jeriendhal (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jeriendhal) wrote2010-06-14 11:27 am
jeriendhal) wrote2010-06-14 11:27 am
Entry tags:
Fic: Prisoners of War, Chapter Two
Author's Note: The wincing sound you hear is likely to be ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mjkj and ankewehner's reactions to my rather painful phonetic spelling of a German/Gerwart accent (never mind the terrible Babelfish translations). Please bear in mind that Melika and Hazel are actually speaking Hollywood German, which bears almost no relationship with actual German at all. It is, however, favored by actors who enjoy shouting a lot and using up the world's supplies of the letter "V".
“We won't be prisoners for long if we freeze to death.” Rolas said. The breeze that had carried their airship along wasn't as strong here on the surface, but it was still enough to chill them badly.
“Quite right,” the commander said. He gestured to a subordinate. “See that ze are taken below and warmed up. You vill do me the courtesy, Captain Brushtail, of not offering any resistance at this time? There iz no reason to be ugly about thiz whole thing.”
“No, not at this time,” Rufus agreed. He had stopped shivering, which he knew full well was a very bad sign indeed. Trying to attempt a two male takeover of the boat while fighting hypothermia wouldn't be a wise idea.
And with that they were taken below to the small torpedo boat's engine room, the warmest place on the boat. There they were stripped out of their wet shirts, wrapped in warm blankets and given large mugs of tea. Rolas had, incongruously, grabbed his officer's cap from where he'd stuffed it in his back pocket before he'd dressed in his hooded leather coat nearly twelve hours before and carefully placed it back on his head between his ears. In a couple of minutes they were both shivering violently as they began to warm up again, clutching their teas like they were life preservers.
It helped distract them from the awful smell of the place. Instead of alcohol fuel the boiler appeared to be fed by lumpy black rocks, which left a dust residue over everything in the compartment, including the unfortunate sailor assigned to feeding the rocks into it with a large shovel, who worked stripped to the waist in the compartment's heat, his normally light blond fur nearly black from the dust.
“What is that stuff?” Rolas asked, letting out a loud sneeze.
“I've heard of it,” Rufus said. “It's called “coal”. The Gerwart dig it up from the ground and burn it like wood.”
“Much more efficient zen wood or alcohol. We have vast mines to dig it from ze earth, working twenty-six hours a day, thousands of tonnes a day,” said the ships junior officer, who had been assigned to watch over them. “That iz vhy will vill win zis war.”
“We're not at war yet, technically,” Rufus pointed out.
“Aside from the whole shooting down airships and sinking our cargo vessels thing.”
“Leftenant...”
“Sorry, sir.”
Eventually there were a series of bumps that indicated they were being warped into the dock, and the officer led them up onto the deck where the ship's commander waited.
“Ve vill now turn you over to ze base kommand... Oh, Scheiße.”
Striding up the gangplank came two vixens, both wearing black leather uniform coats, decorated with red armbands sporting a black circle on the left sleeve, and peaked caps with the Gerwart screaming Sky Diver bird insignia. The leader was a major by her insignia, with what would have been under more pleasant circumstances a very pleasing red and white tricolor coat with black sleeves. The other was a leftenant with a dull brown coat almost as dark as Rolas', but softened by bright, humorous eyes.
“Are these ze prisoners, Commander?” the major asked. She was carrying a riding crop in her hand, which she tapped impatiently against her thigh. An affection Rufus assumed, it being unlikely there would be a Grass Chaser stable on a modern naval base.
“Ja, Security Major Softpaw.” The torpedo boat's commander was looking in every direction but the major's, evidently not out of guilt but of habit. Rufus had heard stories about Gerwart State Security, and the one instruction Air Corps officers usually got for dealing with them was “Avoid at all costs.”
“Why haf they not been secured?”
“They offered no resistance, Major. Out of courtesy I...”
“Courtesy, commander? Since when do ve show courtesy to spies?”
“We're not spies!” Rolas interjected. “We're officers in the Mother Country's Air... ow!” He ducked his head down as Major Softpaw's riding crop struck him smartly on the snout.
“If you are supposed to officers, where are your uniforms?”
“They had to remove their uniforms after ve rescued... ow!” The torpedo boat commander shut up as the Major's riding crop hit his nose as well.
“They are spies, attempting to covertly attack our naval base in anticipation of a future invasion.”
“We didn't attack you,” Rufus pointed out, “you attacked us!”
“You bombed us.”
“With what...? Oh, dear. What did Rolas' spanner land on anyway?”
“Ze Major's steam cart,” the dark furred leftenant answered.
“Ah. I suppose that explains the rather quick response.”
“Given it vent straight through ze boiler, ja.”
“Oops,” Rolas muttered.
“Vhich then exploded.”
“Ouch,” Rufus said.
“A cowardly sneak attack on a sovereign nation’s military. Conducted by individuals who vere…” Major Softpaw paused, the tip of the crop pushing Rolas’ cap over to a jaunty angle. “Almost completely out of uniform. So if you expect to be treated as mere prisoners of war, zen you haff another thing coming.” She gestured to her subordinate. “Leutnant Swiftfoot, bind these spies.”
“At once, Major.” Lt. Swiftfoot pulled two pairs of handcuffs from her coat pocket. After ordering them to drop the blankets they been wrapped in, she snapped the cuffs around Rolas’ wrists, then Rufus’, pushing both the males down to their knees. “Prisoners secured, Sicherheits-Major.”
“Excellent.” For the first time that evening, morning now, Rufus figured, Major Softpaw smiled. Her gloved hand stroked the fur over Rolas’ spine, causing the leftenant to get a distinctly cross-eyed expression. “Vhat a strong fellow you are. How odd for a decadent Mother Country military officer.”
“Kindly unhand Leftenant… oh, my…” Rufus was distracted by Lt. Swiftfoot, who was cupping his chin with one hand while stroking her fingers through the untidy brush of fur that always threatened to flop over his eyes. As close as she was he could easily take in her scent, mixed with the tannins of her leather coat and the tang of the ever present coal dust that seemed to infest everything around them.
“I like the captain, Sicherheits-Major. His tin arm is so cute. Can I keep him?”
“Zis is not playtime, Leutnant. These are… dangerous… spies.” Softpaw’s fingers traced the pectorals, visible even through his fur, of the admittedly muscular Lt. Darktail. He shivered in the cool morning air. “Ve vill treat them verrrrrry carefully.”
“Ja, Sicherheits-Major. Vhat do you vish done with them?”
“The base kommandant should have our new transport ready. Let us take zem away.”
TBC
mjkj and ankewehner's reactions to my rather painful phonetic spelling of a German/Gerwart accent (never mind the terrible Babelfish translations). Please bear in mind that Melika and Hazel are actually speaking Hollywood German, which bears almost no relationship with actual German at all. It is, however, favored by actors who enjoy shouting a lot and using up the world's supplies of the letter "V".“We won't be prisoners for long if we freeze to death.” Rolas said. The breeze that had carried their airship along wasn't as strong here on the surface, but it was still enough to chill them badly.
“Quite right,” the commander said. He gestured to a subordinate. “See that ze are taken below and warmed up. You vill do me the courtesy, Captain Brushtail, of not offering any resistance at this time? There iz no reason to be ugly about thiz whole thing.”
“No, not at this time,” Rufus agreed. He had stopped shivering, which he knew full well was a very bad sign indeed. Trying to attempt a two male takeover of the boat while fighting hypothermia wouldn't be a wise idea.
And with that they were taken below to the small torpedo boat's engine room, the warmest place on the boat. There they were stripped out of their wet shirts, wrapped in warm blankets and given large mugs of tea. Rolas had, incongruously, grabbed his officer's cap from where he'd stuffed it in his back pocket before he'd dressed in his hooded leather coat nearly twelve hours before and carefully placed it back on his head between his ears. In a couple of minutes they were both shivering violently as they began to warm up again, clutching their teas like they were life preservers.
It helped distract them from the awful smell of the place. Instead of alcohol fuel the boiler appeared to be fed by lumpy black rocks, which left a dust residue over everything in the compartment, including the unfortunate sailor assigned to feeding the rocks into it with a large shovel, who worked stripped to the waist in the compartment's heat, his normally light blond fur nearly black from the dust.
“What is that stuff?” Rolas asked, letting out a loud sneeze.
“I've heard of it,” Rufus said. “It's called “coal”. The Gerwart dig it up from the ground and burn it like wood.”
“Much more efficient zen wood or alcohol. We have vast mines to dig it from ze earth, working twenty-six hours a day, thousands of tonnes a day,” said the ships junior officer, who had been assigned to watch over them. “That iz vhy will vill win zis war.”
“We're not at war yet, technically,” Rufus pointed out.
“Aside from the whole shooting down airships and sinking our cargo vessels thing.”
“Leftenant...”
“Sorry, sir.”
Eventually there were a series of bumps that indicated they were being warped into the dock, and the officer led them up onto the deck where the ship's commander waited.
“Ve vill now turn you over to ze base kommand... Oh, Scheiße.”
Striding up the gangplank came two vixens, both wearing black leather uniform coats, decorated with red armbands sporting a black circle on the left sleeve, and peaked caps with the Gerwart screaming Sky Diver bird insignia. The leader was a major by her insignia, with what would have been under more pleasant circumstances a very pleasing red and white tricolor coat with black sleeves. The other was a leftenant with a dull brown coat almost as dark as Rolas', but softened by bright, humorous eyes.
“Are these ze prisoners, Commander?” the major asked. She was carrying a riding crop in her hand, which she tapped impatiently against her thigh. An affection Rufus assumed, it being unlikely there would be a Grass Chaser stable on a modern naval base.
“Ja, Security Major Softpaw.” The torpedo boat's commander was looking in every direction but the major's, evidently not out of guilt but of habit. Rufus had heard stories about Gerwart State Security, and the one instruction Air Corps officers usually got for dealing with them was “Avoid at all costs.”
“Why haf they not been secured?”
“They offered no resistance, Major. Out of courtesy I...”
“Courtesy, commander? Since when do ve show courtesy to spies?”
“We're not spies!” Rolas interjected. “We're officers in the Mother Country's Air... ow!” He ducked his head down as Major Softpaw's riding crop struck him smartly on the snout.
“If you are supposed to officers, where are your uniforms?”
“They had to remove their uniforms after ve rescued... ow!” The torpedo boat commander shut up as the Major's riding crop hit his nose as well.
“They are spies, attempting to covertly attack our naval base in anticipation of a future invasion.”
“We didn't attack you,” Rufus pointed out, “you attacked us!”
“You bombed us.”
“With what...? Oh, dear. What did Rolas' spanner land on anyway?”
“Ze Major's steam cart,” the dark furred leftenant answered.
“Ah. I suppose that explains the rather quick response.”
“Given it vent straight through ze boiler, ja.”
“Oops,” Rolas muttered.
“Vhich then exploded.”
“Ouch,” Rufus said.
“A cowardly sneak attack on a sovereign nation’s military. Conducted by individuals who vere…” Major Softpaw paused, the tip of the crop pushing Rolas’ cap over to a jaunty angle. “Almost completely out of uniform. So if you expect to be treated as mere prisoners of war, zen you haff another thing coming.” She gestured to her subordinate. “Leutnant Swiftfoot, bind these spies.”
“At once, Major.” Lt. Swiftfoot pulled two pairs of handcuffs from her coat pocket. After ordering them to drop the blankets they been wrapped in, she snapped the cuffs around Rolas’ wrists, then Rufus’, pushing both the males down to their knees. “Prisoners secured, Sicherheits-Major.”
“Excellent.” For the first time that evening, morning now, Rufus figured, Major Softpaw smiled. Her gloved hand stroked the fur over Rolas’ spine, causing the leftenant to get a distinctly cross-eyed expression. “Vhat a strong fellow you are. How odd for a decadent Mother Country military officer.”
“Kindly unhand Leftenant… oh, my…” Rufus was distracted by Lt. Swiftfoot, who was cupping his chin with one hand while stroking her fingers through the untidy brush of fur that always threatened to flop over his eyes. As close as she was he could easily take in her scent, mixed with the tannins of her leather coat and the tang of the ever present coal dust that seemed to infest everything around them.
“I like the captain, Sicherheits-Major. His tin arm is so cute. Can I keep him?”
“Zis is not playtime, Leutnant. These are… dangerous… spies.” Softpaw’s fingers traced the pectorals, visible even through his fur, of the admittedly muscular Lt. Darktail. He shivered in the cool morning air. “Ve vill treat them verrrrrry carefully.”
“Ja, Sicherheits-Major. Vhat do you vish done with them?”
“The base kommandant should have our new transport ready. Let us take zem away.”
TBC
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Sorry, but after getting into Marvel comics for a while last year, were 9 of 10 Germans who showed up were Nazis, in addition to coming across people on the 'net using "Nazi" and "German" as if they were synonyms, other people calling German the language of evil or saying a random German word sounds like the name of a death camp, I'm really, really tired of Nazis.
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Hooooo boy. The boys must be so confused. "Should I be terrified, or aroused?"
Hopefully things will look up soon.
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Well, looking up is all a matter of perspective. Certainly the girls are much happier.