Wizards vs. Muggles (Free-form):
"Wizards need a mental image of the target to teleport," growled Price, walking in from the comm room. "I suppose this is one way of jamming their minds." He paused to shoot one particularly garishly-colored section of wall a look of particular distaste. "Bloody wish that they'd find a way of doing it that didn't involve bright pink, though." He pulled up a chair to a nearby desk, began field-stripping his pistol with practiced, almost unconscious movements. Ralston just nodded at that, scratching at his forms and occasionally counting off on his fingers, before looking up. "Well, uh, Lieutenant Peace, then. You know something about the other group we ran into? Angry mobs and whiskeys, we're familiar with, but this other group—didn't look like SAS or Delta, that's for sure."
Oct. 29, Ball's Farm
Ball's attention was fixed on the bottle that Chessie held out; slowly, he reached out for it, took a sniff and then a gulp before handing it back, and he looked a lot friendlier—if less focused—than he did a moment ago. "July...80," he said reminiscently. "'Tis strange, I remember nought. Ye can't ha' been born then, little missy!" He chuckled, in sudden good humor, before winking at Czeslawa. "And as f'r ye, I 'ad ye pegged f'ra copper. I w'z wrong—no copper gives good drink like that! Wasn't no akwa veetae I know of—ye must gimme yer secret f'r it."
edited 4th Aug '12 1:34:51 PM by hotelkilo
edited 5th Aug '12 11:24:03 AM by Faramir
"Naaae," said Ball contemplatively. "'Twoulhae 'membered a name like that." He grinned and gestured at the farmhouse—somewhat dilapidated. "But whaur be my manners? Come thee in, an' I'll hae a cuppa going."
"Captain Peace, then. Sorry," said Ralston, rubbing his eyes. "Ugh, it's late. I'm not used to having to stare down friendly guns, and if they were US or British or whatnot...I've heard of blue-on-blue confrontations in Russia. Never expected to get involved with one here." Chavez was in his office, tapping something into his computer; Clark noticed him almost furtively hiding a half-eaten candy bar behind a stack of documents. He leafed through the letter, but his attention slowly became more attentive as he read. "Drear Island..." Chavez frowned. "Anything you can tell me that doesn't run afoul of the Company? What information I have on his personnel file's interesting, but nothing there about magic. He retired a long time before any of this brewed up."
The farmhouse looked as if it were falling apart at the seams, but the wood stove was functional, and Ball busied himself heating up a kettle that had probably seen service in the Boer War. He muttered quietly to himself as he did so, occasionally breaking into chuckles. In contrast to the rest of his furniture, however, his desk looked tidy—almost modern. There was a notebook in the center, and a pencil—but also a goose quill with the barbs expertly stripped off, sitting point down in a silver inkwell. They looked thoroughly out of place in the dingy old farm, lit by the cracks in the woodwork where sunlight streamed through.
Chavez nodded. "If you want manpower to service the dead-drop, I can probably peel off part of Team-One or the HQ section for it. The fewer in the know, the better, correct? Though I'm not comfortable running independent intel operations." He tapped a few keys on his computer. "Still, it might be necessary. Off-the-record help? You might be deploying soon. Pass me any information the Company has on anything related to the name Mathurin, M-A-T-H-U-R-I-N, in Spain. There's a few rumors floating around, but nothing concrete, and the Spanish SF units still have a lot of experience, so if we're visiting it's probably in the show-the-flag or advisory role."
There was a shortage of chairs in the farmhouse, the only one standing behind the desk and matching it in color. Ball gestured vaguely toward a hay bale. "Aye, she is," he said, after his customary pause; he was now prodding a little over-vigorously at the coals in the grate with a poker, and foul-smelling smoke leaked out in response. Another pause. "Ye've got to leave yer desk tidy at the end of the day. No excuses."
edited 9th Aug '12 9:51:19 AM by hotelkilo
edited 12th Aug '12 4:04:57 PM by Kino