La Couronne was unusually busy. The front had gone quiet for a few hours, and many of the fighter pilots based on Castres had been told to stand down. They relished the opportunity. Gallia may have been winning the war, but it was far from finished, and the Bretonians were putting up a far more stiff resistance then expected.
The long mahogany bar covered the entire length of the back wall. It was a tasteful place, in decor at least, but dominated by navy pilots and crew, all desperate for some downtime. As a result the conversation was, in places, rather less tasteful than the bar itself, and numerous victory-trophies, broken bits of Templar fighters, a torn Bretonian flag, hung on the walls.
Colonel Mathieu Baudin was a Legion Tricolore man, and he wore insignia with pride. A well regarded man, his experience was well known, although his attitude hadn't won him the favour of the previous Grande Marechal, Lillith LaCroix. He had been ignored for promotion in favour of Chevalier repeatedly, despite what Mathieu regarded as a far better combat record, in his own 'humble' opinion. It frustrated him, even if he almost liked the man. 'Anyway' Mathieu thought to himself as he surveyed the bar with an approving glance... 'My breeding is better, so why he got that damned Duc title, I'll never know.'
Matheiu had been transfered to the Castres for frontline duty, after the King's personal guard was replaced with fresh men. People he didn't know. He, along with his fellow guardsmen, were to join Marechal Chevalier, "Honourably spearheading the assault... We need the experience on the front", or so he was told... It bothered him a little, but not enough for him to show it.
He looked around for Marechal Chevalier, but didn't see him. 'Odd', he thought to himself. 'Of all the places I expected Leon to be, and not a sign of him'. Mathieu smiled to himself then walked over to the bar and ordered a drink, waiting for the Marechal to show up.
It had been a long day at the Office for Capitaine Danielle Moreau. She had been busy with requests, paperwork and conferences all day. As she made her way down from the Captains Quarters of the Castres she decided she was going to grab a drink in La Couronne.
Danielle was probably one of the youngest Battleship Commanders there was, and not just the Castres was under her Command, she also commanded the Bretange on the front lines. It was something new , for a Naval officer of her rank, a mere Capitaine , to be in Command of Two Valor Class Battleships, but she did her job with pride. As she walked through the corridors of the ship, she was salutes where ever she went, as was customary being the Captain of the ship, even if some of her crew members outranked her.
She turned through the double-doors and into the Bar, she stood at the entrance and looked around, the place was very busy , as she had given the stand-down order earlier for her fighter wings, and order relayed from above. Looking around she tried to find familiar places, she only shrugged. "I guess they are still busy" she told herself as she made her way to the corner of the room where a table reserved for command staff stood empty. She took a seat and ordered a drink , which was brought to her quicker than she had imagined, she tasted it then set it down. Leaning back into the cushion of her seat she let her hair down and shook it out before she leaned over some more paperwork that she laid out infront of her.
After a long patrol and a tough fight, an almost new Lynx, just recently fitted, lands on the 'La Couronne'. After she gets out of the ship, she begins looking for signs to the bar, and after some time, following a twisty path, she finally sees the sign. A young Lt. clearly from the reserve fleet stops her in her tracks just before she goes in.
"Sous Lieutenant... Janette, right?" The young man smiles. "Don't worry, first timer, it's obvious. Welcome to the Gallic Navy, heard you just finished your first patrol... Anyways, this is the bar, have fun, and, seeing as your new, try and get in peoples good books" The man smiles and dissapears.
The young girl, no more than 21 walks into the bar and sits down, ordering a pint of a fizzy drink. After looking around, noticing no one she particularly knew, she finds a quiet area and sits alone, she keeps an eye out for anyone in the Gallic Navy.
"Some day, finally made it in" She thought to herself. Angelina was always a quiet girl, always keeping herself to herself. "Seems my real journey begins now with this starting with the Leon Chevalier stuff..." Her mind wanders off and she shrugs, and noticed another member of the Gallic Royal Navy, however, she just sat and enjoyed her drink, allowing the day to wash over her.
Jeremie Chasseur stepped into the bar, his blue jacket adorned with medals from multiple engagements with the Council, the Maquis, and the Brigands. He was a veteran of the war with the council, and was spearheadjng the Main Fleet into Bretonian space. He was not amused the Magenta Fleet had not made much more headway, but with the rise of Bonheur, of Xavier, the war was progressing well.
So, Colonel Chasseur took a seat at the bar.
"Chateau Boloise. 795."
The glass appeared at his hands.
It was good, being the harbinger of the Fleet.
Percival 'Bushmaster' Lawson walks into the room, scowling. He'd been called back for a brief time, to...'educate' various bomber wings in the matter of taking down Dunkirks. That was a field he had plenty of experience in...Bretonia had been nothing but a shithole. A shithole he was unfortunately born in...
Lousy pay, no jobs, drunken rages on Planet Leeds. A terrible five years of his adult life, until he'd decided to <censored> it all and leave, taking up mercenary jobs against his own damn house. He'd even become passably good at it.
Until he'd joined the Foreign Legion. Then Xavier, that little smug douchebag had decided to put him on training these pansies for a while. He was fresh off a session...
*** "Listen you pig-humping cauliflowers...I don't have much time for this shit, so I'll just demonstrate this to you real quick. See? This is a Dunkirk. What does it remind you of?"
A reply came. It resembled a fish.
"Well done. How do you kill a fish?"
No answer.
"God damn it...you hit it's gills. From the side. Hit a Dunkirk from the sides, never from the front. See if can swerve around it's <censored> and hit it from the bottom...bugger it like the damn <censored> you are. Understood?"
A tentative answer in the affirmative.
"What, did Satan bugger you upside the bottom with a hot iron? SPEAK UP!"
A roar.
"Good, now train on this shit. Run this in the simulators until your balls drop off. Understood? Get the fuck lost now!"
***
He definitely had a good reason to scowl. He slammed the bar with a fist and asked for Sidewinder fang, and lots of it. At least bar service was good, and he was knocking himself out a short while later.
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