Times Are'a Changing IC

[Sarejo]

Armand Barthel

Lieutenant Armand looked around the room, and the petty conversation and bickering occurring, ignored the lot of them, and focused on keeping his sub-machine gun cleaned and well-oiled. Several others followed suit, letting the pointless waste of words wear itself thin. He chuckled in amusement at the immaturity of the group, and how it seemed everyone trying to "quell" the argument instead just inserted a "witty" comment, incensing the group even more.

Satisfied with the state of his weapons, he, instead of introducing himself to the men, leaned back against the wall, and tipped his Adrian helmet over his face to cover his eyes, deciding sleep was a better alternative to engaging with the comedic buffoons that no doubt the group consisted of. As long as they fought well, he had no other cares about their personalities. If they could shoot the enemy, and protect him when he needed it, he'll do the same for them.

[Cainesland]

Millard listened stood where he was, listening to the other gentleman introduce themselves. It appeared that the French gentleman that didn't quite like the idea of interacting verbally with the Germans was apparently hard to kill and named Jean. The man with 2 chevrons didn't say what his ability was but did say that he was named Bradley stokes and codenamed ironclad, a name both humourous and fitting to Millard as there were lots of stokers on ironclad gunboats. Finally there was a man who identified himself as Marquis. He was wrapped in cloth like a mummy, and sadly proclaimed that his power was being unable to die. At first glance one might think immortality to be great but Millard understood that one would get bored eventually and a life without friends and family would be lonely, so in that sense he understood where the sadness was coming from. It seemed that being functionally immortal was relatively common on the team, which was interesting as it would be something he would have thought to be a rarer gift.

He opened his journal up and wrote down point form notes

Team members
Name "Codename" - Known for - Nationality - Power
Andrew West "The patriot" - Super soldier - American - Being a super soldier, presumably he is fast and strong
"The Colonel" - Fought in WWI, Allowed me to join the military - British - Presumably detects and controls metal
Jackie "Unknown" - First team member introduction - American - Controls the nervous system
Benoni Shimshelewitz "Jew Jitzu" - Started the introductions - Unknown, assumed somewhere in Asia - Good at martial arts
Jean "Bestille"- Against speaking to Germans - French - Cannot die
Corporal Bradley Stokes "Ironclad" - Fought in Africa - American - Unknown
Marquis "Unknown" - Unknown - French - Cannot die

As he finished writing down the people who had introduced themselves thus far he looked around the room for who was next and saw a gentleman with his hat on his face.

[Anowa]

Allied Team
En Route to Libya
January 7th, 1942 // The Start of a Journey

Ben looked around with a small grin, everything was much less tense now, hopefully having names to go along with the faces would mean a hesitance to engage in further violence. It was then he spotted an orange glow out of the corner of his eyes. Turning he first expected someone to have lit up a cigarette, instead, he spotted two pits of orange upon a pale face, framed by raven black hair.

Ben recognized the face immediately, and he froze like a deer in the headlights. Photos recovered by surviving troops on the Eastern front, recovered and captured documents from German transmissions and spies, as well as a few reports from those in France all made descriptions of an unkillable beast in the shape of a woman, with glowing orange eyes, pale skin, matted black hair, and who ate people. Insanguinating them until they resembled dehydrated fruit, or the corpses of those who fell upon the Alps or Everest. Ben finally unlocked his legs to move, as the beast's eyes locked with his, he made to move away from the devil, though he clumsily stumbled over his chair, taking a few more with him. The Jewish man quickly recovered, backing into a wall, realizing there was nowhere to go, he began shaking, eyes still locked with the horror in front of him.

The beast spoke, in a voice that Ben knew was much to kind to his ears to not be some sort of devilish illusion. "I realize I have a reputation to me, I request you overlook it."Looking to the others, she continued, "Offically I'm known as Jager, I'm a Dhampir, and I've been killing people since I was 8. Which was a few months before the American White House was burned down."

Ben swallowed, at least the attention of the demon in front of them all was diverted from him. Whoever thought it a good idea to let The Bloodhound of Birkenau into a ship with all these people should be lined up against a wall and shot.

[Cainesland]

As Millard spotted the man with the hat on his face he heard a clatter and turned to see the martial arts expert backing away from a lady in the shadows. The lady came forward and introduced herself and Millard immediately added to his list.

Jager "Unkown"- Genocide, Born circa 1806 (136 yrs old) - Unknown - Dhampir

He had heard stories while spying in Germany, and seen some official reports, but he had not seen a Dhampir himself in person. Being Half vampire they were said to be very powerful. Presumably the military would not bring one on the ship unless they were reasonably certain it, no she, was not going to kill everyone aboard. Unless that was why there were 2 unkillable men in the same room anyway. He was curious to find out how good her sense of smell and hearing would be, as a Dhampir, as her ability to sense him without his uniform should be proportionate to that. Fortunately she was asking for her nature to be looked past for the time being so that was a good sign. He made a mental note to look in his journal for Dhampir references and then continued to scan the room for who would be next to introduce himself.

[Shadowwell]

Allied Team
Off the Coast of Libya

It had been some time, since the conflicts in the Mess Hall became resolved. Some of the team were still in the Mess hall, which was more resembling how it normally looks. Others were in their temporary quarters or elsewhere. The Patriot and the Colonel were speaking with the captain of the vessel. A crackle could be heard throughout the ship as the intercom system came to life. “We are approaching El Aghelia, or rather we will be shortly. All personnel should finish there preparations for making landfall if it has not been done already.”

Soviet Team

The Soviet Supers were leading the push against the Germans. They were slowly but surely giving way to the Soviet push. The normal Soviet troops would have retreated or collapsed exhausted long ago, if not for the weather and the threat of death keeping them active. Gradually though they fell back, but the Supers pushed forward, unhindered by the weather, due to their comrades ability and they had little real need for the mundane troops, because both Blackbird and Red menace were raising the fallen German troops, and reenlisting the fallen Soviets for the Glory of Mother Russia.

They had great momentum, and every time an enemy fell, it only aided the Supers in their push. Unfortunately, even the Supers had limits, eventually they lost their momentum and the Germans were no longer falling fast enough to supplement the push. Eventually they halted, the Soviet counterattack, had largely failed, though they were able to push the Germans away from Moscow, the fight was in truth just beginning, it would be a long time before Mother Russia was free of the Fascist Germans, but this was where the tide would start to turn.

[Turkducken]

Allied Team
Off the Coast of Libya

It had been some time, since the conflicts in the Mess Hall became resolved. Some of the team were still in the Mess hall, which was more resembling how it normally looks. Others were in their temporary quarters or elsewhere. The Patriot and the Colonel were speaking with the captain of the vessel. A crackle could be heard throughout the ship as the intercom system came to life. “We are approaching El Aghelia, or rather we will be shortly. All personnel should finish there preparations for making landfall if it has not been done already.”

From somewhere on the Ship, a song began to play. It was distinctively blues and was only a single saxophone, playing in the air. It continued for several minutes, but eventually stopped. It sounded heartbreakingly depressive, lowering the overall mood of those who heard it.

[Greater Dmanian]

Allied Team
Bradley Stokes

Having long since descended into the Stowage of the ship Bradley sized up his armoured suit as he pondered its current format, considering where he was about to deploy to he decided on some adjustments. He pulled over a metal trolley with various tools, scrap and some munitions; before he started the faint sound of blues began to leak through the hull much to his annoyance, snapping his head to the source of the music he could only tut at the metal wall before reaching into a pouch of his BDU.

Smiling as his fingers wrapped around the now familiar box shape he withdrew his hand and placed what looked like a small metal case, only when he turned a small dial on the side of it did become clear what it was. The handheld radio began to play Swing music at a moderate volume, enough to drown out the sorrowful blues.Taking a moment to let the song get started he placed a welding mask over his face before getting to work.

He paused to let the image of what he wanted take shape in his mind before raising a hand to the metal trolley, some of the scrap began to shake as it moulded into a series of tubes, other finer bits began snapping towards it forming an unseen mechanism. Grabbing them along with a welding torch he began to attach the four cylinders to a metal base plate so that they angled in slightly opposing directions. With them attached he set it next to the shoulder plate opposite the M1 Bazooka and began to weld it onto his battle suit, running a metallic cord along the arm to a prepared switch on the bracer. With that done he tested the design by placing a slightly modified smoke grenade into one tube before flicking the switch.

A muffled bang sounded as the small charge shot out of the tube, bouncing off the roof before detonating and flooding the immediate area around it in a dense smoke. Spluttering Stokes wafting the gradually dissipating cloud aside before turning back to his suit. "Hmm better reduce the fuse by a half second." he muttered to himself before running his hand over the newly crafted device. Satisfied that it would hold up in battle he rounded on a nearby crate, cracking it open he withdrew a slender exoskeleton, mostly frame and buckles to hold him in it he easily pulled it out. Strapping himself in he looked back in the crate and spotted the Thick steel plates he was looking for, using the respectable strength the exoskeleton afforded him he withdrew two large ones and brought the back to the Suit.

Hoisting the plates into place over the chest and lower stomach he gradually welded them into place, keeping a space between it and the base steel armour. Happy they were in place he added some finishing touches, the flash of the Royal Engineers was neatly painted over the newly fitted plate.

[Nekronia]

Near the end of the briefing, Jean threw some ruined metal at Jackie, which prompted Jackie to slow down his perception of time to assess the situation, and decided to headbutt the incoming tin rather than attempt a dodge. Unfortunately for Jackie, he underestimated the speed of the tin due to his change of his sense of time. A bruise and gash later, Jackie tried to roll with it and seem tough infront of the other kids by gritting his teeth and acting like it didn't hurt. He squinted at the the communist Frenchman who wouldn't actually have been hurt at the tin, as though to issue a mild challenge, before returning his primary attention to the briefing. He mentally muttered about Jean along the way.

After having been briefed by the Patriot while trying (and failing) to instigate a fight, Jackie left the mess hall to go kill some time while continuing his self-appointed quest of improvement. In this case, did some exercise with an open wound. After his daily failed attempt at a pull-up, he did some poor sit-ups and ran a few laps, then took a shower afterwards to clean himself and his wound. Only then did he actually go have the bandage properly treated and bandaged.

With less urgent matters sorted out, he double-checked his equipment. A standard issue rifle, two standard-issue pistols, an abundance of various grenades, two military knives, his binoculars, and all the other less-notable items were all working and accounted for. He was ready to grab his stuff and go once the ship landed. Or if the ship spontaneously started to blow up, which he hadn't mentally ruled out yet.

Finally, he took it easy and returned to the mess hall and helped himself to some food. With more food on his tray than a kid his size should reasonably have, Jackie sat down and read some Bat-Man comics while chowing down. The distant music of sax was welcomed ambience, even if it was a bit slow-paced for his tastes. He briefly wondered who was playing, but optimistically figured it was Millard.

[Beiarusia]

— Anastasia —
( ( SOVIET UNION ) )

---

January 7^th, 1942 / Maloyaroslavets, Russia

The Germans had failed to take Moscow.

The Nazi war-machine had come to within 29 kilometers of the Kremlin, a figurative stone's throw away, but an unforgiving winter had foiled a quick end to the war, and as the Wehrmacht retreated west across the River Oka the Soviets gave chase like demons freed from the depths of Hell, bitter and with hearts made of frozen ice. There was no mercy. The Soviet counteroffensive had failed to remove the Germans entirely from the vicinity of Moscow, but no longer would the city be threatened, and nevermore would the Germans march eastward. The Motherland would be avenged in a sea of blood.

Kaluga had been taken on January 4^th (178km from Moscow) but fighting remained sporadic as German holdouts battled an exhausted Soviet Army, with the fiercest of the fighting being centered near the towns of Maloyaroslavets and Rzhev.

A German unit had fortified a ruined bakery overlooking the main avenue in Maloyaroslavets. For almost a week they had denied the Soviets access to the town, but as friendly positions were silenced (overwhelmed or otherwise forced into retreat) this patriotic fervor gave way to desperation, fear, and hopelessness. The Germans were completely and utterly outmatched against an enemy that, at times, refused to die, and although Nazi meta-humans had fared better the average soldier was fighting tooth-and-nail just to survive another night. The unit in the bakery had lost half its men in three days. A handful of terrified soldiers was all that remained of a decorated battalion that had been decimated marching against Moscow. The bakery was exposed, but the men were braver than most, and they would hold the line for as long as they could until their allies were safe beyond the river, and only then would they abandon Maloyaroslavets to the Russians.

[Movement across the street], the machine-gunner said in his native tongue, training his sights on the ruined storefront opposite the bakery. The windows had mostly been barricaded, but from the outside the barrel of the MG34 could be seen swiveling through the open slats to track the potential target.

[Russian?] the German officer asked.

[A dog maybe,] another chimed, hopeful that another assault was a long time coming.

[Friendlies,] the machine-gunner said with delight in his tone.

German soldiers were moving through the ruined stores, two regulars and an SS-commando, picking their way carefully through the ruined buildings so as to avoid exposing themselves to Soviet marksmen that may be hiding nearby. They crossed the avenue and approached the bakery. The officer, thrilled to see a friendly unit after so long, unlocked the door without question and ushered his fellow countrymen inside, but too late did he notice the bloodied uniforms and lifeless eyes and languid expressions like those caught in death. The mere thought that something was not at all right had only crossed the man's mind when the SS-commando raised his sidearm and fired three rounds into the officer's chest. The men inside the bakery were stunned to witness the demise of their commander, but they were quick to return fire as the "zombies" attacked their hideaway, engaging in a close-quarters firefight in desperation to extend their own unlikely survival. The SS-zombie was killed by a lucky shot to the head but not before wounding another man; the zombie-regulars fired erratically with their MP40's as the slain officer crawled back into life.

The machine-gunner had his back to the window when he heard footsteps approaching from outside in a sprint. The shadow of a man was against the window, and then came the thunderous roar of a Soviet PPSh-41, the drum-fed SMG chewing through the wooden barricade like a fist through wet tissue. The machine-gunner was killed in a spray of blood. The engagement was short-lived, and in the end the German unit was annihilated without so much as the chance to surrender.

A man dressed in a fur-lined greatcoat stepped into the bakery, SMG in hand, and surveyed the scene with cold eyes.

[Are they dead?] asked another from outside in Russian.

A young soldier was still alive, clutching his side as hot blood seeped through his gloved fingers, trying his best to remain unnoticed behind the counter. The man in the greatcoat saw, shot the German, and then said, [They are now.]

The remainder of the team entered soon thereafter. Five men dressed to withstand the coldest days of winter and amongst them a single young woman, her face hidden behind a scarf and ushanka with only a pair of mismatched eyes to betray her identity, the left hazel and the right blue-grey. Anastasia (handle: Blackbird), a Soviet meta-human with the power of necromancy and a longtime member of the nonexistent NKVD Task Force 13, an undocumented unit active in both Ukraine and Poland before the German invasion and commanded by Vasily Krechetnikov, the man in the greatcoat.

A few zombies milled about like soldiers standing at attention. [Enough with these abominations,] Krechetnikov said, and without any response from Anastasia the dead-Germans returned to being just that, collapsing as if executed by a silent firing squad. He, like many others, felt uneasy so close to the living-dead despite having no qualms using such an ability to their advantage.

[Do we keep moving forward?] asked the man with the PPSh-41.

[No. We regroup with Sozonov and head back towards Moscow,] Krechetnikov answered.

Yuri Sozonov (handle: the Red Menace), a Soviet meta-human who shared Anastasia's necromantic ability, and who had led today's counteroffensive alongside Nikita Kalinin (handle: General Winter). The NKVD had been working alongside Sozonov but had become separated shortly before entering Maloyaroslavets. Eliminating German positions would hasten the enemy's defeat, but without the strength of the Soviet Army behind them it would be impossible to liberate the town in the face of stiff German resistance, meta-humans or not. They would fall back to friendly lines... for now.

Anastasia was eyeing the dead Germans with a look that was both placid but with a predatory edge lying underneath. She was hungry, starving, her powers having drained her completely after the day's events, and she would need to eat soon. A necessary evil to maintain the sharpness of the tool.

At the very least "food" was plentiful on the battlefield.

[The Knockout Gun Gals]

Mikael Svensson
Soviet side, Maloyaroslavets, Russia

He handled the ammunitions side. His metal manipulation ability enabled him to provided the team with bullets, considering he only needs spare metals to converted them into bullets. Of course bullets use different metals, but to him, the metals can be converted to other kind of metals as long as it fits the situation and the condition. Perhaps it was not wise to talk with the rest, though. They just infiltrated into an exposed bakery of sort, the Germans already died inside. SMG on hand, he was in the back, providing fire supports.

Perhaps this night was the night they could take a rest, for one. Or to quickly coordinated themselves somewhere else.

[Beiarusia]

Mikael Svensson

— Anastasia —
( ( SOVIET UNION ) )

---

January 7^th, 1942 / Maloyaroslavets, Russia

The NKVD task force returned to where their allies were awaiting them. A German counteroffensive was unlikely in Maloyaroslavets, but removing an entrenched occupying force would be difficult without considerable support, so the Soviets were falling back to friendly lines for the time being and would begin the process of liberating the town on the morrow before marching alongside units fighting to take Rzhev beyond the river. Until then, they were exposed with evening fast approaching.

[Swede, you can understanding me, yeah? Hurry or you'll become one of Blackbird's pets," Krechetnikov said in his native Russian.

As if to emphasize this statement gunfire could be heard in the distance.

The Soviets departed Maloyaroslavets, avoiding open streets whenever possible, and returned to where several ZIS-5 trucks were parked behind the cover of a ruined house. A few soldiers had been left behind to guard the trucks, and upon seeing the others they quickly dropped their conversation to start the vehicles, struggling for a few moments against the cold before the diesel engines roared to life with a cloud of black smoke rising from the tailpipes. The Soviets loaded into the back of the trucks with Krechetnikov, Anastasia, and Svensson sitting near one another. They soon were rumbling down the icy and bloody roads towards friendly lines.

Little was said on the drive back. Krechetnikov and his NKVD ensured that their weapons were readied for combat (in case they were ambushed) whereas Anastasia stared towards the snowy landscape with a stoic demeanor, her mismatched eyes showing little from underneath her scarf and ushanka.

[Why did you come here, Swede? What do you get for risking yourself for a motherland not your own?] Krechetnikov asked suddenly. He looked towards the younger man with a stern look to his gaze.

[The Knockout Gun Gals]

Mikael Svensson

— Anastasia —
( ( SOVIET UNION ) )

---

January 7^th, 1942 / Maloyaroslavets, Russia

[Swede, you can understanding me, yeah? Hurry or you'll become one of Blackbird's pets," Krechetnikov said in his native Russian.

Little was said on the drive back. Krechetnikov and his NKVD ensured that their weapons were readied for combat (in case they were ambushed) whereas Anastasia stared towards the snowy landscape with a stoic demeanor, her mismatched eyes showing little from underneath her scarf and ushanka.

[Why did you come here, Swede? What do you get for risking yourself for a motherland not your own?] Krechetnikov asked suddenly. He looked towards the younger man with a stern look to his gaze.

Mikael Svensson
Soviet Side

Kretchenikov spoke to him as they ran through the hell and back while on their way to the parked vehicles. Of course he could understands him, all those years learning how to speak Russian as part of Swedish's military training in order to speak with the Soviets if there is one time they going to fight together. [Of course. I'm in the hurry movement,] as he moved with them. As they reached the location where ZIS-5 trucks were parked on the few soldiers left there put an eye on him. Not something weird since he already has the same kind of reaction when the Soviet Union saw him and saw him offered them something that they...well, chased. They don't really have someone who can manipulates metal AND turned those metals into different kinds of metals. So here he is.

But not really turned out the way he wanted to. Instead of being rewarded for his loyalty to the ideology, he is more or less a watched foreigner, risking his life day and night and not fully trusted by his comrades.

As they sat on together in the back of the trucks, he gazed through the snow and the winter, from the back of the truck, when Krechetnikov asked him. [I am here fighting for the ideology, for Stalin, for the motherland. Just like you. What I get is not really matter, what I fight for is the most important thing for now,] he answered, solidly, while looking to Kretchenikov. He didn't appreciates the fact that he is still not fully trusted.

[Shadowwell]

El Aghelia, Libya

Most of the team were finishing their preparations, some were working on their own gear, others had already done so and were getting food or relaxing for a short time. Soon enough they made landfall, everyone made their way off the ship with their gear being brought with them, or offloaded shortly after, if it was too large to take with them. Shortly after departing they headed to what was serving as the command tent. There they got a more up to date and complete briefing than what was given to them on the way to El Aghelia.

They were made aware of certain details, such as the make-up of the enemy’s forces, troop movements and other things. Any attacks would come after the next three days, additionally so far the Afrika Korps had not exhibited evidence of possessing any Metas on this front. The last time any meta of real power had been seen on this front, was earlier in the war. The English had taken to calling him the Sandman, he could control sand and had wiped towns out to clear the way for Rommel’s Korp. After the briefing, everyone went on their ways and talked amongst themselves and the men they were joining before heading to bed.

A few hours after midnight was when it started, the sentries at the edge of the town, where the gap in between the territory laid, had their vison obscured by a flurry of sand. Over the next few minutes, the sand filled flurries picked up in intensity. While the seemingly natural sandstorm became increasingly chaotic, screams and bellows could be heard as the German troops hidden within the sandstorm made their presence known. This night would mark the start of Rommels latest assault on El Aghelia, this time he would succeed, and it wouldn’t be challenged for many months.

[Nekronia]

Jackie was happy to get back on solid ground and off the "tin can of nuts", but less so to sit through another briefing. There wasn't much information that was interesting or exciting, just that the last metahuman on the enemy side in the area hadn't been around for years. After the briefing was done, there wasn't much to do other than kill time. Jackie chose to do so by interacting with the local soldiers, annoying some with his shenanigans and mildly entertaining others with card tricks and such. Eventually he found a small group that he hatched a minor plan with.

Later on, while his allies were fast asleep in bed, Jackie had gotten up and sneaked out to play some late night cards with some of the local grunts. It wasn't intended to go on very long, but it ended up dragging on due to more or less everyone at the table being stubborn. It was an endless series of everyone calling double-or-nothing rematches. Once a sandstorm came, the group figured it was best to stay indoors for it to pass first, so why not keep playing? Just when the stakes were getting to the point of being unfeasible for anyone at the table to actually ever pay, the local group found a good reason why: Jackie was counting cards. This card trick was much less appreciated, and prompted hostilities.

While the yelling escalated, one of the men started brawling and then wrestling the small youth, who tried to thrash his way free without relying on his powers. As had been proven throughout his entire life, he can't break out of wrestling without the assistance of his powers. However, just this once, it happened to be the case. And for all the wrong reasons. A silhouette appeared infront of the window, looking into the room at the fight. The two brawlers on the floor were too distracted to notice, but the others thought they were caught staying up. They tried going for the cards to hide the evidence, but it was too late.

As Jackie wriggled on his back and tried to knee and headbutt his way to freedom, a deafening series of bangs stunned everyone in the room. Jackie couldn't see much of what was going on past the wrestler on him, but the wrestler was enough of a sign to figure it out. The wrestler suddenly stopped fighting or even breathing, and began dripping blood down onto the youth. The inexperienced metahuman began to panic a bit, being trapped underneath someone while a gunman was shooting up the room.

Jackie began using his powers, forcing the corpse's arm to extend and roll itself off of the survivor. Once this was done, he could see clearly: everyone else was dead, riddled with bullet holes. The man in the window took a moment to notice the survivor due to not having seen two people through the sand, but raised his gun again. Jackie sent his influence over to the attacker's nerves to buy just a little more time. The gunman suddenly threw his arm out to the side, firing wildly, while jumping and falling backwards onto the floor. Jackie's influence ended with the line of sight being broken, but he didn't waste the opportunity to scramble to cover. Sitting against the wall next to the door, the gunman wouldn't be able to see nor shoot him, but if anyone came in they would walk right into him. Thankfully, they didn't seem to be coming in, just shouting at eachother outside in the sandstorm. Over the howling winds, Jackie could make out just enough to figure out what was going on.

"VERFICKT, ÜBER! Klein, werfe eine Granate! Schnell! LOS!"

Jackie figuring out what they were saying came a moment too late, as a grenade suddenly flew in from the darkness outside. OH YOU GOTTA BE FUCKIN' KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW!

With all the adrenaline-fueled speed to be expected of someone fleeing a grenade, he swung open the door and sprinted outside into the storm. He could only see two silhouettes in the mess, and it was hard to see anything at all without wearing any protection against the sand. A fight to the death doesn't stop to rub sand out of one's eyes, so Jackie forced the two to close their eyes. In the confusion, he tackled one, made their grip limp on their Kar98k, and took it to fire at the other one. He was too weak to operate the bolt-action, and just threw it at the tackled man before scrambling over to steal the gun of the other. This one had an MP-40. This was the one that shot up his game and almost him as well. Jackie claimed the weapon and walked over to the man on the floor, paralyzing most of the German's with his powers and pointing the submachine gun at his face. At such a distance, Jackie could make out the features of the man. The confusion. The desperation. The fear.

Jackie pressed the gun up against the helpless man's face, but struggled to do the deed. This man wasn't threatening him, this wasn't the heat of the moment. There was nothing forcing him to kill the man. His duty couldn't quite overcome his human instincts. This grew into frustration and resentment. Jackie stared down the man, but slowly began staring more at the end of the gun, dissociating himself from the act.

It's just a target. It's not happening. It's okay to do this, it's just firing a gun. There is no harm in doing this. This is good, this is right.

While Jackie was trying to psyche himself out to force himself into doing something against his nature, this focus on losing focus had the obvious result of him losing focus on the person infront of him, like he wasn't even there. As a result, Jackie accidentally stopped using his powers on the man. The man immediately seized the opportunity and grabbed the gun, and initiated the second round of wrestling for Jackie that night. As Jackie tried to regain his wits, the rest of the German squad managed to get close enough to see the bodies moving around on the floor. With 8 silhouettes in sight and no weapon ready, the yankee began hatching a plan. The squadleader referred to someone as Heinz moments ago, giving the order to throw the grenade. As no one could identify anyone else due to the sandstorm, the plan was hatched.

"Halt! Schieße nicht! Da ich bin, Heinz!"

The silhouettes lowered their weapons for just a moment while one of their own shouted not to trust the claim since they were Heinz. This hesitance and bickering bought only a moment, but that was all Jackie wanted. Since Heinz was in the group, the man on the ground hadn't used his yet. Jackie froze up the person he was wrestling with, unscrewed the cap on his grenade, pulled the pin, and bolted back into the building while closing the eyes of the silhouettes. Some confused shouting and another explosion later, it was over. The boy's heart was pounding out of his chest and he was shaking on the floor, said floor quickly becoming covered in vomit. Once he had calmed down ever so slightly from the life-death situation, he unsteadily got up and shuffled over to the other room with his gear. He loaded up and made sure all of it was intact.

Once he was done, he pocketed what was left of the gambling money, looted a scarf from the German corpses to cover his face, and began walking through the sandstorm back to the sleeping quarters.

He kicked in the door, tried and failed to find the lightswitch, then began screaming for everyone to wake up:

"WE'RE UNDER ATTACK AND THERE ARE KRAUTS EVERYWHERE AND I CAN'T SEE SHIT AND I HAVE A RASH AND I THINK I JUST KILLED LIKE A DOZEN PEOPLE WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON JESUS FUCK"

"VERFICKT, ÜBER! Rolf, werfe eine Granate! Schnell! LOS!" = "FUCK, SUPER! Klein, throw a grenade! Quickly! COME ON!"

"Halt! Schieße nicht! Da ich bin, Heinz!" = "Stop! Don't shoot! It's me, Heinz!"

[Dernland]

Maquis stood behind a defensive bulwark in western El Aghelia, staring out towards the German lines with a singular focus. He didn't need to eat, nor sleep, though he yearned to do both. He missed the taste of bread, the peace of his dreams, the feeling of cold water flowing down his throat. There wasn't a point anymore, not really. He didn't get hungry, and he couldn't really taste anything anymore, not since a self inflicted wound tore through his brain, seemingly permanently severing some pieces of his nervous system. All that mattered was his mission.

Maquis' pitiful brooding was interrupted by the sudden onset of a rather severe sandstorm. Shouts came up from the other sentries and dozens of large spotlights were turned on and struggled to pierce the walls of sand around them. The howling winds tore at Maquis clothes and shemagh, and he squinted through the particles, having no more luck than the spotlights. A silhouette approached Maquis through the storm, followed by another, and then another. Assuming that they were some of the sentries, he called out to them. There was no response, but one of the figures stood straight, lifting his arms to chest height. "Ah, merde" Maquis mumbled, realizing what the truth too late, before a rifle's rapport rang out, though it was swiftly drowned in the depths of the storm. A lance of pain shot through his chest, a familiar feeling, but no less intense. He crumpled forward, blood oozing from his wound and mouth. It hurt to breathe so he stopped and stood with a grunt. He glared at the silloughette and charged forward with a sudden burst of speed.

"Was zur Hölle?" (What the hell?) The silhouette said, identifying himself as a German soldier. Maquis roared, causing a new searing pain in his chest from there the shattered rib raked against his organs. The silhouette fired again, this time the shot missed. The soldier frantically pulled the action of his Gewehr and loaded another round. A third shot, though Maquis was almost upon him now and the bullet tore through the Frenchman's shemagh and cheek, fracturing his jaw and causing him to shriek in pain as blood splattered his face. He tackled the soldier, wrestling the rifle from his hands with ease. The German's eyes filled with terror as he beheld Maquis' face, torn and bloody, and yet completely unstoppable, standing above him. Maquis smacked the soldier's head with the butt of the rifle, breaking his nose and leaving him hunched on the ground.

"Al diavolo!" (To hell with that!) Two other soldiers, both Italians, turned and ran, though the other three stayed and leveled their rifles, but they didn't seem too sure if they'd picked the smart idea. Maquis didn't say anything, though it was not as if he could given the fact that his jaw was hanging on by a few scraps of flesh. He quickly reset the bolt and fired at one of the other soldiers, though the open bolt had let in too much sand and the round misfired. Maquis gurgled and charged one of the soldiers again, forcing him to the ground in a moment and bashing his face with the stock of the rifle. He stood once the soldier had stopped twitching, using the bloodied rifle to push himself upwards. Another bullet tore through Maquis chest, this time from behind. He turned, but by now the other two Germans had vanished, but the sounds of gunfire and the screams of dying men now filled the air.

The sandstorm didn't seem to be letting up, but its timely arrival surely wasn't a coincidence. Maquis stewed on this as he hobbled back to the barracks, where he planned to warn the others and grab his Sten. He hoped that the other supers would be savvy enough to realize what was going on, with all the screaming and the gunfire, but he had to be sure. He could feel his chest wounds beginning to heal, but that was almost as painful as actually getting shot, and the sand didn't help. His jaw wouldn't heal until he put it back together and bandaged it up, and it now dangled from his face, blood dripping onto his coat and mixing with the swirling sand.

The American, Jaques or Jackie, Maquis couldn't remember, was already there and was frantically screaming about the Germans. The Frenchman was relieved, because it suddenly dawned on him that he had no way to explain the situation beyond drawing crude images in the sandy floor. He realized that he must be quite the sight, covered in blood from two chest wounds along with his jaw hanging from his face. He quickly grabbed his Sten, holding it in one hand and the makeshift club in the other, trying to hide himself from the others view. He was a monster, and no-one would like fighting alongside him if they saw his actual powers. At least, so he assumed.

[Cainesland]

After the briefing by the Patriot and the Colonel during the first hours of the expedition across the Mediterranean, Millard spent the time eating, sleeping, reading, operating the radio, and keeping an eye on the other members of the ship and his Journal up to date. For instance he discovered the musical stylings of the Frenchman and lacking an instrument of his own he rather enjoyed listening. Even if it was rather melancholy. Plus, when everyone else was asleep the only other sounds were that of the ocean waves and the idle chit-chat on the bridge.

As the team neared the shores of Libya for the mission, Millard listened to German radio communications. While he listened he made sure to clean his uniform and equipment. As information came forth he would also take the occasional break from his uniform to make note of the location of the ship and the location of the Germans in his journal. When they landed he paid attention to the briefing. Once they were given leave to do as they pleaded for the night he followed Jackie into town. However, while Jackie played cards, Millard made note of the town landmarks, drew rough maps of the city, and tried to make sure he understood the layout of the area so as to not get lost in the inevitable battle to come.

One of the last places he came across as the sands started moving in was a clothing store. It was Abandoned, as expected, and about a block from where he last saw Jackie. While he didn't obtain anything, and he had considered using some clothing as a disguise, he did rest there for a little while as the sandstorm increased in intensity. Not long after he started hearing gunshots, and quickly moved to get rid of his uniform. It wasn't going to protect him from a bullet but it was going to give him away and based on the briefing they were going to need to defend this place for a fair amount of time. He put the gear in a changing room.

The store still had its windows in tact. A benifit and a problem. A benifit because it kept the sand outside. A problem because if an explosion happened outside the flying glass could hurt him.

outside he heard an explosion and a few screams before Jackie ran past the store.