agogelogs | WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

WHO? Everybody!
WHAT? Agoge's fifth TDM.
WHEN? January 1916, Gallipoli.
ANYTHING ELSE? Violence, as always. Please warn in subject lines for anything beyond physical violence, and move to a personal journal if things go beyond PG-13.

And you know what they say;

Nobody deserves to die.

READ THE SETTING INFOPAGE.

arrival for new recruits

You wake up to the sound of bombardment, shells exploding in the distance, the smell of mud and rot and...mustard? You're in a tent and the cold wind rips right through it. You have none of your clothing, just black military-issued underwear, and none of your previous possessions beyond the one you chose (if you remember choosing) to bring with you. It's not a lot to go on, but the enemy isn't going to care very much if you remember why you're here on not. If you want to survive the next few hours, you'll all have to fight - and fight hard.

There's a man nearby in a corner, wearing an ANZAC uniform and sitting on a stool that's seen better days. When he sees you're awake, he answers any questions you may have and provides a quick briefing: you are a member of COST, a paramilitary organization of time travellers fighting against the Regency, a tyrannous kingdom of the future who are trying to stamp out freedom and individuality in the name of peace. And you are now in World War I on the planet Earth, in the doomed Gallipoli campaign on the coasts of Turkey. These specific trenches are known as Lone Pine.

He provides you with the clothing necessary to fit in and shows you how to use your BCE implant to look up information on this dimension, including its social and political mores. He won't let you leave until you're properly dressed, but once you are, he'll wish you luck. We could all use a little luck, here.

FOR VETERANS

It's been some long, long weeks since the veteran COST soldiers arrived in Gallipoli.

Despite the Regency's best efforts and the horror of the World War itself, it seems that the overwhelming majority of the ANZAC soldiers left behind have been saved. The men and few nurses still alive are looking forward to getting out and going home, and that's finally possible due to the work of dedicated COST veterans.

Congratulations everyone, there's a chance of getting out of here alive.

Groups 1 and 2 successfully established contact with a French ship, the Marie Antoinette. The French were in the middle of pulling out of Cape Helles and the Captain agreed to take on the stranded forces and bring them to Egypt - the training base for all Australia and New Zealand troops in this corner of the world, from where they'll be returned home. If all goes according to plan, COST's agents will slip out somewhere in the middle and back to BASE to regroup.

Which leaves getting there, made exceptionally easier by the work of Group 3's diplomats. They struck a deal with Ataturk - who, true to the tone between the ground soldiers of this war, greatly respects his enemy and recognizes no need to further pointless bloodshed.

LONE PINE

The situation at Lone Pine is dire. Food has run short and ammo even shorter. The fight with the Regency - disguised as German troops - has tainted morale. Their movement has been limited and, cut off as they are, the defense group has had little hope since the others left. The ANZAC troops are nervous and restless with the waiting. After all, they don't have the reassurances that COST members do through the use of their BCEs to keep in touch. They don't know what's coming or if the other groups have been captured or killed. They look for whatever cheer they can find in this truly desperate situation.

But they have some relief: the extensive tunnels in Lone Pine that cut into No Man's Land are still mostly intact. They offer some insulation against the cold snows that turn the ground to sludge and somewhere to sit where a sniper's bullet can't reach. It's in this space that meals are cooked and the wounded are kept out of harm's way.

...And then, in the early hours of the day before evacuation, the Matron Mary Smythe disappears. There's the sound of someone screaming and maybe you're awake in time to see Mary Smythe walk out of the medical tent, covered in blood up to her elbows. She disappears into the morning fog and, inside the makeshift medical tent, you'll find bewildered nurses and a few dead soldiers. They were recuperating, but the Matron did her best to slit their throats.

However, the Matron left in a hurry. Some of the bleeding men may still be saved, their injuries grave but salvageable. Act quickly.

FOR VETERAN RECRUITS RETURNING TO LONE PINE

Recruits who return with Group 3 have an easier return, with something of an unofficial escort through the Ottoman Turk lines. Though they have to keep their heads down, they are safe mostly if they stick together. The last thing Ataturk wants is for them to be shot down after he personally organised their safe passage. Nor does he want anything to tarnish what should be his flawless victory over the Allied Forces. They are brought to the edge of the Turkish Lines and make the rest of their way back alone to Lone Pine. Ultimately, Group 3 arrives back with a day to spare on their organised retreat.

Those still with Groups 1 & 2 make it back and in one piece, but they don't have the luxury of an escort. Nor is it easy going - they'll have to dodge gunfire the whole run down from the Nek and the French Dugout - but ultimately they make it. They arrive an hour later than Group 3.

UPON REGROUPING

The return and good news is met with raucous cheers from every soldier present - they clap members of the returning groups on the back, whistling with excited cheers of "You bastards did it! You bastards really did it!" It's an all-around hero's welcome, some of it shamefully tearful. They've assuaged fears that the surviving ANZAC troopers wouldn't see their homes or their loved ones again and the mood is palpable. "I'm going to tell my Darling to thank her stars for you every night!" These men have lived through hell for many months now and have had their hopes of going home shot already; many of them believed they'd never get out alive. But as the plans come together, there is a second where it dissolves into painful relief where they grip any other soldiers or nurses tight. "We might just make it." It's been a long while since anyone has even dared to think it.

The disorder from excitement only lasts a little while, before the order comes then from Captain Lewis - "Alright, settle down, we're not there yet." But even he looks relieved; the last few weeks and days of pointless waiting have turned him grey at every edge.

The terrain is now their biggest enemy. It's easy enough for COST recruits to communicate via their BCEs, but the ANZACs have their own communication system to circumvent the difficult, hilly country that often makes it impossible to track fellow soldiers. It's old - far older than the white colonists who have come to inhabit Australia - but it's a very simple cry of the word "Cooee". Adopted from the Dharug language of the Australian Aboriginal people who inhabited what is now Sydney, it has been used for years by everyone, from city folk to bush workers for a simple purpose. It's a loud resonating cry to let other people know where you are.

It may come in handy, when there are wounded men to transport down the heights of Lone Pine. Stretcher bearers are needed, to dodge anyone and anything that might mean them harm. Maps need to be studied to come up with the best routes and diversify the lines, to ensure they don't get funneled together at any point. This requires planning; it's vital everyone know their respective roles and shifts come the evacuation in the morning. Many COST recruits have an easier time of this than the average ANZAC, so maybe its the time to stretch some middle management skills or a hidden talent in deciphering turn of the century cartography. Sitting down and going over this with the local soldiers is important; some of them can't read very well, so it might be slow going. Others are just overeager and likely to do something stupid. Do what you can to get the words into the heads.

Meanwhile, for the long-standing COST recruits, there is another pressing matter: the six of their number kidnapped by the Regency. Just what might have become of them?

escape from bullshit mountain

Veteran recruits have heard plenty of explosions since they arrived in Gallipoli, but this one is different. It sounds nothing like a shell or grenade. There's a shock-wave quality to it, echoing across the trenches, but the epicenter can't quite be found. It seems to come from nowhere.

There's a moment of confused silence, but those with BCEs (those with COST), will notice a momentary glitch, a split second where their holographic technical interfaces blur.

Six captives have managed to escape and destroy this Regency cell's base of operations. The captives are ejected back into No Man's Land and must make a run for it back to Lone Pine. If they're fast, dodging bullets and slipping through mud and barbed wire, they can return to the closest approximation of safety in war-torn Gallipoli: the trenches most familiar to them.

Which shaves this affair down to the truth of what it always was: COST vs. the Regency. Until this point, it looked as though the Regency had the upper hand - they cut off supplies, launched surprise attacks on the defenders of Lone Pine, and captured a number of COST recruits - and were happy to goad everyone with their position. But the tide quickly turns.

For the escapees, it comes down to the same point: regroup to Lone Pine, gather up what remains of the soldiers, and get ready. There is only limited time to get everyone out with their lives intact. And COST has invoked a more resolute ire of the Regency, now without a home base. While most of them are too disorganized and disoriented to engage the escapees directly, others still in disguises of the era line up in the trenches and open fire.

The former captives will not make it by themselves. The Captain, while confused, yells the same order he's been giving for his last six months here: "Cover them!" Which is simple, really. Grab the nearest gun that looks like it might have a single bullet left and haul it up to the trench wall to fire over the top of it.

Do try not to hit the escapees though, will you?

THE CEASEFIRE

Ataturk, the one-day future founder of the Republic of Turkey, has earned the accolades of victory. They will position him upon the fall of the Ottoman Empire to free his homeland.

But, at the moment, he isn't able to give a direct order for everyone to stand down. Today, he is still at the instruction of the Ottoman Empire, allied with the Germans in this war and unwilling to let so many of Prisoners of War go. But due to his own opinions about the Ottoman Empire, Ataturk instead orders his soldiers to involve themselves in activities elsewhere. Namely, no matter what they see and hear on the front lines, with only Ataturk to oversee them, they will not move on other soldiers unless attacked. There are many other things they could be doing and he heartily encourages this.

It will last one full day, as agreed upon: from the dawn of the chosen day to midnight. No Turkish soldier will attack unless it becomes unavoidable for them to do so - and, as they are the main forces in the peninsula, this massively cuts the numbers they might have been facing.

This means that now the only enemy they are truly fighting are Regency soldiers disguised as Germans. Those who remain disguised are imperfect actors of the era and look rough around the edges; they may be better at fitting in than COST soldiers, but only on average.

THE DESCENT

In the morning, it snows.

But the evacuation can't wait and begins with the break of dawn. The process is fairly simple: one or two soldiers, armed and ready, break up the slower moving force of stretcher bearers and the wounded. The plotted paths send them on a winding trek through three alternative routes. Sometimes they overlap. In all cases, it makes clear the real obstacle to the ANZACS and the greatest aid to the Regency is, again, the terrain.

The Regency agents take potshots, snipe from safe positions, and ignore the ceasefire that does not, truly, apply to them. The ANZACs know that the order might not have gotten around, but when the first shot goes off, the soldiers swear something furious. "Haven't they already won?" The ANZAC soldiers can't know that the soldiers ignoring the ceasefire are Regency operatives in disguise.

But not all members of the Regency like these acts of subtlety; the jackal-masked soldiers are difficult to fight and harder to kill. They use the terrain and increasingly snowy weather to target any COST operative sloppy enough to expose themselves. Still, these soldiers are off their game. They're disorganized and reckless; if you kill one successfully - and it is possible, if difficult - the body will disintegrate.

Do what you can to stop them.

It's going to take teamwork to distract and keep them off their true marks, the ANZACs. When the Regency soldiers strike, it's clear they're not wasting any time. Every move is, if not kill, to incapacitate, to slow down the procession reaching the beaches and off the coast. They've got ample places and opportunities to ambush and attack unsuspecting groups of soldiers. One moment, the path is empty; the next, a Regency agent bears down on your position.

But ammo is low on COST's side and it might be better to scrounge around when you can.

Luckily, the trenches were abandoned in a hurry when the call for evacuation came. While the soldiers took as much as they could and removed bodies when and where possible, only so much could be taken. There are still quarter full boxes of ammo left behind, half covered in snow, and canteens still full of water drape off the knives stuck into the walls. If it's a piece of munitions, there's a chance of finding it on the way down.

There is something more, though. Left on tables and desks, in drawers and in cupboards, are fond farewells. There are notes, left in a myriad of chicken scratch handwriting to proper curving letters, that say: To Johnny Turk or To an honest Turk. And, occasionally, you may find gifts left behind as well: a bottle of wine, a fine cigar. Gifts of a fight so hardly meant.

In those little pockets of calm, when even the Regency needs to regroup, do you take it? Or, between a shift of ferrying people down the lines, do you just look at it and leave it be?

THE BEACHES

For those who remember coming to Gallipoli and landing on the beach weeks ago, the change is striking. When they arrived, it was a 300,000 strong teaming force of people, moving like its own city; ships pulled to the shore and the might of the British Navy sat just off the coast.

Now, it's a ghost town of half dismantled tents, holes from shelling in the earth like craters. The smaller docking vessels used for transport are riddled with machine gun bullets. And there are bodies too - always more bodies - with the ever-present stench. But the smell of the sea is, for once, stronger than the damp and death. After a war of so much sound and fury, the world muffled by an already thick blanket of snow, the emptiness and silence is striking.

But there, in the snowy distance (but thankfully not too distant), is a singular warship. And it's flying, much to everyone's relief, French colours. The rescue boat is there.

The cheer that goes up travels all the way down the line.

david vs. goliath: final round

Still, as you hit the beaches, the air crackles and more Regency soldiers appear in a desperate last attempt to stop COST. There is little cover and the Regency soldiers hit hard, all interest in subtlety gone. They aim to kill, not caring who they hit or what cover is lost in the process.

But, hey, if they're going to fight dirty, so can you.

Protect as many ANZAC soldiers as you can. There's no point in maintaining your cover at this stage; hit them with everything you've got. The Regency will target escape vessels and the wounded first, going for soft targets in their final offensive. Fight for your life and the lives of the men and women you want to survive, the people you don't want to die on this stinking beach, so close to escape and so far from home.

When the smoke clears, you'll have to deal with the fact that some ANZAC soldiers did see what you did. However, you'll find anything beyond the comprehension of the average 1916 soldier is often written off as a miracle, a touch of the divine, a legend. They don't think it was you. They think it was a greater luck and magic than can be fully comprehended.

Also, after weeks and weeks in the trenches, sometimes spending days living underground completely and low on food rations, they're all a little delirious.

meanwhile, a message from our sponsors

As soon as the fighting breaks out, Grothia issues a high priority, cell-wide bulletin.

@CMDR. ATTN: ALL.

Get to that beach. The ship won't wait and neither can we.

Some of you may have noticed we called in for extra reinforcements to ensure victory at all possible costs. I do mean all possible. Until these soldiers - every last ANZAC whose lives you have preserved up until this point - has survived this fight. Their lives must come first or all of this, everything you have been through up until now, counts for nothing.

If death comes for them, it is you who will take their place. You, we can revive. As such, you are to treat yourselves as expendable from this point forward. If you find a downed COST member, do not stop for them, we can bring them back.

Lastly - and most importantly. We give no quarter to the Regency.

I will see you on the ship.

She means it; the ship cannot afford to wait, exposed as it is in enemy waters. Successful completion of this mission rests less on a complete defeat of the Regency and more on getting everyone aboard the French ship as quickly as possible. Fight and fight hard, but don't become so consumed by it that you miss the last call to the boats.

anchors aweigh

The boats taking the soldiers to the Marie Antoinette seat around twenty, tightly packed. The wounded go first, then ANZACs. In the interest of being able to protect the convoys as long as possible, COST recruits are told to wait last, so you're liable to be stacked with a lot of your fellow recruits when you do get aboard. Try not to look too relieved. The water is bitter cold and the wind whips snow into your face.

But once you board the ship, you may be in for a strange sight: celebration. No one expected to make it this far, but they have and their joy is effusive; cheers bubble in the crowd. Men hug and laugh, shaking the hands of their saviors and slapping the backs of their comrades.

French wine rations are handed out in celebration; it's not the good stuff, low quality and recently bottled. But after the horrible rum rations given to ANZAC soldiers, it likely tastes like the holy grail. Soldiers sing and drink, cheering with tears in their eyes, glad to be alive. French soldiers ask what happened and ANZACs answer with outlandish and outrageous stories, angels and devils, fairies and goblins, soldiers accomplishing impossible feats.

Those COST soldiers who secured diplomatic ceasefire, repaired the radios and contacted the French, or protected both groups: all are cheered on, wine almost forced into their hands. And, hey, if you're a good enough liar, you can probably convince someone that's exactly what you are, even if you weren't around for it. It's not like everyone's sober for this leg of the trip.

Only fifty ANZAC soldiers died, largely of wounds sustained in transfer, and their funerals are short and solemn; a priest speaks their last rites, reads their names and ranks, and they are buried at sea. Among them are both the Long brothers and Captain Morangey shows his first emotion other than frustration and annoyance.

The funerals are over quickly and more wine is passed out as the ship is gently rocked by the sea. The mood shifts between solemn and joyful depending on the group, or even the moment. The people here have made it out, they're alive, and it's not unusual to hear their shock at this, repeated over and over, grateful despite it all.

READ THE SETTING INFOPAGE.

NAV. NETWORK LOGS OOC MEMES PLURK

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Being called surprises her. More so when the person looks like a girl only a little older than her. The surprise shows only briefly on her face, a slight expression before it settles. It's replaced by a frown when she sees only a bloodstained and twisted bayonet in the girl's hand.

She unholsters the pistol she'd plucked off a body somewhere in the trenches, holds it out. ]

You need a weapon.

[ Not that she is one to talk, but her rifle is still in her hands, loaded and the knife sits in it's sheath at her hip. To see this girl with nothing of the sort strikes Violet as a far stranger image than any she herself might cut. ]

[ She wasn't paying all that much attention when she spoke before, but she is now. This girl — the voice is different, and some of the features, but she looks like her father. (And Mordred herself, but far more dignified; lacking the rougher edge.) For just a moment, it's like she's back in that darkness, being tortured with images of him.

It makes her feel... angry? Protective? Something like that. Nevermind the complete contrast between those emotions. Mordred stares at the pistol for a moment longer than usual, then shakes her head. ]

Huh? No, no. You hold on to it.

[ Chances are she needs it more. Turning back around, she glances over her shoulder at Violet, her expression still half-twisting in confusion. But at least her voice is clear. ]

Just cover me. And make sure you act carefully. Got it?

[ Violet has had her fair share of strange looks from people. Mostly horror or shock, in varying degrees. She recognized the meaning of the looks (typically that she's done something strange), even if she can't place the words to them.

The look the girl gives her is something else entierly, one she can't even begin to guess the meaning of. She's sure she hasn't done anything strange, at least. Violet might be very bad at being a civilian, but she's very good at being a soldier and that's currently what's being called on. ]

Act carefully? [ It's such a strange thing to be told in the midst of a battle, another reminder that she's very far from the war she fought. There's little time for reflection, rifle fire rings out and bullets whiz past them. No time. Violet turns and levels the pistol at the Regency soldier. ]

You heard me!

[ Don't make her repeat it. She wants to be rude, and the fact something's holding her back just pisses her off more. Mordred ducks, making sure any bullets go over her head as she charges, bayonet held between her teeth.

The distraction helps her get close, and that's all she needs. She stabs the bayonet into their neck, underneath the bottom of the jackal mask, then stands, actually grinning from the exertion. Some of the blood splattered on the snow is her own, but she's already healing, though the tears on her uniform remain. ]

These guys are too strong to screw around with. So keep up, or I'll leave you behind. [ She won't. But she has to say that she will, to satisfy some stubborn part of herself that insists on being an asshole, even to a stranger. Especially to one that looks like... ] Can you manage that?

[ The girl is like her. Only... Different. Brighter somehow. Violet watches her fight, lays down cover fire but can't ever fully take her eyes off the girl. Was this what Gilbert saw when she fought?

That's impossible. She's a weapon. This girl is something else entierly, unburned by the same flames that had burned through Violet, more like flame herself. ]

Understood. [ The threat of being left behind means nothing, not now with bullets flying around them, not when Gilbert is- Violet's grip tightens on her rifle. ] I won't fall behind.

[ Because this is what she's meant for, isn't it? Another Regency soldier dives out of their cover and without missing a beat, Violet turns, firing. ]

Good!

[ She manages to yell, just before she hears the sound of another gunshot. More of them — fine. She's not ready for this to be over yet.

Whirling, she grips the bayonet in her hand again, and runs across the snow-sprinkled sand. Violet's first shot puts the agent down, and Mordred makes sure they stay that way, kicking them as she stands to make sure they're really dead. A moment later, the body disintegrates like the others, and she lets out a satisfied tch.

Behind them, the boat the soldiers were targeting finally pulls away, loaded to capacity with twenty men. Mordred stops, just for a moment, to catch her breath; watching it go with a slightly softer grin than the bloodthirsty one of before. With the crew out of gunshot range, she spares Violet a glance. ]

You did well. I'm glad our reinforcements aren't completely useless. [ Not that she needed the help, of course. But she can't be everywhere at once, can't protect every man, so she's grateful for it. Secretly. ] ... But don't get the wrong idea. I'm fighting because I feel like it, not to protect anyone. Only fools worry about that sort of thing.

[ Ok. ]

[ It's a strange feeling to be the one offering cover fire for another's fight. It's a strange feeling that she isn't the one wreaking violence with her bare hands. She doesn't have the words to put to the feeling. ]

...Thank you. [ She's not actually sure that was a compliment. The rest is so far out of Violet's understanding that she actually frowns a little at this strange girl. ] I don't understand. Do you enjoy fighting?

[ Being thanked is almost enough to make her blush. So, when she answers, she has to boast twice as much to make up for it. ]

What a stupid question. Of course I enjoy fighting. In fact, I love it! [ Boasting aside, the sentiment does seem sincere. ] The stronger the enemy, the better. It feels great fighting all-out like this.

[ She starts walking down the beach, just assuming Violet will follow her. There aren't many boats left, but she plans on covering the other COST agents, too — until the final call comes. ]

I mean, just think about it. Those guys all survived because of me. ... No, because of us. How does it feel, saving lives like that?

[ Thirty seconds ago: "I'm not protecting anyone." ]

[ She follows. She can't not. It's like there's a magnetic pull coming from Mordred. She stops when Mordred asks her... How does it feel? Violet lifts a hand and presses it to her collarbone, pressing the broach pinned on the inside of her uniform against her skin. ]

I've never fought to save lives. I've always fought. Always obeyed orders. Always killed. We were at war. I was a weapon, I wasn't meant to feel, but... [ She watches the boats and the strange, incredible girl and feels something swelling in her chest, wild and beating. ] I don't know what I feel.

[ For a moment, she clenches her teeth in annoyance. King Arthur wasn't allowed to feel either, not allowed to smile or laugh. The idea of someone, anyone, being treated like that pisses her off. She doesn't even know why she's so mad, just that she is; at everyone and no one at the same time.

But she doesn't say any of that. Not yet. Instead, she nods, seemingly pleased at the last part of that answer. ]

You can figure it out later. Come on. [ Her voice is almost... reassuring? ] Oh, and give me something to call you. Otherwise I'll come up with a name myself.

[ And it'll be rude, no doubt. ]

Yes. [ And that's what she has been doing, hasn't she? Trying to understand and put words to the things that she feels, to understand what it meant when Gilbert told her to live on, live freely.

She doesn't know what that means... She can't. She watches the boats a moment longer and then jogs to catch up to the strange girl. ] My name is Violet Evergarden.

[ She chuckles, not unkindly. ] That's a fancy name. Sounds kinda like you're royalty or something.

[ It'd be just her luck. But she doesn't think that's actually the case — and her hunches are usually right. ]

As for me... Saber is fine. [ Then, after a beat: ] No, forget that. Call me Mordred.

[ There's little point hiding her name now. The Regency know who she is, and so do all the other Servants, so she might as well start stop pretending otherwise. ]

I'm a soldier. [ She frowns slightly. ] I was a soldier.

[ So much time in the mud and trenches, it's so easy to forget the last few months of her life. Still, no one's ever commented on her name before and she's not sure how she's meant to respond. She goes for the pleasantries she's become accustomed to recently: ] Thank you for your assistance, Mordred.

[ And she stops in the middle of the battle field to give a shallow, formal bow. ]

[ When Violet actually stops to bow, Mordred stiffens, and very nearly trips. There goes the cool image (haha) she was trying to project. ]

Huh? Who said I was helping anyone? I'm not! I'm definitely not!

[ Her furious blush says otherwise, though. She's easily flustered at the best of times, and something about this girl makes it even worse. ]

If you're a soldier, you can look after yourself, right? You don't need me to protect you. ... Not that I'll just run off or anything, but you'd better not start depending on me.

[ The switch is a surprising one, but not entierly unfamiliar. It reminds her a little of her coworker, Iris. Cattleya, who Violet trusted with most thing in so far as people went, said she was being shy.

Violet isn't entierly sure about that, but at least Mordred is very clear in what she wants from Violet and that makes things easy. ]

Understood. [ She stands a little straighter when she rises, more like a soldier. ] You don't need to worry, I'm very capable of fighting on my own. I won't trouble you.

I wasn't worried... [ She says, too quickly. ] Anyway! I asked you to come with me, so just this once, I'll forgive you for any trouble.

[ How very kind. Desperate for something to distract from her own blushing, she looks further down the beach, eyes narrowing as she scans the shoreline. ]

There's another boat. [ Which means more Regency soldiers, but more importantly— ] Listen up. We've evacuated almost everyone else, so you should get on it. I'll be sure to take the next one. [ The last one. ]

[ Violet is still too in the habit of taking people at their word to contradict Mordred, but more importantly...

Her head jerks up a little, eyes sweeping the beach, taking in the boat and the coast line where she knows the next attack will come from. Her jaw tightens, her doll-like expression hardening. ]

I'll stay.

No, you idiot. It's only gonna get more dangerous, so just—

[ A bullet hits her in the shoulder. It hurts, and she bleeds like a human would, but her only response is a surprised yell, and then an annoyed glare at the shooter in the distance. ]

Damn. Too late! [ They're too far away for her improvised blade to be any good. She looks over at Violet instead. ] If you're staying, then do something!

[ Her eyes widen when the bullet hits and for a moment she forgets where she is and the person before her is a tall dark haired man, reeling back as blood flies and-

She has her orders.

It's very easy. So easy to turn and raise her rifle, shots ringing out sharp and clear. Easy to charge forward, fast and agile, into the Regency soldiers as they surge forward, using her bayonet like a lance and swinging the rifle down on the head of another soldier when the blade snaps off, attacking with brutal efficiency. ]

[ She doesn't charge alone. Once the shooting turns to stabbing, to close combat, Mordred's right there behind her — beside her — fighting like someone possessed. One soldier tries to punch her, and she grabs their fist, bends it back until something breaks. There's no scream, but she hears the snap, kicks away the bomb they drop when she throws them to the ground.

Killing is messy work. But she seems to revel in it, even as she shouts all sorts of profanities. Her knife breaks in another agent's chest, and she twists it as she stands, making sure they stay down. ]

Alright! Take that, you bastards!

[ From the shore comes a coooooeeee!, a soldier's booming voice aimed towards them. "Last call for the boats! Get your arses on board!" ]

Come on! [ She grabs Violet's hand, drags her back towards the shore. She'll push her forcibly onto the boat if she has to — away from the Regency's nullifiers, her strength is dozens of times that of a human. ]

[ Her rifle broken over the head of a soldier, Violet's own knife flies free. She doesn't find the same thrill in it Mordred seems to. If anything, she's the polar opposite; entierly silent and devoid of expression.

She doesn't notice the call. Doesn't register the command until Mordred grabs her hand (the metal prosthetic clanks more noticeably under a strong grip, but Violet only feels herself being dragged). She doesn't fight being hustled onto the boat, neither does she put any effort in getting on.

She feels. Strange. Disoriented. There was never a beach, never a boat that took her away from the fighting. She can't feel her arms, yet the prosthetic clank softly as she curls her fingers into a fist and relaxes them again. She doesn't know what to do, so she looks at Mordered, waiting for her next orders. ]

[ Mordred can tell something's strange about her arms, but she'll question it later. She's dealt with golems, homunculi, monsters, a cyborg... if Violet's something other than human, she doesn't care. If she's a human with other parts, she doesn't care about that, either. All she cares about...

... is the way she's being looked at right now. Mordred stares back, narrowing her eyes, but she's the first one to turn her head away. ]

What? Quit looking at me like that.

[ It comes off as brusque, and she makes no effort to apologize. She hesitates, but something in her feels dissatisfied with just saying that much, and so she continues. ]

... You're safe now. [ They both are, but for a selfish person, Mordred doesn't always think of herself. ] Once we get to the ship [ she points out at the Marie Antoinette, looming in the distance ], you can do as you like.

[ Violet blinks and looks down. That's right. Mordred isn't an officer. Violet doesn't receive orders anymore. Gilbert is dead and Violet is alone. ]

Understood. [ Her voice is soft, but even, without inflection. It's like when she first woke up. When she first found herself with her new arms and without Gilbert, only his last orders ringing in her ears. Perhaps this time someone really will discard her.

She thinks that might be fine. ]

[ Mordred rolls her eyes. She's frustrated, and she doesn't entirely know why. ]

That way of speaking! Show some emotion, will you? Even if it's annoyance, or disappointment...

[ She trails off. Fighting affects everyone differently, so maybe that's the problem. It's not like she cares, but since it's annoying, she has to try and do something about it. ]

Hey. If something's wrong, speak up.

[ Violet's jaw clenches and she looks up sharply at Mordred, a feeling hot and sharp ripping through her. Something like anger. ]

I don't understand. I don't understand what I'm meant to feel. I don't understand what I'm meant to be. [ One hand wraps around her upper arm, the prosthetic clanking together softly through the fabric and she thinks, wildly, that she should just tear them off. ] If I'm just a weapon, if I'm just a tool for killing, what does it matter if I feel!

[ Her voice rises in pitch a little, a sharp edge to it. She shuts her mouth around that voice, around her words, gritting her teeth. ]

WHERE ARE YOU GOING?

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