(no subject)
Title: Time Out.
Fandom: Red Prowling Devil.
Genre: Friendship.
Rating/Warnings: One alcohol reference, otherwise suitable for all. Set post Vol 6 (my absolute favourite volume of the manga).
Summary: Franz and Cyrus have a chat.
Disclaimer: I'm just borrowing the characters for this little story.
'You were pretty hard on her today.'
Franz turned, head tilted, and looked at his old comrade, surprised to hear the Indian ex-pat speaking German. 'She's skilled, but she still has a long way to go. Coddling her will not help.' He knew Cyrus viewed the young woman as something of a surrogate daughter and Naomi in turn was very fond of the petite mechanic.
Cyrus frowned. 'And you expect me to pick up the pieces when you go too far? She's still a child.'
Franz gave Cyrus a hard look. 'That child murdered an aeroplane full of innocents. You may be the nice one in our dynamic, but show her the respect of not forgetting how dangerous she is.'
'And you show her enough compassion to acknowledge that she's still human! You're making it very hard for me to remember our friendship with some of the stunts you pull - she could have been killed!' Cyrus voice rose and echoed around the cavernous hangar they stood in, framed by the slightly open doors.
'I was reasonably confident that she wouldn't be.' Franz replied heavily and Cyrus stilled, the retort dying on his lips. He could almost smell his colleague's exhaustion. 'We're in a war and our unit might as well be fighting it alone for all the help we're likely to get. They're waiting for me to fail, and when that happens they won't lift a finger to help us as White Mace annihilate us.' He managed a faint smile. 'Why do you think all of our resources are so mismatched? We're the joke unit, doomed to be led to failure by the East German traitor Reubenstein?'
Cyrus slapped Franz's elbow hard, startling him out of his desperate mood. He snapped back into the stern, inscrutable facade he was known for, a bare trace of despair lingering in his eyes, but no one other than Cyrus would notice that. 'Don't underestimate yourself or your team, Colonel. We might be mismatched, but we're the best at what we do and no one's going to take that away from us so easily!'
Franz looked away from him over the airfield - the elderly Mig he'd piloted to help Harmil defend his comrades and buy some time while Naomi had flown back to join them still stood out there, a reminder to his team that he would go to desperate measures to defend them. Cyrus' team had fixed it up and its new paintwork gleamed in the setting sun. 'No, anyone who tries to destroy this team is in for a nasty shock.'
Cyrus smiled. 'That's the spirit.' He drew his comrade away from the door.
As they stepped into the corridor he switched to Russian, the other main language other than English that the unit spoke. 'Come and have some cocoa in my office, Colonel. We need to discuss the latest shipment of parts from Chechnya.'
Franz nodded gravely. 'I have my doubts about that supplier.' He agreed as he poured the drinks from the bubbling pan sat on the break-room stove. A couple of engineers playing pool nodded to them and Naomi looked up from her magazine to greet them both, still with an expression of bemused awe for Franz. Cyrus was so used to Franz' brilliance in a fighter jet he tended to forget that he was the only one here who'd seen his friend in his fighting prime.
Once in the office Cyrus shut the door and produced a bottle of schnapps from his desk drawer, pouring a healthy dose into their mugs. 'The Chechnyan parts are fine, but we both need a break.' He switched out the tape in his tape-machine and at the press of a button crackly schrammelmusik began to play and Cyrus produced a deck of cards.
Franz sipped his cocoa, feeling the tight muscles in his shoulders relax a little. 'You're a terrible influence on me, Short.'
'Just keeping your feet on the ground, lad. Now do you still remember how to play rummy?'
Fandom: Red Prowling Devil.
Genre: Friendship.
Rating/Warnings: One alcohol reference, otherwise suitable for all. Set post Vol 6 (my absolute favourite volume of the manga).
Summary: Franz and Cyrus have a chat.
Disclaimer: I'm just borrowing the characters for this little story.
'You were pretty hard on her today.'
Franz turned, head tilted, and looked at his old comrade, surprised to hear the Indian ex-pat speaking German. 'She's skilled, but she still has a long way to go. Coddling her will not help.' He knew Cyrus viewed the young woman as something of a surrogate daughter and Naomi in turn was very fond of the petite mechanic.
Cyrus frowned. 'And you expect me to pick up the pieces when you go too far? She's still a child.'
Franz gave Cyrus a hard look. 'That child murdered an aeroplane full of innocents. You may be the nice one in our dynamic, but show her the respect of not forgetting how dangerous she is.'
'And you show her enough compassion to acknowledge that she's still human! You're making it very hard for me to remember our friendship with some of the stunts you pull - she could have been killed!' Cyrus voice rose and echoed around the cavernous hangar they stood in, framed by the slightly open doors.
'I was reasonably confident that she wouldn't be.' Franz replied heavily and Cyrus stilled, the retort dying on his lips. He could almost smell his colleague's exhaustion. 'We're in a war and our unit might as well be fighting it alone for all the help we're likely to get. They're waiting for me to fail, and when that happens they won't lift a finger to help us as White Mace annihilate us.' He managed a faint smile. 'Why do you think all of our resources are so mismatched? We're the joke unit, doomed to be led to failure by the East German traitor Reubenstein?'
Cyrus slapped Franz's elbow hard, startling him out of his desperate mood. He snapped back into the stern, inscrutable facade he was known for, a bare trace of despair lingering in his eyes, but no one other than Cyrus would notice that. 'Don't underestimate yourself or your team, Colonel. We might be mismatched, but we're the best at what we do and no one's going to take that away from us so easily!'
Franz looked away from him over the airfield - the elderly Mig he'd piloted to help Harmil defend his comrades and buy some time while Naomi had flown back to join them still stood out there, a reminder to his team that he would go to desperate measures to defend them. Cyrus' team had fixed it up and its new paintwork gleamed in the setting sun. 'No, anyone who tries to destroy this team is in for a nasty shock.'
Cyrus smiled. 'That's the spirit.' He drew his comrade away from the door.
As they stepped into the corridor he switched to Russian, the other main language other than English that the unit spoke. 'Come and have some cocoa in my office, Colonel. We need to discuss the latest shipment of parts from Chechnya.'
Franz nodded gravely. 'I have my doubts about that supplier.' He agreed as he poured the drinks from the bubbling pan sat on the break-room stove. A couple of engineers playing pool nodded to them and Naomi looked up from her magazine to greet them both, still with an expression of bemused awe for Franz. Cyrus was so used to Franz' brilliance in a fighter jet he tended to forget that he was the only one here who'd seen his friend in his fighting prime.
Once in the office Cyrus shut the door and produced a bottle of schnapps from his desk drawer, pouring a healthy dose into their mugs. 'The Chechnyan parts are fine, but we both need a break.' He switched out the tape in his tape-machine and at the press of a button crackly schrammelmusik began to play and Cyrus produced a deck of cards.
Franz sipped his cocoa, feeling the tight muscles in his shoulders relax a little. 'You're a terrible influence on me, Short.'
'Just keeping your feet on the ground, lad. Now do you still remember how to play rummy?'