Metal Birds

Chapter 38: Plans and Apologies

London, England, October 6th, 1940

"The Italians are in Egypt."

"...when did they get there?"

"A while ago, but it wasn't that much of an issue until some of the Luftwaffe went in and set up some small airfields in the North."

Arthur sat, staring begrudgingly at the cinders that made up the end of Matthew's cigarette. Francis was sitting dejectedly in the corner with his own cigarette, taking in long, heavy breaths as if it would somehow stop the stinging in his chest.

"Is it going to be a problem?"

"I mean... I'd count on it being a problem."

"...bon dieu."

The two glanced over at Francis, who'd brought a hand to his forehead. His arm was blotchy and reddish looking, and Arthur couldn't help but flinch as Francis did just the same. Matthew furrowed his brow as he let out a breath of smoke, allowing his feathers to brush against the floor. Arthur felt an instinctive worry overcome him as well, though he remained silent. After a moment, Francis merely shook his head.

"Do you think we should go to Egypt?"

"If anyone is going to Egypt, it will be me and me alone. There are no Canadian forces there, and it wouldn't be fair to bring you with me."

"Are you sure?" Matthew had his brow turned up, and Arthur waved away some of the cigarette smoke in the room.

"I'm positive. Anyways, open desert combat is difficult. The more of us there are, the easier it is to be spotted."

"So you're going to fight?"

"Maybe. If I can't find Imhotep, or if he needs help."

"...alright, seems reasonable."

Francis spoke again.

"You mustn't throw yourself into every issue, Arthur."

"Why not? I wasn't able to help you. That doesn't mean I can't try to help someone else."

Francis pursed his lips.

"You're going to tear yourself down if you go on like this."

"I'm going to be torn down anyway if I don't fight. What else can I do but fight anymore? It's practically the only thing keeping me going."

"Don't say that..."

Arthur glanced down.

"Look. Imhotep is a good friend. He's been a good friend for a while. We might not have always seen eye to eye, but if I can help him, then I will."

The Frenchman merely furrowed his brow and sucked on his cigarette again, wincing clearly as he did so.

Francis' condition was a constant now. Over the past few days, the Frenchman had been practically drifting about, and hiding his red spotted face behind his thick blonde hair. He'd shaved though, and washed, and it made him look a little bit better. Not only that, but the bombing of London had stopped as of a few days ago. Arthur could still feel the aches and pains of the rest of Britain being attacked, and he still wasn't sure if this small absence in the ever constant burning was a trick to draw everyone out of the subways; but he could hope. Everything was almost back to normal. Almost.

"Is Imhotep alright? Have you heard from him?" Arthur finally spoke.

"I haven't." Matthew replied.

Arthur felt his expression harden, and he moved to stand. This time he only winced, as he wasn't dizzy, and the marks that had been across his face were slowly beginning to retreat back towards his heart. At least, he assumed. Where the burn-like marks had been framing his eye before, they just barely clung to the corner, supplying him with some relief that things might just be alright.