Bump In The Night

Where: Mediana
Who: Elizabeth, Grigory (NPC), Vaclav, William
When: August 30, 1937

The Grid-----> > > > > THE GREATEST GENERATION < < <

Coordinates : 5 5

The more prominent buildings are constructed of a pale brown, ruddy stone, while the poorer structures are wrought of plain wood, plaster and shingle. Civilians have long since fled the town, leaving soliders, and rats as the only occupants.

It is currently dusk.

Sub-Rooms :
1. House

With the sun setting in the west, and with the civilians long having fled the town, the streets of Mediana are largely deserted.

So it is that a procession of three men approaching and speaking quietly with a pair who sit across the shell-torn street from the aid station are difficult to overlook. A few choice words might even drift across the distance, most prominent among these being 'Rothschild'.

Vaclav lies on his back, in the aid station, glaring at the rafters. Bloodflow having slowed enough that only a gauze patch is held in place to keep his head wound clean, the corporal frowns in silence.

Having spent the day talking to Rothschild, Elizabeth has moved on to do something else she tends to spend time doing…speaking with and trying to cheer up the soldiers. Children…hardly more than children! Seated on the edge of the bed next to Vaclav's bed, on a cot belonging to a man who, unfortunately, is missing an arm, she is making very stilted conversation in a mash of Spanish, Italian and German, with a bit of English thrown in.

Crossing the street toward where the Aussie photographer sits, in her merciful occupation, are a trio of men: one in spanish khakis, the other two in soviet grey. Upon stepping inside the improvied aid station, thier eyes and steps turn promptly toward the photographer. The words are blunt, and direct: "Elizabeth Rothschild."

Vaclav looks sidelong toward where Elizabeth sits and converses. Lying upon a bench to free up more room, both of the corporal's feet are planted on the floor; blue eyes narrowed on Liz. That is, until three men he doesnt know stride into the building and address the woman.

At her name, Elizabeth lifts her head with a quiet, "uno momento," to the youth she speaks with, turning a smiling face towards the trio. "Yes, gentlemen?"

The warmth of her expression is lost upon the three. One of the men returns a smile, but it is an empty mockery of good humor. The center most of the three, stockier and with a pronounced nose, is the one to speak, in accented english, "On behalf of the spanish Republic, I must ask that you come with us, immediately."

Vaclav's frown deepens at the exchange, narrowed blue eyes blinking several times, before the corporal draws a deep breath and sits slowly up; the grimace only twisting his expression into something uglier. A few words rumble under his breath: "What in Hell?"

And for a brief moment, Elizabeth's heart seems to stop beating and there is the shortest flash of fear in the photographer's eyes before she slowly rises. "If this is about the courier, I'm afraid my husband hasn't made a decision yet. He'll inform your commanding officer when he does." She keeps her voice as even as possible while the young man she'd been talking to does his best impression of the invisible man.

William is with two others on patrol and they just so happen to pass by the aid station. Seeing the commotion in the aid station out of the corner of his eye through a window, his attention is adjusted accordingly. The other two Comrades also seem interested and spectate as well.

Of the three men, one (a spaniard in the republican khaki uniform) looks aside at the stirring corporal, and voices in only slightly accented english, "Nothing is wrong-" a pause to eye the big man's rank placards, "Corporal. Routine Military Investigation Service business."

The man who had addressed Elizabeth to begin with does not change either his expression or tone of voice, as he states clearly, "Come with us, immediately, Mrs. Rothschild."

Vaclav sits upright on the bench now, his throbbing head only adding to his ill humor at the moment. Echoing flatly, "Military Investigation Service," with a grim frown on his face. Eyes picking over the uniforms of the three men, and finding no insignias of rank, he looks briefly aside to Elizabeth.

Unable to help herself, Elizabeth sends a look in the direction of the one person who seems to voice even the slightest concern over this development. "Tell my husband. Please," she murmurs in that warmly accented English of hers. Seems she's not about to cause a scene in the aide station, figuring the men and woman in here have enough to worry about.

William walks into the aid station; his boots clump against the floor followed by two other pairs of boots. He is lacking an armband, one that many others are wearing. With his head slightly tilted and an eyebrow only moderately raised, he inspects the mysterious men.

The spaniard smiles without warmth, and nods to Vaclav, "Yes. Standard business. As you were, corporal." Of the other two, one (the man who has yet to speak) takes a steady, if mostly symbolic hold of Elizabeth's nearer arm to 'help' the woman to her feet, while the other simple intones "Come along, Mrs. Rothschild," and turns toward the door, briefly studying William and the other two with a disinterested gaze.

Vaclav dips his head slightly before looking away from Elizabeth to return the regard of the spaniard before him. As Liz' arm is taken, his jaw tightens briefly, before looking aside to eye William and the newly arrived pair. "Understood, Comrade." he voices levelly to the men of the 'Military Investigation Service'.

As her arm is taken, Elizabeth tenses but has little choice other than to be pulled away by the trio. Nobody wants to go anywhere with the Military Investigation Services…especially not a civilian. A non-spanish civilian.

William turns to the Corporal. "Everything okay, Comrade Corporal?" he asks as smoothly as can be despite what he's feeling inside. He watches as the photographer is taken away by the trio, but makes no effort to stop them.

The short spaniard gives Vaclav another hollow smile, and falls into step behind Elizabeth, and the other two men, as the quartet step out of the rough aid station, and into the growing dark of dusk outside. The sound of receding footsteps moving north, toward the waterfront district of the city.

"Military Investigation Service," Vaclav echoes under his breath. "Servicio de Investigacion Militar. The SIM." He makes no immediate answer to William's inquiry, save to rumble, "Find fucking reporter now, comrade."

William nods to the Corporal. "Right away, Comrade Corporal." He turns and nods at his Comrades who immediately turns around and moves out of the aid station in search of the reporter… who hopefully is nearby.
William follows his Comrades out of the aid station, into the darkness, which seems so prominent in so many ways.

«Game» William moves out of House.

As she's escorted out, Elizabeth is the palest she's ever been, her customary smile nowhere to be seen. Though it's hard to see as she's being marched away, she actually looks frighttened. And given that the woman has been in the trenches in two wars…that's saying something.

Grigory heads off North.
Elizabeth heads off North.

The Grid-----> > > > > THE GREATEST GENERATION < < <

Theatre is : Belchite

Coordinates : 5 6

The more prominent buildings are constructed of a pale brown, ruddy stone, while the poorer structures are wrought of plain wood, plaster and shingle. Civilians have long since fled the town, leaving soliders, and rats as the only occupants.

It is currently dusk.

Sub-Rooms :
1. House

«Game» It is now night time.

The trio move northward, through the winding streets that are common to villages which grew up over time, rather than by design. Upon stepping into an empty, unlit house near the Ebro river, the flat voiced man in soviet grey instructs the silent man with them in russian, "Go to the hotel, and get her camera, and anything else that looks suspect." A quick reply in the affirmative, and the hand on Elizabeth's arm is released and one of the three men moves off through the city, toward the building where the Rothschilds had been staying.

As her arm is released, Elizabeth fights the urge to try and bolt. Instead she lifts her hand to lightly rub at her arm where the hand had been a moment ago. It's possible Rothschild will be at the hotel when the men get there, but one never knows.

"Mrs. Rothschild," the taller man in grey voices colorlessly, "There is concern within the Service that the uncooperative natures shown by your husband, and yourself might harm the cause of the Republic. Quite obviously, this cannot be tolerated.." While the taller man speaks, the second moves toward the door, and draws in closed, further reducing the light in the already dim building.

It's almost a visible effort for Elizabeth to bite her tongue. There's even a soft sound in the back of her throat, as if the words are fighting to come out. But she manages to quell them, this time, if barely. But she can't simply pretend blithe happiness. Her arms cross over her chest and she simply stares at the man.

Grigory goes woodenly on, "Further communication and transport of documents, photographs, and information will take place through a designated Republican courier, which the Security office shall make available. Furthermore, any future instructions recieved by your husband, or yourself from the Servicio is not to be mistaken as a request. It is a mandate. Full cooperation is expected. Is this clear?"

Elizabeth returns Grigory's expression with a wooden one of her own, her fear hidden in the shadows of the room. But her body language makes it quite clear she does not take kindly to this treatment at all. "I follow my husband's decisions," Riiiiight! Ha! "I'll be sure to pass on your instructions to him." she answers evenly.

"You're absolutely right, Mrs. Rothschild," Grigory answers slowly, shaping each word deliberately. "You will." Then the first blow falls; hard and fast across the lady's stomach.

And the lady stumbles back, her crossed arms dropping slightly to cradle her stomach as the air is forced out of her lungs in a rush, both from the pain and the force of the blow. She doubles over, knees bending slightly as she grunts, not having enough air to do anything more.

From outside the house, there is little to hear; just the soft thudding of each impact. The second blow falls across the woman's back, the flexible length of thick rubber hose squarely across the small of Elizabeth's back, the full weight of arm and shoulders making the blow snap. Meanwhile, footsteps move away, as the spaniard looks out one window, before drawing the shutters closed.

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