It soon becomes apparent that even though your scale certainly doesn’t uniformly like you, they also don’t uniformly get along with each other, and you find this out by getting clocked in the face trying to break up a fight between **** and *****, after ******* nudges you that there’s shit going down.
*****’s a scrappy fighter and it’s—well, a punch you would have praised her for if it wasn’t directly to your jaw, but as it is you can taste blood in your mouth and you know it’ll be an impressive bruise tomorrow, and from the look on her face as she staggers back, ***** knows she’s messed up. ****’s still trying to take a swing at her, but you just grab him by the back of his shirt and shove him into the dirt.
“Whatever this is, it’s done now, thank you,” you say, trying to keep your voice even, but it strains a little bit from how much that smarts. “Can anyone explain what happened?”
“Can’t take a joke—“
“—insulted my mother!”
“I’m just stating facts—“
“All right all right that’s definitely enough, ****, go cool off in the barracks until nightfall. Both of you, no dinner, and I’m assigning you both to kitchen duty for a week.”
“Oh, come on—“
“And *****—“
She stiffens, in a way that’s not unfamiliar to you; someone who’s only trying not to make things worse.
“…I guess I can’t have a repeat of this in the barracks, so—come with me. I’ll talk to you about what happened first.”
And you realize for the first time—you’re actually getting treated like an officer? But the look on her face is more fearful than you’re really comfortable with.
It’s going to be a lot to get used to.
Notable:
Dark hair, tan-skinned Shrike, circa maybe age 21 or so.
The soldier to alerts her to the fight is the same one from Memory 19.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
softlyfalling) wrote2019-01-24 12:53 am
memory 023
*****’s a scrappy fighter and it’s—well, a punch you would have praised her for if it wasn’t directly to your jaw, but as it is you can taste blood in your mouth and you know it’ll be an impressive bruise tomorrow, and from the look on her face as she staggers back, ***** knows she’s messed up. ****’s still trying to take a swing at her, but you just grab him by the back of his shirt and shove him into the dirt.
“Whatever this is, it’s done now, thank you,” you say, trying to keep your voice even, but it strains a little bit from how much that smarts. “Can anyone explain what happened?”
“Can’t take a joke—“
“—insulted my mother!”
“I’m just stating facts—“
“All right all right that’s definitely enough, ****, go cool off in the barracks until nightfall. Both of you, no dinner, and I’m assigning you both to kitchen duty for a week.”
“Oh, come on—“
“And *****—“
She stiffens, in a way that’s not unfamiliar to you; someone who’s only trying not to make things worse.
“…I guess I can’t have a repeat of this in the barracks, so—come with me. I’ll talk to you about what happened first.”
And you realize for the first time—you’re actually getting treated like an officer? But the look on her face is more fearful than you’re really comfortable with.
It’s going to be a lot to get used to.
Notable: