Who: Oscar When: Evening, several days after this. Where: Parisian rooftops. Rating: PG Complete (Unless someone would like to step in). Summary: Oscar does a spot of reconnaissance.
Oscar skipped over the fourty seventh rooftop of the evening. When he’d risen, the ash-grey sky was still waning. Now, at a wistful 11:30PM, the colourless sunlight of winter had been snuffed completely, replaced by the more comfortable amber glow of lamps parked by the windows of the austere Parisian cityscape. He stopped his fervent trek across the city on one of the higher constructs, briefly checked his cracked pocket watch and heaved a thick, satisfying breath through his nose. He’d had to keep his mind focused under the ebbing natural light of the evening when he began his journey. It was a relief to breathe properly, no longer oppressed by the stinging rays of the sun.
Moving to the precipice of the rooftop on all-fours, felinely, he surveyed his current location. He stood directly over Place De La Concorde, exactly where he’d intended to be. The square, which earlier would have been a bustle of activity was now, thanks to the curfew, lying deadly still. Only the odd cry from strays could be heard above the icy hiss of the wind. Ahead, he saw the Champs-Élysées, glittering charmingly with frost, mirroring the clear night’s sky above. Gazing upon this sight, no one could’ve guessed that this was a city of the wartime.
Reluctantly withdrawing from his picturesque-but-exposed spot on the rooftop, he returned to the shadows of the night and procured a damp, dog-eared notebook from one of the larger pockets on his overalls. As he opened it, separate pages threatened to dislodge themselves and soak in the pools of melted snow at his feet. Scrabbling, he caught them, and roughly wedged them in their correct places in the book before unpocketing a pen. Occasionally looking out over the skyline which he had covered that evening, he set about drawing a simple map of the path which he had taken. He annotated certain areas of the diagram, giving details of German patrols he'd passed, along with their routes and the times at which they'd been undertaken. The pen, its nib starved of ink scratched dryly at the paper as he wrote ‘Route C’ at the base of the page, also noting the duration of the journey.
Satisfied, he pocketed his tools and sprang inhumanly from his nook, launching through the air to the next rooftop.