Half-Drowned Rat, You Are [Open]

[Leeroy Atherton]

Country:
Area/Setting: The base of a craggy, seaside cliff on a stony beach. Grey and desolate, with all the appropriate seaweed and objects you'd find on a beach.

Current Time: Sometime in the early morning. Thank God it's summer; anyone going swimming would have been frozen like an ice lolly by now.
Weather Conditions: Dreary, miserable, wet spittle coming from the sky.

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"Cah...cah...cah!"

One hand after the other, she pulled herself up onto the stony shore. Her clothing from the nights before was sopping wet, uncomfortable and heavy due to its layering. One leg dragged limply behind her, blood smearing on the bottom edge of her dress. A large cut across the side of her head dripped red, washed partially away into orangeness by her swim. She choked and wheezed on saltwater, sputtering furiously as the tide tried to pull her out again.

"Ugh...huh...cah cah cuh, a cah-cuh!"

Trying to explain what happened would have been equivalent to trying to put wet parchment back together. Dazed, the Romanichal tried to get her bearings, looking around the miserable, lonely beach with a pounding headache. As she pulled herself together, more and more of Leeroy ached and burned, signalling that she was worse off than she thought. Of important note was her bloodied leg - it burned and grinded, crackling unhealthily as she tried to get it to move. A searing pain shot through it with every attempt, and the Romanichal bit her lip hard. Broken, damn it, she thought to herself, taking an uneasy breath.

She had been riding down a seaside road on her motorbike. Strapped to the back of her iron horse had been a casket of rum - a gift from her employer's relatives. She had been trying to beat curfew, cursing at being late due to a popped tyre some time back. It looked as if she would be forced to the nearest town - she was low on petrol by then, yet another setback - in order to keep up with the laws of wartime. Then there had been the roar of planes, her head snapping up, eyes widening. Leeroy had hit the gas, and nearby, sirens sounded -

Fire, explosions, the ground crumbling. Falling off the road and down the cliff, her bike smashed to pieces. The shock of hitting the water was like hitting concrete, and the tide had pulled at her like a claw. Clinging onto the rum barrel had been her only chance, the barrel remarkably strong and sound. (Then again, with the shortages of the war, making things to last was the smartest thing to do.) From there on, she had drifted, both along the shoreline and in and out of consciousness. It would be stupid to doubt the chance of a concussion.

The last thing she remembered was finally losing her grip on the barrel, her entire body aching, shaking. The water had flooded her mouth and nose, and she had clawed her way to the surface like an animal in a pit. Adrenaline and her instincts had kicked in, her arms pumping furiously, the water flying apart in her path. She could barely keep her head up as she reached the shore, fighting the oncoming tide with all her strength. Now, it felt like she would pass out again, Leeroy using all of her willpower to focus on getting further into land. No matter how hard she tried, though, she couldn't find it in herself to stand.

[Anton Maas]

Gustav hated everything about Saint Philip, the small coastal village he was currently stationed at. He hated the weather, at best it was drearily overcast with a thick fog always rolling through, at worst it was raining with a swift wind that, like today, made everything and everyone damper then usual. He also hated how small it was, the soldiers outnumbering natives 2-to-1. Messer hated the infantry here more then usual, and he especially hated how smug they all were about their cushy assignment away from all danger and responsibility, Because course there was no action here, no communists, no saboteurs, no big black marketeers for Gus to arrest or take care of personally, and Messer hated that. He had a very particular skill set, and he hated that he was letting it go to waste, rotting in the foul sea air. And he hated that too, since the village was almost completely surrounded by the English channel, it’s air was always pungent with that salty sea breeze that reminded Gus of his childhood. He hated his childhood. And St. Philip was causing him to hate his adulthood too.

Messer continued to curse under his breath, cursing the sketchy transmission of the commandeered delivery truck he was driving down St. Philip’s main street, through tbe accursed drizzle spattering on his windshield. And then, although he was alone, he muttered even quieter then before, as he cursed the name of every one of his superiors whose orders were keeping him here, all the way from the Kriminalkommissar to Hitler himself. His muttered complaints only ended as he parked the old rusted heap outside a large brownstone, and an elderly bespectacled man in a raincoat with a big black bag opened the passenger door and slipped in.

”Doktor” Gus acknowledged his passenger as he put the truck back into gear, but the man paid no attention to his driver, and just stared straight ahead.

”I understand, Doctor. I don’t want to be here just as much as you don’t want me to be here.” But again, nothing. Not a word or glance for the whole trip.

Finally after only a few minutes of silence, they arrived at their destination, a grey beach with a squad of soldiers huddled around looking at a pile of something laying on the sand. Messer parked the truck behind an old sedan that sat on the road, and the moment the vehicle stopped moving the doctor was out of the cab, headed towards the group on the beach. Gus, on the other hand, took his time to press his fedora down on his face and tighten his trench coat before emerging. It was only then that Gus realized that the pile everyone was looking at was actually a body.

“We’ll get the stretcher.” a soldier told Gus, in English, as him and a buddy stood up and walked towards the back of the truck. Gustav could only shake his head in disgust. They had been here too long. But, if that’s how they did things,

“Leutnant,” Gus called out to the officer in charge, ”Why exactly did you ask for me?”

“The… woman… tha..” the soldier began, perplexed.

”No, that’s why the doctor was called, I understand that. But, why am I here? Gus glared at the young officer.

“We… didn’t recognize her, Kriminalinspektor. We thought maybe she was a Resistance fighter trying to sneak in, and so you would know her, Kriminalinspektor.”

Messer scoffed at the idiocy, but stomped over anyway, giving the poor woman a quick look over as the doctor tried to secure her head while the soldiers placed her on the stretcher.. Gus then stormed back over to the truck.

”No,” said Gus, bluntly, before suddenly turning around again and calling back, ”But I should contact Berlin, just make sure they don’t have something on her." He sighed, "I guess I should interrogate her as well.” He then returned to the woman and her caregivers, ”Doctor, how soon will she be awake and able to talk? If she awakes at all?”

The doctor continued wrapping bandages around the woman’s body as he gave his medical opinion, “Well, she has lost a lot of blood, has a concussion, and some fractures, but it seems like there is still some life in her, and it looks like she’s a figh….” As his voice faded into silence, he glanced up at Messer, for just a moment, “If I get her back to the office as soon as possible, I would give her a 90 percent chance of recovering fully with nothing more then a sling for a couple of days.”

A smile suddenly appeared on the Gestapo’s face, the first time in a while, “Good. Leutnant, have your men move her to the back of the truck, and then have one of them drive us to the doctor’s residence, but I don’t want you or anyone else in uniform anywhere near her after we get there. We wouldn’t want to cause her any unnecessary fright.”[/b]

The officer did as he was told, but cautiously, afraid of why the resident Gestapo officer has suddenly become cheerier. Gustav reassured him, ”Don’t worry, I have a plan”

The smile stayed on his face as he watched everyone else prepare to leave the beach, but it quickly rearranged itself into his common scowl as he prevented the doctor from entering the back of the truck.

Gus got right into his face, and quietly, ”I’m riding in the back with you. If she awakes, you are either going to let me do all the talking, or wish you had. Understand?”

He did.

[Leeroy Atherton]

Unconsciousness had settled in quickly. Leeroy had just managed to pull herself out of the tide's way before giving in to the darkness. Pain wracked her entire body then, muscles cramping with dehydration and lack of food. Somewhere in the world beyond, she might have caught a vague voice, but did not stir in the least.

The vehicle bounced along the island path, rattling and clanking as potholes and stones beat down upon its tires. As the Germans went along, the Kriminalinspektor would get a good look at Leeroy. Her hands bore farmer's callouses, her arms muscled from work in the fields and in the Traveller. Her skin bore a darker complexion than normal, assisted by suntan, and there was an exotic hint to her features. Not too far up the family tree, Indian immigrants had married into the family; unlike what many might assume, not all Romani had dark skin. Her hair was coal-black, messy, and was usually tied into a cord to keep it out of her face. A dull scar on the one side of her head indicated where she had smacked her head off the stairs once. No suspicious marks, just typical clothing for a woman of the times.

Except, of course, for the two wicked hunting knives hidden under her skirt. Strapped to the trousers she wore underneath, they were specifically meant for emergencies. Both had been confiscated by the soldiers reporting to Gustav; the blades were in perfect condition, well taken care of, and appeared to be regularly sharpened. Looks were exchanged among some of the men.

Pips of falling rain could be heard against the top of the car. The Channel swirled and swelled, beginning to grow wild as the summer storm moved in. Eventually, a low rumble of thunder could be heard, weak as it rolled over the landscape. The small town Gustav was situated in seemed quiet and feeble under the oncoming storm. Houses were bunched together in some spots, sparsely laid about in others. The doctor's office was in the midst of town, a small and unassuming building had it not been labelled. Gustav's driver made a beeline for the homey building.

[Anton Maas]

Stuck in the back of the truck as it traveled from the shore into town, Gus stared at the dark form lying on the stretcher. He had no choice but to feel pity for her. No matter wherever she had came from, she was in hell now. And compassion or not, it was Messer’s job to find out just where she did come from, by any means necessary. Maybe it was better off for her if she didn’t wake up.

Gustav didn’t have much time to ponder the poor woman’s fate, it took no time at all for the truck to arrive at the Doctor’s residence. Gus was first to climb out of the truck, followed by the soldiers in the cab who then pulled stretcher from the back and with the doctor shielding her face from the rain, carried his new patient into his office. Instead of following them, Messer walked up to the Leutnant’s rusty sedan that had lead the way there. He leaned on the passenger door for him to roll down the window being speaking.

“Get your men to keep the civilians away from the doctor’s. I don’t want anyone interrupting us.”

A grim look fell upon the Wehrmacht officer’s face, “Can’t you just tell me what’s your planning, Messer?”

Gus stood back up, “I could. But first you would need to get a promotion.” He turned and started walking towards the doctor’s office, “And buy me a beer.”

Inside the doctor’s waiting room, after hanging up his trenchant and felt up on the coat rack, revealing his casual grey suit and thin black tie, Gustav had the now loitering soldiers help him do a quick search of the building for anything that hinted that they were within the Third Reich. Knowing the doctor, Gustav was not surprised when they found nothing. So he ordered the soldiers out but stayed in the doctor’s office himself to wait for the woman to awake.

Most of the doctor’s office was filled by all the medical equipment needed to heal the population of the small town, and the rest of the space was taken up by the stiff hospital bed now occupied. So, there was no room for chairs and Gustav had to stand by the door, watching the doctor work his magic, fixing his patient’s bandages, checking her vitals, attaching glass bottles and tubes to her, and other medical things Gus didn’t understand, which was most of them. The only procedure Messer was familiar with was lead bloodletting.

[Leeroy Atherton]

Hours would tick by, slow as honey in the cold. The life-giving medicines and fluids would drip, drip, drip, nourishing her weak and wounded body as she slept. Bone and meat cracked as her broken leg was reset, the woman thankfully not stirring as the painful work was done. Morning slid into afternoon, and then evening, her eyelids fluttering as the sunlight became low and shadows long.

The first thing she realized was that she was staring at a ceiling. The second thing she realized was that her leg was propped up, and that glass tubes were dripping fluid into her arm. She frowned, wondering where she was, and felt that her head was bandaged and pounding. Another head injury? Hadn't she only got over such a thing a few months ago?

Head injuries were the last of her worries at that time, however. The last thing Leeroy recalled was drifting to shore, vaguely falling off a cliff before...and an explosion...and the beach where she lay. Was she even still in England? She had heard of people travelling several knots in a day because of currents and ocean winds. The last place she could remember was the motorcycle...she couldn't even recall what part of England she had been in!

She had to keep calm. Her head had clearly been smacked a bit too hard to be healthy. It would be stupid to assume that she was the victim of something straight out of an adventure book. If she had been drifting down the coast, the likelihood of her surviving for very long without proper equipment was slim. Leeroy still had to be somewhere in or near England, and some kind soul had probably taken her to the local doctor's. Yez, that bizt right, and it bizt logical too. 'Ee's not like I be prone to zomething out ov a vairytale.... Don't be ramblin' in your 'ead now, Leeroy!

[Anton Maas]

After only 10 minutes of watching the Doctor work his trade, Messer begin to impatiently shift from foot to foot. His body was not used to standing in one place and to calm his jitters he ripped a cigarette from the full pack he kept in his jacket. Gustav might have wore suits made from cheap ersatz fabric, and downed muddy “Hitler” coffee, but he wasn’t Nazi enough to like those lousy German smokes. Back on the mainland, he had grown accustomed to smooth American cigarettes from raids on the black-market, but there was no action here, and now he had to use the Army supply just like everyone else. With only those poor excuses for cigarettes, Gus would have probably kicked the habit, if the island wasn’t so boring. Even the change of pace this poor unconscious woman brought was beginning to bore Gustav. Hopefully she was some kind of spy or something that would make things interesting when she awoke.

As the Kriminalinspektor thought about all the different identities she might have he lit his cigarette. For the first time, the doctor spoke up, without removing his gaze from his patient, “I’m not going to let you smoke that in here. This room needs to stay clean.”

Gus rolled the cigarette between his lips and thought about how the doctor could possibly prevent the Gestapo agent from doing anything, but he was not in the mood to push his weight around. Instead, Gustav took a single step to the right, and then another one backwards, and then leaned against the doorframe and continued to carefully watch the doctor’s methods as he puffed away.

The foul cigarette seemed to have taken only minutes to burn through, and in need of another distraction, Gus stepped back into the crowded room. After extinguishing the butt on a wet piece of fabric, he quickly poked through the pile of soaked belongings taken from the woman. Grabbing two sheathed knives, the only items of interest, Messer returned to the waiting room, and moved a chair into the doorway to continue to keep an eye on the doctor as he waited.

Pulling the first knife from it’s scabbard, Gus held it in his hand to feel it’s weight and examine it closely. Clunky, with a single-edged blade, it was as common as dirt. Yet it looked maintained regularly, with no rust, clean leather, and as sharp as glass. But it was still just a general purpose knife, anyone who spends any time outdoors would have one like it, nothing unusual or interesting about it, and it told Gus nothing important about the person who wore it.

The second knife, although still as sharp and as clean as the other, was completely different. The moment Gus held it’s lightweight vase-shaped handle in his handle, he could tell it as the Faibairn-Sykes Fighting Knife. Used by Allied Commandoes, this double-edged, 18 cm long dagger had only one purpose. To kill. Unlike the first, this knife gave Gus questions he needed the answers for, like, if the woman was an Allied Commando, and if not, where did she get the knife? Are women just given military hardware in Britain? And were they taught how to use it?

Unable to get any answers until the woman awoke, Gus quickly became uninterested with the knives and returned them to her pile of belongings, but only after snatching a roll of adhesive tape from the doctor’s cabinet and wrapping some around the knives. Gus then slid them back into their sheaths. If it all went to hell, hopefully that tape could save Messer’s life, or at the very least, his dignity. He wouldn’t hear the end of it if he got slashed by a knife wielding drowning victim.

Having lost interest in the knives, once again Gustav decided to choke down another cigarette to help pass the time. But it didn’t help, hours felt like weeks and by the time he was on his last butt, Gus was starting to wonder if he could trust the doctor to be alone with the patient while he left to get a drink and maybe something to eat.

Gus didn’t have to find out though, just as he was flicking the last cigarette into the ashtray, he saw the woman stir, and instantly he was up and out of the chair, standing over her.

”Hello?” The German called out, doing his best American accent acquired from on-the-job experience, the occasional movie, and a couple prewar trips to New York and Indianapolis, ”Are you awake?”

[Leeroy Atherton]

She had heard too many Americans from her time patrolling around soldiers in the inn. She did not know all their accents, and was startled by how un-American this particular one sounded. Sure, it had that New Yorker twang to it, but it was tinged with something heavier, something strangely familiar. That rough growl, a certain Lieutenant had had it; he had been German. And, even though it shared only the faintest traces of grammatical similarity to her accent, Leeroy recognized it as a cousin to her own. It was amazing what a few books and a keen ear could teach one of the ways of the world.

One eye immediately was open. Sitting on the border between hazel and brown, the iris held a pupil made small by surprise. Leeroy's other eye opened, and she blinked herself awake, looking quite alarmed at the current situation. Where was she? Who was that man? Oh, her head.... What happened? The rum, the bomb, her motorbike, the Channel - it all came back in a flash, a swirl.... Something of that nature. Fer God'z zakes....

"What...?" she said carefully, tiredly. She winced as a new wave of pain lanced at her temples, the room blurring and becoming entirely too bright for a second. Her jaw clenched, Leeroy swallowing hard as she tried to centre herself again. She was in a room...with a strange man...and his accent was somewhere between German and American. The entire situation seemed entirely too odd, but then - Oh no. Oh no no no no no. No, it couldn't have been - that was just a bad dream, a bad thought! They were too far along for it to happen! The Germans were being beaten back!

Leeroy swallowed again, taking a weak breath. "Where...bizt I...?" she asked, trying to keep herself from sounding too breathless. The mere idea of England being invaded, of all things, made her stomach flip over itself twice. It was the unthinkable, the unimaginable, the British Isles being a natural forest upon the cold, northern seas. As blasphemous as sin, it was, yet Leeroy's addled mind was slowly coming to that conclusion. Perhaps the bomb had been a distraction; the Germans could have somehow hid in the planes, found their way down....

She was going to faint again. Maybe when she woke up next, everything would reveal itself to be a bad dream, and she would get up, go to work and live life as usual. But her instincts told her better - something had happened, she had been caught in the middle of it, and now, she was cornered in a...hospital bed, yes, by a man she did not know. The man sounded German, and the last thing Leeroy remembered was a bombing. She could not allow herself to faint, to show any other signs of weakness, and watch the man's every move. Her eyes narrowed, the woman willing herself to sharpen her vision, and she gave the man a weak glare. Though it sent the room into a tilting, doubly-envisioned mess, she forced herself to sit upright, pulling herself into that position as quickly as she could. Which, as it turned out, looked more like a slow and painful process to her captor.