four; broadcast mind; memory (1871)
Paris-- It's... eh, okay. Not like it's gonna be great, oh hell no, not with the way it's gotten the metaphorical shit kicked out of it for the last few months. (And with artillery fire. Heh.) Bit lacking in proper food, but whatever. Got that covered, shipping things in-- heard they'd had elephant for Christmas dinner. And it's still doing plenty well in literal shit-- God, the Seine always stinks to high heaven when you visit, or is that just supposed to be part of the charm?
Still. Feels good, man. Winning. Even the indignant-- no, acrimonious looks you're getting from the locals sets you grinning. The dark blue of cavalry uniform is bright against the grey of city rubble, singles you (and the pilfered bottle of Bordeaux) out. Silver buttons, polished boots, red trim, you're the brightest one here. And France makes such a big deal about it, his La Ville-Lumière, the great Stadt der greller Schein. Hah. What a joke. That shiner you gave him last week's brighter than this dump.
Speaking of shiners...
"You are a violent thing, mon cher."
"You think? I'm not the one who started this war, for the record."
France makes one of those 'bitch, please' faces. You just grin more, and offer the wine from his cellar. Pretty good gesture of peace, right? Well, what's left in the bottle is. And he's smart enough to take it. You clap him on the back (Ooh, right in the middle of Sedan again. Your bad.) and continue anyway.
"Y'know, normally when you declare war, it's a good idea to get your men actually deployed on time. Otherwise, you're gonna screw up your entire strategy and-- the hell am I telling you this for? You know what happened!" More laughter, raucous and more than a little bit gloating in nature. France lowers the bottle, serious under the dirt and bruises.
"Prusse, you will come to regret this, I can promise you that much."
Scoffing, you take the bottle back. "Which republic is this now? Your third? Consistency issues, man. Consistency issues."
"And you are charming as always."
"Pretty much, yeah."
Still. Feels good, man. Winning. Even the indignant-- no, acrimonious looks you're getting from the locals sets you grinning. The dark blue of cavalry uniform is bright against the grey of city rubble, singles you (and the pilfered bottle of Bordeaux) out. Silver buttons, polished boots, red trim, you're the brightest one here. And France makes such a big deal about it, his La Ville-Lumière, the great Stadt der greller Schein. Hah. What a joke. That shiner you gave him last week's brighter than this dump.
Speaking of shiners...
"You are a violent thing, mon cher."
"You think? I'm not the one who started this war, for the record."
France makes one of those 'bitch, please' faces. You just grin more, and offer the wine from his cellar. Pretty good gesture of peace, right? Well, what's left in the bottle is. And he's smart enough to take it. You clap him on the back (Ooh, right in the middle of Sedan again. Your bad.) and continue anyway.
"Y'know, normally when you declare war, it's a good idea to get your men actually deployed on time. Otherwise, you're gonna screw up your entire strategy and-- the hell am I telling you this for? You know what happened!" More laughter, raucous and more than a little bit gloating in nature. France lowers the bottle, serious under the dirt and bruises.
"Prusse, you will come to regret this, I can promise you that much."
Scoffing, you take the bottle back. "Which republic is this now? Your third? Consistency issues, man. Consistency issues."
"And you are charming as always."
"Pretty much, yeah."