... and what is to come of her future? Someone so steeped in violence, so feral and unchecked- could they have a future beyond being put down like the beast they are? She's never thought about it, never contemplated just what could ever become of her.
Because she's scared she knows the answer.
She's always known the answer.
"You know the oath, you know the contract Fangs." Captain Fairbairn states coldly. "Commandos only leave Regiment through death or dishonour."
"I can't, in good conscience, continue my work." Thera manages to answer through clenched teeth. Not out of anger or disrespect to the Captain - never in her life at the Captain- but in a strained attempt to keep Fangs from protesting. She has to sink her fingernails into the flesh of her palms to keep the pain fresh and throbbing.
"You know that doesn't mean sheit, Fangs. You've been in Her shadow; you can't so easily walk back into Her Light now."
The Captain means that Fangs- that Shae has seen, heard, and done too much to simply be let go. Shae's jaw hangs open for a second; she thought she had some form of an argument ready, but all that comes out of her mouth is a pathetic little wheeze of nothing. Those violet eyes bore into her, burrow into her flesh deeper than any barb or bullet could.
"So you're choosing insubordination?"
"Aye, mum."
Fairbairn nods slowly, knowingly, at Thera's clipped answer.
"You could be executed. Lined up on the chopping block and -*shwip*-" Fairbairn's gesture was quick and final- just like how death by the sword should be. Emphasis on should. If Shae recalled, it took Wellington's bastard a good while to bleed out.
"At least it'd be quick and painless. Better than anything Wellington would've given me." Thera shrugs. "But I still have life to burn for Victoria… just not here, not like this."
"Head in the clouds still? Aspirations for the Tower?"
Thera didn't come to question how the Captain knew her past so well; the old war-scale no doubt did the due diligence in checking every aspirant's backgrounds before they even step foot in Achanarry. "Thorough" was the first thing that came to mind whenever she thought about the Captain, the key attribute that all the commandos under her command come to appreciate.
But she is no mind-reader.
"I'm no fool; I know I'm not knight material." Thera answers, ignoring the pang in her heart that wants so desperately to reject that crushing pragmatism. "Regular army- a Grey-an'-Tan. Let me still fight for Her… just… not like this anymore."
She didn't want to plead, that isn't her style, nor is it how anyone's win over a cold-hearted Vourivre witch like Fairbairn; but Thera couldn't completely hide it, either. The twist-horned hag clicks her tongue, eyes as cold and analytical as the day they first met. Three years under her command hadn't changed a damn thing, hadn't ingratiated Thera or Fangs to the war-scale any more than the other commandos. Just another piece on the board.
"Not my decision. Lord Battenmount's call on what will happen to you." Fairbairn speaks calmly, crossing her arms with slow, inevitable finality. She gives Thera a second to let that sink in, and when Thera doesn't object, Fairbairn's face contorts into an expression that Thera has never seen.
Regret.
"You were a good blade, Wesslan. If you're dead set on this then I'm not going to stop you. I'll see if Battenmount will spare you your life… but it's a debt you're going to owe Victoria for a long time."
"...I know, mum. I know."
Shae's no stranger to the brig, even less of a stranger to the isolation that came from being in a single-hold cell, too. She treats it like any other room, not dissimilar to her time in the Undercity of Londinium. Still eats, sleeps, shits- still wakes, trains, and patiently counts the days until she'll be released.
It's a tenday 'til that comes. She's, thankfully, spared being clapped in irons, but she's escorted by no more than an entire patrol squad, all armed, all apparently quite informed on just who they are escorting. Stuffed into a transport with nary any explanation, but she can see the battleship looming on the cold horizon to the south.
Battenmount's ship, Indomitable. Apparently even a Marquess could be put into command of them, now. Victoria really was preparing for war. Perhaps if things hadn't gone so fucking sideways in her life, maybe Victoria would have given Shae command of a swiftship or one of the smaller escorts when she'd have graduated.
'What an honour,' she scoffs slightly.
Yes, what an honour to be personally escorted to a Marquess' ship, hauled before a bloody noble to stand trial for mutiny. Yes, it's a damn near personal audience with the Feline lord of Taran lands- minus the orderly and bodyguard in the corners of the office.
The man who personally benefited from Fang's and her comrades' dark work. Someone who most certainly knew the depths that the Regiment got up to.
To his credit, the Marquess of Donegal isn't the man that Shae imagines: the sort of fat-cat she's railed against her whole life, a top-hatter, a posh old fart. The man before her is clean-cut- starting to get streaks of grey in his slicked-back chestnut hair and trimmed beard that he's clearly not trying to hide. The sort of new-era noble, where the pomp and flamboyance of the past generations is starting to wean off. Wears the standard Army dress uniform instead of some lavish tailored suit, though it is one adorned with medals that Shae both recognizes and also assumes are made up- just where did all those medals come from if he's too young to have served in Gaul? Hardened look though, for someone only slightly older than her; "weathered" would be a more apt descriptor.
"Shae Thera Wesslan, you understand that your… retirement is unprecedented. To leave the Regiment requires death or dishonour, correct?" the Feline aristocrat booms over the small office. The kind of voice of someone who had seen one-too-many war movies, probably conflates volume with authority. Despite her misgivings, Shae bows her head slightly- if only to hide her contempt.
"I do, Lord Battenmount."
"Not only that, but you hold secrets, both of your unit and of Her more… unsavoury dealings." Lord Battenmount leans in over the judge's bench, eyes asking in that deadly-serious gaze. It's a gaze that Fangs wants to laugh at- for someone who sees the worst in humanity- who is the worst in humanity, she couldn't ever be intimidated by such a man. This is a person who orders others to death, but doesn't have the stomach, doesn't have the strength and will to do it himself.
A fucking coward.
"Tell me why I should choose 'dishonour' instead of 'death', disgraced daughter of the Earl of Wesslan?"
Shae is given a moment to contemplate in merciful silence. Fangs remains still by her feet, ready, waiting, eager for a reason to lunge, but she keeps her metaphorical hand upon its head. When she looks back up at the man who holds her fate, she is resolute.
"Death is what I want, ser- I seek it." Shae speaks truthfully, the smile on her face a gift from Fangs as reward for the little girl speaking the harsh, evil truths it knows lurks in her heart. "It is something you shouldn't give to me so easily. I still have a life to serve in Her name, alas the only thing I can contribute to it is death in return."
Battenmount seems surprised by her answer- had he been expecting her to get on her hands and knees and beg for her life?
"Your service record is one of distinction. I must ask you, for the record, why you are willing to give that up?"
Now is when Shae has to hold Fangs back, her second self trying to yank itself free from the leash to speak its mind.
"I…" Shae chokes on her words, Fangs' fingers around her throat, "I have done horrible things to Her citizenry- from before I joined the Regiment and after. I can't… I want to protect Her people, not be the knife that keeps them in check."
"And you wish for that to be the means of your death?"
"A prison only cages the beast, my lord." Shae answers truthfully, feeling Fangs embrace her from behind, "and putting the beast to death when it still has fangs to bear for Her enemies is just a waste."
Battenmount strokes his beard, twisting it into a point as he weighs her fate. She thinks she's made it clear that a simple death would only be a mercy- something both she and her shadow could agree on.
Anything but prison.
Anything but being forced to sit and reflect on the things she's done.
Battenmount's face twinges slightly, his will finally bending beneath the unending weight in Shae's unnerving stare. The nobleman grabs the gavel and points it like a blade at Shae.
"I hereby dishonourably discharge you from the Regiment. Never again shall you hold any rank above that of enlisted, never again shall you bear Regimental colours, iconography, or callsign. You shall be expunged from the record and none shall bear the codename of "Fangs" lest they be tainted with your dishonour. Never again shall you know a life of peace, for you owe Her Majesty a debt that will only be repaid after a life of service to Her." his voice booms like the guns of a battleship.
"Your beret." he demands, and Shae reverently folds the soft-cover and places it upon the judge's bench.
"Your insignias and medals."
She unpins her assault badge, her excision team insignia and 1st Commando patch, and her regimental pin, laying them down one at a time, facing away from her.
"Your knife."
That is when Fangs tries to stop her. Her fingers close around the handle, and that murderous beast tries to play with her instinct, tugging at her to pull the blade free-
Shae holds it firmly in place as her other hand reaches up to her shoulder and undoes the clasps keeping it there. Despite Fangs' snarling and growling protests, she hands the blade to Battenmount- handle first. He needs only unsheathe it and plunge it into the heart of the beast to release her from her duty-
But again, the man has no blood on his hands, probably never will in his pristine, privileged life.
"You are wise about one thing, Shae Thera Wesslan; there is going to be a need for experienced soldiers."
Shae blinked, holding her confusion in so that only her steel still glared.
"Her Majesty declared war on Ursus over transgressions on the border. We are officially at war." the nobleman grinned wide and knowing, "and there are plenty of positions available for a soldier like you. Assault Marines, Steel Cavaliers. I'm sure you'll be… familiar with them and their line of work."
She did not respond. The metaphorical axe that had been hovering over her neck has been so graciously pulled back- at least that is what Battenmount means by that smile on his face as he motions for her to stand at ease.
She refuses. She refuses his twisted kindness as she is escorted back to a cell. She refuses his self-righteous mercy for the week it takes for them to transfer her to her new unit. She refuses his hypocrisy as she is turned over to face those who would come to hold her leash next, to those who she'll dedicate the rest of her miserable life towards serving.
It is only here, before the common men and women of Victoria, that she'll find her penance.
"Tactics sharpen the mind." Someone mumbles, the creed prompted by the shuddering of their cramped, dimly lit space.
"Discipline strengthens the will." Another answers the first. Everyone rocks about with another bump, but they sway instead of colliding with one another. A tremble from the outside trying to reach the seven bodies stuck in here.
"Bravery shall overcome… evil."
Another, larger bump makes everyone in their tiny room bounce in their seats, makes their kit clink and clatter like silverware in an earthquake. They all instinctively check themselves for loose bits.
"Benevolence shall save lives." a stern voice calls from the back of the transport, spoken with authority.
Shae bites back the instinct to add her final line, her darker Creed, because those times are behind her. On her shoulder, a single downward pointed chevron of a lance corporal bangs against those beside her. Too much combat experience to bust all the way down to private, a fact proven by how she's the only one not quaking in her boots as another bump shudders the transport, the steel frame of their surroundings groaning in protest.
She also bites back the distaste she feels when she glances to the end of the stack to see their sergeant sitting in, arguably, the safest place in the transport instead of at the ramp. He should be the first one out, leading by example-
"Ramp in thirty!" A voice echoes through the compartment, sends that buzz through everyone within. They are all fidgeting now, all checking, double-checking, triple-checking themselves. The roar of the vehicle's engine timed with that lurch of it picking up speed. The hiss of originium laced steam, the dulled thumping from above them, the clattering of spent casings hitting the floor right over their heads.
"Ready up!" Sergeant Armstrong -or rather, Sergeant "Bellend"- bellows. Perro man, face all scrunched and hard from years on the Ursan border. Must know his shit-
Knows to put the new lance-corporal that everyone in the troop has misgivings about right near the ramp so that they will be the first to take the bolts instead of the troops he's been nurturing. Sure, comes off like he's testing to see if this dropped-in-corporal is as tough as her mocked-up credentials say, but Fangs knows the malicious undertone- easiest way to get rid of someone is to have them be the first to face the peril.
Oh, they'll see that is the single best decision.
Shae lets out a single, long exhale as the thrill slowly creeps up her spine. Fangs shrouds her, the beast putting the buzz into her muscles and numbing her mind as she feels the speed of their final approach. The piledriver lance resting against her shoulder is barely familiar anymore- she last touched one back in academy and barely requalified after being dropped amidst these new comrades. It serves simply as an ornament to affirm her identity as just another Grey-and-Tan; allied but not friendly with the rest of the troop.
Of course, she drops those thoughts alongside the ramp- there's no room for anything else in her mind once Fangs taste combat. They're about ten metres off from the actual trench and, though the gunner on the top of the transport works to suppress the length of it, there's Ursans peeking the parapet to snap crossbow bolts at the now gaping opening.
Fangs doesn't wait for the others to cover her. Lance left against her seat, it draws sabre instead, taking off like a bullet across the open ground. Crossbow fire tries to train on the streak of its crossing, tries to pin the beast down without realising just how futile it is.
First into the trench, steam explosions from the flanks, Sergeant "Bellend"'s barking echoing at her, but Shae's already gone- Fangs is in charge now, and it didn't go by "Corporal Thera". No, Shae's only present enough in the mind to help guide the beast, to lend a tactical edge to its already honed murderous instinct as they drive the attack in. Mission is to establish a foothold in the Ursan defensive line, extend her platoon's control over the forward trenches, isolate the bunkers- those were things Shae promised to keep track of, leaving Fangs free to ply its deadly trade. It sweeps the initial trench clean to free her comrades' push, and when they all jump into the long scar of earthworks no-worse-for-wear, Fangs is off once more in a one-man assault.
Trench bend, ambush point, grenade over the parapet and into the other end. Blast kicks up some dirt and some screams that promptly stop when Fangs rounds the trench with sabre flashing. Crossbowman at the end of that stretch is waiting, manages to get a panicked bolt downrange, but not fast enough to catch Fangs before she ducks back around the corner.
Thera yanks a canteen off of a corpse and heaves it over the parapet like it were another grenade, and the warning shouts are Fangs' cue. It barges the corner, bull rushing the Ursan who had tripped over themselves to escape an anticipated blast. Runs the poor bastard through hard enough to drive him into the dirt wall behind and start the burial process.
She'll take her steam-freighter of violence down that trench alone if she has to; cutting down whatever poor sod works up the steel to step up and try and end her; because it is better her risk her neck than the more honourable ones behind her. The ones who come to fight her have some spine- she cuts them down with far more passion than she does to the cowards who try to run or surrender as she barrels down the straight aways or drifts the bends at reckless breakneck speeds. Her wake is a bloody swathe through the dirt and mud, a bread-crumb trail for her squad made from the dead and dying.
This is what an ace excision team member is capable of- not that any of the normal folk behind her should ever reach such levels of self-damnation.
Shae knows the three keys to take in an attack though; and without surprise, the platoon needed far more speed and violence to overcome the defences, something Sergeant Bellend would never accomplish with his cautious, methodological clearing.
Thank Her Light that Fangs has those other two keys in heaps. Her next charged swing cuts clean through the soft fore of an Ursan's neck -just shy of the spine- and even slicing through the hard-packed dirt of the trench wall like it is water.
Yes, violence is what Fangs is best for.
Shae counts as the beast clears each section with its usual callous efficiency. By the fourth, she yanks the leash to slow Fangs down. The mission is technically "complete", only needing the rest of the squad to catch up, but Fangs wants more blood. It wants her to go the extra kilometre it can before they're ultimately stuck sitting in the mud with their thumbs up their asses awaiting new orders.
Shae… agrees with that side of her. If they take the entire trenchline and the accompanying blendages and bunkers, they'll at least have some breathing room and a hard bit of cover above their heads before the artillery-spotter drones come calling.
So the moment the sergeant and leftenant catch up, she's growling, "I can push the bunker and clear it. Just give me the nod and a few more hand grenades and it'll be done."
The sergeant is red in the face, clearly having brought the leftenant up to chew Thera out. The blonde Feline woman is one of those youthful, if not stern-faced, noble-daughters. The kind that Shae'd be, the kind that makes Fangs try to force a sneer onto Shae's face. If she were to give Davies any credit, though, it'd be that the leftenant isn't in the pressed and starched clean uniform. She's right up in the front, has got dirt and blood on her, ready to lead- had one of her corporals not gone absolutely mental with a sword the moment they hit the trench.
Yes, Sergeant "Bellend" is shut up the moment Leftenant Davies steps forward, nearly face-to-face with Shae and Fangs, not caring just how murderous her corporal appears.
"You think you can?" she asks Fangs, critical but not doubting- a key difference.
"Give me a few hand grenades and I know I can." Shae gestures to her bloody handiwork just feet away from them, dead Urskie still clutching his gut, futilely trying to hold the contents in beneath his plate.
Davies sizes Shae up, matches her glare ice-for-ice. She's familiar with Shae's particularly… thorough bladework.
"Takes one hell of a monster to kill this many people alone." Davies says… almost knowingly. No one had been told where the corporal came from and no one dared ask just how she happened to be so inclined towards violence- not even the leftenant who'd be lumped with her.
"Aye, it's a good thing that monster fights for Her with a collar around its neck." Shae answers, never once blinking in the face of her guilt.
"We might need a tighter collar, or a shorter leash then." Davies' lips are pursed as she smiles without mirth, "Can't have it outpacing the rest of the damn team."
"Aye ma'am. Hard to hold it back when it gets the taste of blood."
Davies turns to the sergeant, and he seems chuffed with himself that Davies is about to dole out some good old NJP for Shae, only for her to say, "Give the corporal your grenades."
"What?"
"Give the corporal your hand grenades. Let her live up to the boast or die trying."
"Leftenant Davies, ma'am we-"
"She either lives or she dies," Davies says dispassionately before glancing back at Shae, "it's what she wants."
The sergeant nods, holding back a grumble so volatile it seems like he's the grenade, but he does as asked. Five deadly spheres handed over with a reluctance that makes it seem like he thinks that Shae's going to frag them all right there. She smiles grimly while slotting them into her empty pouches though, watching just how unsettled that Perro man gets.
"And if she lives, we are going to have a long sit-down about that collar and leash. No more running off without her requisitioned lance or leaving her squad to clean up her mess. Aye, Corporal Thera?"
"Aye, Leftenant. Something heavy'd be for the best, really."
"I have ideas. First thing's first though- "
"Aye, ma'am. Bunker'll be clear in… oh I'd say the turn of the hour?" Shae grins, checking her wrist that houses no watch.
"Just in time for tea then?"
"Yes ma'am. I'll be sure to put the kettle on before you and the platoon arrives."
The collar was heavy and rigid.
A frame of steel that cradled Shae as much as it trapped her. Limbs held in by straps that bit and chaffed. Its weight is held by a crane, the whole rig looming behind her. If they dropped it all now, would she crumple to the ground beneath it all? Is that what Davies is hoping for? A little "accident" to remove the bloodthirsty nutter in the platoon's midst?
"Standby." a voice sounds over a megaphone, "Ready on tank one and two?"
Two green lights flick on from behind Shae.
"Steam capacity good, flow good, opening the frame's valves."
Even with the insulation in the piping and frame, Shae can feel the heat flowing against her back and hear the pressure building.
"Hydraulics check- pilot move your arms."
Shae grips that handholds now, bending her arms at the elbows. The steel beams that run parallel with her forearms shift as she does, the soft hiss of steam pressure escaping at the elbow-joint.
"Elbow joints green; rotate the shoulders."
Again she does as instructed, gently testing the range of motion. Steel shifts, pivot points squeak, the bulk moving in a stiff mirror of her own body.
"Shoulders check, leg joints now."
The wrenchies were being cautious. This particular collar is being fitted and calibrated to Shae? Well, its a bit unprecedented, but apparently Davies had some serious pull at the Battalion level to get her hands on an engineering steam-frame. Some might see it as an honour that so many strings were being pulled to go off-standard for a single soldier, but for Shae and Davies, it is necessity.
For Davies, it's a way to slow Shae down and make her serve her role as a repentant sinner- the flagellant at the front of the formation to take the bolts and blades for the squad. For Shae, it is a way to keep Fangs in check. Yes, this is an engineer's frame, the kind used for heavy lifting and fortification construction, so clearly it had the strength to carry all of her guilt, too. Thing's been modified too, the big, unwieldy pneumatic claws swapped out for two large Sapper Pavises. Normally a bit of deployable cover that the frame was designed to deploy, except the shields have been welded to the forearms. Be right hard to kill at the same pace as if she had a sword, but Fangs is already thinking of ways to make it work-
"Legs are all green. Trooper, we're going to drop the weight. Are you ready?"
"Ready." Shae shouts out over the constant thrum of her collar's now steam-fueled arteries. There's a bit of instinctive panic when the weightless sensation slowly gives way to movement, her "feet" hitting concrete but being unable to actually feel it. The frame holds firm though as the chains that held her up drop away. It's an odd sensation, being trapped within all this weigh.
"Give a few steps."
A few steps, simple right? The frame should take her movement input, but trepidation keeps her from taking that big, purposeful stride she's so used to. Hers is a sort of shuffle, cautious and slow as she gets used to balancing all of the steel. The frame's pistons hiss alongside the scrape of metal boots on the concrete, Fangs' frustration mounting as it urges her to bound. She resists though, perhaps the collar doing its work more mentally for Shae than physically. This is going to be her rebirth back into Her Light, her new identity, and though Fangs snarls and gnashes in her mind, even it can't force the machine that binds them any faster. Movements must be slow and purposeful, exaggerated, the weight both metaphorical and physical.
Yes, bound by this collar of steam and steel, they must learn how to walk all over again.
"Behind me!" Thera bellows, pavises raised before her as a temporary wall. Bolts strike at her steel, thudding like pebbles as they shatter or splinter; others whizzing past the edges trying to catch any trooper that couldn't squeeze themselves into their lance-corporal's shadow.
"Wire!" Thera bellows, planting the pavises into the ice-hardened dirt. If she wasn't strapped into the collar, she'd forcibly find the sapper and grab his charges, but no… the point of it was to hold her reliant upon others, one piece in the machine that is their squad. "Torpedo up front!" She bellows back, catching only a glimpse of those who have fallen.
"Torpedo up front!" the call echos back as it rolls down the stack, "Torpedo up front!"
"Between your legs, corporal." the man behind her calls, sliding the long, explosive-packed tube beneath Thera. She has to part the pavises slightly, just sliding the double-door enough at the bottom for the trooper behind to kick it all the way through.
"Fire in the hole!" someone calls from behind.
Thera braces instinctively, not that there was a chance of those explosives knocking someone with her bulk over. The bang is the signal, a rain of frozen dirt and rock pelting them as they push through the shredded remains of razor wire and right up to the outpost's walls. Steelshot from Piledriver lances force the Urskies off of their earthwork palisade; canvas and steel barriers stacked and filled with dirt and crowned with wire- grenades are the first things sent over as Thera positions herself.
If Fangs were in charge, if this were her show, she'd climb that barrier by hand, sword between her teeth, leaping in to draw blood.
But its not, just like it's not Thera's job to be the first into this fray this time.
It's not her job to be the killer, to be the terrible butcher.
She turns her back to the barricade, crouching down and setting her shields at a backwards angle to shade herself.
"Go go go! Up and over the corporal!" Sergeant Armstrong barks, and Thera feels the first impact of boots against her shields. First man must be a sapper, because even over the din of shouting, steam bursts, and explosions, she can her that distinct twang and rattle of wire being cut- at least until the first man falls from the ramp of her, a crossbow-bolt through the shoulder. He writhes there, moaning, pain wracking his youthful features- couldn't be more than drinking age.
"Wounded!"
"Get another sapper up there- throw more grenades, dammit!"
"Hold on, trooper." Thera calls out to the wounded man, "crawl over here, get under my cover."
The soldier moans, but he manages to kick himself over and into her steeled shade. Quick stock shows its a broadhead-wound, the shaft having pulled part of his uniform into its path, probably shattered or severed his shoulder joint.
"You'll be fine, trooper. We'll get you back to a nice bed and warm meal." she tries to comfort, even as her words are drowned out by the fresh round of grenades going off and boots running up and over her.
"It… fucking hurts, corporal." the man seethes, grabbing at the protruding shaft like he's going to pull on it.
"Don't pull it, that'll make it worse, you'll bleed out before the medics get to you."
" Corporal." the soldier groans, writhing in pain. She wants to do more- wants to hold the wound to stem the bleeding for him, wants to get into his aid pouch to find the syrette or disinfectant… but being chained to her collar is her fate. Only another could come and remove her harness and free her.
Watching the boy squirm and kick… made Thera realise that she never knew how to comfort another- by the Northern Hells she didn't even know his name despite them being in the same squad. The only thing she can do is whisper hollow comforts before bellowing for a medic- if the medic had even made the approach alive.
The dissonant orchestra of battle plays over her tiny, insignificant drama of watching a man suffer all the way to his final flickering minutes.
And all is clear for that fleeting moment; that this is a tragedy. All her life, she's fought. She fought and maimed and killed with a grim satisfaction- self-righteous in her misanthropy while on her endless crusade to reflect her own stained soul upon the world that had made her this way.
Not once did she ever work to make her life better. Not once did she ever strive to make others' better. All she's ever done is destroy.
"Corporal…"
"It's painful, but not lethal." she tries to reassure. She doesn't know, though, she's no medic- lest you count her bladework as surgery, but if that were the case then not many patients of her scalpel survived.
The sapper doesn't answer with words anymore, just strained grunts and sharp breaths.
But chained to her collar, there is nothing she can do still. For the first time in her miserable life she wishes so desperately to help someone. Tend his wound, alleviate his pain, give him the confidence to endure. The thing that had been so long forgotten in her heart- the reason why she dreamed of becoming a Knight of the Tower.
To give people the thing that she never had growing up in the shadows of the Wesslan estate; hope.
Instead, she is watching him fade, the hope draining like his blood, and knowing she can do nothing. This… this is -and will continue to be- her personal hell, the price of pushing her consciousness to the wayside time and time again for her own vindictive desires. Now that it's back, it can wreak havoc upon her heart far better than Fangs could ever do to her enemies.
"You'll… be fine." she continues to lie to two, "You'll be just fine soon."
"... well?"
"Six dead, twelve wounded."
"Not bad numbers."
"Not bad at all, given the circumstances."
"Who are the dead?"
"Williams, Burton, and Green from first squad. Bramston and Alden from second. Talbot from third."
Shae listens absentmindedly to the noncoms talking with the leftenant, pondering just which of those names was the sapper that fell beside her. Freed from her collar, but held on Davie's leash via proximity, the only thing she can do is stand at attention until the other non-coms turn attention towards her.
"The corporal held up well 'nuff. Approach went off without much problem, got us up and over the wall before the Urskies really knew we were in. Could have used her inside the camp though." Sergeant Armstrong mentioned off-hand, eyes cutting at Thera to judge her reaction. All he'd get is her thousand-metre amber stare aimed out over the defences, aimed at the approaching dust-clouds. The battlegroup is due in by sundown.
"Noted, sergeant." Leftenant Davies answers dispassionately, clearly not wanting to give the beast any more attention. The group rambles on with the debrief, Thera at attention the entire time. When they are dismissed, she stays.
Davies approaches her with arms crossed and brow furrowed, announcing a sharp, "Corporal."
"Ma'am." Thera replies respectfully- well as respectfully as she's learned so far. The Leftenant didn't command the same amount of respect to Thera as old Fairbairn had, but she still tried her best to at least respond to the young officer as she would have to the war-scale.
Davies regards her for a minute, jaw moving like she were chewing her tongue- or more precisely chewing the words that she is meaning to say before gruffly asking, "Questions?"
"No, ma'am." Thera reflexively responds, but Davies catches the stiffness in her, pressing the issue with just a glare. With a deflating exhale, Thera softly asks, "What was the name of the sapper from First Squad?"
"Cooke," comes the leftenant's dispassionate reply, "and yes, he survived. Whether or not he'll be able to use the arm again is up to the surgeons."
Thera's face remains unchanged, but she does exhale slightly, the rigidness melting.
"Is there a reason why you are here instead of with the men, corporal?"
Davies' tone is… accusatory, like she knows exactly why Thera lurks around the headquarters instead of the racks. Fangs remains at bay, taking her spine with it as it watches Shae squirm in discomfort.
"N-No, ma'am."
"Then you're dismissed. Go back to the rack and see what Armstrong needs you to do."
"Yes, ma'am." Thera salutes, turning heel to parade-march her ass back to the troop. There is only so long she can stall, and in a camp as small as the one they just secured, very few places she could hide from the others. Being in the spotlight… still took getting used to; Regiment habits that she doubted would ever really leave her.
"Don't prove it to me, Wesslan. Prove it to them." Davies calls back at her, knowing full well what the penitent is up to.
Prove it to them?
Prove what to them? That a monster like her is worth their trust? That she wasn't just some blood-crazed maniac rushing head-long to her own doom?
Her fists clench into crushingly tight fists as she walks… because she realises that yes, that is exactly what she needs to prove. Save for those fleeting, wonderful years at Academy, she's always been alone. At home, on the streets, at Achernarry- hells even in Regiment the commandos all operated with a degree of separation from one another.
Here, amongst the regulars, she's one of the few experienced soldiers, one of the few battle-hardened rocks in which the platoon could brace themselves around. Even as a corporal, she has obligations to them- obligations that she thought herself unworthy of executing.
Is that why the sergeant always looks at her with disdain, why the squad always seems to shy away from her in discomfort? Revelation dawns on her even as the sun draws down; there's no way they knew of her past as a kin-slayer, as a murderer, as just a rotten human-being.
Her hands relax as she approaches her squad's tent. There's chuckling, a bit of grim, muted mirth that dies the moment she pushes aside the flap and ducks her way in. Tension in an instant, air so thin that she thinks she's about to hyperventilate.
"Gents." she manages to cough out with a nod. The airs relax somewhat, a few of the men nodding back to her. With lips parched and voice threatening to quiver any second, she manages to breathe her praise out. "Damn fine work." she says, "damn fine work indeed."
They all seem… shocked.
At least until a red-headed Vulpo man cracks a daring grin. "I'll be damned, she does talk! You owe me those silvers, Darcy."
Thera frowns, which puts the squad on edge again, but the ice has already cracked, thawing her misgivings' grip on Thera's heart.
"Shut it, Fumbles, lest the corporal-"
" You shut it, Vance." someone else hisses. Thera has no doubt that "Vance" was about to say something unsavoury about her, probably in regards to her particular violent streak , but she does her best to keep Fangs shoved into the very darkest depths of herself.
"What's the word on Cooke, corporal?" the Vulpo that someone had called "Fumbles" prods. He's the most amicable, and Thera sends a silent prayer of thanks even as she frowns with confusion.
"Sergeant Armstrong didn't come by?"
"Nae," a Vouvire calls from the corner bunk, leaning in now, "went tae find the QM."
All eyes are on her, expectant, perhaps even ready to hear the bad news from a cold and uncaring stranger that they could lay their misgivings upon.
"Cooke's wounded, but stable. Going to be shipped to the Justice for surgery."
Her words bring a collective sigh of relief, and that itself only draws Thera in. She takes the step out of the threshold and into the lantern light, details of the lives these men lead slowly sinking in as their casual talk picks back up. It's more muted, more cautious of her presence, but nowhere near the awkward silence from before. She's been with them for a month, but hasn't been with them. Merely present, a fixture no more personable than the weapons they carried into combat.
So she simply lays herself down amongst them, listening to their conversations, absorbing who they are by osmosis until, given just the slightest bit of curiosity, they begin to include her. Little things, non-personal things- favourite football clubs from back home, books to read, quips on the weather- stiffly polite small talk that would come off as superfluous or dismissive to any normal person.
Thera's not normal though, and each little bit they include her feels like threads for her to grasp on to. She feels that, given time, she'll come to know them, be accepted by them, maybe even… befriend them…
But… she also knows that people who befriend her… get hurt. Jaded as she is, she's no fool- they are smack-centre in a war and safety is never a guarantee even when you weren't in the vanguard. She knows that, no matter how hard she will try to protect these men, she is doomed to failure time and time again 'til death came for her, too. No matter how many threads she reaches out for and twines together with her frayed and burnt thread, some -if not all- are bound to be cut… and yet she still must at least try.
That, Shae surmises, is her ultimate atonement.
And she accepts it gladly.
