Chapter Text
The year was 1918, and most individuals were engaged in the trenches of Europe. But behind Allied lines was an airfield – one of the first of its kind to be utilized. A hangar that resembled an enlarged shack resided on the far side of the open space, a single light visible from the interior. Where most soldiers and personnel were sleeping off the effects of the war, three men remained awake. They were sitting on assorted crates with a rickety table in the center.
"What do you know about the Red Knight?" asked the youngest in the gathering, America, who was shuffling an aged and dirty deck of playing cards.
The set may have warranted disposal, lest a player try to cheat by memorizing a particular blood stain, tea cup ring or speck of filth forever left on the stock, but the cards were beyond even that. Corners were softened and torn to the numbers, and the discoloration combined with the worn prints on both sides made them indistinguishable in a way that would benefit those who used this deck.
His fingers expertly cut and re-cut the pile, mixing the cards without needing to look. This allowed him to concentrate on the other two individuals keeping him company this and the last several rounds: England, whose eyebrows threatened to consume his irises as they cinched down into a customary glower at the question, and France, his amused expression unwavering enough to go without disturbing the stub of a cigarette he was working. It was his last ration, unless he won more tonight. Personally, America was aiming for the chocolate.
"The Red Knight?" France asked.
"Yeah, you know – The Red Baron. Got anything on the guy?"
"Ah, le Petit Rouge, yes," France said, chuckling. "Indeed, we know of him."
"Bloody Baron," England said, and followed up his muttering with a deep swallow of his grog. It was his seventh shot, but the night was still young. He'd reach his customary alcohol intake shortly. "Pain in the arse if ever there was one. Roams the skies like a mongrel in that outlandish pile of rubbish he calls an aeroplane. Well, I tell you, I've shown him what's what."
"Remind me, chéri, was that before he shot you down in November of 1916, or was it April of 1917?"
"Sod off! You were his first victim, so keep your opinions to yourself," he was swift to retort. "I've downed the kraut, where none of you lot have."
France tsked at the man's response, but didn't seem fazed by the insulting reminder.
"So you've both seen him in combat firsthand?"
"No shit, America. Anyone who's flown the Western Front has been confronted by him and his Flying Circus. Now deal already."
America did, fingers flicking the cards to their holders in rapid succession and grinning the entire time. There was a short, contemplative silence that followed as the three players analyzed their given hands and made their respective bets.
"I haven't, not yet," America started, clarifying his meaning right after. "Crossed hairs with him, I mean. You know what I think?"
"Nobody cares," England stated, the Briton pouring himself two more shots and bringing his count up to nine. "Not that it will stop you from telling us."
France at least pretended to be interested. His lips curled around the tail end of his smoke at America to say he held his attention, but the fact that his eyes skimmed his cards while arranging them stated otherwise as he said, "Come now, speak for yourself. I am curious, America."
"I think he's the best."
England sputtered into his tenth (or eleventh?) drink of grog, expression livid. Their other companion took the announcement in stride, only pausing as he was forced to snuff out the tiny remains of his cigarette. The card game they had been playing was almost forgotten in the wake of England's next comment.
"What could possibly inspire such praise, from a git like you, nonetheless?" he demanded, slamming his glass on the table sharply enough to shake loose the scattered contents and spill diluted liquor over the maps and photo surveillance they were playing on top of. "Come on, out with it!"
"Like I said, I haven't met him yet. When I do, he won't be the best anymore."
While England groaned and rolled his eyes – the green of them nearly disappearing into the hairs of his eyebrows – France chuckled in his stead, evidently thinking the declaration absurd.
"Of course, that is so like your usual way. When should we expect you to confront le Diable Rouge?"
Before America could respond, England interjected.
"Not bloody ever, I'd say! That hun is my responsibility – and I intend on shooting him out of the sky myself," he yelled, forgoing the shot glass to drink directly from the bottle. It was getting close to empty. "You stay far away from him and leave his disposal to me, understand? None of that heroic bull-"
Midsentence, he collapsed face-first onto the table's surface, asleep, bottle still grasped in one hand and his cards in the other.
"We got through seven rounds this time," America noted.
"Almost a new record for us," France said, grabbing and turning England's palm so he could glance at the man's cards. "Poor thing is exhausted from- Ah! I am all in."
He shoved his offerings into the center, but America laughed and shook his head. He took a bar of chocolate and a single carton of cigarettes, and left the rest for France to sort through.
"Have at it. Been a long day for you, too."
"Merci. Always so generous," he said, gratefully lighting up one of the new smokes he'd procured right off. "So you desire to contend with that particular alleyman? It will be no fun for you, this I can guarantee. And England will not be pleased."
Not that France sounded as if he minded.
"He'll thank me for the break later," America told him. He gathered up their playing cards, shuffling, and shuffling, and shuffling them into mixed order. When he placed the pile flat on the table, face up, the ace of hearts was stationed on top.
"You'll all be thanking me when I'm finished with Germany."
To Be Continued…