Log Title: Palm Wine Evening
Location: Mawa Camp, Sierra Leone, Africa
Date: 23 February 2012
Summary: A few of the Cobra officers find themselves in a quiet bush camp off the beaten track in Sierra Leone with a few hours to kill and a jug of palm wine.
Mawa Camp - Sierra Leone
A few miles south of the city of Kenema, a cluster of small, single-story concrete buildings sits about a kilometer from the river. Workers in Cobra uniforms operate construction machinery, tearing down the formerly flooded buildings while others build new ones on the other side of the clearing.
The sun's deep orange rays bleed across the sky as sunset approaches. Construction work has subsided for the day, and the workers have gone back to nearby Kenema city for the night. The only people remaining are a handful of locals gathered around a campfire, talking quietly in Krio or Mende, and one white soldier, drowsing in a lawn chair.
Major Bludd reclines in a lawn chair in front of the single habitable building at the camp. A second, folded, lawn chair, rests against the front wall of the building. A boonie hat covers Bludd's face and his hands are folded over his stomach.
A jeep approaches from Kenema City and Interrogator gets out of the passenger side. He thanks the Viper driver and walks over to the Major. Seeing the extra lawn chair, he takes it and quietly sets it up, so as not to disturb the resting man.
Bludd slowly raises one hand to lift the hat from his face and peer at Interrogator. "H'lo," he says.
Interrogator says, "Greetings, Sir. The Medi-Vipers tell me that everything is proceeding as planned in Kenema. I have collected their data to add to the report to Typhoid I was working on from our main camp."
Major Bludd grunts in acknowledgement. "Reports," he mutters, repositioning the hat over his face. "Don't y'ever get tired o'writin' reports?"
"Sometimes." Admits Interrogator. "I did promise Typhoid I would keep her up to date." He sits in the lawn chair and leans back a little.
"Yer very diligent," Bludd replies, stretching out his legs in front of him. "Better'n some in this outfit, I should say."
"Good evenin' sah," comes a strong voice from the edge of the camp.
Interrogator says, "Thank you." He looks towards the location of the voice and straightens up a bit.
Bludd holds out a hand to Interrogator. "Salright," he says quietly. "Evenin-o, Musa," greets, louder, as a barechested, dark-skinned man approaches them.
Musa grins, his white teeth flashing in the dying light, and takes from behind his back a round-bottomed bottle which appears to have been made from a gourd. "I get gift foh you," he says, holding out the bottle proudly before him.
Interrogator relaxes as he sees the man and hears the Major recognise him. He says, "Hello." To the newcomer.
"What's this, then?" Bludd sits up in his chair, putting the hat back properly on his head.
Musa offers Interrogator a grin and a "Good evenin, sah" before turning back to Bludd. Apparently he's gotten used to the presence of masked and/or helmeted Cobra operatives in his midst. "Poyo," he replies, coming right up to Bludd and practically placing the bottle in his lap. "Fresh dis mornin', sah."
Interrogator asks, "What is poyo?"
Major Bludd's face splits into a grin. "I wondered when one o' you bastards'd get round t'bringin' me some o'this," he drawls. He motions Interrogator near. "You gotta give this a go," he insists, accepting a white plastic cup from Musa. "It's palm wine. signature drink of Sierra Leone." He pours some of the gourd-bottle's contents, a milky, pungent substance, into the cup, and holds it out for Interrogator. The liquid smells oddly like a combination of egg salad, vinegar, and meat.
Interrogator says, "Thank you." As he reaches for the cup. He smells it and pulls a straw out of one of his belt pouches and takes a small sip. He lets it rest in his mouth for a moment before swallowing.
Major Bludd takes a healthy swig of the wine in his cup and swallows it with some mild difficulty. "S'an acquired taste," he admits wheezily, coughing briefly and smiling up at Interrogator.
In the meantime, Musa has found another chair and placed it beside Bludd's. He drops into it, and Bludd hands him the poyo bottle.
Interrogator says, "They say Vodka is an acquired taste too. This is...interesting" He takes another small sip and shakes his head.
Major Bludd chuckles. "Vodka, yeah, I'd agree with that." He lifts his cup and gestures with it. "They don't export this stuff -- can't say as anybody who couldn't make it on their own'd want it -- so the only place y'can drink it's in-country." He takes another drink, this time without coughing. "Been a long time since I've had it." He shoots a grin over at Musa, who's helped himself to a cup of the stuff. "Thank you," he tells the man in Krio.
Musa nods his head enthusiastically. "Your man there," he points to Interrogator, "not come here before. Must have poyo before go away."
Interrogator takes another sip and says, "This is one of the things I enjoy about Cobra, being able to see the world and try new things. Thank you, Musa. I wish I had some vodka so I could let you try that."
Major Bludd laughs at Interrogator's comment. "They should put that on the recruitment brochures," he jokes. He finishes the wine in his cup and motions to Musa to pass him the bottle.
Musa nods enthusiastically to Interrogator. "No worry," he replies. "Drink dis good poyo. It make you ..." he scrunches his eyes shut in concentration for a moment. "...it make you 'mellow'." He looks to Bludd for confirmation as he hands him the bottle.
Interrogator nods and says, "It certainly does." He takes a larger sip this time and coughs a little. "I better stick to smaller sips, it seems I am not quite use to it yet."
"Take 'er easy, mate," Bludd advises, pouring himself another cupful. "We got all night." He sips at the overfull cup, then hands the bottle back to Musa. "All night," he repeats, sinking back into his chair.
Interrogator says, "It is nice to be away from all the noise in the main camp. It seems like there are always people awake there, and not just the guards either."
Indeed, even the group of locals has moved on, and the only sounds are those of the area wildlife. Various insect sounds, tree frogs, and the like buzz and chirp in the early evening air.
"After the Decepticons' machines were destroyed," Bludd explains, "I had planned to disappear for a week or two. Take me a nice holiday, get into some serious mischief." He grins, waggling his eyebrows at Musa and Interrogator. "But I wound up getting that damned pneumonia. Medical staff wouldn't let me outta their sight." He pouts for an instant before his palm-wine-induced grin reasserts itself. "So this is the next best thing, I suppose." He looks around the quiet camp. "I'll get into the mischief another time," he vows.
"Everybody need rest," Musa agrees.
Interrogator asks, "Where would you have gone with the planet flooded and all the highlands covered in refugees?"
"Oh, I kept in touch with some mates in Switzerland," Bludd replies. "There's a club," he asserts seriously, pausing a moment to take another drink. "There's a club that was open, to people with money. They were above water, and the owner's about the most selfish bastard y'could hope t'meet. Sure'n he'd stolen most of his supplies, an' he had rough blokes t'keep the unwashed masses at bay, but it was there." He stares into his cup, then shrugs. "Takes all kinds."
Interrogator says, "It sounds like it would have been nice. I have an apartment building in Moscow that flooded. All these years Serji has laughed at me for having flood insurance on it. The last we spoke, he was not laughing. He manages the building for me and most of his family lives there."
"Yeh, I was lookin' forward t'just ..." Bludd waves a hand in vague circles. "Jus' lettin' me hair down, so t'speak. Don't do that often." He chuckles as Interrogator describes the insurance. "Good on ya," he declares. "Who knew the whole damn world'd flood? Made out alright there, y'did."
"I 'member," says Musa, looking at Bludd, "dat time you had de malaria so bad you talk to nobody man." He laughs, adding. "Why you get sick alla time, poo-mui?"
"Hey, I survived that," Bludd returns. "Bush medicine probably saved me life, but I still made it, didn't I? Takes more than a little bug t'take me out. "
Interrogator says, "Malaria? You were lucky to survive that. I am glad I stay covered all the time and that we packed mosquito nets."
"Yeah, I've 'ad it twice," Bludd affirms. "The deadly one and the makes-ya-wish-y'were-dead one. An' that's why we've brought those treated nets." He takes another swig of wine. "Don't want a repeat."
Musa grins at them. "You scream good, poo-mui," he puts in.
Bludd grunts. "You'd scream too, if somebody was twistin' yer back inta a pretzel."
Interrogator takes a sip and asks, "How long have you two known each other?"
"Met Musa here back in ... hell, when was it? 2000?" He gazes helplessly at Interrogator. "I don't remember. Long time ago."
"You such a poo-mui first time in Salone, Bludd," Musa laughs.
Bludd points a finger at the man. "Don't you mention the runny-belly, y'bastard."
"Don't have to now!" Musa falls back into his chair, overcome with laughter.
Interrogator asks, "Do I want to know about this 'runny-belly'?"
Musa's laughter grows; the empty plastic cup falls to the dirt from his hand.
Bludd scowls, knocking back the last of the palm wine in his own cup and leaning over to snatch the bottle from Musa. "No," he says, pouring himself another dose, "y'don't." He looks up. "Only reason you didn't get it is 'cos we brought our own water supply."
Major Bludd adds, "Everybody gets runny-belly their first visit to Salone."
Interrogator says, "I was in Kenya for a time and got sick there from drinking the water. It was rough, but Sefu helped me through it. I have no desire to repeat that."
"Smart man," Bludd says.
Musa wipes tears from his eyes and picks up his cup. "Poo-mui good at getting runny-belly," he says, grinning.
Interrogator asks, "Will the water be bad in our next stop as well? I must say I miss indoor plumbing."
Major Bludd chuckles. "Y'c'n pretty much assume the water's bad everywhere," he says, "if only 'cos of the floods. The plumbin' bit can't be helped. We're tryin' t'put things back t'gether fer folks. 'Til we do that, things'll be bad."
Interrogator says with a sigh, "It will be." He takes another sip from the cup and says, "I am surprised we have not heard more about the Autobot's or G.I. Joe's attempts to help with the situation."
"Personally," Bludd says, "I don't care what they do. The States've said we c'n sod off with our help, and who knows what the robots think." He leans over and tops off Interrogator's cup of palm wine. "Quit fussin' an' relax," he insists. "Que sera sera. What will be will be."
"You do good for Salone," Musa puts in, smiling at Interrogator. "Salone people happy for you here."
Interrogator says to Musa, "We are happy to help." To the Major he says, "Yes, Sir. We get so little time to relax and enjoy ourselves."
"Too right!" Bludd grins. "I fully intend t'finish this bottle o'poyo t'night." He hefts the bottle in his hand.
"So share," Musa insists, shoving his empty plastic cup at Bludd.
"Bugger off, y'bastard," Bludd laughs, pouring out more palm wine for the native.
Interrogator chuckles and says, "As long as we do not have to be up too early tomorrow, we might as well." He takes a larger sip of the wine and this time doesn't cough. "I think I am getting use to this."
"Ah, y'c'n sleep on the drive back over t'Freetown," Bludd says. "'At's what I'll prolly do."
"Your boss say you can work hung over?" Musa asks, grinning.
"/I/'m th'boss," Bludd replies, jerking a thumb at his own chest. "An' I say we c'n be bloody well hung over, so yeh!"
Interrogator laughs andd says, "We do deserve a break every now and then."
"Damn roight!" Bludd cries, slamming his hand down on the arm of the flimsy lawn chair and nearly upsetting it. He spends a moment spluttering barely-intelligible curses in several languages. "I designed the op 'at saved th'soddin' world, didn't I? I'm a bloody damn hero, ain't I? An' you, yer puttin' together those... those ..." He waves a hand, searching for words. "Those messages yer doin'. That's important, g'dammit." He runs out of steam for the moment, staring into his cup of palm wine. After a moment, he takes a drink, unable to think of what else to do with the thing in his hand.
Major Bludd, Interrogator, and a dark-skinned native man sit in lawn chairs in front of the only completed and liveable building in the camp. A bottle made from a gourd of some kind is occasionally passed between them. Loud voices periodically ring out from the group. The camp is otherwise deserted.
Tele-Viper 911 has spent a while looking for the Major, just to check in and see if there is anything she needs to do. Her helmet is off, and she has a rather large bump in her cheek. When she leans over and spits in the dirt, showing the bulge is actually a large plug of chewing tobacco. She finally finds the Major, and Interrogator, "Evening, Sirs." When she isn't speaking, her teeth are working away at the tobacco.
Interrogator says, "Good evening to you." He sips something from a cup in his hand through a straw. When we spoke last, I forgot to mention the explosives installed in the helmet. I figured since it was not armed that you should not have any problems with it."
Major Bludd stares at the Tele-Viper for several seconds without recognising her. "Evenin'," he says. His gaze snaps over to Interrogator. "Explosives?"
Tele-Viper 911 nods slightly to Interrogator, "I found them. Had a b*tch of a time getting them disabled, and removed..." She pauses to spit some more tobacco juice on the ground. She looks at Interrogator, "I'm not going to ask why you walk around with a small bomb on your head... but I think you are insane."
Interrogator waves his free hand and says, "So nobody tries to remove it from my head, in case I am captured. My identity must remain a secret."
"Y'd rather 'ave yer 'ead blown clean off?" Bludd splutters.
Interrogator says sagely, "From what I have seen of prison, a quick death is preferable to a lifetime of that."
Major Bludd snorts, half laughing, half choking until he finds his voice again. "Lad, y'don't /stay/ in prison! Y'escape!"
Tele-Viper 911 smirks, "You have an odd sense of priorities. Life is always preferable. Even in jail, escape is possible..." She grins, "I was in an Afghani Camp, when they were at war with the Soviets, and yet, here I am."
Major Bludd glances over to the Tele-Viper. "Tortured?" he asks.
Tele-Viper 911 nods slightly, at the Major's questions, "A little..." Her voice is soft, and she won't admit to how bad it was.
Interrogator says, "It was the KGB who were worried about me spilling secrets if I was captured. I suppose now that I am with Cobra, I could remove them and not tell Serji."
Major Bludd shakes his head. "Yer strong, then," he says to the Tele-Viper. He takes another swig of wine, then realises he's holding the bottle in his hand. He holds it out to her.
"Who's Serji?" Bludd asks.
Tele-Viper 911 arches an eyebrow, than nods to the Major, and takes the jug. She spits out the entire plug of tabacco onto the ground, before taking a drink, and handing the jug back to Bludd. "By the way, Interrogator, do you want to save me the trouble of discovering where the two Data Transmission lines go, or would you prefer to just tell me?" Not that she won't double check, no matter what he says.
Major Bludd takes the bottle back and rests it on his thigh. He stares at the Tele-Viper, realising with mild amusement that he has no idea what she's talking about to Interrogator. He chuckles to himself. Musa reaches over and reclaims the bottle of palm wine from him.
Interrogator says, "One should be to transmit data to Cobra and the other should be to transmit data to the KGB if I need to contact them for any reason. I do not send them classified Cobra information. Serji was the general I was the interrogation and psychological operations expert for. He retired when the Cold War ended."
Tele-Viper 911 nods slightly. She will of course try to get confirmation. She sits down, indian style on the ground, and reaches into a pouch. She pulls out a package of cigars, and she contemplates one. Not to smoke, but to chew on... Of course, if she drinks anymore, she'd just ruin the tobacco....
Major Bludd nods absently to Interrogator, his gaze on the bottle of palm wine in Musa's hand. "Torture's not a good subject t'talk about," he declares.
Interrogator says, "No, it is not. Only the most unskilled and lazy interrogators resort to it in my professional opinion."
"It will make people talk, if applied right." The Tele-Viper says softly. She puts the cigar away, without taking a bite to chew on. She glances at her right arm, and a long scar running along her forearm, from wrist to elbow, "Well placed hot metal sizzling ones flesh is hard to ignore, and not at least give out something, just to make the smell go away, not to mention the pain." She reaches her hand out to the Major, "May I have another drink, sir?"
Musa smiles at the Tele-Viper and passes the bottle back to Bludd, who hands it back to the young woman. "'At's nasty," he opines, looking at her wound. "I passed out after I got this," he gestures to his eyepatch. "But I still smelled like burnin' hair when I woke up."
Interrogator takes a sip from his cup and asks, "How did you lose your eye, Major, if you do not mind talking about it?"
Tele-Viper 911 shudders slightly at the reminder of the smell, and the pain. She mentally curses her photographic memory, and takes a *long* drink from the jug. She looks like she'd continue, but the taste makes her want to puke, so after only a few seconds, she stops, and hands the bottle back, with a small cough.
Major Bludd doesn't react to the Tele-Viper's reaction to the palm wine. "'S an acquired taste," he mentions.
Musa sits up at Interrogator's question.
"Shrapnel," Bludd says to Interrogator. "Barrel 'sploded, an' *crrk!*" He points a finger at his eyepatch. "Game over. Place was on fire, too, so I got burnt up a bit. They lef' me fer dead, those bastards." He scowls, gripping the plastic cup of wine tightly. "Th'kids took me boots, me guns, ever'thing." He takes a deep drink from his cup. "Wasted. All fer nothin'. F*kers." He crushes the empty cup in his hand.
Tele-Viper 911 nods slightly, starting to feel mellow. She doesn't drink much, not anymore. "Sounds like what the Sovyets usta do when the Moja... Mo... Afghanis... captured us... lef' us ta die" There is a touch of her native Ukrainian accent in her voice now. She sounds a little like the Baroness, but only because she comes from the same area.
Interrogator says to both of them, "That is too bad for both of you. I am sorry there is nothing I can do to help."
"Pah!" Bludd hurls the plastic cup, which travels in a lazy arc, trailing droplets of palm wine, and falls to earth, skittering in the dirt. "Y'know what's too damn bad?" He sits forward, leaning on the chair's arms, and tries to get up. "I was /helpin'/ somebody! Savin' some damn kid's life! I lost me eye, and th'Legion left without me, and I got bloody f-ing robbed by the damn kids filthy mates!" He's unable to get enough leverage to get out of the chair, and gives up the attempt. "Bloody filthy Africans!" he shouts, fists clenched. "They don't appreciate /nothin'/! Not a f-ing thing!"
Musa stares at Bludd uncertainly in the silence following the soldier's rant.
Tele-Viper 911 blinks, and glances at Musa, but she doesn't apologize to him for the Major's outburst. She than glances at Interrogator, and arches an eyebrow at him, making a slight motion back in the direction of the main Cobra Camp, silently asking him a question.
Interrogator gives the Tele-Viper a discreet slight nod and says calmly to the Major, "There are scum of all races, Sir. The people I have seen here seem to genuinely appreciate our aid."
Tele-Viper 911 forces herself to stand up, "Perhaps, Major, we should get back to the Camp, before the Techno-Vipers screw anything else up?"
Musa's expression softens somewhat as Interrogator speaks. "Some people, dey get angry from the drink," he tells Interrogator quietly. "Dis man, he good man, help my people. You too. But I know him a long time and I know: sometime he just get angry. People say tings dey not mean den."
Bludd seems not to notice any discomfiture his words may have caused, and glares at the Tele-Viper. "If they screw anything up, it's your 'sponsibility," he splutters. "An' I ain't goin' back t'Freetown 'til the mornin'."
Interrogator says to Musa, "I am glad you understand that." To the Major he asks, "Are you sure your men will not need you until then?"
Tele-Viper 911 frowns, but says nothing about Techno-Vipers not being in the Communications Division. She instead just asks the Major softly, "Would Miss DeCobray want this, Sir?" Come on Major, think of the Propaganda issues....
"They better not," Bludd says to Interrogator, leaning back in his chair again. "I tol' 'em I was gonna be gone fer a couple days." His gaze flicks to the Tele-Viper. He stares at her, his expression changing from one of anger to an indignant one and finally, slowly, to amusement. "Miss DeCobray," he retorts, "ain't bloody 'ere, is she? I ain't gotta answer t'her and I cert'nly ain't gotta answer t'/you/." He points to the ground. "This's /my/ operation, ain't it? I bloody well know what I'm doin'. So back off."
Musa stands slowly from his chair and moves over to Bludd. He hands him the mostly-empty bottle of palm wine. "Nah in dat, sah."
Bludd looks up guiltily at Musa. "Wi go si bak," he says quietly.
Interrogator says, "Just calm down for a moment, Sir."
Tele-Viper 911 frowns slightly, "No, Sir, she isn't here, and you do not have to answer to me. But, for the good of the mission, Sir?" She wonders if she should send the Baroness a message... She is supposed to be the ears of the Baroness....
Musa smiles, pausing to wave farewell to the others, then walks off into the bush.
Bludd watches Musa leave, then contemplates the wine bottle in his hand. He doesn't answer the Tele-Viper immediately, but tips the bottle back and drains the last of its contents. "This," he holds up the empty bottle, "ain't fer angry chat, y'see. It's s'posed t'make y'happy. So quit wi' th' makin' me angry. " He stares at each of them in turn. "Smile, g'dammit."
Tele-Viper 911 sighs softly, and than shrugs. She forces a smile, and mutters, "Of course..." Anything to keep the drunk from getting violent...
Interrogator nods and says, "As you wish, Sir."
Bludd chuckles at Interrogator. "Well, I can't /tell/ if /yer/ smilin'." He regretfully sets the empty wine bottle down beside his chair. "Pity we're outta wine," he adds.
He says pity. Iryna, the Tele-Viper, thinks it is probably a GOOD thing. She pulls her cigar out again, and takes a bite of it. While she chews, she returns the Cigar to the pouch she pulled it from, and sits back down.
Interrogator removes the straw from the cup he was drinking out of, rinses the straw with water from his canteen, and returns the straw to the belt pouch. He sets the empty cup on the ground beside the chair.
Major Bludd closes his eyes, replacing the boonie hat over his face again and folding his hands in his lap.
Tele-Viper 911 gets a good chew going, and spits some juice onto the ground next to her, and than asks, "So, instead of previous conversations...." SHe will talk anything, as long as she doesn't have to pick the topic.
Interrogator asks, "Do you have any more questions about the helmet?"
Major Bludd begins quietly humming 'Waltzing Matilda' to himself. He opens his eye a crack, peering obliquely at the Tele-Viper.
Tele-Viper 911 shakes her head, "None I can't figure out on my own, I imagine. Although, if there are anymore surprises waiting for me, it might be nice to know ahead of time."
Interrogator shakes his head and says, "There are none I can think of."
Major Bludd chuckles at something. "Whaddya wanna talk about, then?" he asks quietly, then resumes humming.
Iryna leans back on her hands that are placed about 18 inches behind her, just beyond shoulder-width apart, and she loosens her vest and jumpsuit, showing the plain grey t-shirt she is wearing under the purple jumpsuit, "I suggest we refrain from discussing anyone's past... as that appears to be a sore subject..." She tries to remember the latest band all the Vipers are begging for MP3's of, and arches an eyebrow, "So, whatdoya think of that new song from Katy Perry?" She doesn't listen to that crap, but, sooo many of the male Vipers do, just because they want to dream.
Interrogator says, "My gunners listen to her. She has a good voice, but I do not really like that style of music."
Major Bludd grunts. "S'smart," he says to the Tele-Viper. "I never heard of 'er."
Tele-Viper 911 just nods, and says softly, "Personally, music died after about 1880..."
"'M not an eighties fan," Bludd says. "Few mates like it, but they're young, y'know. Grew up listenin' to it."
Interrogator says, "The only modernish band I like is Pink Floyd."
Tele-Viper 911 clears her throat, "You look good for being 140 years old, Sir."
Major Bludd lifts the hat from his face so he can peer quizzically at the Tele-Viper. "Eh?" he says, succinctly.
Tele-Viper 911 continues softly, "I said *18* 80, not 1980." She shudders at the mere thought of synthisizers.
"Floyd's alright," Bludd opines, glancing to Interrogator. "I like th'Beatles, meself." He looks back at the Tele-Viper. "Eighteen eighty?" he echoes.
Tele-Viper 911 just nods, "I like the classics... Bach, Bethoveen, Mozart.... Tychovski, but of course, every one that was in the Soviet Army likes his works."
Interrogator says, "I like Tychovski, but my gunners do not. They would rather listen to Pink Floyd."
Tele-Viper 911 shrugs, "They obviously were dropped on their heads as babies." She can't believe anyone doesn't like Classical Music.
Major Bludd takes the hat off of his face and regards the Tele-Viper with a curious expression. "Never met someone so young who's so inta classical music."
Interrogator says, "Sometimes I think the same thing, but mostly it can be attributed to the generation gap. We do work well together and they are the best Mamba gunners Cobra currently has."
Major Bludd chuckles. "'S normal t'think yer mates've been dropped on their 'eads," he says. "Usedta think that about me best mate all th'time."
Tele-Viper 911 arches an eyebrow, "Like many of the people in Cobra's employ, I was hit with that chemical that slowed aging, and there were those time loops..." She shrugs, "I am actually 51, Sir." She smiles, "And I don't mind saying it, because I've been told I look half that." She glances at Interrogator, and shrugs, "They just lack taste... Give me their names, and I will make sure their next MP3 download request has some better quality music mixed in."
Major Bludd sits up. "Fifty-one? C'mon." He grins over at her. "Don't go tryina put one over on a drunk ol' man, eh?"
Tele-Viper 911 shrugs, "It is in my personnel file... Born Christmas Day, 1960." She shrugs, "My parents thought I was their little miracle from 'God'." She gives the word 'God' air-quotes.
Interrogator says, "They call themselves Big Shot and Gargoyle. Big Shot looks like he should be on a recruiting poster and Gargoyle has the left side of his face burned from not ejecting in time under a previous pilot."
Tele-Viper 911 nods, and files their names in her memory. She says nothing else, silently chewing her tobacco.
"You got a good dose o' that chemical then," Bludd replies. "Yer not much younger'n me after all, then." He tilts his head at her. "Sure y'don't like th'Beatles? 'Erman's 'Ermits?"
Tele-Viper 911 shrugs, "We didn't get alot of that type of music in the Soviet Union, growing up. I've heard the Beatles, and Elvis... but, I am not a fan of vocals, for the most part."
Interrogator says, "I have heard the Beatles."
Major Bludd frowns at the mention of the Soviet Union. "Yeh, I forgot ... they kept a lotta stuff from y'over there. Elvis's great too."
"It was a rather strange experience, after Miss DeCobray recruited me out of that camp I was in.... Suddenly I could own jeans... And I saw 'Star Wars'! That was a life changing movie!" says Iryna.
Interrogator says, "Star Wars was impressive. Personally, I did not like the prequels when they came out."
Major Bludd chuckles. "I bet it was strange fer ya. Musta been like landin' on an alien planet'r somethin'." He shrugs at the mention of Star Wars. "Good movie," he opines. "'Head o' its time. Ain't seen th'new ones."
Tele-Viper 911 seems to be almost drowsing where she is sitting. The Palm Wine is working on her.
Interrogator says, "I was glad I waited until it came out on DVD to see them."
Major Bludd nods slowly, absently. He places the boonie hat on his head and begins the process of getting cautiously out of his chair.
Tele-Viper 911 would prefer not to move. If curling up on the ground and falling asleep would not lead to her waking up with snakes, or worse, human snakes, sharing space with her, she might not even consider moving.
Interrogator slowly gets out of his chair and stumbles a bit before catching himself.
Major Bludd laughs as Interrogator staggers from his chair. "Lookit th'drunk lot of us!" he says, straightening uncertainly and standing quite still for several moments as he judges his own balance.
Tele-Viper 911 forces herself to stand, wobbling only a slight amount, "I'm not brunk. Just duzzed." she states firmly. "Wine's ok for a duzz... Vodka's better for getting brunk."
Interrogator says, "The good thing about the helmet is I will not have to deal with the sunlight tomorrow."
Major Bludd cackles. "She ain't brunk yet!" He makes his unsteady way toward the building which is, fortunately, mere feet behind his chair. "Oh, that's an advantage," he comments to Interrogator.
Tele-Viper 911 shrugs, and looks for the vehicle she caught a ride with, "What's drunk? I said I am not brunk..." She finally spots it, and goes to curl up in it, while the driver watches her, his Viper Mask hiding any smiles he might have.
Interrogator follows Major Bludd to the building, weaving slightly at first.
"I'd offer y'help," Bludd tells Interrogator, "but we'd prolly both fall daen."
Interrogator says, "We probably will. Do you think she will be all right in that vehicle?"
Major Bludd waves a hand. "She'll be fine. Leave th'door unlocked anyway." He very carefully lowers himself onto the nearest cot.
Interrogator says, "Yes, Sir." He disarms his helmet and removes it, setting it on the ground beside another cot. He keeps the ski mask like hood over his head as he lies down.