<a class="postlink" href="https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/a4/64/e9/a464e98018072fc0b73fcb962664bdc7.jpg">[ img ]</a><br/><br/>Isolde sat the scissors down hard on the sink but they landed softly amid the cascades of gently curling red hair. She stared at the paper that Chaya had brought in. Tears filled her eyes as she saw that Paris had been bombed. Angrily she dashed the tears away and ground her teeth , a new way to stay connected to the reality that this world was really a shitty place. She swept the hair into a pile and threw it in the trash can.<br/><br/>Chaya had become her constant companion when the girl wasn't shadowing Hamish. Without her, Isolde would have forgotten to eat or to sleep, so obsessed she was with doing the physical and tactical trainings that Hamish had set out for her. Today, Isolde pushed the lovely soft garments the girl had set out for her aside. In their place, she slipped into some heavy cotton duck green fatigue pants and a black short sleeved skivvy. It was a little big because Isolde didn't want her curves to show. She jammed a black watch cap over her remaining red curls. With a lightweight fatigue jacket, she could almost pass as a teenaged boy. She refused make up except for the occasional black grease paint that Hamish said reduced reflections off the face during night time work.<br/><br/>She laced the black combat boots and surveyed herself in the mirror. She hoped she was ready. That Hamish felt she was ready. She knew he was to be off soon to an event, as yet she didn't know the details, but that didn't matter, because if he decided she was ready, it would be bombs away. The Nazis had bombed the French, well, a little bit of France would drop a bomb or two of her own.