James McLaughlin ignored the bustle of the crowd around him; people darting to and fro, completely immersed in their lives. The simple stresses of caring for themselves and their families far more complicated than the children they used to be had ever dreamed.
James understood. He empathized, in fact. Eldest child in a family of six, father a humble metalworker, mother little more--professionally, at least--than a simple seamstress, James knew all too well the challenges of survival in a universe so unforgiving, so cold. Tragedy struck without warning, without mercy, and did so far too often. So it was with all people, James knew. Neither rich nor poor could escape, no matter how hard they strove.
But things could get better. That was something that the McLaughlin clan had always believed, and James was no exception. Things could get better if only people worked toward it.
James stared up at the sign marking the Bretonian Armed Forces recruitment center and knew that his conscience was clear. Steeling himself against the crowd, he pushed his way to the entrance.
The building's inside was formatted in accordance with the large majority of Bretonian architecture--in no way surprising. Despite the Celtic heritage made obvious by the McLaughlins' last name and physical features, the family had been loyal citizens of Bretonia for hundreds of years, remaining firm in the determination that violence between kinsmen was useless--reasons weren't a factor--and thus had successfully steered clear of previous Molly-Bretonian conflicts.
That wasn't to say they'd been exempted from the prejudices of their Bretonian neighbors. James himself had endured his fair share of bullying and racist comments in school and even while working in the family shop over the past two years. Only the gentle but firm discussions with his father had kept his attitude healthy. They didn't heal the wounds years of ostracism by his peers had opened, but they had certainly led him to appreciate the necessity and fed his desire to do his part in mending the rift.
Hopefully those prejudices wouldn't be as powerful in the Armed Forces as they were on the streets of Leeds.
Let's find out, he thought, making his way to a recruiter's desk.
The woman's reaction almost made him chuckle. At 6 foot 4 inches, hugely muscled, with startling red hair and bright green eyes, James knew he stood out like a sore thumb in the most complimenting of environments. His handsomeness, if anything, only lent itself to increasing the shock factor as the woman glanced up from the papers she was reading. Her eyes widened slightly as she looked up at him dumbly.
"Um, hello," James smiled and smoothed out a wrinkle in his windbreaker.
The woman seemed to recover. "Hi," her cheeks reddened, "I'm sorry. How may I help you?" She gestured to the empty seat across the desk.
Seating himself, James shrugged, knowing the next words would change his life forever.
