[ It happens far more quickly than she anticipated, even with the word of warning. It's disorienting, and claustrophobic, being jolted awake so abruptly and in such confined quarters with just the echo of an explanation ringing in her ears. There's no way out, that much is clear, so Peggy has no choice but to take what comes next and make heads or tails of it as soon as she can. First: she needs to brace for impact.

It's far from gentle. She's been thrown around the inside of a C-47 in the past, plummeted to earth with a parachute that was almost a hair too slow in deploying, but this is nothing she's ever experienced before. The landing is a rough, bone-shaking jolt — she's strapped in tightly enough that she doesn't injury herself too gravely, although her head does slam against the side of the pod, which earns her a fresh cut that looks far worse than it is. ]

Bloody hell.

[ She's grumbling, snappish, dizzy. She's in the second wave, she's been tasked to see to the others who come after her, and she's already got blood on her brow — which she swipes away and out of her eye with some impatience. Peggy makes quick work of her harness, getting unbuckled, kicking her pod door open with a few swift kicks (it takes both feet), and finally she's pulling herself out into the open air of her — their — new home. TS Eliot has the wrong of it: the world didn't end with a whimper, but with a bang. Here's the proof, falling from the skies above and scattered across the ground around her.

Peggy pulls herself clear of her pod and immediately takes stock of her surroundings. The moment she spots someone who needs her help, needs hauling free, needs tending: she's at their side to support them, her grip far stronger than she looks. ]

You're all right. I've got you.

[ Peggy's kept busy throughout the landings and she's no stranger to physical labour, but with the way her pod landed and the work that followed, she aches in a way she hasn't since the war. She's helped set up tents, fired off orders to the able-bodied (to find wood and set up fires where people can warm and relax themselves, to get help, to do what needs doing), circled through a makeshift triage to offer what she can in the way of stitching, bandaging, splinting. Her training as an intelligence operative means knowing how to keep alive with the barest of necessities where help is often nowhere to be found — behind enemy lines, surrounded on all sides, in relatively unknown territory. This reminds her of France, a little. Her first few missions. The uncertainty of it, despite all the training that reminds her she's more than capable of handling whatever is thrown at her.

She's taken on a role that is second-nature to her: take charge, as necessary. Help, as necessary. The work is a distraction, and as night falls and people start to settle in, she finds herself pausing on the edge of the encampment to take a few moments to herself. Peggy takes a deep breath and exhales, looking up at the starry sky above: she recognises no constellations, she cannot pinpoint where in the world they are. It's unsettling. But it's what it is. She turns at the sound of someone approaching — or, perhaps, she turns to simply head for the nearest fire to settle alongside it for some warmth; the night has gotten cold, and with the adrenaline fading, she's starting to feel the chill.

God, it's been a long day. And she could do with a bloody cigarette or a drink to take the edge off of it. ]

[ As mentioned above, Peggy will be anywhere and everywhere! She can help you get out of your pod, she's got enough medical know-how to tend to minor to moderate injuries, and she sure as hell knows how to keep a cool head in a crisis and get shit organised. If the prompts above don't suit your fancy, you're welcome to throw one of your own my way! ]