Celes woke with a start as the sun hit his face through the open hayloft door. He'd slept all night, and still in his armor, no less. There was a blanket that some squadmate had kindly dropped over him, and he shook it off. Wincing, he realized that he'd sweated something awful over the night; he stunk, and his face and hair felt like they had been painted on. His eyes felt puffy and weak – he wondered how long he'd been in pieces last night.

He rubbed his head, or at least tried to, looking at the metal gauntlet as it came away slathered in his own oils. Valkyur, he cursed.

With a few steps away from his seat, he checked Kell and Barnett again. They were fine, as fine as people shot repeatedly or blown twenty feet into the air could be. He smiled; he felt like some sort of nurse. Awkwardly he raised a hand to his head again, before again realizing that he still had his gauntlets on.

Growling, he got himself out of his stinking armor – clasps, latches, and buckles later, it was in a neat if grimy and worn pile on an overturned crate. For neatness, he stacked his helmet and gauntlets on top, then grabbed his dropped pack and leant his rifle against it. He repeated the process for each of his patients, stacking their kit into neat piles. When he was done, it looked almost like base again.

He proceeded to take care of himself. In his worn brown fatigues, he slid down the ladder in seconds, moving towards the well that resided in the yard. The place was obviously owned and maintained by the village occupants, but he hoped that they wouldn't be coming in for work any time soon. It was the day after the Feast, first of all, and besides it was unlikely that this place was used much. The workforce here was most likely made up of factory workers, who would take a bus to centralized areas of industry every day. If they were discovered here, it would be a shock.

One bucket of water later, he still stunk, but at least his face was clean. Images of the Marberry shore were dashed away with a blast of cold fresh water into his eyes, and a third bucket he greedily drank from, finally calming down.

Fingering the wisps of facial hair that refused to grow out into a mature beard, he realized that the unit's chain of command had collapsed. There had been no call to arms, no morning orders, no – well, anything. Momentarily he wondered if there had been a second evening briefing, but he dismissed that; if Lieutenant Karst had orders, he'd have made sure the entirety of the unit was paying attention, and not a single man of them – except maybe the cold, calm, calculated Lieutenant himself – could have done so right after that slaughter.

With a mental shrug to throw off any feelings of misgiving, he called out towards the barn's main doors, which were shut. "Lieutenant?"

An answer came back immediately. "Jacelern. Come inside, I need to speak with you." Celes almost laughed hysterically. The Lieutenant's tone was as if he was ordering breakfast, somehow carrying through the wooden doors anyways as if they simply hadn't existed.

Sighing, he hung up the bucket and crossed the yard again. Carefully opening the door a crack, he slid into the gap and shut it behind him, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting once more.

What he saw almost made him laugh again. The Lieutenant had ordered breakfast. The unit was sitting docilely along the walls or upon containers or haystacks, eating from mess plates. The food was little more than canned rations, but it smelled good – especially after the day's previous combat. Lieutenant Karst was himself seated in a facsimile of a desk, created with three barrels, a board, a ragnite lamp and a milk crate for a chair. A set of plates, one filled with food, documents, and a map were strewn on its surface. He looked absolutely impeccable for a man who had had a subordinate's guts splattered across his face the preceding day. Even his circular glasses were sparkling – Celes could see his one-eyed, tousled reflection in them.

The trooper stepped carefully up to the laughable arrangement and snapped to attention. "Sir!" he said with the most bite he could put into his voice, which was to say not much.

The Lieutenant saluted back smartly and yet casually, and, as Celes relaxed, pushed the filled plate towards him. "Eat, Jacelern, you need your strength. I'll guess by your lack of contrition that Kell and Barnett are doing just fine?"

Celes failed to answer immediately for the oily sausage filling his mouth. Chewing rapidly, he made sure to swallow every bit before replying. "Yes, sir. I expect we'll be able to move them in a few days…" he trailed off. They didn't have a few days here – the Marberry shore was a mere couple of hours march by foot, minutes by tank or truck.

As if reading his mind – a common enough occurrence for the Lieutenant – his commanding officer adjusted his lenses and coughed slightly to take the initiative. "Precisely my point, Jacelern. We don't have that. We're lucky they didn't decide to pursue last night, but they will surely be here looking for remnants today."

He stood up, now addressing the whole remaining unit with the same reaching tone of voice. "Men." That simple statement stopped all mumbled conversation to an immediate halt; he had their undivided attention. "Continue eating, we haven't time for me to do this formally." Even so, they didn't taste the sour fruit or greasy meat as they watched. Not a single set of eyes doubted – they had absolute faith in their Lieutenant.

"We are broken. It doesn't need to be said that all of us saw most of their friends killed yesterday."

Stress crept in. The bloody taste of revenge turned into ash in their mouths as they considered their current state, which was pitiful, at the very least.

"That is why I suggest we temporarily disband."

That was an eye opener.

Their radio tech, Tella with the scruffy blond beard, called out an immediate reply. "But sir, what about our line of communications? We can report the situation, get extraction." He spoke hopefully, eyes shining with the thought of returning to the capital, resting – perhaps meeting his wife again, actually surviving the war.

"That is impossible in our current situation, Tela. We are undoubtedly cut off from any support, after the catastrophes all along the coast. You were operating the radio, you know that already. There are no intact Imperial units remaining. If we are to escape, it is on our own power."

Lieutenant Karst adjusted his glasses. "However, that is also impossible. Without armor or mechanized transport, we shall quickly be overtaken by Gallian forces and most likely systematically wiped out. And if we spilt into individuals, we shall be individually caught and dealt with by the same patrols."

They were antsy now, wondering if their officer was finally going to give up. Lieutenant Karst had been gotten them out of sticky situations before, though, on the Federation front, but never in one this bad.

The answer that came shocked them, as usual.

"Therefore, I propose we attempt to make ourselves indispensible to the local populace, and influence them enough in our favor such that none of them will give us up the moment a Gallian patrol comes through."

Even for the Lieutenant's record, that was too farfetched. It was more likely that they'd be shot on the spot. Imperial atrocities against civilians were already well documented enough so that no Gallian dared let an "imp" any closer than rifle shot – and preferably artillery range. Nervous chuckles began to circulate through the unit.

"C'mon, Lieutenant! Even for you, that's a stretch." Kell's twin, Nell, also a redhead, pointed towards the Lieutenant, but then dropped the accusation a bit, his arm following suit. "Is it?" he asked, more towards himself than to the officer in particular.

"I assure you it is not. Now, for our first jaunt, we can't all go out. A mere dozen we may be, but that could be the entire male populace of one of these hamlets. I'll pick one man to go with me, the highest decorated one…"

It took all of Celes's willpower to not look follow everyone else's gaze to the little medal on his chest. However, he didn't have enough to stop a resigned groan.