He’s disgusted and angry with it, but in a sense, it’s convenient kind of. Emilio wanted more, wanted a better way of providing for his family because even after Guillermo returned from the First Great War, he had been the bread winner. He had four, no five, no six, mouths to feed and being a mechanic meant survival but he didn’t just want to survive, he wanted them to thrive. So he joined before even needing to be drafted. Like father, like son.
18) What would a gender bent version of your muse look like?
Huh, maybe a little bit like Rosario Dawson but maybe not. I’m terrible when it comes to finding faces.
19) Which historical figures/fictional characters influenced the creation of your muse?
There wasn’t any, least that I could really say. There are likely characters like him or people, there’s bound to be, but I didn’t really draw any inspiration from any particular person, I just wrote. It involved a lot of brainstorming that made little to no sense when I woke up the following morning.
She was going over to where they kept the planes. Because she was going to finally get to properly fly in one. Just like Lucas had promised. She had an afternoon off -- and the sky was at least mostly clear. She was going to get to see a part of the world she’d never seen.
So now all she had to do was make sure that she didn’t run into a certain brother of hers. Which was a concern normally, but became especially prevalent as she made her way to where the planes were. Back with Rosemary she could stay in her tent, wrap a coat around herself, feign ignorance. That figure wasn’t her brother. But not now, not here. So she kept her gaze focused on the ground, watching her boots as she skirted around pilots and other soldiers, mumbling a soft “pardon me” now and again.
She’d never flown in a plane, but she had watched them from her home back in England sometimes -- and once Cael left for war, she sometimes wondered if she’d instinctively know if she ever saw his plane up in the sky.
She wondered if it was scary, navigating a huge metal machine up where only birds were supposed to fly. Planes couldn’t get to heaven, but they were probably the closest that people could get while still being alive. Cael would think the idea stupid, but Callista liked it -- it gave her some sense of grounding so far away from home, in a new place.
She glanced up and spotted Lucas’ frame a couple hundred meters away from her.
“Hey!” She called out, skipping over. “Ready to fly, Private?” She grinned.
I’m HoH/Hard of Hearing myself and I speak several languages in sign including American Sign, Polish Sign, and German Sign. I’m also a polyglot when it comes to verbal languages like Miko including English, Polish, German, some French and some Romanian. I’m currently learning Czech and Russian.
I’m also super sarcastic and we share the same sense of humor. I also “play deaf” when people annoy me. Oops.
Oh. And I’m also Polish but I don’t have an accent. Or not much of one but people ask me where I’m from all the time.
6) How is mun different from your muse?
I was raised in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Although, I plan on moving to Poland as soon as I get my BA in Psych.
I’m nicer than Miko for sure, I promise I am. I’m also very polite, almost too polite apparently.
And I’m not in the army, nor am I a tank loader. BUT. I was in the NJROTC program at my high school for three years and participated in rifle team as the only girl on our team. Now, years later I’m just a student studying Clinical Psychology and I work a simple retail job on the side.
Originally I wanted to work as an ASL interpreter and then I wanted to work for the FBI in Forensics, Linguistic Forensics, and then I switched to Police Psychology, and now I’m just double major in Clinical Psych and linguistics. I plan to work with war veterans and people with disabilities.
I’m also a gray-asexual and Miko is… simply not haha.
10) What is your muse’s romantic preference?
Technically Mikolaj is Pansexual and Demiromantic. Although, he hates labels… So he will merely say that he likes who he likes. It’s as simple as that. Although it’s really not. Miko is complicated as heck when it comes to romance… type… things.
His breath swirled as it rose, mixing with the composition of cool air. The butt of an M1 Grand sat firmly against his shoulder, finger a whisper against a worn trigger. Inhale. Count one. Count two. Bright orbs locked in on a nearly invisible figure. The target did not taunt him as it did inexperienced recruits. Exhale. Three. Click. His finger tapped the trigger, and the mark emitted a puff of pink mist. The man crumpled into snow, staining white earth crimson. Shifting from where he lay, Costin set the gun aside and reached for his canteen.
There were wordless protests from phantom phrases. His platoon failed to hide weary expressions. They were about a month overdue of camp; their pickup never came. Since then, life’s puppeteer ended many with a serenade of cutting fraying cords. Still Costin had promised them– foolishly– he himself would see them back to camp. Some would die, some would live, but he would not let his Company be forgotten.
He’d stripped the rifle about a million times, taking an already dirty cloth over a polished barrel. It was the only thing to do, really, when there was time to be passed. Maybe it was an obsession. Weapons, during war, defined your life and more than not company. A piece of machinery, nothing more. The cold bit at his skin within the dead of winter. Over the past few days the sky had shown a building storm, and it was only a matter of time that the blizzard would hit. He’d been through one before years ago as a fresh recruit. Twenty-six fresh troops, and only seven of them made it to camp. The blizzard would no doubt take lives. Packing the sniper away after unloading a final clip, Costin busied himself in order to distract his current train of thought.
They were deep in enemy territory; approaching the final roads before the safety of camp. That’s when he saw it. The flames licking crisp air. The SS Battalion. It dawned on him, then, why his men’s rescue had never come. The camp had been obliterated and rival forces reigned supreme. By the time they’d been rounded up, Costin had made sure ranks had been stripped from each individual Uniform. The patches had been hurriedly cut away with knives; metal insignia’s buried deep beneath their boots.
“First Sergeant,” whispered a paling, boyish face, “I wasn’t supposed to be here. I never shot someone. Ever.” Costin recalled the young recruit who spoke. Private Brody Marsh. They’d taken him in a few miles back, found him sobbing in the woods claiming he hadn’t meant to be a deserter.
Costin hushed him, “Stay quiet and don’t mention ranks. That’s not something you want Krauts to know.” But the blubbering continued, followed by blind panic and then what he knew would happen all along. The kid ran.
A resounding shot, and the boy lie limp. Costin dared not look, knowing a dark shadow buried within stark snow. Instead he stared, utterly stoic, directly into the eyes of the German Officer who lowered his rifle. The enemy pushed them forward. Costin would have preferred gone out fighting, but he was a leader responsible for men with lives; with families to return to. So he vowed, silently, to see them home.
His gaze challenged the enemies peering back at him. Costin knew how to play dangerously; he also knew the stubbornness in which coursed through his veins. The taunts were nothing short of foul, and he could understand each phrase spat in his company’s direction. When a particular threat turned on one of his soldier’s, Costin broke from the line to sneer at the official, “Ich kann Ihre sprache sprechen, saukerl.” His fellow companions who understand the language erupted in a chorus of laughter. For a moment, the Germans stilled. Being multilingual was a sin and a gift. And he wasn’t sure how he hadn’t yet earned a bullet to the brain. He’d played this game before. He was its chessmaster.
