England Falters: Wartime Resistance RP

[Captain Pirate]

Mick Kenneth watched the new commanding officers turn away.
He had a breif flashback, and his mind began to wander.
Back over 10 years ago, when he had been 16 and signed up for the Royal Marines, things were different. The soldiers all wore uniform, all assigned numbered weapons, and clean, neat ammunition. A veriety of equipment was handed out to meet the missions' requirements.

But now...
He looked around at the people near him; he had been introduced to nearly all of them just very recently.
No specific uniform.
Such a variety of scavenged weapons, in various states of disrepair.
But he didn't judge them, for he was the same.

He looked down at himself.
Badly torn once-fashionable jacket, missing the left arm from the elbow.
Jeans, dirty with dust, blood and dirt.
A pair of equally damaged trainers.
Slung under his arm was a Spectre M4 Submachine gun. For the time, it was in very good condition. He'd painted it blue in iregular places for fun one night. It was by his shoulder by a makeshift leather strap.
In his pocket, he felt a small ASP Pistol.

He inspected his peers again.
Wishing to break the silence, he spoke in an attempt at humour.
"I hear Dover's lovely this time of year."
He said, looking out of the bunker at the deserted ghost town. As if on que, a newspaper and other rubbish blew past in the wind.

<spoiler=JoJo> What say our characters be friends already, having met before being moved into the same squad?
Was fun RPing with you in the ill-fated Internet Zombie RP.[/spoiler]

 

[curlycrouton]

Michael shuffled uneasily amongst his squadmates, glancing nervously at those either side of him for some sign of assurance. He seemed a little shorter than most of his compatriots, who seemed almost to loom over him like the sides of a valley. His palms became sweaty.

Why did I ever come here...

His weatherbeaten face showed signs of nervousness. His pupils had dilated, a thin film of sweat had formed over his unshaven face.

His hand fumbled in his back pocket, producing a small hip flask. He drank urgently for a split second, and then hastily returned the flask to its pocket. Motor oil dripped down his chin.

Oh, for a glass of whisky...

 

[Katherine Kerensky]

Rufus remained slouching where he stood off to one side, and stared blankly at some of the recruits, moving his somewhat vacant gaze among them. Do they have poles up their asses or something? Pah! he thought to himself, then turned to the guy next to him. "Hey Sander, what do you make of those rod-spined people?"
He rolled his eyes, then set his gaze upon a shifty looking fellow wandering aimlessly through the group.

 

[CounterAttack]

A woman who would be described as petite and slim in contrast to many others in the room, Katrina Church was suffering from a serious case of nerves as she stood near the back of the group, afraid to move forward unless she was called. She had one hand at her collar, constantly playing with a small silver pendant. The other performed seemingly random tasks such as running fingers through her tied-back blonde hair, tugging at the long sleeves of her shirt, or matching her other hand in fiddling with her charm.

She kept looking around at the others in the area, not sure what they'd think of her and her evident signs of fear.

 

[Fraught]

"You know what, Rufus? Every time I lay my eyes upon them, I can't stop thinking if they have poles up their asses, or what?" he replied, lousily glancing at the other recruits and at Rufus, then at the recruits, and back at Rufus.
He patted a small pack he'd gotten this far without another war inside the country itself - stuffed chock full of assorted items he thought he'd be yearning for in this god forsaken place - and he was proud of that.

He smirked smugly, and looked back at Rufus, noticing someone shuffling through the group behind him. A faint motor oil smell approached, and lingered in the air, getting stronger as he approached.

"Hey, what's that dripping from your chin?" he said, noticing a dark liquid dripping from it like the remains of a food war splattered on the walls of a once-clean cafeteria. "Have you been drinking motor oil?" he asked, examining the man's face, and the odd state it was in.

 

[Captain Pirate]

"Pole up my arse, eh? Love you too, mate." Mick replied with a grin.
He pushed some of his messy, greasy and uneven dreadlocks out of his face, before also turning to Michael, te shuffling, nervous man with liquid dripping down his chin.
"Last time I checked, oil wasn't good for ya."

 

[SteakHeart]

Nadia turned to Sander. "I'm not usually like this," she said. "I'm just trying to look professional for the higher-ups. Back in the Israeli army, we had to, or else it was what you'd call KP." She remembered her first day on the job, when she had mouthed off to an instructor and put on custodial duty as punishment.

She turned back to the girl. Did she hear me? she thought. She tapped the girl on the shoulder, raising an eyebrow.

 

[Katherine Kerensky]

Rufus grinned as the two starch-arses turned and replied to Sander. He turned to his associate, and said in a quiet voice "Maybe you should be quieter next time, ja?", then, after a moment's thought "What do you think of that girl who spoke back?"
Damn, she is putting almost everyone else to shame. Damn military whack-jobs.
He shifted his weight to the other foot, and returned to staring at Mr. Motor Oil.

 

[SamuelT]

"No one told me nothing!" Robin said in an urgent whisper. "I mean, sure I got a message you'd be joining Dover about a sec before you joined Dover, but nothing about a full squadron joining us."

He looked at the soldiers. Some were armed, even.

"This don't feel right."

 

[Sparrow]

Emerson stared over his shoulder quickly, before turning back to Robin.

"We don't have any orders, we don't have any equipment-- we don't even know if these guys are trained in any way to use equipment now that I think about it. Well, besides that guy packing enough heat to take King Kong down."

Peering over his shoulder once more, Emerson spotted a phone across the platform.

"Entertain the newbies, I'm going to make a call.", he said, quickly trotting away from the group.

 

[Jav3lin]

Gar shifted his eyes from the two officials chattering.
As one stepped from the other, he stiffened to the maximum and thought he'd break his back if he straightened any more.
He clicked his heels and saluted as he lifted his chin up.

"Sir. What are our orders?"
Gar spoke with fluent English with a hint of an American accent. The words flowed from his tongue like they had been well thought of and repeated several times so not to mess them up.

 

[curlycrouton]

"It, er..." Michael stuttered nervously, searching desperately for an excuse. No such luck. He gave in.

"When you haven't seen but a drop of whiskey or gin in well over six months... a man's entitled to his pleasures, isn't he?" He wiped his chin on his sleeve, staining the tattered khaki sleeves a deeper shade of brown.

"God knows, it tastes unholy, but it does the bloody trick... Do you...?" He hesitated. "Do you want some? It's mighty strong stuff".

 

[Lizmichi]

Ana stood with her fellow recruits with a smirk on her lips. she couldn't help but stare down her commanding officers trying to size them up. After England was kicked out of Britain Ana tried to find a way to make the 'American cod munchers', as she called them, pay for what they've done.

At a time like this she was happy for her MI6 and Irish Defense Forces training. From the basics of combat to the more precise actions of the sniper rifle she was well rounded enough to handle nearly anything that was thrown at her.

From the time she left Ireland and became a citizen of England she never felt truly at home, that is until now. She was fighting for what was right and not what she was told to fight for.

 

[SteakHeart]

Nadia gave up on getting an answer from the girl, and turned back to the group. She tilted her head a bit, hearing Michael's explanation, and walked over to him.

"Eh, why not," she said with a shrug. "Might as well live a little, no?" She smiled, not showing any teeth, and put out a hand to get the flask. Then, she took her hand back. "On second thought, no thanks. My stomach's not the strongest."

 

[Fraught]

"Your pleasures? You call this one of your 'pleasures'? Do I want some? Absolutely not," he said sternly, irked that someone'd stoop to this, but at the same time felt sorry for the guy. "Look," he said, lowering his voice so no one else but him and Mr. Oily Chin - except for maybe Rufus - could hear him. "I've got a small bottle of whiskey in my bag. I'm not really that serial a drinker, so I guess I can share some with you."

He nodded his head, as Sander continued. "But I don't want to expose anyone to what I've got in my bag, so come to me later, and we'll see what we can do about you urge, a'right? But in the meantime, for heaven's sake, please put that oil away. For good. Okay?"

 

[SamuelT]

Robin quickly turned at the sound of Gar's voice.

"Hmph. American?" He shook his head. "Nah. Don't matter."

"Orders. Now there's a good one." He called the rest of the soldiers to order.

"Right. Current orders is for you to settle down and for us to take stock. There hasn't been a commanding presence," He stopped for a moment. "official commanding presence here for at the very least a week."

He pointed towards the far right of the station.

"That there is platform four, it's what goes for barracks here. So you might want to get that sorted out."

He stood for a moment, arms swaying slightly.

"Further orders are...euh..standing."

 

[Katherine Kerensky]

"Eh, Sander... you know how valuable that stuff is, and with only your small supply, you should be more conservative..." Rufus whispered to his comrade, while eying the Great Oily One.
"Well, I suppose it is your choice, just remember that we ain't likely to get anymore soon". He looked back over at the military types.
"On second thought, I may have to borrow some of that stuff, see if it is possible for those steel-spined nutters to loosen up a bit. Hell, I bet half of them can't even hold their drink".

 

[Captain Pirate]

Mick noticed the commanding officers glancing at his weaponary.
In second glance, he did feel a little over-armed.
Back during his deployment to Whales, he had been but a simple infantryman, but here his lacklustre Submachine gun felt like a hefty 50.-caliber beast in comparisom to the unarmed members of the squad.

He listened to Michael intently, one dark eyebrow raised curiosly.
"Nah... I'm good thanks." he answered, looking at the motor oil.
He hadn't drunk in years, and even in pre-war times he had been a sparse drinker, taking a single pint while his friends got hammered.
He certainly didn't want to start drinking again in these times, let alone with stuff used to make cars work smoother.

 

[curlycrouton]

Michael turned to Nadia.

"You sure? It's awfully... Ah, what am I talkin' about? Motor oil's no drink for a respectable human being. Probably why I drink it so much".

He turned to the man who'd confronted him about his curious beverage moments before.

"If you could spare a little of that whiskey, I'd be most indebted to you. Thank you kindly sir... I'm Vallon. Michael Vallon." He held out his grubby hand. "I'm from Ulster, Northern Ireland. What about yourself?"

He had fixed what he hoped looked like a welcoming smile on his face.

 

[Fraught]

"Valuable, valuable. You're right, but eh. Every time I have something, I want to share with people. Later on I might regret not having it anymore, but it's kind of supressed by knowing I've at least made someone happier," he replied, smiling without baring his teeth. "Either way, don't worry. It's not like I'll be pouring all of it, Jäggermeister-style, in one evening. I'll keep it, just trying to get someone to a better state that I'll be spending the next god knows how long a time together. I just want to," he said, veering closer to Rufus, and whispering into his ear, "create some brotherly bonds here, friends and stuff, you know. It'll make sleeping at night easier, too," he said, patting Rufus on his shoulder, bursting a short laughter that he tried to control.

"Thank you kindly sir... I'm Vallon. Michael Vallon," he heard the guy return to their conversation after briefly conversing about motor oil with someone Sander wasn't bothered to look at, but could tell was a woman from her voice. "I'm from Ulster, Northern Ireland. What about yourself?" he asked, stretching out his grubby hand.
"From London. Near it, at least," he replied, looking at one of the officers leaving from the corner of his eye. "Ulster, eh? Don't really know much about it."