The Plan

Well, apologies for the recent lack of Valkyrien tales. Have been attempting to work out how to do the next story arc. As a brief recap, Everyone has been shot to shit. Valkyrien has thus given everyone the summer off as medical leave. So, here be Gorm's plan for the summer...

Intellectual property of, and copyright held by Jared G. Juckiewicz.

Lydia. Lydia Czernobaj (pronounced Sher-no-bye), Daughter of the wolf. That, it turned out, was the name of the Werewolf girl I rescued. She recovered conciousness on the flight, and after we explained things, and after it was made clear that she wasn't going to end up sold into slavery, she even managed to be calm. Higher up's in Valkyrien have called in a few favours, such that she actually has a recorded identity, and as she has been officially decreed my ward, being not long turned thirteen, she even has my citizenship rights. Which means, Norwegian, Swedish, British, Canadian, and American. A deal I negotiated after my work for the Allied SOE at the end of WW II.
Anyway, Valkyrien is moving me into larger quarters. They'll be ready by the time I return from Medical leave, sometime in September. Till then, Lydia, Vixen, and I are staying with an old friend of mine. No, not that old. He lives in the mountains, up north. On a plateau. Semi arid land, I'm told. Cattle country. Pine forests, rolling hills, and sagebrush prairie. I haven't told him I used to be a rustler. Long, long, ago. Lovely lad, Michael. Him and his mate... Wife. Sara her name is. How I met, and how we became friends is a long tale, and not one for here. For now, tis enough to know that it be almost a weeks worth of driving from Valkyrien HQ. And I'm still barely able to move. We've requisitioned a pickup, and drawn enough pay to do us the summer, even if we splurge large and often. A beneficial side-effect of the nigh Immortality Vixen and I have. It puts a whole new spin on the phrase Long-Term investment. Now, we won't be making the Fortune 500 any time soon. But should Valkyrien for some reason cashier us, it'll be a long time afore we feel any sort of bite.
So, here we are. In a big, dark red, extended bed, Ford crew-cab. One of their biggest models. The bed, with it's matching canopy, is loaded with camping gear, medical equipment, clothes, some costume stuff (Some replica Varangian gear I occasionally fancy wearing, some replicas of the sort of stuff Vixen wore in her Ronin days.) There's some hunting gear, some steel, all with the proper permits sitting in the cab with us. A couple of rucks sharing the back seats of the cab with Lydia carry other essentials. Laptop computers, satellite phones, a radio transmitter. And copious quantities of vacum-packed beef broth. And baby bottles. On the grounds that the fever that accompanies the festering out of the copious quantities of lead in me has set in. And I'm so weak I can barely chew, let alone swallow. Let alone walk. Not that I'll admit this to anyone. It took Me, an old crescent axe of mine (see; makeshift crutch), Vixen, Lydia, AND Tyrone to get me in the truck, and belted in, and the seat reclined. Mostly a'cause I insisted on trying to do it myself. Big mistake. Again, not that I'll admit that. On the other hand. I will now admit that the crutches I'm certain are in the baggage will be helpful.
So, the plan is, we, or rather, Vixen drives. We stay in motels. The sort of place where every room is accessed from the parking lot. Without requiring stairs. All the way north to Wapiti Bends, and then from there to the little lake where Michael and Sara live. And we pray for good roads. And I settle for being molly-coddled, bottle-fed, and carried everywhere. I see this going badly. On the other hand, we have a good supply of reasonable music. There's Jap-Pop, and Scandinavian Metal, about the only vestiges of patriotic spirit Vixen and I show, bar her fondness for certain Anime's. A fondness I share. Especially those that have Norse influences, and there are a shocking number of those. There's some classical stuff, Wagner mostly, and some film soundtracks. Surprising number of Disney. soothing, in theory. And Folk music. Lots of Folk music. Should be enough variety to see me through a week of such confinement without attempting to kill anyone. And if it isn't, hidden amongst the hunting gear is a tranquilizer rifle and enough barbituates to drop a herd of elephants for the requisite week, let alone a single, hideously mangled, feverish, Werewolf.
Wish Us Luck!