<div class="floatleft">(https://i.pinimg.com/564x/92/1a/5e/921a5e26056ce84da5052a39054ebdf3.jpg)</div><br/><br/><hr/><br/><strong>NAME:</strong>Ciane (https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=333213.msg15874326#msg15874326)<br/><strong>WEARING:</strong>coverall (https://i.pinimg.com/564x/01/61/b2/0161b2e9a0471c051e77a3b661eec5c2.jpg).<br/><strong>LOCATION:</strong>Flashback central<br/><strong>TAGGING:</strong>open<br/><br/><hr/><br/>Ciane didn't hear Sarah's laughter or Zoey's comment about their unis; didn't even register the AI's new warnings at first. Crazy-hair girl's earlier words, her recollection of her crimes, had sent an electric chill running through the mercenary. And memories followed.<br/><br/><br/><br/><em>Hell no, we can't grow!<br/><br/>Fuck you, we want food!<br/><br/>As slogans went, they were pretty shite. Some of the arms in the mob, though, were pretty good. Bricks, bits of paving, bottles rained down on their Kevlarine shields almost non-stop. Two of her line were already down with head injuries, helmets split and blood flowing- one of them might have lost an eye to an exceptionally 'lucky' throw.  There was less air to breathe than fumes, even through her mask: smoke, sweat, fear; cordite and retch and tear gasses.  Crazy prole buggers. Screaming they couldn't afford their kip, but they'd spent their ready on focking petrol at five pound fifty a litre to make focking bombs with. They were the last line. The Houses of Parliament were at her back, her chatterbox was full of panic and contrary orders...</em><br/><br/>Her hand clenched tight around the wrench shaft, she stared at Sarah. She was one of<strong>them</strong>. The looters, the wreckers. She needed to be-<br/><br/>No.  No, that was there and then. This was here and now. Flashback.  Fight or flight. Post-traumatic bollocks. All the terms the headquacks used came back. The girl with the crazy hair might be equally dim in other ways, but she wasn't tossing bottles, wasn't the one behind the wheel of the Humvee- a<em>nd where the bloody hell had they gotten <strong>that</strong>, eh?,</em>crashing through the barriers and across the square at them, smashing friend and foe alike under the heavy wheels...<br/><br/>With a growl, she tossed the weighty tool aside, winging it into a bulkhead with a clang. Fortunately, her reaction more or less lined up with the AI's report on the collision. "Dead fockin' brill," she snarled, not meeting anyone's eyes. "Blasted junkheap can tell us after the fact we got hit, didn't have the damn brains to duck?"