Inglourious Basterds is intellectual property of Quentin Tarantino and Weinstein Productions.

Author's Note:This is a rework of a previous story I began (Bomb in a Birdcage) which I scrapped half way through. First things first, there'll be a bit of French and German in this story but I'm limited in those languages so hopefully it's not complete shit. I study Italian but that's not incredibly helpful here, you know? Excuse any mistakes you discover, I work without a beta.

Lead and Cyanide

"A day came when I should have died, and after that nothing seemed very important.
So I have stayed as I am, without regret, separated from the normal human condition."
The Forgotten Soldier, Guy Sajer

Paris, August 1984

The Persian flat was a bit warm, and the air just a bit stale, but that wasn't exactly abnormal for the time of the year. August had always a balmy sort of heat in the city, or at least that is what Amelia Lyons had been told by her co-workers when she set off from New York to chase a so-called White Rabbit. The young journalist couldn't help but pull at the collar of her blouse top anxiously as her eyes darted between the cassette recorder on the table and the woman across from her. She wasn't what Amelia had expected, not from what she gathered just by a quick exchange on the phone and check of sources. She had expected someone of high breeding perhaps, someone who had know someone who had been there but what greeted Amelia was a woman who knew work. It seeped from her bones, exuded from her presence, from her long bony fingers to the lengthy scar that seemed to almost have taken her right eye. She dressed smartly, in a pair of high-waisted slacks paired and a white button down with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

A woman of action, Amelia mulled over as she chewed on her bottom lip as the sound of the tape running filling the air, or someone who's batshit insane.

Fed up with the silence it was Amelia who broke first, pausing the machine.

"Miss Blackburn, you called us at the Times and you said you had information on what really happen the night of that Le Gamaar burned. I don't need you wasting my time and considering I am the only reporter who took your phone call seriously, I would appreciate if you didn't jerk me around. If you're going to try and spin a story that isn't the truth you can just tell me now so I can attempt to return to my office with some dignity."

The glass, which was held weakly in one of Miss Blackburn's hand only moments before, was suddenly slammed down on the wooden table. Surprisingly though it didn't shatter or splinter, but held true while Amelia's own blue eyes met a set of cloudy green. Hunched over, with her hands on her trouser covered knees, Blackburn's gaze didn't wave.

"I don't have a story for you, Miss Lyons," The words come out more like a sneer than an actual sentence, the vinegar in her tone perfectly clear to the girl. "I only have the truth. I'm tired of reading lies."

The only warning the journalist got was the sound of crinkling paper before a few days old newspaper landed in her lap.

"I wish to tell my truth."

Amelia's eyes scanned over the paper lazily, before peaking over the top.

"What makes you think your truth is worth anything?"

"Because," Miss Blackburn replied leaning back into her chair. "I have first hand knowledge. There are names that have been forgotten, people who've been redacted from history like they didn't matter, as if they hadn't existed all for political reasons. People shouldn't be forgotten."

There was a pause, a flicker of indecision spiking through Amelia's mind before disappearing as quickly as it appeared. Worse comes to worse, she reasoned as her fingers hovered above the recorder, I can always fact check and if it's bullshit I'll have good material for a novel. Find the silver lining, Lyons.

"Fine," Amelia relented. "You've got twenty minutes, you don't reel me in then I'm gone and you're blacklisted."

"Agreed."

The cassette recorder gave its telltale click-click sound and then:

"This is Amelia Lyons for the New York Times, interviewing a Adele Blackburn on 10 August 1984 in Paris, France beginning at 1:25 PM. Miss Blackburn," Amelia gestured towards the mic.

With that, it was like a dam being opened.

"My name is Adele Blackburn and I have lived in Paris since the end of the war in 1944. I never left my theater of operations. I never returned home to England. After the La Gamaar fire, and my subsequent journey back to those who I knew as Control, I signed undertakings to the British government that I would not speak about what I was a part of, or what I saw."

Despite sounding calm and collected, Amelia couldn't help but notice the tremor that seemed to rack the woman's hand as it ran through her hair.

"I'm breaking my silence now because those who fought to end this war, who gave their lives, have been forgotten in place of larger names, of the myths that aren't anything but idealisations. What I am about to tell you is, as much to my knowledge, still classified."

The sitting room fell silent then save all but the telltale click-click sound of the tape recording that filled in the background lightly. Adele wasn't even sure the journalist could hear it, if her ears had gone through the training to notice those faint click-click noises that reminded her oh-so much of the tapping of the Gestapo and SS. It was a sound that brought her back; put her in the mindset of the war. If she was going to go through with this confession, she needed to tell everything. Everyone needed to know.

"It all began in the summer of 1943, when Troy was betrayed…"

Summer 1943, Occupied France

This isn't how it's supposed to go.

Between point A and point B of dragging the limp body of Aseal, Ava Winters' simple thought had become the mantra that kept her moving. The repetition pushed her to put one foot in front of the bother, compelled her to bite her lip as she struggled under the weight of her radio man. But like all things, the sheer adrenaline that allowed Ava to go on failed her soon enough, leaving her to drop her wounded comrade to the grimy catacomb floor. With his limbs bent at all awkward angles, Aseal looked more like a broken string puppet than a man. As the seconds passed his wheezing breathing did nothing to comfort Ava as she struggled to stop the bleeding, ripping up pieces of his shirts to use as bindings.

"Shit, Aseal you're gonna be just fine," the words sounded weak even to her ears, but she kept going. "The bullet, it just grazed you."

The man just cracked a weak smile, nothing more than a shadow of what Ava knew it really was.

"Just so you know," Aseal began breathily, "You're a ruddy bad liar."

At his words, Ava's head snapped up away from the seemingly endless river of blood to look at his face. His usually olive complexion was ashy, washed out from the lack of blood while his eyes slowly began to turn glassy. And it was then, truly in that moment, in which the panic that Ava had managed to keep buckled down in the pit of her stomach began to rise, bubbling to the service. Her own hands began trembling, an uncontrollable shuddering wracking her limbs as she kept the pressure on the gunshot wound. The bullet hadn't exited cleanly, it was somewhere in his chest, probably a rib and there was nothing she could do and she knew it would not be an easy passing. It would be hours of agony, of struggle just for a breath and a deep ache in the chest that burned like the sun.

You can't do this to me. You can't abandon me here.

"Only when I try to lie to you," She admitted freely before giving a small slap as his eyes slipped shut. "The bullet, it's embedded in a rib. I can't…I can't do anything. I've stopped the bleeding, but you could have internal damage and I just—"

"Don't." He warned. "Just don't."

Translation: Don't blame yourself. We all knew this was one of the two inevitabilities for us.

There, of course, weren't any tears. Both their faces were dry as the North Africa desert. They all knew the odds of actually surviving their assignments and those odds were never high, but somewhere deep within the recesses of her mind, Ava had always hoped they three would beat the odds, she, Aseal, and Herrick. They'd survived so much already, thumbing their nose at mortality so often that death…while always so close never seemed to touch them. However, the burning in her shoulder, the sharp paint shooting through her chest was the reminder of how true their unit name was.

"What do I do? Just tell me what to do." The spasms of his stomach were coming in quicker succession, a tell-tale sign of the coming end. Ava could feel them, tightening then relaxing then repeating; the precursor to the death rattle. "You're my C/O. Give me my orders."

"You fight," Aseal ordered. "You fight and go down fighting. Find Emmanuel; have them send a message to Control. You know the code—"

As steady as his breathy voice had been, Aseal broke off as his back spasming suddenly, coughs racked his body, blood coming up to coat his lips. Within seconds Ava had prepped the last of syrette of morphine, biting the cap between her teeth while quickly jabbing his wound. At the unexpected jab, she barely had time to stifle his yelp of pain with her free hand which wrapped around his jaw tightly. It was the last bit of morphine she had left, but it was too hard to watch him tremble and spasm in the dirt, blood everywhere.

If he was going to die, Ava decided, he wasn't going to feel a fuckin' thing.

"Fu'c," Aseal slurred after shrugging off her hand. "Giv'a man a bit o' warnin' 'ext 'ime."

There wasn't much talking, if any, after that. Nothing but Aseal's moans and groans filled the air of their hiding spot and that was that. Ava didn't have to wait long for the invertible, and it happened upon so quickly it caught even her by surprise. His body jerked as he coughed—blood filling his lungs, Ava assumed—the blood staining his mouth and white skin. There was not much she could do but watch the strange dance of death happen upon him, and Aseal's hand gripped tightly in her own she could only act as an anchor. His eyes fluttered, rolled in the back of his head and it was at that moment that Ava wished that she was religious.

I'm so fuckin' sorry.

It's hard to explain to someone who has never seen true death, but there is nothing glorious or awe-inspiring in the final death rattle. Noting romantic or mythic in hearing someone choke on their own blood and bile, unable to breathe and still aware. It was sickening, and was a sensation that left Ava feeling nothing but powerless as Aseal's grip began to slacken. Within moments his eyes stopped their unnatural fluttered to stay wide open, ever seeing while his grip went fully limp and when Ava finally dropped his hand his fingers unfurled on their own.

When the dead flesh hit the floor, it sounded like a shotgun.

How long she sat that, Ava wasn't sure and didn't care. Everywhere she looked was bloody, either Aseal's or her own and the smell of iron and dirt was nauseating. She didn't bother caring for her shoulder wound, not that it mattered because she could barely even feel it in the grand scheme of things. Without the worry of Aseal—who was dead, a voice reminded her—she could feel the dull pain on her face. She'd broken her nose; that much was clear when a bloodied hand barely touched the Grecian feature causing pain to explode behind her eyes. In spite of the pain being unexpected, it didn't fade quickly, it spread like wildfire across her cheekbones then down her jaw and neck before joining the throbbing twinge of her shoulder wound.

Of course none of that felt anything close to the hole in her chest. Physical pain wasn't even measurable to the mental anguish and strain she found herself under. Aseal was dead; Herrick, if unlucky, was a guest of the Gestapo and her…well, Ava was nursing a broken nose and hole in her shoulder somewhere underground Operation Troy was dead in the water. Following protocol, their civilian contacts—those who hadn't been caught—would have disappeared well into the French countryside with new names and papers.

She must have passed out herself, because the next thing Ava knew she was opening her eyes to the ceiling of the catacomb system, laid out on her back. Her clothes and skin stained red, her head spinning. How long she'd been there she wasn't sure. It felt as if it had only been moments but upon glancing at Aseal's body, she knew it might have been hours.

Fight.

"Fight," Ava muttered while she pushed herself to her knees. Within moments her hands were digging into the dirt floor, her eyes glassy. "Go down fighting."

With that mantra repeat in her head Ava didn't spare the corpse another look.

This wasn't just the burial of Aseal, but of herself as well.

…A few months later…

"Bitte! Bitte!"

The words were barely discernible as the German officer began choking on a mixture of blood and bile. He was young, no older than eighteen if Ava had to guess by the amount of baby fat that was still on his face. She could hardly understand the rushed mix of German and French, not that it really mattered what he said. The kid was, because that's really all he was, was begging. Using anything that would appeal to Ava's emotional sensibilities—for the sake of his mother, for his sisters, for his family—but it was laughable really.

And in the end it didn't matter. She was going to kill him.

"Bitte nein! Nei—"

The click of the trigger cut through the hysterics of the room while the short spray of bullets made quick work of the boy's skull, ripping through the bone like tissue paper. The loud crack echoed throughout the room as the body tumbled back, thumping against the wooden floor of the Gestapo station. There was a small twitch in the feet a few moments before Ava pounced, giving the body a good swift kick to the ribs before beginning to strip the body of supplies; Lugar ammunition, a few Francs and Reichmarks, a half smoked pack of cigarettes and an unused med pack. At the sight of the pristine med pack a grin morphed on Ava's otherwise grave face as she quickly scattered the pack's contents to grab the small recognizable syrette .

Bingo.

Within seconds the first rush of discovery wore off, leaving Ava to delicately place the syrette with her ever dwindling stash in her worn pack—adding the rest of the loot with it—before she gave the body another kick to make her way deeper into the station.

It'd been nearly five months since the demise of her team and that dreary night in the Paris catacombs when Ava had held Aseal's hand until the end. Things had very much changed. Time, it seemed to her at least, had begun to run differently. There was a distinction between then and now for her, and she knew deep within she wasn't the same person. The days blurred into one another, and the months had passed without so much a blink of the eye, the things they Maquis only seemed to track were kills and occupation days. Nothing else mattered and it didn't take long for Ava to adapt as she moved between the various cells. She was like a ghost, passing between the groups, going where she wanted and welcomed all the while contact between her and London grew even sparser.

Her brutality had become revered.

Her boots clicked-clacked on the wooden floor as she moved past the bodies on the ground and the two Southerners who were destroying the station radio; they didn't even bother to look up as they butted the machine. Papers littered the floor, drenched in a mixture of watered down gasoline and cheap liquor ready for their escape. Ava paid it no mind, walking carelessly over the mess, passing through the busted file room door and was greeted with the stench of dried ink and more paper. Before her, frantically digging through one folder after another like a maniac was her usually calm partner Zus.

"Find anything?"

"Yes," He replied icily without stopping. "They have paperwork on everyone. All the reports are officially signed by the witnesses and families. It's fucking crazy…"

Zus Devere, as Ava had come to find, was one of the more morally ambiguous fighters. He was lanky, thin with a wide jaw, sharp features and dark hair. From what she had managed to suss out from others, he'd been raised in the south and had come from a well off family that owned a small publishing house. The heads of the Devere family were said to have been a pair of particularly outspoken (and, importantly enough, influential) anti-Nazis even before '39. With that information Ava hadn't been surprised to hear that shortly after Vichy became law, that all assets seized; the family arrested and taken to Saint-Sulpice-la-Pointe. Zus had been the only one to escape, surviving solely on his ability to forge the bureaucracy's paperwork.

When it came down to it, Ava supposed, he was nothing more than a war profiteer, lower than the low. Coincidentally, it was that sort of work that had led Ava to him and in the long run it'd been exceedingly useful to have a forger in her pocket.

"Everyone wants to be a better Nazi than Hitler," Ava shrugged. "Vous le savez."

"Oui, je le sais."

The conversation died off as each continued their riffling through the seemingly endless neatly stacked rows of reports. Neither truly could be shocked, not after all this time. Everyone wanted to survivor and if it meant handing someone else on a silver platter then so be it; self preservation above all else. Even the Maquis lived by that.

Someone has to have a stash here…ah there we go.

She could barely hold back her glee upon the discovery of a very illegal pack of American Lucky Strikes came out of the drawer she dumped on the desk. Chuckling a bit to herself, Ava popped one between her lips, lighting it all in the same stroke with her brass Zippo before taking that sweet first drawl. You had to count the little things during times of death and really, what was better than the warmth offered by tobacco?

Figuring her job of searching was done—really, Ava wasn't a searcher, she was a killer that was her niche—she took a moment to duck her head out the doorway. From where she stood, she could see that the two Southerners were finishing up their own jobs.

Quittin' time.

"They're almost done up front," she called ducking back into the room. "I'm calling it."

"Burn and run?"

"Oui."

Without another look back at the disheveled filing room, the duo made their way to the front of the station, past the dead bodies that had begun stiffening and the broken machinery. The Southerners who were already in the getaway car, the engine reviving show casing their anxiety.

"Who gets the honors?" Zus questioned watching as Ava took the last drag of her cigarette.

"You," she confirmed. "I had the last one. Just make it quick."

The station was ablaze and smoking within minutes as the dour of them made their silent getaway; the two Southerners in the front and Ava and Zus in the back. There was a collective sense of relief in the air with an apparent mission well done, despite the fact that neither duo trusted the other fully. The sky was moonless and for once, eerily devoid of any Luftwaffe or Allied bombers which allowed the group to travel in relative safety.

Ava would never admit it aloud, but she missed the death that flew above.

Rolling her shoulders, Ava forced herself to slouch lower into the torn up seats, unzipping her jacket. It was stifling despite the chilly breeze coming through the rolled down windows. It was risky to venture into Vichy territory—they didn't know it as well, didn't have the same contacts as she did in the occupied zone—and even though they both had risked more than their necks, there was no appreciation from the Southerners. Sure, their distrust was understandable; Zus dealt in the black market and Ava had her…reputation. Neither of the duo were the same breed as the rest of the partisans.

Well, what's done is done. Least got a bit of fun out of it though.

With shotgun was held haphazardly on her lap and her pistol in its unbuttoned holster on her side, Ava allowed her eyes to flutter shut. She could feel her lost shot of morphine wearing off, leaving her feeling sluggish. She trusted Zus to stay vigilant for the both of them. With one last look at the sky, she let everything drift away.

"Fichez le camp!"

At the grunt, Ava vaulted out of her light slumber, her hand wrapped tightly around her shotgun that found itself posed at the ready by muscle memory alone. Instead of meeting a blaze of bullets from German soldiers, she saw the two Southerners holding their own guns on them and no Krauts in sight.

"Get out," one of them spoke in heavily accented English.

When the words registered, it felt like the air removed from Ava and Zus' lungs. Both of them had their guns posed on the Southerners, and it was clear to all that within only a few seconds things could go from bad to worse. From the corner of her eye, Ava could see Zus' finger twitch with the need to pull his pistol's trigger. She felt the same need; it was hard to fight the gut reaction that she had long relied on, what she had ingrained in herself for survival. Instead she simply sighed, propping her shotgun on her shoulder, showing no resistance but not budging.

"Why?"

We don't have time for this petty bullshit.

"New orders," the English speaker answered. He was plump, which a bushy mustache and dark beady eyes and thick neck. The war rationing didn't seem to harm him. "Your work here is finished."

"The agreement was 2 kilos behind the Line," Zus interjected, still not lowering his pistol. "We're not even close to that."

"We could get caught," Ava broke in. "We could sing like canaries."

"We can shoot you just as easily," the plump man threw back. "Now get out. You're only a kilo from the North. If you leave now you should pass it before day break."

The arguing wasn't worth a potential shoot out. There wasn't a guarantee both of them would make it out alive. Then again, Ava reasoned, there wasn't a guarantee they'd make it North without getting caught or blundering into some sort of trouble. The patrols were more frequent now, the Germans more on edge. The rats were realizing they were on a sinking ship.

"Fin," Ava relented pushing down Zus' pistol. "Grab your shit."

Within seconds the duo found themselves out of the car, standing in weeds up the kneecaps as they watched the Southerners drive off in the opposite direction. Huffing, Ava pulled out a cigarette from the pack she'd nixed earlier, offering one to Zus (who declined, typical) before lighting her own. The situation had definitely not become her ideal, but it could have been worse.

Not really sure how it could be worse, but it could.

"C'est des conneries."

"What would I do," Ava drawled flatly, "Without your talent for stating the obvious?"

"I don't think you get it," Zus insisted. "We'll never make it across without papers. We'll raise too much suspicion, us two."

Ava just rolled her eyes and adjusted her hold on her pack before slinging her shotgun over her shoulder. The heavy weight was a welcomed reassurance considering the situation. How they were gonna get out of it was a mystery to her, but instead of bitching about it like a child, Ava went for a solution. Shuffling around for a moment until she found a relatively weed free area where she squatted down on her haunches to spread out her silk map. Zus, ever the shadow, crouched down beside her and pulled out a torch. After a quiet moment of contemplation and fudging estimations Ava quickly pointed out their general area.

"Alright we're here, obviously. But if we got half a kilo north this way," she walked her finger over less than an inch. "We'll be off the common paths and relatively safe though it's out of the way. A bit more rugged, a bit more of a hassle for German patrols."

Zus angled the torch before asking, "How long before we reach division?"

She took a deep drag from her cigarette, fingering the silk nervously.

"Ideally I'd like to say a day, pushin' it with a day and a half but that's if we don't run into any trouble. If we can keep on schedule, even if we go on the safe side and take three, we should make it back before Emmanuel moves."

"If we're lucky," Zus snorted leaning his full weight on his rifle. "The patrols have doubled in the last few weeks and they'll likely increase them after what happened tonight. We were crazy to do this."

"Shut the fuck up," Ava finally barked while she shoved the map back into her coat pocket to stand. "They've got trouble with the Soviets in the East so don't worry your pretty little head. They'll be inexperience boys, all the competent ones will have left."

Instead of replying, Zus' face flushed in embarrassment. Truthfully it was easy for Ava to forget how young he was despite what he'd lived through; only seventeen and killing but still really a child. As she waited for Zus to pack up his torch and adjust his pack and rifle, Ava took the last few puffs of her cigarette. When he was finally ready, she flicked the butt into the grass and zipped her jacket up to her throat then stalked off, Zus following her like an obedient puppy dog.

"I'm sure Emmanuel can't wait to have us back acting as couriers and bait."

"Oh oui," he responded dryly as they trekked on. "Let's not make that connard wait for us any longer than he has to."

"Yeah, well without that arse you'd probably be in a noose," Ava demonstrated with an imaginary rope around her own neck, knocking shoulders. "He saved your skinny neck."

Zus didn't even bother to contradict her.

When she was just a child, Ava's mother constantly told her stories of the Paris of her youth, and of the country's lush and war marked rolling countryside that was a sea unto itself. Expectedly, France wasn't anything like those stories. Instead of beauty there was death, a countryside drenched in blood and shallow graves. There was nothing breathtaking about the country unless you were to count the FLAK that lit up the sky like puffs of Black Death.

There wasn't any change in Ava's view as they she and Zus made their way between the closely growing trees and underbrush towards, where they assumed, was their camp. Through the high pine trees, they could just catch glances of the pregnant low hanging clouds. Every so often the sky lit up as lightning flashed; thunder rolled in thick waves, vibrating the ground. Within twenty minutes they were at the outskirts of the 'camp' and its sentries, all in company giving a nod of recognition before allowing the duo to pass the lines towards the center. They parted soon enough, with Zus choosing to make his way over to a group of men after muttering something that sounded suspiciously like I have to ask them about a horse, leaving Ave on her lonesome; though that didn't last for long.

"Well, it's nice to see you survived at least."

Emmanuel Frenany, the man shaking her hand, was a clean-cut sort of fellow in his mid-thirties, with wheat colored hair and a face of sharp kept beard. The undisputed leader of his resistance group, he had pulled his fighters together when it had nearly crumbled due to lack of leadership and direction. He had taken a group of disorganized boys and made them all into fighters. Beyond that simple fact though, he had been in lieutenant French army before its surrender in June 1940, and chose to retreat into the countryside instead of becoming a POW or Vichy pawn. In the field he worked like a machine, concise and unforgiving.

"We weren't sure you'd make it back in time," He made a gesture for her to sit. "It's good you're back in one piece. It would've been something terrible to have lost you and your pup."

Ava let out a bark of laughter.

"I don't think he'd appreciate that nickname," she mused while plopping down on the stump. "But you're lucky we made it back at all, those bastards left us on our own without taking us across the Line."

"You two behave very different from the rest of us," Emmanuel said though he remained standing, cigarette burning in the corner of his mouth. "The Southerners just aren't used to your…tactics, you know?"

Instead of replying Ava simply hmm'd in reply, busying herself with grabbing a cigarette from her jacket pocket. The stress that had built along her shoulder and spine was slowly lessening the longer she sat still. For once she didn't find herself on edge, waiting for the inventible attack. If anything she was in the safest place she could be in

"You should know," Emmanuel began delicately, "that there have been some…ah, developments concerning you and him."

Well, Ava stopped her search for smokes, there goes that peace.

"Developments, huh?"

"London got in contact with us, and from what we can gather from the broken message is that Troy is dead and you have new orders I assume," Emmanuel explained inhaling a large amount of smoke from his cigarette, some of it seeping out his nostrils. "Jedburghs are to be dropping in soon, so I'll assume Troy was a dry run for this large-scale op. They must have learned from your team's mistakes."

"At least someone did," Ava chuckled, giving a weak smile. "So what I'm supposed to do? Play messenger? Wander France aimlessly?"

Emmanuel shook his head. "No. I do have something for you."

There had been a time when her attitude hadn't always been so insufferable. Reaching into the breast pocket of his coat, he pulled out a thick sealed envelope, holding it out to her, motioning for her to take it.

"Your new orders," He explained as Ava grabbed the envelope. "For your eyes only—obviously I assume that must mean yours and Zus."

Without sparing the parcel a look, she shoved it into her breast pocket of her own coat. Emmanuel's words weighed heavily on her mind, though Ava couldn't say she hadn't seen it coming. Troy had fallen apart months ago, and Control wasn't going to waste what information they had learned from her team's cock-up. The only thing that seemed fishy was why it had taken so long for her mission to finally be put to rest. Sighing heavily, Ava heaved herself from the stump and moved her pack from the ground to her earlier seat. She really hated to break the news to Zus; she wasn't sure if he'd even come with her.

"You've helped us more than you know, Ava. More than most out there," He gestured towards his fighters with his head while grasping her forearm in a tight hold, "Would like to admit. I hope one day when, dieu voulant, this war is over we'll meet again."

"You're a good man Emmanuel, a good leader," Ava admitted truthfully, grasping his forearm as he was hers. "Vive la France."

"Vive la liberte."

Author's Note: Oh god this was so long? I don't even know why I'm attempting to keep anything going, I'm a grad student and I write stuff all the time but I'm determined to finish this (and post it). Love it? Hate it? Not feeling either way about it? Review please.

Also, some terms used in this chapter:
The Line: Also known as the green line, was the boundary between the free zone in the South and the occupied zone controlled by the German Army in the North. It was fixed at the Armistice of 22 June 1940, after the fall of France.

Jedburghs: Personnel of the British SOE, US OSS, Free French IOCB, and the Dutch and Belgian Armies who were dropped in by parachute into Nazi-occupied France, Holland, and Belgium to conduct sabotage and guerrilla warfare, and to lead the local resistance forces into action against the Germans.

Control/London: SOE/OSS headquarters in England during the war.