Western HQ Party/Meeting!

Jet was extremely excited. It was finally here, the big West HQ party, meeting, thing! This would be the first time since he began his command here, and since the new renovations, that the forces of West City would gather in one place to meet one another. There'll be music, games, fun, and food! Lots of food. The new ballroom, which had been built for occasions just like this one, was absolutely gorgeous! All of the rebuilding and renovations for West HQ had been completed but a few days ago, and only a few hours ago was all the equipment cleared out. Improved defenses, living quarters, eating facilities, offices, and restrooms were but a few of the many great new things at Western Command. What got Jet the most though was it was new. And you know what that means? Shiny! Currently the new chandelier in the ballroom was was currently held the generals attention at the moment, the light cascading off of it made him drool. Yay shiny, he thought to himself as he realized he had important things to do. The ballroom was bustling with activity as the workers, staff, and soldiers made the last minute preparations for the party/meeting/thing about to start. General Black just couldn't wait, this was going to be great!

"…nothing surprises me anymore."

Life had twisted in an obscure direction for Aaron Brighton. He never anticipated having his military career begin in a burning blaze of failure, nor having to carry the cross of guilt and shame across his back for the rest of his days. He was a carefree by nature, but life was teaching him a bitter lesson, to accept everything around him at face value and take absolutely nothing for granted. So now, as he sat uncomfortably on a smelly bus-ride, cramped into a musty old chair that refused to compromise, Aaron pondered how his new life at West Forces Headquarters would fair any differently. No doubt, his peers would have had access to the sensitive details of Operation Borneo. And he wondered what sort of reactions would be waiting on him once he arrived, or if he would have to deal with pointless hazing. It honestly didn't matter at this point, as his military record couldn't possibly get any worse. On the bright side, having a bad reputation wasn't nearly as bad having no reputation at all. And in retrospect, what did it really matter in the long run? As long as he was serving his country, and as long as he could ensure his sister's safety, health, and wellbeing, then he could lay down his life at any moment and have absolutely no regrets.

"Maybe I've lived too long..."

The bus slowed to a timely stop just outside the base and Aaron was quickly on his way with his duffle bag slung over his shoulder, a map of West HQ faintly printed out on garbage-quality paper. Military Standard Issue. He spent a few minutes wandering the installation, getting a general feel for a place he'd heard burned to the ground not too long ago. For what it was worth, Aaron could see that a lot of effort – and by effort, he honestly meant 'taxpayer cens' – went into rebuilding this place. One could only wonder the sort of funding wasted in recuperating a fortress if its leader was as dimwitted as the one who cleared Operation Borneo. The half-Ishvallan grumbled something profane under his voice, tasting the bitter resentment built up over the last few months. Aaron had never truly hated the military and even found pride in serving like his grandfather before him—but there was something about the way this country was led that tugged irritably at the back of his mind, leaving much consideration to be desired. For instance, there was the subject of health-care. More specifically, the issue of his sister, and how a once-respected military official who had become a legend in his own right, could scarcely afford to scrape together enough to fund his granddaughter's treatments. He supposed he couldn't wholly blame the government in full, but who could he honestly look toward for answers. Such a large family would be a burden for anyone to support, especially an elderly man in the prime of retirement. That had been the very reason Aaron had signed up for the military in the first place…to lighten his grandfather's load, and keep his sister safe. Of course, she'd gone and joined the military after him, utterly screwing his attempts twice over, but it wasn't as if he hadn't expected it from her. Shula was Shula, after all. He'd never been able to stop her from anything once her mind was set.

"…YOU CONDEMNABLE BUTCHER..."

The Ishvallan's red eyes slanted back into narrow slits, his stance shifting sharply to pivot at the waist, snapping his body around in an almost instantaneous spin that had him about-face faster than the time it took to blink. He snapped his free fist back, preparing to dig his bare bronzed knuckles into the face of…a little boy? The halfbreed blinked, shaking his head to clear away the confusion for a second. "You say somethin', kid?"

"Or maybe I've just become apathetic..."

"Yah. 'Scuth me, misther. Can you pasth me my bawl back?" Sure enough, as Aaron glanced down, there was a little red ball that had rolled up and stopped at his feet. For a moment, he just stood there, awkwardly glancing toward the boy, then the ball, and then back up to the lad's perplexed blue-eyed stare. He knew he should have expected this; it was normal to soldiers returning home from the field. The jitters, the shakes, shell-shock, it had many names. He knew that he would relive that nightmarish hell day after day, but never once would he have expected it to set in this soon. And cued by some local child and an unintentionally interrupted game of kickball. Aaron scrubbed away a bit of cold sweat from his brow, sighing to relieve the built up tension. He'd almost punched this child's lights out, for god's sake! He placed the tip of his boot to the ball and rolled it back, scooping it up deftly with his toe and balancing it there. Then, with the grace of any soccer (football?) player, he buffeted the ball up to his knee, bounced it neatly to the other knee, and then passed the ball back to the astonished child whose expression had gradually shifted to one of awe.

"…but the truth is, you see..."

"No problem, junior. I used to be pretty good at kickball myself, back in my day." With that, Aaron readjusted his heavy bag and began to walk onward.

"Acthually, you kinda thuck. My little thither's got better game than thath. Thankth for the bawl back, tho. Later, Old Dude." the brat muttered before quickly speeding off with his little red ball in tow. Fortunately, really. Aaron snapped back around with an almost murderous look in his eyes, snarling.

"WELL SCREW YOU TOO, KID!!" he barked, running his fingers through his hair in search of a troublesome itch to scratch. Kids these days, honestly. He shrugged and shook his head, venturing deeper in search of his destination and the person he was told to report to. A Brigadier General, Jet Black. He chewed over the description on file, pondering if such a man fitting the build of this infamous Jet Black could honestly exist. And to be honest, what kind of name was 'Jet Black' after all. Sounded like some sort of Crayola crayon color, or some sort of lame fake alias. Who would be next? Lieutenant Major White Out? Sergeant Emerald Green? Maybe this guy's parents had been hippies; who could honestly say? But seriously…'Jet Black'? Really?

"…I'm no longer a human being."

Aaron shook his head, laughing quietly to himself. "Heh. This oughta be good for a laugh, if nothing else." Aaron mused, eventually finding himself wandering through what appeared to be some sort of ballroom. Obviously, this couldn't have been the right place. He had just transferred in; he expected a dusty old barracks, or a standard safety briefing upon arrival before being shuffled off to his quarters for the day. But this looked like the set-up for somebody's wedding or something. He considered doing an about-face and checking his crappy map again. "…must've taken that wrong turn at Albuquerque. Let's see here, where the heck am I again?"

"…I am a monster."

BUMP

(WIP; part my fault, part internet being on the fritz)

The sound of clacking boot heels resounded in the soldierly woman’s ears as she made her way down the sidewalk. Her bland expression registered nothing of her thoughts, which were turning over and over with each step. It had been a good while since she’d been in West City since leaving to join the military years ago. Under normal circumstances for normal people this would feel akin to a homecoming, since she truly had adopted this country as home, but Rose Connel was not normal. Not anymore. Not since that hellish nightmare she somehow lived through.

Truth be told, they were all set to court martial her at the least for the failure of the Borneo mission and vagaries of her survival. But she had survived with cockroach-like fortitude, though in the doing she had traded in her very humanity in her estimation. Equivalent exchange. Her mind cynically spat the words like acid into her brain. Now, rather than being sent back into battle, she was being thrust into some dull desk job as far away from Central as the generals could get her. Normal people would feel lucky to be alive and still employed at all. But, she was not normal. Battle fatigue, the doctors had called it. It had many names. All whispered and conveyed in sidelong glances when she walked through halls of HQ to give debriefing after debriefing till she could recite her carefully crafted report like the best drunk singing the most lewd song word-perfect, but totally off-key.

She paused in her ruminations to double-check her street map. She knew approximately where West Headquarters was located, but her memory was foggy. She’d been back in town for a couple of days already, but she’d spent the time making sure her possessions arrived safely to the hotel she was staying at—she didn’t own much, thankfully. And today she had spent at the backest of beyond at the town cemetery, tidying up an old grave that had gone long-untended. She got her bearing and continued on down the street, turning the next block. Her feet seemed to march her onward mechanically.

She could make the most of this new position. She knew that it could even be integral to finding out the answers to her burning questions that consumed her waking hours and sleepless nights. She brushed back her rust-colored bangs and inhaled deeply, forcing her darker thoughts and memories back. She was a Connel, a survivor, and she could adapt to any situation. Although it really had made her laugh long and loudly over her beer the night she had been given her new assignment. Head of Public Affairs! Basically, she would be in charge of managing all the come and go between the various ambassadors and politically untouchables. Such jobs normally went to those with less direct ways of acting and speaking than Rose had, but it had been made plain at Central that they wanted the antagonistic woman far away from active combat roles and didn’t trust her so far as they could throw her.

Her thoughts were bitter and totally jaded. She wasn’t one born into a line of service people, and being a natural nomad, she had little in the way of patriotism. So, why did she bother staying on in the military? Damned if she knew, really. She supposed she owed it to her unit that had died and the sacrifices made to persevere. She shook her head to dispel the choking guilt she always carried, the cross that was hers to bear for the spectacular failure in her first position of command and what it had cost. She was just pushing her glasses back up her nose when she saw the destination she sought looming in front of her. She was almost mystified that she got here so quickly. “Huh.” She stood, staring almost stupidly at the entrance. The place was in far better shape than she was expecting after reconstruction. She wondered if the Brigadier General she was here to meet with was at the back of such restoration. She would’ve opened book on it—those of rank tended to be lavish and stuffy fussers at best. She hadn’t heard much about this “Jet Black,” and her mouth twitched in a wry grin at such a silly moniker, but she had at least heard good of him in terms of how he valued things such as loyalty and honor. Perhaps this might not be too terrible. She even considered buttoning her uniform jacket. Nah.

When Rose entered the building, she truly was struck dumb at the inner décor. The place damn near sparkled! “Thought this was s’pose t’be a staff meetin', not the feckin’ prom,” she muttered to herself. Just as she was about to step further into the building, a tall young man about-faced so sharply that Rose crashed right into him. She got hit right in the face with his fluttering map with an audible thwap. As the map was lowering, her steely brown eyes darkened in righteous anger that seemed to well up in her on the spot. It didn’t help assuage matters that the freckled bridge of her pale nose was now trickling slightly with blood from a paper cut. She snatched the boy’s map, crumpling it in her tightened fist, swearing inventively. “Ye’ feckin iggorant punk! Watch where th’hell yer swingin’ shite like that!” Her accent always seemed to thicken when she was well-riled and she plainly didn’t care, all she knew was that this boy was about to have the worst day of his life.

"…you gotta be kidding me."

The swearing filled his ears like unwanted music played both off-key and with improvised, incorrect lyrics. Rose Connel never did learn things in the way of personal tact and knowing how to greet others without foul, four-lettered words flung in the exchange. Of course, he figured that was simply part of her charm, and why she was easily misunderstood. Much larger hands clasped over her own, muscular fingers nimbly and gently prying hers from the crumpled map that all-but-screamed in protest at the mishandling. They clipped the map from her with the ease wresting candy from the grip of an errant child that no longer deserved it, smoothing the item out against his broad chest and chiseled abs, hoping to keep the haggard map somewhat serviceable. "Hello Rose, I see you're still as charming as ever." The voice was deep, gruff, yet familiarly gentle to only her ears. It hailed the proper respects to someone who once out-ranked him and at the same time faintly chipped the stone of sarcasm with a refined pickaxe. Aaron Brighton wasted little time with formalities, offering the smaller who came scarcely past his waist an honest and apologetic bow of his head. "Sorry, wasn't watching where I was going," he mused, thumbing his squared chin speculatively with a quizzical look in those ruby eyes of his. "I heard they reassigned you to the middle of BFE. I never imagined it was THIS side of BFE. What an odd reunion."

"I've been to hell and back...and yet…"

He gathered up the rest of his belongings, merely hoisting up the duffel bag he'd plopped down at his side, quietly towering over Rose like the giant he appeared to be in comparison. It would seem that they both made it prior to whatever fancy arrangement was planned and were now left with impromptu time to squander left in their hands. Where most would ordinarily consider getting a bite to eat in the company of a lovely lady, somehow food was the last thing on Aaron's mind, their past considered. He and Rose had shared one too many meals together, ironically. But as there was no bitterness between them, Aaron could still offer the woman a well-rehearsed smile that looked almost authentic, save for the guilt he also shared, evidently shone through his blood-red eyes. His large hand entirely palmed Rose's head like a basketball in the hands of a professional player, pressing down to 'smoosh' her hair playfully and ruffle it in a big brotherly fashion, despite being years her junior. "You look well, Iron Thorn."

"…never once did I expect to see this Angel of Death again."

“…This has gotta be some sick sorta joke.”

After her the best of her irritation had been expelled in her act of map-grabbing, she now stood looking up at just who she had run into over the rim of her glasses. The grip of her fist had slackened, so she gave no problems in his retaining of it, but her stomach seemed to clench with the urge one has when they’re trying valiantly not to heave. Did those brass asses at Central plan this? They probably did, she surmised. Her face immediately cooled into a blanker expression as she took the thumb of her now emptied hand to wipe off the blood from her nose and wipe it off on the inside of her jacket—she was too shocked to look for a tissue and only had the vaguest notion that the outside of her uniform had to be clean for the first day. She flicked a hand at his velvety greeting, her silent signal for him to keep the small change of his sarcasm to himself. ”Keh. Wouldn’t have expected they’d shunt you out here, you bein’ the token Ishvallan boy and all.”

She scarcely held back the only blade she had that wasn’t a knife, not with Aaron Brighton. She knew he was strong enough to take it, though she’d never tell him as much. Her eyes flicked to the extra tab on his jacket collar, causing her to grin sardonically. ”I’d heard they promoted ya. This seems rather a fall from grace.” Inwardly, the knot in her stomach eased slightly. She had, under threat of carving him up, made Aaron conform to her report—which put most of the heat of failure on her. After all, she couldn’t have gone against the heads offering excuses of bad intel and bad upper management decisions. They didn’t want the truth from her. But she did what she knew a good commander had to, go down with the effin’ ship. Being half-Ishvallan, they’d been quite willing to blame the boy and put him to the gallows for some sort of imagined treason. Well, she supposed, at least she’d done him some small favor.

”Yeah…Some fokkin’ favor…”

She lifted her chin, almost a perpetually defiant stance, more at her own self than the company she was being forced to keep. After all, Rose knew, neither of them had really ever expected to see each other again. Just by her presence she assumed she’d already be souring his sunny day. She couldn’t deny it was nice to have a familiar face around town that wasn’t a lump of marble in the ground, but why the hell’d it have to be his face? Well, it was the sort of situation that Rose wasn’t used to—where you had to make awkward small talk when both parties knew entirely too much to do it properly. Her hand subconsciously went beneath her jacket to scratch at the scar on her left side through the fabric of her shirt. But, the habit was interrupted when his hand clapped down on her head, bouncing her titian ponytail. ”Hmp! Still don’t know your own strength, Brighton.” Her voice held an odd note, sort of caught between tension and a fond chuckle. Regardless, his action did soften her manner just slightly. ”Ah, I’ve been well enough. Not a bad sight yerself. What’d you go an’ do? Grow a few more inches?” She grinned, an act that never quite reached her guarded brown eyes these days, and arched an eyebrow for added effect.

”…I need somethin’ t’drink. S’gonna be a long day…”

BUMP

Nothing could ever be simple. Not for her, at least. She hated parties, of all sizes. Couldn’t they just have a simple meeting? “No, that’d be to simple, you see,” she thinks to herself. “Plus, you know your luck.” Indeed, she did have terrible luck with these sorts of things…

Walking into the meeting hall, she was already rubbing circles on her fingertips. Nice, clean, perfect circles. One, two, three, four, four, three, two, one…

“Where the hell is the general?” she mutters to herself, beginning to look around. Unfortunately, everyone’s face seemed unfamiliar to her. Not that that was any different than usual. With a sigh, she began slowly walking, trying to catch a glimpse at everyone’s rank. Not an idea method, but certainly the only option that seemed valid to her at the time. Well, she could always ask someone… “That never works for you, remember?” Well, she considered the idea. Her teacher would be proud.

One, two, three, four…

Of course, plenty of people were going about, finishing up whatever job they had to do before the party actually started. Isabella squeezed her way through the hordes of people, some working, others eating and talking, giving a quick glance to try to identify their rank. She bumped into a few people while she was distracted, though, each time muttering out a soft “Sorry” before moving on. At the other end of the hall, she finds an empty pocket of floor space, putting her back up against the wall and taking a deep breath. She tried not to listen in on anyone too hard, hoping her sanity would keep, at least for a little while longer.

Chink, thud, chink, thud, chink, thud... A resounding of clacking metal, and then the thud of a combat boot. Such was the sound that signified the entrance of the Second-in-Command, Cironis Alairu. Dressed in full uniform, jacket not quite buttoned all the way up. His hands were kept at his sides, the wolf necklace he was known for kept around his left hand, the one not wearing a glove. It was finally meeting time. Getting to know who'd be serving under him... A very different experience for the Second-in-Command. He's used to being the one taking orders, but after a few shiny medals and an unfortunate incident he walked away from, it seems he'd been promoted. He still kept his old title, embossed in the pair of dog tags kept under his shirt: The Ghost Wolf. He doubted if anyone here would know who he was, but it wouldn't matter. The important thing here is getting people to know who he is... Damn this was odd. Going from behind the scenes to front man? The only saving grace he had was that he'd be serving under Jet Black. Jet had always been a good friend of his, even served together for a period of time. And plus, Jet wasn't a complete moron in regards to command and service. It'd be easy enough to stand behind the man.

Cironis gave one last sigh, and adjusted the folder of dossiers he held beneath his arm, before entering into the hall, and what he undoubtedly knew would be the spotlight...

"Bloody dance halls..." were the final words he muttered before stepping into the shiny... Chink, thud, chink, thud, chink, thud...

Jethro watched as the last things were set up and the doors were opened, the members of Western Command slowly entering the large hall. Long tables with chairs and food were set up, the chandeliers lighting the large room up brilliantly. Jet stood at a podium on a stage at the front of the room, watching the soldiers and officers entering the hall. He smiled, this was the beginning of something new. It was his first time in front of the Western forces, and he needed to make a good impression. 'Time to do this,' he thought to himself as his higher ups found their seats at the head table, his Second-in-Command Cironis, or Sky as Jet liked to call him, stood beside him. Black stepped forward, in view of all the members of the West. As he turned on the microphone, Jet nodded to the stage director, the lights dimming in the hall and brighting on the stage. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention. As you all know, a few months back, the West was dealt a hard blow. The Headquarters was burnt to the ground and our forces significantly damaged. Creta hurt us that day, but like a Phoenix, we have risen from the flames of defeat stronger and better than ever! As your new leader and brother in arms, I, Jethro Black, welcome you to our new home!" This was received with thunderous applause, the ranks seeming to like his opening statement so far.

"I know the standards this Command has always given to its soldiers, and I also know that many are new to this place, just as I am. And I want to tell you that these standards will remain unchanged, as I believe these as strongly as any before me. We are a family, a group of men and women standing side by side, together in arms against the enemies of this State. The West will fight for Amestris once more!" Jet continued, his eyes surveying the crowd for their reactions. So far so good...

"We are in a time of war. Creta and Aerugo have claimed our Southern region and threaten once again to attack our homes. This, we cannot allow. The Western HQ has always stood against the forces of Creta since our nations creation, and this will not change. It will be hard going, as recent intelligence points towards an imminent attack on our Southern borders. Because of our experience with fighting these enemies, we will most likely be the first line of defense against them. Whether we fight on the front lines or support our fellow Amestrians, we shall make our Fuhrer proud!" Another cheer came out, the men and women roaring for vengeance. "We shall be receiving our deployment charts within the hour, so until then relax, eat and be merry!" Jethro finished, stepping down and walking with Cironis to the Head table to sit with his upper staff members.

She flinched as her commander was speaking via the microphone. “They always make those things too damn loud.” She stood through the entire speech, which she considered to be one thing and one thing only: political. Talk is cheap, and here he is stirring up images of a wounded nation, and vengeance. Amestris was powerful, yes, but she certainly didn’t think Creta was a pushover. The way he spoke made things sound clear-cut, when in reality…

She shook her head. She was analyzing too much of it, right? “No, these people, my leaders, they all just… ignore the facts in front of them, and prefer to believe the words of a disillusioned man.” They were certainly powerful words, but empty words nonetheless. And of course, those that heard it would…

“Fucking noise,” she thinks, the thunderous applause ringing in her head, digging into her skull. Perhaps it was the politics of the situation, or the fickleness of the public, or maybe it was because she was in a bad mood, but she certainly wasn’t moved by any of this. She handed him the files detailing what she thought was important, so she knew what he knew, and then some. Still, perhaps what West needed right now was a charismatic leader.

“What it needs is a competent leader, one who can lead it into battle without filling up with veng—“

She sighs and shifts her weight from her left leg to her right, contemplating on her next move. Should she sit at one of the tables? “At least you wouldn’t be the weirdo standing around.” She sighs again, pondering whether or not to actually confront her leader. But what about?

… Was she even in the battle? “Wait, deployment charts in an hour?” God damn it, general…

Whatever reply Brighton would have given Rose was silenced with a sharp gesture of her hand as Brigadier General Black called the room to attention. She turned to face the direction of the podium, noting for the first time how the place was filling up. Before the General began his ringing speech, she glanced at the head table, noticing the main audibly making his way in that direction to be seated among others of rank. A slight frown twitched at Rose’s lips as she wondered if she were supposed to be seated up there, given her new position. She shook her head imperceptibly to herself, deciding it was probably a table set aside for only the top brass of West HQ. She turned her attention back to the stage as the lighting changed, though she was a bit uneasy if she had to be entirely honest with herself.

Rose shoved her hands down in her pockets, as she listened to General Black’s ringing words on restating the glory of Western Headquarters. She had to bite down hard on her tongue, while by some feat keeping a bland expression on her face as she strove not to let fly a bark of laughter. But, really! Did the man know how pompous he sounded? And yet, there was something in his tone, she reckoned, that marked his sincerity and that boded better than she expected of the man. Just when she would have relaxed just a sliver of a notch, his implications on how all present were a family and whatnot made her stiffen anew. Her mind briefly recalled similar words that haunted her days.

”I know you lot are a skilled bunch of rag-tags, but while you’re in MY unit we are a family and we watch each other’s backs come heaven or hell.”

Family, huh? Hah. Such ties didn’t mean a damned thing to most people if your back was against the wall. There wasn’t a one here--present company excluded--she thought that would be willing to do unthinkable things to save another “family member.” If her eyes seemed to darken as her stomach turned over, only the young man at her side would know. Rose caught her breath, held it a moment and released it slowly, wishing she could expel the depressingly refreshed memory as easily. She kept her flat gaze straight ahead to the stage, not daring to look anywhere else lest her expression should break before she reaffirmed control of herself. Rose returned her attention to Black’s final words, and seemed considerably more at ease with the notion of diving straight in on work. When she worked, she had something to focus on that wasn’t past deeds or consequences. Indeed, she heard some groans around her from various sources about the idea of having to leave a perfectly good gathering to get down to business. With a chuckle, she permitted herself to grin wryly at their discomfort. But, then, few could outmatch Sgt. Major Rose Connel in work productivity since she barely slept and rarely put leisure time to leisure use—unless a good bar was involved, at any rate. But she tirelessly researched, and was always up to meet any challenge presented her.

She was determined to use her new position to the fullest to solve her personal puzzle. What did she care for the glory of a nation that had been all set to leave her unit to die in that desert? But still, it wasn’t the people of the nation at fault. Not really. Ah well, she’d have her answers in due time, she supposed. She cocked a sideways glance over at her former subordinate, an oddly placid expression in her eyes the likes of a lioness waiting for the zebra to come just that little bit closer. ”Well, boy-o, those were some bold words from the high man on the totem. Think I’d better be goin’ up to introduce m’self. I’ve had enough of a holiday and need to find my new office. By the way, what’s your position here?”

After much contemplation, Isabella thought that, perhaps, it would be best to approach her commanding officer with a neutral tone, and work from there. After all, she was a master at sounding neutral. Maybe.

Approaching the good general, she couldn’t help but notice another man dressed… oddly. “And people call me the weird one,” she mutters to herself. “Must be the rumored second-in-command.” After a quick tap on Jet’s shoulder, she stands at attention and snaps a quick salute. “Major Isabella Galicia, sir,” she reminds him, already shifting into a more relaxed stance. “I’d like to say that that was an interesting speech,” she comments. “Certainly roused the troops,” she adds, shifting uncomfortably. Neither small talk nor compliments, real or fake, could be classified as her forte.

“I hope you’ll have more than rousing speeches for us on the battlefield?” she says with a grin. It was a serious enough of a comment from her, but playful looking enough for it to possibly slip past someone’s radar.

The man beside Jet steps forward, a resounding chink of metal muffled slightly. He gives the officer a once over, his gaze piercing, almost cruel, before turning to one of formality, and relative friendliness. "I assure you, Major Galicia, the commander is more than pomp and circumstance when under fire. The question posed before us now, is whether or not you are." His tone was one of calculated politeness, as one might give a new co-worker you were unsure of. He spoke as he handed one of the dossier's under his arm to Jethro. "And to answer your unspoken question: Cironis Alairu. Second-in-Command under Commander Jethro Black..." He continued as Jet looked over the dossier. "Let me cut straight to the point. I don't trust you. Quite frankly I don't trust any of you." He announced, looking over those assembled, "And I don't expect you to trust me. I'd consider you foolish if you did. I'll leave the niceities to Commander Black. I do, however, expect a degree of respect from each of you, and I will give you respect in turn. His somewhat friendly gaze dropped into almost a glare, as if challenging someone to get into his face. "Failure to live up to expectations will result in an unhappy occurance. That much I can promise you."

Cironis fell silent once more, allowing the officers to absorb the information given... And to allow himself a moment to calm his own nerves, though never once did he raise his voice above the usual quiet volume.

Isabella looked the strange man up-and-down. Being straightforward and honest, perhaps to a fault? That reminded her of herself at times. Then again, she did have a tendency to relate people’s traits to herself, so maybe it was just that. “Although, it seems like being the general’s right-hand man has gone straight to his head.” She couldn’t help but smirk. This man had shattered social protocol, and then threw down the gauntlet. “Challenge accepted…”

“It seems you and I are in agreement. But, might I remind you, if there’s anyone who has to give respect to someone else, it’d be you, lieutenant, towards me. I’m afraid that being a trusted… advisor of the general doesn’t grant you immunity to military protocol, at least on my watch.” She honestly had little regard for rank, seeing as her promotion had come hand-in-hand with becoming a state alchemist, but there was something about this man that… aggravated her.

“I’d also like to remind you that you’ll have to rely on me, and me on you, when the time comes. Acting otherwise would only prove to detract from West as a whole. So while I won't ever ask for your trust, I do ask for your faith, as I imagine I’ll be putting my faith into you. So swallow your pride and man up, because you don’t want me thinking you’re expendable, and vice versa. Got it?” With an impish grin, she pokes him in the chest to emphasize her point.

Turning back to General Black, she bows apologetically. "Forgive me for speaking frankly with Lieutenant Alairu, sir. I'll try to keep things more civil in the future."

Jet shook his head at all this. Sky was always cautious and very steadfast, but sometimes his mouth seemed to work fast than his brain. "Please my friends, calm down. We are all brothers and sisters here, no need for useless bickering, it's not good for anyone, including yourselves," Jet replied to them. "Sit down everyone, we have much to discuss and not much time to do so." As all the leaders and department heads of Western Command took their seats at the table, Jet looked them all over. They were a good bunch, some of the best Amestris had to offer. They would need to be even better in the days to come, as war was soon to descend on their homeland, and Creta was not kind on the battlefield, this Black knew very well. "Thank you major for your compliment, I don't normally like the big speeches, but sometimes it comes with the job. They needed the morale boost, that much was certain. I also assure you, as well as anyone at this table, that when the time comes, speeches will not help us, but strong men and women willing to fight and die for their homeland and their freedom. I am no exception, I will fight side-by-side with you all, leading from the front is somewhat of a passion of mine," Jethro began, trying to make a good first impression.

"I am sure most of you know of my past, but let me tell you right now that it is well behind me, as it is for my trusted right hand man. He can be brash, and a bit forward at times, but he's a hardened veteran and has valuable skills. Right now we are somewhat new to the West and it's people, but I can assure you all that we will prove ourselves as leaders," Jet continued, looking out over the men and women at the table as he did. A man walked up to Black and whispered in his ear, handing him an envelope from Fort Briggs, it was the deployment charts for the upcoming defense! "Ladies and gentlemen, it seems the time has come to put introductions aside and begin preparation. I have just received the deployment charts from Northern Command, and it looks that our fears are to be true. Creta is massing its armies, but currently a forward force is heading towards the border. Reports suggest it is the Royal Task Forces and Guards, lead by Lord Dietrich himself," Jet said, a slight anger in his voice. Needless to say he did not like the Royal Guard, nor the new leader of Creta, and this information got him excited and angry all at the same time.

"Sadly though, it is unsure when they will strike, but most likely they will attack with three prongs, a tactic well used by the Cretan military. We don't have any approximate numbers, nor how heavy their weapons are. Lt. General Tsukino's second-in-command is en route to the border with some troops to make a forward resistance, and we shall be their back up. They will engage long enough to give us Intel on numbers and firepower, than pull back to our position, where we will be dug in and waiting," Black said, a map popping up on the screen next to the table, diagrams and lines showing deployments and positions, including the location of the forward command post. "Cironis, once the defense has held the enemy for some time and more reinforcements have arrived, I want you to take command of the 2nd and 12th companies, who will be fighting alongside the Northern Forces against the top prong. The 3rd, 4th, and 8th companies will defend the walls of West City from the lower prong. The 5th will be held in reserve and prepare for counter-attacks if necessary. The 6th, 7th, and 11th companies will hold the front line against the majority of the enemy forces on the middle prong, and the Templars will fight alongside them from the front. We will have all PDF forces, recruits, NCO's, as well as the 10th company coordinating the evacuation of West City. Major Galicia, I need you to stay by me though, your experience and knowledge of battlefield tactics will be most useful on the battlefield," Jet continued, putting the bullshit aside and getting straight to the point. "We must begin preparations immediately, the attack is estimated to be within the next few days," he finished, scanning the group for any signs of fear or doubt.

Cironis grew silent, giving only a silent nod to Jethro when he spoke. The unconcious part of his brain was working through the mass of information being put through by Jethro, but his concious mind was focused on analyzing those at the table, namely whether or not Isabella had noticed her finger had hit solid metal rather than flesh. While repairing bodies through automail wasn't entirely rare, simply the fact he has it will raise questions... Questions about his past... Questions he wasn't prepared to answer right now... There was a reason he was called the Ghost Wolf.

"...I want you to take command of the 2nd and 12th companies..."

Wait, what? "Commander, what forces will I be working with, and what is the condition of the terrain we'll be fighting in? What will the North be bringing? And what can we expect, without the neccesary intel?" He refocused his attention to the commander, his thoughts going into overdrive as he considered the possibilities and happenings of his orders... Was he ready for this?

That hardness, the material, the brief feel of it. She knew what she poked, but she figured it’d best be something to talk about in private – if at all. If he went through the trouble of hiding it, then he was one of those people that didn’t like to show it off.

She listened to the general’s words, appreciating a more straightforward approach to this mission briefing. Things seemed relatively well planned out, given the uncontrollable variables of the situation. “Seems like he’s restructuring West. This’ll certainly be interesting.”

"Commander, what forces will I be working with, and what is the condition of the terrain we'll be fighting in? What will the North be bringing? And what can we expect, without the neccesary intel?"

“General, If I may,” she says, waiting for Jet to give her the cue. Nodding in thanks, she stands up, cracks her fingers, and gives a small, polite smile. “Now, I can’t answer all your questions, Lieutenant, but I can give you a crash course on what we know, and what we can expect.” She paused for a moment. “I might jump around a bit, so please, stay on your toes.

“Now, West Amestris is comprised of rocky terrain, some flats, forested areas, and mountains. Urban combat might come into play, but there are standard tactics for that sort of thing. Also, I’d like to point out that we aren’t concerning ourselves with fighting in the mountains… Yet.” She was well aware most of the upper brass were expecting this to not last long, which she herself considered foolish. But, then again, she was a pessimist… “Now, Creta’s military makeup is… different than ours. The force that will actually be attacking us is the attack has been dubbed the ‘Royal Task Force,’ which is separate from the rest of the Cretan military. What we’ve managed to learn is that what’s attacking us is a comparatively smaller force, but it’s highly-trained and well-equipped. Specifics on their force sizes are unknown, but we do know that they have scouting units, heavy tanks, and medium-armored APC’s, so it suggests that they’re geared towards being fast and mobile. Mechanized infantry should be expected, so even their foot soldiers will have armored support close by. Helicopters should also be expected, so we should have anti-air support ready.”

“Hopefully.” She takes a deep breath and sighs, gripping her left wrist to stop her hand from shaking.

“Information further suggests that, unlike Amestris, they do not make a habit of deploying alchemists as troops. Combined with our superior numbers, it appears that we have an advantage. However, they’ve developed… differently from Amestris. We don’t have full knowledge, but it appears they’re more advanced in communications and information technology, and have diverged in weapons development by quite a lot, perhaps even to the point that their conventional weapons would be classified as unconventional to us. What we’ll see is, unfortunately, unpredictable, seeing as a lot of information has been kept close to Creta’s chest. It’s best to defend them as they come, be flexible enough to move around, and wait for reinforcements from North and East… Whatever they’re bringing.”

She gives a nervous laugh, looking down at the table. Communication hadn’t been as… fluid as she wanted between the three sects of the military. “Still, North’s support will ensure that our forces aren’t spread too thin, and when East arrives, we’ll have a sizeable force to counter-attack with. Your priority, Lieutenant, should be creating a buffer between the Cretans and anything considerably important, as well as buying time. In my opinion, pushing them back is secondary; at least, until we can afford to change from a defensive to an offensive stance. Until then, Lieutenant, you’re our only hope.”

With that, she quickly slides back into her seat, slouching down in an effort to disappear into the table. “Fuck public speaking…”

Cironis took in a deep breath, then let it back out. Fantastic... New assignment, new regime, hardly even creased his new uniform... And already he'd heard those infamous words: "...you're our only hope." He eyes began to dart back and forth as he leaned over on the table, hands curled up into fists. You could almost see the neurons firing back and forth within his brain, the signals and responses as he went through the process of sorting the information and then building up from it. If he had any problems with Isabella's way of talking, there was no evidence of it now, there was a mission to complete.

"Commander. If this 'Royal Task Force' is as mobile as the Major claims, they'll be using them as a surgical strike team. They'll try and slip through the gaps, blow their target to kingdom come, and then get out of there before we've had a chance to react." He continued speaking, answering the impending question before it came, "The plus side to this is that if the unit wants to survive, anything that might slow progress or get in their way, they'll avoid like the plague. This'll mean a few things you won't like though. Our front line defense will have to be slackened, in favor of hardening priority targets. If they come up heavy on the front, then we'll be at a slight disadvantage. But this does mean their major hitter, the Royal Task Force, won't do squat against whatever targets it might find. They'll either be wiped out killing their target, or flee before being able to do any real damage. Until then, that Task Force is a priority target. Now, as for the front lines... Since my plan doesn't offer as high a number of troops on the field, I'd suggest guerrilla warfare. Hit and run tactics. Anything to slow down the bulk of the Cretan army." Cironis took in another deep breath, letting it back out. The plan was flawed, and he knew it, he just had no idea what Cretea was capable of. He knew he was right about one thing though: This Royal Task Force would pose a very serious problem until dealt with.

The General nodded in agreement. "Thank you Major, your input is always highly appreciated. You both are right, we cannot let them penetrate our lines at all costs. We will hold the line until reinforcements arrive. Mobility will be our advantage over their slow armor and heavy troops. We must hit them hard and fast, small counter-strikes will keep them on their toes," Jet said, clearing the air slightly. "Are we all in accordance?" he finished, looking back and forth across the table. As all agreed, Jet then finished the meeting. "Begin the preparations immediately, the enemy may strike at any moment. Get deployments and armaments to the troops, make sure they are ready for the fight ahead. You have your jobs, good luck!"

Jet sighed as the high ranking officers and department heads left the table, all going to prepare for the coming battle. Jet walked alongside Sky, heading towards the Generals office. "I think that went pretty well, don't you think?" Jethro said to his best friend and second-in-command.

Cironis snapped a quick salute before walking alongside his CO and oldest friend. He sighed, pondering the actions that had just taken place. He was unsure of what to make of the whole thing. He liked Isabella. A bit too cocksure of her position maybe, and he sure as hell didn't like the way she looked she seemed to look down on him. He'd been to hell and back, almost literally; rank or no rank, he didn't like anyone claiming a position above him, even if they were his superior. It'd take a lot more than some shiny apparel to get his "faith". Of course, he'd play the good little soldier and follow orders, but that didn't mean he had to like it, and his discomfort could be seen on his face, at least in the presence of Jet... Cironis is not a people person.

"I think that went pretty well, don't you think?" Ahhh.. crap.

"Sir, you're doing it again... I don't speak Cretan, remember?" He hated it when Jethro did that... 'Course, he'd done it a few times himself with Gaelic... Mind you, that was his native tongue.

Jet shook his head and facepalmed, smiling and laughing as the two of them walked down the hall to his office. This was a little joke the two had going, one would start talking in their native tongue just to be funny. It had been a long time since the two of them had gotten to just hang out, only once since they'd taken the positions as No.1 and 2 of Western Command a few weeks ago. It was nice, he missed it. He was extremely close to Cironis, more so than even most of his family anymore. Sky was his brother not in blood, but in bond. They'd been through some hell together and always helped each other get through it. The trust between the two was unbreakable, and they loved just hanging out. Though they spent a good amount of time together during working hours, they're always focusing on the task at hand. He wouldn't want to have any other right hand man though, Cironis was his best friend and brother through thick and thin. He'd have his back no matter what, just how they were.

Jet laughed his hardy laugh and patted Sky on the back. "I said that went pretty well, don't you think?"

Bump!