you. It was the Darcsen- no- person by your side. This moment was special and...

A smile. From his marble hard face did there finally come from the chiseled mouth a cracked smile with a twitch from how wide it was. His face wasn't used to it and it borderline hurt, but... It was a smile. And there was... happiness? He had to continue.

"I believe I understand what you mean. It may be a bit rude of me to ask, but can you show me? I'd love to hear the Valkyrie within."

---

In the midst of his request, Ines happened to be taking a sip from her wine, and from his request, she nearly expunged the drink she had in her mouth with a near-audible gasp. Nobody had really ever asked her to sing, before. Nevermind within a bath, of course, but Ines could seldom believe what she had heard escape from the man's lips. Almost double-checking, she instead, in an attempt to calm herself, sipped and sipped from her glass, until naught was left of the smooth, rich liquid, And while she partook in the pleasures of a fine drink, she, then could partake in the joy of a job well done, it seemed; The joy to perform.

She reached back, handing the empty glass back to Franz, naturally asking for a gracious refill of her drink. It was hidden from his view, of course, yet Ines bore a blush from Franz's request in sheer flattery of the notion, instead masking it with a more cold demeanor from which she could begin to prepare a song.

"Give a refill, will you?" Ines asked, just after clearing her throat for her performance. As soon as her glass was gone, she slowly cleared her throat, the tapping of her finger along the bath's rim keeping in tempo with her signature.

"Love me as though there were no tomorrow~"
"Take me out of this world tonight~!"
"Take me~!"
"Make me forget my sorrow,"
"So when I wake tomorrow, I'll know our love was right."
"Kiss me as though it were now of never~"
"Teach me all that a heart should know~"
"Love me... as though there were no tomorrow~"
"Oh my darling~, love me; don't ever let me go~."

Dear lord...Ines' voice was...it was simply a harmonic joy to behold. Like the Valkyrie Franz proclaimed her to be, Ines took to full song, in perfect pitch and harmonious song, like each word which rolled from her was a rolling red wine, sweet and aged to perfection. No doubt it resounded throughout the room, and beyond that room perhaps, but alas, this incantation was special, angelic, and reserved for Franz alone.

"Kiss me as though it were now or never~"
"Teach me all that a heart should know~"
"Love me as though there were no tomorrow;"
"Oh, my darling, love me~"
"Don't ever let~...me go~"

---

Franz gently took the glass as it was presented to him, placing down his own of that refined taste to give her a fresh batch. The tapping on the bath was distracting for the moment. It made him question just what she was doing before he heard it begin.

The very moment he heard her voice he stopped dead in his tracks. He didn't know what it was at first. It certainly didn't sound like what he expected- It eclipsed it. He- He had no words. He had nothing but a loose grip that he had to correct before he spilled the glass and bottle everywhere. Was she a siren? Was she an angelic figure from beyond in those tales those pious men and women told? What was this but- but some kind of mythological tale come sprung to life?

Whatever numbness there was... it was gone. It was as though she had cured him. It was as though her voice climbed into his soul and pulled it out from the cold desolate coffin it rested in and brought it into a world of unspoken light. There was... nothing like this. It had even registered just now that she chose to sing- and for him. She heeded his request and what he got from muttering but mere words was a crusade of the blades to collect the fallen. My god... Franz had never been one to believe but surely a god must have existed to create such perfection and his body agreed with shivers he had never thought of feeling and a burning desire to face the exalted one.

When she stopped the pouring, albeit slowly, began again. It took a while for him to even hand her the drink as he still gawked at what was still flowing in his mind with a warmth he couldn't imagine but moments prior. Gently he returned her the glass she desired. His breathing was different and his heart rate had increased. He had to adjust to not trip over himself, but an impressed voice came out all the same.

"I... What words could describe such a performance? Is this what it was like to be tied to the mast of a ship while agonizingly listening to the siren's call? Ines- I... I don't know what to say- it's beautiful."

---

His words would be flattering to anyone, nevermind the woman sharing his presence in a bath. Ines couldn't help but blush, and this time, her distinctive Francian laughter - however muffled it was as she rose a hand to her mouth - couldn't have been muted in any shape or form. Franz could not see it from his angle, but he could sense Ines was clearly a bit embarrassed by his applause at her performance. Not in the sense that it was a dismissal, mind you; That it was something Ines herself knew she worked hard, and to receive recognition from it, no matter whoever from...that was what mattered in this moment. While the two were together, Ines smiled. She found the circumstance strange - that she bathed with a man she had barely known and began to undertake in their deepest secrets together with the magical alluding of one glass of wine - but questioned it little. Strange, it was, but what was life without a bit of curiosity to it?

Taking a sip from her newfound glass, she almost peeks back at Franz, suddenly remembering her own imposed rule. It almost felt rude not to reciprocate his notion with eye contact, yet Ines felt it best to resignate to what she had suggested to begin with. Instead, she continued her laughter, smiling all the way.

"It is nothing special." She insisted, "What about you? Franz, what did you want to do with yourself?"

---

Franz couldn't answer immediately. He found it impossible to as he mostly fought himself in looking and wanting to touch from her call. Deepest desires of his heart ripped out from the darkness. Funny that. He remembered her rule and being able to adhere to an imposed rule, self or not, was important to Franz. So he took time to finally respond and after a bout of silence he spoke.

"I... I found passion in art. I loved stories of mythology. More than anything I... just wanted to make people happy. I wanted to see the people I loved smile. I wanted people to feel something from anything I shared with them especially if I was the one who made it. I don't think there is anything greater than that. But what I have done is truly nothing special. Your modesty is a suit bursting from the seams."

---

Ines couldn't help but laugh at his attempts at modesty. She took yet another sip, then asked:

"What do you like to draw?"

---

"Anything, really. I used to paint for others. Dogs, the hillside of a village, even a naked noble who wanted to remember what she looked like in her youth. I was constantly under pressure on that one. Not allowed to look but also not allowed to fail a stroke otherwise they would have paddled me. A damned situation. Yet, with what glances I managed I satisfied that patron as well. If I'm allowed to paint - I will."

---

Ines couldn't help but be charmed by it. She never figured Franz to be a painter, not one bit. Yet, it was almost...poetic? The exact word was a bit difficult to come by, yet she simultaneously was surprised by Franz's revelation that he was a painter, and as soon as he mentioned it, it all came into view and make perfect sense. Perhaps...well, maybe not now.

She took another gulp from her glass. She already had a glass from downstairs, mind. Another one wasn't anything, and even so, the intricacies that were her exact process were getting a bit blurry. To Ines, she was in a little blissful warm paradise with another person, enjoying the company. It was nice, truth be told. Like nothing really mattered. Like she could almost take a break from it all. And...well, who was she kidding? Just now, Ines was taking a breath from the bloodshed and drudgery that was the life of the soldier. Now was the time to let her hair down and relax.

"What did you paint?" she asked.

---

His mind stuttered for a moment at the question, thinking he had answered it. Maybe she was looking for another answer.

"For myself? Or?"

---

Fuck it, Ines was already thinking sort of in a blurry sense. Before she knew it, her glass was gone, and she just needed another little kick of that sweet goodness...whatever it was Franz was giving her.

"Yeah, for yourself." she responded. For the first time, Franz noted her sounding upbeat. Joyous. Happy, even.

---

After idly drinking more of his own glass and refilling them both he thought on the question happily.

"Truthfully? I always loved the mythology I read years ago. I made plenty of portraits depicting their histories. But I also enjoy making pictures of others. I haven't even mentioned it to the squad yet, but, I've made one of everyone in my spare time. I've even made one of you. It's a simple portrait, but you've made my day so bright already I thought it would be fair enough to let you in on that secret early."

He wanted to look at her badly, especially with how jovial she was, and as he continued to drink that desire became stronger. The taste of the wine also seemed unusually pleasant. 70 years of time gone by for this exact moment. It was waiting for them and Franz was just happy to be a part of this date. Ehehe- a date. It was certainly like one. Everything was just too perfect.

---

Now, those exact words were pretty alarming, truth be told. "I've made one of you", he says, so nonchalant as if it may as well be no innocuous an event as the turning of the day. It was a sort of naive statement, and in any other condition, Ines may have smacked him for his insubordinate action, but in her current state, she was a bit flattered by his bravery. Hell, truth be told, she may have always been impressed by his honesty in the face of everything else. She did, if anything else, enjoy his talks, and in a way, eagerly awaited his response to every one of her queries.

"'Made one of me'?" she questioned - mind, not in a threatening way - but rather, one of genuine intrigue; Whether that was assisted by her wine intake or not...that was the vague factor. Yet, judging by her tone, that factor itself was inconsequential to what was to happen next.

"May I see?" she asked.

---

Franz chuckled at the question and responded shortly after thinking for a moment.

"Absolutely, but only on one condition. Since we're both wet and would obviously have to step out for it - I think it's only proper that the artist hold up his prize. And I think it would only be fair if he got to see the living, breathing, reaction of his audience. But - if you can't do that then I guess we'll have to wait until after the bath." There was a small smirk to the end of his statement as though he felt he placed her in his own made up game of chess. What would her king do now?

---

In spite of his question, Ines still wondered how Franz found himself the time to draw her. Was he, with no doubt, some sort of stalker? Ines doubted it; Even for a Darcsen, Ines herself she believed not to be a figure to behold. Her figure was much too...powerful. Masculine, in a sense. Ines' body was honed from a life of attempting to survive from fight after fight until she gave in, and the result was a woman honed in muscle in definition that was a far cry from the petite standards of Francian beauty. Ines herself did not believe anyone would want an Amazon, as did the old adage go. Yet still did she attempt her way through life, convinced that her luck was bound to happen sooner or later.

Still, it was impossible to truly hide that she remained unflattered by Franz's attempts at depicting her. That corporeal curiosity to her got the best of any sense of decency, so she had to ask:

"...can I see?"

---

She failed to be dissuaded, it seemed. The Imperial-Gallian was surprised. However, the show must go on.

It was upon thinking of how he talked that he realized just how often he snuck into theatres for cultural enlightenment. It was a pleasure that he could experience, but one he seldom talked to about for he was the only one in the gang interested in the fine arts aside from the old men who were now dead. Shame.

Franz only bothered to dry himself and as soon as he did he placed the towel to the side and dug through his backpack until he found the rolled up portrait that had been handled with care using a metal container within. Each portrait has been layered on top of one another but he found hers quite fine as his memory allowed him to know exactly where it was.

After standing in front of her, keeping his distance in case of a spray of water, he placed his hands upon the scroll that he divided through shifting how it was rolled to split from the center.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Herr Blau presents 'Ines Levesque'"

Then there it was. He held it to his side as though he was presenting an award winning painting to an audience standing at the grandest of theatres. And as she laid witness upon it he locked his eyes onto her face with a hopeful expectation.

As for the drawing itself... It was... rather perfect. Down to strands of hair and the exact curvature of her nose he collected each detail and recreated a stern, bold, portrait of a woman in uniform. It was a little more than a bust portrait really and one that only covered her from head to the mid range of her torso where it faded into the color of the white canvas. She looked directly at the observer, an illusion created from practice and study. Her form was somewhat relaxed, but there was that hint of readiness in her body in case she had to spring into action. It seems he even took the liberty of placing a copy of the smoking stick she gave him in her hand that was cocked back holding it like a cigarette holder. Her arm was brought back to match a more iconic fashion pose and her sleeve upon that arm was folded back to expose some of her muscle.

"My mind can remember a fair amount of details of others. I don't know how to describe it, but it is an ability I've been able to use when I think to draw. It doesn't last forever, so I try to work fresh."

---

That moment...Ines herself had not the words to describe it.

"Flattery" was but the tip of the iceberg. Franz had, in such detail, painstakingly inscribed every detail of her being into his portrait, no matter her observation nor protest, and instead created an iconic figure of which Ines was almost perfectly represented in canvas. She knew not how Franz so delicately copied her mechanisms, nor her demeanor or actions, yet still found herself inscribed - entranced, dazzled, bewildered - by the figure of which Franz had put on display. It was truly beautifying, really; As if Ines herself knew what she could stand to represent, that figure of strength and testimony when she herself preached lessons she had yet to truly decipher.

She instead looked upon it with certain gaze, miring its slight curvature as she looked the inscription up and down. Why...it was as if Ines felt herself met away under what Franz perceived her as. For what may as well have been the last time, Ines felt not fear. She felt certainty, confidence. Acceptance in a world which wanted her death warrant.

And rather than accept his attempt at another pouring of her glass, Ines instead boldly took a sip straight from the bottle, reaching across in deadpan fashion as she knew exactly what it was she had to face.

"Did...wow." Ines saluted, "...did you...hehe."

Ines smirked, almost raising herself from the tub as she looked over it, bottle in hand. She was getting herself tipsy, as she imagined her mother to, but Ines could have cared less. This was naught but proper resignation from her work.

"...Need to draw me like one of your Imperial girls?" she offered.

Ines was tipsy to the brim, of course, but she could have given a damn. She was with someone important - someone who understood - that was what mattered now.

---

Her reactions were everything he hoped to hear and more. He expected a bit of satisfaction but her entranced feelings towards the project had been the result he had been looking for. He tried to capture the details as best as he could remember and that was far more than others. He was thankful for that ability for it gave him an advantage others didn't seem to have. Then she... offered?

She... wanted to be painted? She would pose? For him? Really? Even with her own sensitivity toward the situation she wanted to give that up? For him? He blushed at the notion, finding her lack of reluctance was- he didn't know how to describe it but it wasn't a regular feeling of joy it was... something else. He pressed his lips together as he thought for a brief moment and nodded thereafter.

"I'd be happy to."

---

She supposed she was doing this, now. It was a strange experience, for certain, and nothing Ines had any familiarity with aside from some pompous image crafted in her head of a woman laying upon a bed as if it were some sort of romance scene. Not like Ines wasn't used to people watching her - those with stage freight didn't fare well in the ring while fighting - but this was with even less clothing on than she already thought was bare-bones during that time. Hell, the number of people she had been with could be counted on one hand, and Ines knew she conformed to few traditional standards of beauty. Yet, there were first times for everything, and even now, she thought the stance over in a strange sense; posing for art was unthinkable, but fighting in a war? No problem.

Emerging from the tub, any definition she had laid out before was, if now more than ever before, shattered completely. The alcohol was to thank in no small part; even so, Ines wasn't averse to new experiences. Ines herself knew she was no leaflet girl for newspaper advertisements. Far too toned, Ines instead had the build of a true Amazon, chiseled from her own experiences since the age of 13, in her own words. Not to say Ines had not feminine features, mind you, yet what was before Franz was clearly a brimming display of health. It was almost inspiring, truly, that her nude form inspired sensations other than the erotic.

And in that moment, Ines broke her stone-faced demeanor, flush red with color as she smiled from the embarrassment. It took confidence to so boldly rise from the bath and strike a pose, hand behind the head and arm on hip, in some sort of attempt to appear attractive, true, but that crumbled before long as she laughed from the exposure. In a sense it was exciting, like Ines wasn't supposed to be doing it. If her mom knew what she was doing, for as loose as she was, Ines didn't know if she would throw a fit or congratulate her on finding a man. Likely both.

"W-what do I do?" Ines asked through iterative chuckles, barely able to hide her red-flushed face from the awkwardly amusing experience before her.

---

Every moment was precious. The way she stood up and accepted the moment, the way she stopped after a brief moment of remembering what she was doing, and just asking him what to do. He dug through his supplies shortly after, pulling out what he needed piece by piece.

"I want you to take a pose that you want to remember. Something that says something of who you are. Bring life to the canvas. I will need you to be still, so if you want to lay down or stand up make sure it is in a position you can hold."

---

Ines giggled at the response, putting her head down as she shook for just a moment.

"Shit, i'm going to need some more wine for this..." Alcohol confidence really did help her simply be, all things considered, but she knew it wasn't likely the best thing for sitting still. But in a situation like this, being completely still was the last thing on her mind. But hell, if she did this right, she might be moving around a lot more.

Taking a deep swig from the bottle, Ines sighed with laughter as she resumed a position directly across from Franz. Heeding his words, she attempted to stand in the same pose she had originally - one hand on her head, the other on her hip, slightly turned while she looked upon him.

("GOOD GOD OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD DON'T STARE DON'T STARE DON'T YOU FUCKING STARE INES LEVESQUE I SWEAR TO GOD")

As her thoughts raced while catching the odd glance down at Franz, well...it was commendable she possessed the basic will to hold her pose for as long as she had. If that did nothing to stop her incessant chuckling and beat-red face.

---

Franz had taken a moment to shift his feet as he looked for another piece. Hmm... Now that wasn't where it was. It would be easier if he just put his feet parallel. So he did. Going from his lower position he spread feet and spread the backpack wide, squatting slightly on his toes as he saw what he was looking for and dipped into a controlled position where he pulled out the utensils he was looking for.

As he pulled away from the backpack he- he felt that energetic boy from years ago! He turned to her with a bounce, taking the moment to stretch out his body in various poses. "Alright- so- I'm jus-t stretching out to get a better- grip as I'll be doing this for a while. Al-right!"

With that small exercise out of the way and a tin cup placed half filled with water and a rag set off to the side he was ready. He was giddy, really! This had turned out to be such a special moment and- and- he was happy! Unreasonably so! As he set up the canvas and put together piece by piece of the stand. That thin frame was all that stood between Franz and his object of study. The sounds of a march melted into his ears and suddenly his feet began to move to the sounds he heard before.

He looked at Ines and closed an eye for a brief moment to make sure he had the perfect idea what she looked like as he took this snippet of information to start at her head. Chin into the rest of the jawline while stopping to make room for her hair. he kept to one singular color with thin strokes but he felt like there just wasn't- there just wasn't enough movement!

His legs followed after his feet and not long after that his hips began to make their own bounces. He even synchronized a minor thrust to the sound of a loud drum in his head. Now this! This felt better! Despite his more drunken state now weighing in on him he found his ability to render unhindered. He finished the line art of her face and hair without too much time gone by and soon after he lowered himself slightly instead of choosing to adjust the stand. Neck! Shoulders! Collar bone! Stomach! Chest! Chest! Chest. Uh-ches-um...

He slowed down as something seemed to snap in his head. His bouncing became a bit less wild and the red upon his cheeks rivaled that of a tomato as blood left his brain and blinking became more rapid. He continued to work but- his eyes were a bit more open as he tried to remember himself! Franz! Get a grip!

---

("GOD. FUCKING. DAMMIT. FRANZ. STOP. BOUNCING. THAT. THING. AROUND. FUCK. DAMN. FUCK. OH FUCKING FUCK THAT THING'S BIGGER THAN A BAYONET HOW DOES HE FIT A SNAKE INTO HIS PANTS.")

Was Ines dead? Was any of this real? Was some guy really just flopping around in front of her while she just couldn't keep in how frankly ridiculous the whole situation just *was?* Ines certainly couldn't keep a straight face if she tried. A dead-set smile filled her face, giggling, cackling, barely able to keep anything together. The cold, stoic, cold beauty Franz knew not an hour ago had melted away entirely, and beneath lay a woman wondering much the same as her sober contemporary, yet with a more jovial expression - Just how the fuck did she get here?

...not like she was complaining. The view was nice.

Ines knew right where Franz eyes were. They darted back, sure, but it was painfully obvious where they were darting back to. His face turning red hid him nothing, as much as dressing up in a jester's gaudy uniform might assist a soldier in camouflage. She grinned ear to ear, threatening to erupt into a roar of hilarity.

"So you like my tits, huh." She clearly slurred, trying her absolute best not to rupture the roof with laughter.

---

Franz couldn't take it. After all that had happened he burst out into laughter at her question! Knees buckled for a moment as he put his wrists on the outside of his thighs. He drank his cup of wine like water before coming back to the canvas and giving an audible grunt into his response. "Agh! They just look perfect! Sorry!"

He couldn't help it and the strain he was feeling lower down wasn't helping anything. He pressed his lips together as he grinned wide at her. "I just have to look for this art piece, shame that's all I can do with them." He clearly wasn't thinking about what potential repercussions there were to saying such things and at this point he really didn't care. He readjusted himself and, yes, continued doing some bouncing as he hummed and slashed across the white canvas which was slowly but surely coming to life.

---

"You asshole."

Ines broke out into a roar of laughter, nearly crumbling down to the floor as she keeled over from his response. This was just precious. Priceless. Just priceless.

"...it's okay, I like them too."

---

Franz had to stop as she fell to the floor. He put his utensils down and moved to press his back against the tub as he felt more of the alcohol slamming into him. He laughed a bit more as he listened to her break down.

"Thank you. I'm just- I'm just happy you're here An- Wait a minute weren't you looking?" Franz asked, thinking about how she was blushing and laughing more at the situation as he fell to his side.

---

Oh boy. Ines was guilty. Guilty as sin, and boy was she sinning. She would have preferred to go out by smoking wads of opium off a woman's chest while she was at it, but alas, this little drunken escapade would have to do. And certainly, was it *doing.* Ines barely contained her laughter, no longer in any artistic pose originally presented toward Franz, and instead now simply honed in on his one simple query:

"Well, since we're already doing this, yes. I looked at your dick. It's a very nice one, too."

---

Franz resigned to laying on his side like he was some kind of model as she explained herself to him. He loved this. He loved all of this. Caught up in the moment and the only thing that mattered was having someone who didn't even take the responses he gave with such offense that she left him alone... It was- amazing. All of it.

"Thank you. When I see something so beautiful I can't stop it from waking up. This is... I'm glad you're here." He was still bubbly, that much was clear, but he didn't want to drive her away and so briefly he looked away. "Are we going back to the no looking rule?"

---

"I don't know...I like this new 'Looking Rule'."

She smiled slightly, and asked;

"Franz...are you thinking what i'm thinking?"

---

"I like it too."

Franz crawled toward her, smiling as well before misplacing his hand along the way and smacking his face into the floor like a klutz. He gave an audible sign of pain and rolled onto his back. He rubbed his face for a moment and looked up at her with a short chuckle.

"Well - aside from how much that hurt - I'm looking at what I'm thinking of and I think you know it too."

---

Ines met Franz down on that floor, and climbed on top of him.

"Then let's stop wasting time, boy." She announced.

... ...
...
...
... ...

"YES! YEESS! OOHHH FFUUCCK YESS FRANZ! OOHHH FFUUUUCCK! OOH!"

Clearly, the two were having the time of their life in that dainty little inn floor, in the middle of a combat zone, in an island of neutrality where a stray artillery shell could land at any moment, and in spite of that, the two found comfort in each other's company. Truly, it was like magic.

---

Nothing was quite like this. He knew for sure it wasn't the alcohol and the motions left him absolutely stunned with every moment. It was as if they had managed to create their own little world in the privacy of a bathroom near an active war zone. Despite all that was known sub consciously there he couldn't even care! He could barely think as it was anyway! Ines was right here with him and together they shared this moment with no strings attached.

After some time there was nothing left. The dance had been concluded and the curtains closed on the show before the audience after a lengthy performance. As they came to a close and with the performers now laying upon the floor, Franz took it upon himself to come closer to her once again and, without warning, began to cuddle up to her, finding her warmth so cozy and soft.

"Oh Ines, you were perfect." He stated, a slur escaping his mouth as he closed his eyes while pressed against her.

---

By the time they were done, Ines was more than a bit out of breath. She panted on that floor, half a tub and half a drawing around her, splayed out while her companion nudged close to her. She took him into his arms, wrapping herself around in turn, their gentle warmth reciprocated. That feeling of being close to another...held. Known. Like you matched together. It wasn't anything Ines had experienced, not for some time. In a brutal, irrational world of violence and hate, there was just this little moment they could share together. Just one moment was all she needed, and...everything was a bit more clear. For the fuzz that permeated her head, it almost blocked it all out, and in thankful blurriness of that surrounding, Ines appreciated just who was with her.

She barely knew the man. He was naught but a curiosity, just a little thing to keep the time going. And yet...they had their little moment together.

Ines nuzzled up to his neck, planting a kiss on his neck.

"I had fun, hon'." she reciprocated, "You're...quite something, Franz."

Of course, alcohol still had its hold in spite of the adrenaline rush of their activity. And if Ines had a little bit to keep the edge off, then hell, for whatever she had of it, she was getting it all while it lasted. Just one second it came, and as she knew by now, it was warm one second, then suddenly gone. She looked back at Franz, still with that tipsy little grin of hers, and smiled.

"You wanna get another girl in on this? I've never had half-and-half before...I think i'd be fun." she suggested.

---

Franz was so happy. The hold that she willingly had to him left a memory that ingrained itself like the roots of a tree to the soil of the world. He listened to her heart beat and felt comfort in listening to every single beat. He loved it... maybe even her. It wasn't much time at all and yet they went from being strangers to feeling so unreasonably close in under a day. Her kiss.. oh he wouldn't forget that feeling. He felt safe with that kiss. He felt like a gap had been closed. Her compliment, her comments, and her continued support... He felt like the happiest man alive. The real world didn't exist anymore. It was just them. Well, until she mentioned bringing yet another into their fold. But Franz was so happy with spending time with her that he didn't mind it at all. He welcomed it entirely because it would have been more time spent with her.

"Anything you want, Ines. I'll be right here."

---

("Whoa...I think...I like this guy.")

She couldn't really believe it herself. Then again, she was proposing that Franz have what would be the best experience in his entire life just now, of her own volition. Damn. There needs to be a medal for something like this. The "Madeline Morale Medal", or something like that. At that rate, Ines rose from him, throwing on only her superficial garments - pants and jacket. Anything else was just more to take off later, in her eyes.

"Be riiiigght back~." she promised him, off on her search to find the fabled third.

~ Valkyria Chronicles - Changing of the Guard ~

“Ah, fuck…” She thought.

It wasn’t a good time. Or...a good anything. Right place, maybe, but Ines could tell Freya wasn’t quite feeling like herself. Even when she tried being humorous with her, the Oceanic undoubtedly wasn’t in a good spot. Still, Ines tried her best to put her at ease...the best a Darcsen with a resting scowl could do.

Her eyes raised more with every iteration of Freya’s response. Swimming. In your undergarments. Under artillery barrage. Ines could attest to a lot of feats of her own, sure, but they weren’t quite up to that scale. Bragging about swimming in filthy dock water wasn’t anything impressive. But...

“...i’ll take a bath, then.” Ines responded. Not really a point in it. She’d check up on her later, though, but for now it was clear that Freya wasn’t in a position to be chatting on the finer points of inebriated bathing.

That was gone, and out of the way. Jean, on the other hand, wasn’t too far over himself. And god, these two were awkward. Freya she never expected to be the inverse sort, but Jean she saw more of. He appreciated the company of himself more than any true manner of carousing, even when the opportunity presented itself. Though, Ines came to reason that it was unlikely that Jean had any manner of experience in little isles of comfort in what was otherwise a mad city where everyone was trying to kill you.

Ines threw her drink back, finishing off her bottle, then proceeded to lean a bit over toward Jean. He was back in his seat, upright as he seemed to tirelessly jot down note after note, verse after verse. Some manner of poem, Ines could see, as she leaned over to peek. Intrusive, yes, but from what she could see, this was of particular intrigue. A poem was easily turned into tune, and there was a slight accompaniment of instrumentality throughout the tavern. While Ines leaned, her finger nodded in tune with the rhythm of the ambiance, finding iambic meter to the syllabilic counts to each of Jean’s verses.

“One...two…” Jean heard her counting over his shoulder. Before he knew it, she swiped up his paper, holding it far away from him.

“Three-and-four.”

“I found myself laid inside,”

“On a cold and empty hall.”

You would not believe the sight had you not been there, yet Ines could sing. In volume great enough to fill her nearby surroundings, song took to the room in a pitch-perfect, cherubic encore, as if Ines had rehearsed the song hour by hour to the beat. And as she recited each verse of Jean’s poem through angelic songcraft, Jean saw something few had the pleasure to; Ines was smiling. Over that radiant cantation, Ines’ beautiful mezzo-soprano voice, Ines looked back upon him, and smiled.

She slowly moved away from Jean, outwardly holding his poem in his opposite direction, yet, her eyes looked right on Jean. She hadn’t missed a single beat, and she wasn’t even reading what he wrote. Every verse was right, recited in sweet, harmonic lullaby, even moreso than what Jean seemed to intend from his piece.

Jean knew that moment was coming; Reyna was about to be mentioned. It was almost like Ines knew what he was up for, like she had to be the one to do Jean’s job of proposal for him, lest he forever lose the prospect for anxiety. That notion was terrifying. What would Reyna think of someone who could never approach her, yet yearned for her? Was Jean just a coward, after all, needing yet again for the arms of another to do what he could not?

However, throughout the about-faced mood,

A glimmer shines through the bloody apolune

And whilst I recite her name in my mind,

All I can say is that this love is blind.

Is it love, or have I just fallen,

For the girl that walks above,

and I’m forever at the bottom.

And as she approached that dreaded meter, that dangling blade over Jean suddenly retracted. Ines paused, lowering the paper as her expression dropped to its’ dreary natural state. The paper flew, landing back upon Jean’s posterior, Ines reclaiming her seat next to Freya as she looked upon him.

“It’s not bad. Just needs a little bit of work, still.” She remarked. It may not have meant much, but with a girl like Ines, it was a true compliment. Yet, her gaze towards Jean meant one thing; She knew. She knew full well. And boy, oh boy, she was going to give him the experience now that she knew.

Still, Ines needed her bath. And that meant getting back up, going around, and finding wherever the hell this bath was...and that finally meant getting some new rags, and out of that god-forsaken constrictor around her chest...