World On Fire: Operation Pathfinder

[Cylarn]

-sigh-

Harris sighed; if they were dealing with something that carried the Mark of the Beast, then a mere crucifix and a werewolf were powerless. They didn't have any sort of priests or clerics that he knew of. If they were dealing with the Prince of Darkness, they'd need something a little more powerful than that.

"And you think that a cross is enough?" he asked. "Against something that bears the Mark of the Beast?"

[Nature-Spirits]

As Fleming showed them the images of the dead men, Adrienne examined them impassibly, the sadness in her heart draining away as she focused on the task at hand. She latched onto the man's words and considered them, thinking on the rumours of a man who could see the future. If such a person exists, she thought, they would be a powerful weapon in the fight against the Axis.

When the presentation ended, she sat back in her chair, pondering the implications of this new information. This person obviously hates the Nazis. They're undoubtedly a local of Warsaw, perhaps a Jew; and they will be well-hidden, and they of course know the city much better than we. Finding them will be extremely difficult. She glanced around at the assembled group, assessing their collective abilities. We have several people with superhuman senses; two witches and a vampire, though I'm not sure if the child can fly, which means that we have two or three people who can act as eyes in the sky; two witches' familiars, of course, who can scout the city without any suspicion, along with the vampire again; the magi may have some tracking capabilities; the military people may have some training pertaining to tracking; and perhaps some other abilities of which I am unaware that could prove useful. All in all, it would be difficult, she concluded, but the group was well-equipped to handle the mission.

She noticed, then, that one of the mundanes -- Clark -- was expressing concern about Fleming's previous statement about rumours of demonic activity. Another of the mundanes -- Barnes -- pointed out that they already had monsters among them, citing Markus as an example, but Clark was unrelenting. Adrienne smiled, amused by his superstitious nature.

"Mister 'arris," she said, standing slowly and gazing upon the occupants of the room for a few seconds to make sure that she had everyone's attention. She had felt out-of-place when she had first arrived, but now she felt empowered. As her eyes finished their sweep across the room, she focused her vision back on Clark, still smiling. "You say that you are afraid of ''ellspawn', as you put it." She reached her left hand up to her right shoulder, and her familiar -- the grey and black butterfly, which until that moment had been utterly motionless -- crawled onto her finger. She brought her hand down to the level of her sternum, looking fondly upon the familiar, before looking back up at Clark. "Yet you seem to forget: Almost everyone 'ere 'as been described by your people as the same. Truly, you do not fear us?"

[Reverend Norv]

1057 Hours
27 April 1942
Shadow Command Headquarters, Baker Street, London
United Kingdom

The briefing was interesting.

Back at Harvard, Matt had taken a cognitive philosophy course with Eli Greenblum. Professor Greenblum had said that there was only ever one correct way to approach any question. First, forget everything you thought you knew about it. Then, learn everything that there was to know about it. Finally, remember everything that you forgot, and see what still makes sense.

So that was what Matt did. He forgot where Warsaw was, who was occupying it, what might be happening. He emptied his mind, and looked only at the evidence before him.

The evidence was shaky, and brutal. Rumors of a fortune teller: unsubstantiated. Probably impossible to substantiate. The very idea raised metaphysical problems. Either everything is foreordained, or the act of predicting the future changes the future. And since there's no empirical way of knowing which is true, there's no way to separate foresight from causation, and no way to substantiate claims of divination.

There were photos. Two SS men. One man had his face carved half off. One man was a charred corpse: one of his hands was chained to a heavy pipe, and the other held a hacksaw. Matt understood the victim's predicament before Fleming revealed the killer's note, and he understood the victim's choice.

Matt felt a vacuum within himself where fear ought to be. Revulsion? Yes, there revulsion: but it was wrapped into a small ball in the pit of Matt's stomach, quarantined where it could do no damage. He heard Abraham Van Helsing shudder and murmur: "God." Matt thought of Nanking, and then didn't.

Fear, Matthew Beecher thought. That's the whole point here. Fear. To force a man to choose between sawing through his arm and burning alive? That is an act of hatred. But to mail a photo of that same man's corpse to his friends, with a note explaining how he died? That's a calculated act, an act carefully designed to strike terror into the hearts of the enemy.

But that explanation was incomplete. More photographs flashed across the screen. Heer troopers, killed with single gunshots to the head or heart. Accurate shooting, almost incredibly so. Matt saw powder burns on the bodies, and thought: Close range. Execution-style. Mercy killings.

They were just conscripts. The killer had taken pity on them. The killer had tortured the SS men and Nazi party functionaries to death.

There was calculation here, but there was also conscience. This wasn't anti-German violence. It was anti-Nazi violence. The killer understood the difference.

More photographs. Infrastructure in flames. Matt studied the damage. Some of the photos showed half-collapsed bridges. That would take a lot of dynamite. The killer had access to a reliable source of high explosives in large volume.

Matt pulled a small moleskin notebook and a sturdy wooden pen from one of the pockets of his uniform tunic. He jotted down a note: Follow the bombs.

More photographs. The killer was theatrical. He signed his masterpieces with the Number of the Beast. Matt remembered the psychological insight that had gone into the burned corpse with the hacksaw, the insight that informed the photograph and the note. This killer knew how he would be perceived; he understood the power of affect. Matt slowly nodded his head. This, too, is all about fear. The calculated, carefully planned weaponization of fear.

Matt understood. The Beast of Warsaw probably couldn't foretell the future, and he definitely wasn't a demon. He was just very, very smart.

Fleming and Shadow Command had fallen for the killer's self-generated mythos. The team was assigned to find the Beast, to make contact with him, and possibly to extract him. Fleming was ambiguous as to whether the extraction was to proceed with or without the Beast's consent. A muscle flickered in Matt's cheek; that ambiguity was problematic.

Clark Harris was worried about working with the Powers of Hell. There was moral outrage in the soldier's voice, in his braced feet, in his frankness. Matt respected that.

Barnes thought that Markus was the Devil. She thought that her silver switchblade and her crucifix would see her through any travail just fine. Matt smiled quietly to himself. The girl's confidence was absurd, and Clark said so.

Adrienne stood and gazed around the room. She seemed more comfortable now, unfazed by the gruesome images; Matt thought that she was enjoying herself. "Mister 'arris," she said, "you say that you are afraid of ''ellspawn', as you put it." The witch played with her butterfly. Affect, Matt thought; the power of perception. "Yet you seem to forget: Almost everyone 'ere 'as been described by your people as the same. Truly, you do not fear us?"

Matt studied Clark's face, and understood, or thought he did. The answer to Adrienne's question, of course, was "yes." Clark was no fool. Of course he feared a room full of witches and werewolves and vampires. But he couldn't say that. In this terrifying new world, all he had to live on was his courage. If he yielded that, he yielded everything. Matt felt a flicker of anger at Adrienne for putting Clark in an impossible position.

It was time to change the direction of the conversation.

"It doesn't matter," Matt said simply. "Anyone can write some Roman numerals on the wall. It means nothing."

The Minuteman did not rise from his chair, but he spread his hands wide. "Look at it this way," Matt explained. "Your city has been occupied by Nazis. They rule through fear. They round up the Jews and put them in the ghetto. They shoot anyone who was associated with the old regime. They kick down doors in the middle of the night. Everyone is afraid, and the people's fear makes them weak."

"So you find the most brutal, most inhuman, most terrifying Nazis of them all. The SS. And you torture them to death. And you mark the scene of the crime with the number of the beast, daubed in blood, written up in Roman numerals for extra occult creepiness."

"And now who's afraid?"

Matt's eyes moved around the room, waiting to see understanding in the eyes of the others.

"The Beast of Warsaw may or may not be able to foretell the future. I doubt it, but who knows?" Matt shrugged; his uniform strained at the shoulder seams. "But this isn't a demon. This is someone who learned the Nazis' strategy, and is turning it against them - with great success, too, it seems." The Minuteman shook his head. "That's monstrous enough all by itself, but it doesn't call for religious awe. We are not dealing with the Prince of Darkness here. We're dealing with a talented terrorist."

"I think the real questions here are a lot more practical." Matt's gaze shifted to Fleming, and his mind moved from Harvard to New Mexico, from cognitive philosophy to special operations tactics. "Warsaw is a long way behind enemy lines," the Minuteman noted. "What is our insertion plan? Do we have contacts in the Polish Home Army? Do we have any material information on the Beast himself - a description, an eyewitness, an area of operations?" Matt spread his hands again. "We're not going to do a lot of good if we just show up blind in the middle of Fortress Europa."

[Wolfenium]

Watching the argument wear on, Ariel had no idea how to cut in to stop them. Watching her new superiors observing from the sidelines, she could tell they were getting unnerved. And all that talk about people as weapons made no sense to her at all. Philosophy was not her strongest suit, and she was not about to have the briefing turn an Eton debate. Milena herself appeared to have stopped caring, sitting back down as she stared back at the projector in full ignorance. As for the small witch, all she could do was watch. She appeared a bit traumatized by the rather grim attitudes of her peers, and who could have blamed her?

Mercifully, Fleming finally broke up the deadlock with their first mission briefing. The sight of the mutilated corpses appear more like the work of a propagandist, intent on instilling fear among the Nazi occupiers. But biting her nail, Ariel had her doubts on its effectiveness. The SS were rabid Nordic neo-pagans. God did not scare them, much less the Devil. Still, it could be likely that the partisan had a flair for theatrics. In this case, it worked fully well, as some among the team began to fret that they were dealing with the devil.

-snip-

"I concur," she finally spoke, raising her hand enthusiastically like an inquisitive kindergartener, "if the Devil is indeed behind this, I don't believe he would be able to scare any member of the SS. After all, neo-pagan radicals have no reason to fear a demon from a foreign faith. Most likely, the partisan simply had an interest in Satanic iconography. Not something I would personally approve, but like PM Chuchill said," she quoted, putting on a comical rendition of the portly man's accent, "'If Hitler invaded Hell, I would make at least a favourable reference to the devil in the House of Commons.' Something like that~."

"Oh ya, my name," she blurted, realizing her lack of introduction, "I am Lieutenant Ariel Remington, No. 7 Commando. Well... former... I haven't had the chance to do much since the Blitz. I'm a fire mage, specializing in Druidic, Norse and Hermetic spells. I don't particularly like using the latter though. Wands tend to just turn to ash whenever I use them."

Meanwhile, sitting back at the corner again, the unnerved witch could not help but bite at her lip at the talk of demonic presence. Clutching her hands as her pet watched her, she nervously uttered a quiet prayer as if trying to deter the demons themselves. From the onset, she was clearly a very religious girl. Had there been anyone in the room who knew an Anabaptist, they would have agreed as well.

"I think the real questions here are a lot more practical." Matt's gaze shifted to Fleming, and his mind moved from Harvard to New Mexico, from cognitive philosophy to special operations tactics. "Warsaw is a long way behind enemy lines," the Minuteman noted. "What is our insertion plan? Do we have contacts in the Polish Home Army? Do we have any material information on the Beast himself - a description, an eyewitness, an area of operations?" Matt spread his hands again. "We're not going to do a lot of good if we just show up blind in the middle of Fortress Europa."

"Oh ya," Ariel blurted again, her absentmindedness kicking back in as she heard Matt, "besides the aforementioned queries; if, for whatever reason, the Beast refuses to come with us back to Allied lines, what should we do? Wouldn't that mean we came for nothing at all?"

She may not know how partisans would think, but knowing that these folks would be fighting on their home turf, she suspected that quite a few would rather stay to continue their operations than to return to the safety of free Europe or North Africa. It was worth asking anyway. She did not want the team to drop in just to get a refusal without any backup plans.

[Fascist Republic Of Bermuda]

London, United Kingdom
April 27th, 1942

Hugon Kowalski was running late. First, his superior, a stuck-up veteran from a city Hugon cared not to know the name of, had pressured him to stay on shift and refused to let him go until he had produced a copy of the order that told Hugon to do so. That detour took long enough, but then some businessman took the last taxi, and Hugon had to wait for another few precious minutes for another cab to arrive. Grumbling unsavory words in Polish, he lurched into the taxi and told him where he needed to go. Then they got stuck in traffic.

When the cab finally arrived at the Baker Street Headquarters, the Polish soldier almost flew out of the car and ran into the building. Stopping to catch his breath, he recalled what he had been told to do when SOE agents had approached him whilst he was manning a AAA gun. The instructions he had been given were vague at best. "Ask for Baker Street HQ," The man in a too-small suit had said in slightly flawed Polish, "Once there, head towards the briefing room. I recommend you bring a pistol." That last instruction disturbed the Pole the most. Why would him going to a supposedly secure location require a pistol? But nonetheless he had brought one, an American-made M1917 revolver, jammed into the holster on his belt.

He started to see why as soon as he reached the door to the briefing room. It had been torn clean off it's hinges. "Dobry Boże, what happened here?" He half-muttered to himself as he approached the door frame. He resisted the urge to draw out his pistol as he crept into the room. It was filled with a cast so varied that Hugon half-wondered if he had accidentally been assigned to the Circus Division. Among others, a girl in an American uniform who looked like she should have been in school, an obviously Soviet man who had something not quite right about him, a man whose face was so twisted he would give Frankenstein's Monster nightmares, some exotic mixed woman, and another who was so pale and scarred she might have passed for dead if she were sleeping. People were arguing. Trying to remain as discreet as possible, Kowalski slid into a seat and tried to throw up from staring at the more strange of the unusual group, instead trying to focus on the comparatively normal British man in an expensive-looking suit at the front of the room.

As the officer continued on, Kowalski followed, more or less. Warsaw. A peculiar man, a fortune teller. In a brief moment that made the Pole question his own sanity, Hugon took pleasure in seeing the mutilated SS officer. The charred SS manager and note made Kowalski feel sick. The various dead Germans beyond he could no longer derive happiness from. And then Fleming went on. The "Beast of Warsaw"! He doubted that the man (or woman) was a demon, but still. A devil-worshipper, at least. And they want him. Alive. Hugon Kowalski was divided. On one hand, his thoroughly Christian upbringing screamed that the Beast of Warsaw should be hung in the town square. On the other hand, this person was good at killing Germans and helping the Resistance.

Then the normal-looking American G.I. practically raised hell about saving a demon. He wanted to inform the Yank that this "demon" was most likely little more than a zealous serial murderer, but some woman, an American by her accent, RAF by uniform, told him off. She seemed to be vaguely threatening the monstrous-looking fellow, who, now that the Pole could examine him more closely, seemed to be eyeing people as if a predator determining the weakest in a herd. No wonder the American woman was distrusting. Hugon made a quick mental note never to be alone in the same room with that man. Then another woman, apparently one who had trained a butterfly, spoke up, basically telling the American that the room was filled with "'ellspawn". That was when Kowalski decided it was in his best interests to avoid that argument.

But what crazy butterfly lady was saying had seeped into Hugon's mind. He had a .45 ACP revolver. Would that exactly be enough to fend a room of demons? Hugon Kowalski gulped, as he had a growing sense that he was in way over his head.

[Minroz]

London

It’s just another fine day in London or so it seems for a country at war. A local cab pulled up at the kerb which is in front of the 83 Baker Street. Coming out of the cab is a man with the appearance looking like he’s in his late 30s, smartly dressed in his suit and dons fedora and khaki longcoat. Thanking the cab driver and giving him his generous tips, he then musingly stares at the door with the two guards.

“So this is Baker Street, eh? Wonder if it’s a dumb right address. Heh, might as well go in.” The man commented to himself with wry amusements. His relaxed bodily posture and New York accent had given away his identity as an American. Without a moments pause to wait, he enters the HQ.

---

Shadow Command Headquarters

“God dammit, I’m lost.” The American grumbled. Like he said, he is lost inside the building for a good hour, still haven’t found the room he’s supposed to be in. Until finally shown a way by some friendly Brits who bothered to help him after seeing his confusion in the middle of the hall like an dazed-out idiot. That and the man nearly crashed into a several clerks at the corner. But he quickly apologised for it anyway. And so, the American has finally reached at his destination – the Meeting Room where the others are at.

“Thank God Almighty, this is my lucky day~.” He quipped happily. Just as he about to reach the door, suddenly his foot slipped causing him to yelp and trip over into a tumble and rolled inside the room in an unceremonious fashion.

Crash!

“…or not.” The man groans. His hat plops on his face after spending decent time of flying around after the crash. Paying no mind to the witnesses, he stands up and begins dusting himself.

“Errr…what are you folks grilling at me for?” He asked innocently after noticing the people’s looks in the room. “Oh…I missed something important, did I? Gosh, my bad.”

“Well hehehe, let’s start over shall we?” The American took off his hat and gave a gentleman bow. “The name is Terrance, Terrance Brooks.” With a bright smile, he offered his handshake for anyone in the room. “You all can call me Terry. Nice to meet ya all…”

For strange reason, Terrance didn’t seem to be surprised by the circus nature of the group or the tense atmosphere in the room, given their backgrounds. It’s as if he’s blissfully ignorant or maybe an idiot. But there's more to him than meets the eye, only those who read his records knew exactly why he's here in Baker Street.

[Malshan]

"It doesn't matter," Matt said simply. "Anyone can write some Roman numerals on the wall. It means nothing."

The Minuteman did not rise from his chair, but he spread his hands wide. "Look at it this way," Matt explained. "Your city has been occupied by Nazis. They rule through fear. They round up the Jews and put them in the ghetto. They shoot anyone who was associated with the old regime. They kick down doors in the middle of the night. Everyone is afraid, and the people's fear makes them weak."

"So you find the most brutal, most inhuman, most terrifying Nazis of them all. The SS. And you torture them to death. And you mark the scene of the crime with the number of the beast, daubed in blood, written up in Roman numerals for extra occult creepiness."

"And now who's afraid?"

Markus nodded. "I concur with the pup. If there's one thing I understand about humans, it's how to weave a sense of fear through 'em. How to manipulate 'em into either chasing something or running away. And THIS," he waggled a finger at the images on the projector screen. "Is a fine example of an expert in the art of manipulation."

Matt's eyes moved around the room, waiting to see understanding in the eyes of the others.

"The Beast of Warsaw may or may not be able to foretell the future. I doubt it, but who knows?" Matt shrugged; his uniform strained at the shoulder seams. "But this isn't a demon. This is someone who learned the Nazis' strategy, and is turning it against them - with great success, too, it seems." The Minuteman shook his head. "That's monstrous enough all by itself, but it doesn't call for religious awe. We are not dealing with the Prince of Darkness here. We're dealing with a talented terrorist."

Markus barked with laughter, though he cut it off soon after it began. "NOT the Prince of Darkness? Who are ya to say that? Ya're hardly an expert on the Masquerade, are ya? Who's to say that there ain't some kind of occult influence here? That, whomever is behind this work of art didn't summon demonic aid to help 'em in their quest? Not all monsters are monsters..."

"I think the real questions here are a lot more practical." Matt's gaze shifted to Fleming, and his mind moved from Harvard to New Mexico, from cognitive philosophy to special operations tactics. "Warsaw is a long way behind enemy lines," the Minuteman noted. "What is our insertion plan? Do we have contacts in the Polish Home Army? Do we have any material information on the Beast himself - a description, an eyewitness, an area of operations?" Matt spread his hands again. "We're not going to do a lot of good if we just show up blind in the middle of Fortress Europa."

Markus shifted his stance uncomfortably. Detective work was, of course, not a strong point of his. He tracked his prey by scent and sound through the battlefields of the first Great War and through the forests of the Appalachians. Interacting with humans to track down other humans...Markus found that distasteful.

Another point was bothering him a bit. "I'm sure y'all a're aware of the wartime application of werewolves and whatnot....this operation o yars seems to call for quite a bit o...discretion. It seems that we're not staging an assault on a Nazi stronghold or sowing some fear and chaos of our own...are we?"

"Or, more importantly, we can operate on the assumption that this Beast is a monster. Like me." Markus stood and padded over to his spot at the bookshelf, leaning up against it thoughtfully. "Wolves are territorial. We hunt as a group, we kill as a group. And when a rival pack moves in....war moves in with them. So...perhaps instead of tracking this Beast as ya humans would, we can start a reign of terror of our own. Lure the Beast out."

"Alternatively, we could jus' leave him to his work. Seems he's doing jus' fine on his own. Why bother him?"

[Mnar Secundus]

- briefing -

Satisfied with the room's quietness, Sophie elegantly sat down and picked up her cigar again to listen to the particulars of the mission. She glanced indifferently over the grisly photographs, unmoved -- but without failing to note that the more gruesome and, crucially, spectacular executions had been reserved to the SS and Party functionaries, targets that were definitely on the harder side of Nazism. This isn't just wanton destruction, nor unconventional warfare, she concluded tentatively. This is targeted terrorism.

Yet Sophie wasn't concerned overly much about these strategical aspects of the issue. What bothered her more was that about seers.

Divination was one of the most controversial fields of magecraft. It wasn't particularly objectionable in its methods -- not always, at any rate, and not more than any other field; however, there was a raging debate going back to the very roots of humanity as to whether divination was reliable enough to be considered real at all, not to mention how it worked should that be the case.

Sophie had vied to stay away from the hornet's nest as much as possible, but runes intervened in certain forms of divination, so she'd had to investigate the field a bit. For the most part, by her reckoning, it wasn't worth the effort, but Sophie wasn't going to let a chance of disproving her own theories escape her attention: if this Beast, or whatever they called him/her/it, was a genuine diviner, capable of actually making useful predictions, then she wanted to get her hands on ... Well, "it" will have to do for the time being.
But before she could voice her concern, it turned out that there was yet another argument breaking out.

"Mister 'arris," she said, standing slowly and gazing upon the occupants of the room for a few seconds to make sure that she had everyone's attention. She had felt out-of-place when she had first arrived, but now she felt empowered. As her eyes finished their sweep across the room, she focused her vision back on Clark, still smiling. "You say that you are afraid of ''ellspawn', as you put it." She reached her left hand up to her right shoulder, and her familiar -- the grey and black butterfly, which until that moment had been utterly motionless -- crawled onto her finger. She brought her hand down to the level of her sternum, looking fondly upon the familiar, before looking back up at Clark. "Yet you seem to forget: Almost everyone 'ere 'as been described by your people as the same. Truly, you do not fear us?"

Unnecessary. It was good, Sophie supposed, that the witch -- Adrienne, was that it? -- was feeling at ease, but condescending to their Mundane teammates and highlighting the differences between them was likely not a good idea. What is with these people? Is being confrontational in tense situations a hobby for them? Besides, all this talk of hellspawn was preposterous.

She clicked her tongue and turned slightly towards Harris with a smile. "Captain," she said in a low voice, "as a numerologist, I assure you that the so-called Number of the Beast is superstitious drivel born from an artificial confluence between historical events and extrapolations of primitive magic principles. There is nothing inherently evil about the number 666."
To Adrienne, she added, in murmured and hurried French, "Excusez-moi, mais je ne pense pas qu'exacerber les tensions dans la salle soit très utile. L'ambiance est assez mauvaise sans l'aide de qui que ce soit." [(TL: "Pardon me, but I don't believe exacerbating the tensions in the room is very useful. The mood is bad enough without anyone's help.")]

Then she focused back on the main matter at hand. Yet again, Captain Beecher was being the voice of reason.

"The Beast of Warsaw may or may not be able to foretell the future. I doubt it, but who knows?" Matt shrugged; his uniform strained at the shoulder seams. "But this isn't a demon. This is someone who learned the Nazis' strategy, and is turning it against them - with great success, too, it seems." The Minuteman shook his head. "That's monstrous enough all by itself, but it doesn't call for religious awe. We are not dealing with the Prince of Darkness here. We're dealing with a talented terrorist."

Markus barked with laughter, though he cut it off soon after it began. "NOT the Prince of Darkness? Who are ya to say that? Ya're hardly an expert on the Masquerade, are ya? Who's to say that there ain't some kind of occult influence here? That, whomever is behind this work of art didn't summon demonic aid to help 'em in their quest? Not all monsters are monsters..."

Sophie raised her cigar with lazy grace and spoke up, announcing her name and title this time. She had completely forgotten up to this point, but everyone ought to be held to the same conventions after all. "Sophie Dulac, head of the Gallia Provincial Lodge of Brest."
Formerly, she added to herself with some irritation -- she had never cared much about the position until she'd lost it. Her parents (rulers of the Regional Lodge of Brittany) had disinherited her as far as magecraft was concerned, but they had supported her alternative learning, and once she had demonstrated the requisite skill, they hadn't begrudged her any titles.

She hadn't heard of them since fleeing to England.

"As a magus, I agree with both Captain Beecher and Mr. Markus, actually," she said, pushing the topic of family out of her mind. "Certainly, that ... Beast is doing this for political and/or military reasons, and I doubt it is an actual demon; however, we cannot dismiss the possibility of supernatural forces being involved. Captain," she told Beecher with a businesslike nod as she pointed towards the pictures of damaged infrastructures, "this extensive destruction you would probably assign to explosives and such could be fairly easily caused by any competent magus or witch with an hour or two of free time. Speaking of witches," she added, turning towards those present in the room, "I'm no expert on the topic, but I believe some covens worship what you call the Adversary? Demons might not be completely irrelevant in this case."

"I think the real questions here are a lot more practical." Matt's gaze shifted to Fleming, and his mind moved from Harvard to New Mexico, from cognitive philosophy to special operations tactics. "Warsaw is a long way behind enemy lines," the Minuteman noted. "What is our insertion plan? Do we have contacts in the Polish Home Army? Do we have any material information on the Beast himself - a description, an eyewitness, an area of operations?" Matt spread his hands again. "We're not going to do a lot of good if we just show up blind in the middle of Fortress Europa."

"On the topic of actual strategy," Sophie continued, "I used to have acquaintances in Eastern Europe, but since the beginning of the War they seem to ..." Her breath caught almost imperceptibly as she struggled for a heartbeat to keep the slight worry out of her voice. "They seem to have been dwindling in numbers at an alarming rate. Those who remain should be considered ... what is the military term ... ah, oui, compromised."

"That aside, if the Beast has used magecraft, I should be able to track it down from the residual prana once we're near the crime scene. Mr. Markus' suggestion is certainly ... not unreasonable, but seems risky and technically difficult to pull off; a more discreet process would, in my opinion, be preferable. Unless our strategy is already established?"

This had been addressed to Lieutenant Fleming, and she had intended to defer to him with a slight bow, but at that moment ...

Crash!

She reached for her wand again, but stopped herself before pulling it out. Still, this was getting ridiculous. This is supposed to be the briefing of an elite military force before its first mission, Sophie thought with a slight frown and a sigh. She had practically no experience in the military, for all her considerable fighting ability, but she felt that so much clumsiness, disparaging and general anarchy was not a good sign in these circumstances.

Politeness was a thing, so she shook the newcomer's hand and introduced herself, noting along the way that the man was a vampire; but she couldn't keep the snark down: "Don't worry, you just missed the contents of our next mission. Nothing to lose sleep over."

[Videssos]

Baker Street,
London,
April 27, 1942

Hajime dropped down along the side of one of the buildings in Baker Street. Though he had gotten to London by train, he had afterwards decided to navigate his way there by himself. To avoid getting lost on the way, he'd memorized the way there, though even then, it required using something akin to an internal magical compass to get there. It hadn't helped that there'd been a variety of curious things to see along the way. Nonetheless, Hajme had managed to get there in the end. Even if his means of travel through the city involved taking certain "short cuts". Short cuts that may have involved scaling walls and moving between rooftops in the more densely packed areas.

Hajime preferred to avoid crowds, it could be said. He also disliked how many people took an almost perverse amount of interest in his unusually feline appearance, most evident in his eyes, ears, fangs and tail, accentuated with his white hair and eyes that alternated between crimson and gold. Though being Japanese when Japan was allied with Germany on the side of the Axis, and you were in London, ensured a fair bit of inherent suspicion and discrimination, even if the English were far more concerned with Germans, than an enemy on the other side of the world. Having gotten down to the level at which one was more likely to encounter crowds, once more, the androgynous Onmyouji continued along the street, seeking one particular entrance.

Then he spotted the headquarters. Moving lithely, he entered the building, and began navigating towards the meeting room. He wore a dark blue longcoat with more pockets than one would usually have, as well as black shorts, and combat boots. It wasn't long before he found the room, and seemed there were a few other latecomers, who had arrived shortly before he had. At least I'm not the only one late, he thought. The Bakeneko seemed mildly amused by his worry on that account, though it refrained from mentally commenting on the matter. Still feeling a bit conspicuous, Hajime entered the room, his tail moving in a mixture of curiosity and caution, though the Bakeneko within him seemed particularly inquisitive of the two inhabitants of his body. That said, the fact that one of the newcomers managed to fall over on the way in, relieved him a bit.

There was quite a range of individuals in the room, and it seemed that they were just going through the plan of action. A plan of action accompanied by a fair amount of arguing. Werewolves, vampires, humans, witches, and the like, all seemed to be present. Hajime himself seemed somewhat less out of place, though only on account of the already present cast. His arrival had merely added a young -though even younger looking- Japanese Onmyouji possessed by a Bakeneko, and of questionable gender and sex, to the menagerie. He did not say anything with his entry, and it was clear that some internal conflict was occurring. The Bakeneko wanted to investigate the others, whilst Hajime wanted to avoid unnecessary social interactions, since they weren't his strong suit. His gaze went to the projector, which displayed information regarding a certain mysterious killer in Warsaw, and examples of their victims. The Onmyouji, unlike most his age, wasn't particularly fazed by the more graphic of the images.

He'd seen plenty of things during the invasion of China. Especially at Nanjing. Though there, he had been in one of the Onmyouji cadres attached to the Imperial army, and despite his youth, had been considered to be one of the 12 Divine Shinshou, elite Onmyouji who were given titles mirroring those of the twelve generals of Yakushi Buddha, in Japanese Buddhism/Shintoism. He was given the epithet, "Mekira Taishō". Ironically enough, the animal associated with Mekira Taishō was a cat. Well, a tiger, to be precise, rather than a Japanese demon cat. It could still be seen as foreshadowing, though. Be that as it may, Hajime wasn't particularly in favour of going through scenes of painful death, and probable torture beforehand. Even if the Bakeneko was more than fond of such things. Cats often liked to play with their prey, and Hajime's spiritual "companion" was no different. It simply happened to take somewhat more inventive forms, and could also involve the dead coming back to life as unliving slaves.

[Lunas Legion]

"Although this so-called 'Beast' may well be a magi, there are... Other alternatives." Robert spoke up again. He wasn't a master of military strategy or military technique; but what he was was an alchemist, and he knew better than anyone how easy it would be for an alchemist to fight a one-man guerilla war.

"Robert Karlmann, alchemist from good ol' St Louis. Still not sure why I'm here, but hey, I can roll with the situation. Anyway, it's entirely plausible that the 'Beast' is a magi of some form or other. It's also possible that the 'Beast' is simply using conventional explosives. But it's also possible he has an alchemist supporting him, or is one himself. Making things explode is extremely easy, considering if you throw just about anything together and say the right incantations, you get nice amounts of fire and smoke. You can transmute the involved substances from various common objects, then use those substances in the place of conventional explosives. As far as my... Considerable experience with said alchemical explosions, there seems to be little difference beyond small amounts of hard to find alchemical residue."

He coughed. "It would at least explain why this 'Beast' has been so elusive, considering the Nazi lodges or covers will have no doubt dispatched at least one sufficiently skilled member to see if there is any prana present to form a trail with. But unless we're parachuting in from Sweden, I can't see any way of getting to Warsaw, let alone getting out."

He had another theory, but, well, that wasn't a theory he wanted to see the light of day by even suggesting it. The implications were... Too troublesome. Even the Beast being the Great Satan incarnate would be less bothersome in his view.

[Occupied Deutschland]

Jannie was silent as the new slides were shown to them, her only reaction a slight frown that grew deeper for a moment at each scene of torture. The allusion by Fleming that a similar fate had befallen a third official of the occupation government cemented the frown on her face. There was no telling how many other victims this 'Beast of Warsaw' had, and that willingness to go after collaborating officials and not just SS officers widened the potential pool of targets considerably. If they could see the future with any degree of accuracy, which Jannie doubted, it would be simple for them to do such things to anyone they wished. As it was they were wasting their talent with such pointless exercises in cruelty when such an ability, if it even existed, would be put to better use solely dedicated to strategically important targets rather than individuals they despised. That targeting suggested they were more than likely just an effective, if misguided, partisan or group of resistance fighters who shared a motif.

A ridiculous motif. As if Nazi Germany or its heretofore victorious military could be frightened into easing or abandoning occupation policies by a few tortured individuals. 'The Beast' was merely justifying harsher treatment on the city as a whole with such activities. The railways, depots, and bridges were the more viable tactic if they wished to do any good as far as hindering the German war machine, but even then seemed somewhat unspectacular for someone who could see the future. Which was probably the best evidence 'the Beast' wasn't anything occult-related at all. More likely a mundane human caught up in their juvenile emotions and adopting a supernatural moniker for themselves in order to avenge themselves on their enemies without being blamed. Man-cattle could be foolish like that.

Which meant the operation was unlikely to risk their lives for anything of concrete value beyond contact with a new cell of resistance fighters. Or a single resistance fighter who happened to be good. Which wasn't particularly useful when such access was already largely had through the Polish Home Army and their silly Communist brethren.

Jannie sighed slightly as some kind of Oriental...cat-person, she had never taken an interest in the backwards nations of the East or their peculiarities...followed a particularly clumsy American who she regretfully had to call 'kindred' into the room. Their entrance inspired a relevant question in her mind, however, and Jannie broke her silence.

"I am Countess von Waldstein, the vampire Jannie de Danek," she began. She was about to continue with her other titles and ranks, as ordered, when the gentleman at Fleming's side cocked his head at her in a gesture clearly meant to inform her to preferably skip the rest. Somewhat annoyed at the impatient man, but grudgingly accepting that a full introduction whenever she had to speak was just rudely time-consuming, she did so. "If I may, with your pardon lieutenant-commander, step back somewhat from the mission itself for a moment and submit a more personal and organizational question--with the caveat that it is understood personnel matters in the current situation are undoubtedly hectic and, in addition, that I mean no insult to any of those present...or absent--how many personnel have been assigned to this unit?"

[Monfrox]

Willow narrowed her eyes when Markus suggested luring "The Beast" out. Oh, he'd like that, wouldn't he. He'd get to run rampant over Warsaw, killing and eating to his heart's content. Well, Willow wasn't one to be a killjoy on purpose, but there was a huge flaw with his plan.

"A distraction through means of violence an' bloodshed? I thought our name was "Shadow Ops", meanin' stealth an' covert tactics an' espionage of the like. Sabotage an' surveillance. Yuh start runnin' 'round paintin' the whole town red, an' more than just "The Beast" is gonna know where we are." She looked to 'M'. "Why not pair us off an' have us ghost the patrols ta see which one gets targeted? From there it'll be a lot easier an' we won't have a whole German division on high alert lookin' fer us. Not ta mention that might prompt this guy ta relocate to another area, makin' us miss our whole chance an' more than likely get some of us killed er captured, or worse..."

[Agritum]

Fleming ignored Harris and Lapierre's banter. He had enough for it to the day, and even addressing it would have just stolen time for more pressing issues, which included responding to Beecher, Dulac and Lenion's more interesting insights on how they would have reached Warsaw proper, and what their actual plan consisted in. Instead, he silently motioned Lee to shot an admonishing glare at the debating G.I. and the Canadian Witch. Christopher was pretty good at it: his stony demeanour was deign of a pulp serial villain.

"I expected such questions, Captain Beecher and Miss Dulac, and I'm glad you were the ones who asked them for first." Fleming remarked in a pleased manner. "First of all, I'd advice you to not be particularly worried about your means of insertion in Poland. They'll be astonishingly quick, safe and reliable both on departure and arrival. But I'll let an expert in this matter speak in my stead. Miss Van Helsing?"

Elektra's eyes widened, as she realized that her duty in SHADOCOM, while not a frontline one, would have surely been one she liked a lot. "Oh, yes!" she muttered in an ecstatic, joyous tone, prompting an embarassed Abe to slightly tug on her arm. "Oh...right. For centuries, Magi around the world have studied and perfected the art of Thuromancy: the creation of doors, or better, portals. While the actual mechanics of the magic involved are promply quite hard to grasp for the thaumaturgically uneducated, it basically boils down to this: by using a certain amount of pranatic energy in conjunction with a ritualistic circle -the Gate proper- a Mage can open a straight gateway to another part of an house, city, country or even the planet. Provided that someone else drew an "arrival Gate" on the other end of the planned gateway. I hope that's simple enough to grasp." Elektra said, smiling and sitting down.

"Indeed it was." Fleming replied, "you'll use a Mystic Gate here in the HQ, which will connect itself by one drawn and mantained by the Home Army in one of their Warsaw hideouts. Which brings us to another important part: there, you'll meet our local contact, Professor Aureliusz Groszek, a magus and leader in the resistance. He is knowledgeable in the occult, and has assured us that some of his men have come in contact with the Beast, in the form of precious glimpses of its actions, tangible signs of Beast activity reported by resistance lookouts assigned to the backstreets and sewers of the city , and even a few vagrant children who allegedly claim to have worked for the Beast. However, Groszek himself is too occupied and too suspicious of the Beast, and would prefer if we did the job in his stead. He's also tracked a possible lead on the identity of the killer as a former member of the Polish People's Army, a communist rival partisan group. Given that he is not in the best working ties with said organization, he needs us as intermediaries to them. And Miss Barnes, that does seem a good approach to the question." Fleming said.

"Hopefully, it will be a discreet recognition mission. Your general goal will be to make contact with the Beast, determine if he is indeed capable of precognition, and in that case escort them back to HQ. To answer Miss Remington's questions, we ideally hope that the Beast will voluntarily accept recruitment to the Allied effort. In case of refusal, however, we can't be lenient: if this person is really a seer, he must fall in our hands before the jackboots get to him first. It is a necessary evil: the knowledge of the future can either make or break this war for us. Of course, in case this individual is not really gifted in those regards, you will be permitted to handle him with more lenience. That said, regarding the Beast, the most we know about them comes from a profile we intercepted from the German Military Police, and various traits we found to be coherent in description: the Beast is of average height, judging from ballistic analysis, and likely ambidextrous. The scarce eyewitness accounts speak of a red-eyed figure donning a trenchcoat, duster or some other type of long and concealing vest, sometimes spotted with a flowing scarf. The Poles say the Beast is pretty slim and swift, and this has prevented them from ever identifying the facial features or even the gender of such a person. The German reports mostly agree that the Beast is either a well fit human man, or some sort of supernatural creature, given how it was capable to physically overpower and kill soldiers on a close range. Not much is known about what the Beast even sounds like. Some street children allege that it speaks with a grouchy, hoarse tone, in a low whisper, but we can't substantiate it. For completeness sake, street legends are starting to develop about God himself having given a fallen angel or a restless spirit a chance to redeem itself by descending upon Earth to bring justice upon tyrants and oppressors. It's obviously ludicrous, but it gives an insight in what myhos the Beast has, consciously or not, built around itself."

Fleming took a breath, before looking at Karlmann. "That's an idea, but it's just as plausible as many other apparently sound ones. You'll need to go there, do some detective work and substantiate whatever is the most possible, unfortunately." He turned to Jannie, glancing back at some sheets of paper on his desk. " a dozen or so. The Operation will eventually lead to you being spread out in the mission territory, most likely. On a related note, there have also been reports of increased German occult activity to counter the Beast phenomenon in Warsaw. Be wary of any possible supernatural threats to your wellbeing there."

M looked at the latecomers, sighing. "Gentlemen with a particular lack of punctuality, you can review the briefing from these dossiers here." He said, indicating a small pile of red booklets on his desk. He grimaced at the Pole, the Catboy and the clumsy vampire: the worst thing was, two or three squad members were still missing.

"You'll deploy soon, after the last team members arrive. Before this, you can ask me another round of questions."

[Wolfenium]

"Hopefully, it will be a discreet recognition mission. Your general goal will be to make contact with the Beast, determine if he is indeed capable of precognition, and in that case escort them back to HQ. To answer Miss Remington's questions, we ideally hope that the Beast will voluntarily accept recruitment to the Allied effort. In case of refusal, however, we can't be lenient: if this person is really a seer, he must fall in our hands before the jackboots get to him first. It is a necessary evil: the knowledge of the future can either make or break this war for us. Of course, in case this individual is not really gifted in those regards, you will be permitted to handle him with more lenience."

Biting her lower lip in dismay, the bright-eyed blonde did not quite like the orders given. Raising her hand again, she expressed in concern, "are you insisting we use force if necessary? That's hardly the way to treat an ally, or at least a co-belligerent. If that were the case, we might as well add a 'shoot to kill' order in the event Jerry does get to him first. I hardly think our subject is completely deaf to sound advice."

There was just something about the finer details of the mission Ariel had to object to. Even if it were for the benefit of the whole war effort, she felt she should not resort to kidnapping if at all possible. Fortunately, though, Fleming made it quite clear that force would remain a last resort. But the thought of sacking one of their most important allies and knocking him unconscious with bats still made her stomach churn.

[Minroz]

M looked at the latecomers, sighing. "Gentlemen with a particular lack of punctuality, you can review the briefing from these dossiers here." He said, indicating a small pile of red booklets on his desk. He grimaced at the Pole, the Catboy and the clumsy vampire: the worst thing was, two or three squad members were still missing.

"You'll deploy soon, after the last team members arrive. Before this, you can ask me another round of questions."

“Okie dokie, sir~.” Terrance quipped in response, picking up the red booklet.

As much as he who won’t mind a good chat, Terrance knew there’s work to do for him and others in the team. Taking the time at his leisure, he reads the book. In his reading, it’s like his minds soaks up the information like a sponge. And now, he finally gets the full idea of what’s mission is all about – ‘recruiting’ this one man called ‘Beast’ who brought terror to the Nazis in Warsaw, Poland – one of the countries conquered by Hitler’s Germany. But Terry has some doubts creeping up in his mind as his gut feelings told him to be very, very careful. He knew what’s M is getting at, there’s a big possibilities that the ‘Beast’ is not going to be very…cooperative.

He’s not entirely comfortable with it. But as a soldier, orders are orders. Terry was sent to Shadow Command for a reason after all.

“This Beast guy, whoever he is. He sure is quite very trippy with Nazi-killings.” The Vamp New Yorker remarked about this thoughts about the beast. He puts away the red booklet in hand back on the table. “Dunno if he’s a good ally for us. Makes sense we meet with this Beast fella to see for ourselves. Although the little lady (Alice) here has a point.”

“So…what do we do if the beast turns out to be hostile instead?” Terrance questioned M. By his tone, he sounds more serious than playful.

[Cylarn]

Harris flashed a quick glare at the Quebecer, and nothing more. He had just lost face due to the fact that he hadn't considered his audience when choosing his words; if he were a physically abusive man like his father, he would have lost more than just face. The Minuteman stepped in, citing that the M.O. of the Beast was nothing more than a clever psychological tactic of a clever terrorist. Obviously it was working to his advantage. Choosing to abandon his demon theory, Harris decided that it was more prudent to accept Beecher's theory of a well-versed terrorist. He knocked some ash from his cigarette and listened on, until a disturbance disrupted the briefing.

A latecomer had shown up and promptly tripped over his own feet. For a second, Harris wondered if their unit would last long enough to make an impact on the war effort. For one, you had people showing up late, which was not a good sign of a competent soldier - or adult. Back in the International Brigades, lateness was hardly ever tolerated, especially by the Soviet Commissars. If you were late - especially when it seemed that you had plenty of time to arrive at your destination on time - it seemed to hint that you weren't completely invested in what you were doing. Lack of personal investment was a problem, more of an issue that boisterous behavior, or even clumsiness.

The werewolf fellow suggested starting a reign of terror, and he shot down Beecher's more "realistic" view on the situation. Another latecomer had shown up, an Oriental cat-man. Slowly, racist pangs in Clark's chest began to activate, as thoughts of Pearl Harbor began to cross his mind. He decided to suppress them, at least until one of the "Hellspawn" decided to have their patriotic fervor tested by the Oriental. The vampire Countess with the scar chimed in, asking about personnel numbers. The RAF Eagle, Willow, had some words for Markus, which were much more logical than taking on an entire occupation force to lure out a very dangerous subject.0

She was right; this wasn't frontline warfare. If it were, men like Markus could go out and slaughter to their heart's content without consequence. However, this was clandestine warfare, which required elements of grace that Markus didn't seemingly possess. Harris felt that his experiences with organized crime qualified him for clandestine work. Bootlegging and working as an enforcer in Atlantic City had taught him the value of remaining low-key. The feds were everywhere, and even though his boss was the political boss of the Republican Party in Atlantic City, and New Jersey, he didn't wear a coat of teflon to keep back inquiries. He learned how to lay low from the law, but he also learned how to gather blackmail material, how to coerce someone into fulfilling your goals, how to kill in cold blood and not leave a trail. He had fought a clandestine war before.

Harris remained quiet, listening on and waiting for the call to move out.

[Rupudska]

M looked at the latecomers, sighing. "Gentlemen with a particular lack of punctuality, you can review the briefing from these dossiers here." He said, indicating a small pile of red booklets on his desk. He grimaced at the Pole, the Catboy and the clumsy vampire: the worst thing was, two or three squad members were still missing.

"You'll deploy soon, after the last team members arrive. Before this, you can ask me another round of questions."

"Well, you now have one less latecomer to wait for, then."

A youngish-looking, clearly Spanish woman came soundlessly into the room, wearing a worn (but still identifiable) Spanish Republican Army uniform. Abraham II, Terry Brooks, and Jannie de Danek von Waldstein would certainly recognize her as Carmen Pizarro. The rest? Possibly, but possibly not as well. The mundanes would definitely not recognize her.

"Carmen Maria José Pizarro González de Trujillo, Lord of Salvador, Dona of Bahia. I apologize sincerely for my lateness, the taxi I was in had a flat tyre, and the idiota driver was unable to change it himself."

Without another word, she sat down and scanned the room. Unlike Jannie's disdainful analysis of her soon-to-be comrades, or Markus' predatorial gaze, Carmen's was more like that of an admiral examining ships in a harbor - indifferent to all but potential strengths or weaknesses.

[Nature-Spirits]

Clark did not answer Adrienne's question. She hadn't really expected him to; her question was really just her way of showing him how ridiculous his concerns were. The mundanes could no longer afford to fear the occult, and such a display of fear was not in the team's best interest. The sooner the mundanes realised their situation, the better. If they could not adapt, they would die -- with potential consequences for the others, including Adrienne herself.

Clark and Lee both glared at her. The witch ignored them.

"It doesn't matter," Matt interjected. "Anyone can write some Roman numerals on the wall. It means nothing." Sophie, meanwhile, briefly explained that the number 666 was not inherently evil. Adrienne, of course, concurred with both. There was no evidence to suggest that the Beast was in any way connected to demonic powers. "Excusez-moi," Sophie murmured to Adrienne, "mais je ne pense pas qu'exacerber les tensions dans la salle soit très utile. L'ambiance est assez mauvaise sans l'aide de qui que ce soit." She nodded, conceding, and sat down quietly. She understood the maga's perspective; admittedly, she probably could have handled the situation better.

"As a magus, I agree with both Captain Beecher and Mr. Markus, actually," Sophie said, continuing the ongoing discussion on the Beast. "Certainly, that ... Beast is doing this for political and/or military reasons, and I doubt it is an actual demon; however, we cannot dismiss the possibility of supernatural forces being involved. Captain, this extensive destruction you would probably assign to explosives and such could be fairly easily caused by any competent magus or witch with an hour or two of free time." Adrienne agreed; her first thought, upon seeing the damage, had been that it was magical in nature, and it was only afterwards that she supposed it might have been caused by mundane weapons. "Speaking of witches," Sophie continued, "I'm no expert on the topic, but I believe some covens worship what you call the Adversary? Demons might not be completely irrelevant in this case." At that, Adrienne nodded, suppressing a grimace. "They are blasphemers, but they exist," she said simply.

Fleming began answering questions and further explaining the mission, and the witch turned her attention to him. In the meantime, several others entered the room, but aside from a glance at each, she ignored them.

[Agritum]

Fleming eyed Carmen, checking out another box on the form list on his desk. The squad was complete, it seemed. "We will be heading out now. Lee, lead the way." He motioned Christopher to approach one of the many, gigantic bookshelves in the room. The RAF officer promptly abided to the order, and removed a dusty tome from it. Abraham tried to read the cover from afar: Thus Spoke Zarathustra, by Nietzsche. For a few moments, he wondered if Christopher was about to start a dissertation on Existentialism and Nihilism at the orders of M.

Abe heard engines clanking, as the bookshelf slowly split in two and moved away, revealing a secret passage in the wall. He felt a bit dumb for not having realized it sooner: his father had once regaled him with tales of vampires using similar mundane but efficient techniques to hide their lairs from unwanted eyes. Abraham watched as Fleming stood in front of the passage, glancing at the group. "Please follow me."

Abraham found himself and the others entering a tunnel made out of an hard material which resembled the one bomb shelters were usually made with. A series of electrical lights illuminated the long path to its other end. The closed space was psychologically chocking Abe, but he quickly noticed some ventilation ducts along the way, which provided the passage with fresh air. The quick walk in the tunnel soon came to an end, as Fleming and the group found themselves in front of a big, bombproof door.

M pressed a button next to the door, connected to what appeared to be a radio-based intercom. "Lieutenant Commander Fleming here, open the door." he commanded to an unseen listener, who promptly abided to the order. After another set of clanking sounds, the door opened itself, revealing two bulky soldiers, beard-wearing soldiers most likely hailing from the North of the country or even Scotland, each of them bearing well-polished Sten MGs in their hands. "At rest". Fleming spoke out, as the two moved away to let the group in.

Unlike the above-ground building and the Briefing Room, this part of the building sported a much more spartan and aseptic look, akin to the one of an ordinary military base, or a research outpost. Spacious and wide hallways intersecated in each other, decorated only with colorful but minimalistic direction signs and various warnings and important reminders. Dulac would have definitely the "No Smoking" sign on a nearby wall. The grey walls would, everywhere and then, be broken up by various bulky doors, each with a sign above them. Abraham spotted a "Depot", an "Infirmary", a "Radio Station" and several other utility rooms. "This is our staging/mission preparation area. As you may have guessed, most of our personnel prefers the upper levels in terms of cozyness.

As Fleming proceeded through the blocks, the group eventually passed a lab-like part of the complex, where, behind a glass, a group of labcoated technicians mantained an huge, bleeping machine with an insane amount of switches, variously colored lights and assorted control panels.
"What's that?" Elektra asked, bitten again by curiosity.

"A computer, Miss. We named it Colossus." A
labcoated man replied, appearing through the lab door's frame.

"Oh....I thought computers were people." Elektra replied, a bit puzzled. The scientist nodded. "That too. This is just the first completely electronical computing machine. It does the same mansions as an human computer. You can ask my colleague Tommy Flowers for more information: he's the one who built it." He replied, before glancing at Lee with a light smile. "Sharp dressed for the ladies, I guess?"

"Gentlemen, let me introduce you to Professor Alan Turing, Fellow at King's College and Princeton doctoral graduate, and Blecheley Park's official aide to our humble codecracking division." Fleming announced, eliciting a nod from Turing. "Tommy worked with me on the Bombe before SoE took interest in his project. I occasionally come here as an advisor, and I can say he did an excellent job." he said, before waving at a glass-wearing man supervising the workings of the computer.

"It's a well-made deciphering tool and one of our key assets. If we have a slight, but priceless intelligence edge on our Axis rivals, its thanks to it. Furthermore, some of the techs insist that post-war it could become a mass-consumer product, and be reduced to even fit in a small basement. But enough talk. We have to hurry, Prof." Fleming said, waving away Turing. Meanwhile, Lee was still a bit perplexed by the Professor's remarks on his fine clothing style."

Fleming eventually led the team to another reinforced door. Above it, a rectangular sign spelt out the word "ARMORY" in a blocky font. "Gentlemen, it's time to prepare yourself for the mission. Inside, you'll find several rich options for your eventual mission loadout. Any of your...signature weapons are also being kept there in special lockers, with the combination written on your Agent Cards, which Lee is currently handing out to you." Fleming said, as Christopher began distributing small red dossier-like booklets to the team members.

M glanced at the team, only to meet eyes with a never seen before fair-haired, red-yed young woman who was apparently handing over her own dossier-ID. "W-who are..." Fleming was about to shout, before a calm, polite voice resounded in his head, in plain sounding but good English.

"Lieutenant Polina Apollinarovna Polikarpova, Telekinetic and Telepathic Esper. Reporting for duty."

Fleming, a bit unsettled, checked her documents. She seemed perfectly in order. " I see. Welcome, Miss Polikarpova, and let me apologize for forgetting about your presence. I'd guess you used a different access?"

Polina just nodded, not replying verbally, but gifting Fleming with a genuine smile, before putting herself in queue behind the others, as procedure dictated. Fleming noticed that, other than her Agent ID, she also clutched a book bound in red texture, with a Cyrillic title emblazoned in relief on it.

"I bet it's Das Kapital." Abraham wondered in his thoughts. "Oh, no, it's the State and Revolution by Vladimir Lenin, Comrade Abraham." a soft, ethereal female voice rang in his head. He turned back to see a smiling Polina holding the book towards him. " Want to read?" she asked non-verbally, her mouth remaining stuck in said light smile. "I'll check it later, but thank you...Miss." Abraham replied, in embarass. Polina nodded in understanding, and resumed reading the book.

The group was let in the armory. Abraham had never seen so many varied melee weapons in his life. Or so many firearms, for that matter. Or explosives. The whole place, a spacious utilitarian-looking room with various racks of weapons on display, looked like a giant material shrine to the gods of warfare. He almost lost his mind admiring the various knives, swords and exotic shivs that populated the bladed weapons rack, only for Elektra to tug on his arm. "Oh, what it is this time?"

"Look at what I found in your locker?" she said in a triumphant tone, before displaying a sharp-looking Bowie Knife with a red-ish black blade. "But...I thought Dad always brought it with himself..." Abe replied, unbelieving. "Nah. He alternated between it and the kukri. Looks like it's yours now. " Elektra said, entrusting it in his hands.

The firearms part of the Armory was especially impressive, with polished, customized and rare pieces of weaponry from all over the world included in it. Quirkily enough, some repurposed Nazi-weapons were also sitting in the rack, but they looked pretty ordinary in comparison to the sharp looking Japanese sais in the melee rack, or the more outlandish weaponry in the miscellaneous rack, which apparently also included glove guns and explosive chewing gums. Abraham glanced aside, seeing Polina gracefully handling a Scoped Mosin Nagant in her hands.

"Mmh...and now what do I pick?"

[Monfrox]

Willow strolled along through the armory and picked out a a rather old looking revolver. She looked it over, remembering hearing something from her training about how revolvers never jammed. Still, she had been trained on the M1911, and that's what she took for now. Maybe later she'd be able to get training with the revolver, but for now she needed to use things she was familiar with. So she put it back and grabbed the sidearm before walking down the line into the more "eloquent" devices. She quickly snatched up a pack that read "KIT, DEMOLITION M-37" and slung it over her shoulder. She grabbed a few Mk. II frag grenades and threw them anywhere she could in her pants and on her webbing. After that, she filled her mag pouches with mags for her Sten Mk. IIS and then walked over to join the rest of the group.

Willow pulled the flap open, wondering what exactly the demolition kit entailed. She pulled out the TNT block and read the print as a she started to almost giggle with that trademark grin on her face. She slid the TNT back into the satchel and closed it with a light pat. This, was going to be fun. Even if she never used it, she'd take it along just in case. She re-did her under-eye paint stripes so they'd be fresh on her skin and ready to go.

[Reverend Norv]

To Matt's surprise, Markus nodded. "I concur with the pup." Matt bit the inside of his cheek, and shook his head. Not worth it. Markus talked about his skills at inspiring fear. Matt bit the inside of his cheek harder.

A moment passed. Now Markus was laughing at Matt. "NOT the Prince of Darkness?" the werewolf guffawed. "Who are ya to say that? Ya're hardly an expert on the Masquerade, are ya? Who's to say that there ain't some kind of occult influence here? That, whomever is behind this work of art didn't summon demonic aid to help 'em in their quest? Not all monsters are monsters..."

Matt smiled thinly. "I'm not an expert on the Masquerade," he agreed. "But I do know Occam's Razor. Unless there's a reason to assume that there is devilry at work here, I'm going to assume that it's just terrorism."

Markus had other ideas. He suggested just leaving the Beast alone. He suggested that the Beast was like a werewolf, and might respond to an encroachment on his territory. So - what? Matt thought. We start kidnapping and torturing Nazis ourselves?

Barnes thought that the idea was crazy. She was right: it was as impractical as it was immoral. Barnes suggested tailing Nazi patrols instead, and waiting for the Beast to strike. It wasn't a bad idea, but it was conservative. It lacked initiative. It would be slow. Matt thought of the map: the great dark blot spreading over Europe. He wondered how many people died with each extra day the war continued.

Sophie Dulac introduced herself formally. She was a ranking member of some kind of magical cabal in Brest. Matt had guessed that she was Francophone; he had not guessed that she was Breton. He wondered how long Sophie had been in exile.

Sophie pointed out that the damage to the German infrastructure shown in the briefing photographs could have been caused by magic as easily as by explosives. If magic was responsible, Sophie said, then Sophie could use magic of her own to track the Beast; Matt fully didn't understand the details of the procedure. The man in American gear who smelled like chemicals agreed. He introduced himself. He was Robert Karlmann, an alchemist from Saint Louis. Predictably, he noted that alchemy could also have been responsible for the devastation.

Matt simply nodded in response to both suggestions. It was true: the Minuteman had not considered either possibility. The team would need to get a closer look at the damage in order to know what had caused it, and therefore what the Beast was capable of. Matt gently tapped his notebook against his knee. Follow the bombs. Even if they weren't bombs after all.

Sophie Dulac asked Adrienne Lapierre if some witch covens worshiped the Devil. A flicker of disgust ran across Adreinne's face, suppressed. "They are blasphemers," she admitted, "but they exist."

Matt shook his head slowly. Devil-worship. It was less incomprehensible than Matt would have liked. He had watched newsreels. He had seen the way people looked at Hitler. The Devil is not blowing up bridges in Warsaw. He's giving speeches in Berlin.

The blonde in British uniform introduced herself. She was Ariel Remington, a fire mage who had worked with the British commandos. Matt raised his eyebrows. He hadn't known that there were any women at all in the commandos, magical or otherwise. Matt wondered how long the British had known about the Masquerade, and when they had told their allies.

Ariel asked what would happen if the Beast refused to leave with the SHADOCOM team. Ariel cited Churchill: "If Hitler invaded Hell, I would make at least a favourable reference to the devil in the House of Commons." Ariel wondered why neo-pagan SS troops would fear satanic iconography. She's right, Matt realized. These messages can't be meant for the SS. They're meant for the great mass of ordinary German soldiers, who are Christians and who will be terrified. And they're meant for the people of Warsaw themselves, who are Christians and who will be inspired. The SS are just props. They don't have to be afraid. They just have to die.

As the conversation went on, other team members arrived. There was a bluff, vaguely Eastern European-looking man who stared around the room in worried silence. Matt thought that he was a normal human. There was an American in a suit and tie and fedora and overcoat, who walked through the door talking, fell over, bounced back to his feet, and introduced himself as Terrance Brooks, Terry to his friends. He was unfazed by the sight of his team members. He smelled like ashes, like Jannie. He was the strangest vampire Matthew Beecher had ever heard of.

There was a very young Oriental of indeterminate sex. He/she was Chinese, Japanese, or Korean: he/she was not from Southeast Asia. Matt had grown up in Burma. He could tell the difference. The new arrival had white hair. He/she had cat-like ears and a tail. He/she said not a word. Matt had no idea what manner of person the Oriental could be. He could not remember any people with tails from his briefings. He tried hard not to stare.

Jannie was growing weary of the stream of new arrivals. Matt could sympathize. She drew herself up, and introduced herself again, and asked just how large the team was, anyway. Matt smiled wryly. He hadn't been about to say it, but someone needed to.

Fleming said that there were only a few people left who had yet to arrive. He turned to Elektra Van Helsing, who explained that mages could work in pairs to create gates that linked multiple locations. One mage on each end was required. Matt listened carefully. As far as he could tell, this meant that they could step through a door in London, and emerge in Warsaw.

It was mind-boggling. When Matt had been a child, it had taken his family weeks to travel from Mong Yawng to Boston, and weeks more to travel back. Matt wondered about how many troops could fit through a gate. He thought of mages smuggled into Berlin, into Tokyo, and whole divisions pouring through the portals that they created.

If it were possible, it would already have been done. Matt's heart clenched: the pain of a dream relinquished. The war would go on.

Once they arrived in Warsaw, the team would meet with a Polish resistance leader named Aureliusz Groszek, an occultist whose men claimed to have seen the Beast. Those reports combined with a German profile that had been intercepted by the Allies to give a picture of the killer: average-height, slender, fast-moving, ambidextrous, red-eyed, given to wearing long coats and scarves. Capable of overpowering grown men. An object of awe for children's tales and urban legends. Nothing about that description was strange, except for the red eyes. That was anomalous. Groszek thought that the Beast might be a former member of the communist underground. Matt wondered whether a communist would choose to inspire fear and defiance through the use of religious iconography. It didn't seem plausible.

Fleming explained that if the Beast could see the future, he was a crucial military asset, and that the team couldn't afford to be lenient if the Beast refused to return to headquarters. Ariel pointed out that this seemed a bad way to treat someone who was, for all his obvious cruelty, still fighting on the same side as the Allies. Matt hoped that the Beast would turn out just to be an explosives expert with a talent for psychology. Matt wondered what he would do if the Beast turned out to be capable of real precognition.

People aren't assets. They're people. We're fighting this war to defend that principle. There were some lines that could not be crossed.

Children aren't soldiers. They're children. We're fighting this war to defend that principle. There were some lines that had to be crossed.

Matt bit the inside of his cheek.

A young woman walked in. She looked Latin. She introduced herself as "Carmen Maria José Pizarro González de Trujillo, Lord of Salvador, Dona of Bahia." Matt was intensely reminded of Jannie. Matt thought: Vampires. But whereas Jannie had a sharpness to her, a sardonic edge and frozen aloofness, Carmen reminded Matt a little of Robert. Her gaze suggested interested detachment. Intellectual curiosity. She studied the team like so many slabs of meat. Matt thought of the doctors in New Mexico, the tube rammed down his throat.

Fleming announced that the team would be departing. Matt stood; his chair's leather cushions squeaked as he pulled free of them. The young man in RAF uniform - Lee, Matt remembered - took a tome from one of the bookshelves. Matt cocked his head; his enhanced vision let him read the title with ease. The book was by Nietzsche. Thus Spoke Zarathustra.

Matt was the Ubermesch. Matt hated Nietzsche with a passion.

The sound of clanking engines filled the room. The bookshelf split in two and rolled aside. There was a secret passageway beyond. Matt thought of movies. There had been no movies in Mong Yawng. When Matt had returned to America, he had watched movies at every opportunity. The secret door in the bookshelf was cinematic. Nosferatu. Matt gawked, and grinned like a child.

On the other side of the secret door was a long tunnel: reinforced concrete, bare electric lightbulbs, fresh air pumped in through ventilation ducts. The group followed Fleming down the tunnel to a pair of blast doors. Fleming activated an intercom and identified himself. The door rolled open, revealing two Tommies with Sten guns. They were big men. Matt could have broken either of them in half over his knee. Fleming told them to stand down, and they did.

Beyond the blast doors was an entire hidden base: utilitarian concrete corridors and steel doors, terse signage announcing radio stations and supply depots. Tunnels intersected at regular intervals. It looked almost exactly like the Minuteman Project facility in New Mexico. The team followed Fleming through the warren of hallways. Fleming explained that the base was the staging area for SHADOCOM. Matt thought: You don't say? Matt felt uncomfortable in this place. The last time he had entered a place that looked like this one, he had not seen the sun again for more than a year.

The team passed a large glass window. Beyond it sat a massive pile of machinery: switches, blinking lights, control panels. It bleeped. Elektra stared, and asked what it was. An awkward-looking man in a labcoat appeared, and explained that it was an electrical computing machine. He complimented Lee on his dress sense. Lee was perplexed. Fleming introduced the scientist as Alan Turing. It turned out that the machine was used for cracking Axis codes.

Matt stared at the machine. It was a computer. It computed. It could think.

It frightened him more than anything else he had seen since arriving in London. Well, except the missing children. Nothing was more frightening than a city without children.

Fleming led the team on. They stopped in front of a reinforced door. A sign helpfully announced: "ARMORY". Lee handed out cards with locker combinations on them. The lockers held each agent's special equipment.

There was a flicker of motion in Matt's peripheral vision. A young woman was suddenly standing near the back of the group. She had a card of her own, and she was carrying a large red book with gold lettering in Cyrillic text. Her hair was white and her eyes were red. Matt thought that he might have seen her in the Baker Street lobby.

Matt glanced at Anatoly. White hair, red eyes. The resemblance was there. The girl was an esper. Matt thought of the description of the Beast of Warsaw. Red eyes.

Fleming noticed the esper's presence. His eyes went wide. He stuttered something, and then fell silent, listening to the empty air. "I see," he said. "Welcome, Miss Polikarpova, and let me apologize for forgetting about your presence. I'd guess you used a different access?"

The girl nodded, and smiled beautifully. Abraham Van Helsing squinted at the book that she was carrying. His eyes suddenly went wide too. The girl offered him the book. He said: "I'll check it later, but thank you...Miss."

Matt's eyes narrowed. Matt thought carefully about his briefing on espers. Matt put two and two together. The girl could talk without opening her mouth. Maybe she could even read minds. Matt wondered if she could control it. It seemed like a horrible way to live if she couldn't. Matt wondered if he had any secrets that he didn't want revealed if the girl could read minds. He realized that he didn't think that he did.

I wonder how many people can say that.

Matt paused for a moment. He glanced up. A bare lightbulb burned on the hallway's reinforced-concrete roof. Matt quietly offered a prayer of thanks for the blessing of integrity.

The team entered the armory. It was filled with weapons. Knives, swords, spears. Rifles, pistols, machine guns. Explosive chewing gum. Elektra handed her brother a Bowie knife with a strange, dark blade. Abraham took it like a sacred relic.

Matt walked directly to his locker. He glanced down at his card, and spun the combination lock. The locker opened.

Matt smiled.

Matthew Beecher had not grown up around guns. There had been little call for them in Mong Yawng. The Minuteman Project had needed to teach Matt how to shoot before it could destroy and remake him. But Matt had always loved tools: machines whose perfection for their intended purpose made them beautiful. And the Minuteman Project scientists and their Kentucky gunsmiths had produced those, in spades.

There was a Heavy BAR in Matt's locker. A Persuader. A Super Colt. Polished walnut had a reddish shine. Steel and brass glimmered under the electric lights. Matt picked the Colt up. He felt its weight in his hand. He ejected the magazine with a satisfying click-scrape. The brass case of a fifty-caliber cartridge gleamed at him from the top of the magazine. It was thicker than a normal man's thumb.

Matt replaced the magazine. Scrape-thunk. He worked the slide. Scrape-thunk. Everything was crisp. Everything worked perfectly. Matt felt like he was looking at the inner workings of a Swiss watch. He grinned.

Matt located a changing room. There was no point in strolling around Warsaw wearing American uniform. He donned a plain grey suit and tie. He wore Crusader armor over the suit: boiled leather covering ballistic nylon and titanium, embossed with stars on the shoulders and an eagle upon the chest. Matt wore a massive camel-hair overcoat over the armor, to conceal it somewhat. He could always button the overcoat, in case of closer inspection. Matt suspected that it was cold in Warsaw even in April.

Matt took a Super Colt and screwed a silencer on to its barrel. He put the handgun in a shoulder holster. He took a Persuader and hung it from a sling around one shoulder, underneath the overcoat, so that it was hidden from view. He hung his tomahawk from a loop in the lining of the overcoat, too. He filled his pockets with spare magazines and thermo-bombs.

Matt left the changing room. He saw the mysterious female Esper - Polikarpova - examine a scoped Mosin Nagant. Matt grabbed a fedora. Hat, coat, suit: the uniform of every working stiff in Europe. As much anonymity as a Minuteman could hope to achieve.

Matt nodded at Polikarpova's rifle. "That looks like a fine piece." Matt wondered whether the esper would respond aloud or silently. "From how far away are you accurate with it?"

[Malshan]

Markus leaned up against the bookshelf as the others in the group continued on with their debate. He scratched absentmindedly at his arm, tugging at the clothing that covered him. Even now his skin was burning, itching and crawling as he struggled to maintain his human appearance. His human form was simply...not natural to him. His parents, having conceived him during a shift, had transferred more wolf DNA to him than the human counterpart. Already, bits of his form were flaking away; his teeth were slowly elongating, his eyes brightening to an almost neon yellow, and his beard losing its color to match his usual snow-white fur. Since he'd been standing, he'd also gained several inches in height. Markus growled to himself, producing a subsonic rumble that only the other wolves would be able to detect as well as perhaps the vampires and Matthew, being so enhanced as he was. Markus was swiftly losing his patience with the briefing.

Fortunately, the briefing came to an end soon after. There was a clanking sound and Markus watched as a bookshelf slowly opened to reveal a hidden passageway. Jus' like them movin' picture shows.... Markus thought as he lifted himself off his perch and began walking after Fleming.

As the band of misfits passed the massive code-cracking computer, Markus's lips drew back, baring his now elongated canines at the machinery. He had never trusted the high end new fangled technology that humans were so fond of, preferring his own experience and the natural tools he possessed to get whatever the job was done. He felt relieved as they passed it by, heading for another set of rooms in the staging area.

Ah, an armory. How refreshingly nostalgic. thought Markus, remembering his days back in the military during the last war. He had made fond memories out on the range, admiring the accuracy of American-made firearms as he put holes in targets several hundred feet distant.

Markus walked into the room, heading for a locker with his name emblazoned upon its door. He glanced at the ID card he'd been given and input the combination before swinging the door wide open. To his delight, he noticed several items on the racks in the back of the locker, seemingly waiting for him.

A Boys Anti-Tank Rifle Mark II rested upon several ammunition boxes accompanied by three empty magazines. Markus's eyes lit up as he lifted the heavy weapon like it was no more than a toy, sighting down its length, holding the weapon steady as he grinned, baring his teeth at an empty patch of wall.

Another package caught his eye, a bound package of what looked to be clothing. He sniffed it cautiously, detecting the faint smell of witchcraft. A note was included on the bindings:

Mr. Lenion,
This uniform was designed specifically for you and your abilities. It was enchanted to allow the material to adapt to your form, whatever that may be. It provides minimal covering while you are shifted, and will revert back to a shirt/trousers combination when you revert to your human form.

Markus snorted, but picked up the package regardless, carrying it into the changing room. Once there, Markus shed his clothing, revealing a scarred body, the result of living his life as a warrior and a beast. So much struggle and death leaves its mark on the creatures involved, though in his case they were mostly physical. He donned the uniform, cinching the belt strap to a comfortable fit. It looked like his typical garb; a button up front shirt tucked into working trousers, the sleeves rolled up on the shirt.

Markus looked around for a moment, grinning as he found himself alone, even if it was only temporarily. He groaned as he finally let go of his form, moaning and growling loudly in pleasure as his body cracked and twisted, his skeletal and muscular structures expanding and growing as Markus assumed what could be called the halfway point in his transformation.

Markus resisted the urge to let loose a long and loud howl of elation, knowing that it would only serve to create a sense of panic that could lead to him being forced to violate his contract, tempting though it might have been. Instead, he let out a sighing growl which echoed out of the changing rooms.

Markus rose up to his full height, standing at nearly 8 feet tall, covered in a thick coat of pure white fur. He was clad in a loose-fitting sash and loincloth type affair which allowed for a full range of movement while still hiding just enough to be considered polite among humans. Certainly not something that would be acceptable in public society, but it would do for combat. Markus sighed and chuffed with laughter as he relaxed, elated to be rid of his human skin for a time.

Markus walked out of the changing room, still in his anthro form, having to duck to avoid colliding with the doorframe. He strode back to his locker, grabbing the Boys ATR with a single hand and hefting the ammunition, magazines, and a few smaller firearms with the other.

Carrying the full load of what was in his locker, Markus strode over to a reinforced table in the middle of the room, spreading his gear out and beginning to check it all over, being surprisingly nimble with his monstrous paws, using his claws with the precision of a surgeon. He ignored the panicked looks of the scientists near the computer. Good. They should know fear of me if I should know fear of their abominations... he thought.

A couple of the soldiers were eyeing him nervously, fingering their tiny firearms with fear in their eyes.

[Latznavia]

Baker Street, England - April 27, 1942

Being from the Soviet Union, Anatoly was used to arguing. His mother would argue with all sort of people who claimed that the Russian Empire and all their corruption was a blessing in comparison to the USSR. He sighed, his head in his hands as he ignored the large majority of the whole conversation. Ideas of gods and angels made no sense to him, as communism believed that man made the world, not kings or gods. But he digressed and the argument continued on, more and more as he wished the mission would just begin. Then, M or Director Fleming, said words that he had been waiting for for what seemed like days now.

"We will be heading out now. Lee, lead the way." a man nodded and began walking towards a large series of bookcases, Anatoly was confused. Did he miss something, he had missed a large amount of the conversation and perhaps now looked like an idea. Then, the man referred to as Lee pulled a book, it was too dusty to see but then the room filled with the loud clanking of gears and metal on metal rotors which made Anatoly think of the sound of tanks of German tanks and Russian artillery, his mind wandered to him walking through crushed tanks and burning wreckage and reminded him of home. A smile crept across his face as he smiled gently. Suddenly, someone bumped him and the doors were opened to a large tunnel. He walked in a military fashion, back straight, shoulders back, head strong, he moved forward.

The tunnel was made of lead, he could feel the texture and it made him think of Tunguska which had similar walls and similar patterns on them, the lights made him feel trapped but not scared, he had lived in places worse than this. The lights illuminated a few things but the walk was short and soon they approached a large bombproof door, Anatoly analyzed the door but soon this M managed to get it open with a few key words.

"Lieutenant Commander Fleming here, open the door." the door opened with the same sound, but this time Anatoly didn't think back. It was now time to think forward, and he approached the now opened door. He walked passed the two larger men and began to think that he and the crippled girl were the only soviets and they were not making a good impression for the USSR. He kept his cool, he had lost it earlier and did not want a bad impression for the Soviet Union. As they entered the wider room, much more decorative than the briefing room, Anatoly looked upon it with amazement. There were so many exit doors revealing that this base is much larger than the simple house above but rather a complex series of bunkers and housings. Anatoly was nearly lost in it, until he saw the group going towards a large lab-like complex.

A large computer was beeping and flashing with an amazing amount of switches, keys and buttons. He watched as technicians maintained the computer system, he saw the girl earlier introduced as Elektra amazed as well then speak up.

"What's that?" He turned then saw the techicians enter. They began talking, but Anatoly couldn't understand any of it. His brain was rattled by the information given, something about deciphering and computers and science. He wasn't too familiar with it, and felt embarassed by his casual nodding in faux understanding.

"...But enough talk. We have to hurry, Prof." Fleming said, Anatoly perked up as he waved away that man named Turing. He followed like a child following a teacher on a fieldtrip. They finally reached a large door, "ARMORY" it read and Anatoly became very excited.

"Gentlemen, it's time to prepare yourself for the mission. Inside, you'll find several rich options for your eventual mission loadout. Any of your...signature weapons are also being kept there in special lockers, with the combination written on your Agent Cards, which Lee is currently handing out to you." Fleming said, Anatoly was handed his booklet and began to flip through the book before he looked over and noticed a girl with fair hair and- his eyes widened.

"Red eyes..." He said aloud, that only meant an Esper and her hair confirmed it and her uniform wasn't as Soviet as he had hoped. Another Soviet soldier, he was now more excited then he could contain.

"Lieutenant Polina Apollinarovna Polikarpova, Telekinetic and Telepathic Esper. Reporting for duty." He smiled and wanted to say hello to the new friend, but M interrupted with an embarrassed look.

"I see. Welcome, Miss Polikarpova, and let me apologize for forgetting about your presence. I'd guess you used a different access?" She nodded, then Anatoly saw her reveal a book, but the crowd in front of him prevented him from seeing what it was. It was Russian, the Cyrillic alphabet on it proved it. But soon, she was sharing glances and smiles with the Abe person. Then the group went to the lockers. Anatoly was surprised at the assortment of other people's lockers and expected something similar to them, American weapons and such. He walked over and glanced as his ID Card trying to match the numbers. Within seconds, the doors opened to the lockers, showing an assortment of Russian arms. He smiled intently as he grabbed his favorite weapon, the PPSh-41 submachine gun. He soon was grabbing clips and such, as well as a Tokarev, and a Knife as well. He finished it with a couple of grenades.

[Wolfenium]

Pacing into the armoury with intrigue, Ariel seemed quite impressed with... well... everything. From Turing's state-of-the-art computer to the staggering array of weapons, she looked like a bright-eyed child on her first day to an all-you-can-eat candy store. But as much as she looked the part of a silly, braindead blonde heiress, Ariel was in fact quite knowledgeable at firearms. Picking up a Thompson M1928A1, she made a quick check of the weapon through a partial dismantling. Fitting it back in quick precision, she quickly sighted down the range in front of her.

"Looks like you got the new A1s," she mused, picking up an arming sword as well from one of the blade racks, "pity, I quite liked the mobster feel from the older ones, but I suppose less jamming is better for everyone."

The little witch, in contrast, looked absolutely appalled by the sights. Trailing at the back of the group, she had a foot turned towards the entrance as if waiting to run. Standing in front of one of the weapon racks, she buttoned up her lip nervously. She did not like the idea of arming herself with a weapon, protection or not. It just felt wrong to her.

"I don't know," she muttered, "I shouldn't be arming myself with any of these. It's just... damning for me."

She never even stated her name yet. Not that she was unwilling to, but she appeared genuinely scared about going through with the mission.

M glanced at the team, only to meet eyes with a never seen before fair-haired, red-yed young woman who was apparently handing over her own dossier-ID. "W-who are..." Fleming was about to shout, before a calm, polite voice resounded in his head, in plain sounding but good English.

"Lieutenant Polina Apollinarovna Polikarpova, Telekinetic and Telepathic Esper. Reporting for duty."

Fleming, a bit unsettled, checked her documents. She seemed perfectly in order. " I see. Welcome, Miss Polikarpova, and let me apologize for forgetting about your presence. I'd guess you used a different access?"

Polina just nodded, not replying verbally, but gifting Fleming with a genuine smile, before putting herself in queue behind the others, as procedure dictated. Fleming noticed that, other than her Agent ID, she also clutched a book bound in red texture, with a Cyrillic title emblazoned in relief on it.

"I bet it's Das Kapital." Abraham wondered in his thoughts. "Oh, no, it's the State and Revolution by Vladimir Lenin, Comrade Abraham." a soft, ethereal female voice rang in his head. He turned back to see a smiling Polina holding the book towards him. " Want to read?" she asked non-verbally, her mouth remaining stuck in said light smile. "I'll check it later, but thank you...Miss." Abraham replied, in embarass. Polina nodded in understanding, and resumed reading the book.

"If I were you, I'd refrain from poking people's minds without permission," a voice tersely reprimanded Polina in her mind, "not that your government has any respect for privacy anyway."

Stopping just beside the Soviet telepath, Milena gave a cold, intense glare as she tested her own abilities. She could tell the woman had her outmatched in terms of her abilities; Milena herself had little strength in telekinesis at the moment. That, however, did not stop her from poking at her. She felt some lines needed to be drawn for everyone's sake.

[Cylarn]

They were soon brought through a rather impressive facility, no doubt the one that they'd be calling home, or at least the closest thing to a home until the war ended. They met a couple nerds, and then came to their own personal lockers. Clark opened up the locker marked with his name, and promptly smiled. The weapons inside consisted of a formidable Colt Monitor Automatic Rifle, a Colt M1911A1, a Fairbairn-Sykes Fighting Knife, a wood-handled switchblade, a pair of brass knuckles, two Mk. 2 fragmentation grenades, and a small Colt Detective Special, along with a motley assortment of ammunition. He picked up the Monitor; the law enforcement's BAR. It was indeed a heavier weapon, what with a pistol grip and more crap than the run-of-the-mill BAR, but it was a weapon that Clark had used once before, under the service of Nucky Johnson, during Prohibition.

He saw the Minuteman emerge from a changing room in a grey suit, and he deduced that it was time for him to change as well. He utilized the same changing room, and found himself climbing into a brown three-piece suit, with a pair of slacks, a waistcoat, and a blazer, along with a white dress shirt, a pair of handmade Italian brown leather shoes, and a black tie. With his jacket, a khaki trenchcoat, and a brown fedora in his hands, he went back to his gear locker and put the jacket, coat, and fedora down in the locker. He donned a shoulder holster, and loaded his .45 with a fresh magazine before placing it in said holster. He picked up the revolver and loaded it up with 6 hollowpoint .38 Special rounds, and tucked it into his waistband at the small of his back. He placed the fighting knife in an ankle sheathe on his right leg, and the switchblade in his pocket. He tucked 4 magazines for his .45 into his waistcoat pockets.

He then put on his jacket and the trenchcoat, placing magazines for his Monitor into the pockets, along with his two grenades, taking care that they wouldn't clang together. He also took a suppressor, and tucked it into his pocket, following up the action by removing the trenchcoat. With his gear situated, he waited for Fleming to speak, while he hooked up a leather sling to his Monitor.