Days Gone By Chapter 11

AN: So this is a rarity. A note before the story. You may notice that I’ve abandoned the first person perspective in this set of chapters, and there’s a reason for that. This fic went on a two month hiatus while I tried to refresh and find new motivation in making this work, and the biggest issue I kept running into was the first-person storytelling perspective. I just… don’t use it any more. When I started this fic in 2015 that was my style, but I’ve kinda evolved from then, and as I wrote more chapters for this it felt more and more awkward keeping to that perspective.  Things felt so much more limited and constrained, and I was having issues with keeping up the flow I wanted. So here we are, in 2025, and I have come to the conclusion that if I want to keep this fic going I’ll need to make the biggest change I’ve dreaded making for a while, and move to a third-person perspective. This is really kinda awkward for the story because I cannot rewrite the early chapters to match, but I can’t keep it up with the later chapters.  I keep stalling out, and this chapter in particular faced no less than fourteen rewrites in the last several weeks, most of them full scrappings of the plot and the total redos of the action.  Anyway, without further yapping on my part, here we go!

…those early days were marred by a hatred that I can scarce describe, lines drawn between class, between strata, and between race. For an army of desperate men and women, the old fractures still ran deep, even as the enemy sat at the gates. And at the crux of it all, a young lieutenant trying to keep it all together. Despite our victories, despite the blood spilt and lives lost, the truest test of our mettle would come not from a dangerous weapon, or elite unit, but from within, from the most insidious place of all. It came from the heart.

-Chapter 3, The End of the Beginning, Days Gone By: A Memoir of the Gallian Front 

Chapter Eleven

The morning came with shouting.

Jerry jerked awake, heart hammering in his chest, the abrupt noise tearing him from a fitful, shallow sleep. For a moment panic seized him, his mind blank as he struggled to remember where he was, the broken timbers above him and the smell of ash pressing close. He blinked hard, head still foggy from the early hour, the ache in his muscles gnawing as he dragged himself upright. Then the voices cut through the haze, enraged, mocking, cruel, and bitter- carrying over the dusky air outside. He forced himself to his feet, shoulders tightening as he tried to shake the last of sleep away.

Juno was already by the doorway, her frame stiff, one hand braced against the wall as she leaned outward to scan the street. Her expression was taut, her eyes narrowed with focus. Mist clung low across the road, weaving between the husks of buildings, the air cool and damp with the dew of dawn. The fires that had ravaged the eastern side of the bridge were mostly dead, yet the acrid tang of smoke and char still hung heavy, turning each breath sour.

Jane was faster still, springing to her feet the moment the shouting began. Her boots struck the broken stone with a sharp urgency as she vanished into the mist, her movements fueled by the exhaustion that seemed to sharpen rather than dull her edge. The others, by contrast, stirred sluggishly, groaning as they rubbed at tired eyes, every motion weighed down by the brutal fighting of the day before. Their fatigue clung like lead, but Jane seemed to burn hotter because of it, her speed a startling contrast against their weariness.

Jerry rose, his jaw tightening as he reached for his coat. “What the hell is going on?” he asked.

Juno’s answer was quick, but troubled. “I don’t know. I could hear shouting, but it was faint. Jane seemed to know something the rest of us didn’t, and she bolted out like a shot before I could even ask her. That worries me.”

Jerry’s brow furrowed as he snapped into motion, pulling his pistol from its holster and thumbing the magazine to check it was loaded before slipping it back into place. His voice came out low but urgent, the edge of command sharp. “Stay here, Juno. Get the others ready. Something’s coming, I can feel it.”

He didn’t wait for her reply. He stepped into the mist and followed the noise, boots striking wet stone as he moved at pace. Several weary soldiers stood in doorways and along the street, their faces turned toward the commotion. They looked to him as he passed, some with uncertainty, some with relief, before falling in to follow his lead. The ruins of Vasel loomed over him, walls blackened and broken, their shadows long in the pale morning light. The shouting grew clearer as he pressed on, each ugly word cutting through the damp air like a blade.

“Filthy Darksens!”

“Damn darkies!”

“You can smell them from here!”

“Born cursed, every last one of them!”

“Darcsen rats, crawling out of their holes!”

“Should’ve stayed in the slums where they belong!”

The venom in the words drove him harder, pulling him from a jog into a full sprint. Every slur, every mocking shout hit like a lash across his back, sharpening his stride and knotting urgency into his chest. His breath steamed in the morning chill as his boots hammered the stones. He rounded a corner, heart pounding, and stopped dead.

Rosie Stark stood inches from Isara, her fist knotted tight in the younger girl’s shawl, yanking at it roughly to drag her closer. Her face was twisted in fury as she spat venom. “You’re a problem, a danger to the rest of us! A filthy Darcsen like you can’t be trusted, not ever. I won’t have a stink like yours at my back!” The words came sharp and cruel, each one like a slap.

Isara weathered it with tired but steady eyes, her lips pressed into a firm line. She had heard it all before, and though every word cut deep, she forced herself to stand her ground. Her eyes glimmered faintly, betraying the sting she felt, but she refused to let the tears fall, refused to give them that small victory. With quiet dignity and unshaken resolve, she met Rosie’s hate head-on, strong even in the hurt it caused her.

Around them, a knot of soldiers had gathered. Some sneered and jeered openly, voices raised to egg Rosie on, their grins sharp with malice. Others shifted uncomfortably, eyes averted, their shame plain in the way they hugged their rifles and kept their mouths shut. The divide between them cut deep, those who fueled the fire, and those too cowed or weary to quench it. Off to the side, Largo loomed like a twisted arbitrator, arms folded, gaze hard, letting the spectacle play out beneath his shadow as if his silence carried judgment of its own as his cigarette smouldered.

This was the girl who had saved his life, who had fed him soup on the long march from Bruhl, who had stood by him as a friend through everything, and now he watched her being torn down. Jerry’s eyes narrowed, his teeth grinding as he stepped forward, the quiet simmer in his chest giving way to a burning rage that needed only the smallest spark to detonate.

Before he could speak, Jane came crashing through the crowd like a storm, molten rage blazing in her eyes. She slammed into Rosie with a force that sent the redhead stumbling, shoving her back hard as her voice cracked through the morning like a whip. “What in the fuck do you think you’re doing!?” she roared, her words dripping fury, her whole frame vibrating with the molten heat of her anger as if she meant to tear Rosie apart on the spot.

Rosie staggered but straightened with a snarl, venom flashing in her eyes. The sheer audacity of someone stepping in to defend a Darcsen twisted her face with shock and scorn. “What, the half-darkie’s here to play guard dog? Figures.” Her words dripped with disgust, mocking derision layered thick with hate, as if the idea of Jane taking Isara’s side was an offense beyond measure.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Jane’s mixed blood was an open secret, but most had the sense never to push her on it. Rosie clearly lacked that restraint. Jane’s fists clenched, her whole body coiled to strike, but before she could swing Jerry stepped in, seizing her arm and pulling her back. The motion drew Isara with them, Jerry’s broad frame a barrier between the three women.

Isara opened her mouth to speak, her voice trembling with intent, but Jerry’s roar cut across the square first.

“And what, in the fuck, is this!?” His voice cracked out like a gunshot, low and rumbling, gravel ground beneath steel. Outrage blazed in his tone, the raw heat of it searing as his eyes swept the crowd like tracer fire, cutting down jeering agitator and silent coward alike. The soldiers froze where they stood, their muttering strangled to silence under the weight of his fury.

Rosie, her eyes darting up to him, faltered for a heartbeat. For an instant the realization struck her; she had crossed a line, and the fury burning in his eyes told her she had fucked up. The shock of it hit like a blow, a brutal crack to her pride that left her reeling. But that same pride and the hate she felt wouldn't let her back down. She bared her teeth, her voice rising with vicious scorn. “Are you gonna defend this filthy darkie, Finch!?” she spat, dripping venom. “I expected better from you, but I should’ve known you were no better than the trash you defend!”

Jerry’s gaze flicked briefly to Isara, and for an instant she saw something that chilled her to the bone- a glacial rage so deep it was black, a darkness that scared her even as it was aimed at Rosie. Then his eyes locked back on the redhead, his voice measured, each word edged like a blade. “You watch your tone, Sergeant. Especially with her.”

That was when Largo stepped forward, his bulk shouldering into Jerry, his whole frame bristling with pumped-up disgust. His tone was hot, spitting disbelief that Finch of all people would side with a Darcsen. “What are you doing, Finch? You know they can’t be trusted! She’d just as soon shoot you as look at you!”

Jerry squared up, face to face with him, running hotter than he had in a long time. He was steel, unbending and unyielding, his glare cleaving as it locked onto Largo’s eyes. The two stood matched, tense and immovable, as Largo exhaled a thick stream of smoke straight into Jerry’s unflinching face. Jerry didn’t so much as blink. His reply came sharp and hard, every word honed to a razor's edge. “Isara saved my life. Saved hundreds in Bruhl, too. So shut your ignorant, yowling screamer before I shut it for you, Largo. You and that red-headed bitch.”

Isara tried to speak again, desperate to deescalate, but Jerry silenced her with a raised hand and a growl. “I’ll take you on, you cocky, pompous ass.” His eyes swept the circle of faces around him, daring anyone else to even try. “And anyone else who has a problem with her. Right here, right now.” Several soldiers flinched and backed away, unwilling to meet his blazing stare, the threat in his words cutting through their bravado. At last his gaze locked on Largo again, meeting the narrowed eyes of the lancer without a hint of fear. “Do you get me?”

The air was thick with tension, every soldier holding their breath. The mist seemed to cling tighter, the morning’s chill sharper, as the three sergeants stood at the edge of violence.

Welkin charged into the square, his boots striking the stone hard enough to echo across the tense silence. Alicia trailed close behind, her face drawn with worry, ready to back him if needed but keeping quiet, letting him lead. Despite his youth, Welkin carried himself with steady authority, his presence unflinching, the crowd flowing around him as he charged in. His voice rang out firm, and harsh as it cut through the air like a whip. “What the hell is going on here!?”

Every head turned. The crowd parted slightly, though the tension did not ease. Rosie was quick to fill the gap, her face twisted with raw disgust, eyes blazing with venom. Her lip curled as she raised her voice so all could hear, dripping with hate. “I’m just putting this Darkie and her Darkie-lover friends in their places. I can’t stand the stink of them, can’t stomach even looking at them, and I won’t have them at my back!”

She jabbed a finger toward Isara, then at Jerry and Jane, her voice rising with cruel certainty. “You can’t trust those two-faced bastards! And don’t kid yourselves- I’m saying what we’re all thinking. I won’t have it! It’s either them or me. No Darcsens allowed!” By dragging the others into her words, she cast them all as if they shared her disgust, pulling the crowd into the pit she saw as the truth.

A cheer rose from some of the gathered troopers, ugly and mean, their voices fueling the fire. Jane snarled, stepping forward, her voice snapping like broken glass. “Oh, is that how you feel? Shit, maybe we should save the Imps the trouble and put them into camps, work them to death like slaves. That what you want, Rosie?”

Jane's words hit like a hammer, her fury whipping her into a frenzy as she closed the distance, right up into Rosie’s face. Her eyes blazed, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. “The Imps are doing it all over the front. We’ve all seen the reports! That what you are, Rosie? An Imp?”

“Fuck you!” Rosie spat, venom flashing as she turned an ugly shade of red, the insult digging deep.

“Cut the shit!” Welkin’s voice tore through the square like a gunshot, silencing them all. His shoulders were squared, his posture tall and immovable, every inch of him radiating command. His eyes swept the crowd, pinning each soldier in place, his tone brooking no dissent as he spoke again. “Everyone, disperse!”

There was hesitation, but the weight of his command pushed them. The soldiers peeled away reluctantly, mutters trailing behind them, until only a handful remained. A glare scattered them, and finally, the six were alone. Welkin pulled Jerry, Jane, Isara, and Rosie aside, Alicia following quickly, her eyes filled with worry.

Rosie dug in again, as soon as they were away from the crush of readying troops, her fury burning as she jabbed her finger once more at Isara. “You’re all blind! She’s a stinking Darcsen! She’ll get us all killed! You know the stories, about what they did!”

Isara straightened, her hands trembling but her voice calm, logical, and firm. “There’s no evidence the so‑called Darcsen Calamity ever happened. It’s a myth, a story designed to give people an excuse to hate us. I’m a human being, same as you, and I deserve at least that basic decency. You don’t have to like me, but you will not slander me.” Despite her nerves, she refused to shrink back, her eyes steady, unwilling to let Rosie’s venom pass unanswered.

The calmness in her words only seemed to inflame Rosie further. Disgust twisted her face, her lips curling back to bare her teeth, her eyes narrowing to venomous slits. She leaned in close, voice dripping with raw vitriol, each word spat with searing hate. “You’re nothing but a plague on Gallia. A danger. A curse. You’ll poison everything you touch, drag us all down with you, you and the rest of your kind.”

Jerry’s teeth clenched, his whole body coiling like a spring, ready to tear Rosie away from Isara. Jane was right there with him, eyes blazing, her breath coming in ragged bursts, barely holding herself back. Welkin cut between them with a sharp motion, his presence snapping into the space like a wall.

“Enough!” he barked, his voice iron, the word cracking through the air like a lash. He planted himself firmly between them, shoulders squared, forcing the space into order by sheer presence. His eyes burned as they swept over Jerry, Jane, and Rosie, a hard, complicated mix of anger, disappointment, and command all at once. “Stand down, all of you. This ends now.” The words rang with authority, and though his tone was steady, it carried the weight of struggle, the strain of holding fraying tempers together by force of will alone.

That was when Largo added his voice, his deep tone laced with a dismissive, patronizing sneer. He looked down on Welkin as if he were nothing more than a child playing at command. “Okay, boss man, then listen up. We ain’t gonna be fighting beside any Darcsens, you understand? And we sure as hell ain’t gonna be taking orders from some greenhorn glory-hog either.”

The words hit like a slap, the line of defiance carved in the sand. Jerry’s jaw set, a dangerous edge sharpening his every movement as his hand dropped to his holster. The metallic rasp of his pistol clearing leather froze the air, the sound heavy with intent. His eyes burned with fury, the jeering crack from Largo a bridge too far, reeking of pride so poisonous it felt like a threat to them all.

His voice cut low and deadly, every syllable laced with fire. “Are you saying you’re refusing to follow orders, soldier? Because that sounds dangerously close to insubordination.”

Welkin’s hand clamped down on Jerry’s wrist before he could raise his gun, his grip firm but not harsh, his eyes hard as steel. For a moment the two locked eyes, a quiet conversation unspoken between them. Welkin’s gaze carried a steady plea, that it wasn’t necessary, not yet. Jerry breathed hard, his chest rising and falling, the fire in him straining to break loose. But the trust was there, implicit and unshaken. He gave the smallest nod, sliding his weapon back into place, yielding to Welkin’s wordless command.

Welkin turned his glare on Largo, his voice cutting like ice. “Now listen up, Sergeant Potter. You don’t like me, or my orders? Fine. I’ll cut you a deal.” Welkin pointed sharply toward the bridge, its battered silhouette looming through the mist. “I’ll have that bridge back in Gallian hands within forty-eight hours. If I don’t, then I’ll resign, and hand the squad over to you and Rosie to run how you see fit. But if I do, then you follow my orders to the letter. No arguments. And no more of this Darcsen crap. Do we have a deal, Largo? Rosie?”

The two sergeants shared a wary glance, the crowd’s eyes burning into them. After a long pause, Rosie snarled, “Deal.” Largo gave a curt nod.

“Then it’s settled,” Welkin said firmly.

The tension eased only slightly as the pair stalked off, muttering under their breath. Welkin exhaled slowly, his voice dropping to a mutter. “Now all I have to do is deliver.”

He turned back to the others. Alicia’s brow furrowed deeply as she stepped forward, her eyes wide with incredulity, almost gobsmacked that he would stake so much on a single risky chance. “Wait a second. Welkin, are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You just made an insane promise,” she pressed.

"It's only insane if I can't deliver, Alicia. But I know Largo, know his type. His pride won't let him renege on our deal, and he'll keep Rosie in line as well, and despite what it feels like, I need them. We need them. The troops respect them too much to cut them out, and we have a long war ahead of us." Welkin sighed, looking out over the river. "So here we are. There isn't much more to it than that.

Isara’s voice came quiet, thick with guilt, her eyes lowered. “I’m sorry, Welks. This is all my fault. I dragged everyone into this because of me. I shouldn’t have argued. If I’d just kept quiet, none of this would’ve happened.”

Welkin’s expression softened, brotherly and protective as he stepped closer. “No, Is. Don’t do that to yourself. This isn’t your fault. We’re at war, and everyone’s on edge. You don’t deserve their hate, and you don’t need to carry their cruelty on your shoulders.” His voice was gentle, drawing his sister's eyes, wet with unshed tears.

“But-” she began.

He cut her off gently, with a faint smile. “But nothing. Besides, I have a plan.” His gaze shifted between Jerry, Jane, Alicia, and Isara. “But I’ll need your help. All of you.”

000

Jane and Jerry walked back toward their camp in silence, the weight of what had just happened pressing down on both of them. The ruins loomed above, blackened skeletons of buildings staring with hollow windows, the air damp and heavy with the smell of ash. Jane’s fists clenched at her sides, her expression twisted with a mixture of anger and unease. Jerry’s gaze was forward, dark thoughts clouding his mind, until Jane finally broke the quiet.

“It really doesn’t bother you, huh?” she asked suddenly, her voice softer than he was used to hearing from her.

Jerry blinked, dragged out of his brooding. He turned his head slightly. “What doesn’t bother me?”

“The Darcsen thing,” Jane said after a pause. She reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair back, her tone oddly hesitant. “I guess… it’s not really a secret. I’ve got the hair, if not the eyes. Dad was one, you know?”

Jerry glanced at her, surprised at the shift. The usual bite and vinegar in her words was gone, replaced by something quieter, almost shy. She didn’t look at him as she went on.

“I caught a lot of shit as a kid for being a mutt. Mom too, before she passed. It was… it was bad sometimes. A lot of the time, actually.” Her jaw tightened, her eyes hardening. “Fuckers.”

Jerry watched her from the corner of his eye. She seemed to need to let it out, the words spilling like something long bottled up. Her pace slowed, then quickened again, as if she couldn’t decide whether to walk it off or get it over with.

“It’s just… when I heard what they were saying, it brought all that back. That’s why I took off. I didn’t… I didn’t want it happening to someone else. Especially Isara, once I saw who it was.” Her voice wavered for a moment, then steadied. “Sorry if it gets you in the shit, Boss.”

Jerry was quiet for a few paces, the crunch of their boots on the rubble the only sound. Then he let out a low hum, his eyes steady on the path ahead. “Don’t apologize for doing the right thing. We’re a team, Jane. I’ve got your back, same as you’ve got mine.”

She gave a short huff of laughter, looking away quickly. But Jerry caught the small smile tugging at her lips before it vanished, replaced by her usual sneer as their camp came into view.

Juno was the first to rise as they stepped in, her eyes sharp, concern etched across her face. “What happened?” she asked quickly.

Jerry laid it out for her in short, clipped bursts: Rosie’s confrontation, Largo’s backing, the slurs, the crowd, Welkin’s intervention, and the bargain he had forced. He left nothing out. As he spoke, Juno’s lips pressed tight, the anger she was too proper to voice showing in the set of her jaw and the way her fingers curled around the cup of coffee in her hands. When he finished, she stayed silent for a beat, the quiet between them carrying all the words she wasn’t willing to speak aloud.

She met his eyes then, voice low but urgent. “I’ll get the latest maps and the Army intel from Command. The ones with the motor pool overlays and the fuel depot grid?”

“Yeah,” Jerry said, cutting across her question with a flat nod. “Grab them. Everything you can get that might matter. The way it's looking we're going to be running this one from the seat of our pants.” He paused, the gravity in his face deepening. “And Juno, things are going to get very complicated, very soon. Command isn't going to be happy about Welkin jumping in like this.”

Her jaw worked once, then she gave a single curt nod and moved to her pack without another word, the sense of duty overriding whatever outrage still burned in her. He watched her go for a moment, before looking over to see that Jane had been doing much the same as he had, with Wendy and Marina, both looking particularly aghast.

Time passed as Jerry got the Pride pulled together, barking a few short orders and sending them to grab food and fill their cups with bitter coffee. The air filled with the smell of rations heating over small burners, the clink of tin cups and spoons settling into a rhythm of preparation. Slowly the camp came to life again. Wendy looked rough, her hair mussed and eyes bleary, clutching her mug of brown as though it were the only thing holding her upright. Marina fared little better, her head bobbing as if she might doze off sitting upright, her rifle balanced against her knee. Jane gave her a shove, tipping her over and jolting her awake. Marina’s glare was sharp enough to cut stone, but Jane only laughed, the sound cutting through the fatigue and easing the tension by the smallest fraction.

Juno returned not long after, a satchel of paperwork slung over her shoulder, the weight of it thumping against her hip as she came back into the circle. She set it down by Jerry’s side with care, the maps and reports she’d gathered from Command spilling into the growing pile of supplies. Her expression was grave, her movements efficient as she pulled a barrel into the center and tucked a rolled-up field map beneath her arm. The Lions drew in around her, settling with their breakfast and steaming cups of coffee, the low murmur of eating and the scrape of utensils filling the space. Jerry leaned forward, his voice steady as he brought them to order.

“We’ve been asked to infiltrate the west side of Vasel. The plan is simple.” Jerry’s hand rested on the edge of the barrel as he spoke, eyes moving across the circle. “We take a rowboat across the river two miles down, under cover of dark. Slip into the city from the Imperial side, and set as many surprises as we can before Lieutenant Gunther launches his push from the west beach here.”

He tapped the marked section on the map, the faint scratching of his finger against paper drawing every gaze. A few of the women leaned closer, eyeing the overlay as they sipped at their drinks. The map itself was a mess of scribbled notes and hand-drawn images, mostly centered around the industrial district.

“He’ll be moving at oh-five-hundred tomorrow, under the morning mist,” Jerry continued, his tone steady. “We move at twenty-two hundred. That gives us seven hours to get into the city, kill, sabotage, or destroy what we can, then support Gunther as he pushes through.”

His eyes went to Juno. “Do you have the reports from Army Intel?”

She nodded and dug into her pack, pulling free a sheaf of notes which she handed over to Jerry. He skimmed through them quickly, eyes scanning the margins and underlined sections before setting them down on the map for the others to see. “Targets of opportunity are fuel depots, motor pools, armories, barracks, and the general’s tank,” he said evenly. “General Jaeger himself is a high priority. We're to capture him if its possible, or kill him otherwise. Same goes for anyone wearing officer’s armor. We want to do as much damage as we can before Welkin arrives.”

Jerry leaned back, letting that settle over them before he spoke again. “I won’t lie to you. This is dangerous. Backup will be hours away if it comes at all, and if you’re caught, you’ll be treated as spies. That means execution.” His eyes swept over them, hard and deliberate. “If anyone wants to bow out, say it now. This isn’t official, and there’s no dishonor in stepping back.”

Jane scoffed immediately, almost insulted he’d even ask. “Like hell.”

Wendy straightened in her seat, voice rough with fatigue but firm. “I didn’t come this far to quit now.”

Marina gave a sharp nod, still rubbing sleep from her eyes. “You’ll need my rifle. I’m in.”

Juno glanced at the pile of reports, then at Jerry, her voice cool and unwavering. “You’ll have my support, whatever it takes.”

Even Cheslock, already grinning at the thought of whatever mayhem she could unleash, added with a chuckle, “Try and stop me.”

Not one of them backed down. Jerry felt pride swell in his chest as he looked over his Lions, each woman steady-eyed, their resolve ironclad.

“Then we’ve got fourteen hours to put a plan together.” Jerry straightened, letting his gaze sweep the circle before fixing on each in turn. “Wulfstan, you and Coren will be with me on the infiltration. We need to find a way into the city without causing a commotion.” His eyes shifted, steady as iron. “Turner, you’re with Cheslock. You get her anything she needs. I got Welkin to authorize full access to the armor and machine shop.” His gaze finally landed on Cheslock, who perked up instantly under the weight of his attention. “And I need you to make as many explosives as you can. All we're going to have is what we can carry, so no resupplies. I want enough to blow up that base twice.

Her grin spread wide, her eyes bright like a child on Christmas morning. “Anything in particular, Boss?”

“Compact, big boom, and anti-personnel if you can manage it,” Jerry said firmly. “And make them quiet. No rattling parts, no clanking shells. Can you do that?”

Cheslock snorted, her grin not fading. “Please, Boss. I'll have them color coded and waiting for you by this afternoon.”

Jerry’s lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile. “Anyone have any questions?”

It was at this point when Marina raised her hand and asked, "Sir, how... is Lieutenant Gunther going to get his tank across the channel?"

"Well," Jerry began, a rare amused look gracing his lips, "It has to do with these weeds..."

000

In the end the plan was incredibly simple. Vasel had once been a fortress town, its old walls looming tall over the Gallian frontier. In those days it had been the keystone guarding the approaches to Randgriz, its gates bristling with guns and its watchtowers casting their eyes out over the river crossings. That age had long since passed. The walls were torn down as the decades rolled forward, the city growing outward into the lowlands. Trade, industry, and rail all converged here, and Vasel’s rebirth as the gateway to Randgriz turned it into a sprawl of clashing styles: narrow medieval lanes giving way to wide boulevards, old stone foundations buried under red brick mills and soot-stained factories from the industrial revolution of the 10s and 20s.

That chaotic growth had left scars. Buried beneath the streets, a labyrinth of old sewer tunnels and drainage lines threaded through the city. Some dated back to the fortress era, built to channel rainwater away from the walls, while others had been cut piecemeal to serve new factories and rail yards. Together they formed a messy web of runoff and forgotten passages that reached down to the river itself. The approach from the water would be their entry point. Old water walls and culverts offered hidden access, and sewer grates along the banks could be pried open to slip inside unnoticed.

That was where they would begin. Once inside, the Pride would split into two squads. Juno would remain on comms, paired with Marina once again, who would take position in the northwest signaling tower. From there, they would have a commanding view of the Imperial camp, and would relay what they saw through to the ground team. Jerry, Jane, and Wendy would move in from the west, working their way through the alleys until they reached a warehouse pressed up against the edge of the Imperial camp. The plan called for them to cut through the rough wire fencing the Imps had erected and push in from that side.

The weather favored them. Reports said a heavy rainstorm was due, which would grant them near-perfect cover, muffling noise under the steady downpour and hiding them from prying eyes. The downside was that Marina and Juno’s visibility would suffer, and their commanding sight picture from the northwest tower might be obscured. To counter that, they had pointed out other signaling towers closer to the camp. Those towers offered closer cover, but each provided only a partial view of the camp. On top of that, they had identified a handful of fallback positions where Marina and Juno could set up to lay down covering fire, buying the ground team a chance to slip away in the chaos if needed. Exit strategies for their exit strategies, in essence.

Jane, ever resourceful, had managed to find a previously-mounted Erma LMG, though she didn’t say where it had come from. Between Marina and Juno, they would be hauling the weapon and nearly a thousand rounds of ammunition up to the tower. It would serve as a fallback point, a distraction to buy time if things went wrong. No one expected it to last long, but a few minutes could be the difference between escape and being pinned.

That said, Wendy was the star of the show, her contribution stacked neatly on the table they'd commandeered form somewhere. She and Jane worked side by side, Wendy with a mix of care and glee, her hands steady and precise, and Jane uncharacteristically nervous, almost flinching every time her partner chopped a chunk of high explosive off another block and shoved it into a can. When Wendy finally laid out her creations, the others leaned in, curiosity drawing them closer despite their very reasonable caution. Spread across the table, the objects looked deceptively ordinary, like ration cans wrapped in mesh netting, each topped with a thin wire and a simple switch, painted either dull brown or bright red.

“These,” she said, pride breaking through her naked joy, “are my party poppers. Half a block of Comp-R wired with a simple radio detonator. Flick the switch, broadcast on the right channel, and they all go up together. One is enough to flatten anything within three meters and maim in eight.”

She pointed to the other stack, with their bright red cases. “These are my firecrackers. An eighth of a block tucked with Ragnoline, aluminum shavings, and engine grease. Makes a gelatin that burns like hell, and clings to whatever it hits.” She said, picking one up and tossing it up and down in her hand like a toy. "Be careful with these, mmkay? If that ragnajelly gets on you it'll keep burning until it burns clean through. If you do get it on you, smother it in dirt. Water'll just make it explode and burn like a grease fire."

The revelation had Juno and Marina instinctively stepping back, their eyes on the one Wendy was playing with like it was a life hand grenade, which, arguably, might have been safer. Jerry reached forward, picking up one of the red-painted cans to inspect it. The color was bold even in the dim lamplight, a marker as clear as a warning flag.

“They’ll all go at once? We don’t need to worry about anyone hitting the wrong channel by accident?” he asked, turning it in his hands.

Juno’s voice came from behind him, her tone calm and professional even as she arguably used him as a shield against a potential misfire. “No. The channel she picked is far from both civilian and military bands. Nobody uses it. All things considered, it’s perfect.”

Jerry turned the can once more in his hand, studying the workmanship with cool interest, the way the mesh had been wrapped snug and the switch seated just so. He set it down, glancing at Wendy and Jane. “Good work,” he nodded, his tone approving. Then, louder so they all could hear, he added, “Load them up. We’ve got six hours before we move. Grab food, get some rest. I want everyone sharp tonight.”

The women moved to their tasks. Some found space to sleep, others checked equipment. Jerry began his own preparations, but paused when he noticed Isara hesitating nearby. She stood as though torn, before finally stepping closer.

She lingered there for a long moment, shifting her weight, clearly wrestling with herself before she finally forced the words out, her voice tight with shame. “I’m sorry I got you into this too, Mr. FInch,” she whispered, almost too quiet to hear.

Jerry shook his head, standing to face her. He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder, his posture firm, his tone carrying more weight now. “This isn’t on you, Isara. Stark and Potter were out of line. Especially Stark. All the rest of it is what it is. If not now, then when? Right before a major operation? In the middle of one? Better to cut it at the roots if Welkin’s right about handling it this way.” He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “People are stupid. Especially racists like those two. They’ll keep being stupid until someone knocks some sense into them. And if that falls to me, then so be it.”

She lowered her eyes, her voice faint but insistent. “But still… I’m sorry. Back in Bruhl I learned to live with the stares, the whispers. It shouldn’t have surprised me like it did.”

Jerry gave her a long, complicated look before turning his gaze across the camp. His troops were close enough to see what was happening, but kept their distance, giving them space. “Listen, Isara. Don’t ever apologize for standing up for yourself. Stark was wrong to come at you, just like Potter was, and all the little cronies that egged them on." His words rang with a kind of final certainty that Isara wished she felt. "She’ll try again, no doubt. But for every one of them, you’ve got us. Me, Juno, Wendy, Marina… and even Jane, who kinda counts.”

From her corner Jane called out with a scoffed, “Fuck you!” earning a chuckle from Jerry, before he continued. "So if you need help, if someone is causing you issues, you can come to any of us. We've got you kid. Remember that."

Isara gave a small, misty-eyed smile at the exchange. “I will, Mr. Lion. I promise.” She hesitated, then stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. Jerry stiffened, unsure of what to do, before awkwardly patting her shoulder. Her laugh came out genuine at that, light and unguarded. Like she'd finally been able to put something she'd been carrying down.

“Good luck on your mission!” she said, snapping off a sloppy salute.

Jerry returned it without hesitation, lips twitching into a faint smile. She skipped back toward her brother’s tent, leaving Jerry to face the amused looks of the girls. He scowled, narrowing his eyes at them.

“Well,” he said firmly, “back to it, ladies. War isn’t going to wait on us.”

000

Hours passed as Jerry lingered near the riverbank, the mist clinging to the air and soft drizzle soaking into his coat. He stood still, shoulders squared against the damp, his eyes fixed on the far shore where the Imperials had dug in with brutal efficiency. Lanterns and cookfires glimmered faintly through the gloom, their reflections shivering on the water’s surface. From time to time, a rifle cracked or the distant stutter of a machine gun carried across the channel, but the skirmishes never built to more than that. Both armies had settled into a tense rhythm, locked in stalemate as the river divided them.

Jerry understood that waiting only played into the enemy’s hands. Every day the Imperials sat unchallenged, their supply lines fattened, their manpower reinforced, their fortifications hardened into a wall Gallia could never hope to break through. He felt the weight of that truth as he watched the shadows across the river. Each hour wasted was another stone added to the fortress the Imps were building in plain sight, and he knew that if something did not break soon, Gallia would be smothered beneath it.

That had been the core of Welkin’s argument when he brought his plan before Captain Varrot. On its face, the scheme was suicidal, the kind of gamble that could break an entire company if it went wrong. Yet Welkin had spoken with calm conviction, laying out each risk and counterpoint with the confidence of a man who believed in his course completely. Jerry had stood beside him, lending his own weight to the proposal, and together that had been enough to sway Varrot and the other lieutenants. It was a hesitant approval, but it had come all the same.

The task itself sounded deceptively simple on paper: take the bridge controls, hold them, and allow Gallian forces to flood across the western span unopposed. The real threat lay in the Imperials pulling the lever first, sending the bridge vertical and any Gallians on it into the river. The eastern control booth had already been demolished during the retreat, blown apart by a sharp-minded Imperial engineer, leaving only the western controls intact. Securing them would be bloody, but without it the battle for Vasel was already lost before it began.

Largo and Rosie had both had strong opinions when the plan was laid out, loudly at that. Yet Welkin’s hunch had played out like he'd thought it would. Largo would never let any suggestion of cowardice pass without taking it as a personal insult, and Rosie, willing or not, was pulled along in his wake. Both were on board, for better or worse, with the plan, and so long as Welkin was still breathing at least.

The river carried the smell of smoke and wet stone as Welkin stepped up beside him. “Ducat for your thoughts?”

Jerry glanced at Welkin as the two stood in the twilight, before glancing back across the river. He let the words sit, his eyes tracing the small figures on the other side. At last he shrugged. “Nothing really worth sharing, Gunther. Just plotting.”

Welkin gave a short, barking laugh, the sound sharp against the low hiss of rain. “I don’t know if that’s less or more worrying. But we’ve got this, even if you can only pick off a few patrols. Don’t put yourselves at risk over my plan, okay?”

Jerry turned his head then, giving him a sidelong look, a faint snort breaking free. “Welkin, it’s war. Just standing here where they can see us is risky." He snorted, the wet and the cold somehow warmer than his tone. Then he gave Welkin a grin. "Don’t worry, we’ll get the job done.”

Welkin’s expression softened, though the weight in his eyes never left. He rapped a firm hand on Jerry’s shoulder. “I know you will, Jerry. To end the war.”

Jerry nodded once, his gaze sliding back across the river, the lights of the Imperial camp burning faintly in the distance. “Whatever it takes.”