ArchivedLogs:Vignette - A Good League Hence

Vignette - A Good League Hence
Dramatis Personae Steve	1943-12-25 "{Merry Christmas, gentlemen.}"
Location Hunting Lodge - Ichenhausen, Germany
It's a gray and frigid night, thick with snow driven by howling winds. Two men at the edge of a field in which they've deployed flares in the shape of a five-pointed star. Both are bundled up almost beyond recognition, but the taller one carries a round shield on his back like a red, white, and blue target with a star for a bullseye. "{It must be very important intelligence for them to risk sending anyone out in /this/.}" Jacques's French is rough and provincial, and he has to raise his voice to be heard above a gust of wind that slams into them. Steve nods, brushing off the snow that has begun to stick to his eyelashes. "{I'm sure Howard /would/ do it. I'm just not sure /how/. On top of the weather, landing in so little space...}" It's quite obvious he learned French from his companion, though he also sounds also speaks louder as the wind picks up...and up. Frowning, he looks up into the snowy vortex above them as it disgorges a matte gray aircraft with blurry whirls of motion where most have wings. The aircraft's descent parts the blizzard around it and kicks up all the more snow before the icy gale starts dying down. When the snow settles, the machine sitting in the field amongst the half-buried flares is a bizarre sight: a short, stumpy fuselage with rotors protruding from either side, driving cylindrical assemblages of rotor blades that look more like water wheels than anything else. It had been flying with no lights, but now the inside of the cockpit suddenly glows with many-colored string bulbs, illuminating the familiar silhouette of the pilot and co-pilot. Steve and Jacques look at each other, then as one start running toward the plane, both giving the strange rotor-wings a wide berth. The woman standing in the doorway is swathed in a long brown coat, carrying a messenger bag over one shoulder, and wears a picture-perfect smile on her red, red lips. "{Merry Christmas, gentlemen.}" Her French is precise, crisp, and Parisian, with only a faint hint of an English accent. "{If you'll lend a hand with the presents,}" she says, hefting a larger backpack up and offering it in the men's direction. "{Mister Stark will probably require your arms, Captain.}" "{Thousands of kilometers behind enemy lines, and we are still beasts of burden for the bourgeoisie,}" Jacques says, though he takes the the bag of gifts eagerly enough, and holds out his free hand for Peggy's -- or her other bag, it's hard to say which. Peggy gives a short, bright laugh. "{Not a drop of wine in you, and you're already on about class warfare.}" She does accept a hand in climbing down to the snowy ground, though she hangs onto the messenger bag. "{Is he winning you over to the worker's struggle with his Marxist philosophy, then?}" The latter question , with a warmer, less rehearsed smile, is aimed at Steve. "{He didn't need to, Ma'am. Besides, class warfare is much more fun than the kind we've been up to.}" Steve flashes Peggy a dazzling smile and ducks his head as she passes, then darts up the steps into the odd-looking aircraft. At the back of the cabin, the pilot turns as he striaghtens up, a bottle of champagne in hand. "Captain!" He has pushed his aviator's goggles up onto his forehead, exposing dark brown eyes that sparkle with mirth. "We were just in the neighborhood and thought we'd pop in for dinner and a drink. Here, if you please." He gestures at a large metal box by his feet. "I'll need your help pulling a tarp over this bird, too." "{You, Howard,}" Steve continues in French, "{are a madman.}" Though this doesn't stop him from lifting the chest as instructed while the other man roots around in some cargo netting, coming up with a baguette in a paper sleeve, half a cheese, and a very fancy long knife in a guilded scabbard. "{I'm not the one who is voluntarily /staying/ on this dreadful continent,}" Howard's French is not quite as flawless as Peggy's, but certainly more fluent than Steve's. He piles the additional items into a burlap sack. "{I'm just bringing Christmas to you poor benighted heroes, and then I'll be off again.}" He quirks a small, crooked smile at Steve. For a moment seems rooted to the spot he's standing. Then shakes it off. "Well! Come along, my friend. We've merrymaking to do."