hands_of_blu | (no subject)

Western Canada in the late 1960s is a fine, upstanding part of the country. The cities aren't gigantic, glittering megalopoli by any stretch of the imagination, but they're modern, civil places to live, and they've got plenty of excellent cultural institutions. They're just miles and miles and miles from anything else whatsoever- including, in some parts of the Prairies, carefully concealed, hotly contested war zones.

The BLU sniper is not happy that he had to drive six and a half hours to get a decent drink*, but he intends to make up for lost time at the first bar he sees. His companion on the way into town will be doing the driving on the way back. For now, however, they've parted ways, which makes getting to Milliways and bringing Cata back without attracting attention so much easier.

*The driving is not a problem. The fact that his alcohol supply ran out because his teammates kept taking his stuff, thus necessitating wasting most of his down-time on driving to replace it? That's another story.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I would imagine so, yes."
And if anyone decides to try making it not safe... well, they're two very capable people. They can likely handle the situation, if necessary.

If they're lucky, they won't have to worry about it...

... of course, if they're lucky they won't hear those footfalls from behind them that are just a little too heavy not to bear some ill will. Not that there's anyone immediately visible if one of them were to glance around, of course, but it's late and there are shadows.

Cata isn't one to rely on luck to that extent. "We may have company."
She says it quietly, hoping it won't draw the attention of whoever's following them. And she's already making a move for one of her knives.
(Those pockets she added to the inside of the dress were a wise investment.)

"So I hear," the Medic murmurs. "Und not so many people about to serve as witnesses..."

He quickens his pace a little as he slides one of his hands back up his sleeve. People notice when you reach for your pockets, after all. You could be carrying anything there. Up your sleeve? They don't look as closely.

Regardless, as they turn the corner ahead of them, there's a muffled metallic sound like somebody fiddling with the hinge on a borrowed folding knife. "Figures you'd try to run off and hide in the dark, ya Kraut," growls an aggressively American voice from behind them. "The respawners don't work out here, Nazi."

There's got to be some sort of context behind the insults that Cata's missing, but that doesn't matter for the moment. What does matter is that their company isn't keeping his business to business hours.
She doesn't have much patience for unprofessional people.
In short order, the voice's owner has a knife to his groin. "If you would like your testicles to remain where they are, I recommend you keep your mouth shut."
It's a casual statement, but she's not afraid to follow through on it, if necessary.

"Ah. Herr Soldier," says the Medic sourly as he turns to face the suddenly wide-eyed, shaven-headed fellow. "Is zere a point to your life?"

"You wouldn't," says the Soldier; he may be wearing civilian clothes, but they don't suit him at all. "I've seen you at work, you're not the kind to-"

"Before you finish zat sentence, mein Herr, I should sink for chust a moment," the Medic interrupts. He slides his glasses up his nose with one finger. "My lady friend here is somesing of an unknown quantity, ja? Und zis is a decade in which women are proving zemselves in every profession at every turn. So sink back to vot ze lady chust said to you before you finish speaking, hmm?"

Oh, but she would. And the knife is that much closer to proving the point.
"You're not a very professional sort, if you feel the need to sneak up on someone outside of business hours. That's never been the sort of thing I feel inclined to respect in a person."
Besides, he wouldn't have seen her at work - and if he has, it had nothing to do with freelance castration. A good sniper stays hidden as well as possible, after all.

"I know zis man better zan I vould like. He's an enthusiast," says the Medic, in a dry, disgusted tone. It's the same tone the Sniper uses to describe men who're burdened with an overabundance of feelings. "As I recall, zere vosn't a single branch of ze American military villing to take you, vos zere? It takes quite a lot to rack up ze 4F across ze board."

"I ought to-"

"You ought to turn around und go back to your barracks. Now. Ve can settle zis during business hours. As you said-" The Medic glances meaningfully at Cata's hand. "-ze respawners don't vork out here."

There is a long moment of silence. Then, very carefully, the Soldier says, "I think I'd like to back up several steps before turning around and running like a little girl."

"That may be the smartest thing you've said in this entire conversation."
After he's gone, Cata puts the knife away and says, "Well, that was fun. Now, what exactly did he call you?"

"Ze first vord, 'Kraut'? An old insult for people of my nationality," says the Medic, dusting his hands off. "It means 'cabbage'- ve use a good amount of it in ze diet. Ze ozzer vun vos a reference to ze idiots who had control of ze running of my country in ze Thirties und Forties. I haf no love for any regime zat vastes a perfectly good opportunity to conduct priceless scientific research vissout limitation on somesing as stupid as indulging a dictator's petty racial und religious obsessions."

Cata makes a face. "He sounds very nearly as charming as Mizzamir."
Where 'charming,' naturally, means 'not at all.'

"Viss a different sort of focus, but, ja, about ze same sort of fellow." The Medic wrinkles his nose. "Shall ve head back to ze Bar now?"

"I think that would be a wise idea, yes."
Before any more idiots decide to barge in and be unprofessional. She might actually castrate the next one.