STRIKE WITCHES: TACTICAL TROLLING

"Why didn't you ask if he wanted to borrow Patton's gloves while you were at it?"

You turn to see Minna looking at you from the doorway.

"Don't you at least put on pants for staff meetings?"

Minna snorts. "It makes all the old men uncomfortable; they can't multi-task between staring and thinking."

You shrug.

"According to Charlotte, you and yours solve that problem by not thinking at all."

You snort derisively enough to cover any signs of weakness.

"And you came all the way up to my office to make enemies with the Vice-Marshall of the RAF Fighter Command."

"I what."

"That was Trafford Leigh-Mallory, genius. Vice-Marshal of Fighter Command."

"Oh. Okay. Why is the room spinning? Nevermind." You feel like throwing up and imploding at the same time.

"Oh, don't feel bad," she says airily. "So nice of you to save a damsel in distress. You've got a real knack for it, don't you? It always turns out so well."

You seethe. You just pissed off God's adjundant on her behalf and she's giving you shit for it. "You have my report," you say hotly, leaving the "am I dismissed?" implied.

"I don't have the half of it," Minna says. She sighs, rubbing her temples, and you marvel at the woman you see before you. None of the frenzied wrath or shock or emotion you saw in the day prior - just rock-solid efficiency and some exasperation. "Is there anything else you wanted to tell me, pilot?"

Wat say?

"Actually, I need to file a flight plan for tonight. With your permission, I'm heading back to Christchurch."

"Well. It's been nice knowing you, Lieutenant."

You frown. "Me and my crew are picking up my things."

Minna glares at you. "And why would you be doing that?"

"Because we're staiiiiaaaah fuck."

Minna keeps glaring. "Sakamoto has big ears. I might have to trim them." From the plain irritation in her tone you guess it's an empty threat. At the very least she doesn't suspect that you were eavesdropping.

You think.

"Very well. Get the paper on my desk and I'll stamp it. Is that all?"

"Yes sir."

You think you see a hint of disappointment in her eyes, but it's gone in a moment. "Very well. Dismissed."

You salute. "Jawhol, Commandant." Minna's mouth drops open at your sudden and unexpected display of subordination.

That lasts about two seconds, before you spin on your heel and stomp away with a perfectly executed goose-step. You hear the memo pad whistling through the air a second to late to duck, and it smacks you in the back of the head smartly.

Totally worth it.

What now? Possible exits include:

To the Kitchen

To the Lounge

To your bedroom

To somebody else's bedroom

Snatching up Minna's memo pad, you go sprinting down the hallway as fast as possible. You've got a truly wicked idea for how to return it later and get some (more) of your own back, but for now, you have a flight to Christchurch to prepare for.

That means sleep. But first, food. There's some carrot casserole in the kitchen that's calling to you, and you think it's time to devour it.

As you approach the kitchen, you hear outraged voices. Well, one outraged voice. A rather squeaky, high-pitched voice. Patton.

"-egless cripple, I'm gonna rip off his stilts and ram them up his nostrils. See how much bullshit we get out of him then!"

"Has the great Patton met his match?" answers a German voice.

"Like hell! The day I'm out-maneuvered by stumpy is the day I build a fort and sit in it!"

"That works sometimes, you know."

"The hell it does!"

"It took me forever to get into Tobruk."

"But you got in! Just like I'm going to get the POINT into the skull of that limey bastard..."

The voices diminish, and you enter the kitchen once it's safe.

You eye the refrigerator dubiously, and try the cabinets first. To your delight there's plenty of bread to be had, and a bratwurst soon reveals itself. Soon after you're fixing yourself a truly massive sammich.

"You again."

You look over your shoulder and see Charlotte. She's holding a bag of groceries.

"The officers do the shopping?"

"Minna doesn't like having too much male personnel on base," Charlotte explains, setting the bag on the big mess table.

You grunt, and bite into your sammich. "Minna doesn't seem big on males, period." You waggle your eyebrows suggestively.

"Or so Perrine hopes," Charlotte says. "Ian better hope so, too."

You shrug. "What's the fallout from the attack last night? Politically."

Charlotte shrugs. "The usual. Everybody got hit, so they're all blaming each other's strategies for the failure and claiming their own pet projects would have saved the day." She plops down in the chair opposite the one you've claimed, and stares at you long enough to make you feel awkward.

You chew your prize grimly, staring right back.

"What, you want some of my bratwurst?"

Charlotte doesn't blink.

"Can't have any."

She doesn't *breathe.*

"I deserve a single sammich, god dammit!"

"So I hear you're flying to Christchurch," Charlotte says.

"No you don't."

"Your crew told me."

You say something incredibly unflattering about your crew into your sammich. Charlotte reaches into her bosom and produces a small, folded piece of paper. She slides it across the table to you. "There's some things I could use in Christchurch. I've already given some government pay-slips to Ian - I trust he can keep them safe."

You grunt, and look at the list. Various foodstuffs - only to be expected - tools, and other sundry small items that will be easy to cram into the Widow somewhere. And-

"-a pair of handcuffs? A stethoscope? And a silk robe? What the hell is this? I can't exactly get this at the PX, you know."

"You'll find a way."

"In a few hours? No, I don't think so. Not on my salary, at any rate."

"You will," says a smooth, cold voice from behind you, "-because Charlotte convinced me it was a demanding enough task to apologize for almost ruining my life."

You blink. "Perrine is right behind me, isn't she."

"And she's got a gun!" Charlotte says, beaming at you.