World On Fire: Operation Pathfinder

[Rupudska]

And thus, it was time to depart. Esther, Catherine, and Carmen had all found their equipment quickly enough, and Carmen in particular was surprised that SoE had managed to find a genuine Spanish rapier from the era of her humanity, let alone that they had decided to provide her with it on what was to be a plainclothes mission.

Speaking of plainclothes, Carmen took the longest out of anyone to get ready with her own clothes. It was not due to any sense of fashion, however - She simply felt that she needed clothes as plain, dingy and convincingly peasant-like as possible to counteract her vampiric appearance. She even went so far as to apply what the others might consider an excess of grime to her face. When she came out, she looked like she had been assaulted by an oil truck. Esther gave her a disapproving look.

"Let's go, already." The three made it to the elevator just as its door began to close. They traveled down, down, deep into the earth. Either the elevator was pressurized, or they weren't as deep as Catherine suspected - and the weredingo had a feeling it was the former. After all, those doors looked sturdy enough to take a beating from an entire pack of werewolves.

Or a Jerry bomb, she thought grimly. Her uniqueish background reminded her forcefully that the mundane world could cause just as much destruction with just as much ease as that behind the Masquerade, a thought that Esther simultaneously shared.

They then found themselves in a cave. None of them paid significant attention to the sounds or patterns therein or the hows or whys of them. Carmen and Catherine didn't care (both suspecting that they would have to get used to it, no matter how the 'portal' worked), and Esther already knowing what all of it was, even if she didn't have the slightest idea of how any of it worked.

The three walked into the portal, with Esther confidently going in first, Carmen confidently going last, and Catherine unconfidently going second.

All three landed squarely on their asses, though.

[Fascist Republic Of Bermuda]

London, United Kingdom
April 27th, 1942

Hugon Kowalski smiled as he looked around the armory. Most firearms Kowalski knew were present, and then some more, just for good measure. There were even a handful of Axis weapons, although why or how Hugon did not know. He searched for a long while, looking for a weapon that he felt would fit him. He settled on a Karabinek wz. 1929 of Polish make, a simple bolt-action rifle that reminded Kowalski of the similar weapon he had used when the Nazis invaded. As he checked the receiver, just as he had been trained, Hugon found his mind wandering to the sleepy little village of Spokój, where the Pole had grown up. He didn't know if it still existed, it had been invaded not once, but twice. The Soviets had overrun the town, but then the Nazis had invaded the Soviet-occupied portion of Poland and steamed into Russia itself. Now Kowalski wanted to know if his parents were still alive. He could hope. He would hope. But that didn't stop his mind from thinking up the worst situations possible.

Gulping down his fear and grief, he grabbed the bayonet that lay beside where the imprint of the rifle was. He drew a quick breath and turned to head to the meeting room. But on a shelf, sandwiched between an American M1918 Trench Knife and a rack with 4 wz. 33 hand grenades, sat an old Adrian helmet. Nothing special about it, but on the helmet, peering down, was the coat of arms of Poland, emblazoned on the steel. The eagle on the coat of arms seemed to be daring him. Daring him to wear it. Daring him to, for the first time in three years, fight truly for Poland. Without a word, he collected the grenades and trench knife. Just before he left for the gathering, the Polish soldier seized the helmet and put it on.

By the time he reached the rest of the team, the man in an completely flawless British uniform, whom Kowalski now recognized as Lee, seemed to be silently surveying the group. Hoping not to be noticed, he slipped in the group. Just as Kowalski stopped moving, Lieutenant Commander Fleming began to speak.

"Ladies, Gentlemen, it's time to deploy. Finish quickly whatever task you are currently engaging in, and follow me."

This was it. Time to deploy to Warsaw. Part of Hugon was glad. After all, he was going back to Poland. But on the other, how were they going to get there over occupied Europe? Even then, the lift seemed to be going down. What kind of plane operates from underground?

His question was rendered moot when the lift's doors opened to a cavern that looked like a demon's lair, complete with a pentagram. The witch- sorry, the "maga" (Hugon, after reading the most of the dossiers, still didn't fully understand the difference) was reassuring them that the pentagram was perfectly safe, but Hugon feared for his life. As the rest of the squad leapt into the portal that the maga had summoned, the Pole crossed himself. When the second to last member of the team jumped in, Kowalski thought I'm going to Hell for this, before jumping in with slightly less enthusiasm than a man leaping into a pit of vipers.

Hugon Kowalski had imagined what an airman in one felt like in one of the German bombers he shot at rumble and shake as they bombed London. He had felt the roaring North Sea in a small boat before. He had even held up in a truck driving in the cratered roads of occupied Poland. He still wasn't prepared for the experience that was unfolding before him. It was as if an earthquake had happened while he was in that truck, while the North Sea pounded on it, as AA fire peppered the ground around him. And then some. In fact, by the time he unmajestically fell onto the straw of the basement, he stumbled into open floor and threw up. He had almost thrown up his entire dinner before Hugon Kowalski realized there were other Poles in the room.

[Monfrox]

Willow blinked at the portal. Well, it was certainly something. It kinda made her anxious, but it was a symbol to the Allies' power behind the curtain. She took a deep breath and, in acting as part of her mundane nature, ran at the portal head-first, yelling her head off all the way into the portal. The weightless feeling came over her, and she actually smiled. In this new organization where most everything was quite foreign, this was a very familiar feeling. She enjoyed it. Well, right up until she was thrown from it. Due to the excessive force she used in making her entrance, she missed the haystack by a smidgen as the top of it was blown off. Willow tumbled along the floor and groaned when she stopped herself.

"Ggnh...fuck me...." She grunted.

[Malshan]

Markus's ears perked when the LC spoke, sensing a slight flutter in his voice, perhaps caused by nervousness. The man had seemed a tad unnerved by the group while lounging in the staging area. This caused no end of amusement to Markus, who stood, packing the last of the ammunition into spare pockets and draping ammunition belts across his shoulders. Extra ammunition, if he was limited to human form, would be essential to his combat ability.

As Markus walked toward the elevator, his form began flowing again, his skeletal structure cracking and shrinking back down, compressing to his human size. His muzzle crunched back down into a facsimile of the human skull and he winced slightly, rubbing his lower jaw as it crunched painfully into place. By the time he reached the lift, Markus was once again humanoid, looking distinctly uncomfortable in his shapeshifting clothing, which had transformed into a thick shirt and trousers covered in pockets, which was where the ammunition had disappeared to.

As the group arrived at their destination and disembarked, Markus shivered a bit, shaking himself like a wolf coming in out of the rain. Indoors didn't sit well with him; he longed for the open air and cool breeze of the forest. As he looked up, over the heads of some of the more diminutive group members, Markus listened to one of the humans, Elektra Helsing he remembered, rolling the name around in his head, as she described the method in which they would be transported to their destination.

Well, at least it's not another boat. Markus thought to himself. He knew it would still be unpleasant, regardless, but at least he wouldn't be trapped aboard a vessel with water in every direction.

Then Markus snapped back to the present as Fleming spoke again, handing out strange pins, which Markus slotted onto his shirt. He chuckled as he passed Fleming, turning to face the man just before he stepped through the portal. "If you're going to worship something, worship something with power. Not your pathetic 'God' character. Mani, on the other hand, rules the lives of werecreatures everywhere." He shivered in delight, remembering the last full moon and the elated hunt that had occurred that night. He chuckled, tightened his ammunition belts, and stepped through the portal.

Immediately Markus felt sick. His stomach began doing flips as he felt simultaneously compressed and stretched. He saw the ocean, a pine forest, scented a freshly killed deer, and was finally deposited in a dinghy barn, presumably his destination. The large manwolf landed heavily, falling to one knee as he tried to regain his balance.

Markus shook himself again, fighting to keep from reverting to wolf form and tearing everything around him to pieces. He won that fight...but promptly lurched to the side and vomited, spewing his meager meal and the remains of his last human kill into a rancid puddle in the hay. He retched a couple times, clearing his system of the bile that had been expelled, before standing back up, taking off and leaning on the ATR for support.

Markus snarled, baring tooth and claw, maddened by the pain in his gut and the sight of human soldiers surrounding them. Then his conscious mind caught up with his instincts and he stopped, his canines shrinking and his claws sinking back into fingernails with visible effort on his part.

Markus calmed himself, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He was now hungry once again, his stomach completely empty. This would end badly, he knew, if he didn't find prey soon. Of course, at that point, the voiding of his contract would be the least of his worries.

[Nature-Spirits]

Adrienne thought on Jannie's mention of her brother. She especially noted the use of the conditional tense: "He would have dreamed of a collection such as this." The vampire quickly followed that up with a short speech on firearms and her own preference for revolvers, which apparently had changed little since their invention, but the witch dwelled for a moment longer on Jannie's brother, wondering what exactly had happened in the woman's past. Adrienne glanced at the scar dividing the vampire's face and sealing her eye shut.

Before she could reply, Fleming spoke up once again: it was time to depart. Adrienne tightened her grip on her carpet bag and bundle as the group exited the room and proceeded to an elevator. It was a large -- probably not designed, originally, for personnel transportation. They seemed to descend for a long time, and the witch's jaw tightened as the minutes crawled by. She was getting nervous.

Finally, the doors opened onto a cavern. She exited, looking around at the rune-covered walls, and inhaled deeply. The air was thick with magic, and a red and gold glow was provided by the runes themselves. She did not understand most of the symbols -- she had little use for them, herself -- but she did recognise some of them, at least. It was not long before she spotted the pentagram in the centre of the room, surrounded by magi. As the group drew nearer, she could make out a low chant, the language of which she quickly recognised as Latin. Despite her not completely understanding the principles of magecraft -- indeed, she harboured a dislike for many of their practices -- the chant was something vaguely familiar; even if she could not understand the words, the idea of using speech to produce effect was one she knew quite well, and there was a certain euphony to the language that put her more at ease.

Adrienne listened to Elektra's explanation of the symbolism and reason for the chant; most of it she knew already -- it was very basic information, really -- but it was interesting nonetheless. "Fortunately," the Helsing girl concluded on inverted pentagrams, "no one does that variant right now, except for some pointy hats, who're zany like that." The witch pursed her lips slightly, turning back to examine the pentagram.

At Fleming's urging, Elektra went to the tip of the pentagram and spread her arms, joining the other magi in their chant. Suddenly, the girl drew her wand, made a few well-aimed flicks of her wrist, and called out, "CREO PORTAM!" The witch cocked her head slightly as a stream of pure prana shot from the tip of the wand into the centre of the pentagram towards another symbol. The air above the symbol shimmered and rippled like a curtain, pulling away to reveal what appeared to be a dusty cellar. The other magi joined in with their own prana, seemingly strengthening the portal.

Lee handed a B-shaped jacket pin to each of them, and after a quick inspection Adrienne fastened it to the lapel of her overcoat. She watched several people step through the portal, and as the number of those left on the British side diminished, she found her heart beating faster. She had never before travelled by portal -- that was the domain of magi -- and she wondered what it would be like.

There was only one way to find out.

Before she had the time to think it all through, the witch approached the portal and, staring at her booted foot, stuck it through. She pushed off gently with her other foot, and then her entire body was through.

She was not prepared for what she encountered.

The sensation was akin to travelling by broom in a blizzard, while the sun scorched her skin, and the sea rose up to crash against her body. She saw thousands of images in the blink of an eye as wind and gravity pushed and pulled her this way and that. She clutched more closely at her bundle, hurtling through the sky as she remembered one of her mother's many pieces of advice: "Point forward and stay on top."

And then it was over. Adrienne's first foot impacted something soft and squishy; she bent her knee and shot her other leg forward, bending that knee as well as the second foot impacted with a thinner layer of the soft padding. She felt herself falling forwards, and leaned back in an attempt to right herself, only to fall sideways into the padding -- hay, she realised.

Quickly, the witch pushed herself up and stood, clutching her carpet bag and bundle to herself as if for dear life. She scanned the room, starting with the shoddy pentagram at her feet, moving onto her teammates, and then glancing over the Polish troops and finally resting her gaze on the balding, bearded man who appeared to be the leader. The soldiers appeared to be poorly nourished and dressed, and had presumably not cleaned properly in a long time, and a twinge of sympathy lanced her heart. She stepped away from the pentagram to avoid the next traveller's landing, and took a quiet breath, moving her gaze from the Polish man and, glancing back at the hay, eyeing a foul-smelling heap of meat and bile suspiciously. She glanced at Markus with a sneer. Stupid dog.

[Mnar Secundus]

"Ladies, Gentlemen, it's time to deploy. Finish quickly whatever task you are currently engaging in, and follow me."

Sophie quickly grabbed a shoulder holster for her Beretta and concealed it beneath her light blue trench coat before following Fleming at a brisk pace. She was fully aware that she looked everything but military in her blouse, elegant trousers and jewelry, but that was rather the point of plainclothes, wasn't it? At any rate, this would have to do.

Along the way, she took the time to glance over her teammates again, noting the presence of a new red-eyed, snow-haired teenager with some discomfort. The girl appeared to be communicating without using her voice -- indeed, when asked to speak, she had been unable to comply, suggesting that she was mute. Telepathy, I suppose, Sophie concluded tentatively. Pure mind-to-mind communication was not a difficult thing to do with magecraft, but this specific mode of it may go further ... She would have to be prudent around this Polina.
How many of these espers are there, anyway? The albinos made Sophie squeamish. She was rather interested in the mechanisms of their production, but when you got down to it, it had to involve experimenting on children; this was not entirely uncommon in magus society, but Sophie disapproved of it. When you had no morals, you needed to have standards, and she stuck to those. When she took over the Grand Lodge of Gallia, regulations would be introduced, and hopefully the Mundanes would do the same.

Setting aside her musings on her teammates and her ambitions, Sophie followed Fleming into a spacious lift -- it had to be, with the werewolves and the colossal Captain Beecher -- leading down to a cave. This was probably the deepest level of the building: the maga could almost feel the weight of the earth, stone and concrete piled up above her. That wasn't important, though; what was important was the intricate magical structure covering the entire cave in glowing runes and symbols. The whole thing converged on a large, complex pentagram sustained by four magi chanting stanzas in low voices. A portal.
Sophie had been a rather prominent magus for quite some time, and as such she had of course seen portals before -- indeed, she had used them several times, although the experience was unpleasant and one she tried to avoid. She had even taken part in such a portal's creation once, supplying the runic part of the complicated process. Generally speaking, portals were technically difficult to establish and prohibitively expensive in prana; they usually required a team effort even for highly competent magi, so Sophie, being somewhat isolated in magus society, had little hands-on experience in the field besides the aforementioned event (which had been experimental anyhow). Nevertheless, she could ascertain at a glance that this was the real deal. It was a portal for travel at a continental scale, an impressive feat of magecraft which did credit to the Lodge of Albion's skill, and Sophie felt enthralled by the sheer sight of it, the way a good swordsman would admire another.

She glanced around the cave with seeming neglect, tapping her glasses as the young Elektra von Helsing gave her elementary explanations; in reality, Sophie was activating another gadget of hers. Her glasses were enchanted with various runes, which had among others the ability of perceiving prana as a purple light. Most magi, in Sophie's expectations, had a similar object -- after all, it was invaluable in research. She usually didn't keep it activated, because prana was everywhere and seeing it all the time would have been exhausting, but this was important: the maga quickly memorized the flow of prana throughout the portal when it opened, then focused back on the task at hand as Lee handed her a pin.

And then she focused on the pin.

Impossible.

This was the greatest shock she had received since ... well, she couldn't even remember how long it had been since she had been this surprised. Lee had just given her -- nay, the entire squad -- the linguistic equivalent of the Philosopher's Stone, or close enough. It was a small thing, a plain rock jacket pin marked with a B, but through her glasses she could see the swirl of prana in it, beautiful in its harmonious complexity. This was a construction of times bygone, when magi had been greater and gods walked the Earth.
Sophie's face let nothing show, but her mind was nearly overheating. Why do they have such things so widely available?, she thought. "Material found in Baghdad", he said. I've been there, and I haven't found anything like this. Judging by what she could perceive at a glance, and that wasn't nearly enough, the pin was a universal translating device. As the closest thing in magus society to a linguist, Sophie had developed various means of freely communicating between languages, but this was on another level entirely. I need to keep it. Then, when this puny little war is over, I will track the material down, even if it takes me decades. This is the greatest discovery since the Rosetta stone, I won't let the Lodge of Albion monopolize it. But for now, she would have to bide her time ... and get back to her mission. Several of her teammates had gone through the portal in the time she'd needed to recover.

Sophie glanced around to see if no-one else was forthcoming, then strode towards the portal with lazy confidence and walked into it as though she were entering a bar. The sensations of the fall and the blurry landscapes were no strangers to her, and she needed to make a good first impression upon their allies on the other side, so she took care to control her mental balance and remain perfectly calm throughout the whole thing; this served her well. When she exited the portal after a few seconds of travel, she landed elegantly on her feet even as her comrades-in-arms were struggling with the aftereffects.

"I see you're wearing Babylon pins. Perfect. Excuse me for the roughness of your landing, but this poor little circle is the most we can offer to the cause. Take your time to readjust yourself, and then we'll talk. Welcome to Poland." the man said.

As expected, perfect translation. "Everyone, take deep breaths and don't move too much for a short while," she said casually as she took out a cigar and cut it with a silver guillotine-style cutter. "These symptoms are normal in such circumstances, you'll be completely recovered soon. I expect most of you will get used to it eventually."

Interestingly enough, Markus seemed to have taken it worse than the others, but Sophie filed this under "further study" -- it probably had to do with werewolf senses -- and lit her cigar to face the portly, nearly bald, white-bearded magus before her and his scruffy acolytes. The men didn't suit her previous expectations of resistance fighters, if anything they looked more like beggars with weapons, but that was hardly surprising when you considered what their "resistance" truly amounted to, how desperate their battle was. It was impressive that they were still fighting at all.

Therefore, Sophie gave a nod of heartfelt respect towards the small crowd before approaching the magus and extending her hand in greeting. "Aurelius Groszek, I presume? I'm Sophie Acenath Dulac. Honored to meet you."
Babylon pins, the man had said, and Sophie felt the connection appear in her mind of its own volition: Babylon. Baghdad. The Tower, of course. The implications were vertiginous, but irrelevant right now, and she promptly filed them away. "As an impromptu representative of the Grand Lodge of Gallia," she added, because some long-term groundwork never hurt in diplomacy, "I would like to add my gratitude to Captain Beecher's. Your assistance is invaluable to us, and it will be remembered after we win this war."

[Minroz]

Watching the developments between his fellow squadmates, Terry felt relieved the fight didn’t break out as he feared it will be. Rubbing his temple, he muttered a word of thanks to God for that. If anything else, he can focus on the mission without having to worry about the oddballs of the team. Some fellas like Beecher and Abe are alright folks in his books, same goes for the girls excluding Polina. As for ones of ‘questionable’ characters, Terry decided they need to be warily looking out for or kept his distance from them. From his life experience of world adventuring, sometimes it’s better to judge others through actions rather than relying first impressions.

Back to the job at hand, Terrance Brooks dons the plain clothing of the mundane factory worker as his choice of disguise. After the final adjustment of his hat making him look like a freedom fighter character, he’s ready to go.

“Oi boy, here goes nothing.” Terry said, staring at the magic portal created by Elektra. Stepping in, he finally enters the portal and only arrived in Warsaw, Poland with the others.

“Jesus O’Mary! That was a Mad ride I’ve ever gone through in my life. Never once I thought there’s going to be an existence of Magic Portals.” He laughs until he stops upon noticing the Polish resistance and the depressing backdrop. “Oh…sorry about that. Didn’t mean to.” Terry quickly apologised with the level of genuine sincerity.

“Dang, this place looks worse than the 30s.” The vampire New Yorker observed on the city, the scene of ruined reminding him of the New York slums during the Great Depression. With the serious look of hidden outrage, he hums, “Hmph. Damn Krauts didn’t have any shred of decency left. Now they’ll get what’s comin’ to ‘em.”

“Funny. Never thought I’ll be back in Europe again…I fought the Kaiser’s Armies. Now I’m fighting the bloody Nazis. God help me, I wonder when this war ends.” He thought to himself.

[Cylarn]

With Fleming's orders, it was time to go. Clark put on his fedora and trenchcoat as the team prepared to move out. As they opened up the odd portal, Clark raised an eyebrow in suspicion at the device. He had expected to drop into Poland by plane or be inserted by submarine, but not by this odd portal. When it was his turn to go in, he slung his Monitor over his shoulder and stepped forward. The sensation was nothing less than terrifying, foreign in concept to him. He screamed the entire way through the portal, and fell to the ground when he arrived inside. He breathed heavily, thankful that he was finally touching solid ground again.

The setting was familiar to him, having grown up in a rural community as a child. He could smell a rancid smell and looked over to see a pile of regurgitated meat and bile, and he fought off the urge to vomit, quickly looking away. He noticed several armed men, dressed in tattered uniforms. Polish Resistance. Clark stood to his feet, looking over the men. They reminded him of the battered state of the Brigade following Aragon; emaciated, tired, weathered by constant battle. He looked towards their leader, who identified himself as Groszek.

"Captain Clark Harris," he said, following in suit with Beecher. "US Army."

[Agritum]

The Shadow operatives were looked upon by the Poles with what was maybe the most varied set of reactions ever: Beecher's stature and build generated respect and awe, as did Dulac's almost inhuman composure and elegance in landing on the chalk pentagram. Jannie's harsh reaction generated looks of distrust, as did Karlmann's poor choice of words, which visibly upset some of the partisans while the rough tumbles of Barnes, Adrienne and other troopers even created some heartfelt, rare laughs, which were quickly stifled. Finally, Markus' terrific arrival eventually started some partisans, who were calmed only by Groszek motioning them to rest.

Polina glanced around the room, silently probing the collective minds of the resistance members. She visibly grimaced, as if expressing pity for the Polish men, and disgust for the things they had been forced to suffer during years of occupation. In doing so, she absentmindedly brushed her hand against the holster of her Tokarev sidearm.

Groszek gave a look at Beecher and Harris, the two Americans. The polite, wizened old man's face had been stuck in a neutral frown since the arrival of Abraham, but Matthew's kind, diplomatical words lit up a faint, but valuable smile on his worn lips. He also acknowledged Sophie's polite greetings with a nod, before replying. "It is in my duty as a man of honour and as an ally to the United Nations to offer everything in my power to assist you and your men, Captain."

Groszek glanced at some of the partisans behind, still frowning, the harsh memories of the Phony War burning in their hearts. "There have been misunderstandings between our nations, but those are now matters of the past," he admonished "these men are now here, even beyond the ordinary frontlines of the war, to help us and our other allied countries. Just like our brothers who gave their lives on wings of silver to save Britain from the German scourge."

The distrusting looks of a few partisans were forced down. Groszek seemed to command an austere, but well-intentioned respect. When the old Polish mage heard Ariel's query, he nodded. "I will tell you everything we know about the Beast, as they call it." he replied, motioning to a nearby table, with an old and wrinkled city map spread on it, full of various scribblings, pointing arrows and drawn circles.

"The Beast started operating about a year or so ago. Currently, the Germans believe it is to be accounted for the murder of almost an hundred assorted military personnel, and the disappearance of a few prominent party officers in the city. Regarding its origins...well, we too know of the tale of the fortune teller. The diviner. This person was associated with the Communists before apparently leaving their formation permanently. Unfortunately, the local cell of the People's Army is quite dispersed, and they probably don't know much about the Beast proper, if it's even correct to think of this fortune teller and the Beast as the same person."

Abraham stepped forward, brushing off some of the hay. "Abraham Van Helsing, Sir. We knew about this, but we wanted to know: is there any other testimony of the Beast's identity, of its appearance, its nature? It's vital for us to know about those details."

Groszek sighed. "Yes. The children. The vagrant children of the city, specifically. They occasionally serve us as scouts, lookouts or messengers, and hide out in the sewers or in abandoned buildings in the outskirts. According to them, the Beast visits them a lot, and employs their help to fight the Germans. I frankly don't know if seeking out one of them would bring you close to the truth: they're children, starved and uneducated ones. They're likely to exaggerate or fantasize about things too much, and give you false or unaccurate information."

"But they're basically the only investigative path left to learn more about the Beast, am I right?"

Groszek sighed "Yes. We don't know much, ourselves. The Beast tends to ignore both us and the Communists. If you really want to find some of the vagrant kids, you have to head towards the sewers. Due to the Beast's apparent use of them, the Germans have started to crack down on them harsher than before. It's....terrible."

Abraham rationalized. "It's a fine path, better than nothing. Anything else we must know?"

Groszek replied. "As you know, the Beast targets the SS especially, and it moves by the rooftops of the city, apparently. Maybe if you follow the patrols in a similar way you'll encounter it? However, you must be wary: the Germans have set up some of those giant balloon machines in the sky to monitor the streets. It damaged our activities, but the Beast managed to bypass their survellaince too. Even then, they're still pretty dangerous: they relay their activities to this German fortification, The Tower, right in the centre of the city."

Groszek paused, a bitter look in his eyes. "....they razed part of the historical center of the city to put that thing there. It's very big and sturdy, and they use it for their radio broadcasts, to anchor the balloon ships and monitor the city from an advantaged position. Not even the Beast can take that monstrosity down."

"I guess it monitors the Ghetto too?" Abraham replied, as the vile memory of the existance of such a place flicked in his eyes.

Groszek's eyes darkened. "Yes, most likely. But the Ghetto is not much special anymore. They've started moving the Jews away from a while. Stay away from it, anyways: it's heavily guarded, and there's nothing good to gain from being there. It's like a prison."

The Polish mage glanced at the other members of the group. "Feel free to ask anything else you want to know, my friends. I will try to respond to the best of my knowledge."

[Wolfenium]

There was not much to ask at this point for Ariel, biting her lip tersely at the mage's descriptions. They had few leads to begin with, and it was clear that the Polish resistance did not either. And the thought of hiding under the cover of zeppelins did not bode well either. She already had some poor experiences with them, good or bad.

"Maybe someone should tell him to try putting normal crosses while he's at it," she mused, "God would probably be a scarier entity to heathens than the Devil ever would. It only makes sense, dealing with pseudo-Germanic knockoffs."

But one thing frightened her above anything else about the mission. If children were the only leads to the Beast, what was the SS going to do to them?

"Oh yes," she introduced herself to the Polish commander, "Ariel Remington, No.7 Com-... British Army. At your service."

[Reverend Norv]

The rest of the team arrived.

Robert Karlmann bellyflopped through the portal onto the pile of hay, and groaned, and grumbled. The young Jewish witch, the Australian werewolf, and the Spanish vampire nearly landed on top of him, one right after the other. The silent Pole appeared, fell flat, struggled to his feet, and vomited. Willow Barnes emerged from the portal moving at the speed of a dead run, missed the pile of hay, and rolled, bouncing, across the stone floor. She groaned; Matt flinched sympathetically, and laid a hand on her shoulder, and gently helped her up.

Markus appeared, dropped to one knee, and projectile-vomited raw meat and bile into the hay. He stood, snarling, and Matt saw his teeth begin to lengthen, his fingernails start to harden into claws. The Minuteman turned to face the werewolf, his fists clenched - but Markus' brow was already furrowed in concentration as the transformation reversed itself.

Adrienne came through next, narrowly avoiding Markus' vomit and managing to fall neatly into the center of the haypile. Terry emerged from the portal chattering inanely; Clark did so still screaming, though he soon clamped his mouth shut, struggled to his feet, and introduced himself.

Sophie stepped lazily out of thin air, landed on her feet, and lit up one of her funny-smelling cigarettes. She calmly introduced herself, and advised her comrades to take deep breaths and stay still. Matt chuckled and shook his head, impressed despite himself.

The Poles, for their part, just stared at the SHADOCOM team with mingled fear, awe, suspicion, and alarm. Their emotions were writ plain on their faces; when Polikarpova grimaced, Matt knew exactly why.

Groszek looked at Matt, and nodded. A faint smile played upon his face. "It is in my duty," he said, "as a man of honour and as an ally to the United Nations, to offer everything in my power to assist you and your men, Captain." His English was flawless, even faintly London-accented.

Matt thought: Wait. Wait. MY men?

Some of the partisans did not look entirely at ease with Groszek's pronouncements. The old man turned, and said: "There have been misunderstandings between our nations, but those are now matters of the past. These men are now here, even beyond the ordinary frontlines of the war, to help us and our other allied countries. Just like our brothers who gave their lives on wings of silver to save Britain from the German scourge."

It was good leadership. The distrust drained out of the Poles' faces, at least for now. But Matt was focused on something else.

Groszek was a Pole, speaking to Poles. He had to be speaking Polish. And yet to Matt, it sounded for all the world like he was still speaking perfect, London-accented English.

The Minuteman did a slow double-take. A sudden instinct struck him, and he stared at his pin. Matt's mind raced. The letter "B." Letters. Alphabets. Languages! Baghdad - Arabic? No, the rock from which the pin is made is old. Ancient! Ancient - languages - Pentecost? Jerusalem, not Baghdad. Older. Baghdad - Babylon - languages - Babylon

Babel.

Matt's jaw dropped.

Groszek was still talking, gesturing to a map of Warsaw that was stretched over a nearby table. The map was covered with handwritten notes, arrows, and circles. Forcing his mind back into the present, Matt pulled out his Moleskin and pen, and started taking notes.

The Beast had been operating for about a year. The Germans thought that it had killed about a hundred of their men, and that it had "disappeared" several Nazi officials. The fortune-teller was supposedly real, but its ties to the Beast were tenuous; it had left the Communists some time ago, and the Communists were scattered and didn't know much.

Matt wondered if that was true, or if it was simply in the interests of the Polish Home Army to have the SHADOCOM team believe it.

Groszek spoke on. Matt's pen moved swiftly.

Warsaw had a significant population of homeless children, living in sewers and abandoned outlying buildings. They worked for the Home Army as scouts, lookouts, and messengers; they claimed that they also worked for the Beast, and helped him fight the Germans. As a result, the Germans had begun cracking down on them. Groszek was skeptical about their reliability as sources of information.

The Beast moved over the rooftops of Warsaw, and if the SHADOCOM team kept tabs on SS patrols from above street-level, then they might spot the Beast in the act. But the Germans were watching the rooftops from above, using Zeppelins and an immense tower directly in the center of the city: the nerve center of the German occupation.

The Tower monitored the ghetto, too. The Germans had started emptying Jews out of it. It had been turned into an enormous prison.

Matt glanced at Esther. A muscle flickered in his jaw.

Groszek was finished.

For a long moment, no one said anything. Then Ariel introduced herself, and groused about the Beast's poor choice of religious symbolism. Then there was another, longer, moment of silence. No one had a plan. No one was going to take charge.

Matt took a deep breath. Groszek called them my men, he thought. Mine.

His stomach clenched. Be with me now, Lord, Matt told the ceiling of the shadowy basement.

"All right." Matt's voice came out clear and strong, with a confidence he did not feel. "We have three leads. We're going to break down into three teams. Mister Groszek, we will need a guide or two from among your men to help each team find its way around."

"First, we need to figure out what the Beast actually is. Fortunately, we have forensic evidence: the Beast targets infrastructure." Matt's eyes scanned the map, and his massive finger tapped a few of the circled points: rail lines, warehouses, bridges. "We think that these attacks could be mundane, alchemical, or magical in nature. Knowing which of those approaches is available to the Beast can tell us a lot more about what we're dealing with here."

"Willow Barnes, Robert Karlmann, Sophie Dulac, and Annela Maureigh, I think, are ideally suited to examine the damage and assess what caused it. Carmen Pizarro and the Thompson twins should go with them, in case they need close-range muscle. You seven, plus your guide, will tell us what the Beast's actual capabilities are."

"Second. We can try to replicate the Beast's movement patterns and catch him in the middle of an attack: follow SS movements from the rooftops. That team will be the Countess von Waldstein, Markus Lenion, Ariel Remington, Terry Brooks, Anatoly Bellinkov, and Catherine Hawkins." Matt paused, almost second-guessed himself, and then nodded. "The werewolves and vampires are hunters, as I understand it: follow your instincts, and find the Beast. Miss Remington, Mister Bellinkov, you are there to provide them with some utility firepower if the Nazis come down on you."

"Third: we have to go down in the sewers, talk to the children, and see what they know." And try to keep the Nazis from slaughtering them, Matt mentally added. "I'll go with that team, and I'd like Anna Cross, Miss Polikarpova, Abraham van Helsing, Esther Rosenberg, Captain Harris, and Adrienne Lapierre to accompany me." Matt paused, and glanced at Milena and her cane. "And Miss Poromarenko, too, provided that she can manage the conditions."

Matt checked his watch. "Everyone synchronize timepieces. We'll rendezvous back here not later than six hours from now." The Minuteman's eyes panned around the room; they flashed sapphire-blue even in the darkened cellar. "Are there any obvious problems with that plan, Mister Groszek? Is everyone on board with this?"

[Mnar Secundus]

- snip -

Sophie, having committed Grosezk's briefing to memory, observed Captain Beecher coolly as he explained his plan. Her gaze was detached but somewhat respectful. Not only was the man a good leader and tactician, she had noticed that he had been taken aback when Groszek had addressed his men, and the maga had practically heard his mind getting to work.
Of course, he perceived it as English, which made no sense for a conversation between Poles who seem for the most part barely literate. Hence the conclusion that everything is being translated instantaneously ... And, possibly, the related word associations. Sophie was impressed; indeed, she wouldn't have been surprised if Beecher had reached the same conclusion as her, and she had been expecting the translation. As I thought, he isn't just some strongman.

At any rate, she had no major objections to his plan, but a few small ones came to mind, and she said as much with a wave of her cigar: "Seems good to me, Captain. However, I believe there are some individuals in this team who possess ... abilities similar to those available to magi, developed through mundane means. I believe the term is 'esper'." Sophie glanced pointedly, but politely at Bellinkov, Polikarpova and Ponomarenko.
"It is possible that they will be capable of perceiving things which both purely Mundane means and magecraft would overlook. Therefore, I suggest we incorporate one to the investigation team -- perhaps Miss Ponomarenko?" Both the sewers and the roof would be hard on the crippled little girl, and while Sophie did not want to offend her, surely the esper would realize the problem herself.

"Setting that aside," the maga continued distractedly, opening her satchel, "I have a suggestion. I'm aware that some of us --" and at this she nodded towards Polikarpova "-- have means of what I'd have to call telepathic communication. If I may ask, what is your ... broadcasting range? If it is too short to cover the entire potential field of our operation, I could enhance it to establish a network that will allow us to communicate instantly and silently at a distance. It's a rather simple mechanism; I'd need about ten minutes of preparation, and then I'd just paint some runes on you. Anywhere would work."

Then she shifted her weight slightly, with some nigh-imperceptible discomfort. "Although, to be entirely honest, that's just the easiest way," she said, adjusting her glasses. "The problem with it is that the paint could come off, and the communication itself is lesser in quality. If we want the best possible performances, I should actually, well, carve the runes into your skin. It shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes for all of us, nor should it hurt ..." And she added, because she was fundamentally a researcher and honest about these things: "... much."
Sophie shrugged. "It's your choice. Unfortunately, Miss Polikarpova, you alone will certainly need the carvings."

[Occupied Deutschland]

Jannie listened to Groszek’s exchange with Abraham with half an ear as she slowly paced around the table the map was on and finally leaned over it. She rested her left hand on the map, keeping the right one propped against the hilt of her sword. Studying the worn and marked map of the city, she began to puzzle out its markings. A circle here and there represented either German strong points or areas where the resistance fighters had made sanctuaries from themselves, depending on whether it contained an ‘x’ or not. A ragged border marked the walls of the ghetto the Jews had been marshalled into in preparation for their resettlement east. The outside of that border was riddled with circles enclosing the small ‘x’ marks, which answered the question she’d been about to ask. Those were German points.

Jannie absently tapped her finger against a small label printed on the map itself, near the Old Town and only a little ways outside the ghetto. It was covered by a large circle almost shaded-in entirely. That had to be the ‘Tower’ Grozsek had spoken of. Hopefully the palace hadn’t been torn down for it. She had always liked neoclassical architecture.

Captain Beecher seemed to take Grozsek’s assessment of them all being his men to heart. With a somewhat restrained breath in preparation, he began to outline a plan for them. Jannie leaned over the map as he spoke, unsure of what to think of that particular development. She or Carmen undoubtedly had more combat experience…But her own was at least a half-century out-of-date, and Carmen was…odd. Mister Brooks was another option, but Jannie dismissed that one rather quickly. The man was too…nice. Besides, she couldn’t just restrain her pool of candidates to the vampires. That would be too obvious and undoubtedly build a resentment, if she only looked to her own species. Doubly so if she only looked to herself. She was not trusted as explicitly as she needed to be in order to fill such a role without inviting complaint or, worse, resentment from the others. Particularly the mundanes and the maga. Better to look at others.

Of course, when she expanded her search it only emphasized the solid option Beecher was. The man had already stood up to Markus’ flirtations with man-eating, he seemed a competent soldier, and he was a gentleman. His treatment of the Anabaptist pacifist and his instantaneous, unmotivated offers of help to others demonstrated that. Plus, he didn’t seem to be entirely mundane himself with what he’d hinted the ‘Minuteman’ program had done, and seemed at least somewhat more at-ease with the more unconventional ‘monsters’ in the squad than Harris or Barnes. That last one was most important. The others needed a bit more time to get used to the idea of working alongside such ‘things’ to them. Beecher had, seemingly, already made peace with it. Or, at least, was very capable of acting like he had consistently. Which, in terms of leadership, was just as important.

Jannie almost smirked, but distracted herself by examining the map again. The direct role of telling others what to do wouldn’t be hers, but she was no stranger to working from the shadows. Or pulling the strings of those in power to get her own way. Such was how she preferred it, as it was much safer. She just had to observe the man further. It helped that his blood smelled good, of course.

Jannie briefly wondered how Markus would take the man’s impromptu assumption of leadership. Werewolves were not known for their reasonable or political approach to being a pack alpha. Jannie made a mental note of the thought as she continued to listen to Beecher’s plan, but otherwise shoved it aside. There was only one way of finding out.

Beecher’s plan was a reasonable one, all told. One that just happened to put the most troublesome werewolf in a crowd with two vampires, a maga, the Soviet esper, and a more restrained werecreature, as opposed to any tasty or more defenseless humans. Beecher certainly knew how to organize a team around an unruly member and promote self-policing.

Sophie’s addition to that plan, in the name of ‘communication’, was not nearly as reasonable. With hints of fear and anger barely reined-in, Jannie finally set her other hand on the table that held the map. She fixed her single-eyed gaze on the French maga, and stared. “M-Miss Dulac, you shall not place any of your runes on my body!” It was the first time Jannie had raised her voice, and it cracked like a whip and seemed to almost echo in the storage cellar they were taking refuge in. “I do not care if it is with paint, or with a carving knife, I will not let you inscribe any of your—of the—”

Jannie seemed as if she were about to go on, almost seemed to be building upwards towards a fit of anger or fright that was, until then, seemingly absent from the vampire’s behavior. Jannie’s mouth stayed open and her eyes blazed. But the moment passed, and Jannie snapped her mouth shut and curled her hands into white-knuckled fists that stood out even against her pale skin.

A snort. Either in disgust at her own emotional outburst or at Sophie’s idea. Jannie closed her one good eye for a long instant, and her fists slowly loosened. Reason. Irrational fear would gain her nothing but sideways looks and questions. She had to approach this reasonably. Communications were a vital component of any operation, it wasn’t an unreasonable suggestion. Not to anyone but her, at least.

Jannie found, with surprise, she wasn’t capable of suppressing her fear.

“One or two people per team should be enough to maintain a solid communications network, would it not?” Jannie attempted to speak the words with confidence, but they had less of the proclamation or reasonable argument in them than they did the hurried excuse. Her eye fixed on first Dulac, and then Beecher. For an instant, it held the same look as the Polish partisans’ eyes had when they first looked at the massive minuteman.

“Yes, supply it to two individuals in each team. They can serve as drummers—buglers—radio operators—whatever this decade’s equivalent is.” Jannie spoke this time with much more confidence and the beggar-like eye disappeared under her usual restrained facade.

[Latznavia]

Anatoly managed to regain himself, what he saw and what had happened was too unbelievable and seemingly unreal. He gripped his stomach, then he heard the poles speaking Russian, a language he understood. It was then, the pin detached and fell to the ground. Instantly, it went from Russian to Polish. He raised an eyebrow and kneeled down. The second his hand touched the pin, the Polish became Russian once more. Anatoly was taken aback, but quickly refastened the pin to his jacket and stood up straight. As the Polish man lef the team over to the map, Anatoly looked over the page, notes and words were appearing in Russian to him, and he began to memorize it all.

Lines traced over the map of old roads and streets. Clearly they were wise marking derelict buildings and blcked streets, random symbols began to show themselves though. Circles with no dusconcernavle meaning other than to exist, lines and dashes and then a whole section of town marked off, but then it hit him what that was. Anatoly looked it all over, then heard word of giant balloon machines. Zepplins, the horror of the skies, he shivered, yes this operation was going to be difficult as he continued to look over the map, he was curious why so much infrastructure. If the beast wanted the Nazis to leave, why destroy their only way put. He began to think of something.

Homeless children as spies, Germans marching the streets and zepplins flying high ver the city. Anatoly clenched his fist as he remembered cities in burning ruin in Belarus, the horrors and damage. He took a deep breath and looked to Beecher. Just from the expression Beecher had, he looked unsure but was taking charge. Anatoly smiled, although a communist, he knew that this Beecher man would not let them down. Beecher began speaking of what would be happening. 'What if this beast is Jewish and is trapping the Germans in the city like they did to it...' he would voice that thought later if Polina hadn't heard it.

"We have three leads. We're going to break down into three teams. Mister Groszek, we will need a guide or two from among your men to help each team find its way around." He began, the Polish leader merely looked at him with a stern ear. "First, we need to figure out what the Beast actually is. Fortunately, we have forensic evidence: the Beast targets infrastructure." Anatoly looked at the map, many x's covered old bridges, buildings, and railyards. Anatoly thought back to the pictures he had seen.

"Beecher, remember the pictures back at base." He spoke in Russian, but knew that everyone could understand him. "The damage itself was too much for any normal explosive, it torn bridges and buildings to itty bitty rubble." He cleared his throat. "I fought German Forces along side our Red Army, but I know of nothing other than tank or aircraft, maybe howitzers, that could do that." Anatoly thought that something was very suspicious. Matthew then began dividing up the team.

"Willow Barnes, Robert Karlmann, Sophie Dulac, and Amelia Maureigh, I think, are ideally suited to examine the damage and assess what caused it. Carmen Pizarro and the Thompson twins should go with them, in case they need close-range muscle. You seven, plus your guide, will tell us what the Beast's actual capabilities are."

"Second. We can try to replicate the Beast's movement patterns and catch him in the middle of an attack: follow SS movements from the rooftops. That team will be the Countess von Waldstein, Markus Lenion, Ariel Remington, Terry Brooks, Anatoly Bellinkov, and Catherine Hawkins." Matt paused, almost second-guessed himself, and then nodded. "The werewolves and vampires are hunters, as I understand it: follow your instincts, and find the Beast. Miss Remington, Mister Bellinkov, you are there to provide them with some utility firepower if the Nazis come down on you." Anatoly saluted, he would serve them proud, but rooftops would be hard to disguise one self in. He would need a reason, and he would need to figure out how to fit in. He rubbed his chin.

"Third: we have to go down in the sewers, talk to the children, and see what they know, I'll go with that team, and I'd like Anna Cross, Miss Polikarpova, Abraham van Helsing, Esther Rosenberg, Captain Harris, and Adrienne Lapierre to accompany me and Miss Poromarenko, too, provided that she can manage the conditions." Anatoly looked at Beecher before turning to the Poles.

"We are going to need detailed SS stomping grounds to get anywhere with this operation. Bases, fortresses, even patrols. This beast seems to like to kill individual patrols consisting of no more than three to five men. If we can isolate a few from a pack we may be about to set a trap, yes?"

[Lunas Legion]

It seemed these mysterious 'pins' they'd been issued were some form of translation device, Robert mused silently as he listened to Beecher's plan. He'd never been a devout Christian; but exploring every possible line to the Philosopher's Stone had led him to reading several variants of the Bible from multiple denominations in search of anything helpful. He'd found nothing, but this, this changed that line of thought.

The pins translated everything; he knew for sure he knew exactly no Polish, and thus they had to be the cause. Baghdad, Iraq. Heartland of civilisation. Babylon. Babel. Of course. Man had tried to construct a tower to Heaven, and He smote their tower down and divided their tongues to prevent them uniting once more. There 'pins' were shards of the Tower, and the magic around them enabled translation. He'd need to read through the copy he had with him, re-check everything. If Babel existed, that raised... Troublesome implications. Revelation, mostly. Also Genesis and the whole deal with the Garden of Eden and that whole deal. Because now there was a chance Eden existed, or at least the remains of Eden.

And the remains of Eden could very well prove to be more of a discovery than the Philosopher's Stone.

As for the teams, well, if basic had taught him one thing, it was that officers always knew best, except when experience appeared, and an experienced officer outranked everyone except a sprinting engineer.

"Including an esper on the explosions team would be redundant." Robert spoke up. "The chances of a esper in Poland proper are... Extremely low. We're a long way behind the front lines, and I doubt any would've survived here long enough to be a large enough danger as the Beast. Best to keep the espers with the other teams where combat is more likely." He hoped. He really wasn't too keen on getting shot at properly for the first time. "And that's if espers leave any traces of their powers being used to others, which is something I'm not entirely sure given my lack of knowledge on them. Otherwise, I'm ready. I think."

[Agritum]

Abraham diligently listened to Beecher's deployement plan. The man was not much older than him, Abraham noted, but he possessed an inherent authority and a steadfast conviction in his words that remembered Abe of his own father. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, cringing. A self-defense mechanism to try and ward the grief away. It was tough for both him and Elektra, but they had to move on, and fight back. The young hunter reopened his eyes, and listened to Matthew attently, taking mental notes.

He nodded when Beecher suggested that he would take part in the third 'detachment', the one that was supposed to voluntarily descend to the bowels of the occupied city to find its lost sons. Children. Children are innocent, the popular saying went. The war had and was still destroying any remains of innocence these kids may have possessed before it all. Abraham wondered if, in all its violence, the Beast was actually some sort of hero, of saviour for them. Some thought it was an angel, after all. And if the rumours about its magnanimity to the little vagrants were true, it was further proof that maybe an human heart still beated behind the concrete shell of the killer's persona.

Meanwhile, Groszek nodded towards Beecher. "I can't see major issues with your approach, Captain. I'd also suggest you to give an especially close look at munition depots and armories: The Beast is targeting them a lot, and your own intelligence services told us that German inventories here in Warsaw usually request the replacement of nitroglicerin, gunpowder, fuel and other miscellanous chemical components which are usually involved in the creation of improvised explosives. The Beast has been raiding a lot of them, recently, so maybe you'd like to address your searches to the depots which haven't yet been touched by it? That's another chance for a close encounter."

Groszek motioned to a few of his men "Chopin, Sobieski, Wild Bill, you will lead these men in the city and serve as their guides for the duration of their stay," he announced to a thin young man with a relaxed demeanour, a well built partisan carrying the ragged remains of his Polish Army uniform, and another young, bearded man who eagerly toyed with the shiny, stolen Luger in his makeshift holster. They all nodded. "Captain Beecher, I believe that you'll have higher chances to detect the Beast, evade Nazi survellaince and find the children in the sewers if you operate after the sun goes down."

Polina had continued to listen to both Beecher and Groszek for the duration of her stay there, only to suddenly tune in an even more focused manner when Dulac underlined her communication magecraft. She lightly shuddered when the maga mentioned carving runes in her skin, before quickly shifting to a fierce expression.

"I am fine with the carvings if they will help us in our mission, Comrade Dulac. Just tell me when you'll have to start doing them, and I'll be ready for it" she psychically broadcasted to Sophie, her mental voice assuming a confident tone.

[Monfrox]

"Did you jus' say ammo dumps?"

Oh boy, there she went again. For as much as it was a bit weird and unsettling, Willow stepped up to Groszek after dusting herself off. She was gripping her satchel charge in her left hand, holding her Sten with her right, and had a gleam of childlike wonderment in her eyes as if she was asking her mother for dessert or a new toy and trying to pull her puppy dog eyes to persuade her as such. Blowing stuff up? Yes, please! In fact, given her track record thus far, it wouldn't be surprising if her mouth was watering right now, or maybe something else was going on. For whatever reason, she was very engaged to the idea of setting off an ammunition dump before they left. They always blew up nicest with the extra ordinance that was packed in them.

[Reverend Norv]

Priorities. Matt sorted through his.

Second priority: team composition and tactics.

Sophie thought that the investigation team should include an esper; espers might recognize something unknown to magecraft, alchemy, or science. Matt nodded; it was a good point, and Matt hadn't thought of it. Sophie suggested Milena.

Robert thought that the idea was silly. He didn't think that there would be any espers in Poland, and if there were, then their powers still might not leave a trace visible even to other espers. Both ideas were logical assumptions, but still only conjecture.

Matt looked at Milena. He thought of slippery sewer floors, of rickety rooftop ladders. He thought of the little girl's cane.

Sophie had a heart after all.

Matt nodded. "It's a good idea," he agreed. "Milena, I think you'd be more important with the investigation team, if you don't mind."

Anatoly was thinking of the pictures of destroyed infrastructure that the SHADOCOM team had seen back in London, twenty minutes and a thousand miles ago. The esper had seen combat on the Eastern Front, and he thought that the damage shown in the photos was too extensive for conventional explosives. "I know of nothing other than tank or aircraft," Anatoly said, "maybe howitzers, that could do that."

Matt shrugged. "Then maybe the Beast wired howitzer shells to his targets, and used them as explosives." Matt remembered hearing about warlords doing that in China, back when he had lived in Mong Yawng. He wished now that he had paid more attention to the village gossip.

Matt shook his head. No point in making guesses. "The point," the Minuteman insisted, is that it still might be mundane explosives. And if it is, then Miss Barnes will be able to identify it. That's all I'm saying."

Anatoly also thought that the team might set a trap for the Beast: separate and capture SS men, use them as bait. Matt considered it for a moment, and then shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea," the Minuteman said quietly. "Whatever the Beast is, he has successfully evaded capture for a year. I'm sure that the Germans have tried to lay plenty of traps for him; clearly, none of them have worked. If we try to lure him, the Beast will sense danger and stay away. Better to try to catch him in the wild: watch and wait for him to strike a natural target."

All of which, Matt knew, was at least in part a way to rationalize the fact that the Beast tortured SS men to death, and Matt wanted no part of that. It was one thing to lay in wait, and watch the Beast do his work. It was an entirely different thing to condemn a man to an agonizing end simply because he was useful as bait.

The Beast might be an ally. The Beast was definitely a monster. Matt could feel the moral peril of forgetting that fact like a razor at his throat.

Anatoly had made one good point, though, and Matt wanted to make sure that it wasn't missed. "It is true that the hunting team will need detailed information about SS patrol patterns in order to be effective," Matt noted. "Anatoly is right about the need to narrow our search area." Matt's gaze shifted to Groszek. "Sir, I'm hoping that you can help us with that."

Groszek could. He suggested staking out munitions depots, which the Beast had a habit of striking. Willow reacted to that like a kitten sniffing catnip. Matt hid his smile behind one hand. Groszek also suggested that the team should not begin its work until after dark.

Matt nodded. "All right. If your men can lead our second team to some of the as-yet untouched arms depots, they'll start their search there - after the sun sets."

Groszek also had guides for the foreigners: Chopin, Sobieski, and Wild Bill. Chopin was a thin young man, languid and relaxed. Sobieski was a bigger guy in the patched remnants of a Polish military uniform. Wild Bill was a younger man with a beard, fingering a Luger in a makeshift holster with all the aplomb of any Wild West gunslinger. Matt fought hard not to grin. He nodded to the three men, and to Groszek. "Thank you," Matt said. The words were simple, but heartfelt.

First priority: communications.

Sophie Dulac had a plan for instantaneous, telepathic communication. She would paint runes on the team, and the runes would somehow amplify Polikarpova's powers. Matt quickly gave up on understanding the exact mechanics of the process, and decided to think of it in terms of an antenna and a radio signal. Sophie wanted to give everyone on the team an antenna, which would let them piggyback on Polikarpova's signal and communicate with each other.

It would be fantastically useful, if it worked. Unfortunately, it wasn't that simple. To be reliably effective, the runes needed to be carved into each commando's skin, not just painted on. They certainly would need to be carved into Polikarpova's skin. Matt saw the mute Russian shudder.

And that was the least of Sophie's problems.

Jannie planted both hands on the map table, and fixed a blazing one-eyed glare on Sophie. “Miss Dulac, you shall not place any of your runes on my body!” Her voice cracked like a whip, but Matt was amazed to hear a quaver in it. “I do not care if it is with paint, or with a carving knife, I will not let you inscribe any of your—of the—” The pitch of Jannie's voice rose, and her fists clenched; for a moment, Matt was certain that the vampire was about to go into hysterics.

Matt thought of one of the men who had gone into the hospital with him, back in the Minuteman Project. His mind had been unable to handle the feeling of the transformation. By the end of the first week, whenever a doctor came near him with the needle for the hormone drip, the man would start screaming, and he wouldn't stop until he was sedated.

There was something in Jannie's eye that made Matt think of that man. It was almost too painful to look at directly. Matt took a step toward Jannie, hands wide and empty, like a farmer approaching a spooked horse.

Before Matt could say a word, Jannie snorted quietly. She closed her eye; her fists loosened. She made a game attempt at insouciance. “One or two people per team should be enough to maintain a solid communications network, would it not?” Her gaze flickered between Sophie and Matt. There was need in it. Matt bit the inside of his cheek, and looked away.

“Yes, supply it to two individuals in each team." There it was, finally: the old arrogance. Matt smiled to himself as Jannie continued. "They can serve as drummers—buglers—radio operators—whatever this decade’s equivalent is.”

Matt chuckled. He let his hands fall, and turned to Sophie. "If Miss Polikarpova is willing to undergo the procedure," Matt said, "then I see nothing wrong with it."

Undergo the procedure. Matt thought of the hospital again. He wrestled his mind back to the present.

"But I also see no reason for everyone to be - marked." Matt nodded at Jannie. "A few people per team should be sufficient."

Matt turned to his team. His team; he was starting to feel that, now, to recognize it in his bones. "Volunteers for comms work," the Minuteman called, "stay with me. Everyone else might want to try to get some rest. I have a feeling that we won't be sleeping much tonight."

With that, Matt walked up to Sophie, stopping about an arm's length away. He towered over her. The Minuteman pulled off his overcoat; underneath, the engraved leather shell of his body armor gleamed a rich dark reddish-brown in the cellar's dim light. He took a shallow breath. The fear of pain was nothing; Matt had all but died under the needle, deep beneath the New Mexico sands. But the idea of arcane runes being forever etched in his flesh? The spookiness of that was enough to give Matt pause.

But not for long. If I don't do this, I can't remotely ask anyone else to put up with it. So Matt rolled up his shirtsleeve and nodded to Sophie. His forearm was the size of most men's thighs: white skin tanned copper, fine fair hair, veins and tendons etched in relief like steel cables beneath the skin. The Minuteman managed a wry grin. "Scalpel, Doctor Dulac, not paintbrush." Matt thought of Polikarpova's shudder, and he shot the esper a wink before turning back to Sophie. His voice was steady, encouraging. "I go first."

[Wolfenium]

Observing the proceedings as Matt delegated the work, Milena's lips tensed a bit as she heard Sophie's suggestion. True, she made perfect sense suggesting she avoid areas that would only further hamper her mobility, and separating her from the Soviet espers would have probably helped their cohesion somewhat. But the teeth grinding behind the child's mouth were already starting to show up. It seethed of resentment, not just for any signs of pity being thrown at her, but because she was pitiful herself. It burned a fine line between sympathy and contempt, and Milena lost any sense of the difference. If she had been a more impulsive person, she would have protested angrily at them, even if the success of the mission suffered as a result.

"As you wish," she stated coldly, "I'll provide contact with Polikarpova and Bellinkov and relay communications between our teams. Enhancements, however," she reprimanded Dulac, "are best left when the circumstances are most desperate. Some people here do not wish to be reminded of their ordeal in the war. I don't believe we don't have the skill to provide long distance contact on our own."

There were limits to what she was willing to take in order to improve, and Dulac's idea was far off the line. She hated to admit it, but she was afraid of pain, and the idea of a permanent tattoo only added to the revulsion. Some may not mind, but the distraught reaction from the scarred Czech summed up her own reservations. She did not need to scar her body like a lab rat to get better. She will do it with her own strength, even if it killed her.

Chuckling awkwardly at the heavy conversation, Ariel was a bit unsure at how to react. The team chemistry was clearly failing already, and that was a bad sign that things may go wrong. Admittedly, this was SHADOWCOM's first mission, and she really should not expect much. But at the very least, she hoped to get through this alive. They were dangerously deep behind enemy lines as it was.

"Aye, sir," she declared to Breecher with a salute, "I'll get the fire support up."

Clutching her chest beside the taller Briton, Anna too confirmed in a slightly uncertain tone, "I... I'll do it. Just tell me what to do..."

And yet, the witch's reaction seemed to say otherwise, even repulsed by Dulac's operation. Ariel could only feel a bit uneasy. Medic or not, this was not the right place for her.

[Nature-Spirits]

When Groszek began speaking, Adrienne tuned her ears to his voice -- and froze. He -- and, it seemed as others contributed their own voices to the conversation, everyone else -- was speaking perfect French. It took her a few seconds to get over the initial shock, and her mind whirled, wondering why and how this was happening. It seemed that somehow, everyone's speech was being translated into her native language for her ears. She glanced down at the pin; the only thing that had changed since she last heard anyone speak was that she had put it on. She moved her thumb over it and squinted a little, examining the surface with eyes, skin, and prana. It was definitely a work of magecraft. Silently, she looked back up. At the moment, she had more important things to tend to.

Adrienne listened attentively to Groszek's briefing, committing all details she deemed relevant to memory. A witch's memory was one of her most valuable assets; and this particular witch's was quite reliable. In the Québec Coven, incantations and prayers were generally encoded into rhyme, poetry and song, and her head was filled with countless such ditties. Memorising this information was effortless.

Despite the ease with which she processed that which they were told, there were a few things which... troubled her. The implication of what the Nazis were doing with the homeless children made the witch's jaw tighten somewhat, and she felt something akin to queasiness. She may not have subscribed to the view that children were pure, innocent creatures to be sheltered from the world, but they most certainly did not deserve such things. Sin was, indeed, pandemic, but among all the sinners, children were among the most clean.

The second thing that she dwelled on was Groszek's mention of "giant balloon machines in the sky". Adrienne was wholly unfamiliar with such a concept, and it was a somewhat chilling one. She guessed that she would soon get used to this feeling; fearing the mundanes' capabilities seemed to be the intelligent course of action. Briefly, the witch entertained the thought of destroying the machines, but quickly dismissed it. From the sounds of it, that was perhaps infeasible, and the Nazis would notice and retaliate.

And, of course, the way Groszek spoke of the Jews' ghetto was disheartening, to say the least. The Germans were not simply an occupying force like any other -- they were systematically imprisoning and, apparently, exterminating (after all, why else would they ship them out of the city?) an entire class of people. This was much more than a war for land or wealth. This was a war on all those the Nazis considered deviant.

Damn the Nazis. Damn the witches that supported them. Damn that heretic witch -- Gretchen Faust -- calling herself "Walpurgis". They were all vile sinners.

Finally, the Pole's report came to an end. For a time, no one spoke. Ariel breached the silence to remark on the Beast's choice in symbolism, and then once again, no one spoke. Adrienne could not conceive of what to do; she had little tactical experience, and certainly not on this scale. In the Coven, it had always been other Council members who had planned their actions -- all Adrienne herself had to do was follow orders, give advice when necessary, and cast a few spells.

Then, Matthew spoke. He was formulating a plan, and as the witch listened, she decided that it was a solid one. He was also, she realised, the logical choice for leading their team. It seemed that he straddled the gap between occult and mundane, born a typical human but enhanced through some strange -- though apparently mundane -- means; hence, he would likely have no particular bias towards any specific group -- although he apparently shared a dislike of Markus, which was quite favourable in Adrienne's opinion. Unlike his more mundane cohorts, he also seemed to have a fairly good grasp of the occult world and its inhabitants, though it was clear that he lacked a thorough understanding of all the dynamics of their world. To top it off, he was a military man, one apparently familiar with combat and weapons, and though his optimism clashed with the witch's own worldview, he was not opposed to killing when necessary.

Sophie spoke up once he'd finished. Adrienne agreed that Milena would likely be more valuable examining the blast sites, and understood the implications that it would be easier on the girl, so she had no issue with that. Then, the maga introduced her idea to create a telepathic communications network. Apparently, she would have to paint her runes on each of them. The witch pressed her lips together. She did not trust magecraft on principle, so having runes drawn on her was not something she would be eager to do, but she supposed that if it would benefit them, it only made sense to allow Sophie to do so.

But then the maga hesitated, and Adrienne sensed that there was something else to this. "Although," Sophie said, "to be entirely honest, that's just the easiest way. The problem with it is that the paint could come off, and the communication itself is lesser in quality. If we want the best possible performances, I should actually, well, carve the runes into your skin. It shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes for all of us, nor should it hurt ... much."

In an unusual display of emotion, Jannie declared that she would not allow any runes to be drawn on her skin; Adrienne thought she saw fear in the vampire's eye. For her part, the witch was unsure how to feel about this. On the one hand, she understood that having the runes carved into her skin was the superior method, and as a fellow practitioner of magic, she could see why Sophie would suggest this. On the other hand, her mistrust of magecraft made her extremely hesitant to let the maga literally carve her magic into her skin. She wondered whether healing the scars would rid her of the enchantment.

She thought back to her earlier pronouncement: We are all weapons. Perhaps it did not matter whether the enchantment could be removed or not. She had known that sacrifices would be necessary; this was just that. A sacrifice.

It was decided. Adrienne knew that the only real thing holding her back from getting the runes engraved on her was at least partially irrational. And besides, runes were not completely foreign; they may have been the domain of magecraft, but they were closer to witchcraft than most varieties thereof.

Adrienne followed Matthew to Sophie, watching as the man rolled up his sleeve and offered the maga his arm. She heard Milena's concerns, and glanced at the esper, processing what she had said and narrowing her eyes slightly. She turned back to Sophie, and interjected, "Wait. I want to know..." she cleared her throat, bringing her gaze up to stare the other woman straight in the eyes, "is the enchantment from the carving permanent? And its nature: Do you 'ave any influence over us or the enchantment once you 'ave activated it? And are you certain that it will make communication easier?" She paused. "Can I trust that you will not use this opportunity to abuse us?"

[Minroz]

The Polish mage glanced at the other members of the group. "Feel free to ask anything else you want to know, my friends. I will try to respond to the best of my knowledge."

“Errr…” Terry notices everyone didn’t have any questions. “Nah…didn’t think we have any. Me, I’m more than happy to help.”

---

"Second. We can try to replicate the Beast's movement patterns and catch him in the middle of an attack: follow SS movements from the rooftops. That team will be the Countess von Waldstein, Markus Lenion, Ariel Remington, Terry Brooks, Anatoly Bellinkov, and Catherine Hawkins." Matt paused, almost second-guessed himself, and then nodded. "The werewolves and vampires are hunters, as I understand it: follow your instincts, and find the Beast. Miss Remington, Mister Bellinkov, you are there to provide them with some utility firepower if the Nazis come down on you."

After listening in to Matt’s explanation and Groszek’s briefings, Terry gave a military salute in acknowledgement of his role.

“Yes sir.” Terry responds to Beecher. “I’ll do what I can.”

Unlike certain people with some attitude problems, he didn’t seems to have much problems with the team composition. As for the work delegating to him, it’s just an order from his commanding officer. And he’ll do it. However, Terry inwardly thinks the team chemistry is not clearly in the right place partly due to obvious reasons. And it didn’t helped today it’s the team first mission. One slight screw-up on the way and it’s all over. But orders are orders made by the commander, perhaps there’s not much room for him to complain.

“Well folks, let’s get the job done and we get the hella out of ‘ere. Surely, neither of us wants some Nazis bearing down on us.” He spoke, checking some of his weapons on hand.

[Agritum]

Priorities. Matt sorted through his.

Second priority: team composition and tactics.

Sophie thought that the investigation team should include an esper; espers might recognize something unknown to magecraft, alchemy, or science. Matt nodded; it was a good point, and Matt hadn't thought of it. Sophie suggested Milena.

Robert thought that the idea was silly. He didn't think that there would be any espers in Poland, and if there were, then their powers still might not leave a trace visible even to other espers. Both ideas were logical assumptions, but still only conjecture.

Matt looked at Milena. He thought of slippery sewer floors, of rickety rooftop ladders. He thought of the little girl's cane.

Sophie had a heart after all.

Matt nodded. "It's a good idea," he agreed. "Milena, I think you'd be more important with the investigation team, if you don't mind."

Anatoly was thinking of the pictures of destroyed infrastructure that the SHADOCOM team had seen back in London, twenty minutes and a thousand miles ago. The esper had seen combat on the Eastern Front, and he thought that the damage shown in the photos was too extensive for conventional explosives. "I know of nothing other than tank or aircraft," Anatoly said, "maybe howitzers, that could do that."

Matt shrugged. "Then maybe the Beast wired howitzer shells to his targets, and used them as explosives." Matt remembered hearing about warlords doing that in China, back when he had lived in Mong Yawng. He wished now that he had paid more attention to the village gossip.

Matt shook his head. No point in making guesses. "The point," the Minuteman insisted, is that it still might be mundane explosives. And if it is, then Miss Barnes will be able to identify it. That's all I'm saying."

Anatoly also thought that the team might set a trap for the Beast: separate and capture SS men, use them as bait. Matt considered it for a moment, and then shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea," the Minuteman said quietly. "Whatever the Beast is, he has successfully evaded capture for a year. I'm sure that the Germans have tried to lay plenty of traps for him; clearly, none of them have worked. If we try to lure him, the Beast will sense danger and stay away. Better to try to catch him in the wild: watch and wait for him to strike a natural target."

All of which, Matt knew, was at least in part a way to rationalize the fact that the Beast tortured SS men to death, and Matt wanted no part of that. It was one thing to lay in wait, and watch the Beast do his work. It was an entirely different thing to condemn a man to an agonizing end simply because he was useful as bait.

The Beast might be an ally. The Beast was definitely a monster. Matt could feel the moral peril of forgetting that fact like a razor at his throat.

Anatoly had made one good point, though, and Matt wanted to make sure that it wasn't missed. "It is true that the hunting team will need detailed information about SS patrol patterns in order to be effective," Matt noted. "Anatoly is right about the need to narrow our search area." Matt's gaze shifted to Groszek. "Sir, I'm hoping that you can help us with that."

Groszek could. He suggested staking out munitions depots, which the Beast had a habit of striking. Willow reacted to that like a kitten sniffing catnip. Matt hid his smile behind one hand. Groszek also suggested that the team should not begin its work until after dark.

Matt nodded. "All right. If your men can lead our second team to some of the as-yet untouched arms depots, they'll start their search there - after the sun sets."

Groszek also had guides for the foreigners: Chopin, Sobieski, and Wild Bill. Chopin was a thin young man, languid and relaxed. Sobieski was a bigger guy in the patched remnants of a Polish military uniform. Wild Bill was a younger man with a beard, fingering a Luger in a makeshift holster with all the aplomb of any Wild West gunslinger. Matt fought hard not to grin. He nodded to the three men, and to Groszek. "Thank you," Matt said. The words were simple, but heartfelt.

First priority: communications.

Sophie Dulac had a plan for instantaneous, telepathic communication. She would paint runes on the team, and the runes would somehow amplify Polikarpova's powers. Matt quickly gave up on understanding the exact mechanics of the process, and decided to think of it in terms of an antenna and a radio signal. Sophie wanted to give everyone on the team an antenna, which would let them piggyback on Polikarpova's signal and communicate with each other.

It would be fantastically useful, if it worked. Unfortunately, it wasn't that simple. To be reliably effective, the runes needed to be carved into each commando's skin, not just painted on. They certainly would need to be carved into Polikarpova's skin. Matt saw the mute Russian shudder.

And that was the least of Sophie's problems.

Jannie planted both hands on the map table, and fixed a blazing one-eyed glare on Sophie. “Miss Dulac, you shall not place any of your runes on my body!” Her voice cracked like a whip, but Matt was amazed to hear a quaver in it. “I do not care if it is with paint, or with a carving knife, I will not let you inscribe any of your—of the—” The pitch of Jannie's voice rose, and her fists clenched; for a moment, Matt was certain that the vampire was about to go into hysterics.

Matt thought of one of the men who had gone into the hospital with him, back in the Minuteman Project. His mind had been unable to handle the feeling of the transformation. By the end of the first week, whenever a doctor came near him with the needle for the hormone drip, the man would start screaming, and he wouldn't stop until he was sedated.

There was something in Jannie's eye that made Matt think of that man. It was almost too painful to look at directly. Matt took a step toward Jannie, hands wide and empty, like a farmer approaching a spooked horse.

Before Matt could say a word, Jannie snorted quietly. She closed her eye; her fists loosened. She made a game attempt at insouciance. “One or two people per team should be enough to maintain a solid communications network, would it not?” Her gaze flickered between Sophie and Matt. There was need in it. Matt bit the inside of his cheek, and looked away.

“Yes, supply it to two individuals in each team." There it was, finally: the old arrogance. Matt smiled to himself as Jannie continued. "They can serve as drummers—buglers—radio operators—whatever this decade’s equivalent is.”

Matt chuckled. He let his hands fall, and turned to Sophie. "If Miss Polikarpova is willing to undergo the procedure," Matt said, "then I see nothing wrong with it."

Undergo the procedure. Matt thought of the hospital again. He wrestled his mind back to the present.

"But I also see no reason for everyone to be - marked." Matt nodded at Jannie. "A few people per team should be sufficient."

Matt turned to his team. His team; he was starting to feel that, now, to recognize it in his bones. "Volunteers for comms work," the Minuteman called, "stay with me. Everyone else might want to try to get some rest. I have a feeling that we won't be sleeping much tonight."

With that, Matt walked up to Sophie, stopping about an arm's length away. He towered over her. The Minuteman pulled off his overcoat; underneath, the engraved leather shell of his body armor gleamed a rich dark reddish-brown in the cellar's dim light. He took a shallow breath. The fear of pain was nothing; Matt had all but died under the needle, deep beneath the New Mexico sands. But the idea of arcane runes being forever etched in his flesh? The spookiness of that was enough to give Matt pause.

But not for long. If I don't do this, I can't remotely ask anyone else to put up with it. So Matt rolled up his shirtsleeve and nodded to Sophie. His forearm was the size of most men's thighs: white skin tanned copper, fine fair hair, veins and tendons etched in relief like steel cables beneath the skin. The Minuteman managed a wry grin. "Scalpel, Doctor Dulac, not paintbrush." Matt thought of Polikarpova's shudder, and he shot the esper a wink before turning back to Sophie. His voice was steady, encouraging. "I go first."

Polikarpova smiled beautifully at Beecher. "Your chivalric gesture may be fine with an American woman, Comrade, but unfortunately I am perfectly conscious of my actual value as an human being, worker and esper, and I won't let it be constrained by the gender roles of a capitalistic society that is completely foreign to me. So, I will go first, Comrade Captain." Polina mentally replied, with a cheeky tone. She carefully furled up her sleeve, exposing her slender but firm arm to Sophie. "I am ready, Comrade Dulac."

Abraham observed the scene, pondering. He too pulled up the sleeve of his cost for a few seconds, before dropping it down. He sighed at his own squeamishness for the procedure, his eyes looking down in shame, trying to rationalise the reason for so. Beecher was taking the carving, wasn't he? He was the team leader, maybe it was better if he was the only person to take it, and Abraham would have just cluttered the comms further. He sighed again. Those were just excuses.

Observing the proceedings as Matt delegated the work, Milena's lips tensed a bit as she heard Sophie's suggestion. True, she made perfect sense suggesting she avoid areas that would only further hamper her mobility, and separating her from the Soviet espers would have probably helped their cohesion somewhat. But the teeth grinding behind the child's mouth were already starting to show up. It seethed of resentment, not just for any signs of pity being thrown at her, but because she was pitiful herself. It burned a fine line between sympathy and contempt, and Milena lost any sense of the difference. If she had been a more impulsive person, she would have protested angrily at them, even if the success of the mission suffered as a result.

"As you wish," she stated coldly, "I'll provide contact with Polikarpova and Bellinkov and relay communications between our teams. Enhancements, however," she reprimanded Dulac, "are best left when the circumstances are most desperate. Some people here do not wish to be reminded of their ordeal in the war. I don't believe we don't have the skill to provide long distance contact on our own."

There were limits to what she was willing to take in order to improve, and Dulac's idea was far off the line. She hated to admit it, but she was afraid of pain, and the idea of a permanent tattoo only added to the revulsion. Some may not mind, but the distraught reaction from the scarred Czech summed up her own reservations. She did not need to scar her body like a lab rat to get better. She will do it with her own strength, even if it killed her.

Chuckling awkwardly at the heavy conversation, Ariel was a bit unsure at how to react. The team chemistry was clearly failing already, and that was a bad sign that things may go wrong. Admittedly, this was SHADOWCOM's first mission, and she really should not expect much. But at the very least, she hoped to get through this alive. They were dangerously deep behind enemy lines as it was.

"Aye, sir," she declared to Breecher with a salute, "I'll get the fire support up."

Clutching her chest beside the taller Briton, Anna too confirmed in a slightly uncertain tone, "I... I'll do it. Just tell me what to do..."

And yet, the witch's reaction seemed to say otherwise, even repulsed by Dulac's operation. Ariel could only feel a bit uneasy. Medic or not, this was not the right place for her.

Abraham was roused from his silent state of indecision by Remington's particularly bombastic affirmative response to Beecher's directives. He looked at the young woman in a slightly perplexed way: she probably possessed even less direct combat experience than Abe, which was a feat by itself, and yet she engaged into stereotypical military gestures and other examples of martial demeanour that almost made her seem like a walking, living propaganda pin-up. Especially with that flax, blonde hair and those clear blue eyes...

Abraham shook his head at the pin-up comparison, coming back to his senses.

"Ariel Caledfwlch Remington?" He muttered, trying not to stumble on her unusual middle name. " My, uhm, apologies for not presenting myself well before. As you may have heard, I am Abraham Van Helsing. Second, precisely. See, it's my grandfather's name and..."

Abraham bit his lip. Cut it short.

"Anyway, I believe your father and mine worked together before in the Crown Dominions in the interest of the Albion Lodge," Abraham continued, a bit uncertainly. He didn't exactly recall the last time his father had headed off to meet Papa Remington, but from the few things he had learned about Ariel's father, he certainly wasn't particularly jovial. Or modern in attitudes. Or even particularly tolerating of "ascended bumpkins" like the Helsings.

"...it is surely nice to see the same between us."

Abraham gulped. Wrong choice of words. "The same working relationship. I mean. Between the new generations. Isn't it?"

Polikarpova smiled in an entertained manner, eyeing him from a distance.

---

Meanwhile, the three partisan guides selected by Groszek had disappeared in the back of the basement, ostensibly to ready their equipment and themselves to the long night that was going to unfold for them and the Shadow Command operatives. The Polish mage nodded to Beecher's query about the SS patrols. "They shift a lot, but our lookouts have got a rough outline of them, and have signed a few vantage points on the rooftops of the city. SS patrols are easier to spot, nowadays: the fear of the Beast led them to increase the number of patrol squad members, and they've even started deploying some of those armored canines you may have heard about. Vicious beasts, they are: German surgeons took them as pups, surgically removed limbs and replaced them with new mechanical ones, which permitted them to carry bigger weights and some protective plating. I'd believe that the only significant risk they pose to you is their ability to sniff out hidden threats, anyways."

Whenever he spoke, Groszek looked relieved. His faint smiles of approval intensified whenever Beecher or one of his more learned teammates spoke again, or made important questions, or just politely asked him and his men for more aid and advice. "Anyway, if you permit me, Captain, I would humbly ask you for a personal favour: the Nazis have set up multiple spotlights to monitor the streets and skies, along with an extensive public announcement system aided by speakers disseminated through the city. On top of this, they disseminate lurid posters to try and convince my countrymen of their supposed racial inferiority to the German people, to the backwardness and uselessness of our language and culture, and of the moral depravation of those Jews who were once our own neighbours. If you come across any of the items above, Sir, feel free to sabotage or destroy it in one way or another, if it doesn't compromise the task at hand."

[Malshan]

"Second. We can try to replicate the Beast's movement patterns and catch him in the middle of an attack: follow SS movements from the rooftops. That team will be the Countess von Waldstein, Markus Lenion, Ariel Remington, Terry Brooks, Anatoly Bellinkov, and Catherine Hawkins." Matt paused, almost second-guessed himself, and then nodded. "The werewolves and vampires are hunters, as I understand it: follow your instincts, and find the Beast. Miss Remington, Mister Bellinkov, you are there to provide them with some utility firepower if the Nazis come down on you."

Markus made a chuffing sound at this; Groszek's automatic assumption of Matthew's leadership annoyed him a tad, though it made sense. Matthew was the tall, imposing figure who simply radiated authority, not to mention that he'd introduced himself as being an officer in the US military. That appeared to carry weight with these humans.

But Markus pushed down the challenging growl that had been rising in his throat, more interested in Matthew's follow-up statement about werewolves being hunters. "The first thing MAH instincts are going to tell me to do is to find somethin' to eat. Preferably human. Ah assume eatin' a soldier is preferable, yes?" He paused, glancing around at the Polish soldiers. "Ya humans need not fear my fangs. Ah've sworn not to...partake of allies."

"Setting that aside," the maga continued distractedly, opening her satchel, "I have a suggestion. I'm aware that some of us --" and at this she nodded towards Polikarpova "-- have means of what I'd have to call telepathic communication. If I may ask, what is your ... broadcasting range? If it is too short to cover the entire potential field of our operation, I could enhance it to establish a network that will allow us to communicate instantly and silently at a distance. It's a rather simple mechanism; I'd need about ten minutes of preparation, and then I'd just paint some runes on you. Anywhere would work."

Then she shifted her weight slightly, with some nigh-imperceptible discomfort. "Although, to be entirely honest, that's just the easiest way," she said, adjusting her glasses. "The problem with it is that the paint could come off, and the communication itself is lesser in quality. If we want the best possible performances, I should actually, well, carve the runes into your skin. It shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes for all of us, nor should it hurt ..." And she added, because she was fundamentally a researcher and honest about these things: "... much."
Sophie shrugged. "It's your choice. Unfortunately, Miss Polikarpova, you alone will certainly need the carvings."

Markus bristled at the maga's suggestion, though he waited until Jannie had finished speaking. "Ah, will not stan' for you carvin' me up like some kin' of prey animal. Ah can nah believe ahm sayin' it, but ah agree with the Countess here. And painting it on will not remain, what with the...alterations ah make every coupla hours."

SS patrols are easier to spot, nowadays: the fear of the Beast led them to increase the number of patrol squad members, and they've even started deploying some of those armored canines you may have heard about. Vicious beasts, they are: German surgeons took them as pups, surgically removed limbs and replaced them with new mechanical ones, which permitted them to carry bigger weights and some protective plating. I'd believe that the only significant risk they pose to you is their ability to sniff out hidden threats, anyways."

Markus snorted in derision, eyeing the Polish commander while unloading the veritable arsenal from his shoulders. "Armored dogs. A threat. Right. Ya humans can mask ya scent. Use mud or animal blood and smother yaselves so ya don' smell like humans anymore. And me? Heh. There ain't a dog alive that can be a threat to me."

Whenever he spoke, Groszek looked relieved. His faint smiles of approval intensified whenever Beecher or one of his more learned teammates spoke again, or made important questions, or just politely asked him and his men for more aid and advice.

Markus finished unloading his weapons and ammunition, setting them up against a wall of the barn. "The only question ah have is what kin' ah ammo do they have? 'Cause cursed silver is the only thing that will prevent me from...well, ya know."

[Wolfenium]

Abraham was roused from his silent state of indecision by Remington's particularly bombastic affirmative response to Beecher's directives. He looked at the young woman in a slightly perplexed way: she probably possessed even less direct combat experience than Abe, which was a feat by itself, and yet she engaged into stereotypical military gestures and other examples of martial demeanour that almost made her seem like a walking, living propaganda pin-up. Especially with that flax, blonde hair and those clear blue eyes...

Abraham shook his head at the pin-up comparison, coming back to his senses.

"Ariel Caledfwlch Remington?" He muttered, trying not to stumble on her unusual middle name. " My, uhm, apologies for not presenting myself well before. As you may have heard, I am Abraham Van Helsing. Second, precisely. See, it's my grandfather's name and..."

Abraham bit his lip. Cut it short.

"Anyway, I believe your father and mine worked together before in the Crown Dominions in the interest of the Albion Lodge," Abraham continued, a bit uncertainly. He didn't exactly recall the last time his father had headed off to meet Papa Remington, but from the few things he had learned about Ariel's father, he certainly wasn't particularly jovial. Or modern in attitudes. Or even particularly tolerating of "ascended bumpkins" like the Helsings.

"...it is surely nice to see the same between us."

Abraham gulped. Wrong choice of words. "The same working relationship. I mean. Between the new generations. Isn't it?"

Polikarpova smiled in an entertained manner, eyeing him from a distance.

Blinking a bit at the young man, Ariel merely responded another awkward chuckle, ruffling to the top of her head as she tried to cobble together an answer. She admittedly did not really understand what he meant by his last statement, and she dared not ask again. At the very least, she understood his intro quite clearly. She just felt a bit clueless over the mention of their 'working relationship' relative to their parents.

"Ah, really," she went bashfully, "pleased to make your acquaintance, Sir. My father Arthur used to mention a lot about your family. Most of them... weren't very kind, but he did felt a profound respect for your father's ability. I'm surprised you know my middle name, though. You know Welsh?"

Meanwhile, the three partisan guides selected by Groszek had disappeared in the back of the basement, ostensibly to ready their equipment and themselves to the long night that was going to unfold for them and the Shadow Command operatives. The Polish mage nodded to Beecher's query about the SS patrols. "They shift a lot, but our lookouts have got a rough outline of them, and have signed a few vantage points on the rooftops of the city. SS patrols are easier to spot, nowadays: the fear of the Beast led them to increase the number of patrol squad members, and they've even started deploying some of those armored canines you may have heard about. Vicious beasts, they are: German surgeons took them as pups, surgically removed limbs and replaced them with new mechanical ones, which permitted them to carry bigger weights and some protective plating. I'd believe that the only significant risk they pose to you is their ability to sniff out hidden threats, anyways."

Whenever he spoke, Groszek looked relieved. His faint smiles of approval intensified whenever Beecher or one of his more learned teammates spoke again, or made important questions, or just politely asked him and his men for more aid and advice. "Anyway, if you permit me, Captain, I would humbly ask you for a personal favour: the Nazis have set up multiple spotlights to monitor the streets and skies, along with an extensive public announcement system aided by speakers disseminated through the city. On top of this, they disseminate lurid posters to try and convince my countrymen of their supposed racial inferiority to the German people, to the backwardness and uselessness of our language and culture, and of the moral depravation of those Jews who were once our own neighbours. If you come across any of the items above, Sir, feel free to sabotage or destroy it in one way or another, if it doesn't compromise the task at hand."

Peering back at Groszek as he requested for their help in damaging their propaganda efforts, Ariel again showed an unusual schoolgirl enthusiasm, declaring, "I'll paint an anchor on every Kraut face I see! If possible, of course."

There was just something strange about the girl that did not seem fitting for the grim environment she was in. Even the dank setting she was in had not dampened her mood all that much. It only seemed to make her more resolute.

[Minroz]

Whenever he spoke, Groszek looked relieved. His faint smiles of approval intensified whenever Beecher or one of his more learned teammates spoke again, or made important questions, or just politely asked him and his men for more aid and advice. "Anyway, if you permit me, Captain, I would humbly ask you for a personal favour: the Nazis have set up multiple spotlights to monitor the streets and skies, along with an extensive public announcement system aided by speakers disseminated through the city. On top of this, they disseminate lurid posters to try and convince my countrymen of their supposed racial inferiority to the German people, to the backwardness and uselessness of our language and culture, and of the moral depravation of those Jews who were once our own neighbours. If you come across any of the items above, Sir, feel free to sabotage or destroy it in one way or another, if it doesn't compromise the task at hand."

“That’s dang terrible, the Nazis stoop down even lower. Putting down countries they’ve conquered and treating the locals lower than dirt. The Krauts ain’t like that from the last war.” Terry remarked, showing his disgust at the Nazi’s actions. “No matter...don't worry, my Polish friend, we’ll do it. You can mark our words for it.”

He spoke with genuine confidence and strong resolve. Like Ariel, Terry will help in damaging the enemy propaganda efforts. If it’s a way to fight for justice, he’ll do it without hesitation.