In Pascal's room on Leeds, you find an idle datapad, upon turning it on, the standard: "Solar Digital Journal" logo appears and an archive of entries are listed.
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Datapad Accessed...
Contents Loaded...
Table of Contents loaded...
Table des matières
■ Entry #1 - Travelling
■ Entry #2 - First Patrol
■ Entry #3 - Sirians
■ Entry #4 - Foreign
■ Entry #5 - Offense
■ Entry #6 - Theresa
■ Entry #7 - Goodbye?
■ Entry #8 - Regret
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Closing Datapad...
Locking Datapad...
Power off...
"Entry #1" Loaded...
Opening Entry...
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Entry #1:
29.1.737 A.G.S
As of today, I have been formally accepted into the Gallic Royal Navy, how exciting!
I was told I was too excited or arrogant or something along those lines, but I think they aren't used to fresh, happy faces on the war fronts, hopefully I can change that! I've wiped the Datapad of previous entries in order to preserve a sense of security on the fronts, can't have people snooping around where they shouldn't be!
I've taken a transport out to Agincourt, despite my Nav-Map saying it's Leeds. We're currently in the Tau-23 system and have stopped at the GMS claimed station: "Indochine Outpost". I can already see the difference between Gallia and Sirius, which is exciting! We should hit Agincourt within a day and the convoy that's carrying the ships will be right behind us, hopefully.
On a 'darker' note, I was lucky enough to quickly speak to a Kusarian Woman who was enlisted in the Foreign Legion. It's stories like her's that make me glad to be Gallic born and raised. I won't shed light on the details, but let's just say that the Legionnaires of the Navy usually don't last long. I wonder if I'll meet her again...
That about sums up the first day or so in the Navy, I'll most likely write again when I have time.
"Entry #2" Loaded...
Opening Entry...
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Entry #2:
1.2.737 A.G.S
My shuttle landed on Leeds early this morning, I was asleep at the time. I was quickly ordered into space to escape the smog and siege of Leeds. I'm glad I was told to get out of there, it was kind of... gloomy.
I got to be paired with Camille Gabriel who took me on a journey around the immediate area. This included systems with names such as 'Manchester' and 'Magellan'. I learnt so much in such little time, while being exposed to the exhilarating fronts and inefficient Sirian technology.
Despite this, what was fascinating for me was that this Camille (who is a Gallic), was enlisted in the Legion. It is confusing as to why a Pure Gallic would want to enlist in the cannon fodder of the Navy. Despite this, she's still alive, which is also a puzzle in itself.
We got to engage members of the Liberty Navy, who were enlisted under the 5th Division, or something. Either way, they were both quite illiterate and obnoxious. It felt like we were fighting a war with toddlers rather than 'Patriots of Liberty'. Sirians are about as simple and ineffective as their technology!
Camille and I took a retreat after a large mass of the fools made their way to attack us. We fell back to Agincourt and decided to end the patrol there. My Lynx took some damage, but it's nothing some military grade duct tape can't fix!
That concludes my first patrol, what a thrill this is!
"Entry #3" Loaded...
Opening Entry...
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Entry #3:
4.1.737 A.G.S
It was a... strange day.
I launched from the Oubli, took to lane that passes through the closest smog cloud and encountered an Armed Forces Soldier. He didn't seem too bright, seeming he spoke with simply and rather stupidly. I made an attempt but in the end he was just pulling my chain by flying around my ship pointlessly. I took the tradelane and left to fool to blabber on to himself.
It makes me wonder, are all Sirians like this? Stupid and obnoxious and generally pathetic? And if so, why aren't they all dead yet because they forgot how to breathe?
I really hate Sirians.
"Entry #4" Loaded...
Opening Entry...
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Entry #4:
5.2.737 A.G.S
Another... strange day.
Took to the lanes in New London where I pillaged some Transports. Interestingly enough, they all dropped a substance called 'H-Fuel'. It is obviously a fuel, but my scanners couldn't tell me anything more than that. Unless this is the Sirian equivalent of Oil that I heard so much about. I'll see if I can keep a capsule of it somewhere so I can figure out what's in this stuff other than rumors.
On my return to the Jumphole to Agincourt, I ran into an abandoned ship, whose hull was still intact. Scanners showed Outcast "Scimitar' design. I've never had an encounter with the Outcasts, but I suspect they're just as bad as normal Sirians, if not worse.
To the point though, when I scrapped the ship, an amount of orange dust in canisters was tractored into my cargo space. Scanners called it Cardamine. It was certainly not a paint of sorts, I can tell you that. The label was tattered and wrote in a foreign language, probably whatever these Outcasts fluently speak. I've kept the canisters in my room till further notice. These things are somewhat interesting. I'll mix the dust with water and other liquids to see what happens, then report it here.
Sirians are so strange. And I hate them.
"Entry #5" Loaded...
Opening Entry...
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Entry #5:
9.2.737 A.G.S
Well, this could be bad...
I was about to add a liquid to this substance I'd found, but I received a call out to the Tau-31 system from Madame General. It was an honor, really, to be rallied by a General and not a Captain of sorts. I leaped into my ship and took off.
I met with a Kusarian Women at Outpost Holoman. She kinda reminded me of the women I'd met on Indochine. I decided to not say anything though, could have been bad to bring it up.
I may have offended her though. We had found the BIS agents we'd been sent out for, stalking the tradelanes as usual. The moment I saw him I cried out "Ew! I smell Sirian Scum!" which unfortunately meant her too. I didn't have time to explain or apologise as the 'Judge' started to run and I chased after him.
It makes me wonder, what really is a Sirian?
Because, she was fighting for the Gallic Navy, but she was still Sirian born. What does that make her? In the end, they too are fighting for the Crown, so who am I to stand here and insult them from afar for 'not doing the right thing'. I think I'd better apologize, but then there's that voice in the back of my head, saying "No no, she signed up for this, she should have known what was coming."
I hate Sirians.
P.S: When I returned to the Cardamine samples I had, they were gone. It took me a moment to realize that perhaps this stuff isn't just some form of engineering powder. I still have one canister left though, I'll be sure to ask some questions about it.
"Entry #6" Loaded...
Opening Entry...
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Entry #6:
24.3.737 A.G.S
What? It hasn't been that long, you've just been missing me too much.
Ok, so I'd better not lie. That 'Cardamine' is really, really, bad for you. I caught wind of it, couldn't stop inhaling it and then it was gone. It made me quite ill too. Took so much time off it's not even funny. Couldn't take my journal with me though, too much of a hassle to clean the green vile I kept throwing up yet alone write.
But I took off in Tau-23 today, then I went to Leeds to meet up with Camille and a new face: "Theresa Mignard". She is quite scary. She threatened to break my jaw and all sorts of other things. Not fun at all. But I think she's just sad again and needs some cheering up. Plus, I've never seen a machine quite like her (if you get what I'm poking at).
...I'd better not say that, could get me murdered.
"Entry #7" Loaded...
Opening Entry...
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Entry #7:
8.4.737 A.G.S
I never got to say goodbye.
It's a shame, caught wind of the decommission transmission. Camille left. Just got up and left. Worst part was that I never said goodbye. It's strange how last words can mean so much, even if it is just 'goodbye'.
I think I need to fly more, get out more often. Being so isolated doesn't really work on the fronts if someone gets killed or takes leave. There's a scary thought, being killed. Is it quick and painless? What lies beyond death? Should I even worry about it?
I'm getting to worked up about this. I'll write again later once I've sorted everything out.
Time passes slowly on the fronts. The exciting thrill of being free and awake from the dark slumber Pascal had found himself in had worn off and the harsh reality of war suddenly struck him. From the windows of the Oubli he stared into the flames that engulfed Leeds, hungry like a Kingdom's desire to fell her enemies. He thought that if he listened closely, he could hear the screams of the civilians left on the planet as they ran like cockroaches exposed to light. The training instructor said that they'd have the crush the Bretonian cockroaches, but Pascal would have never have envisioned it like this.
Lazily, he reached for his journal.
"Entry #8" Loaded...
Opening Entry...
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Entry #8:
8.1.738 A.G.S
Have you ever seen a fire that can consume so much, with little disregard to human life?
I thought such flames only spewed from the jaws of giant fairy-tale beasts that stole princesses and hoarded gold like bankers. But fairy-tales aren't real. They're made up. So how can I be standing here, watching as such a devastating weapon is used against the innocent people that got caught up in a war they never wanted?
Roaches. That was a funny analogy. I remember when the instructor called the Bretonians that. All I could remember was thinking about flicking on the lights to the engine rooms of Chartres and watching an infestation of them scatter away. Now all I think about is screaming. So much screaming.
I should have known from the start. I should have formally denied a week in, saying I left the gas on. LaBlanc was right, war is not a playground for excited toddlers. I've done so much that can't be undone.
To top this off, the Navy is holding something secret from us, according to Camille. A secret so big, she had to leave to find the true answers. I fear that the ONI may be onto me, now that Camille has sent me that message. I do not know what to do, announce that the Navy is corrupt and face death or not tell anyone and be stalked by the eyes of the King for the rest of my life.
I said dragons aren't real. But I was wrong. I'm apart of the beast that pillages everything. I am the problem.
Pascal drops his journal and slides it across the cold metal floor with the heel of his boot. He grabs his legs and tucks himself into a ball, waiting for the bad feelings to pass.