Welcome to Gaia! ::

"Dun die, ya idiot."
"Don't you die, either."

It was stupid, Preacher decided, to have said things that sounded so suspiciously like promises. Promises that were as breakable as spun sugar, as meaningless as soft pillow talk. But she could blame the warm sun, Preacher told herself, blame her closed eyes, blame the fact that his voice had seemed to roll over her like a pleasant breeze. It had been an oddly amicable conversation; there were no bites, no fighting, only a few sarcastic insults, only the barest of contact. It was almost nice, soothing. And Preacher could not deny that part of it was why she was here, skulking about the recruitment office, heart in her mouth.

She had been told, time and time again, that she was worth nothing, less than nothing. Parents had not wanted her, Tinker had not wanted her. Beyond a doubt, the military would not want her. What would they do with a guttersnipe like her? But still, she had come this far. What was another rejection in her life-long list of failures? The allure of food, bed, belonging was too much. Squaring her shoulders, Preacher took a deep breath and marched up to the office, She was so intent on the door that she did not look around at the people milling about, she did not stick to shadows as she usually did. Her entirety was focused on her one last chance to leave the slums behind.

Preacher stepped up to the counter, hat in hands. She supposedly she should try to look demure, obedient, but when she was nervous, all the girl could manage was defiance. The look colluded with her still-bruised face to make the epitome of everything the recruiters labeled 'bad goods'. So much so that they had already decided she was not to be trusted. There were two recruiting officers at the counter, one male and one female, but so alike they could have been siblings. Their hair was a shining platinum blond, and they eyes were both a disapproving steely blue.

"I'd like ta enlist in tha military." After her short and to-the-point sentence, the silence stretched in the air between them. It was an uncomfortable, heavy thing, much like the the pressure in the sky before a storm. Preacher began to curse her idea, and curse that both Saga and Axel had planted it in her head. Unable to bear it, she spoke again. "I had a letter, ya ken, from Saga, sayin' I coulda join up. But I lost-"

"No." They spoke in tandem, their voices overlapping with equal amounts of disbelief and disapproval. "We are very sorry, but the military does not accept your kind." Preacher didn't know what she expected, but still, something inside her deflated a little. Maybe a tiny section of her heart had believed those golden words in that letter she had carelessly pick-pocketed, had believed Axel when he said she was smart. But there, in the recruitment office, all she felt was stupid and graceless. She knew her appearance didn't help and although shed scrubbed her face, she was still grimy and riddled with cuts and bruises. Her mouth twisted.

Turning, back straight as a poker, Preacher slammed out of that damned office, out into that damned almost-rain. She wasn't looking where she was going, wasn't bothered to do anything except put one foot in front of the other. After all, she had nowhere in particular to return to. If she were lucky, she could snag a spot in one of the less-filthy alleyways. She sighed; she probably didn't smell to great. Since she resolutely wasn't looking where she was going , Preacher failed to see Saga until she nearly tripped into him with a startled "Ooph!"

In the moment after Preacher collided with someone, her world turned, quite literally, upside down. She was swept off her feet by a pair of strong and... familiar arms. Inwardly, she groaned. Outwardly, she groaned. Saga. Thank god she set her upright quickly. Preacher didn't hate Saga, but she almost didn't trust him. She simply couldn't believe how such a man could've survived all seventeen years of his life. Surely, the man had to have some sort of dark, terrible secret. Maybe he killed and collected whores? Who knew.

"Why're you cryin'?" She asked suspiciously. Shaking off his hands, she peered up at him. Why would he be here, right after she'd failed getting in? She opened her mouth again, but the gibbering of the uniform nearby was far too intrusive to get a word in edgewise. "Can it, Garrison." she shot at the bewildered soldier.

Preacher shifted uneasily from foot to foot, finally decided just to tell Saga. The letter... she couldn't mention the letter, the one she had so shamefully pick-pocketed off of him, the one she had even more shamefully lost. A frown prickled at the corners of her mouth, pulling on the scabs on her face. "I ain;t got a 'callin' witcha. They don't let slum brats in." She huffed a little, trying to disguise her burgeoning feelings of unhappy discontent with humor.

Preacher was momentarily dumbstruck by Saga and his overflowing emotions. "What," she said flatly. "I swear I dun understand half tha drivel that comes outta that mouth." And she truly didn't.The man was far too strange by half. Saga's speech was utterly flowery - full of grandiose phrasings more dramatic than seperated two lovers finally reuniting across a windswept, sunlit moor. Preacher blinked. It was more than a little uncomfortable to think about: that this man in particular had decided upon some sort of strange and instant bond between them. Saga Somnia, officer of the military police, certainly didn't look like a father. Not that Preacher would know. But she guessed he had to be better than Tinker. Maybe.

Despite her confusion, Preacher had no trouble understanding his question about her injuries and one slim, dusky hand flew up to her face, pressing on the purpling bruises. "N-none of ya business!" she stuttered out. "I fought with 'bout fifty nosy bastards, is what happened. N' they lost" Preacher shot Saga a look. There was no way she wanted to talk about being tied and beaten to him. He was all sparkles and over the top mannerisms and so far removed from the type of world Preacher was used to.

"What kin ya do about it? Ya can't change who I am. There's a fundamental difference 'tween me and them n' I ain't allowed in. Them's tha breaks. Unless you're some kinda fancy noble with influence or summat it don't work that way." Although her voice was deliberately schooled into nonchalance, Preacher was staring at the door to the recruitment office with a strange mixture of longing and disgust. "Iffin anybody coulda make 'em let me..." She blew out an irritated breath and winced as her ribs twinged painfully, but she did not shake Saga's hand away. Preacher simply refused to think about what would happen if the military kept refusing her. She was running out of options.

More time? Preacher was still wary of this naive man; she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to spend more time with him. Still, she owed him - Saga had helped her before, he would, apparently, help her now. With him, her ledger was in the red; one day, she'd have to figure out how to repay him. It was not the most comforting of thoughts. As he dragged her back to the office she flushed. Although his tone was awful, he said nice things - It was confusing. "I ain't all that courageous! I'm jus' a normal brat from tha slums n'-"

But then they were inside. Like an angry swan, Saga descended upon the two desk agents, his wrath billowing out around him, as palpable as his shining white raincoat. Between wrath and coast, Preacher could hardly breathe. It was like watching a force of nature, or some strange, swirling embodiment of idealized justice. Preacher tried to melt into the woodwork and instead, just stood there, unsure of what exactly to do.

"B-but Officer Somnis, surely you cannot expect us to know-" "Yes, yes, after all, when he looks like that-"

"V-very well, Officer Somnis. If she can pass the required testing, of course. Regardless of your endorsement, the military will only accept the bare minimum." The female recruiter shot Preacher a jaundiced look. They could tell that arguing with Saga would be ultimately fruitless and disrespectful. And... a Saga powered by righteous fury was more than a little intimidating. She shuffled the forms. "First the testing. Step forward, Preacher Maria."

Obediently, Preacher approached the desk, a controlled fury in her limbs. She had heard, couldn't miss the snide tone of voice they had used. She could and would pass every damn test they gave her. They could think her less worthy all they wanted, giggle behind their hands at her, but, by the walls,m she would prove them wrong. Colorblindness, hearing loss, myopia: all these she passed as Saga stood guard over her like a protective hen. Even the recruiters could not deny that, aside from her wounds and horrific bruising, Preacher was certainly adequate. With a word from them, Preacher began to strip down to her skivvies, assuming Saga would either turn his back or not; she didn't particularly care.

"Innit there some kinda movement test? N' I gotta be in my underwears for that?" Preacher harumphed, but.... she could not let her impulsive urges to fight and make trouble rise to the surface. This was her last chance. And even this chance... it was thanks to Saga.