A Peace Militia troopmaster stationed on the frontlines in 1501.
As the CEPP 2nd Army approached the Kondrian capital city of Pripal, Imperial Command grew more and more desperate. Reaching for any and all methods they could find to swell their numbers, they began reaching into the Peace Militias of their western territories. However, most Peace Militias were unsuited for frontline combat, having served as police, paramedic, and firefighting units while at home. Moving onto the frontline, Peace Militia units would see high casualties as they were unfamiliar with trench warfare, despite their uniform. However, as the CEPP 2nd moved into urban zones to fight, PM Urban Order units---formerly a branch of PM law enforcement---became valuable assets in urban combat.
On the topic of uniforms, supplies were often too thin to provide a new field coat for Peace Militiamembers. This meant that PM units would go into combat wearing their standard uniform, complete with sewn on ranks and shoulder rank pins. The purple metal and fabric made PM soldiers easier to target and kill on the battlefields. While the shoulder rank pins were usually taken off, the sewn on ranks remained.
PM units---unused to having to differentiate units, since Peace Militias often operated alone in their jurisdiction---usually stuck scraps of paper naming their militia unit on their helmet, tucked into the PM helmet bands. Even in the last months of the war, soldiers still found time to express their emotions---mostly grief---in song. The song "Unfortunate Militiamen/We Unfortunate Few" was a popular song among PM soldiers that circulated around the last months of the war.
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Fox will later blame the entire conversation on the fruity green drink that Commander Bly had brought him from the bar, without his input.
"I miss hanging out with Alpha-Seventeen."
It smells malty, tastes sweet, and after three sips makes his mouth numb and tingly enough that he barely realises he’s said anything out loud until he notes that all eyes have turned to him.
Three CC-class clones he has only interacted with in a professional capacity outside of Kamino, and knows by reputation, mostly.
Commanders Cody, Bly and Doom had been kind to invite him to their table when they caught sight of him alone by the bar nursing a beer that was probably closer related to piss than alcohol.
"You used to hang out with Alpha-Seventeen?" Commander Doom is incredulous, Commander Bly is indignant.
"What? We never got to hang out with Alpha-Seventeen-"
Fox takes a few moments to consider lying, making out that he had a revered connection with the most admired trainer on Kamino. The little thrill of pleasure it would give him to obfuscate an undignified truth that no one had to know.
The open expression on Commander Bly's face stalls the urge. He thinks about the numb, yawning distance he has trapped himself behind, and the joylessness of being dignified. Of all the silly little things that no one will ever know about him when he dies, because he had never told anyone.
He interrupts.
"Well. By hang out I mean in my seventh cycle I would sit outside his door for an hour every evening,” he has another tingling sip of green juice to fortify him, and catches Commander Cody’s eyes deliberately “and tell him that if I was graded lower than you in the marksmanship exam, then I would strangle you to death in your bunk."
Bly laughs, startled, and beside him Commander Cody doesn't show any offense, but does raise his eyebrows as he sips his pink lemon drink, holding the sparkly decorative cocktail stick out of the way with his forefinger.
Fox eyes his non-response, and registers in himself a prickle of disappointment. He will examine it later, he assures himself, when the green juice has worn off.
"Did he ever talk back?" Commander Doom leans back against the sticky vinyl seating in the booth, and watches Fox's face the same way Fox has been watching theirs. He thinks he likes Commander Doom.
"No, i think he just started putting headphones in and taking a nap or something. I stopped eventually." there’s a shadow of a smile, which as far as Fox has been able to put together about the man is as good as a chuckle.
Commander Bly is far more ready with a grin.
"Fox, that’s not hanging out. That’s a symptom of something being very wrong. With you."
Fox, he thinks to himself. He had progressed to friendly address with Comman- with Bly, at least. It was promising.
"Yeah, i had no friends. He never told me not to strangle you though, Commander,” Fox twist the corner of his mouth in a wry smile, to hammer home to Commander Cody that there’s no intent behind the joke, even as he needles for a response, ”just want to emphasize that. I considered it."
"Why? I don't think we ever even spoke as cadets." the eyebrows are raised again, and still Fox can’t get a read on his expression
"Oh no, yeah, we didn't. I only knew you existed because you broke my record score in the flightsim in our fifth cycle and I swore revenge. You bastard. "
"This is why you didn’t have any friends, then?"
"Yeah. Pretty much, yeah. I worked on it."
"Do you still want to strangle me to death?"
"Hm. Remind me what your marksmanship score was in cycle seven, and i'll get back to you."
Commander Cody laughs, and the smile that breaks across his face is as much a relief as it is a victory. Fox lets the tension in his shoulders ease and rocks with the playful punch to the arm from Bly, barely rescuing the remaining half of his drink.
Later, he will blame the green juice for the small, real smile that wont leave his face for the rest of the night, when the three Commanders insist he drop formality and call them by name, for force’s sake, relax, and when he tests the water with a trivial gripe about paperwork and is met instantly with sympathetic noises and agreements, he feels on a firm footing at last.
See, he can make friends just fine, Stone.
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Joachim could only laugh at what the world had become.
It was a far cry better than what it had been centuries ago, yes, but it still looked like, smelled, and even tasted like a dump. He wondered if Leon would be rolling in his grave right about now.
"Your bloodline certainly has reached rock bottom, old friend," the vampire could only muse aloud. Piercing red eyes stared down at the seemingly peaceful little village town in the distance.
Oh, poor Belmonts. The stink of their blood always gave them away. Fortunately for the clan, Joachim had long conditioned himself to kin the disgusting smell. Or else they would have been rooted up a long, long time ago.
"It's a wonder how there are two surviving members of your clan in this age with the amount of enemies your blood has."
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