Metal Birds

Chapter 55: Oasis in the Occupation Zone

The Athenian Peninsula, Greece, June 15-August 3, 1941

Arthur felt as if the heat was overwhelming. It was a somewhat familiar heat, one that unnerved him greatly, but he kept his mouth shut. An old, old Russian rifle sat in his fingers, though it sat there lightly. It felt heavy. It felt like a weight upon his shoulders. He stiffened as he strapped the sight onto the thick barrel, staring down it once, adjusting it, staring down it again, straight out towards the sky.

"Steady your hand, you are shaking." A nonchalant voice sounded beside him, and he turned, brow quirked.
"Coming from you that's none too comforting."

Heracles laughed. The man was tall, and stocky, and admittedly attractive. Even so, he had an air about him that sang of laziness and indifference, though the situation was much like that of a sleeping bear. And the bear, Heracles, had been poked none too kindly not long ago. Lovino Vargas sat in the corner, clothed in baggy trousers, covered in dust, a deserter to his brother.

Arthur had realized he'd found himself in the midst of an odd story. The story regarding these two, at least, was odd.

Lovino was the representation of the southern half of Italy. More Hispanic, even slightly Arabic, and considerably less cultured. The short, lanky and dark haired Italian was moody, from what, no one knew. He had a cold look in his hazel eyes that simultaneously screamed, 'get away' and 'what do you want', which Arthur inwardly admitted wasn't much different than he felt. He had been raised by Antonio, albeit badly, as he was often alone with either Andries or Bella as a child. Once or twice he had encountered Sadiq, the Turkish -and previously, Ottoman- representation. In that short time, both Heracles and Lovino had come to know it each other.

They were both tan, dark haired, and bright eyed, but had their own bouts of stubbornness. Lovino was always running his mouth, and always had something to say, though in a way, he was right about a lot of things. Morally, at least. Heracles was as stubborn as a mule, given many things such as food, or animals, or dancing, or his own people.

Now, Arthur served as their companion.

The three were neck deep in occupied territory, in Greece, in a place where Heracles reigned alone. They sat, at the moment, in a small garden with whitewashed walls, staring out over the sea with a new air of dejection. Overgrown olive and orange trees hung about nearby, and there was a stump chock-full of nails that had been slammed into the thing so many times the stump was now more metal than wood, swollen with them. More than a few cats meandered about through the windows.

The place, oddly enough, had not been touched. People could be heard, walking and talking quietly outside. This was a world of occupation, and the fake oasis in which Arthur currently resided was far less comforting than Heracles small moments of speech.

"How much ammunition do you have?"

The auburn haired Nation seated on the windowsill, feet propped stubbornly up on the wall, finally spoke.

"There's just the crate inside. All we got too, so use it wisely." He snorted choppily, shrugging and tilting his head towards the small place. It was dark inside. And cold. A mirror opposite to where he stood.

Heracles merely nodded and shrugged in affirmation of this, moving to sit on the half-metal stump in the center of the small garden. His chocolaty wings drooped against the dirt as a cat made its way over, and he moved to scratch its ears. Arthur stood there a moment, shifting to stand on his toes and peer over the wall of the garden. Just people. No one from the occupying military. Greeks, walking to and from home, worried.

They were worried like Heracles was trying so desperately not to be, though he didn't say it out loud.

Arthur finally sighed, reaching over Lovino to plop the weapon just inside, turning to the ocean and the bend in the coast, eyeing the Parthenon as it rose above the city of Athens in a distant haze of oceanic mist.