“Hello ladies and gentlemen. As you know, my name is Maria Bianco, and I am currently the head of this wonderful organisation, which, as you may not be aware, is named the Westminster League Of Extraordinary Individuals.” She smiled, and turned, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. “To let you all know the plan, once we’re done getting ready, I am informed a retrofitted Lancaster Bomber has been made available for our paradrop into France. It should take around one and a half hours to reach our DZ near Orleans. From there, we will make our way North to Paris, and then subsequently we shall enter the belly of the beast. I suppose it would be more fit to call it the Eagle’s Nest as a matter of fact.”

She turned a thin smile and looked around. Snipers, hardened men and women, and, of course, a few more calmer individuals. The chinawoman, she would be interesting to talk to, particularly to see how their experiences at the hands of the OSS had differed. She took a long drag on the cigarette and let it out, before adding a few last words. “Ladies and gentlemen, this will not be easy. Many of you have seen what the Nazis are capable of, and know that we in particular are at a higher level of risk than others. If any of you wish to turn back, I shall not hold it against you, you have that on my honour.”

As she finished, a soldier walked through the door and saluted, before saying “Ma’am? The trucks are here for you. The Lancaster is fuelled and ready, and the equipment you requested is stowed. Shall we escort you?” The soldier was young, perhaps only 19 or 20 years old, but had the badges of a lieutenant, and he looked at the group warily, his hands not leaving his rifle.

“Perfect timing lieutenant. We’ll all be right behind you.” She smiled and stepped down from the overturned crate that she had been using to raise her above the level of anyone else. All the equipment would be within the plane, she had asked for it that way, and so as they walked out they were holding nothing, just the clothes on their back. She was currently wearing a simple white shirt and men’s work trousers; not exactly the height of fashion, but when you were jumping into occupied France, the height of fashion would be more suspicious. She had asked for a black dress to be placed into her bag, she had learned that for some places in society, a nice dress and some makeup was essential, but that might not happen for a long time.

The trucks were troop carriers, that was for sure. Khaki canvas and the insignia of the army splashed onto them, and inside the back were wooden benches. Nothing stylish or comfortable she saw, but large enough to carry the lot of them quite comfortably. The drive would only take around fifteen minutes, most likely a little more due to all the twists and turns, so they would be in the air within the hour, and the drop would be just as night set. It was a bomber’s moon tonight, so they would have plenty of light, but so would the anti-aircraft guns, so there was that worry before they were even down on the ground. She sighed, and nursed a growing headache with her hand. This was going to be a long day, no matter what.



The scientist nervously shoved his glasses up his forehead, sighing. Two years and they had only made this one, tiny breakthrough. Not everyone had the potential to become superpowered, but there were people who had latent powers, which could be unlocked with enough adrenaline… So here they were. With a team of ten superpowered individuals, each devoted to the Reich, or broken and beaten until they would show no resistance. Hydra was ready, named for their leader, the only natural supernatural they had on the team, SS Officer Alfred Dassler. No matter what damage you did to him, he seemed to bounce right back from it. He had extreme regenerative abilities, making him unable to age and close to immortal. The only way to kill him would be to destroy his cells to such an extent that nothing could come back.

The Spanish male, with the hands in his pockets, would of have been looking around whilst Miss Bianco explained the mission to them, standing up as everyone did, raising his eyebrows, but soon understanding where they were going. "Welp, I've always liked to travel..." he muttered to himself, trying to reassure that everything was going to be alright: They were soldiers, capable men and women...the plane wouldn't crash, it'd just be like one of those dreams right? When you start to fly...and then fall...and then you wake up. He shook his head at the thought of the fall, sighing and picking up some air, to calm himself.

"Hey, uh, miss?" he said, approaching Bianco from the side, resting a hand on the truck "I uh, I know this may not be the best moment to talk about this but...I kinda have some friends in France, u-used to work there on some cafés and such, they may still be around so wouldn't it be better if we could contact them? I-I still remember the cafés and all of that." he smiled lightly, visibly nervous as his hands kept shaking softly, running a hand trough his pompadour multiple times as a nervous tick before looking back into the truck, so that Bianco wouldn't notice it, at least "that" much.

He would climb inside the truck, noticing the other individuals as he sat inside, rubbing his hands against each other, eager to start the mission and to get to know his new "camaradas", still not knowing as to how to present himself: He was a rebel, a musician, a superpowered individual, a freak...or at least he thought.

Óscar then suddenly came out, accommodating his pompadour before flashing out a vibrant smile, standing there with his arms crossed, greeting everyone that passed by before starting to look around, seemingly eager and curious as to how the truck was exactly, trying to find if it had any secret gadgets since, well, they are a secret organization afterall right? He then took out a tiny hairbrush, adjusting his beard as he patted it with a smile, carefully adjusting his leather jacket, nodding at it "Yeah, this is some real "camuflaje" stuff going on...".

A calm before the storm is the worst, a thought ran in Jean's head. And I am supposed to be the calmest of the bunch. He could feel both eagerness and nervousness in the air, especially during the briefing. The tension was like a bowstring, ready to be released.

Jean had been waiting for this day for months. He had been trained and drilled for the past year, taught by the experts and honing his "asset", as his camouflage ability was referenced by these experts. He felt both quite confident and excited, but also a bit nervous. And finally, Jean was going back to France, to pay back to the boches, one bullet and kill at a time.

"They really don't look like gamblers", muttered Jean in a low voice, looking around as he was walking towards the truck, cracking a small smile. He could see that a young man by the truck was quite nervous. "And hey, Espagnol" Jean said to him and patted him to a shoulder. "Try not to faint. The waiting for the inevitable gets easier with experience."

It never does, Jean knew, but the Spaniard didn't have to know that. Not yet, anyway.

Nothing quite felt real. Henry stood on the edge of the room taking quiet notes, the ink of his pen leaking ever so slightly as he did. Occasionally his glasses would slip down the ridge of his nose, and as he pushed them back into position he became aware of just how much he was shaking; a few days ago the idea of parachuting into Nazi occupied France would have seemed ludicrous, but now it seemed more like some elaborate practical joke. And a bloody real practical joke at that, he reminded himself.

Looking up, Henry focused on the woman named Maria Bianco, a young woman with dark hair and a flawless complexion. He wondered what a person had to do in order to be placed in charge of such an organisation as the Westminster League of Extraordinary Individuals. Perhaps she was born into politics, or maybe she came from a wealthy family with the right connections. Involuntarily, his thoughts turned darker, and he found himself wondering whether or not she had ever killed anyone before. Cocking his head to the side, Henry regarded the rest of the room with intrigue - some of the men and women certainly looked as if they had the potential to be killers. He wondered if he too would have to kill someone.

A bead of sweat rolled down Henry's left temple, bringing his focus back to Maria's speech. With the cuff of his shirt he wiped it away, desperately hoping that no one had noticed, and resumed his note-taking until the woman had finished speaking. You're going to war, he heard his father's voice echo in his mind, remembering part of the long discussion they'd had only days earlier. This isn't what I wanted for you, but I believe fate gave you these powers all those years ago, and fate is taking you to war now. You need to be strong.

It was these words that had stuck with Henry, for whatever reason. His father had never been the callous type, as many people had come to expect from wealthy businessmen, but neither had he ever been that type to speak of fate.

As those who filled the room began to rise and slowly make their way to the trucks, Henry followed. A quiet figure who clung to the back of the group. He hadn't the faintest idea what awaited him as he climbed aboard - one of the first despite having been towards the back of the group. The others apparently wanted to linger, but Henry preferred to take a seat on one of the uncomfortable benches and resume his note-taking. It was as he did so that a thought occurred to him.

"Jesus Christ!" he remarked under his breath. "I'm terrified on heights..."

@Oak7ree

Óscar winced slightly at the touch, quickly turning around and raising an eyebrow, seemingly calming down after he saw the friendly smile of the French partner, putting a hand on his chest "D-Damn *amigo*, don't scare me like that..." he says, chuckling shortly after and shrugging, crossing his arms "Faint? Nah mate, this is just like...uhm, playing the guitar again!" his tone was excited, happy even, but it really wasn't.

He was trying to look tough "Maybe if I stay strong they won't think I'm useless..." he thought to himself, the Spaniard's years of experience with acting and performing paying off at that moment, his shaking would have stopped and Óscar would stand there with his arms crossed, looking at the French dude without a note of nervousness or even fear, even though he was just acting; the thought of looking weak to the group wasn't in any of his plans, not even in the one in which he fakes having a seizure to avoid any nazi officers that might catch them, a weird plan indeed, but with the nazis nothing is weird enough.

"Huh, didn't see that one..." he said, moving his head behind the french male and gazing at the small Russian female, taking a gasp of air and recomposing himself as the "amigo" turned around, putting again the hand on his chest to try and stay "in-character", his nerves getting to him before he started to calm down for real, watching as how the entire base was secure and that his "camaradas" were fine guys and lasses "You think she's Russian? She's definitely "pequeña", literally." he then laughed, shaking his head as one of his hands rubbed his full, black beard, softly pulling it as it used to be one of those things you do when there's nothing better to do.

The Spanish male then fixed his gaze on numerous soldiers and even the truck, his eyes glistening with something that can be just described as a kid watching his new toy for the first time: He loved comics, in fact, he started to draw one but he didn't really finish it, but that's not the point, the point is that this is just as how he imagined it, a couple of superpowered humans fighting against all the evil in the world, with a secret government project behind their backs to protect themselves...it might even have a romance in it. As he thought this, his eyes were lost around the room, looking at nowhere exactly but imagining everything that might happen to the group, to himself.

Kazia fidgeted with the fabric of her pants uncomfortably. She… couldn’t say she’d ever worn pants, not really- in school she had always worn the mandatory English-style “sailor” uniform, with its long pleated skirt, and at home after the war broke out she still wore her pretty, modest dresses and no-nonsense shoes. She’d taken as good care of them as she could so they’d lasted her for the two years after the invasion. It was expected of little Polish girls who happened to be spies to dress like normal little Polish girls, after all.

But now that they were airdropping into France… that attire would be conspicuous. She’d finally managed to scrounge up better clothing, in the form of a moderately well-worn pair of boys’ trousers and one of her own looser button-up blouses in a comparatively inconspicuous shade of light bluish gray. She had a few other clothes in a small knapsack that was snugly fastened across her shoulders, a sack that also contained some very carefully-wrapped smoke bombs and the various other diversions she carried.

The one item of her culture’s clothing that she’d kept, though she probably shouldn’t have, was one of her bright, floral-patterned headscarves. There were a few others in her bag but this was her favorite, and she wore it today to give her a bit of a confidence boost. And to keep her curly, at times poofy hair out of her face. She had carefully pinned it up in a bun this morning but there was no promise it was going to stay like that…

She wasn’t sure how long they’d all been gathered in the room when a relatively tall, well-put-together woman stepped to the front of the room. Everyone else rose to attention, or at least to alertness, leaving poor Kazia standing on tiptoe, craning her neck to see what the devil was going on. She could at least process the woman’s words, that was not an issue, but she might’ve liked to see something other than the shoulder blades of the person in front of her.

As the woman concluded her speech, Kazia thought she saw some unease in the faces around her. She herself felt almost none- it was either stay here, and do some good, or go back home and fight a losing battle… the British official who’d given Kazia the necessary papers to be here had made it clear that Kazia had only been brought on because of her agreement to be in Ms. Bianco’s group and she’d be shipped off with the next batch of grunts to Warsaw if she backed out for whatever reason.

The group filed out to the trucks, Kazia remaining near the tail of the group- the last thing she wanted was to get trampled before they even got into the air.

Of course, most of the group was seemingly less than eager to load up into the trucks, so Kazia wove her way through the group, then scrambled up into one of the waiting vehicles (being short did make for some awkward moments for climbing up into things) and plopped down into a seat, at the last moment slinging her backpack around so it was in her lap (the last thing she wanted to do was accidentally set off a smoke bomb in here.) She found herself next to a tall, lanky blonde boy, probably somewhere around her age. As she swung into the seat, she heard him say, “Jesus Christ, I’m terrified of heights!”

The girl instinctively opened her mouth as though she was going to give the boy a sharp warning for using Christ’s name in vain. Then she promptly shut it again as she realized that, well… here they were, on their way to war, in the back of a troop transport truck… and she’d never been in an airplane, so how would she even know if she was afraid of heights or not… and she was going to yell at someone for a curse word that was, well, barely even a curse, by most of the street army’s standards…

Suddenly the whole situation struck her as absurdly funny and she started silently laughing, quickly covering her mouth, though that was more an observed mannerism than anything- she’d never really mastered the art of using another person’s laugh while she was laughing, it always sounded weird. There were so many different kinds of laughter…

Kazia forced herself back to the task at hand, her mirthful expression fading and turning serious. Why was she being so scatterbrained? Maybe it was the waiting- yeah, it was probably the waiting that had her so antsy. She half-wished she was back in the streets. She’d have been given an order and immediately allowed to execute it. None of this stupid transportation and logistics and whatnot. Yes, logically she knew that the logistics and higher levels of planning were what was (theoretically) going to make this operation successful… but still. She hated waiting.

Entirely engrossed in his writing, Henry was unaware as the young woman sat beside him. His notes consisted of rough calculations, scrawled notes, and the occasional squiggle of ink after his biro had frozen up. Having never parachuted in his life - let alone into enemy territory - he was attempting to work through the logistics of such a feat, and regrettably coming up short handed.

As he took a moments break from his writing Henry looked up to glean some form of inspiration from the rather uninspiring interior of the truck, and to his surprise noticed the girl to his side. With a hand covering her mouth she appeared to be... Laughing? It certainly appeared that she was laughing, but no sound was emanating from her mouth. For a split second Henry considered that he may have lost his hearing when the sounds of chatter from outside of the truck assured him that he was not, in fact, deaf.

Henry was about to ask the girl if she was ok, but in his hesitation observed her smile gradually fade. Suddenly she looked far more serious. As discretely as possible, Henry observed her from the corner of his eye. She was plain, but that was not necessarily a bad thing. Her height gave him the impression that she was young, far too young to be going to war, but her dull hazel eyes said otherwise. Certainly the girl was still young, yet her eyes betrayed her physical appearance and conveyed a strange sense of wisdom.

"My name is Henry," he said, quietly as not to surprise her while she was in thought. It was not usual for him to strike up conversation where it was not needed, but under the circumstances he decided that isolating himself was not in his best interest. Already he could see that the men and women with whom he would be sharing this experience were vastly different to himself, and so he decided at that moment that he would have to make a conscious effort to engage with them - to do otherwise may be to sign his own death warrant. In war, camaraderie is valued above all else. If he was to survive, if these people were to have his back on the battlefield, then he would have to gain their trust and respect.

"What's your name?" He asked.

Ying-mei stood quietly at the back of the room, listening to everything that Ms. Bianco said. She was painfully aware of the fact that she was looked, well, different from everybody else who was gathered for the briefing. She was used to this, of course, having spent many years in American universities and cities, but still-the very nature of what she was here for, the very nature of what she was about to do...it made everything just twenty times worse.

Ying-mei herself had known very little about the Nazis before being brought to this base. She knew what the Americans were saying about them, yes, but she had been more concerned about the Japanese invading her home country. Ying-mei was thankful that her family had fled to safety in the southern portion of China, and she could only hope that the war with the Japanese ended soon.

In England, Ying-mei had heard plenty about the Nazis-how they invaded Poland and killed thousands of people, how now they had taken control of France and many eastern European countries, and even how they were targeting specific groups of people (specifically, the Jewish). That thought did not sit well with Ying-mei. She had a Jewish classmate in America whom Ying-mei was extremely fond of. Her classmate had expressed worry for her family in Luxembourg in the past, and Ying-mei had done her best to help, relating it to how her family was living in a China overrun with Japanese soldiers, but still...the reality of the situation hadn't fully hit Ying-mei until she was introduced to the Westminster League of Extraordinary Individuals.

Ms. Bianco continued her speech, adding a short note at the end about how backing out was an option. Ying-mei wavered. Ai ya, what am I doing here? I am no soldier, nor am I...a spy, if you will. I am the daughter of a Chinese politician and I am fated to marry a powerful man with a splendid wedding and I will bear him many children. How am I to fight Nazis with healing? Ying-mei was uncertain if that was what she truly wanted in life, but what choice did she have if she wanted to honor her parents?

Yet there was no going back now. Ying-mei did not know how the rest of her family would take the news of her unexpected supernatural abilities, nor if the news had spread to other influential families in China (most likely not, due to the war, but one could never know), and once the news did get out-these things always did-Ying-mei knew that there would be no marriage to a powerful businessman or politician for her, no matter how large the dowry. People will say that I am cursed, that I am an abomination. No, this is the only path I have.

So Ying-mei kept quiet like she always did and followed the rest of the group outside to the trucks. She, along with the other "special" individuals, were about to be air-dropped into France. They were all wearing rather loose trousers and plain shirts that were commonplace in Western fashion. Ying-mei would have preferred something from home, but unfortunately, a traditional qipao in the middle of occupied France would have been much too conspicuous. At least she had been allowed to bring her makeup-Ying-mei had never been one to wear an excessive amount, but she was well-versed in lipsticks and blushes and the sort, having been raised in a wealthy political family in Shanghai.

Ying-mei took a good look around at the group as they walked. Their leader-Maria Bianco-had a porcelain complexion, straight, dark hair, and blue eyes. She looked to be a fairly young woman; not as young as Ying-mei herself, but not even close to middle-aged, either. There was a blonde, bespectacled young man who couldn't have been older than twenty, and another young man who looked a bit older that had black hair.

The only person smaller than Ying-mei was a brown-haired girl who looked to be...fourteen? Fifteen? Her height made her look like a child, though her facial features indicated that she was older than ten or eleven. Last but not least, there was a man about Ying-mei's age who had dark hair and the largest sideburns that Ying-mei had ever seen. He seemed to be particularly nervous, stammering out a question to Ms. Bianco. The black-haired man moved to reassure him, which seemed to help a little bit.

Ying-mei settled down on a wooden bench across from the diminutive brunette and the tall, blonde-haired man. If Ying-mei had to be perfectly truthful with herself, she had absolutely no idea what she was getting herself into. She could heal, yes, and she supposed that was all that was expected of her, but how the hell was she supposed to walk around occupied France without being noticed? She was Chinese, for Pete's sake. Her features alone made her stick out like a sore thumb.

Well, I suppose that there's no turning back now. I must hope that we shall discover a solution in the near future, thought Ying-mei pensively.

Ying-mei was startled when the petite young woman across from her put a hand over her mouth as if she was trying to stifle a giggle. What could possibly be so funny? Ying-mei wondered. Her thoughts were cut short as she watched the blonde young man she was sitting next to begin to talk to her. Ying-mei turned away, letting them converse, and took a closer look at her surroundings. Hopefully being air-dropped into France wouldn't be too terribly frightening.

Jean stood next to the truck. He looked quickly and made a fast, overall glance, and many of the Westminsters were still gathering or walking towards their transports. Their faces told all one thing: they all were nervous or afraid. Not one had probably seen a day of combat or fired a rifle in anger, Jean thought. They hadn't seen a dying comrade or faced German Panzers, but they all had had different stories and tragedies behind them.

"Hurry it up!" Jean shouted to the rest of their small League, in a very stern voice, almost demanding. "We don't have all day, and we are burning daylight The boches are waiting."

Jean climbed to the truck and a few other already sat on the benches. He tried to take a more reaffirming tone with his voice, saying: "Try not to worry too much. I've been training parachuting for months, and the falling down is quite a fun experience. Just don't look down when you jump, or you'll freeze at the door." Jean took a glance at each one of them. A woman as tall as a child, a blonde Brit with glasses and a Chinese woman of almost meek appearance.

"By the way, the name's Jean, the sniper of this troupe." Jean again measured each one with his eyes. They all look green, he thought in his head. "How are you feeling? Nervous? Afraid?"

Maria felt as the troop carrier jolted, a soldier quickly hopping into the cab at the front. She sighed and anticipated the question already, tossing her cigarette neatly out of the rear of the vehicle, the white stick twirling neatly and landing in a patch of mud. First, she turned to the Spaniard, he had to know about his… Added weight. “Oscar, you’re carrying three bars of near-solid gold. Be careful, yes? Before you ask, it’s because paper notes can go out of style, but gold? Gold is always worth something. We’re only humans after all.” She smiled and rubbed her hands together, feeling every pothole and rut that the truck drove over painfully through the seats.

What else… She had the Welrod, the field agent kit was tucked away in her sausage bag inside the plane, along with a few other important pieces of equipment. Mostly money, some identification papers that would be needed to get around. The unusual nature of their group would make any travelling damned hard, but she reckoned if they split up and went in small groups, they could easily make it through the checkpoints. If she went with the Englishman, and the Polish girl came with them, they would just look like another family. The Spaniard would cause some serious issues; men like him were normally in the army, but she had the documentation to show that he had an exclusion pass to the military…

The Jew. Fuck. If they gave him a closer look and even so much as suspected that he was part of the persecuted group, they were all fucked. The same with the Gypsy too, although he, at least, had the benefits of being Irish. Irishmen in France weren’t rare per say, but It would still be an unusual sighting when they moved away from Paris and started heading towards the German border. Also, there would be the small matter of Hydragruppe. As soon as reports of superpowered individuals attacking Nazi soldiers came, they would be out in a flash.

So much to worry about… She had known about this of course, it would not be her first time in command, but she felt personally responsible for these men and women. Most of them didn’t exactly have a choice on this operation, and she didn’t want them all to end up in coffins, or worse, a camp. Of course, they all had the S-Pills*, but she wanted to avoid using those if at all possible.

Hydragruppe was certainly an interesting little group. Three Germans, one naturally superpowered, two wholly devoted to the cause, and one who it was doubted even knew, or cared, what had become of himself. Then you had the foreigners, most of whom had been subjected to torture in order to cause their latent powers to activated… It was certainly not the best group morale wise, but it would do its job, especially with the so-called ‘Angel of the Reich’ walking with them. Smiling with her bright blonde hair, she was the very symbol of the perfect Aryan woman. Debates were going on whether it was a good idea for her to conceive, but for now she was still a powerful individual.

*S-Pills: Suicide pills. A small capsule hidden on the agent somewhere, sometimes within reach of his or her mouth, that when ingested causes death in between 30-60 seconds. Vital for anyone who doesn’t want to end up being tortured by the Gestapo.

Óscar turned around as he heard Maria, raising an eyebrow before he lifted a finger to ask her something, quickly lowering it to rub his beard "Hmm...gold could be useful..." he says, nodding and chuckling to himself before turning to the Asian lass and giving her a wave, walking towards her "I better get to know everyone around here..." he thought, his pompadour being caressed by the cold wind of that night as he pulled up his baggy pants slightly, to give the impression of a more "formal" man, even though he wasn't even remotely near that, very rarely actually caring about things and more than likely forgetting about important things...or just not doing it due to him being obnoxiously lazy sometimes.

"Pretty weird to see an eastern "chica" around here..." he says while standing in front of the Chinese woman "I mean, got nothin' against that obviously, it's just "curioso"..." Óscar then crosses his arms, turning his head in order to see the British male and the small Russian woman, using one of his hands to scratch his full beard before shrugging: He thought that the group was not bad, but the various nationalities were the problem, maybe not everyone had the same social agendas or mannerisms, which would either lower the morale if things went south or boost it if everyone took part on interesting chats about each other's cultures.

He pulled his hoodie up, watching as the french male inside the truck started to yell, turning to him slightly "Kinda hungry if I'm honest!" he yells at him, one hand patting his stomach as he winks at him, clearly an attempt at making some progress on the group's feel of companionship and overall moral strength. He didn't actually think it was THAT bad, his firsts thoughts before the french male's attempt to calm him down were pretty normal, he thought: Parachuting into nazi territory would get everyone nervous, right? Anyhow, they had some equipment and, fucking hell, superpowers! Although he knew what he had to do, the feeling of regret about those who he killed back in France were haunting him, they were Nazis of course, but they had a family.

The Spanish man instinctively ran a hand across his neck, his eyes darting around the group as he felt their eyes watching him as if they were accusing him of being a murderer even before getting into the program. Being trained now wasn't a relief either, he just thought he was even more capable of killing, but also on defending himself and his allies, which was what Óscar always liked doing. To be honest, he never took part in any kind of violence, he always tried to achieve a peaceful resolve to his disputes with other kids or people...which more than likely resulted in him getting beaten. But that night in France changed everything, something woke up inside of him, and he knew this, that's why he was scared of going back there, because of what might happen.

@ayzrules

Akiva closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Deployment time. How joyous. He took a glance at his surroundings. The Italian was giving a speech about deployment and the "plan" and all that bullshit. The plan was simple. Go north, and destroy the Reich from the inside out. Or outside in. Akiva had many strong suits, but vocabulary wasn't one of them. No, he had bigger things to worry about than how they were entering the German territory. Like the terrain. For him, knowledge of their surroundings was vital. Hopefully, he would be able to improvise should they enter unknown territory. Second on his list was his "comrades in arms". He took a look around. Some Spaniard with ridiculous hair, a blonde Brit, some Polish girl, the list went on. He took a look at the Asian woman, and his brow furrowed. He had very little contact with the culture of the Orient, and thus couldn't tell her nationality. But, such things did not matter. All that was important was the cohesion of their various abilities, to maximize effectiveness and stealth. There were many things Akiva did not want, and torture by the Gestapo was high on that list. He sighed, and continued to take in his surroundings. The group leader (Her name was Maria? Yes, something like that) was talking to the Spaniard. Something about bringing gold. That, that was smart. Gold had many useful properties. He would give the man a handshake, but he seemed preoccupied. Yes, yes, all were preoccupied. This was a very busy time. Soon enough, they would be within the reign of Herr Hitler. But, then again, it was all worth it. All for the plan, that is what he told himself. All for the plan.

Looking around, he felt useless. He needed to make an impact on the group, or at the very least, get an idea of their capabilities. He figured the Polish or Russian girl would be the easiest to approach. After all, they had both had land stolen from them. Perhaps they could both partake in a kind of vengeful streak against the Reich. Clearing his throat, Akiva spoke, "Hello, you are Polish? As am I. I hope we may become friends.", he said with an outstretched arm. English wasn't his first language, but he certainly had to try. For all he knew, she was Russian. Otherwise, he would've begun with Polish. But, there was no use making a fool of himself.

Ying-mei was startled by the black-haired man's commanding demeanor. She hadn't known that he was also in charge of the operation. He offered a few bits of advice to the group, telling them not to look down, or they'd "freeze at the door". I'm not sure if his words are helping or not, thought Ying-mei. He introduced himself as Jean, asking how they were feeling.

"My name is Ying-mei," answered Ying-mei in slightly accented English. "I...I am feeling a little nervous, yes, but I thank you for the advice," she continued a bit timidly, looking up at the sniper as he studied the group. The truck began moving, and Ying-mei took a deep breath, doing her best to steady her nerves. It was obvious that Jean and some of the others had training, but the only instruction that Ying-mei had received was how to jump-no, paradrop-out of the plane. She was no fighter, so the Allied army had not mentioned anything about a weapon.

The man with the large sideburns turned to Ying-mei and began speaking, his dialogue sprinkled with what Ying-mei presumed were words of his native language. I believe it is xibanyayu-Spanish. It is quite similar to putaoyayu, is it not? I remember thinking it was very peculiar that our word for Portuguese began with the characters for 'grape' when I was a child...

Ying-mei gave him a small smile. "Frankly, I never would have expected to end up here myself," she admitted with a quiet laugh. Ying-mei then noticed tall, thin man-so thin that he could have been described as gaunt-that she'd missed earlier. He appeared to be more than just a little uneasy. Ying-mei could sympathize.

Ying-mei wondered what abilities the other members of the Westminster League of Extraordinary Individuals possessed. She guessed that many of them had more combat-oriented abilities than she did, especially Jean. He was a sniper, after all. Ying-mei idly wondered what Maria Bianco, the leader of their little group, could do. It certainly had to be something useful, otherwise why would she be leading them? Ying-mei fidgeted with the straps of her pack, feeling the comforting bulge of the first aid kit under the rough fabric. All Ying-mei could do was heal. She could only hope that her healing would be enough.

The siblings exchanged a glance as they climbed in the transport. It was not the first such vehicle they'd been in: serving in the Swiss army since war had broken out almost two years before, they were quite familiar with the military, even though they'd not seen many pitched battles. Izkry then took a better look at his new fellows in arms. Belasý hadn't stopped assessing them since they'd arrived. A few were quite young, and most were about their age, somewhere in their twenties. The Japanese woman was tiny, even though she seemed to be an adult. Belasý wondered how she'd ended up so far from home. Had the Axis powers in Japan forced her out as well? She wouldn't be surprised if they had. But if she was here, she had to have some sort of ability, and that made her highly questionable. It was the same for the tiny little Polish girl, who was almost as quiet as Belasý herself. The Spaniard was nervous, then suddenly not, and she was instantly on guard against him. He bothered her, something about him just didn't seem right. A hint of a smile crossed her lips as the Frenchman made a reassuring comment that was entirely false. She'd seen him with a rifle case, and the memory made her wonder yet again how good a shot he was. Perhaps she'd get to see. The man with the glasses looked as out of place as the tiny ladies, like he should be at a desk and not on the field. But he had a power, and thus he must be dangerous. Belasý had decided she would not underestimate him, and took pains to remind herself of that.

Izkry clapped the young English noble sitting next to him on the back as he commented on his fear. "You will be fine. Perhaps if I catch you, it will be less scary?" The man was handsome, in a quiet way, though he clearly had not done much fighting. Most soldiers had a look in their eye. He could see it in his sister's, at times, but part of that had always been there, ever since the disaster as children. Izkry himself could not be kept down, and even the time they'd spent on the front had not dampened his spirits, so he did his best to keep others cheerful as well. The tiny girl beyond giggled, though she did it without sound, which was interesting. Izkry flashed her a wide smile. "It is good to see someone else still laughing," he told her, still using English, "even when you are scared. Do not forget laughter. It is precious."

The man -- Henry -- introduced himself, and the girl did not reply immediately. Izkry decided to fill the pause. "I am Izkry," he told them, with a slight bob of his head. "Or at least people call me that." A nudge from his sister made him glance over at her, and then nod. "My sister, Belasý." The nicknames were Slovak, but they'd stuck. Aron had given them to just about everyone. "Henry is your real name, or your cover?" he asked. "Remember, this is an undercover mission. Better to be familiar with the name we must answer to if things go wrong, instead of our real one. For us, we have nicknames that are nothing like our real ones. But if I was giving you my name-name, I would say we are Izaak and Mieli Meyer, not...not the ones we were given as children."

Beside him, Belasý tensed. She did not like even recalling her birth name. At the center, she'd been given a code. That one she had not even mentioned, not since escaping. But her birth name was tied to that day on the ice. The day she'd found out she was a monster. She would not use it, would not even answer to it. The young woman let her outgoing brother chat, and looked again at the Frenchman, the sniper. He thought they were inexperienced. She could tell -- he had that faintly amused, faintly condescending manner of veteran soldiers looking at newcomers. When she felt his gaze on her, she brushed her dark hair aside, just for a moment, and met his eyes with her startlingly blue ones. Just for a moment, the cold determination she felt in battle flashed at him, coupled with defiance, almost a challenge. She was not nervous, not about fighting. She was less afraid than she would be back at home in Switzerland, going to her job, worrying about rent. She was a monster, just like him, and Jean should remember that.

But that lasted only a moment before she dropped both gaze and hand, without a word spoken. It fell to Izkry to say, "Nice to meet you, Jean." He managed to get the pronunciation at least close to its proper French. "...Perhaps a little nervous, but that keeps you sharp. I would be far more worried if I was not."

AS the group of misfits headed for the truck, one member had trailed back a bit longer than the rest. Jason O'Grady knew that their equipment had been stowed away and they were told they'd get it back after the jump, but he still felt uncomfortable trusting someone else with his things. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his black bandana-- Silk, the last gift his sister had given him before that horrid night. He tied the comforting scrap of cloth around his neck and pulled it up over his nose, concealing half his face. Jason then made a slight detour, grabbing a handfull of bolts that were sitting atop a nearby crate. He tucked the stolen junk into his pockets and headed for the truck, hopping onto the back just as they began moving. Sighing with relief, the young man reached up and pulled his goggled down over his eyes, looking at the motley crew.

Their group was a strange mix, to be sure. Spaniard, Poles, Italian, English, Oriental. Jewish, Christian, whatever the Chinese believed in. It was a wonder to him that the group had even come together, and it'd take a miracle for them not to be caught. Then again, the miracles were there, weren't they? Each and every one of these people, himself included, were supposedly some kind of miracle. Besides, what was the alternative? Go back to the farm? Forget the Family? Mother and Emma? Crawl back to John and accept a life of growing potatoes and hating each other?

Jason allowed himself a rueful smile as he sat cross-legged on the floor of the truck. This was his best shot. Even if the odds were bad, he'd take it. "Well now, this is a fine how'dya do, innit?" He asked nobody in particular, the Irish lilt learned from his father leaking into his voice. "The lot of us, appearin' in fuck-all-nowhere, headin' fer Paris, ready to sock a Nazi in the nose? Well I'd almost say it's the start of some kinda modern day fairy tale, wouldn't you all?"

Óscar chuckled at the Irish man, looking down at him before resting his head on the walls of the truck and crossing his arms, gesticulating only what can be assumed it's a faint smile. He was liking this, the group seemed quite interesting and unique, and he always wanted to know more about Eastern cultures and such. "Modern fairy tale? More like a song, you guys know swing? I think this would do for a pretty good swing if you catch my meaning..." His Spanish accent tilting the words, the pronunciation of the Rs being slightly harsh and seemingly rude, like if he was taking them along a dirt road and they were hitting each rock that was in the way.

He started to look around the truck, noticing the small girl looking at him for a moment, raising an eyebrow and quickly adjusting his jacket to try and cover his face slightly, rubbing his beard. Did she know? Did she just look at him by pure curiosity or did she know something? Maria knew about him being a vigilante, but these guys? Maybe they were against that, maybe they were against him! He started to shiver slightly, the stress always made him get cold, more so when staying in Britain, at night and about to fucking jump off a plane onto France.

Taking a small bottle from his inside pocket, he opened it and took a swig of it, keeping it in his hands as he smirked slightly and seemingly concentrated on it, the water inside of it slowly coming out as it just stood there, in the air. "Hey chicos, wanna see something?" he says, slightly more relaxed before he starts to move the water around, creating figures with it and chuckling as he does so, ultimately making a popsicle-like shape out of the water, putting a pencil inside of it and quickly freezing it, taking it and starting to...well, you know what people do with popsicles. "Maybe we can get some juice in France, I'm sure you wouldn't mind some popsicles..."

The dark-haired woman with the blue eyes had something in her, as her eyes met his for a glance. The man next to her tried to pronounce French, but it still had some work to hone the the accent Jean replied in French. "Well, well, it feels almost like we are home again."

Jean continued. "It is good to fell nervous or afraid, but don't let it win over. A man can either be afraid or dead. I still remember the first time I fought the boches."

Jean chuckled a bit and smiled faintly, seeing the Spaniard demonstrating his ability, and remarked to him quickly "We are going to France, and the best you can think is juice? If we get a chance, you can make us a few Calvados popsicles. As long you don't do that to the Champagne."

Jokes aside, they were finally moving. The tension had eased a bit, and some even laughed for a thing or two. Good, good. Perhaps they would form a bond somewhere along the way, but Jean would have felt better for the whole enterprise if they had trained together, even if for few weeks before the big jump. Then one thought popped into his mind. He didn't bring a deck of cards with him. Merde...

"Say", Jean said back to the man "did you bring any cards with you?"

((My kindle does not like me. Editing!))

"Je n'ai pas -- euh, n'ai jamais allé à la France." Izkry's pronunciation wasn't too bad, at least, but his mastery of the language left something to be desired, and he knew it. He gave Jean a self-conscious smile. "No fairytale, this," he added, switching back to the more comfortable English to answer Jason. "However amusing our strange group, I do worry we are such improbable companions that we will be caught the moment we arrive." He ran a hand through his hair, fixing a few spikes that had been flattened. "But you may be sure, Herr Jean, I will not freeze up. A year and a half, two years, it has been for us, on the Swiss border. ...If Belasý is up to it, maybe you will get to watch her shoot. She is an excellent marksman -- mostly we did this, not long fights."

The woman frowned at her brother and gave a sharp shake of her head, though she was paying far more attention to Oscar's little...trick. "Oh come now, if nothing else he must know your skill to be a good leader," Izkry protested. "One or two bullets is not so much that is not a worthwhile cause." Belasý sighed. "Good! She will." He turned again toward Jean, but Oscar's floating ice pop attracted his gaze, and a raised eyebrow. "Not bad, not bad. You made it freeze?" That was not something his sister could do, and he was intrigued.

Belasý was far less amused. Increasingly bothered by the display, her hands had slowly formed into fists, and now a small, sharp twist of one sent the makeshift popsicle slipping out of Oscar's grip to smash on the truck floor. It was not a flashy move, and if people weren't looking her way, they might miss it.

Izkry was not such a person. He sighed. She /would/ go about making things more tense. "Cards? I think I have a set, though not to hand," he said, trying to keep the mood light. "A game does much to pass the time. Do you play bridge?"

((There we go, sorry about that.))

The Italian laughed at the antiques of the Spaniard, before saying "actually, that's an excellent idea. Whilst I am aware of all of your powers, why don't we all give a little demonstration mmm? Maybe help break the ice too, by telling us all where we come from and our names. Perhaps a little about ourselves. As you know, I am Maria Bianco. For the purposes of this mission, Marie Dubouis, so one might want to get used to calling me that. Italian, as many of you would have guessed. I used to work for Mussolini and his thugs, but I think Mr. Churchill was a better fit for me. As for powers, I am... A mind reader." she smiled slightly, before indicating towards the Spaniard. "We all know your powers Mr. Guijara." her pronunciation was perfect; not surprising due to the similarities of the language, and she smiled softly.

"Ah, Ms. Liu is it? I'm sorry, I know there is some naming convention used by the Chinese that I am not familiar of, but I hope Ms. Lui shall suffice. Did you get the new drugs? I hear they've been amazingly effective for treating soldiers a bit more on the... Friskier side. I'm not sure if you could cure it on your own, but best not to take unnessacary chances, eh?" Her smile had changed to a grin, and she sat back, waiting to see if anyone would take the bait.

As predicted, the truck had started to slow now, the ruts in the road smoothing out. The noise of planes taking off, once a distant whine, was now an ever-present roar, and aircrew dashed back and forth, a siren screeching in the background. This was not exactly new for some members of the organisation, but for some, it would be the first taste of the chaos they were about to enter.

@shylarah

Óscar raised an eyebrow as the popsicle escaped from his mouth "Eh, niñata!" he said, frowning as he looked at her older brother "What's the matter with her, can't she enjoy a joke or what? Agh...", the Spaniard really didn't like when someone took a joke south or just wasn't the kind of person that enjoys humor overall. He closed his eyes, looking at the splattered popsicle and instantly boiling it to clean it, looking back at the kid "Alright, Jesús, sorry for yelling..." he chuckles, tapping with his foot on the ground.

"Cards? Mierda, I used to play poker with some friends...and mús, but eh, I went over to music..." Óscar smirks slightly "I mean, if we get to a café I used to work, they may still have my old guitar." he grins once again, as the road gets slightly cleaner and he hears the planes, quickly raising both of his eyebrows and opening his mouth, nodding softly and leaning his head back onto the "wall" of the truck.

"Anyways, as Ms. Bianco said we should...you know, get to know each other? I'm Óscar Guijarro, but in the field you'll call me Tony Bamanaboni...or just Tony, seh." He then accommodated his pompadour, taking a look at his tattoos before rolling down the sleeves and covering them, either afraid or ashamed of them, scratching his magnificent black beard "Well...at least we won't be bored..."