It was a red letter day. Finally, things were about to crack off. One of the good things about being funded by the Speedwagon foundation was that Chloe could wear whatever she wanted, instead of some stuffy, extra uniform. Something Chloe made sure to take full advantage of. A short black leather jacket with long sleeves over a white crop top was what Chloe usually preffered to wear. It showed off the tattoo of a japanese cherry blossom tree that rode up the left side of her midriff. Her long black hair was tied into a high ponytail that drifted lazily downward toward her shoulder blades. Skinny jeans that were riding fashionably low on her hips were tucked into black leather boots that came up just beneath her knees. The most important part of her look, though, was the permanent cheeky smirk on her face, as if she was in on some sort of joke everyone else missed. The face this grin was engraved upon was a mixed race one. Her skin was the lightest of browns, her chin was sharp and her nose was on the longer side, but her head was a little wide and her eyes were big and round. Quite literally a wide-eyed recruit, through her brightness seemed to come from a place of stubborness rather than naivete.

Listening to the General talk was important. Their mission was important. Medicine for the children and the soldiers, or the child soldiers if need be. Jerry was on the move and someone needed to teach him a lesson. Bellends thought they could take over the world, well, not on Chloe's watch! Chloe stood straight and respectfully, though every once in a while she would fidget, slacken, or relax. It would be easy to tell the young woman wouldn't last a month in boot camp, which, well, she didn't. Fortunately she found a different calling and still got the opportunity to bash some people who really deserved it. Nothing better than a well-deserved ass kicking. Usually a bird like herself would be stuck in some triage tent somewhere, the closest she ever got to battle would be the distant sounds of artillery shells. Even that was better than nothing for Chloe, though her bedside manner could probably use some help. Fortunately, she had a special talent not even the brickheads up high could ignore. A Stand, they called it. Chloe wasn't exactly sure of the specifics, but she had a magic imaginary friend that could beat the shit out of anyone she wanted. Not everyone had one, so Chloe counted herself lucky. She had always had it in some capacity, she was told, but it was only until a few years ago where her friend had started to make herself apparent to Chloe. Either way, using her friend felt as natural to Chloe as lifting a finger, breathing, blinking, and pub crawling. As in, second nature. Couldn't live without it.

Her hazel eyes did a once-over on the little plane they were supposed to ride in. Guess she wasn't going to be smoking on the way over, would have to keep the fags in her pocket. Would be rude to fill up the three feet space on the inside with ash.

"S'a bit small, innit." Chloe remarked, tipping her head toward the plane. Well, she'd rather not be stuck in the middle. A window seat would be preferable. The people around her were a curious bunch, and she was looking forward to getting to know them. Afterall, they were to be comrades. With a skip in her first step she began to make her way over to their ride. Opening the door she hopped inside and scooted all the way over to the far window seat, giving an encouraging pat to the empty space next to her.

"Well, doesn't matter. Name's Chloe Bridgette Cakebread-Yonaka. Call me Anything you Want, but Chloe's easier to say." She introduced herself easily and confidently with a smile. Her voice had a hint of scratchyness to it, and it was lower than one would expect.till, it had somewhat of a singsong quality to it. Her London accent was also impossible to ignore, though there was another accent in there that was hard to identify, one that was just bubbling beneath the surface of her words. Pressing herself against the far window she stretched her left arm over the back of of the seat. She was looking forward to this. Fear and anxiety were present, but together they combined to make a kind of excitement. Plus, Chloe wasn't one who was easily spooked. Not a chance in Hell she would pass up an opportunity like this. They'd be drinking the finest Parisian wine in no time.

^{"S'a bit small, innit."}
"S'a bit small, innit."
"S'a bit small, innit." ??

Was that all she had to say? Not to mention "a bit small" was a complete understatement.

Taras had circled around the small aircraft once, twice, three times as the General spoke, sizing it up. Literally sizing it up, because the large Russian man severely doubted he alone would fit inside, never mind the entire lot of them. As he came back around the final time and walked back towards the gathered group, Taras' face was lightly twisted in disdain. This was going to be unpleasant, to say the least.

Still, Taras rejoined the group as the General finished his speech. 'Thank you for your service,' blah blah blah. Taras would have been a little more appreciative if he hadn't been stuck with this particular group of fellow agents. He cast his dark eyes on the lot of them, scrutinizing them all and not for the first time. Though sure to be skilled in order to be selected for a mission such as this one, they were all Westerners - and young to boot. Perfect, Taras thought to himself with an internal roll of the eyes.

Well despite the immediate situation, Taras couldn't deny that he was extremely curious about these "super Nazis." He'd have to deal with the other agents for a little while in order to find out more, as displeasing as the thought was. For fuck's sake the British woman had just introduced herself as "Cakebread." Cakebread? Really? Cakebread? Taras didn't even try and resist the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, and he did just so to try and stave off the headache that was sure to come. Breath, Taras... Agh, pizdets.

Giving his regards and a short nod of his head to General Carmond, Taras too approached the small plane - though he didn't go inside. No, no, he wasn't getting in there before the rest of them. Once the others were in he'd cram himself inside and be the first to get off the Godforsaken thing when they touched down. The large man leaned against the metal body of the craft, tugging on his gloves impatiently.

"You will refer to me as Tupolev," he said, figuring he ought to introduce himself as well. Although he didn't plan to learn more about the group than needed, a name was always important. Taras' voice was deep and heavy with his Slavic accent - it fit his large imposing frame. He said nothing else afterward, merely observing the rest of them as they prepared to leave.

While the General gave his speech, a soft-looking young woman, rather out of place, regarded the aircraft with a bored expression. Of course she paid attention to his spiel; it was quite literally a life-or-death matter, but she had to make a concerted effort not to roll her eyes at his profuse thanks on behalf of the entire free world. It’s not like she was doing this to be some big hero. She was only in it for a reduced prison sentence and the opportunity to smash some Nazi skulls. Maybe she’d get to take home some new mementos as well. Get them shipped to her apartment. Though who knew when she’d be able to see them displayed; it might take some time for her boss to pull the right strings to get her released.

God, she was glad to be back in civilization (or, at least, what passed for it). She had only spent a few weeks in the hole, but that was enough to make her realize the little comforts she had taken for granted before. Such as being armed. She had felt practically naked without a knife at the very least; every instinct she had screamed at her to find something sharp, but she was at least trying to maintain some semblance of good behavior. The gun and blade she carried now felt like a security blanket.

By the time her mind finished wandering, her new teammates had started entering the plane, so she stepped on, giving the others a polite smile. It seemed it was time for introductions, so she provided one.

“My name’s Kiara Oscuro. I’m from Chicago, I like Jazz, and I make a mean strudel. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Chloe smiled warmly as Kiara sat down next to her. The russian bloke, Tupolev, seemed intent on staying outside of the plane until everyone else was in. More power to him. Though he was putting off some rather unfriendly, scrutinous vibes. Maybe that was just the nature of the accent. Very stoic.

"Tupolev, pleasure to meetcha." She said with a sassy two fingered salute. Her "r's" were so soft as to be nonexistant. The man was a mountain and quite the looker to boot.

Kiara had gorgeous white and black hair and was too pretty to go to war. Together, the two of them were pale as snowflakes, and made Chloe's skin look downright tan by comparison. If the light struck the russian's hair wrong Chloe felt she could go bloody blind. A russian, an american, and a brit. Together those who had thus far introduced themselves were a microcosm of the allied nations.

"Cor, jazz, eh? Y'play an instrument, Kiara? Partial to violin meself." Chloe asked. For her part, Chloe was more invested in the classical or popular music. Still, good music was good music, even though her ear wasn't quite as attuned to the nuances of jazz as it was other genres she wouldn't pass up a chance to talk about the musical arts with anyone. Her interest, excitement, and knowledge on the subject was made apparent by the look on her face and gleam in her eye. As far as first impressions went, Chloe already liked Kiara. She could surmise that Tupolev would react the same no matter what she said, so she'd just have to wait and see on that front.

Another thought in the back of her mind was what kind of powers the two had. Did they have Stands like her? What did they look like? She was eager to find out. Personally, Chloe would reveal her stand powers to anyone who asked, and probably would do so herself when given the chance. Right now she wanted to learn more about her squadmates themselves. Trust was important! Plus, this trip would be way more boring if she didn't make any friends along the way.

BANG! One casing hit the ground. One soldier did the same.

“Vere iz zat coming from?!” cried another German soldier, holding himself back behind a small barricade.

BANG! Another bullet flew and struck the soldier in the chest, neatly threading the needle between the segments of the barricade.

“It iz unthinkable zat ve vere invaded by ze enemy!” cried another soldier diving for cover. “Ze front line iz so far away!”

The commanding officer, a man of white hair with a monocle wearing a black trench coat with the red armband of the Nazi party, answered as he pulled out binoculars. “Because ve haven’t. Zere iz nobody approaching and ze time between ze shots indicates a singular attacker.”

After scanning for a moment, and another of his soldiers getting shot dead, he put his binoculars away. “Zhey are hidden vell, but zheir general location iz known to me. MEN! AIM ZE ARTILLERY SHELLS!”

Two soldiers rushed behind cover carrying a large shell. They reached the artillery cannon and were about to put it in when their attacker got off another shot. BANG! The bullet struck true, somehow managing to impact the primer of the artillery shell, igniting the powder and setting it off… To disastrous results.

The officer’s monocle fell to the ground as he could only stare at the carnage in utter disbelief. “... By God…” He rushed back into the outpost, adrenaline coursing through his body, switching the “fight or flight” lever firmly in the “flight” position. Once he rounded the corner he pulled out his sidearm and attempted to calm himself. Now he was out of the line of fire, around the corner and protected by 6 inches of solid steel. No bullet from some lone sniper could penetrate that. All he had to do was stand at the ready for his would-be assassin to step around the corner and he’d have them dead to rights.

BANG!

“AGH!” A bullet ricocheted off the wall and hit him in his gut. It lost a bunch of power and didn’t hit anything vital, but it was still a bullet injury. He was bleeding badly. Now crawling on the ground, he desperately cried for help. “Herr Doctor! Emergency!” But nobody came. More gunshots could be heard and the cries of men dying were the only company he had as he crawled across the ground in a desperate bid to escape.

“It has to be her…” he wheezed to himself. “It has to be… Schnitter der Seelen! Zhat iz ze only explanation!”

“Iz zhat vhat zhey are calling me?” echoed a woman’s voice, strong, cultured, and attractive (in the right circumstances). “Ze reaper of souls?” she asked, translating the moniker into English.

The officer turned his head, his vision blurring but still able to make out the woman standing before him. It was her, no doubt about it. Reinhilde Amstein, the Austrian noblewoman suspected of murdering her parents in cold blood, the treasonous wench.

The officer coughed up a small bit of blood, sitting up into a more comfortable position to accept his fate. There was no way he could run from this. “I have no regrets,” he said, evenly as he could.

“And zhat iz vhy you die tonight,” she answered.

He met her eyes with his own, his determination clearing his vision a bit. “I have only one question before you send me to my maker.” He paused, as did she, curiosity driving her to temporary inaction. “How did zou make zhose shots? How could zou know how to hit me around ze corner, or zhat I vas even zhere? Zhat should ‘ave been impossible.”

She stepped forward, tilting her head down at the man. Would she answer him? Would he even believe her? “Shoot to Thrill. It iz my ability,” she answered simply, stepping her heel into his groin and grinding down on it. She ignored his cries of pain and pulled out her bowie knife. “It iz also vhat vill allow me to make zhis last. Now zhen… Let’s see if I can remove zhis skin vone layer at a time…”

The officer’s cries lasted hours, but eventually died down as he screamed himself hoarse. He would not die until several hours after that.

Everyone was loaded into the plane. In front, the pilot and co pilot clambered in, the latter opening a small hatch in the back to stick his head through. "Just a warning folks- it'll get cold, windy, and probably a little hard to breathe back there. We'll try to make the flight as quick as possible, but there's not a whole lot we can do about that. If you feel dizzy, give a bang on this hatch and we'll see if we can't take her a little bit lower for your sakes." The airmen didn't know much, but they knew these agents were important.

"Once down, we'll need you folks to take that pallet there." He pointed towards a small crate, fragile stamps across it. It wasn't a big box- only around 5lbs, but apparently it contained vital cargo. "When you have it, clear the plane as quickly as possible. Every second we shave off of our transfer is another second the boche don't have to locate us. Understood?" He nodded at them all, and then would draw the hatch shut again with a quiet thud. The cargo loading door was lifted up, the only light now coming from a number of poorly-repaired bullet holes in the fuselage.

The twin engines of the plane slowly began to rotate, and then they would trundle down the runway. Seconds ticket away as the intensity of the propellors grew and grew, until the plane would begin to tilt skywards, carrying itself and its passengers up, across towards where the midnight black water of the Channel lay.

---

"Lindmann?" A smartly dressed administration member would appear at the door of his quarters, holding a clipboard.

"Jawohl?" The stand user would raise an eyebrow, although the fact that he was facing away from the man meant that the gesture was worthless.

"You are being deployed as per Bluthund protocols. I am sure that you know the drill." The man would tap his clipboard authoritively.

"Jawhol." This one was far more of dull sentence. Heaving himself to his feet, Till would pace towards the door. Slowly, he would roll his sleeves down, covering up the marks on his arm with each quick motion of his wrist, thread his cufflinks and button the last few elements of his shirt. He would take his coat down from the wall- holding it almost gingerly, and then finally he would take his glasses and slide them into his breast pocket.

"Actually, you have been reccomended to wear the sunglasses." Till would turn to look at the admninistration staff, seeing him properly. Tall, lanky, bespecled, brown-haired. He would consider it for a moment, before shaking his head a little to clear his mind.

"Jawohl." He would say for the third time, unfolding the glasses and slipping them over his eyes.

As Lindmannn walked through the bunker complex, he would idly draw a cigarette out from his pocket and place it to his lips. Trailing tobacco smoke, he would enter the armoury and take the few pieces of equipment that he needed, before at last emerging into a crisp clear autumnal evening. Crunching across orange leaves, he would take a set of keys out of a small box by the side of a hangar and clamber into a 1930s Peugeot, the sound of a car's engine splitting the serenity as he peeled away.

As the group made to get into the plane, Taras merely nodded to the women as a way to acknowledge their greetings. Oscuro, an American, made up the other of the pair of women he'd be working with. Small, but dangerous - that was the kind of vibe Kiara gave off. That kind of aura could be appreciated by Taras, but unfortunately it seemed like she might be also be the talkative type similar to Cakebread Yonaka. Taras wasn't a man who would judge people on things they couldn't control, such as being unfortunate enough to be born in the United States or seeming to be of Japanese-descent despite a clear British accent, but he would happily, happily, judge enough on a first impression alone. Musical discussion was not something he wanted for a first impression, so as soon as Kiara entered the small plane Taras pushed in after her, cramming the three of them into the confining space and slammed the door after him.

...saying it was cramped was an understatement. Perhaps the two smaller women would have been fine, but with Taras inside as well there was barely room enough to breathe let alone stretch out. When the co-pilot mentioned the air would thin out, the bulky Russian man couldn't stop the small frustrated noise that escaped him. Cold, windy, cramped, and hard to breathe? What more could a man ask for?

<I'll make someone pay for this> Taras sighed under his breath in his native language. As the plane was just taking off, he already couldn't wait for it to touch down in France. It wasn't really the mission or his fellow agents that had him in such a sour mood - just that, there was a certain comfort level he preferred to travel in. It most definitely was not this. Once on the ground he'd get re-acquainted with, and hopefully not loathe, the women he was with and meet the agents already in the area, and he'd go about his mission as usual. Just... had to get through this awful flight first.

As Kiara and Chloe attempted conversation in the dismal conditions, Taras tried his best to settle in. He tucked his chin against his chest as he leaned as far back as possible, letting his eyes fall closed.

"Hope you are comfortable, ladies," he said, his deep voice dripped with the most professional tone of sarcasm, "I will take the pallet when we land. If you are dizzy do not bang anything, deal with it. Spokoynoy nochi."

His words left no room for argument, but even if the women tried to talk to Taras he'd be ignoring everyone and everything until they touched down. After that, with some breathing room, he'd be much more inclined to cooperate. For now, he used his experience sleeping in holes and trenches to block everything out and let his frustration melt away with rest before arrival in France.

Chloe listened intently, trying to make room as she was squished further against the far window. As the pilot spoke, she laughed a little bit. The plane began to take off and it was a bit unnerving. "Only the best, eh?" She remarked with a giggle. Leaning back she played some kind of beat on the pants of legs with her hands. Leaning over to the glass she watched as the ground began to fanish and fade into the faint morning fog. As Tupolev spoke she compressed her lips with an unimpressed smirk.

"I'm already feelin' a bit sick. Sick of your attitude." She then laughed stupidly at her own bad joke. She didn't mean to genuinely insult the person of course, it was all in good fun. What a miserable flight! Where do they even come up with this stuff? They really couldn't have gotten a bigger plane? It was just ridiculous, that's all. The cargo was important, apparently. Tupolev claimed to want to take it, which was, whatever.

Staring at Kiara, the poor unfortunate in the middle, Chloe grimaced a smile. "S'a bit cozy, innit?"

"Reminds me a' the time I got stuck in the crawlspace under my house. Fortunately this time there's no mice. If anything it was a good thing I got down there cuz me da didn't know we had mice. Though I certainly didn't appreciate it at the time. S'what I get for crawlin' around where I shouldn't eh? Musta been oh, eight or nine at the time, can't quite remember. S'just as cold though, that's for sure, and just as hard to breathe, though for different reasons. Ah, but don't worry, I made it out just fine, as you can see." She leveled a finger pointedly at Kiara and made a knowing look.

"Me brother, are on the other hand? Was just a bit thicker than me at the time. Some reckon he's still down there to this day. Hard to tell. One day we went down there to feed him the usual, only to find a hole in the dirt. Was caved in, but me mum recognized it as tunnel. Became a mole man, he did. Dug himself to freedom- haven't seen him since. Wish him all the best, though." Almost involuntarily she reached into her front jacket pocket and fetched a cigarette from inside. Placing it between her lips she frowned, blinked, and then placed it back inside her pocket.

"Moral of the story? Make the best of what's given to ya. Or just give up and become a mole man, I guess." She said with a wistful look out the window. Smiling over at Kiara she looked at the American's hair once again than made eyecontact.

"So, Kiara, your hair always that color? Looks good on ya that's for sure. The white bit, that is. Unless you've already gone white from stress cuz of all my carryin' on. N'which case, real sorry 'bout that." Chloe said with an apologetic shrug and a cheeky grin.

“Oh, I wish, but I never really had the time to learn an instrument. I can sing a little bit, though.”

Kiara had gotten a few voice lessons from an old girlfriend who worked as a singer at one of the boss’ clubs; it was a fond memory, but she wasn’t about to share that specific detail of her life.

The little plane was certainly uncomfortable, but she wouldn’t have gotten this far without being able to deal with a little discomfort. She listened to Chloe’s story with an amused smile. After having to cozy up to some of the most boring men in existence in order to carry out her hits, Kiara had learned to appreciate a good storyteller. She liked Chloe already.

“That is quite the tale. Can’t say I’ve got anything as interesting, though there was that one time I was almost buried alive…”

She preened a little at the compliment to her hair, “Oh, thank you! It’s natural. Hah, don’t worry, you’re making this flight much more entertaining than it would have been.”

The plane had now definitely begun to go downwards. After more than two hours in the frigid fuselage, it was probably a relief to most inside, especially what with the cramped conditions. To the pilot in the front however, it was the worst of times. The small size and lack of any lights on their aircraft had meant that it had snuck by German air and ground patrols without any problems, but now came the time when they were most visible. The co-pilot was frantically trying to identify the right place to land, the pilot having to take to hedgehopping in order to avoid any potential prying eyes in the sky. Then, at last, after a torturous amount of time circling the countryside, the exact position would be discovered.

Pulling sharply to one side, he would veer the craft around, before pulling up ever so slightly. They needed to... There! As the plane thundered towards one field, flames lit up. Hay bales, he realised, set alight so that they would know where to land. Circling around once to get a proper straight at the runway, the pilot would cut the speed down and lower the landing gears, holding their breath as they brought the plane down lower and lower. Then, with a thump and a screech as wheels came against dry straw, they would make their landing. Almost as soon as they had stopped the pilot slammed open the hatch between them and the fuselage.

"GO! GO! GO! GO!"

The second all crew and cargo were out, the plane would be off again. French partisans threw buckets of water over the hay, and as the first tendrils of smoke made their way up into the mightnight blue sky, the plane would already be in the air, whirling around and gunning the engines back towards England. Hopefully the boche hadn't noticed anything; especially with the low flying they had done earlier. "Best of luck chaps," the co-pilot would say to an empty cargo dock, before pulling the flaps of his hat down tighter and focusing on the sky ahead of them.

---

"Oberführer, please."

"No." The cyborg would turn to look down at the besunglassed stand user, a faint scowl visible on his face. "If there is even a mote that it may be him, I refuse wholeheartedly." Blonde hair and blue eyes against blonde hair and blue eyes; two ideal Germans staring each other down... Although one of them had a rather interesting construction over his eye. "Besides, I am to be deployed to the Eastern Front soon. The Führer work in Russia is not yet complete."

"You were commended to me based on your courage, yet you refuse to do this?" Till's own scowl would slowly spread across his face.

"I do it not out of cowardice. I do it out of respect. Find someone else." The man would slam his mechanical hand down against the table, causing Till to raise an eyebrow.

"Very well. As you wish Oberführer." Till stood up, adjusting his tie as he did so. Turning away from the cyborg, he would calmly close the door behind him, shaking his head as he did so. So much potential... But alas, he would just have to make do with what he had. How would this impudent fool targeting the reich feel when they had the power of multiple stands staring them down? They were already dead, they just didn't know it.

At some point during the flight, young Miss Cakebread 'shut her yap' and leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms behind her head. Almost elbowing Kiara in the process, she smiled apologetically, but then closed her eyes and leaned back. Suddenly, a swing song began to play throughout the plane. Sourceless, the upbeat pop music rang pleasantly throughout the narrow space.

Hit that jive Jack
Put it in your pocket till I get back
Going downtown to see a man
And I ain't got time to shake your hand

Chloe began to hum along, nodding her head up and down. As the song reached it's second verse she glanced over at Kiara, the smile never leaving her face. It wasn't a fake smile, though it was more of a habit of her face rather than anything she was consciously doing. The muscles of her cheeks just seemed to naturally twitch upwards. "I love music. This one's Nat King Cole. You know~" She said, very briefly going into a sing song voice. The music in her voice vanished as quickly as it came, though, and the british woman began to speak normally once again.

Chloe brought her right arm down and pulled at her lips with her right finger, artificially tightening her smile. Then she moved her thumb on the inside of her mouth and flicked it outwards. Pop.

"I think it's true what me mum used to say. Keep doin' that silly face, little lady, and it'll get stuck that way. I didn't believe her at the time, but maybe it's true." She said, referring to her seemingly permanent cheeky grin. Curious, she turned her head directly towards Kiara and reset her expression to neutral. Blankly she silently stared at the young woman next to her for a long couple of seconds. The only sound was groovy swing tunes; which added a surreal element to the whole thing.

"Cohme, comrade. Whe fight for de Soviet Union. Dees time, the revolution will go wehll, I promize." She said, adopting a shitty slavic accent and keeping her face stern. Then she giggled again and the smirk returned. She wondered if that would finally provoke a reaction of the russian man on the other side of the plane. Jonesing slightly, Chloe reached into her breastpocket and pulled out the packet of cigarettes only to immediately place them back where they were. A strange habit that Kiara would notice had been happening with increasing frequency as the trip went on. As the plane began to descend, Chloe straightened up and glanced cautiously out the window.

"Oi oi, eyes up everyone," She said as a vocal confirmation of the end of their trip. Grunting with the landing, she didn't cast a glance at the pilot. Following the other two out of the plane, Chloe stumbled into the open air. Burning hay bales had marked the landing zone, and the french fighters were battling the flames. Hopefully, their approach had gone unnoticed.

"Bloody hell, fuckin' finally, eh?" She complained in good humor, grimacing as she stretched her arms up high. Her back cracked from the strain, and then she leaned all the way down and touched the toes of her boots without bending her legs, groaning from satisfaction. Standing up straight, with practiced speed she reached into her front pocket and produced a cigarette and a lighter. In a matter of seconds she was puffing the thing from her lips. It hit and pleasure spiked in her system. Relief from the pressure behind her eyes, and a newfound alertness. Smoke 'em if you got 'em.

Leaving the cigarette in her mouth she cracked her neck and walked towards the nearest frenchman. "Well, we're here. What's first?" She asked.

Eventually Taras got used to the sound of the girls' voices as they chatted, and was able to fall into a slight doze. It would be very irresponsible to fall completely asleep, so he didn't - though even if he'd wanted to, the conditions in the back of the small aircraft didn't make it all that easy. The tones of the women's voices were easy enough to get used to, but surprisingly they would be what would have kept him awake. He was Russian, growing up in the Motherland made the cold and rush of wind a non-issue when it came to tucking in for the night. Well, still, just because he could have slept in a place like this if he were alone, didn't mean he would like it. Besides, the cold had such a grip on his home country that thick coats, blankets and heaters were abound - that meant that sometimes, like now high in the frigid air, it was actually much colder than he was used to. Oh well, musing for another time.

The sound of music playing did nothing to stir Taras from his stone-like position, but it did bring some curious thoughts to his mind. Perhaps one of his fellow agents had such an ability. How useless, he thought, though it was only a spur of the moment appraisal. Giving it a little more thought, he concocted quite a few ways it may actually come in hand. ...how useful.

Just as he was guessing as to the identity of the music-wielding agent, his first suspect spoke up with what seemed to be the intent to irritate him. Though he didn't show much of it on the outside, she was succeeding. A little.

"Heh, <when we are done here I will personally make sure> Britain <is next in the Union, if you like. Then we can truly be comrades.>" He spoke quickly and smoothly, the beginnings of a smirk playing at his mouth. From his experience nothing frightened or frustrated the Western allies more than hearing the big, scary communist talk unions and other countries. He had a feeling that Miss Yonaka wasn't the type to be spooked so easily, but he was feeling petulant.

As the plane mercifully began it's descent, Taras finally opened his eyes again. He peered as best he could out of the craft, but it was hard to see. Instead, he simply waited for the moment the doors would open. When they did open, Taras deftly scooped up the pallet and exited with surprising swiftness for someone his size. Understandably, he was very eager to get off of the plane.

Without so much as a look back at the shuttle making it's way back into the air, Taras also made his way over to the Frenchmen that would be assisting them. Though their trek to Paris would begin tomorrow, he was looking forward to seeing how exactly the resistance operated. With the pallet tucked safely in his grip, the Soviet at least hoped wherever they would go would have some leg room this time.

Reinhilde Amstein cooked a local deer over a nice campfire built at the top of the German base. It was only some hours earlier she had “liberated” the area, slaughtering every last Nazi soldier. She had already raided the armaments, taking all the bullets and ammunition she could carry comfortably and stuffing her pockets with enough explosives to level a small office building. With the way the world was working right now, she had to take whatever she could from the monsters she executed, else she’d have run out of ammo ages ago.

The nice meal wasn’t a sign of relaxation however. This was just to get her strength back before more work. There was always more work to be done. Stomp out one roch, twenty more came crawling out of the cracks. That’s how it was with these Nazis too. Whenever she liberated a base, communications went quiet and they always sent in reinforcements, or a scouting party, to check it out. They always got more than they bargained for, but she always had to keep on moving. The same would be said of today, too.

Reinhilde looked out over the landscape around the outpost, noting the mines she had placed in the road, and directly by the entryways. A few grenades setup with trip wires had already been placed in the surrounding trees, and a couple grenade bouquets wired to the doors inside the base too, for good measure. Still it wasn’t enough. It was never enough to erase those monsters. Her eyes laid over to the head of the deer she had skinned and roasted, the decapitated animal staring back with a look of eternal death. Sad, but it served a better purpose.

Something caught Reinhilde’s eye, specifically where Shoot to Thrill was active, up in the sky. She stood up and focused on a tiny dot. Shoot to Thrill zoomed in revealing it was a small plane. The plane descended below the tree line, out of sight. She frowned and swapped over to x-ray mode, but without telescopic mode it was too far off to get any details despite being able to spot the craft through the trees. Well, it wasn’t long before the plane took off like a bat out of Hell, but it left… something behind. Something moving. Strike that, several somethings. People.

“<Looks like I had less time to prepare than I initially thought,>” she softly spoke in her native Austrian tongue. “<Not enough soldiers to push me out, though. Very well, I will defend this position until they are all dead.>”

Reinhilde Amstein loaded all her guns and climbed to the top of the highest position, then took a sniper’s position. There was nothing left to do now but wait...

The duties of a partisan were always dangerous. The looming threat of assault, humiliation, detainment, or even execution was a very real risk for everyone involved. Every day was a search for anything for their cause. Documents, food, medicine were all procured from the sympathy of others. Munitions hidden under the bread baskets of the young were, unfortunately, not an impossibility. For Lilliane, supporting those brave enough to fight was her duty. Currently, it lead her to a long, empty strip of farmland with a small handful of partisans to welcome a plane.

For Lilliane, the details of the landing came the day before. Her request for any sort of medical supplies was a necessity for those who fought with guns and bullets. It was easy to figure out if someone was a partisan if they were injured. It was pretty hard to explain gunshot wounds. What little supplies the nationals had were rationed, making it difficult to procure enough for even the smallest of injury.

As the small plane became audible to the partisans, Lilliane gave the order. They each lit their hay stacks, flickering orange lights illuminating a makeshift runway. As soon as the plane touched down, the partisans dumped buckets of water over the blaze with a sizzle and a plume of smoke. The dark of night did well in hiding the dissipating smoke from any distant eyes.

While before they were relatively safe before, they weren't anymore. Time was now of the essence. The arrival of a global tour of nationalities in odd outfits carrying an entire pallet with them made it considerably harder to explain everything away as countrymen who wanted to get blasted in the middle of a field. Even Lilliane was wearing the clothes of a rural countrywoman in order to blend in.

One of the strangers—a woman wearing a leather jacket—came up to her. Whether it was because she was the closest, smallest and least-threatening looking, or was actually chosen because she was more or less in charge was a mystery to her. She chose the right one, though, which was impressive enough.

"I'm certain you can remember orders for more than two hours." Lilliane told the overt operator. For someone like Lilliane, working with competent people was a necessity. Even the simple question of "What's first?" filled her with disdain for the one who asked it. It made it seem like they had no idea what was going on. "We're moving to a secondary location to spend the rest of the night. Anywhere around here is much too hot."

The arrival of the large man carrying the pallet had punctuated the venom in her words. It was harder to take a childish looking woman seriously when a person nearby could pick her up by the skull and dunk her into the earth.

The music playing without an apparent source was quite the curiosity, but still a welcome one. It was a good song, after all, and Kiara was no stranger to oddities (really came with the territory, being an oddity herself).

As the plane began its descent, Kiara bowed her head slightly and started regulating her breathing. Just a habit she picked up to make sure she had her wits about her before a job. She didn’t waste any time hustling off when they landed, walking with purpose.

She listened intently to the plan for the night. She didn’t exactly have any comments to make, preferring to play the silent type just as she did whenever she was called to provide backup for her boss’ men.

Finding that they weren’t going to see much action that night (most likely, at least), Kiara’s expression diffused from steely to vaguely content. One could see the exact moment she switched off her ‘mafia-mode.’

“Well,” she clapped her hands together, her black gloves muffling the sound to a soft tap, “No time to waste, then.”

"Welcome to France Comrades!" The first Frenchman to speak was an obviously muscular and obviously disfigured farmhand. He was brawny and built like a workhorse, but his face drooped down on one side, patches of hair missing and his skin slightly burnt. A tragedy, but one that had got him out of being forcibly conscripted by the boche. "Speak to the foreign agent here, she's the one that coordinates the drops." He would toss a thumb towards Lilianne, and then jam a pitchfork into the hay bales, breaking them apart so that the burnt parts wouldn't be as obvious.

The plan was really quite simple. Cars by this point had become something of an oddity, allowed to be used exclusively by the German occupiers. This meant that bicycles, horses, and, of course, good old fashioned walking were the ways that most Frenchmen now got about, even in the metropolitan areas where once the rumble of motor engines had never ceased. With that in mind, the group would take a short hike dangerously close to a nazi checkpoint in order to reach a smaller dilapidated farmhouse perhaps half an hour away. There were many of these now-disused buildings on the outskirts of cities, and one was hardly more notable than the other. With a day to let any heat cool off, the party could then proceed into Orleans proper, and continue on with the rest of the mission.

Plans, of course, rareley ended up bearing the intended fruit, but having one was important nonetheless.

---

Till could not have thought of two individuals who looked nothing like he'd expected them, but here they were. "Your exploits, Frauleins, are legendary. The early breakthroughs in the invasion... Everyone has heard of them. Why come to me about a mere bluthund operation?"

"Vhe have a suspicion," the shorter woman would begin almost immediately, splaying their fingers out confidently on the table. A sharp glare down from her partner quietened her quickly however.

"Vhe do zhink zhat our assiztance vhill be neccezarry vhor zhe most part. However, zhe Fuhrer himself has decreed zhat vhe are to stay in France in case of enemy stands, and zhus, should zhou need us at any point, you vhill only have to make a zhingle request and vhe shall be zhere."

This had been what he had wanted from the Oberführer, exactly what he had wanted. Nodding, first to himself and then to the two women, a slow smile would break across his face. "Excellent fraulines. Truly excellent. If this is more than just a Bluthund in the end, your assistance will be utterly invaluable. Many thanks." He would stand up from his chair, and was just about to leave when he remembered, of course.

"Have a very nice day. Heil Hitler." The man snapped his heels together quickly in lieu of a proper salute, and whilst one of the women responded with a muted 'heil' and a nod of her head, the other's hand shot up almost immediately.

"Heil Hitler! Let's hope it's more than just a Bluthund!"

Taras couldn't help but snort in amusement at their liaison's comment. While he trusted - to some extent at least - that the women he'd been crammed into the plane with were competent and more or less chosen for said competency, it was more than a little relieving that someone else pointed out their absurdity. He was still very curious to see the girls' abilities, especially the girl with the two-toned hair. He'd seen her abrupt change in attitude and was intrigued.

"Agreed," the Russian man drawled in response to Kiara's words. He let his gaze linger on the disfigured face of the French farmhand, letting his eyes trace every sag of flesh and pucker of past burns, before it flickered over to the "foreign agent." She was small, about the same height as Oscuro, and a woman of course. Which meant the agent he had the most in common with on the surface level was Yonaka. He could shudder at the mere thought. Still, the agent leading them through the French countryside was a bit hard to place. It was hard to tell her age or origin, not that that was a bad thing - he surmised she was a spy, which only made sense. Briefly, Taras considered giving the woman his name, but he didn't know how long she'd be sticking with them. A working relationship was needed between himself, Yonaka and Oscuro - but if she'd only be leading them part of the way, there was no reason to introduce himself formally. Besides, he wasn't sure the name he'd get back would even be real.

The side of his mouth curled up into an imitation of a smirk. Somehow, he was getting a little excited. Just a little though.

He looked over at the "drop coordinator" again. "Would you be in charge of this, then?" Taras gestured to the pallet in his grip.

Chloe nodded at the comrade frenchman and gave him a wave as she travelled to the foreign agent.

After seemingly being admonished Chloe quirked her head to the side, a gesture of admittance. "Fair enough." She said, still smiling. Nonetheless their liason informed them of their objective anyway. It had been a few hours, and it's not like it was written down anywhere. She exhaled smoke, briefly tapping her cigaratte onto the dirt, before sticking it back between her lips. The music had already faded the moment she got off the plane. She stuck her hands back in her leather jacket pocket and moved the two halves around in an idling motion. While she doubted the feeling was mutual, Chloe liked Lilliane already. She looked like an independant person, no nonsense, and could get shit done. Her fashion was unorthodox, something that seemed to be common with affiliates of the Speedwagon foundation. Chloe couldn't exactly wear her outfit around town, but out here people were allowed to express themselves more. Another reason she could never fit in with a real army. Lilliane was also pretty, especially her unusual amber eyes. She also had a timeless look about her, but Chloe guessed that she was in her thirties.

"Alright, sounds good," Chloe said, considering the plan. "My name's Chloe Bridgette Cakebread-Yonaka. Most people call me annoying, but Chloe's easier to say." She introduced herself to the as of yet nameless foreign agent infront of her, hoping that the blonde-haired woman would reciprocate. As she spoke, she noticed the temperatue here was significantly warmer than where she had just been. Removing her leather jacket she tied it around her waist. While it was somewhat visible with her jacket on, the intricate cherry tree design that flowed up her left side was more plainly visible now that she was just in her white crop top.

"I'm followin' your lead, Miss," She said, gesturing with an open palm toward Lilliane. Her words trailed off, allowing an easy spot for the foreign agent to insert her name and introduce herself to the crew.

To the large Russian's question, Lilliane almost instantaneously shot a glance of death. "Yes, that's what my associate told you. I'm responsible for getting it to where it needs to go." Her response was just as bitter as she was to the forgetful girl. A lot less venomous, though. Probably because it looked like the man holding the pallet could lift her up by the skull with one hand.

Choosing to ignore Chloe's full name (she didn't choose it herself, did she?), she introduced herself curtly. "You can call me Lilliane." Friendliness wasn't exactly in her repertoire, but living in Nazi occupied France did that to people. She could have just been an ass, though. Who knew, what with all of the extenuating circumstances. "Right, well, just so we're clear, if we're caught with anything here⁠—⁠especially the guns that I assume you all have⁠—we'll all be put against the wall. In more ways than one, just so you know."

With that, she began to head towards the farmhouse. Time was money. Well. Time was not getting caught and subsequently shot in the face.

"Let's head out as soon as possible. I'd rather not be caught out by some crazed Germanic gunmen."

Reinhilde Amstein watched carefully, working hard in preparation for her attack. Those Nazi bastards wouldn’t know what hit them, that was for sure! If only her stand could use multiple lenses at a time. Sure, keeping tabs on them with the x-ray lens was fine, seeing through the trees and obstacles, but what she really needed was to telescope in on them to get the details. She poured black powder into three weapons lined up in front of her as she kept an eye on the situation. More joined the ones that had been dropped off by the plane. This situation could get real bad if more reinforcements showed up. Luckily she was prepared.

Amstein loaded three shells in and looked upon her work. It was good to go, now just to aim for her targets. She held up her rifle and let Shoot to Thrill do its thing. Calculate the distance, angles, trajectory, environmental factors, and everything else to determine the perfect shot… 0 probability of hitting from this distance. Too far away, exactly as she thought. So it was a good thing that she had prepared three mortars.

<”They will regret not dropping their plane on me directly,”> she said aloud to nobody, standing in front of the first mortar. Her stand did its thing and calculated the exact position needed to rain Hell down on them with pinpoint accuracy, and so she adjusted accordingly and then…

BOOM!

A high pitched whistling sound could be heard for quite some ways. That was the biggest downfall of such a weapon. It would take a few seconds to reach the target, and if they were quick in both wit and foot, well then Shoot to Thrill didn’t exactly matter, did it? But regardless of how things turned out, they’d damn well know she was there and that would draw them in for the real fun. Amstein smiled, waiting.