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visible_sarielThe pack requisitioned from Bar is odd enough. It's drab green, sturdy, all in all fairly standard Allied gear. It's close, if not an exact match, to the sort of thing Captain Blazkowicz and his comrades are likely to carry around. When going to another world and time (and there's a phrase Sariel still can't string together without halfway anticipating a visit from Temporal Investigations in the subjective near future) it's very probably best to blend in.
In that pack are several things. Extra rounds of ammunition, for one; projectile weapons are still as novel and unfamiliar to her as phasers would be to a dozen different patrons she can name, but this is Blazkowicz's fight she's joined. Besides, running even the slightest risk of introducing energy-based weaponry into a world and time with active Nazis--no.
You know why you're doing this. You know why you wanted to help the Allies from the moment you saw that sign. It's the right thing to do.
The barest minimum of first aid supplies for another - she can't bring much, between her own lack of familiarity with twentieth-century medicine and the four hundred years and more of medical advancement that she dares carry across dimensions about as much as she does phaser components. That sort of gamble would leave foolishly unwise behind at speeds approaching warp 7, considering where they're heading.
It's the right thing to do overall.
The thing is, it's considering where they're heading that makes the lack of medical supplies a metaphorical wrench, like strained muscles after too long in ocean currents. It's not right--it has to be this way--ow.
But also, you miss him.
For a third, a handful of supplied rations. Better safe with local provisions than sorry and hungry later on.
For a fourth, a folded note, written in French. Some things soundly defy any and all brief thoughts of impracticality.
You couldn't help in his world, during his war. This is what little you can do during someone else's. Greater and smaller good.
That note's tucked securely in one of the pack's inside pockets. Beside it is a family photo, slipped carefully out of its frame: A woman with braided hair showing curly ends, a birdlike, fluffy-haired man half a head shorter, and the daughter who's inherited features from both parents, say true.
Relocating the picture takes a second. Then another one. Moving it feels like using shaking limbs after climbing too many trees. Hold on until you get all the way down, otherwise you'll go tumbling to the deck--what if I don't come back--ow!
Blazkowicz is providing them local communications technology. Her communicator can't be worn on this mission. It's left atop the dresser, her rank pip beside it. God, that feels beyond strange. First academy zero-G holodeck simulation strange. The 'going to class in just your knickers' dream you used to get before trigonometry exams strange!
Palms on jagged rock strange. Grazes likely to sting all afternoon strange.
Don't say Dutchman. Just because the safety line's not Starfleet standard doesn't mean it won't hold up.
Her usual uniform's folded and put away, for now. Where and when she's going, there are no Starfleet reds. Even the boots are different.
"Yous a WAVE or a NNC?"
When Sariel leaves for the main bar, she slings her pack onto her back, leans her borrowed rifle carefully away from the wall before lifting it awkwardly into the crook of her off arm, grasps her room key in the opposite hand.
You know why you're going to fight.
Before Sariel does any of these things, she makes sure she's steady on her feet, and that her mouth is closed. Then she lights two of the four candles standing in a neat row atop the dresser.
One's for Gene, bien sûr et dieu merci. The other is for every person on the upcoming mission, not least of all - and if she said she weren't a little ashamed, she'd be lying through her teeth - herself.
And she lets them burn.
"You ain't changed a bit."
{Dear lord, even at a time like this...}
For minutes on end.
In that pack are several things. Extra rounds of ammunition, for one; projectile weapons are still as novel and unfamiliar to her as phasers would be to a dozen different patrons she can name, but this is Blazkowicz's fight she's joined. Besides, running even the slightest risk of introducing energy-based weaponry into a world and time with active Nazis--no.
You know why you're doing this. You know why you wanted to help the Allies from the moment you saw that sign. It's the right thing to do.
The barest minimum of first aid supplies for another - she can't bring much, between her own lack of familiarity with twentieth-century medicine and the four hundred years and more of medical advancement that she dares carry across dimensions about as much as she does phaser components. That sort of gamble would leave foolishly unwise behind at speeds approaching warp 7, considering where they're heading.
It's the right thing to do overall.
The thing is, it's considering where they're heading that makes the lack of medical supplies a metaphorical wrench, like strained muscles after too long in ocean currents. It's not right--it has to be this way--ow.
But also, you miss him.
For a third, a handful of supplied rations. Better safe with local provisions than sorry and hungry later on.
For a fourth, a folded note, written in French. Some things soundly defy any and all brief thoughts of impracticality.
You couldn't help in his world, during his war. This is what little you can do during someone else's. Greater and smaller good.
That note's tucked securely in one of the pack's inside pockets. Beside it is a family photo, slipped carefully out of its frame: A woman with braided hair showing curly ends, a birdlike, fluffy-haired man half a head shorter, and the daughter who's inherited features from both parents, say true.
Relocating the picture takes a second. Then another one. Moving it feels like using shaking limbs after climbing too many trees. Hold on until you get all the way down, otherwise you'll go tumbling to the deck--what if I don't come back--ow!
Blazkowicz is providing them local communications technology. Her communicator can't be worn on this mission. It's left atop the dresser, her rank pip beside it. God, that feels beyond strange. First academy zero-G holodeck simulation strange. The 'going to class in just your knickers' dream you used to get before trigonometry exams strange!
Palms on jagged rock strange. Grazes likely to sting all afternoon strange.
Don't say Dutchman. Just because the safety line's not Starfleet standard doesn't mean it won't hold up.
Her usual uniform's folded and put away, for now. Where and when she's going, there are no Starfleet reds. Even the boots are different.
"Yous a WAVE or a NNC?"
When Sariel leaves for the main bar, she slings her pack onto her back, leans her borrowed rifle carefully away from the wall before lifting it awkwardly into the crook of her off arm, grasps her room key in the opposite hand.
You know why you're going to fight.
Before Sariel does any of these things, she makes sure she's steady on her feet, and that her mouth is closed. Then she lights two of the four candles standing in a neat row atop the dresser.
One's for Gene, bien sûr et dieu merci. The other is for every person on the upcoming mission, not least of all - and if she said she weren't a little ashamed, she'd be lying through her teeth - herself.
And she lets them burn.
"You ain't changed a bit."
{Dear lord, even at a time like this...}
For minutes on end.
