Mistakes Occur [Basch]

The tumbling of locks, sliding of deadbolts and jangling of what must have been the third or fourth chain preceded Basch’s appearance. Opening the door only just so far, his dour and dubious expression peered out, as if his seventh glance through the peephole and cross referencing the little monitor with the video feed of the security camera outside hadn’t been confirmation enough that the man on his doorstep was indeed his anticipated guest. It was Arthur, alright. He sighed a soft “hm” and opened the door wider, at least wide enough to step out across the threshold.

“Afternoon,” he chuffed. Though English might not have been one of his national languages, he knew it well. Very well. Well enough, in fact, to know the implications of having left good out of his greeting. After all, there wasn’t necessarily anything good about this particular day. Arthur and his people had made a mistake, and now it had become Basch’s problem. The relegation of responsibilities was one of the man’s biggest pet peeves.

Just forty thousand square kilometers of area, just eighteen hundred kilometers of off-limits perimeters - that’s all the English would have needed to avoid. Arthur’s people surely, in all their intelligence, could have figured out some way to divert their flight paths north or south, just a bit, to avoid this hassle altogether. The flights wouldn’t have even taken an hour more. But, of course, they hadn’t. They’d chosen to send their planes right through the north of Basel, Aargau, Zurich, and what would have been Saint Gallen had they made it past the anti-aircraft rounds instead of being permanently grounded in a large cow field as smoking, twisted mounds of shrapnel.

Basch scowled further at the man on his porch. ‘Typical imperialistic attitude with that one. Always thinking the world is his playground and he owns the rights to all of it.’

Nonetheless, Arthur seemed to have come unarmed, save for what looked like a cellphone and maybe some writing utensils. The shorter of the two hadn’t been able to make out the form of any knives or guns strapped anywhere under the taller’s clothing, and so deemed him harmless enough.

“Come in,” he ordered, turning sharply and going back into the house.

The inside seemed innocuous enough; the walls were austere shades of light beiges and pale grays, and every object on the walls and floors seemed to serve as utility in some capacity. Ornamentation was minimal, limited mostly to a few throw pillows and some patterned area rugs. Perhaps the most peculiar aspect of the home was that all rooms past the first appeared to be sealed up tight. A narrow hallway of doors on either side sprawled out before them as they entered the foyer, and each was closed with do-it-yourself lock systems from the outside. Certainly not something the architect had had in mind for the space, but not surprising for someone as private as Basch. But then again, the walls weren’t lined with gun racks and rifle cases as one might have anticipated, and so the interior design choices might have come across as surprisingly tame to some.

The one room that was open yawed off to an immediate right in what appeared to be an office space. Dark-stained hardwood floors, sand-colored walls, fine leather chairs and heavy wooden desks filled out the area, and a large window provided light through sheer curtains.

“Have a seat,” came Basch’s next demand, he himself heading into the room and dropping down into an office chair. A coffee table sat before him, and beyond it, another chair facing his own. He motioned to it wordlessly; this was where he expected his fellow nation to sit.

Already, a stack of papers sat on the coffee table. Basch leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced, and chin resting on top of his hands, and jiggled his foot anxiously.

“Your planes caused a significant amount of property damage.” Not one for small talk, the Swiss man always preferred to dive head-first into the topic at hand. Leaning forward, he took the stack of papers into his hands and flipped through them. The sooner they discussed it, the sooner this meeting would be over. “That farm in Zurich lost several heads of livestock, and the fields are deeply scarred. Not to mention the cost of the AA rounds we fired off at you.”

Thrusting out his arm, he held the stack of papers - military reports and damage claims by the farm - to the Englishman. “So tell me - why did you think that you were special enough to be exempt from my no-fly zone?”