In Sheep's Clothing [Blanchefleur]

[Blanchefleur Paget]

But where had the little woman gone when he turned? There was mere rainfall where Blanchefleur had been standing last, gone in an instant as soon as Herr Wolff's back had turned. Abandoning the old Monsieur Vasser to his fate, perhaps? A smart thing to do — after all, his business was none of Blanchefleur's, who had her own business to attend to.

Where was she really? Behind Herr Wolff's back, of course! As Herr Wolff had turned, the woman had moved with him, always keeping herself in and behind his blind spot. When he turned to focus on her again, the Füchsin was right behind Herr Wolff, with one leg rising backwards — no better time to land a kick when nobody was looking. A kick that, as cliche and as much of a "dirty" tactic as was said, was aimed right between Herr Wolff's legs, the sharp toes of the woman aimed to cause plenty of smarting. Once the good Herr was down for the count, doubled over, yelping like a mutt . . . somehow expressing weakness and pain, Blanchefleur would take a step back, then run forward, and attempt to leap onto her old "friend's" back. Little hands shot forth, wrapping around Herr Wolff's neck — he couldn't keep that pistol in his hand for long if his priorities were elsewhere.

Vasser, meanwhile, was clutching at his aching side, figuring that something had been broken. Through the hurt and the adrenaline rush, questions rushed through his mind — who really was the person behind Hélène Pomeroy? Why did she know German? Why did she know a German — a German that, in fact, seemed to have led Monsieur Vasser along like the fool the Frenchman had been called! It was humiliating — and frightening. What would have happened if he had said more about his "friends" to the old woman and her German . . . friend? Relative? Some stranger that she had met once or twice?

[Otto Wolff]

The old man conveniently out of the game for now, Otto pivoted around to regard Hélène and was met only with the sight of an empty street. Had she made her escape so quickly? Otto would have surely seen the woman sprinting to safety even while dealing with Monsieur Vasser. The German frowned, turning his head around to see if the woman had circled around him. He moved too slowly and soon, in a very painful way, realized that Hèlène indeed had managed to maneuver herself behind him.

The old woman kicked him viciously in the crotch and the pain shot from Otto's nether regions to his stomach, burning, blinding. The pure agony made the man groan in pain and he doubled over, a voice somewhere in the distant reaches of his mind telling him to hold on to the Luger. He could not, and his fingers let go of the pistol, the man's hands instinctively going for his groin. The gun clanked down on the cobblestones right in front of the man, but Otto could not even see the pistol anymore.

"...jävlar!" the man managed to laborously grunt out in Swedish, the language he had become used to speaking in his childhood. Small orbs of light were dancing in front of his field of vision and for a moment that was the only thing he could see. He had trouble understanding anything else besides the horrible stabbing pain that was coursing through his body. Just breathing was difficult and a feeling of strong nausea washed over him, Otto felt as if he could throw up any second now.

Something heavy landed on his back. Otto had barely enough senses left to realize that it could have been no one else other than the crafty old bat. Small hands wrapped around his neck from behind, the old woman effectively clinging to the tall German man. The pain and the sudden weight on his back caused the broad-shouldered German to fall down on his knees on the rain-washed street.

It was a strange sight, the old gray-haired woman perched on top of the tall man's back, choking him with her both hands. The previously proud and strong dark-haired German had been suddenly reduced to a seemingly powerless shell of a man, down on his knees in the middle of the street and in the pouring rain, no less. Not did he just suffer from unimaginable pain, but now he found himself also choking. The old fox had indeed found an effective method of bringing down the large man, but Otto wasn't going to give up quite that easily.

Survival instincts kicked in and the man growled low under his breath like a riled up wild beast. He gritted his teeth together, his dark eyes squinted with rage. He was still in pain, there was no doubt of that, and he was most likely working with only fraction of his real capacity, but he wasn't going to go down without a fight. The man used the pain and rage to his advantage, turning it into brute strength. Otto's other hand clasped on the woman's wrist, the muscles on the man's neck contracting just for a second so that Otto could inch his fingers under the woman's hand for better grip.

Otto's head tilted forward, but came back with a powerful, merciless snap, aimed at the woman's nose, or really any part of her face that was conveniently there for the man to hit. At the same time, the grip of the man's fingers around the old woman's wrist strengthened, the adrenaline feeding new power into his muscles. Otto wrenched at her hand, maneuvering it slowly but surely into an unnatural position until something would either crack or the woman would feel compelled to withdraw her hand to save it from further injury. Otto had not planned on injuring the woman, no matter how much he might have disliked her, but after the old fox's latest stunt he wasn't really feeling too chivalrous anymore.

If the woman would let go, Otto would reach for his pistol. He wasn't still planning on shooting anyone today, he wanted these old nuisances alive, but these two French fools might plan otherwise if they got their hands on the Luger. Otto wasn't in much of a state to get up to his feet right now, or to start walking around anytime soon, but he was certain that at least Monsieur Vasser would not be moving very far with his cracked ribs. And if he had the gun, he was sure that Hélène would feel quite obligated to obey his orders.

[Blanchefleur Paget]

Oh, so she didn't need to cut off his air? Good enough for Blanchefleur. Good enough that Herr Wolff was on his knees, failing at his job like he was supposed to — which meant it was time for her to get off. The little woman swung one leg onto the ground, hopping off of the Gestapo officer — only a single motion was needed to scoop up the man's precious Luger. If she succeeded in doing so, she would jump back several steps, waving the pistol around with a silly grin.

"Oh wenig jungerre Hund von Woooolff!" the old bat sang. "Ich bi-en hier!" [Translation: "Oh little Woooolff puppy!" // "I'm over here!"]

She pointed the gun at the man's nearest foot. Not really the foot, mind you, but more the Achilles's tendon.

BANG!

"Jetzt, wie Zie wie zie Äpfel, jaaaaa junge TUN?!" [Translation: "Now how do you like them apples, yeaaaaah BOY?!"]

With a wicked cackle, she held the gun up, and beckoned with one hand for the man to come towards her. Blanchefleur would give the German a chance to recover his dignity — that, and she wanted to knock him out as well. Knock him out, and smugly grin about it afterwards, preferably over a nice bottle of wine. Wine from France, and a nice Luger to use in the future — a vision that Blanchefleur enjoyed envisioning very much. Sure, the gun was of German design, but it was Herr Wolff's, and he would probably be riled up for a while about it, now wouldn't he?

[Otto Wolff]

The weight suddenly disappeared off the man's back, as did the hands from around his throat. Otto's hand went to grab the Luger from the ground, only to find his fingers touching a puddle of rainwater. The man shifted his gaze up very slowly, only to witness Hélène standing in the rain, grinning and waving Otto's very own pistol in her hand. Well, this was just getting better and better, wasn't it? She was taunting him, knowing that the situation did not look very good for Otto. And again she was calling him a Wolff puppy! He was just about to say something very poisonous to the old woman, when he realized that she was now pointing the Luger at him.

The man managed to dodge the shot just barely and he let out quite an offensive string of curses in Swedish. He was done with the attitude and dirty tricks of this crafty old Füchsin, indeed! But he could not lose neither his nerve or his face, so Otto resorted to just shooting a dark glance under his knit brows at the old woman. The rain was trickling down his skin, but he did not notice it. Right now the dear old vixen had all of his attention and she was beckoning for the man to come closer. Yes, let him get closer indeed and he would show her that this Wolff pup has long since shed his puppy teeth.

Otto slowly and carefully clambered up to his feet and his grave expression wavered for a second when he flinched involuntarily, the pain shot more sharply through his body once again. He did not remember experiencing such pain for a good long time, not even when he had been injured during the Great War. Or maybe it had been such a long time ago that he had just already forgotten what it had felt like. It was still certainly one of the worst pains he ever remembered suffering from.

The tall man, even with his dignity severely marred, refused to look vanquished. He held his chin up and with some difficulty, stepped closer to the woman, ignoring her gleeful gloating. She would have to shoot Otto Wolff before he would admit defeat. Every muscle in his being was ready for action and the gaze of his dark eyes never left the old Frenchwoman. One wrong move and Otto would use it to his advantage. He did not consider himself a great shot when it came to weapons, but he had been an avid boxer much of his youth and knew that his strength lied in hand-to-hand combat. He had a mean right hook that could punch the lights out of a horse and in England he had earned the nickname Otto the Ox after simply refusing to go down after a severe beating in the boxing ring. If Hélène was stupid enough to let Otto close enough, he would spring into action at the lightest sign of her getting distracted. He wasn't some meek businessman, but a trained police officer of over twenty years and he could certainly move faster than this sorry old drunk.

"Gut gespielt, mein lieber Füchsin. Gut gespielt, tatsächlich ... obwohl kaum ziemlich," Otto said, his voice treacherously smooth as he moved closer. "Ich Rat Sie, um die Pistole in mich und Erlaubnis zurückzugeben, während Sie noch können. Sie werden sehr weit mit einem Luger in Ihrem Besitz nicht werden. Sobald es gefunden hat - und es gefunden wird - werden Sie geschossen, keine Fragen fragten. So werde ich Sie eine Bevorzugung tun, die Pistole nehmen und Sie ... ohne Monsieur Vasser abreisen lassen. Um der alten Zeiten willen."

Otto still stepped closer, just as Hélène had wished. Walking seemed to cause some pain for Otto and to some extent, it certainly still did, but not quite as much as he let appear outwardly. Every muscle in his body was ready to react and Otto would grab the gun back from the woman at the first sign of her getting distracted or moving in a way Otto might consider even slightly threatening.


Translations:

"Gut gespielt, mein lieber Füchsin. Gut gespielt, tatsächlich ... obwohl kaum ziemlich."
"Well played, my dear Füchsin. Well played, indeed... although hardly fairly."

"Ich Rat Sie, um die Pistole in mich und Erlaubnis zurückzugeben, während Sie noch können..."
"I advice you to return the pistol to me and leave while you still can. You won't be getting very far with a Luger in your possession. Once it's found - and it will be found - you'll be shot, no questions asked. So I will do you a favor, take the pistol from you and let you leave... without Monsieur Vasser. For old time's sake."

[Blanchefleur Paget]

"Hm, wie zteht's mit nein?" [Translation: "Hm, how about no?"]

BANG!

She swiftly aimed and fired again, firing at whatever was there, only aiming roughly for Herr Wolff's body. Aim that — hopefully for Herr Wolff — would not happen to be of fatal consequences. With one more cackle and a twirl away, the old bat's back to the "Wolff puppy", Blanchefleur began to dash away — who cared about Monsieur Vasser? It was the old coot's fault for being so trusting in a time of war! Did he not know of the golden rule of "survival of the fittest"?

Alas, not everyone could be as cunning as Blanchefleur Paget, the old fox, the Füchsin — ex-intelligence agent of France, a proud patriot who would always go down fighting. Smug with having her ego pumped so, Herr Wolff's misfortune her nectar in lieu of wine, she ducked into an alleyway, snickering. Rain poured down all around Blanchefleur, torrents that cut visibility in half — visibility that, without such, would cause Herr Wolff to lose his way if he ran after her. He might have been working for the Nazis — it was blatantly obvious he was, with all his questions and beating up of innocent folk — but he was younger. More stupid. He had only been a soldier, whilst his dear Füchsin knew how to pull the strings from the get-go.

He should have known better than that, to mess with France and her glorious people. It was only the army that had become the metaphorical whipped puppy — Blanchefleur was still willing to shoot guns and crack open heads, with some nice wine to relax by once everything was over. Speaking of wine, the Luger she would have (hopefully) escaped with would probably get her a pretty penny! Enough maybe for some dessert wine! Oh, joy to the world!

[Otto Wolff]

Otto stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the woman's expression and heard her words, but still, he had hardly enough time to react. "Hm, wie zteht's mit nein?" Hélène said nonchalantly and the next sound on the rain-beaten street was the sharp crack of the Luger. The only thing Otto could do was to trust in his luck and hope he could somehow evade the bullet - a ludicrous idea, of course. The Kriminalkommissar felt a sharp pain ripping at his side and the mere shock and surprise made the man fall back on his knees again.

The sound of the gunshot was still echoing in his ears as he gripped his side, rain pouring heavily over him. Otto gasped and glanced at Héléne, but the only thing he could catch was the faint figure of a petite woman quickly vanishing in to the rain, the sound of her laughter only barely audible amidst the storm. Otto blinked, removing the hand from his side, watching as blood mixed with the rainwater and quickly washed it away from his fingers. He could now also register another pain on his left arm and the man raised the arm up, his fingers trembling slightly from the shock of being shot. From what Otto could see, the bullet had first hit his arm and then graced his left side. It was enough to make him bleed like a stuck pig, but it wasn't fatal. He had been lucky - he could have just as well been lying on the cobblestones now, drawing his last breaths.

After he was sure that the wounds were not fatal, the man curved his lips into a hateful snarl, staring at the torrent of rain and towards the direction where he had seen the cursed old woman disappearing off to. If she had been any smarter, she would have shot Otto and made sure he was dead. Anger filled Otto's veins like liquid fire and the his fingers curled up into a fist. How he wanted to rage, yell after the obnoxious old woman, curse her to nine hells and tell her that she was going to pay for this! But that would be like admitting defeat, now wouldn't it...?

The man let the scorching flames of rage die down and his gaze moved slowly to the side to regard Monsieur Vasser. The old man had most likely hoped that Hélène's gunshot would have been enough to finish the German off and had started making a slow, awkward escape to safety. Oh, how unlucky for the Frenchman, indeed. Otto would soon have all of the forces available to him setting up a grid, looking for the devious old Füchsin and in the meanwhile good old Monsieur Vasser would be sitting in a Gestapo interrogation room, spilling the beans on the local Resistance and most likely, suffering more than enough in the process. Otto was not one to relish in causing pain to other people, but this time... it was much more personal.

Otto clambered up to his feet, grunting as fresh waves of pain shot through his side. Monsieur Vasser had started crawling away, cradling his cracked ribs while making a desperate escape, but had stopped dead in his tracks as he saw the dark-haired German rise up to his feet. "Pas si vite, Monsieur Vasser. Je crois que nous avons toujours beaucoup de choses à discuter." Otto said, his voice dark and menacing. He grabbed the old man by the collar of his jacket and dragged him viciously up to his feet, making the old man howl and curse with pain. The man's agony made Otto feel slightly better and a small smile crept up to his lips. "Lass uns gehen, Monsieur Vasser. Versuchen Sie, im Schmerz zu viel bitte nicht zu schreien. Ich fühle ein Kopfweh anfangen," Otto said with a grimace, starting back towards the local hotel and pulling the old man in tow with his other hand.

The dear old Füchsin had no idea of what a dangerous, relentless enemy she had made today.


Translations:

"Pas si vite, Monsieur Vasser. Je crois que nous avons toujours beaucoup de choses à discuter."
"Not so fast, Monsieur Vasser. I believe we still have many things to discuss."

"Lass uns gehen, Monsieur Vasser. Versuchen Sie, im Schmerz zu viel bitte nicht zu schreien. Ich fühle ein Kopfweh anfangen."
"Let's go, Monsieur Vasser. Try not to scream out in pain too much, please. I feel a headache starting."

[Daniel Brennan]

Mod Post

Lovely Jubbly!

CP:
Otto Wolff: 15CP

Blanchefleur Paget (How the hell do you pronounce that?!?!?! ): 13CP


~Dan