The Mission

Dan assesses Georgi and decides he's harmless if a little eccentric. Too tired to care about being lumped with the gear he too hops into the back next to Irish but he doesn't lay down. Sitting with his back up against the side of the truck, his legs thrown over his bag he wonders the same. A good meal that wasn't drek would be welcome.

"I could eat a small child, I am that hungry."

Daphne doesn't interact much with the group during their initial meeting and the plane ride. She's not exactly stand-offish, but just nose deep in her books, focused on learning as much as possible of the history and lore of the place they'll be reconnoitering. Transvlyvania, no less!. Truth be told, if she didn't run across at least one vampire while there, she'd be rather disappointed.

Once in Belgrade and in the truck with the others, she loosens up a bit and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, lighting one in her mouth, and offering the rest to the team, "Smokes?"

"And I would love a smoke. Thanks, Daphne." He crawls over to the woman and takes a cigarette, waiting for a light. "Big bookworm, huh?"

Sabine is quiet on the flight, unused to air travel, and more than a little nauseous in the most turbulent moments over the Adriatic Sea. She is glad to be back on the ground once they land in Yugoslavia, and moves with alertness and speed as they transfer their gear from the plane to the truck. One would not know it by looking at her, but Beauséjour was quite handy and able-bodied at St. Lucien. It was Sister Sabine who tended the boiler, who repaired the windows and pews in the nave, and who built another altar when the Germans had absconded with the original. She graciously climbs into the front of the truck, but tells Swann, "Merci, but we will take turns riding in the front. I am no fragile fleur, Captain, but a woman on a mission, just as you are a man."

Truth be told, Sabine could drive a lorry like this, but she kept such things to herself. As she did the small automatic in her pocket: the Walther PP she had taken from the SS officer who murdered Sister Elise in front of her.

Earlier, she had greeted Rogers on the plane, not knowing much about her, but grateful that they would be graced by another feminine presence.

Irish smirked to himself as Sabine set out her stall.

You tell him… he thought, wondering if this British officer was as stiff as the rest.

"Aye, I’ll never say no to a smoke."

A smoke… he thinks, testing that kind of Yank language in his mouth, and feeling it odd. Part and parcel of rubbing shoulders with all sorts, he reckoned; you start talking funny.

Captain Swann follows Sabine up into the front and secures the door.

The Captain's voice is calm, with no hint of irritation. "There are no fragile flowers in Section M, Madam. But as you say, we are on a mission, so there is also no time to go looking for offenses where none exist. Manners and basic politeness are one of the few things that separate us from the monsters we fight. And for the moment, we have time to indulge ourselves. Very soon we may be shouting quite unsavory orders at each other with no time to ponder the personal implications."

Nodding at the soldier's question, eyes glittering, "Aye, since I was little girl. So many fascinating things to discover. New worlds, people, ideas..." The glitter softens a bit, "Even the more...questionable...material has something to offer.".

She takes a long drag, holds it for a bit, and blows out rings of smoke.

"Now, when you say ‘new worlds’, I trust you mean ones in books and what have you - Peter Pan and the like."

Irish had tussled with the best of them; this wasn’t his first rodeo. Still, it make his arsehole pucker to think about other worlds. He supposed it must be possible, but it wasn’t something he liked thinking about.

---

"Not for me!" he calls to their driver. He was going to ask for a cap, so as to hide the big Irish head on him that might stick out at the border crossing. He didn’t take the sun well, but such a small ask was embarrassing more than anything else.

"I found no offense, monsieur," Sabine had said to Swann as they were getting back underway, touching his arm gently, hoping his skin did not bruise as easily as his ego.

Later, when Georgi drops them off and offers to provide for the group, the former nun nods. "A map of the area where we are going, and whatever intel you have on the latest movements of our enemies. And we should thank you, Georgi, for that, and for our uneventful drive."

"A few packs of smokes would be welcome. I don't want to have bum 'em off Daphne all the time," he says, grinning at the woman.

"Maybe some chocolate too?" He almost hunched waiting for the others to scold him for such nonsense. One didn't ask for nor expect such luxuries out in the field but he could argue cigarettes were one such item as well.

"Yes, a map would be helpful and how current do you think the intel will be?"

"Right, well if you’re writing a list then, I’ll have a hat, if you don’t mind. Keep the sun off my neck. And a bar of chocolate, if they’re going; I won’t say no!

Tell me this; have you flare guns here?"

Seemingly counterproductive, Irish has the image in his head of a last-ditch attempt to bring the blimp down, and a flare might come in handy.

When it’s just them, Irish pipes up, as he rifles through the supplies left here:

"Don’t suppose one of you speaks the lingo? I haven’t a lick."

Irish never had a head for languages, but he hoped some of the others had a tongue in their heads!

Smiling at Irish's question, "I think we're going to try to avoid most of the locals. But if we do get into a chat, it'll probably be a lot of Oui, No, and some nodding and head shaking. "

Swann takes the time to go through his gear again and see that things are squared away before finding a place to stretch out until the morning.

"Yeah I'm American and Italian for fluent languages." He chuckles at that.

"A previous mission in the Italian Alps had me learning that language quick ... but if I had to I could wing the lingo."

After waving to their driver, Sabine finds a good place to settle in and is writing in a book when Irish brings up the little issue of language. She shakes her head and shrugs slightly, indicating that she won't be much help communicating. She smiles at Swann's (perhaps accidental) suggestion that French will somehow come into play, and at the idea of Mr. Gregg 'winging' the lingo. Always brash and brazen, these American GIs.

Taking more notes, Beauséjour eventually closes her book, puts it away, then brings a hand to her throat. She feels no rosary beneath her heavy jacket and blouse, and the prayer upon her lips dies there. Instead, she sighs and closes her eyes, trying to get some rest before what is sure to be a long and difficult hike tomorrow.

"You reckon the locals are in on it, then?" he asks the room, probably making a few eyes roll with his continued questions.

"Dyed in the wool Nazis, I mean. Heard they’re right nasty bastards to meet on the field. Still… a few villagers, can’t be too bad can they?"

"It's unlikely the villagers know what's really going on with Nachtwölfe or that they're anything but run of the mill Nazi's. Still, locals tend to make choices that are in their best interest. So it's best we don't get them interested."

Swann adjusted his pad and laid his beret on the side of his face blocking what little light there was.