Author's Notes: Hey there, so… Give my shit a shot, I know you wanna. Who can say no to a nice Nazi killin' story? Well, I can't.
Disclaimer: I'd be really honored to own em all, but sadly don't, I'm just borrowin' em for a bit of playin' and will gladly return em without too much damage.
Verräterin
Paris, France March 1945
20-03-1945, 03-24am
"I still don't trust that little bitch." Wicki mutters silently. He is in the back of the strange convoy; the German girl and their Lieutenant up front followed closely by his friend Hugo Stiglitz, then come the three PFCs and he and Donny Donowitz bring up the rear.
"Damn, me neither." says the Bostonian, "What's going on with Stiglitz anyways? He's practically drooling over that broad." Wicki huffs. He feels kind of biased, because the German is the only person he would call a good friend out of the Basterds. He isn't going to talk badly of him before he has the time to talk to him in private.
"They obviously know each other." he answers therefore.
"Ain't that chick some kind of famous?" Donny asks, because even though they live mostly in the forests of France, even they stumbled across a few posters with this girl's face on it. Wicki laughs merrily.
"You could say that. That girl is the most important and famous singer in Germany."
"Ain't she like. Too young?" the Bostonian looks baffled.
"Yes. Yes, she is. But aren't we too young to have fought that much?" he retorts. All the other man can give for an answer is a snort, because frankly, those are the truest words he has heard in a while. The rest of the walk is spent in silence on both men's parts, because they aren't friends or anything; there isn't really any topic they could talk about. Sure, Wicki likes baseball, quite a bit actually, but he – or any other Basterd, for that matter – isn't too keen to have a discussion on that with the Bostonian. They all know how that is going to end. So, minding their own business, the both men march on next to each other wordlessly.
"What is it with your Sergeant and his desire to burn holes into my back with his stare, Lieutenant Raine?" Mariza asks matter-of-factly after bearing the obsessive abuse of her backside for a good of 15 minutes.
"Well, dear, our Donny 'ere ain't that big o' a fan o' tha' brother o' yours, see?" the Southerner laughs, "Ol' Donowitz ain't a fan o' any Nazi fucker still fuckin' round anywhere on 'is goddamn Earth, really, bein' honest 'bout tha'."
"Wie geht's dir?" she asks, turning towards Stiglitz, who still hasn't spoken to her. Not that she'd expect him to talk much, but one can try, can't they?
"Hm." is all, apart from a gesture at his fellow men, that she gets for an answer, "Und wie war es für dich so?"
"Damn it, Stiglitz, stop it with all tha' fuckin' kraut talkin', ya too, sweetie!" the Lieutenant interrupts her answer, "Tha' ain't really the smoothest thin' for fucks sake. We dun' even know if blondie 'ere is on our side, damnit."
"You don't know I'm on your side?" the woman huffs infuriated as she comes to a halt abruptly, "Why in god's name would you not know that? I am here, in the middle of the fucking night, in a forest with a bunch of American soldiers in German war territory. My own brother would happily murder me if he knew what his precious little sister really thinks of him and his beliefs. So, now I ask you again, do you not know which side I am on?"
A/N: Gods, I feel really bad for not updating in such a long time, but I am... I have problems which sometimes just get in the way of things and I sincerely apologize to all of you. Well. If you still are with me, I guess. :)
Wie geht's dir? How are you?
Und wie war es für dich so? And how has it been for you?