Wolfenstein, the final emperor. A fanfiction I'm writing.

[breadedhamster]

WOLFENSTEIN
THE FINAL EMPEROR
By breaded hamster​

"We did it, finish line is far behind us, I'm still drunk with gratitude. Those final days you gave me were sweeter than any time in my life. When you left us, the pain was greater than anything I've endured. It's just me and our boys now, they're kind, smarter than I'll ever be. I want them to be like you, not like me, never like me. The kind of world that made men like me, I never want them to see it. The monster never dies, but I pray we'll be ready when it wakes up again.
I'll see you soon, Anya."




It was a ten minute drive from the Henderson farm until you reached the town. He was late, but he wouldn't speed, even though it was rare to see other cars on dusty roads like these. Half an orange sun peeked over the horizon, descending slowly, chased by a swarm of pink clouds.

He never tired of seeing a Texas sunset, even in his old age. He had fought in every continent, he had seen the dark side of the moon and the brightest side of Mercury, but the grassy, evening plains of Mesquite had a humble majesty that put him at ease.

His awe shattered with motion in the corner of his good eye. He slammed the brakes, causing the old truck to squeal to a halt on the dirt road.

"Damn." He whispered.

A jackrabbit dashed quickly into the brush, narrowly avoiding the wheels. He gave a sneer to the creature, grateful it was unharmed.

"Spring hare, young and dumb, like we all were."

He removed his foot from the brake, got a better grip on the steering wheel. It felt bigger than it used to, but he knows he has simply shrunk from age.

"Not young anymore, wonder if I'm still dumb?"

The other side of the road caught his attention, a traveler passed his truck when he stopped. He drove a bit more, then slowed to match the man's pace.

"Need a ride into town?" He asked.

The man wore a black overcoat, and his wide brimmed hat obscured his face in shadow. He waved his hand side to side, signaling a no.

"You sure? I'm heading there for a gathering."

Another no was waved.

He continued driving, leaving the traveler behind.

"Strange man, must not mind the heat."




The sun was nearly gone when he arrived, bathing Mesquite in a warm gloom. Nestled on the edge of the town was a small diner, red letters formed a sign on top that said "Robs place". He pulled into the sandy field beside it, the unofficial parking lot. After getting out and stretching his old bones, a young man came out and greeted him.

"Mr Blazko!" He called out in a deep, post pubescent voice.

His name was Robert Franklin, but everyone just called him jr on account of his father, the owner of the diner who shared his name. He was tall and lanky, still round faced for all his height. He had wide ears and a smile nearly as big. Even though he was mixed race, black and possibly white or latino, he spoke with a texas drawl like his adoptive father.

He ran up to the flatbed of the old army truck, undid the hatch and hoisted a sack of vegetables under each arm. The old man circled around to meet him, laughed a little when he saw the haste and effort the youth had mustered for such a simple task.

"It ain't a race."

"I just really want that soup is all."

"Be sure to leave some for the rest of us, can't have you getting too big."

Robert looked downward, feeling a bit embarrassed at the notion of his big appetite. The old man slapped him on the back to reassure him.

"I'm just messing with ya."

Robert Jr quickly walked inside while the old man attempted to lift a sack himself. He could barely manage one.

"Damn, I really am old." He thought.

When he was halfway to the door, Robert was already back to relieve him.

"I got it Mr Blazko." He said.

"In a second, just let me have some fresh air."

He huffed and stretched his back while watching the young man work effortlessly.

"He's a good kid."

A line of ruined brick buildings was across the street. The roofs had collapsed, and the walls wouldn't last another decade without maintenance. Ten years ago, a great war machine died and fell on the structures, it rested there for another year before its dismantling. The spider-like robot walked on many armored legs, its central body had a laser cannon for disintegrating soft targets, and a bouquet of mortar barrels stuck out of the top.

"I'm glad he didn't have to see it."

The old mans name was William Joseph Blazkowics, American soldier and freedom fighter, a savior to the downtrodden and a terror to the wicked. Few people knew that, however. Robert jr was too young to remember when terror Billy downed that great war machine like he had done with so many others. It was 1981, it had been ten years of peace followed by an equal time of war. They called it the black decade, the years when Blazkowicz and the resistance liberated the world on every front.

Williams hand started to tremble.

"Calm down, old timer. Let's get inside."



Several hours later, old man Blazkowics found himself sitting in a small concrete room on the other side of town. His hands were cuffed together with magnetic shackles, still as death resting on the metal table.

"Why?" He thought.

He wasn't trembling, and he wasn't scared. Doubts about his sanity sprung up, but he knew what he saw in that diner.

The steel door to the interrogation room groaned open, then walked in the leader of the town militia, Marvin Clyde. He was around thirty, bulky and bearded. His blue jeans and cattleman hat were the only casual clothes on him. Everything else was military gear, including an alloyed cuirass that peeked out of his jacket. He scowled at seeing the old man on the table, then punched in a code on his electronic wrist bracer.

The cuffs on Blazkowics clicked open, freeing his wrists. Marvin then spoke, his voice was lighter than one would imagine.

"Which one of my boys put shackles on you? I'll have their ass on my wall."

"It's fine, Marvin."

"No it ain't, I'm not having a war hero being treated like this on my watch."

Blazkowics rubbed his thin hands together, tried to warm them.

"Marvin, I killed a man."

"I know, you must have had a damn good reason."

"I hope I did."

Marvin sat down down the other side of the table, looked into the dry, blue eyes of the old man and tried to phrase his next question sensitively.

"Have uh… have you been taking those pills like the doctor said?"

Blazkowics did not change his face.

"I have."

Marvin tapped a button on his bracer, a little green light appeared next to the screen.

"It's recording, tell me what happened"




We were having a get together at robs place, he was making that soup of his, the really good stuff with all the fixings. It was me, Rob and his boy, that Jackson couple, Florez and his kids, Mitchell, and a few others. I think they were Mitchells friends? Miss Jackson brought some shine, she'll tell you I didn't have any.

I was about done with my meal when Florez's daughter said someone was at the door. Place was supposed to be closed, but you know Rob's always eager to feed folks. I was at the front counter, my back to the entrance. Soon as I heard that mans voice, oh boy, I can hardly explain it.

German accent, old, full of vigor. He sounded friendly, started shaking hands and asking the kids names, told them they were beautiful names. Kids weren't scared of him, they'd seen plenty of people who had burnt up faces. I was in a vice hearing all that noise, like I was back at the castle, face down on the dirty floors of that incinerator room, frankenstein monster holding me as… as…

When he came up to the counter, sat next to me, felt like I had a chunk of ice in my stomach. He took off that wide hat of his, flashed those white teeth.

"Guten Abend, Captain Blazkowicz." He said to me.

General Wilhelm Strasse, we called him Deathshead. He was sitting right there, same as he was before I gutted him and he blew us both up. You were just a boy when that happened.

My hand, it's like it grabbed that spoon of its own accord. Next thing I know, it was sticking out of his eye, I'd say about half of it was in his brain. Folks started screaming, then a couple of your boys came and took me here.




Marvin clicked his bracer off, ending the recording.

"So that's it?"

Blazkowics sighed, his expression stony.

"I know how it sounds, I probably am just crazy. But you haven't seen the things I've seen Marvin."

"I don't think you're crazy sir, we all know what the nazis did."

"No, no you haven't. Y'all saw robots, men. The nazi's had worse in their back pocket. Things they couldn't control if they ever got loose."

"Like what?"

"If I told you, I think you would call me crazy."

Marvin stood up, reached a hand for the door.

"I gotta talk to some folks, do you need anything?"

"I need two things, then I don't care what happens to me."

"Name them."

"I want to call my sons, then I want to see the body."

"Sir, I don't know if I can do that second one."

He stood quickly, far quicker than a man of his age should. Hands spread on the table, he spoke low and had a fierce precision to his words.

"I need to know if he's dead, if it's actually him."

Marvin meekly slipped out of the room.

"I'll… I'll see what I can do."

The door closed softer than it had opened. Blazkowics slumped back into the chair, his legs sore from that burst of energy.

"I've slain the dragons, my blade has rusted and grown heavy. Let them lie in their graves, let my steel be untempted in its rest."




More than a hundred miles to the south of mesquite was Waco, now considered the new, unofficial capital of texas. There was little resistance when the Nazis arrived in 1948. Its population had nearly tripled in the next 13 years, then was cut in half by the second American revolution in 1961. Ten years of war to end the third reich halved it once again, then ten years of peace let it double. Waco suffered the least out of all the major cities in Texas, much better than the moldering remains of Dallas, or the irradiated ruins of Houston.

The Paul-Quinn college was a major target by the nazi's for its education of black youth. A new college stood where it once did more than twenty years after its destruction. The campus was small, no more than a few long brick buildings and some smaller structures. A morning lecture, and a demonstration, was being given in the surgical amphitheater.

A wide linoleum floor was encircled by escalating benches packed with squemish students. They watched as an unconscious man on the table had the flesh of his stomach peeled back, the surgeon calmly giving explanations muffled by his face mask.

"Blood should never be feared in a medical context, it's simply the consequence of an action, a product of healing, not harm."

Suspended above was a pale blue light bathing them both in a ray of energy. It functioned as an energy based antiseptic, preventing infection alongside more traditional methods in open surgery.

"I did quite a lot of haphazard operations when I was in the camps, did you all know this? Can't tell you how many times I had to perform an amputation with the same tools we used for mining."

Across from him was a wheeled station of robotic arms. One of them emitted a tiny laser that cauterized blood vessels following his incisions, more handed him surgical tools in the order that was required.

"Even as I am wrist deep in Mr Caleb here, I am calm. How do I do this, you ask? A combination of sterile logic and gratitude. Mr Caleb is a healthy man in his thirties with no prior medical issues, and I'm an experienced surgeon. I'm also grateful, because this is quite relaxing compared to bloody rock saws and firing squads. Now I don't know if most of you youngsters can muster up the gratitude, but I expect you to at least be logical."

His gloved hand dropped a bloody hunk of discolored flesh in a medical tray, then the machine closed the patients body with an auto suture.

"All right, that is one pancreatic tumor off to the lab. Let's head back to the classroom everyone."

He pointed to one of the students.

"Except for you Blazkowicz, the administration wanted you to see them, said it's about your father."




Twenty year old Wesley Blazkowics left the amphitheater at a brisk pace, dodging crowds of students along the way. His mind raced with possibilities, rationalizations. His father was approaching 70, but in the past few years, he had aged quicker than usual, like he was a man 15 years older. The last time they spoke, he told his children that it was all just catching up to him, that he had delayed a normal life for too long.

Wesley arrived at the front door to the administrative building, there he found his identical twin, Richard. They were both broad shouldered, athletically built like their father, but not warriors as he was. They had their grandfathers brown eyes, dark hair like their mother. The only noticeable difference between them was their clothes, and the fact that Richards hair was slicked back whereas his brother had a buzz cut.

Before they opened the door, Richard invoked their secret language so no one would eavesdrop. They made it as children by combining their mothers Polish and the yiddish they learned from Set Roth, who was like a grandfather to the boys in their early years. Both languages were rarely spoken anymore.

"Did they tell you anything?"

"No."

"What do you think is wrong?"

"Why are you asking me?" Asked Wesley, irritated.

"You're the doctor here."

"Not yet, and we don't know what happened to dad."

"You said he looked bad last time."

"I wasn't diagnosing him."

Wesley opened the door.

"Let's just go." He said in English.

The secretary told them to wait, and they did so impatiently as they loitered around her desk. After a few minutes, a man in a green suit emerged from the deans office and approached the twins.

"Been looking for you boys." He said in a raspy British accent.

He was around fifty, slightly overweight. The handlebar mustache on his face was stained a dark yellow in the center from a lifetime of heavy smoking. He had thinning hair that was parted neatly, graying at the edges. That, alongside the bags under his eyes, were obvious signs of stress. But he sounded cheery regardless, and the Blazkowicz twins didn't know if it was genuine or not.

The man pulled out a badge, showed it to them.

"Agent Fairbanks, IDS."

International defense services, an organization formed by the new governments of a post-nazi world to ensure they never return. The boys went wide eyed, then squinted suspiciously.

"Thought we had an agreement with you people?" Richard said.

The agent calmly explained.

"Don't fret, I'm not interested in your old mans communist friends."

"Then why are you here?" Asked Wesely.

"Your father's in the hospital, alive."

The twins had different overlapping responses.

"What?"

"How?"

The agent gestured them to follow as he made for the door.

"I'll explain on the way there, we're taking my car."

Fairbanks felt a large hand on his shoulder, urging him to stop. He turned around to see Richard wearing a grimace.

"The fuck is your problem?" The agent asked with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

Wesley cautioned his brother.

"Don't…"

Richard was unblinking.

"You can explain to us now."

Fairbanks scoffed.

"I'm trying to save you some time here, don't you want to go see him?"

"Aunt Grace told us to never trust you people."

Fairbanks swiped the young mans hand away.

"She's going to meet us there!"

He stormed out the door with the twins trailing him reluctantly.




280 miles north of Waco, an advanced aircraft flew high over the cratered ruins of Oklahoma city, heading south towards Mesquite. It had no wings, unnecessary for a flying saucer, a rare machine once studied and built in small numbers by the third reich. They were even more scarce nowadays, used only by major powers and built specially by the gatekeepers, an organization founded by Set Roth that safekeeps the many caches of Da'at Yichud technology.

One such craft was built for Grace Walker, one of the spearheads for the American resistance, and now leader for the internationale. She sat cross legged in the large central chamber of the saucer, a room encircled by twenty seats, most of which were empty. She had aged gracefully in the past twenty years, some wrinkles and a touch of gray on her afro were all she had to show for it. She tapped her earpiece, spoke into it.

"How's the sky looking?"

The pilot answered quickly.

"Looks clear, we should be there in about twenty minutes."

She closed the channel, returned her attention to the holographic table in the center of the dim room. The pale lights formed shapes floating above it, and a voice emitted from the base as a narration.

"Here's what we know so far ma'am."

A map of mesquite formed, one of the smallest buildings on the edge of town flashed red.

"Last night, at approximately 9:28 pm, Mr Blazkowics murdered a stranger during a social gathering, the motive is currently unknown. After he was taken into custody, at approximately 12:13 pm, he was escorted to the town's hospital for unknown reasons. At 12:25, an unknown incident occurred at the hospital that left 12 dead and three wounded, one of the wounded being Mr Blazkowics himself."

"Any updates on him?" She asked.

"Unresponsive, but stable."

"Any idea on what killed those folk?"

"None, but we can guess it wasn't Mr Blazkowics."

A dry laugh came from across the room, a bit to the left of Grace. The IDS agent sat cross legged, obscured in the shadows at the edge of the holotables light. He had a Bostonian accent.

"How do you know it wasn't him? Old fart is good at killing lots of people. Terror fucking Billy, didn't earn that name being gentle."

Grace corrected him sternly.

"He got that name killing nazis, not at random, so you better put some respect on it boy."

"Alright alright, geez."

She could tell he was smirking in the gloom, amused with himself. There had been tension between her people and the IDS for years, the whole purpose of the internationale was holding the new powers accountable, making sure they don't repeat the same regressive trends that brought the Nazis to power. Whereas the IDS worked on behalf of world governments, the internationale investigated the governments themselves.

The agent tried to amend.

"Look, I'm not saying I don't respect the guy. I was in grade school when he took out the garbage. So thanks to him, I didn't have to finish my German classes."

He lit a cigarette, a small dot of orange light which somewhat illuminated his pale, unshaven face.

"Fact of the matter is, we know he's taken more blows to the head than a boxer. He's also got a family history of dementia."

"He's been treated for that." Grace said.

"Oh yeah sure, egghead friends of yours sprinkled a bit of jew magic on his brain."

"It wasn't him. You wanna know why?"

"Lay it on me lady."

A laugh slipped out of her nose, she leaned forward a bit to tell him.

"Twelve bodies? That ain't even an appetizer for terror Billy. That's why y'all been keeping tabs on him. That spy you put there, what was that white boys name again? Leonard I believe, Leonard Hitchins."

The agent dropped his cigarette, swiping it off his chest before it burned him.

"What the fu- How do you know-"

"You think I'd be here if I wasn't good at my job? I'd be dead and you might be as well, or you'd have passed those German classes."



https://www.patreon.com/breadedhamster

 

[breadedhamster]

"I see a blade fall from above, clouds rush away as it descends. The ground parts at its touch, and a great evil tumbles into the depths, sealed away forever. The sword grew heavy stuck in the dirt, rusted as the wicked gather themselves. I beg for the strength to lift it once more, just one last time, then I'll pay my debts."








A short distance from the edge of town was a rocky field sparsely inhabited by desert willows. The white afternoon sun was unchallenged, blasting the land without a cloud in sight. The townsfolk had gathered to bury their dead, more than a hundred stood around the twelve square holes, their heads low and silent. A black pastor by the name of James Albany had just given the eulogies for each victim, now he gave a sort of communal assurance.

"The death of the innocent is a poison, the most painful of any on this earth. No man is immune and no tolerance can be built. This world has seen too much of it, too many good folk lie silent while their killers roam. Many among you had fought to set the world right, some of you are now being laid to rest this day."

During the occupation, father Albany had sheltered undesirables from the gestapo. In the last days of the Nazis' rule, he could no longer resist as a pastor when they made Christianity illegal, declaring it a faith that rewards weakness and fosters communist ideology. Up to that point, his career was a novelty, permitted only so far as to keep non-whites compliant. But afterwards, the klan brigades and the slave catchers would not ignore him simply for being a man of God.

"So we must remember what we have, what they have fought for. A world where children are born free of that demon named empire. Lord knows it is not perfect, but I say to you now, it is worth preserving."

His voice was close to breaking, that memory of his burning church loitered in his mind, and even more potent still were the nightmares that occurred after it was ash. This very field once held a massive pile of German military helmets, he had contributed eight to that collection.

"I look at all of you today and I am filled with pride. I know these good people look down and- and they-"

He bit his fist as tears poured from his clenched eyes. Beyond the sorrow, a fear for these people gripped him. Deeper than that was shame, disappointment in himself for an old phobia. The crowd here was mostly white, and even years after the lynchings had ended, he still felt unsafe in front of white crowds.

"I'm among friends." He told himself.

"They're good folk, they're good folk."




Mesquite's hospital was built quickly after the liberation to replace the one that had been destroyed. Since it was a brutalist fabrication of steel and super concrete, the community gathered afterwards to paint it a lively yellow with red flowers across the bare sides. The basement had been recently altered, no longer was it just a dreary room housing the back-up generator.

A length of wall had been cleared to make space for a line of machinery. Their monitors buzzed softly, bathing the cables on the ground in a hazy white as they snaked away. The cables converged in the center of the room, hooked to the base of a life support pod. The angular device was big enough for one, and it was occupied. The door at the top of the staircase opened, briefly illuminating the dim room, then closing after the Blazkowicz twins entered.

"Ah, it's good to see you." Said one of the scientists hovering around the equipment.

He was a shorter, older man, unintimidated by the much taller brothers as he walked around to shake their hands. The twins noticed the off color of the man's bald head. He explained when he saw them staring.

"I got scalped in one of the labor camps, synthetic skin has come a long way since then. But enough about me."

"How's our dad?" Wesley asked, his brother adding frustrated details after.

"That government drone barely explained anything!"

The doctor looked to the others in the back who glanced nervously before returning to their work.

"I just want you boys to know that things are looking good for your father. But uh, It's difficult to explain what's happening."

He gestured to the pod.

"His injuries were actually superficial from the incident. At first, we didn't really know why he was seemingly comatose. The doctors here, dedicated as they are, just aren't equipped to deal with that body of his."

"So what's wrong?" Richard asked, antsy.

"I'm getting to that. It's not a coma actually, brain scans show that his mind is quite active, doc Kersh over there said he's never seen anything like it. Our physician was also surprised when it appeared your father was in the early stages of starvation."

"What?!" Both of them yelled.

"It's fine! He has nutrients going in his veins right as we speak. Now, to put it bluntly, your fathers body has, what's the word? Reactivated, yes. It's reactivated in response to a psychosomatic trigger. His metabolism went into overdrive because it's trying to rebuild itself."

"Into what?" Richard asked.

"We can make a good guess. But I wanted to ask first, do you know where your fathers body came from?"




After they left the hospital, the twins rode with agent Fairbanks as he drove them to their fathers house. The old convertible winded around backroads flanked by thick desert vegetation. After a final corner, they came to the property, a half acre with a two story house. It was a young home, but had signs of overgrowth and neglect.

When they pulled up, a humanoid figure emerged from the shadowed front porch. It was a robot plated in dull steel, but sleek and androgynous in the shape of its body. With an almost unnoticeable whir to its movements, it approached the vehicle.

"She is waiting." It said plainly through a speaker behind its angular face.

Richard patted the machine on the back before they headed inside.

"Thank you, Hesed."

As the twins walked up the steps, Fairbanks attempted to follow, only to be stopped by a mechanical arm. He backed up, sneered at the unblinking automaton.

"Oh c'mon, I just wanted to talk to the old bird."

"No." Said the machine.

The brothers stepped inside, surprised at how little the living room had changed. The walls were wooden panels and the carpets were dark green, an earthy palette. Grace Walker stood up from the emerald-colored sofa, then approached the boys and wrapped an arm around each of them, hugging them tightly. She had to reach a little since they were taller than her.

Wesley flared his nostrils, picking up a familiar scent.

"Aunt Grace, I thought you quit smoking?"

She didn't loosen her grip, but spoke softly.

"I know honey, I know."

They spent the next hour catching up, as it had been a few years since they last saw each other. Grace spoke of her daughter, Abby, who was like a sister to the boys when they were younger.

"She's been up in MIT, making more robots than friends last time I saw her."

Wesley went on about his medical studies, and while it wasn't Grace's field of expertise, she was still interested in the young mans life. Richard studied history mainly, and a bit of archaeology on the side. But he preferred to brag about how beautiful the girls at the school were, causing the older woman to roll her eyes.

Then more serious topics welled up.

"So I'm guessing he didn't respond to y'all?" She asked.

Both of them shook their heads side to side. The doctors theorized that their voices might cause a reaction in their father.

"I'm not too worried about him." She said.

The twins raised their brows, surprised at the callousness.

"What? That old man has been through far worse. It's you two I'm concerned with."

She walked over to the window, peeked into the darkening yard before closing the curtain.

"I got people out there looking for that thing."

"Like the IDS?" Richard asked sarcastically.

She cut him a scowl.

"Wasn't my idea, they had a man in the area and we needed to get you out of there fast."

"It could be the IDS behind this for all we know."

"Nah, they just don't have the tech, not even sure the gatekeepers do. I mean, it's just crazy. Your daddy wouldn't do something like that unless he was certain it was deathshead."

"They sure it wasn't a robot?" Asked Wesley.

"Coroner said he didn't notice anything strange when he did the autopsy, not until it got back up."

She returned to the sofa, sat down tiredly.

"You both know your daddy killed Hitler. Did you know he had to kill him about fourteen times? First thirteen were full of mechanical bits, the last one was the real deal."

Wesley then invoked a possibility they had all been dreading.

"Could it be nazis? Maybe a bunch of mad scientists survived or something?"

Grace clenched her teeth, she wanted another cigarette.

"Regardless, we need all the help we can get, IDS included. By the way, how many guns do you have in this house?"

They looked at each other, then back at her.




Fairbanks drove frantically, the warm wind only agitating him further.

"Bloody fucking Americans!" He yelled into the night air.

After slamming the brakes, he pulled over to the side of the road, then punched a number into the dashboard. A speaker crackled as a

Bostonian accent poured through.

"Jones here, report."

He tried to be direct in his account.

"The bitch gave me the cold shoulder, I think she's onto us."

"Yeah, no shit she is. She knows about Hitchins, go check on him."

"You think she did something to him?"

"He's late with his report, that's all we know."

"On it, sir."

The convertible roared alive to leave dust in its wake. He enjoyed the speed, and was grateful for it. He never experienced such freedom as a young man in occupied Britain. His life was a tense boredom until the global revolution, then it was a nightmare of fighting in a bombed out borough. After the smoke had settled, one of his favorite hobbies was driving the autobahn in London until it was too eroded for public use.
He drove to the edge of mesquite, only stopping to park when he remembered the rules against cars in this town.

"Goddamn tyrant pedestrians."

The sidewalk of the boulevard was accommodating, large islands of streetlight lay between brief stretches of darkness. He kept his head low, forgot his usual act and let his face droop naturally. He passed by a small laundromat, the owner swept the brick steps while calling out to him.

"Hey buddy."

"Oh uh, yes?" Fairbanks said, feigning some aloofness.

"Shouldn't be alone out here. You got a way to protect yourself?"

"Yes, right here in my jacket."

"You got a place to sleep tonight?"

He squinted his eyes at the man.

"Why do you ask?"

"Ain't no shame if you don't, we got a boarding house down there a ways. They'll let you stay if you got no money."

The agent looked down at his suit. He had been meaning to get a new one given all the stains and cigarette burns, he also realized he forgot to put his tie back on.

"I do have a place to stay. I just uh, just wanted to know where your tailor is."

"Kinda late for that don't you think?"

"It's for later."

"Then why're you out here?"

"Oh you know, meeting up with a lovely lady."

"Do I know her?"

"What business is it of yours?"

"I got three little sisters, that's my business."

"She didn't mention a brother…"

The agent turned his head, just now realizing there was a group of armed men standing behind him.

"Mr Fairbanks." Their leader said, tilting his cattleman hat.

"Just the person I was looking for!" Said the agent as he slipped on that mask of niceties.

Marvin Clyde let out a quiet chuckle, then slung his assault rifle across his shoulder.

"Really? You think I'm some two dollar whore?"

He turned to one of his comrades.

"Andre, do I look like I'd fuck a government man?"

"No sir you do not."

The rest of them fought to contain their laughter while Fairbanks grinded his teeth behind a tired smile. His thoughts raced to find a new excuse.

"Look, I'm just doing my job, trying to keep everybody safe in this time of crisis."

"Then you can go ahead and tell us what you're doing. Miss Walker doesn't play these games. You know, I didn't trust her at first. Lady came down here in a fancy flying disk and started asking some weird questions. But you know what really won me over? She had very interesting things to say about that tailor you were looking for. Andre, what was that ol boys name?"

"Hitchins. Leonard Hitchins."

Marvin backed up a bit, swept his arm as if presenting an invisible doorway to the man.

"We were just gonna go have a chat with him, why don't you come along?"

After being relieved of his service weapon, he followed them compliantly on a short walk through the sleepy city. The tailor shop was connected to a larger building on its left, as if it was a growth hanging off the side of the much larger structure. It's right held a field of dead weeds once used for decorative grass some years ago.

Marvin Clyde knocked on the reinforced door, three sharp taps to be polite.

"Who is it?" Asked a high, muffled voice from the other side."

Agent Fairbanks reluctantly said the pass phrase.

"I've got a hole in my pants, hope all this money doesn't fall out of it."

There was a sound of a latch coming undone, then Marvin Clyde kicked in the opening door, knocking the man down.

"You goddamn snake!" He yelled, reaching down to grab Hitchins and scream in his face.

"Folks here treated you good, and this is how you thank them?!"

His arm was cocked to punch, then stopped abruptly when his wrist bracer beeped. The radio message poured through his mens bracers as well, and it was a frantic warning echoing harshly in the night.

"Everyone! Andre's dead! I repeat, that thing has killed Andre!"




"It's strange, not like any other time I've been knocked out. Sometimes it was a flash and a leap forward, sometimes I saw things. This feels too sharp, like it's real life. I only know it's a dream because it's happened before. I'm like a train on the tracks, nothing can stop me.
1970, I'm on a death march, getting close to Berlin. Sky looks wrong, filled with smoke, has a chemical haze to it. Mushroom cloud's behind me, far enough away that I ain't gotta run. Ground's churned up, all craters and warped steel. I see a giant robot reaching out of the mud, dead as it can be. Was it scared? Was it hoping for salvation?"

"Look at what they do, breaking the world because they couldn't put it in chains. Madness, unyielding madness. World belongs to nobody, no matter how deep you root yourself. Berlin's a fortress now, a monument for cruel ideas. They're throwing out everything trying to stop us, to stop me. I gotta keep marching until it's done."

 

[breadedhamster]

"I wanted peace in those days, back when it was a war between nations, America struggling against its greatest enemy. These nazis, they speak highly of peace in their newspapers, sully the word. I've seen what their peace brings, and I will break it over my knee."


A great bellowing of smoke rose clumsily into the night sky. The dark pillar reflected orange fire mixing with the light of the neutered moon. Flashes of a pinkish red would erupt at the base, briefly washing the whole mass like a phallus totem rising from the bowels of the earth.

Across the street from the burning building, a resident of Mesquite poked his rifle barrel out of his apartment window. Being a former sniper, his training returned naturally to him, even though it had been years since he last shot a man. He exhaled, and with his lungs emptied, he pulled the trigger. A microsecond of relief hit him when he struck the target, only to be stolen away when it did not fall.

It was not Andre, but rather a thing made to look like him. It had his long mullet, his sunglasses. It wore the militia gear that he owned. The rifle bullet hit the imitation in the upper cheek, shredding the muscles and letting the jaw dangle by a few strands of meat. The mouth was now a gaping, warped caricature, but the thing only reacted with precision as it turned and fired its weapon.

It was a boxy laser gun powered by a back mounted battery. With a roaring shriek, the crimson beam reduced the sniper to hot ash before he could even duck. It had ignited his apartment as well, creating more smoke to accompany the rest. Agent Fairbanks was huddled in a roadside ditch, peeking over the edge to catch a glimpse of the monstrosity. He crouched again when the thing turned to vaporize another civilian.

"Goddammit." He whispered under his breath.

The militia leader, Marvin Clyde, was next to him, performing CPR on a victim.

"I don't think he's gonna make it." The agent said.

Leonard Hitchins lay dead, the left half of his body being a charred mass with hardly any recognizable features. After the radio message came in announcing Andre's death, the imitation reacted violently. After the militia men surrounding the fake were ash, a beam entered the tailor shop and barely missed Hitchins, but the residual heat was enough to kill.

Marvin Clyde slammed the dead traitors chest. He wanted to pummel him, but he didn't want him dead. He knew this man once. Fairbanks lit a cigarette, then took a deep breath to nearly burn it all. He felt oddly calm, like things were simple again.

"We need a game plan, he's not going down unless we get something heavier."

"That laser's the heaviest thing we got." Marvin said bitterly.

The agent finished the cigarette and spat out the filter.

"I have some grenades in my car, but I parked it on the outskirts of town."

"Why do you have those?"

"Oh I don't know, why do you people have a heavy laser?!"

Both winced as another flash crawled over the threshold, a scream echoed past the rattling air.

"We have it in case of problems." Marvin said angrily.

"Well the problem has the damn laser."

Fairbanks collected himself, then spoke of the plan he had just stitched together.

"I'll try to distract him while you take a shot at that battery."

Marvin Clyde grabbed his assault rifle, then gave a blank stare to the unarmed agent. Fairbanks inhaled deeply, letting the reek of ozone pump him up. It was that same smell he experienced in London as a member of the resistance. His days as a sapper were hiding in rubble and tossing explosives into the vents of nazi war machines. He didn't miss those days, but here now, the familiarity was energizing.

Right as he was about to dash off to the side, a metallic shriek resounded in the night wind, then faded with a dying echo. Fairbanks went prone, listening as the sweat beads teased the edges of his eyes. He had heard that cry before. After a time without another blast, Marvin looked over the side and saw the laser was on the ground, its power cord severed along with the hands that once wielded it.

"Where is it?"




Grace Walker opened the door, then stepped out to the front yard with Hesem following her.

"Ready your defense system." She said to the machine servant.

A subtle buzz escalated from his chassis before peaking.

"Ready." He said.

Some feet away, an object fell silent from the dark ceiling, a delivery she had requested. It landed wetly, kicking up dust that mixed with the leaking fluids. Grace clicked her earpiece.

"Good Job."

A static, guttural voice responded.

"New orders?"

"Continue patrol, report anything suspicious."

She walked over to the delivery, frowned in disgust at what was before her. The copy of Andre had no hands, no jaw. Its legs were shattered from the impact, their bones now jutting from the skin at many angles. She clicked on the earpiece, spoke tiredly.

"We need information, can't get that with a busted mouth."

"That was not my doing."

The imitator sat itself up, the sound of its shattered limbs grinding harshly. Helpless, it simply stared at her expectantly.

"Oh God!" Somebody exclaimed.

Grace turned to see Richard behind her, clasping his head in shock of the thing sitting on the ground. Richard knew Andre since he was 12, they were childhood friends. She wanted to tell him to head back inside, but she knew he wasn't a child anymore.

"It's not him." She said.

"Then what the hell is it?!"

"I don't know. Go wake your brother, we're about to find out."




It was a frantic night even after the fake had vanished. The town of Mesquite worked valiantly to contain the spreading fire before they could count the scarce remains of the dead. Fairbanks didn't sleep, even when he was offered a place to. Marvin did not bother him on the matter which put them at odds. It was around 6 AM, a suggestion of morning light bleached the sky a dim gray.

He drove fast down the dirt road, even faster than last night's raging, even angrier than that time. He only slowed to turn into the yard of the Blazkowicz home, then stopped with a drift that threw up a dust cloud. After stepping out of the car, he slammed the door and yelled with a shrill contempt.

"Walker!"

Hesem was already halfway to the car when Grace came out.

"It's fine." She said to the robot.

Fairbanks strode up to the porch, not even sparing a glance to the sentinel.

"Where the fuck is it?!" He asked.

"Where is what?"

"Don't play dumb, only you freaks would have such a thing. There's a damn good reason those kinds of bots are illegal!"

"Spying on independent citizens is also illegal."

He clenched his jaw, then realized how tired he felt.

"Hitchins is dead, you don't need to worry about him."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

She sounded sincere, but firm. Fairbanks leaned on the railing to the steps, then reached for his cigarettes, only to realize he had finished them all.

"Let's not play these games anymore, people are dead."

"Why are you even here?" She asked.

"I came to call you a mad sow, and to tell you about this."

He reached into his coat and manifested a squarish piece of plastic with black singe marks, a data disk.

"I got this from Hitchins place before it burned. It's got info on almost everyone in this town. Could help us tell who's a fake."

She grabbed the disc with hesitation, stared at it like it was dirty.

"I'm breaking it when this is done."

"Understood."

"But still, why should I trust you?"

Fairbanks raised an eyebrow at her.

"Lady, I'll be assigned to count bricks in Berlin if my boss finds out I gave that to you. I don't want to do these spy games-."

"I'm not talking about the IDS." She said firmly.

"Oh, you think I'm like one of those things? How do I know you're not?"

She laughed out of her nose.

"Fair."




In the basement of the Blazkowics home, an odd experiment was taking place. Doctor Maha was called to the house late last night from the Mesquite hospital, bringing only minimal equipment with him. He was used to working lean, just as he had years ago treating his fellow rebels in Algeria. He was a shorter man, malnourished in his childhood.

"Incredible." He whispered in French.

He looked into the small, but powerful microscope. It was zoomed in on the blood cells of their subject. They were not dead in spite of the sterilizing agent. His temporary assistant, Wesley Blazkowics, tapped on his shoulder.

"Any changes?"

"None, it seems to perfectly imitate the human form while lacking many of the weaknesses."

Doctor Maha looked up to see the jawless construct restrained on the operating table. A great discomfort struck him when it stared into his eyes, so he turned away. The thing which impersonated Andre had been given powerful anesthesia, but it still remained lucid, its gaze tracking every movement of the two.

The doctor threw a rag over the mutilated visage, then walked over to a small case. Undoing the latches revealed a collar device inside.

"The vocal cords are still intact, this will help him speak."

With caution, he fitted the collar around the mimics neck, then flipped the switch to activate it. To the surprise of doctor Maha, sound poured through immediately. It was a monotone stream of words in a language he could not understand, but Wesley could. He listened for a time, growing more irritated all the while.

After he could take no more, he turned it off.

"What did he say?" Asked the doctor.

"He was speaking Polish, reciting mein kampf."

Maha grew sympathetic, uneasy.

"You have read that book?"

"Yeah, dad wanted me to know what the nazis were all about. Understand the enemy, as they say."

"I can see the wisdom in that, though I don't think I'd have the patience for such subjects."

"Me neither, but we need to know what it knows. It doesn't feel pain, it can't be drugged, and it's obviously just messing with us at this point. How can we hurt this thing doc?"

"That is another subject I cannot help you with, torture is eh, how you say, distasteful to me."

Wesley scowled, but remained respectful.

"It's not torture, it's not even human."

"I still do not think that is a healthy attitude."

"Why?"

"Look at this thing. Just yesterday, it might have been eating dinner with Andres' family. Real or not, the human mind is not meant to commit such butchery. You wish to be a doctor, no?"

Wesley slammed his fist on the table.

"One of these things tried to kill my father!"

Maha showed his left hand to the younger man. The pinky was missing, as well as half of the ring finger.

"When I was a slave, I was owned by a wealthy French family. The father was a traitor to France, so the Nazis let him reign over that part of the country. One day, while we were lined up for punishment, he brought his young daughter to witness. When his men cut off my fingers, she began to cry. Do you know what he said to that girl? He said 'Be rational, it's just blood.'"

Wesley struggled to remain indignant.

"What are you trying to say?"

"I'm not calling you a nazi if that's what you're thinking. You're young, don't feel like you should-"

"Wait! What's that sound?"

A hiss had creeped up on them before turning into a heavy whine.

"Run!" Yelled the doctor.

They fled the room with a cloud of hot steam chasing them, carrying a noxious, rotting scent. The mimic had begun to self destruct, its body releasing so much heat as to melt the table it had been bound to. Maha locked the door, yelping in pain when the metal knob burned his hand.




The conference room was minimal, its only consequential piece of furniture being the long table filling most of the space. Around a dozen community leaders for mesquite were sitting at the sides, their eyes honed eagerly on the mayor at the head. He was a native American in his late forties. His dark, wrinkled face was flanked by two braids hanging off his shoulders.

He spoke with an iron calmness.

"It seems we have no choice but to consider outside help."

"From who?" One of them asked.

"We are on good terms with the internationale, but this enemy has technology even beyond them. It would be wise to invest in a more direct force, the United States government."
Mesquite was an independent city, one of many founded after the liberation to form a codependent chain across the American south. A polite ruckus ensued, heavy whispers and protests. He raised his hand to request silence, and they gave it.

"I share your worries about our sovereignty. Believe me, I am no friend to Uncle Sam, but we are at war."

War, the word carried a sour weight coming from him. After America surrendered, he and many other Comanche fled into the deep desert and used their knowledge of the land against the nazis. Nobody knew the name he was born with, but when he became an insurgent, he began to call himself Quanah, a name he used even to this day.

The leader of the farmers' union gave his advice.

"Ms Walker could be a mediator."

"Yes." Mayor Quanah said.

"Maybe we could ask the other cities for help? Like little rock or Jackson?"

"They cannot lend what we need without leaving themselves exposed."

The infrastructure manager spoke next, and did so angrily.

"Exposed to what, the fucking feds? The same feds we're just gonna let walk into our town? They could be the ones doing all this."

A brief quiet came with the theory, they all suspected it could be the government responsible, but the idea seemed ludicrous to say aloud. Quanah broke the silence with his own.

"No, they are still recovering like everybody else. They don't have the strength to risk a war with the city states."

"Then who could it be?"

Quanah grimaced.

"I think we all know who it really is."




A stone's throw from the Blazkowics home was an old, makeshift shooting range. Nothing more than stacked wooden boards lined with glass bottles, it had been overrun with shrubbery in the past few years. Richard and agent Fairbanks cleared it for use, now they took turns firing with hunting rifles, practicing their aim.

Fairbanks growled in anger when he missed yet again, he tapped Richard on the shoulder.

"Hey, do you see it?"

"What?"

"Over there, in that tree."

Richard squinted.

"Nope."

"Alright, now I know you're fucking with me."

The younger man smirked and continued shooting, Fairbanks set down his rifle and pulled out a flask.

"What's your deal with it anyhow?" Richard asked.

"Oh boy, you didn't see London swarming with those things."

"It's just a robot, no different from Hesed."

"The difference is those things are made for killing."

Two green eye lenses rested in the shadowed tree, the outline of the hunched figure was easy to miss. Fairbanks had encountered earlier models of this machine years ago. The Nazis called them eaglemen, but the people of London referred to them as gargoyles. Fairbanks nearly dropped his flask when it silently became a blur trailing off into the morning sky.

"Fucking hell! How did they make them that quiet?"

"Why are you complaining? They saved you, didn't they?"

The agent snapped.

"I've been in tighter spots! Not everybody has a goddamn nuke for a father!"

Richard set his rifle down, not knowing if he should respond. Before he could make that decision, a cheery, German voice graced their ears.

"Guten Morgen!"

They turned to see a figure standing at the end of the firing range, he was dressed in black and wearing a wide brimmed hat. Both of them drew their bulky pistols to aim at the sudden arrival. He raised his hands in a mock surrender, and let out a strained laugh.

"No need for that, I am unarmed."

He took his hat off to reveal a burnt, hairless face, the scarred skin was tight and wrinkled. His left eye was missing, only a black void remaining where it was.

"Is that deathshead?!" The agent yelled.

"How did you just walk up here?!" Richard asked.

With his wrinkled lips peeled back in a protruding smile, the stranger pointed to a device wrapped around his wrist.

"This little trinket makes me invisible to those flying friends of yours."

A deafening bang filled the air, much louder than the rifles from earlier. The hand of Deathsheads impersonator vanished in a bloody mist, leaving only a gushing, mangled stump where the device once was. He simply laughed afterwards, then congratulated Richard.

"Precise aim! Your father taught you well!"

That same Shriek from the night before rippled in the hot air.




"1970, Berlin outskirts. Nazi's have been bringing out the heavy stuff. Strange things, older than Da'at yichud, maybe even older than man. None of it'll stop me, I've seen true evil. There were so many camps on the way here, so many bones. These monsters are nothing, I don't even blink at their howls.

I'm in the skeleton of a small town, nothing human survived after the fallout settled. Set gave me some injection to help with the radiation, kinda makes my blood itch. But I know Set ain't alive anymore, I know it's not 1970. This dream is so vivid, unlike any other. Why am I here? I was in the hospital checking on that body, hoping I was just going crazy. I think I am crazy either way.

Here we go again, another pack of jackals circling. Top half of the buildings are hidden in smoke, flashes of jet exhaust blink in the murk. I ready my laser rifle, fire a blue beam into it, one explosion lights the whole thing up, think I got one, maybe two? A dozen more exhausts light up after, they scatter around and fire back.

I duck behind a pillar and let it eat the plasma bolts. Half the thing is dust before I move and fire again. Another one down, rest of them start to scream, sound like electric banshees. I rush into the building, old apartment complex maybe? Stairs are mostly rubble, sections of floor missing too, but I just jump as High as I need to, run as fast as I need to. This body just keeps getting better, it's like the killing fuels it.

One of them is at the end of the hall, a cyborg, sloppily made. It's got a hover exhaust instead of legs, arms are cannons. Face is a dead mans, using his brain for the processor. Might have killed him, gonna kill him again. Twitchy fool lets out a volley, no grace. I dash through the wall to avoid it, then he rushes to follow. I'm already scarce by the time he floats over to that room.

I'm in the air vent above him, feel like a rat in these moments. Feel like a damn dragon when I fire my gun, the whole space fills with smoke and heat. I hop out and he's nothing but slag and stains on the wall. Motion at the doorway, bits of glass crunch under a boot. I turn to fire, but I can't. Oh God, why can't I pull the trigger? It was just like 1970 until now, there's a real monster standing before me."