paradisalogs | (no subject)

Who: Hans Von Hammer and OPEN
What: A fighter pilot arrives in the castle...
When: Now and when you arrive
Where: A corridor somewhere
Rating: PG, probably

"I am no longer your enemy..."

Those had been his words to the American soldiers, as the Messerschmitt jets exploded behind him. His last act of duty to a dying land, under a tyrant he despised. Then there had been...light. He had thought that death had finally caught up with him, that his turn had finally come.

Then he landed. And it hurt, landing on stone. He rolled on the ground for a moment, gritting his teeth, then sat up suddenly. No, this was neither heaven nor hell - frankly, it had the air of some of the aristocratic homes he had seen over the decades. Interesting, but he was alert - wary for traps.

He stood up, blue eyes surveying the immediate terrain. Anyone seeing him would see a man in a WWII Luftwaffe uniform - but the Pour Le Merite medal hanging at his throat pointed to an older, and very different, origin.

He whipped off the cap, with its hated symbol, and tossed it aside. Time to get to the bottom of this.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"For the moment, at least, getting my bearings would be fine. And thank you, by the way. It is appreciated."

He looked around for a moment, before looking at her again. Once again, the attention was on the eyes. Really, if he were asked about it, he would say that that was where the truly interesting happened anyways.

"I do apologize if I am accidentally somewhat brusque - I have not dealt with a lady in some time."

He decided, in that moment, to take a small intuitive leap.

"And certainly not one of your capabilities."

She smiles. That's something of a pleasant surprise, though this means she'll have to gauge the situation better. Most men don't look past her chest.

"We're on the [insert floor number here] floor. If you're looking for your room, we can check the list down in the lobby. If you're looking for a drink, there's a handy bar on the second floor."

There's also a copy floating about on the castle intranet, but she doesn't get computers.

He considers his options at this point. Frankly, he had thought he was immediately bound for a prisoner of war camp, presuming the Americans didn't just shoot him dead.

"A room can wait. I could kill for some good coffee. Can we get coffee here?"

For nearly six years, he had been forced to subsist on a substitute made from acorns, of all things. The small but pervasive effect of a blockade.

Hmm.

"I think I've seen something with the words 'Coffee maker' in the kitchen. Think that'll work?"

She's a booze type of woman.

He nodded.

"I suppose it will. Six years since I had a cup of decent coffee. Failing that, a good bottle of wine would not be out of the question, would it?"

He is an honourable man - but he's also a soldier. One scrounges when necessary.

And she'll start leading the way towards the kitchen.

"Now that I know where to get. I'd drink anything, but my friends can get picky."

He followed, a slight smile on his face.

"I seldom have the choice to be picky anymore - but I still remember what good wine was like."

He paused a moment, looking at her.

"Thank you for your help, fraulein. I have little right to such kind help."

She sounds more than a bit amused.

"It's alright here. Back home, you'd have to watch out for every 'helpful' urchin, pick-pocket, and thug on the street - most of whom would kill you for a handful of coppers."

He smiled, briefly.

"I suspect they would need to be swift indeed to put you to any trouble. You strike me as particularly adept, Isabela."

"You don't live very long if you don't figure out these things."

A grin. "Of course, you could also make enough gold to pay off the street gangs, but that's a bit more flighty."

"Naturally."

She certainly had a very nice smile. This was a very interesting person he had been greeted by, it seemed.

"I never had to deal with that. My challenge was not being shot out of the sky on a daily basis."

"Shot out of the sky?"

Such technologies are beyond her.

"Yes," he said, realizing all too late this might be a foreign concept to her, "I am a pilot of flying machines."

He looks around.

"More correctly, I was."

At least she knows about cars, so making the leap isn't too difficult.

"You were? What happened?"

"The war ended. Again."

He was quiet for a moment.

"We lost, of course. This time, I suppose, it could be said that at least we deserved to lose. God help the world had we won."