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Day 20: French
A rare peace stretched out over the warehouse of Unit Bravo. Farah annoyed Morgan with poodle pictures that slowly withered away at the grumpy vampire’s insides, Nat pondered the thoughts of some random philosopher she met centuries ago, and Ava sparred with a training dummy, like usual.
A series of sharp knocks resounded on the door. Morgan made a beeline to the door, desperate to escape Farah’s poodle rampage. Yet, the sight that awaited her on the other side of the door may have been worse.
“Oh shit.”
There stood Lucas Langford, his short brown hair kept under a godawful burgundy beret. A single red rose lay between his smiling teeth, and an enormous baguette was held between his arms. All in all, the sight was perhaps the most disgusting thing Morgan had seen ever since Nat had dragged her along to see a play about two literal candles “waxing” poetic about each other and the joys of the waxy flesh. Ok, it wasn’t that bad, but still.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. If I may be so bold, your beauty could light even the hardest of hearts.”
“What in the absolute fuck do you think you’re doing?” Morgan’s harsh words had no effect on Lucas and unfortunately cannot stop the holy power of his terrible French accent,
“Ah yes, back in France we do like our lovers to be a bit feisty. However, that is not why I am here. Where is Du Mortain?”
“You’re joking, right? This is all some big, elaborate joke? Tell me you’re joking or else I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”
“No, my saucy lover, this is no elaborate scheme. I must speak to your commander, for honor, for glory, and most importantly, FOR THE MOTHERLAND!”
“I’m going to die. I am literally going to die, and it is all your fault.” At this point, Farah and Nat had poked their heads around a corner and caught a glimpse of Lucas. Morgan spun around, her gaze full of ire directed right at Nat.
“You. You taught him this didn’t you?”
“Well… um, Lucas might have asked me for a few cultural lessons and I might have… given them to him.” Nat’s stuttering reply only serves to fuel Morgan’s rage.
“Ava is going to KILL us when she finds this!”
“When I find what?” The thunderous steps of Ava’s feet came echoing down the hall.
Morgan turned to Lucas, the fury in her gaze bright enough to scorch. “If I were you, I would get out of her sight before she squashes you into a mushy pulp.”
“What a ridiculous notion, mademoiselle, I shall face my enemy and show her once and for all the true supremacy of France over England. FOR THE MOTHERLAND!” Lucas dashed toward the towering mountain of vampire muscle, baguette in hand.
“Dear Ava Du Mortain, I hereby challenge you to a duel to prove once and for all that France is the best country of all time! Do you accept?”
For a moment, everything was quiet. Morgan and Nat covered their faces with their hands, while Farah looked on with amazement. Ava stared at Lucas, and Lucas stared back with the face of a man completely ready to die on the hill he had set his life upon. Then, Ava spoke.
“I accept your challenge, monsieur.”
Everybody’s jaws dropped. Lucas’s most of all. He had gone into this expecting to make Ava mad, yank her chain a little to endear her to him. Probably not his best idea, but it was all he had. But now, he actually had to duel the commander of his mother’s team of supernatural agents. And all he had to fight her with was a piece of stale French bread. What could possibly go wrong?
One hour later.
The duel was set for dusk. Ava, with Nat as her second approached the duelling circle they had drawn in the middle of the woods. Lucas, with Farah as his second, also approached the circle. Each combatant had a baguette in their hands, ready to fight to first strike. Morgan stood in the middle of the circle, to act as referee.
“Now, before we get started, let’s go over the rules. I want a good, clean fight, no rough housing, no dirty tricks. First strike wins. Now, fight for your countries!”
Ava and Lucas began circling each other, waiting for the other to strike. Then, as quickly as a cobra, Lucas struck. Ava quickly sidestepped him, bringing her baguette to her shoulder to make a quick, clean strike. Before she could however, Lucas spun around and held his baguette out in front of him. The impact sent him stumbling back a few steps, and Ava used the advantage to quickly thrust her baguette at his chest. Lucas jumps back, and the pair quickly begin a back and forth of thrusting and parrying, each struggling to get an advantage over the other.
Suddenly, Ava touched her baguette to the ground, and struck with a swing so powerful it could’ve split a man’s skull, yet only managed to split her opponent’s baguette. Lucas caught the other half before it hit the ground and hurled it at Ava’s face, temporarily blinding her. He took the advantage to make one last stand. It was now or never.
“VIVE LA FRANCE!” And with that war cry, Lucas charged forward, only to trip on the baguette half he had thrown. Falling to the ground, Lucas looked up to find a particularly pointed baguette aimed at his throat.
“Do you wield, monsieur?”
“Oui, mademoiselle. I yield.”
“And you admit that England is superior in every single way to France, and that her glory will live on through the eons?”
“Oui.” He whined sadly, like a dog out in the rain.
“Well then, I’m glad we could settle this honorably.” Ava lent her hand to the fallen patriot, showing him mercy. Lucas happily accepted, realizing that maybe, just maybe, his stupid plan may have worked after all.