World On Fire: Operation Deadfall

[Agritum]

October 22nd, 1942, London

The Sherlock Holmes Arms was the popular moniker for the pub establishment that had been set up by the SOE on the other side of Baker Street. A novelty house, its name echoed the world famous London-based detective who had operated from the very same street in the late 19th century. A deerstalker hat-shaped sign on the boardwalk further reinforced the theming. Abe found it silly. From what he had heard from his father about his late grandfather, Holmes never wore that hat while in London. It didn't make sense at all, being more of a rural headcover than anything.

Abe sighed, suppressing memories of both Robert and Abraham Senior away. They were pretty much gone from his life. Cancer had taken grandpa first, eating his innards and blood worse than any vampire had ever managed to. Then his father came next, disappearing while in a SoE expedition on Tibet. Knowing what Germans did to commandos, Abe didn't have much to hope about his condition. He would have never guessed he'd end up leading the Van Helsing household at such a young age, without his father to advise him, having to care for Electra's wellbeing.

Abe shook his head. The burden was too high, especially during a world-grasping conflict such as this one. The mission in Warsaw had already taken an enormous toil on him: he had been in the slums of the British Raj with his father, but he had never seen the full extent of a truly occupied, ruined country. It hit him harder than the confrontation the group had in the underground of the Tower with what the Germans called "Captain Fenris". He had tossed everyone around, nearly beheaded the group's own werwolves and retreated only when Katherine filled him with enough lead. The sorry fate of Warsaw's children almost made the terrible encounter with the being known as Carmilla an afternote. The vampire countess had managed to keep even Jannie at bay: the two had carried a fierce battle in the outskirts, throwing debris and vehicles at each other, going into their most bestial forms to stay alive. Then, the Tower fell.

Heim had guided them into its innards, finding its secret: a Vril reactor. It powered all of Warsaw's security apparatus, and maybe much more. Captain Beecher was quick to secure proof of the reactor before the team littered it with bombs. The fuse was short. On the way up, Heim still found time to seize the Tower Supervisor, and throw him before his host of German sheperds. "You treat dogs like children, and children like dogs. Who's the degenerate, now?" had been the Jewish woman's words, before she shot all the hounds dead, and busted his kneecaps out, leaving him there with the corpses of his hosts.

The evacuation by airship was daring, to say the least. The underground team had rendez-voused before with the roof team, and the vessel had just about enough space for everyone. Notably, Clark slipped on the paltry rope on which we climbed to reach the zeppelin and nearly plummeted to oblivion before, with an evident strain, Polina telekinetically lifted himself up. "Comrade, diet more, please" were her words.

Then the airship lifted off, and the tower became a fireball. Carmen and Jannie were still outside fighting the nigh invulnerable elder vampire, when they both sensed that things were going to get hot soon. The last they saw of Carmilla, after getting tossed into the hard concrete of the Tower, was the whole structure crumbling over her. Good riddance? Abe wasn't sure. There was no staking, nor beheading. Abe silently muttered a prayer: he knew the Hungarian countess was out for his blood, too. Killing Dracula meant killing her most beloved master, and sins such as those aren't washed away by the new blood of passing generations.

Abe shook his head again. He tried to focus on the relaxing atmosphere of the Sherlock Holmes and let the memories of his first ever war effort wash away. A jazz quarter was arranging Benny Goodman's hits on their own, low-key way on the small stage of the pub, where people and...creatures of every nation and race bopped with each other. There was no segregation in SHADOCOM, more out of pragmatism than any sincere preoccupation of distancing the Allied Civilization from the Axis one. But still, it was a lot, and it mean even more.

Along the floor were the tables of the pub patrons, who liked to keep to each other rather than join the ruckus of the dancehall. The more chatty fellows smoked and drank next to each other before the barman, an elderly aviator from the great war called Pete. "They still have the damn Fokkers, don't they?" the geriatric host would occasionally spout, to great laughs. But that laugh hid the harsh truth: air warfare had advanced to never seen before levels in just thirty years. Airplanes, now of riveted and armored steel, were capable of bombing campaigns that would pierce and break the morale of even the greatest powers. It was a miracle that the craterscape of ruins and rationing queues that London had become hadn't made the British Empire yield before the swastika. But it's not like Ariel would have let that happen: Abe gazed at her for a few moments, enough to cross her eyes, before quickly retreating his sight. Embarassment.

"I sense quite a degree of anger from nearby tables." Polina quipped, seated next to Anna, gazing at the Polish pilots seated a few tables up. Their lieutenant, a Jan Wazowski from Krakow, was known for spouting vitriol at the West and the Soviets. It entertained a lot of discussions with his crew, and not unjustifiedly. Yet, when it was time to race to the flyer and repel the Luftwaffe, the Poles were always steadfast. Loyalty in a cause works in strange ways.

On the other, Capitaine Mallard, in his unforgettable beret and short mustaches, was directing his host of Free Frenchmen, white and black, Indochinese and Taihitian, in his weekly lampooning of Monsieur Hitler and his sorry crew, cigarette in his mouth. The Gauls laughed heartily as smoke rose, even overshadowing the easy-dancing bop of the floor. It was probably starting to unnerve Wazowski's flyboys.

"Not our business, Polina, not our business. "Abe replied, sipping a few tears of brandy. SHADOCOM didn't get rationing, and could afford delicacies like those once a week. Polina shrugged, downing her own shot of vodka. She kept scarce in her eating even while in London, much unlike many other espers and Soviet personnel. "Want some more beef, Anna?" she asked the anabaptist girl, pushing her plate of hot roast in a friendly manner.

On the other side of the table, Capt. Beecher's Secretary, as some GIs had mockingly nicknamed her, was continuing her study on the 1940 Handbook on Citizenship Tests. Clad in the pinks and greens of the US Army Women's Auxiliary, her flowing black hair wrapped in a complex bun, Heim was almost indistinguishable. Abe himself didn't believe that she had even accepted to wear the regulation skirt. To her credit, the German woman was doing her best to fit in the rough canons of the OSS. They wanted her, and Heim, to some degree, wanted them. Convincing the Beast of Warsaw to join the American armed forces had been quite the diplomatic victory on Matt's part, one that left Fleming a bit fuming. Pathfinder would wear the stripes and not the jack.

"Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”"

"Emma Lazarus probably didn't expect the ban on East Asian immigrants, alas. "Heim quipped harshly, loud enough to be heard by Matt, before resuming her reading. In spite of her quick acceptance to serve America, Heim seemed to have little no respect for the little less than bicentennial nation. The more she learned, the more she critiqued. Be it the ghettos. Or the United Fruit Companies. Or the lynchings.

Abe was listening to the German's harsh musings before a warm hand patted his shoulder.

"Are you doing well, my boy?" Christopher Lee exclaimed, grinning. Next to him was a giant of a man in an heavy jacket with a fur collar. A gentle giant: a sincere smile cracked from the grave lips of his First Nations heritage. So:Se, his way of pronouncing Joseph, was the moniker everyone knew him by. He had a pretty obscure past: the only thing Abe knew was that the spirit of a feral wendigo harbored in himself, and he kept it at bay more than the average man does with his mundane vices. Next to So:Se was a seemingly young girl who dressed pretty dark, for her age. She looked at the pub and the audience with the frown of a groggy bat at daylight.

"Yeah, sir. " was all Able could come up with "Me and the team are relaxing a bit after our latest mission and the whole cycle of training afterwards. Learning the combatives from Fairbairns himself was a great opportunity, if quite a bit taxing" he added. Ariel had successfully tossed him onto the rug last time they had a spar. Abe tried to forget that.

Lee chuckled. "Well, then you'll be glad to know you're getting a few new additions to the team. A couple boys from our Asia department, and some other requested specifically by Fleming."

Abe was a bit surprised to learn of the apparent enlargement of the squad's roster. "May I inquire to who they are?"

As the conversation went on, the boop continued, the Poles silently raged and the Frenchmen laughed.

[Monfrox]

Willow made an audible sigh from her room. Shadowcom's barracks were nicer than the other places she'd had to stay in, but it still had that cookie-cutter feeling to it even though she had a room all to herself. The grooming standards and dress regulations had dictated that she was to be in her dress uniform when out in public around England. She found the uniform a tad suffocating, but unlike Heim, Willow had gone for pants rather than a skirt. She padded down her jacket, adjusted her tie, and picked up her cap. Her ribbon rack was a bit barren, but she had one ribbon that she paid attention to moreso than the others. It was gold with thin red lines on the ends and one stripe down the middle, but there was a silver W device on the middle portion. She ran her thumb over it as she stood in one of her USMC Winter Service uniform. Her shoulders had a red chevron and rocker on them.

The globe and eagle was not her first choice, but after Warsaw it seemed Shadowcom had decided to send Willow out around the states to get training. She bounced from Army units for Basic Training to a Marine battalion out in the Pacific before Pearl Harbor happened. She shut her eyes, took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and let it out in one quick go. Now, she was a Marine and had been selected to be transferred to the Navy Scouts and Raiders at the urging of Shadowcom COs. She hadn't gotten a new uniform yet. Or equipment. Most of it was still issued out but Willow hoped she'd eventually get her own weapons to have wherever she went. For now though, she was good with the old M1.

Willow put her service cap on when she walked out and headed off to the pub she was instructed to meet at. She hadn't been back to England since being shipped off for training, so it would be good to get back and see the old crew. Her wounds from the airship had also earned her a purple heart along with some nice time in a hospital so at least she could say she'd already been shot before, and that went a long way with her being a girl. She just hoped no one really recognized why her Marine Corps Expeditionary Medal had a W on it. That was not a story she was fond enough of at the moment to discuss. She opened the door and slipped the service cap off her head of short brown hair. She stood looking around, before she found the others and headed over to their corner, noting the colorful cast of soldiers in the pub very curiously.

[Reverend Norv]

The readiness was all.

Matthew Beecher had grown up with Shakespeare. Deep into the jungles of the Shan Hills, Matt's father had carried a chest of battered hardcover books. Calvin and Augustine, Newton and Gibbon, Moliere and Shakespeare. Matt had loved Shakespeare. He would sit on the branch of a breadfruit tree and let his bare feet dangle, and read the Bard's collected plays until the cardboard cover frayed at the corners.

Matt had taken to reading Shakespeare again lately, in the evenings, now that he was in the man's native country. At first, out of some inchoate instinct toward psychological self-protection, he had stuck to the comedies. But in the end Matt had caved, like a child picking at a scab, and opened Hamlet. And there it was: "If it be now, 'tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. If it be not now, yet it will come—the readiness is all."

As a child in Burma, Matt's father had taught him to pray before he slept - to pray that he would survive the night, and wake to a new sunrise.

Matt still prayed before bed. He just didn't pray for that, not any more.

The readiness is all.

He had expected nightmares. Matt had almost promised himself nightmares, after those few days in Warsaw. He had promised himself that he would never forget kneeling over the mangled body of a child in the fetid darkness of the city's sewer. He had been sure that it would haunt him every night.

But it wasn't that simple. Matt carried that memory, yes. He felt it spreading within himself, like the man-made cancer that had raced through his body as he lay in the hospital bed in New Mexico: remaking him from the inside out, changing everything it touched.

And yet Matt slept soundly in his too-small bed at night. He ate like a horse, to fuel his inhumanly swift metabolism. He went out to a pub, and drank ale that could no longer get him drunk, because his liver was practically immune to poison. He talked with his friends, and laughed at their banter.

And the strange thing was: it wasn't an act. Matt was happy. He was happy, and he ate well, and he cracked the occasional joke, and he slept through the night without difficulty.

And yet the girl was always with him, a piece of meat discarded face-down in raw sewage. And the more he felt her within himself, side-by-side with the happiness of everyday life, sharing space with all his friends at the Sherlock Holmes Arms, the more Matt knew the truth.

He was ready.

Not suicidal. Not even unhappy, for every moment now felt sweeter because it felt like borrowed time. Not sleepless, in spite of all his expectations.

Just ready.

And the readiness was all.

* * *

Minutemen senses were several times sharper than the average man's. To Matt's ears, there was no such thing as an inchoate roar of conversation. Instead, he heard half a hundred individual voices: arguments, toasts, jokes, stories, all layered over each other in a bewildering variety of accents. There, the Polish pilots speaking softly to each other, their voices low with bitterness and pain. There, the Frenchmen guffawing at their captain's japes. Matt spoke French; he did not speak Polish, and the Babylon pin that he had worn in Warsaw was now locked safely away in SHADOCOM's underground base. Half of the languages that he heard were incomprehensible to him. He smelled cigarette smoke, ale, sweat, whiskey - and other things, too. Something rank, from the werewolves. Something like incense, from the mages. Something metallic and chemical, from where Polina sat next to Abe at the SHADOCOM squad's corner table.

More things in heaven and on Earth, Horatio. That was from Hamlet, too.

And yet this crew of wonder-workers and modern marvels - Matt himself not least among them, the Minuteman reflected as he considered his sledgehammer-sized hands - seemed far more than merely familiar, after six months together. No. Now, they were Matt's crew. He had improvised their battle plans, reconciled them when they squabbled, rallied them when they doubted. He had led them. Not by dint of his rank, or his nationality. Mostly, Matt realized in the long weeks after Warsaw, he had ended up leading the team simply because he'd taken the time to get to know his teammates. He knew their strengths and weaknesses, the way they felt about each other, the way they balanced each other. And so they listened to him.

And Matt listened to them. Matt listened to everything. At the bar, he heard Pete croak something about Fokkers, and the Tommies near the barman laughed a little too loud. Very softly, drowned out for any normal human by the jazz quartet and the din of dozens of conversations, Matt heard the rapid thump-thump-thump of anti-aircraft fire somewhere nearby.

London's brave lie. Go out, have a pint, do some dancing, stiff upper lip, mustn't bother. And all the while, everyone who could afford it sent their children away, and the city stood still and empty even at noonday. But don't look at that, don't look at the dust gathering on the swing set in the schoolyard. Have another pint instead, until you can laugh when good old Pete makes a joke about Fokkers.

"Not our business, Polina, not our business," Abe said. Matt blinked, wondering for a moment whether Abe was talking about him. The young man - small compared to Matt, everyone was small compared to Matt - sat next to the Minuteman at the team's table in the corner of the pub. After a moment, Matt decided that Polina surely hadn't been sharing his reflections with Abe; she must have been communicating telepathically about something else. For one thing, Polina had too much professionalism to breach Matt's trust like that. And for another, London's brave sad lie was also Abe's brave sad lie: that everything was fine, that life could go on as normal, that he had matters in hand, thank you very much. Something about the British, Matt thought to himself.

Heim was not British. Heim was not American, either, but she wore American uniform, and Matt wasn't sure how he felt about that. Fleming had been furious that the Beast of Warsaw had not taken the Queen's shilling, and had Matt possessed but a little flair for office politics, he supposed that he could have derived some satisfaction from, as Clark cheerfully put it, "screwing the Limeys." Certainly, Matt was distinctly proud of having shamed and cajoled the OSS into keeping Heim on the SHADOCOM team - rather than carting her off to work as a computer in some windowless room in New Mexico. And notwithstanding the GIs' jokes on the subject, Heim's role as Matt's (quasi-official) aide de camp made Matt's role as SHADOCOM's (equally quasi-official) field commander a lot easier. Neither Matt nor Heim had any formal officer training, but together they managed to muddle through most of the logistical work that Fleming and Lee left up to Matt. The Minuteman, in fact, had a sneaking feeling that the volume of that work had abruptly increased after Heim had decided not to join SOE.

On the other hand? Matt wasn't sure that Heim actually was an American. That wasn't a problem, in itself. There were plenty of days when Matt caught himself thinking in Shan or Chinese, too, and he never doubted his own patriotism. The problem was that Matt wasn't totally sure that Heim wanted to be American.

Across the table from Matt and Abe, the oracle declaimed the closing lines of "The New Colossus." Then she glanced up from her reading, a handbook for prospective citizens, and remarked: "Emma Lazarus probably didn't expect the ban on East Asian immigrants, alas." Heim's unsettling red eyes studiously avoided Matt's hulking presence, but the Minuteman could tell that she had spoken just loudly enough to make absolutely sure that he would hear.

Matt was sponsoring Heim's citizenship application, and so he was the most frequent audience for her scathing criticisms of her newly adoptive country. Those critiques didn't bother Matt in themselves. He had spent his childhood far from North America, and had been equally shocked to see his homeland's flaws, up close, upon his return. In the end, Matt's patriotism had been saved and defined by his own family's story: for the Beechers had made their mark upon American history as abolitionists. They were remembered as national heroes precisely because of their remorseless, unpopular commitment to highlighting America's original sin. That was Matt's legacy, and it was a vision of patriotism that he could understand.

So Matt didn't mind that Heim liked to upbraid American hypocrisy. He just wished she didn't have to be so darn mean about it. It was not the criticism itself, but the venomous irony behind it, that grated.

But Matt didn't say any of that. There was no point. Instead, he simply shrugged - a tiny motion of his massive shoulders - and said: "I'm sure she didn't expect it. But the words are still on the statue, Heim." Matt's cornflower-blue eyes rested on the German's face. "Would you rather they weren't?"

Before Heim could reply - and just as well, too, Matt thought - a cultured British voice broke into the squad's conversation. "Are you doing well, my boy?" Christopher Lee patted Abe's shoulder. Next to him was So:Se: a man almost as large as Matt himself, with bronze skin and dark hair and a sincere smile, who made Matt think of the Nez Perce that he'd known during the years he'd spent in hiding in Montana. Matt didn't know So:Se well, but he'd spoken to the man once or twice, and liked him. Next to the big man, though, was a girl whom Matt had never met: she didn't look like she could be over sixteen, and was glaring blearily around at the pub.

Children. Matt felt tired. He knew that it was necessary. But he would not mind a rest from a world in which even the good guys fought wars with conscripted children. The readiness is all.

Abe chatted with Lee. He talked about learning combatives from Fairbairn. Matt had not much liked Fairbairn. The man had demonstrated his knife technique on Matt once. "This is a kill," he had snarled, touching the point to Matt's side above his liver. "This is a kill." The underarm, a fast brutal motion of Fairbairn's blade. "This is a kill." The groin. "This is a kill." The eyeball. Fairbairn had stepped back after that. "Now defend."

There was something about Fairbairn's flamboyant, unapoologetic brutality that had offended Matt's Christian sensibilities. When the instructor had moved toward him, fast and confident, Matt had reached out with impossible speed, grabbed Fairbairn by the top of the head, lifted him eighteen inches off the ground, plucked the knife out of his hand like a child's toy, and snapped it - albeit only after a grunt of effort - in one enormous fist. Then, with scrupulous care, Matt had set Fairbairn back on his feet and said: "Thank you for your time, Major."

Back in the Sherlock Holmes Arms, Christopher Lee chuckled. "Well, then you'll be glad to know you're getting a few new additions to the team. A couple boys from our Asia department, and some other requested specifically by Fleming."

As Lee spoke, Matt spotted Willow out of the corner of his eye, at the entrance to the pub: she wore USMC uniform now, and was looking around for the squad. Matt gave her a small wave, and she walked over to the table. She must just be back from training stateside, Matt reflected.

Willow seemed quiet. She had never been quiet before. Reckless, cocky, even pyromaniac. But not quiet.

She had been shot in Warsaw. Matt remembered. With his enhanced senses, he had been able to smell her blood drying on the floor of the airship.

The readiness is all. He wondered if it was as true for Willow.

Meanwhile, Abe questioned Lee about the new additions to the team. Matt was curious too, but not curious enough to insert himself into the conversation; surrounded by werewolves and supermen, Abe needed all the respect that Matt could accord him. And so the Minuteman remained silent, and only his gaze - suddenly intent upon Lee's saturnine face - suggested exactly how interested he was in the English officer's answer.

[Wolfenium]

Polishing her rune-inscribed Webley as usual, Ariel looked hardly any wearier than she was four months ago. For her, it was just another job, another set of horrors, and another mission complete. The fact, however, was that she was already in the fight before SHADOWCOM came along, from the skies of Britain to the North African desert. The knight had made her rounds through battle as it was, and while she still showed the same steely optimism as British wit demanded, her feelings were far more complicated than that.

Giggling at Abe's embarrassment as he turned away from her, Ariel felt curious about his behaviour. Was he hinting at her, for some reason? Why her, of all people? After all, the crowd had no shortage of nicer girls. Most men would think she's too masculine.

Perhaps she was not the only one.

"Are you pitying me now, Yankee," the dreary-looking girl suddenly spoke to Beecher, giving a bit of a wry, joking smile, "I suggest you spare that for them mortal folks like yourself."

Despite her small build, the girl had a distinct air of regality around her, not unlike Jannie. And yet, her distinct Louisiana accent betrayed her swamp settler origins, putting her among the ranks of more homely folks like Catherine. The truth, though, was more complicated than that, though the girl was keen to keep mum. Tapping her thumb on her fang, however, the blonde, child-like Southerner made it very clear how old she really was.

"Lucille Devereaux, OSS," the vampire introduced herself, "you can call me Lucy. Before you ask, yes, I'm Cajun. Been here long enough to see Honest Abe cull the Great Houses in the South. I was never one, though. The Dixie Houses are... were mostly English estate folk."

Her sarcastic wit and devious smile belie a strange fascination for the Minuteman. Perhaps it was her vampire instincts kicking in, or his evangelical leanings. In any case, at least she was talking. Though, it was hard to tell how offended she was by his musings. Watching the Dixie vampire chirp at Matt, Ariel could not help but give a light pout. In all honesty, she was pretty pissed over Matt nicking Heim from under their nose too. Maybe some 'civil war' would keep him occupied for a while.

But not everyone was in a talking mood. While spirits, in general, were fairly high, there was one esper in particular who had not found a single cause to be jolly.

Sitting at the side of the room on her own, Milena stared with dreaded focus on the empty glass shot at hand. Her hand trying to close as if gripping the shot itself, the girl had been spending her last four months honing her newfound powers. The threat of death at Warsaw, coupled with her crippled condition, had awakened what she had long hoped to gain. In a moment of instinct and pure emotion, she had forced objects right at her assailants with her mind.

Her telekinesis had only just begun to push for its full potential, and it was a power she was keen to hone, albeit with one unwavering condition.

"How dare you, you slimy Red," Milena recalled her words, threatening Polina with an eerie low voice, "did I ask for your help?" The mute commissar, in her infinite wisdom, had suggested to SHADOWCOM for Milena to be taken under her care as her student. And while, in a purely technical perspective, it made sense, anyone who had already known her in the short time since Warsaw could already guess the exile's answer. Eyes bloodshot like a crazed jackal, her hand burned in pain from the slap she threw her for that suggestion. For Milena, any suggestion to be tutored by a communist was akin to treason and brainwashing. It was not hard to see why some in SHADOWCOM protested as well, if only because Polina was being a bit too optimistic about being given the chance to train her.

As a result, Milena had so far been left to her own devices, with fairly slow progress. Her telekinetic abilities were inconsistent at best, and uncontrollable at worst. Unable to shatter the glass with the force of her mind, the esper relented again to her lack of success. But Milena, was if anything, stubborn. Better to be a liability than to be a sellout, as she believed.

Although, that did not stop her from being angry.

"It's ok," she heard Anna's voice speak to Polina, "I had plenty."

Shifting her eyes level with the crowd, Milena's grim scowl was beginning to grow. Everywhere, she could see the 'filth and liars' walking freely among them, poisoning the minds of their fellows with their soothsaying. Heim, the Jewish whore who first offended her with her 'holier than thou' attitude. While she acted the part of the cold, calculating partisan well, her last slip when confronting the tower commandant exposed her, even for just one moment. She was angry, vindictive, and most of all, repulsive. Who was she to criticise her age with logic when she acted so predictably in front of her killers? She was using them to get benefits of her own, much of which involved killing Nazis. But the worst offender, to her, was always Polina. Glaring with mad eyes, Milena's blood boiled looking at the mute's plastic smile. The Poles could see right through her. after all, who was it that took the opportunity to 'liberate' western Belarus and Ukraine from the Polish 'imperialists' while the Nazis invaded from the west? Looking at the rest, she was appalled no one else reacted in kind. She hated Polina. She hated everything that she stood for. Falsehoods of the equality of men. Lies of worker liberation and redistribution of wealth. But the suffering free Russians in Manchuria knew the truth. There was never any change from the old Tsarist order. The communists had merely coopted it, and then proceeded on their ruthless campaign to destroy God and pervert their sacred culture.

She wanted her dead.

Without warning, the dish offered to Anna exploded like a balloon in a fountain of beef and gravy, splattering the unwitting Mennonite and the Soviet in a hail of juice. For a moment, Milena froze on the spot over the show, unsure of whether to laugh or to be embarrassed. What shocked her was what she was thinking as she watched the esper so intently. She had been tempted to crush her skull in, a deep anger that somehow got refocused on the steak. Perhaps, deep down, she knew better, that killing Polina now would only land her into trouble. That said, she already was, though not for murder.

"Uh..." she blurted, looking away at the two, trying to play it off as a training-gone-wrong, "I'm sorry. It was an accident."

"It's alright," Anna forgave her, taking out a cloth to wipe herself, readily believing her ruse, "you were trying your best to learn how to use your powers. At least no one got hurt."

"Ah..." Milena said, her face turning rosy at the words, "mh..."

For some reason, there was still one person Milena could not bring herself to hate. For all the fault she saw in her, her naivety, her dense mentality... Anna could never hold a grudge against anyone, not even Milena. Such was the steely pacifism of the Mennonites and other Anabaptist orders. No doubt, her ancestors were among those forced into the arms of Lady Liberty, after their refusal to yield to Bolshevik authority and conscription threatened their very existence. Besides, she had not once provoked her as the rest did. She was almost... homely in a way, something she only wished her own family could have been.

"I'm sorry," Milena uttered again, feeling genuinely ashamed. She really did not mean to stain her, and her forgiving attitude only made her heart sink further.

[Lunas Legion]

If there was one thing Robert appreciated about the British, it was the pub. There wasn't really anything quite like it in the states. There were bars, yes, but they never carried that feeling of coziness, of belonging to somewhere. It was not just a place for alcohol, but a place for people, no, for friends and colleagues to gather, to share stories over a nice cold pint. Far more relaxed than the bars back home, and with a better selection of beer in the case of the Sherlock Holmes Arms.

He had been drinking more than usual lately. Drinking to forget Warsaw, the horrors. If he ever had any reason to regret signing up, it would be Warsaw. He had not sure what to expect from war; he had never fought in one, and neither had his father. Regardless, he had gotten to experience war in spades. The destruction and devastation unleashed by the Nazi regime in occupied Poland... It kept him awake at night, so it was a good thing that he'd figured out how to brew an alchemical sleep inducer and dream suppressor in one. The other thing that Poland had revealed, his own uselessness and how far out of his depth he really was, he'd tried to rectify. When he wasn't sleeping or making tried and tested formulas, he was training.

Still hadn't stopped Fairbairns handing his arse to him in a spar. Not that he was surprised; he was no hand to hand combatant, and his alchemical formulas had proven... Not too useful in Warsaw. They were too specific, too specialised for one exact situation or another. He'd even given up on experimenting on new substances and resorted to just making different forms of more versatile and tested formulas. His smoke liquid was one; it had been useful, and having an instantly deployable smokescreen that would not be rapidly dissipated by the wind was always helpful. He'd begun to add similar things to his arsenal; an alchemical shotgun round based on magnesium which was blinding to whomever saw it go off, a truth serum of... Questionable reliability, a pain-suppressant and a pain-enhancer, both derived from the same formula. He didn't think it would be enough. He'd still be dead weight.

Which was why he was sat alone at the bar in the Sherlock Holmes Arms, nursing this pint with a scowl on his face while trying not to brood too much on his own uselessness. It was quite good; a solid 8/10 beer. The sound of the door opening caused him to glance up as he took a sip, and he swore quietly under his breath as he spilt some of it on his usual patchless G.I uniform. A waste of perfectly good beer, it would be missed.

He blinked slightly at the man who'd entered; short, Asian-looking, with what looked like a Soviet uniform and a bunch of patches he didn't recognise.

---

Zhao Min stopped as he glanced over the 'pub'. He did not understand why this was here; providing alcohol to soldiers under any circumstances was liable to lead to a breakdown in discipline and thus in combat effectiveness in the near-future. Had this been his unit, he would have needed to enforce discipline immediately and brutally. Whippings would have been in order at a minimum, although depending on the circumstances he would have to change the number of lashes to be delivered per transgressor.

He brushed some dust off his shoulder and fiddled with his collar as he surveyed the room. He wore the uniform proudly; it was not his, but that of a Soviet captain with his Chinese captain's pair of stars and a red bar signifying his status as a Red Fighter captain on one shoulder, the patches for the now-defunct Second Red Army, a simple red circle with the 二 character, a symbol of his service in the Long March, the 八 of the Eighth Route Army and the red pair of pistols of the Red Fighters below it. The other arm had a 9, from his brief service with the 9th Esper Detatchment, but was otherwise bare. He still had his patches from the Yunnan Provincial Army and the Beiyang Army, but they did not have a place on his uniform; they were reminders of those he had been duped into serving because he knew no better, not those he had fought for or alongside.

Perhaps he had heard his orders wrong? He was supposed to find his commanding officer in this den of luxury? Westerners were so soft. He let out a barely perceptible sigh. But this was what Comrade Mao had charged him to do, and so he would obey.

[Cylarn]

Major Clark Harris, US Army
Down the Street, near the Sherlock
London, 1942

The past few months had been something, to say the least.

Considering that he had almost fallen to his death in Warsaw, Clark was content with his lot in life. Most of the team had gone elsewhere after the op, diverging on different pathways to support the war effort with their unique skills. Clark himself had befriended a Colonel by the name of Darby; together, over the course of many weeks, they trained and assembled an elite team of American soldiers for risky operations that required an operator's delicate touch.

Of course, these men were the Army Rangers. Mundanes and Minutemen, outfitted with jetpacks and light combat walkers in order to match their German rivals in a quick, tactical nightmare. Clark and Darby led the unit at Dieppe - their Rangers were the only force to have accomplished their objective, and they had also gone out of their way to rescue a belleagured unit of Cameron Highlanders from Kraut clutches. Their actions had earned them a Presidential Unit Citation - marked by a purple ribbon above the right breast pocket.

Clark felt odd when President Roosevelt himself pinned the PUC on his uniform. He felt oddly proud of it, that pride being absent when he was decorated in Spain. Maybe there was more pride to be found in receiving a prestigious decoration from one's home country.

"Times are different now," Clark muttered to himself as he walked down the street, his vision slightly blurred and his gait just slightly unsteady.

Times were different, indeed. Warsaw had shown Clark the gravity of the situation, if his encounters with the Condors in Spain hadn't woken him up before. Warsaw held a collection of horrors, unlike any he had seen before. For the first time in his life, Clark saw the pivotal nature of the conflict. Any doubt he had previously held about his part in the war were washed away.

He had a part to play.

---

The minute that he opened the door to the Sherlock, his senses were bombarded by the sights, smells, and sounds of raucous fun. His left hand pulled his peaked cap off, and he held it by his side as he shifted through the masses of moving bodies. Fish-men, vampires, witches, and werewolves - Clark smiled at the sight of these creatures. These are good people.

His eyes scanned the room - where are those fuckers? His query was answered when he saw Milena and Anna and Polina unintentionally showering themselves in meat. Heim was reading, Matt and Abe were talking to Lee and his two interesting companions, and Willow stood by quietly. Clark blinked when he noticed her uniform; she had traded RAF blues for a Marine get-up.

Let's get trashed.

Clark began to maneuver through the crowd, moving himself towards the bar in lieu of joining his compatriots. A group of Afrikaner witches smiled and waved at him. He grinned back and flashed a wink at one of them - Mattie Voermann. His focus turned back to the bar, and before he knew it, he was face-to-face with a bartender.

"Major! How is the war?" the man asked , with a hint of enthusiasm.

"Read the paper, old boy," Clark said. "Lemme get a round of shots. Jamaican spiced, if you got it. Gimme a tray too. Put it on my tab."

The bartender nodded, and after a few moments of waiting, Clark was on the move once more, carrying the tray above the mayhem and bedlam as if he was a common waiter. He arrived at the table, and sat the tray down before turning to look around at everyone.

"Howdy-doo, fuckers," he said jovially. "Grab a shot."

He picked up his own shot glass, and looked at Willow.

"I am digging the new threads."

[Minroz]

Terrance Brooks, the laid-back American Vampire from New York and veteran of many battles, he had just enjoyed a good break since the last mission together with the team four months ago. Thanks to his 19th century upbringing, he always prayed to God every day and night for success and safety before hitting the bed or going out for a walk. Right now at the corner of the pub, he’s having fun drinking with some pub patrons of allied nationalities, from Americans and British to the exiled French and Poles. Despite knowing his vampire background, these men find Terry to be friendly guy you want to hang out with in contrast to his more aloof and snobbish peers. And fun to talk with.

“’ey fellas! You’re out of the game yet~!” Terrance slurred, downing one beer.

“Not yet, mate! I’m not down. That’s for sure, hehe~” The Scottish soldier of British Army chugged down his beer. His buddies cheered the two.

Earlier, Terry ran out of his own whisky because he remembered spilling all of them in Warsaw, he decided to hit the pub for drinks and bit of socializing. And perhaps socialising with his teammates or local folks is the best idea in his mind. A vampire he may be, his heart and soul still retained his human decency.

“Get the Yankee drunk!” The Polish serviceman applauded.

“Hey Old Man (Terry), if you lose you’ll have to hand over your bucks to him~!” The American personnel encouraged his fellow countryman.

The two drinkers chugged down their last drink. Only the Scotsman passes out.

“Hah~!” Terry heaved a sigh of satisfaction, putting down the glass. He won. The men around him cheered and clapped for the winner.

“Here’s your betting wins.” One Englishman offered the betting money to Terry. But the American vampire politely refused with his one hand.

“Haha~! No thanks, you fellas keep the money. I was looking to pass time but it was fun, haha~. Still, thanks anyway~.”

“Alright, let us hang out again tomorrow or so. You’re not bad for a vampire, unlike those snobs over there.” Another of the British military personnel said.

“Okay, hic!” Terry smiled. “Just stay alive, alright. That’s all I can ask of you. See you, everyone~.”

“Bye!” The Brit and the others waved their hands as the New Yorker leave the table. However, Terry is walking sideways in the zigzag manner due to him being a little drunk.

“Hic! Oh boy…I must have drink too much~ O lord forgive me, heehee~!” Looking woozy, he nearly trips, hiccupping. The partially drunk American bumped into several people on his way.

“Oops. Pardon me. Sorry. Pardon me, fella. Sorry~.” He apologized to anyone whom he already bumped into. Terry stopped at one table.

“Hello there~! Is the seat taken?” He flashes his friendly, toothy smile. “If not, may I sit down with you, fellas~?”

By his actions earlier, it seems no one is able to believe he’s a veteran of many battles in spite of his century-long age. How would his fellow agents react?

[Riysa]

Haitham Sayyah
London, 22-OCT-42

In the back of an inconspicuous black car, running through the streets of London, sat a soldier by the name of Haitham. Dressed in a battle-worn Fallschirmjager's tropical uniform with an officer's summer crusher cap, it was stripped of any Nazi insignia, save an armband with the word "KRETA" and a sewn shoulder shield containing the Pan-Arabian flag and word "Hexenjager", he certainly stood out. His bandaged left hand, arms covered in bruises, bits of medical plaster on his face, and unshaven, exhausted visage did nothing to improve that look. To the credit of the automobile's driver, he didn't ask any questions. Maybe he'd seen weirder. Maybe he didn't care. Who knew?

Haitham drifted off in thought, trying to control the adrenaline still residing in his blood. These past 36 hours had been nothing short of insane, starting with an escape plan worthy of a legend, surviving fire from both the Axis and Allied forces, and ending with his successful surrender to the British. He instinctively winced as he remembering the explosions and gunfire that framed the run, and the pain of the shrapnel that cut him up. He was lucky, his hand wasn't hurt too badly and would eventually be back to normal function. Plenty of others had gotten seriously hurt or died there. Faris, Sadoun, Majid...he wouldn't forget their names, not until he died or returned home.

Arriving at the regional HQ, they got patched up, separated into officer (himself) and enlisted, and were immediately then interrogated for several hours for any intelligence of value. He expected that they'd be shipped to a POW camp, a relatively quiet end to their combat career. Instead, he was separated from his men, and flew off to Britain itself without warning. There, he was thrown into the back of the car he was in, and given an address to report to. Which brought him to here.

"We've arrived, sir." The driver stated matter-of-factly, bringing the car to a stop outside a pub. He stepped outside, opening the door for Haitham and motioning for the officer to get out. "Make sure to look for this table inside. Good luck."

"Thank you." Haitham muttered in accented English, stumbling out of the car, reaching for the door to the pub. He pulled it.

The collage of sounds and light inside were like a stun grenade to Haitham's sleep-deprived brain. He mustered the last of his energy reserves, trying to focus on finding his table while drowning out the background noise. Aha! - there it was, in the back near some damned French. An unusual assortment of unusual people...a place he'd fit right in. Perhaps they knew something about his men as well?

Setting his sights on the table, he slowly and purposefully walked towards it, blocking out the incredulous, dirty stares from the pub's patrons. Finding an empty seat at the table, he pulled it out, wordlessly and mechanically seating himself. He glanced at the assembled people with his steely, cold eyes, trying to reign in the chaos left over in his nerves before speaking.

"Sigara, please." He said, motioning for a cigarette with his fingers, the Hexenjager/flag patch on his right shoulder clearly visible. This was the right table, right?

[The Knockout Gun Gals]

Li Wengxiang

The pub, was full of alcohol. Naturally, he didn't drink one. Well, he had to drink one unfortunately. The pub's condition is not one filled with...well, goodness. The pub is filled with the ones who are in the same team. This...team, of operatives of various kinds. Well, there are Westerners with various skills, though the balance are neat between the ones with magic and the ones without. Magic is exists in China, but whether or not the ones in here can be called as ones, well, that's another thing he cannot really explains.

He wore the uniform of KMT soldier, though he left it out in exchange for darker green uniform. Still KMT, but patched up here and there. No rank, obviously. He is not a soldier, only a monk strives for the betterment of the Chinese. KMT wants him here, though he suspected they actually never like him there. His table wasn't far from the other Chinese, though from a quick glance it is probably that he was not a KMT's. CPC's? Or perhaps one of the warlords? The Ma's, perhaps? Nah, they won't send their precious asset from there to here.

He quietly sipped his beer.

[Remnants of Exilvania]

He was a product of war. A child of struggle and bloodshed. A cold blooded soldier of man made hell, ruthless as far as human limits permitted.

These thoughts just came upon him as he travelled the streets of ruined London and noticed, that despite all the suffering, all the destruction and death around him, he cared so little. A small part within him said, that it was because these were houses of people he had seen as enemies only half a year ago. That their deaths and their loss was still meaningless to him because of that simple fact. But Dietrich knew better, knew that it was by far not as simple. Allegiance was not a determining factor for him to show remorse. He was fully aware that the death of fellow countrymen also didn't really receive an emtional response from him. No, throughout the years, the decades, his empathy had gotten seriously messed up. It had started back in China, during the Boxxer Rebellion. That was now...41 years ago? Hu, that long already? Yes, back then he had been young, he had been innocent, he had believed in the righteous cause of the military expedition to China, in protecting the European civilians from the savage Chinese.

China was where he lost his moral virginity. They came too late to participate in liberating the besieged international delegations in Peking. But the blood thirsty soldiers had been very intent on getting glory through other means and fulfill their emperor's command. And he, being a good soldier and having been thoroughly disciplined by the Prussian Training he had received, participated in the executions they did back then. He went along as they just accused random Chinese who looked at them the wrong way of being hidden Boxers or conspirating wit them, pulled the trigger when they executed men and women, old and young, sick and healthy. Their faces, their cries, they haunted him for years after. And yet, he had not reached the state he was in now. It was the Great War where he finally lost every last shred of humanity left within him. The horrors of the frontline, the new weaponry bringing death on an unprecendented scale. The slaughter of tens of thousands of russians desensitized him towards the worth of human life. And the loss of his son in the trenches of the western front sent him spiraling down ever further into darkness.

Dietrich's musings about his past and his humanity found an abrupt end when he tripped over a piece of rubble and fell forward. His reactions had slowed down a little through age but he was still quick and both military training, experience and some private training saved him from falling face first onto the pavement. His hands shot forward, reaching the ground before his body could come too close to it and stabilized him. But it came at a cost as Dietrich could feel pain shoot up his muscles from the sudden exertion of pressure put onto them. He was starting to get old.

With a grunt he brought his left foot forward and then stood up again, dusting off his coat with a few swipes from his massive hands. Yes, age was getting to him. It was slow and creeping but noticeable. He had long passed his peak and was currently on the downward slope of his life. Things would only get worse now. Which brought the question, why did he sign up for this? Why did he ask to join a commando unit which would be part of intense combat situations and require high physical exertions? Had he stayed with Germany, he'd still be a high ranking officer and there would be little need for him to do anything other than office work. The allies too had offered him a position like that. A desk job. Planning. Collaboration to get in contact with others dissatisfied with the Nazi regime and willing to collaborate. He smirked. He could've had it all, peace, quiet, respect, authority, all that old men could wish for.

The answer was easy. For one, he couldn't live without the thrill of war anymore. He had to continue participating as long as there was one. All his time in various wars had ended up with him simply not managing to fit into a civilian life anymore. He just needed to return to the battle, to the ranks of the military. And the other reason? Well, Dietrich had had a hard time explaining it to his interrogators back when they asked him why he had decided to work against his fatherland. He had answered them that he loved his fatherland and would never betray it. Then why did he betray it? And then he had starting explaining his own weird motivation. Ever since he had become aware of the fact that supernatural beings existed, he had despised them. Indeed, he saw them as the one true enemy of humanity, as the eternal enemy that should be annihilated in an eternal war. And Hitler had betrayed humanity by putting his petty war over territory and imaginary race above the eternal war against the true enemies. Then why did he decide to collaborate? The Allies were also making use of supernatural beings? Yes, it was true and he was no friend of the allies either. But he loved Germany and it hurt him deeply in his heart to see Germany aligned with these monsters. It was betrayal. He had to liberate Germany from these beings. And he wanted to do so from the very frontlines. He wanted to show these cocky and arrogant people that they should not think they could continue corrupting his Germany for all eternity, he wanted to see the disbelief in their eyes when he crushed them, wanted to hear their pleas for mercy when he killed them.

He knew that his weird logic had not exactly convinced his interrogators but he didn't care. All that was important was, that after some consideration and debate, his wish had been granted and he had been assigned to a commando unit. Still, he hadn't gotten to see them for quite a while. The Allies had kept him locked up a while longer, probably just to make sure. He had been pretty lonely there. The Allies didn't seem to have much luck if it came to capturing Axis Commanders. Then again, did they really have many opportunities to do so?

But enough about the past! The past is and stays the past, regardless how much you would like to change it. He had much more pressing matters to care about, such as meeting his new comrades in arms. In a way he looked forward to it because he wanted to know with what kind of people he'd fight, how useful they were and how well he could try to get along with them. On the other hand he dreaded this meeting because he knew for a fact that many of the Allied Commando teams were made up from supernatural beings and he hated them, hated them all. Still, he would have to get along with them. Their help would be invaluable in bringing down the supercharged Nazi warmachine. Now the British of course didn't let him go bearing the field grey of the Wehrmacht and the Swastika on his chest and so they supplied him with civilian clothes. A white shirt, a grey vest, grey trousers and a dark coat as well as an equally dark hat. So nothing too fancy. Still, he had managed to keep atleast some of his honour and secured his orders. Hence why his Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross was still there, well visible on his collar. Or well, not quite as well visible right now since he didn't intend to get murdered in the streets of London so he had raised the coat's collar and hid his shirt collar through that.

As he was about to enter what seemed like one of these british pubs he had heard so much about, he bumped into something. Well great, he was a tall man and had been staring at the shield to verify wether this was actually the pub he was looking for. And it had indeed been the Sherlock Holmes Arms. So he had an excuse for bumping into someone. But what excuse did someone have for overlooking someone like him and bumping into him? At roughly 1,92 meters, or 6 feet and nearly 3 inches as these anglos liked to say, and a body like a broad like a wardrobe he did not expect someone to overlook him and bump into him. With a frown he looked down, trying to see who or what had bumped into him. The frowning hurt a little as it moved the scars covering the right side of his face. He didn't see much more than the top of a green peaked cap as well as a grey mantle with white fur at the top. Clever really, London in late October wasn't very warm and he was freezing because the clothes he had been given were not exactly high quality. Whoever had bumped into him was tiny in comparison to him.

He mustered his english before answering without an audible accent:

"I am very sorry...Ms? Many heartfelt apologies for my carelessness. I should have watched out for where I placed my steps."

As the person looked up, he could finally be sure that he was indeed talking to a Ms. She seemed very young and unless they were still in the Dark Ages, she was still a Ms. Her blueish-greenish eyes looked up to him with awe before an answer came stuttered out of her mouth, decorated with a thick slavic accent:

"N-n-ne, I should apologize! I have not looked and deserved this. Molya accept my apologies!"

Interesting, Dietrich thought. Her uniform did seem familiar. Just where had he seen something similar before? Ah, right! In Yugoslavia! The Bulgarians! Now he looked at the girl with newfound interest. Yes, a peaked cap very much resembling a Great War era style cap as the Bulgarians still used them. A red cross with a lion in the center and two crossed swords behind, a Bulgarian Order for Bravery 4th Class 1st Grade and last but not least the slavic accent. Yes, she was without a doubt another defector. Interesting. He hadn't expected to receive company here. He could already guess that she too was probably now a member of SHADOCOM and despite everything he knew about how drastic Bulgarian military recruitment could be, he knew that the Bulgarians didn't recruit children or girls unless they were in some way special. Was she a vampire? A witch? A mage? Anything? Well, he would find out soon enough.

He lifted his hat one last time before her and then climbed the stairs up to the pub's door, openening it and entering an entirely new world. For a moment he was speechless. The difference between the lifely atmosphere in here and the grim atmosphere out in the streets was mind boggling. He held the door open for the small Bulgarian to enter while still trying to collect his thoughts and make sense out of everything he saw. So many people. Jokes. Laughter. Warmth. He could hear some other slavic language in some other corner of the pub. He knew it was polish. Back in the Empire's days in Pomerania they had occasionally met Poles and he knew how their language sounded. Knew to differentiate it from Russian and Czech. The entire rest though sounded all the same to him. Somewhere else he could hear a different sound. Ah, yes, french. It was always easy to recognise french. It stood out from all the other romance languages.

Now his task was to find his squad...which was actually much more daunting than it had to be because he had no clue how they looked like. Well, except for one. He had heard something about a giant of a man being one of his new comrades. So all he had to do was to look out for another giant, right? And honestly, it was fairly easy. He spotted the giant fairly quickly. Being tall often led to one sticking out of a crowd like a sore thumb. The giant had also just waved at someone, not them of course, motioning for whoever he had waved to to come to him and the small group around him. Well, there was no way that Dietrich wouldn't take this opportunity to meet is squad but before he could step forward, the small bulgarian girl cut before him and made her way towards the group.He raised his eyebrows. So they were even in the same squad? Well that was unexpected. Nonetheless he quickly made his way after her, arriving only shortly after her and still hearing the last bits as she saluted in front of the small group and introduced herself as:

"2nd Lieutenant Antoniya Filipova Nankova from Bulgarian Royal Air Force reporting za duty."

She hesitated a little before adding:

"I assume this is my squad? Allied Officer mentioned big man."

She pointed at Matthew Beecher to underline her statement before pointing over her shoulder at Dietrich, who was just getting there, and said:

"Was confused for a minute because I thought this was big man. But big man was supposed to be here already so he could not be big man."

By now Dietrich had caught up to her, having had far greater problems moving through the pub visitors than the small Bulgarian had had. Being this tall of course meant that he needed more space to get somewhere and due to the pub being rather full, he didn't have an easy time maneuvering through the crowds. The small and thin Bulgarian had had a much easier time there, being young and small and thus very maneuverable and able to fit through every gap between pub visitors. Now he could've just forced his way through the crowd to keep up with her but he didn't intend to incite a brawl between all these drunk people and himself just because he had pushed them around a little and so he refrained from doing so.

By the time he reached the group, he had warmed up considerably and decided to get rid of the coat. He was quick to take it off and threw it over his arm to keep it with him. He then introduced himself as well:

"As the young lady said, I too was told to look out for a tall man. I suppose that is you?"

He too stared at Beecher for a moment, marveling at his height. He was even bigger than he was and that meant something since Dietrich already made most of the people around him look like dwarves. But he did not intend to come off as rude and introduced himself as well, offering his hand to the people present:

"My name is Dietrich. Dietrich Ekerhart Haegler. A pleasure to meet you all."

He stroked the Knight's Cross on his collar, the Swastika on it clearly visible to those with enhanced vision or just standing closer to him, as he continued:

"I used to be a Generalleutnant of the Wehrmacht and was deployed with the DAK in Afirca untill I surrendered to the Long Range Desert Group. Rest assured, I am more than motivated to bring down the monstrosity that my beloved Germany has become."

[Sonitusia]

Thursday, 15th of October, 1942
Liverpool, England

The Empire Oriole was an unassuming cargo ship. Originally the Extavia, one of four Type C2-S-A1 class of vessels, the six-and-half kiloton cargo ship had just returned from a convoy to the Indian Ocean; the so-called 'Winston's Specials', transferring troops and supplies from the British Isles to the South-East Asian theater. Like many other convoys, they were herded together towards their destination, flanked by various escort ships to defend from nefarious menaces leaking underneath the ocean surface. But when the mission was complete, the convoy would disperse, along with their guardians.

While this would certainly lead to dangerous situations for the minimally armed troopships, spreading out did lessen the attention of the Nihongo and Doitsu wolfpacks, or the infamous merchant raiders.

So obviously, we could hitch a ride.

Boarding in Mumbai as the only passengers, we arrived in Liverpool, thankfully, in one piece. Our seemingly empty cargo ship was of no concern to the submarines that were more than likely to be watching our every move since setting sail to the Atlantic. Passing Cape Horn was of grave concern, but it appeared the wolves had bigger fish to fry.

I wish I could remember what I was leaving behind from our transfer to the European theater. The foes we fought, the allies we made. There was a whole other story to be told when we were part of Force 24's roster, but now they would become a fading memory. Perhaps only certain key events could ever be recalled.

Perhaps it was best forgotten for the time being.

"Konani."

There was no mistaking the source of that word. It was an accent you wouldn't find being spoken by the Chuugokuno, even in Hong Kong itself, but you wouldn't exactly hear an Australian or British fellow with the same intonation. It was stiff, yet round, soft yet proud. It wasn't Cantonese, and it wasn't English. That was how I'd describe my commander's voice, the one and only Lieutenant Katelyn Cheung, the Iron Dome of Java. She wore a standard Commonwealth officer's uniform, the long sleeves enough to warm her body I guess. What differed from normal would be the tanker goggles on her peaked cap, giving her a field officer's visage.

"Konani?" I responded in confusion. Evening in Liverpool was cold, much colder than the sweltering jungles of the Orient. This must've been the first time in my entire career with the SOE that I finally got the chance to wear my great coat, which was otherwise just a luggage burden whenever we moved HQ. It hung way beyond my shoulders, and touched the paved ground I stood upon. With the ship having no other passengers than ourselves and our 'cargo', it was just another peaceful day for the port of Liverpool. Major warships sometimes docked in this port, which had seen massive reconstruction following the Blitz just a year ago. None were present today, at least from what I could see.

"We're transferring to the American service, and that means a change of name, Miss Konani Sanderson," the lieutenant muttered, handing me an envelope, "You were born in Pearl City, Hawaii, to a wonderful Maoli mother and Californian father. He taught you everything you know to become a decent mechanic, from which you proceeded to find a way into the Auxiliary Corps before getting into the 'service'. Your pink and greens are in your suitcase, neatly ironed as they always are." There wasn't a hint of a joke in her tone, nor amusement. But she did manage a small smile, most likely out of pity.

She patted my shoulder lightly as she passed, "The Yanks are a racist bunch who don't exactly care for the Japanese, even American-born ones."

Pausing for a moment, she added, "For good reason of course."

And with that, she left me to my own devices. The surprise hit me like a tank, but there was no mourning over it. It was nothing new for me to have to change aliases to fit the mission, but becoming an American, let alone a Hawaiian American, was something I was not prepared for. The accent, the customs, there was no way in hell I could review them in a week's time. The paper crumpled slightly in my grip, but loosened as I watched a large, steel pallet, its rider covered in a large tarp, descend from the Empire Oriole.

"Fumi," came from behind me, an actual American accent apparent. It was south-western, something you'd hear from a cowboy movie but with less of the flamboyance. Without turning my head, I knew what was to be seen. An Asian fellow with an American tanker uniform, brown leather gloves with the fingers cut off, complete with the goggles. Out of place however, was the aviator hat. Where he obtained it was beyond me, but from the day we had met, Sergeant Mohamad Utomo Tao Chu had always been as he is now.

"Bung Tomo," I replied, the added prefix something he'd picked up from his East Indies heritage, "And it's Konani, please don't mistake me for your Japanese lover." A cluck of a tongue was his response, and muttered something on the lines of 'Kau onani, silakan...'. Perhaps he'd picked up more words after meeting his people?

The crane dropped the pallet carefully, workers disconnecting the cables as we made our way forwards. It wasn't a particularly large piece of equipment under the tarp, but it was my heart and soul poured into one object. Making my way around, I found a small tag I'd placed on the tarp, a single kanji inscribed upon it.

匿

I was never too good at writing talismans. At this point, it seemed more like a cheap parlor trick to show the average man, which they believed to be some sort of con skill I'd picked up. Ripping it off, the tarp fluttered for a moment with a gust of wind blowing underneath before settling, and with a quick pull, Mohamad pulled it off effortlessly without help, to the surprise of the sailors.

And there it was, the 'Iron Weasel', Task Force 24's utility-slash-support vehicle. A Universal Carrier Mk. II heavily modified and equipped with a derelict M3 Grant's 75mm M2 cannon. To be blunt, it was a tractor with a tank gun, and various other pieces of equipment to suit a plethora of missions. You could transport two riflemen and still keep its combat properties, but take away the limited amount of shells, and the Weasel could bring a full fireteam to the front.

I've spent endless nights working on it up until now, keeping it running 24/7 through bullets and hell. As of the moment it's in the best condition I could hope for, considering I had plenty of time to maintain the vehicle while transferring to Britain. I've returned it to its original olive green camouflage, the same color when I first obtained the carrier. The metal was welded back into pristine shape, and you might as well consider it factory fresh. Hopping into the driver's cabin, I prepped the vehicle to start.

A button to the right of my head started up the engine as I pressed, music to my ears. Next was the gear lever, which I pushed forwards. All that was left was to slam the pedal, and my baby was rode of the pallet without fail. The Oriole's crew cheered, waving their hats towards me.

"Next stop, dreary old London!"

---

One Week Later
London, England

American uniforms are alright I suppose.

Light olive drab shirt with dark olive drab skirt, and a nice, warm olive drab sweater a sweet lady back in the states must have knitted. Granted, I must not have been the intended recipient, but I silently thanked whoever they were regardless. The autumn winds were already becoming close to winter, and any added warmth was greatly appreciated.

My hair was now curled to a point, fashionable by most respects, but stayed short as always. I'd have it no other way, but I suppose the curled tips did help when I worked on the Iron Weasel. No strands getting stuck in my eyes, ears, mouth, such a blessing. Despite everything, I kept my goggles, though not on my forehead, instead resting around my neck.

Between my work shift and training, I tried to accustom myself to my new identity. Neither of my fellow crewmen had to undergo a character change, so I was left alone to study the culture of Hawaii.

In the middle of London.

Wartime London.

By the time we had reached the awaited day to meet our new superiors, all I could muster were a few words of the native language and some stiff hula dancing. Better than nothing, hai?

"Well come on then lass," Cheung called out, still in her officer garb, jerking her thumb towards the pub, a memoir to a famous detective. I nodded, deciding it'd be best to keep my mouth shut until I could develop a decent accent. Perhaps I could utilize sign language? Where's that talisman...

Our entrance into the establishment was one that may have caught a few glances from those that had nothing else to be doing. Three Asians in various uniforms walking in a group tended to do that; a Commonwealth officer, American tanker, and American Women Auxiliary Corps... Corporal? Yes, it would appear I was promoted upon transfer.

Clearing her throat at the door, Cheung seemed to want to make that entrance a little more notable.

"You have been in Germany, I perceive," for god knows what reason was her first choice of words. Perhaps I'd missed a memo regarding a secret code? Perhaps the city's gotten to her? Maybe the woman's gotten bored and was looking to be laughed at, I just covered my face with my palm in shame.

Through my fingers, I could see the mixed European population of the pub, almost completely military. I was not able to identify their nationalities unlike my ability to see the difference between the Koreans and Chinese...

Speaking of the latter, one was standing right next to the door. He seemed confused, waiting for someone. I opened my mouth half-way to greet him but stopped midway, slowly shutting it as I realized we were no longer familiar faces waiting for the next attack or call to a defense.

Perhaps it was best to leave him be for the time being.

[Monfrox]

Willow stood around the table with her fellow teammates that she hadn't seen since early '41. It was refreshing, but she wondered if they had been given extra training like she had, or maybe they'd been off on their own adventures. Something nagged at the back of her mind asking why Shadowcom was playing hot potato with her and other Army units. Sure she needed training, but just how much? She half-expected to be put on a Flying Fortress soon. The more she thought about it, the more she convinced herself it was just about getting her combat experience. She'd spent the better part of 1942 and the tail end of 1941 in the Pacific, and had stuck around to get put onto a carrier for a while. Now that was an adventure, and yet another story she'd rather not talk about. In fact, she was finding out that a lot of things were happening that she'd rather not talk too much about.

She seemed like she was almost not there. A lot of things ran through her head a mile a minute, like past battles and people she'd seen, but she still was aware enough to notice that there were new faces around. It seemed that Shadowcom was putting together quite the collection of operatives. She looked around and heard Clark mention her uniform. She flashed a quick smirk, figuring that if anyone had anything to say about her dress it would've eventually had been him.

"Don't get used to them. I've been transferred more times than I can count and these just happened to be with me today. They still won't let me go out in my fatigues."

She paused to look around. People were getting drunk, walking around, talking loudly. She didn't really like it too much. Then more new faces approached the table and she fought a scowl. A Kraut. Two? One was definitely still wearing his Iron Cross around his collar, and she had half a mind to rip it off. She had even more of a mind to say something, but held her tongue. Someone else would certainly comment. Besides, her hatred lied more with the Japs than the Krauts. She huffed and looked around to the more familiar faces, seeking some sort of refuge in the sameness she missed.

[Cylarn]

New faces were showing themselves, with the arrival of an Arab still clad in his German uniform, a Kraut - more house than man - who failed to obscure his Iron Cross in a sufficient manner, a talkative lass who looked Eastern European, and then a Chinese-looking girl was eyeing their table. New meat.

The Arab held out his hand and muttered "sigara," stretching out his hand before the group. It didn't take Clark more than a second to figure out what the man wanted - but his eyes were more focused on the uniform. His right hand dipped into his trouser pocket, grasping the rectangular shapes of a Zippo and a soft pack of Lucky Strikes.

The Arab had no bronze eagle on his right breast, but Clark pinned his uniform as the desert garb of the Fallschirmjager. The Bergemutz didn't help matters either, but he was devoid of the Swastika. Clark lifted his hand up, flicked his pack to reveal the end of a cigarette, and held the pack up to his mouth and pulled back, cigarette between his teeth. Handing off the pack to Haitham, he flicked his wrist and - with a click - the lighter revealed itself. A single swipe of the thumb revealed a flame, and the end of the cigarette fired up. Clark took in some smoke, and slowly exhaled, still staring at the three individuals before him.

His eyes shot over to Beecher, giving him an unsure, wary glance. One word was on his mind: Landsknecht. The Soviets had already become "acquainted" with them, but it was at Dieppe that Clark and his Rangers had recovered definitive proof - in the form of an Abwehr document escorted by a team of Brandenburgers - that the Landsknecht program was indeed real, and tests on Western subjects had proven to be as successful as the initial Soviet focus group. Those documents brought the program to Clark's eyes for the first time, and the idea of corrupted, unreasonable, and unpredictable adversaries truly frightened the man - enough for him to look at these three with a large dose of distrust.

Allied Command was just as terrified, more so due to the lack of forewarning by the NKVD and Stalin. After some short confrontations, Command learned the gravity of the situation. Once a soldier turned Landsknecht, there was no getting them back. Attempts at counseling had turned violent for some of the psychiatrists and orderlies, lobotomies left subjects permanently braindead, and electroshock therapy held a side effect of painful death for the warped brains of the Landsknecht. The Soviets, faced with the surviving, non-compliant population of captured Landsknecht, liquidated them all, wrote off their deaths as "battlefield casualties," and burned all but a few documents relating to their research into the Landsknecht.

It was a terrifying prospect, for your allies to suddenly turn their weapons on you. Even being slightly intoxicated, Clark could feel some anxiety. His .38, a snub-nosed piece, was tucked into a leather shoulder holster under his jacket. Clark felt confident that he could draw it quick, as his eyes watched the hands of the Hiwi.

With his cigarette between his left index and middle fingers, Clark threw back his shot in one swift, blank motion, before addressing the three individuals before him. His eyes settled on the bear of a man who had identified himself as a German general.

"I hear your words, General," he began. "But, you must be aware of my personal skepticism. Did you desert your men, or resign your commission?"

He waited for Dietrich to respond, taking another drag of his Lucky Strike. Quietly, he measured the man. He had size and brute force behind him. His eyes shifted to Haitham.

"Pass two cigs to your buddies," he said, left hand motioning to Dietrich and Nankova, before going back to Dietrich.

"Major Clark Harris, US Army."

[Rupudska]

While Carmen and Katherine partook in the merry-making one usually associates with bars - Carmen somewhat ironically wining herself to little effect with the French and Katherine taking in both beer and a cigar at the same time with the barman, exchanging her tales of hunting yowies and beasts that had gone 'full feral' in the Outback with his tales of hunting down Jerry in his Fokkers.

While this happened, Esther did neither of these a table or two away from Clark and Matthew. Not out of desire to avoid staining the pinks and greens she had been given (and had been tailored to an exacting level to fit her small, even for her age, frame), nor out of being unable to drink, which was the usual reason for Esther's sour mood when it came to her fellow operatives choosing to relax in a bar. It was bullshit - she was a soldier, age be damned, she had seen the elephant and deserved the right to wash it away with whiskey and wine if she so chose. Sure, technically she was old enough by English law, but her fellow American superiors (and Beecher) would have none of it. She hated it, but she respected Beecher enough to listen to the wise hulk of a man - not unlike Frankenstein, though far from a hideous amalgamation of parts.

No, the reason was twofold.

Pencil in one hand, Zippo in the other, lit cigarette in her mouth and bags under her eyes, the first reason was the wide spread of Kabbalist notes, circles, and diagrams on numerous sheets of paper in front of her. Most were of her own design and no less than seventy percent original - her own rabbi worked on the leading edge of experimental Kabbalist magecraft, and Esther being the little genius she was walked on the bleeding edge, pushing the ancient art as far as it could go with modern knowledge and materials with her cephalopodan golems. It was relaxing in a way to make such complex living constructs. Fun, even - once she got to the making part. Designing experimental golems from the ground up was, as one Polish Kabbalist once put it, 'like recreating the Mona Lisa with a rubber stamp'. Infuriatingly tedious, requiring frequent checking and re-checking (and sometimes re-starting). The rest... well the rest were the second reason.

She had been so excited when Heim arrived - a fellow Jew yes, and a(n admittedly attractive) Jewish woman too, even if she had some less-than-appealing personality traits. Sure, Heim's 'mage' specialty, if one could call it that, was mathemancy and not golemancy, but someone as skilled as Esther could surely educate the Hanoverian on at least the basics of golemancy, right?

Wrong. To both of their embarrassments, Heim turned out to be both inept and too impatient to get the hack of it, even after months of trying. The circles she had most recently provided were unstable at best, and prone to being uncontrollably violent at worst. A golem grenade, and hardly useful - and a sign of techniques that would have to be ironed out if Heim were to have any future as a golemancer. So Esther sat, pencil in one hand and now papers in the other, looking over the mess of sheets on her table interrupted only by her reuben sandwich also on the table and wondering how the Hell she was going to make Heim anything more than physically capable of golemancy, if such a task was even possible. A recent construct of hers, an octopus-like golem with a body about the size of her head, clambered up the side of the opposite chair to bring her a Coca-Cola from the barkeep, with a note tied to it that said "Don't give up!". She turned her head to shoot him a look of vague annoyannce, to which Pete merely laughed. She pointedly avoided looking Heim in the eye as she turned her head the other direction, and froze upon seeing the Arab in the German uniform and the Kraut with what was clearly an Iron Cross. Her golem popped itself up on its four legs, as if craning a neck it didn't have in surprise.

The Kraut introduced himself as a full-blown general who had gone turncoat after surrendering in Africa, while the Arab merely requested a cigarette from Clark and quickly faded from her interest due to the size of the German. There were others too, one that looked Bulgarian, but neither came close to capturing her attention like Dietrich did.

Seconds passed, which to her seemed minutes. She turned her chair to face the German properly, her golem climbing onto her shoulder somewhat like a parrot would if she had had a parrot instead of an octopus. "You know, Clark, that's a good question. And it makes a hell of a difference, if y'ask me."

She gave a bow of her upper body and her golem matched her, like a performer of sorts.

"Corporal Esther Rosenberg, also US Army."

[Nature-Spirits]

Adrienne was floating.

The smoke of the rust-coloured herb filled her lungs and poured from her mouth. She was on a cloud, clutching her pipe and laughing at one of her companions' jokes. She was with a number of other witches whom she'd met over the past months, in a corner of the Sherlock Holmes Arms. She was to meet her teammates in SHADOCOM here around this time, but upon entering some time ago and being unable to find them, she'd found her present company and been invited to sit with them. One thing had led to another, Ethel had opened up her herb stash, and now here Adrienne was, drifting through the void as smoke churned above her head in a deliberate spiral motion.

Suddenly, Thérèse put her hand to her mouth and clutched Adrienne's arm. Adrienne turned, lazily, to follow the woman's gaze, and gradually, her senses focused back on reality and her eyes came to rest on Matt Beecher, and then a few other members of her team. Ah, they'd arrived. But then, who was that? A tall, old man, a young girl, an Arab in a German uniform. She furrowed her brow. Papi, her butterfly familiar, fluttered from his perch on her neck.

She turned back to the other witches with a smile. "Well, mesdammes, it would appear that my other friends have arrived!" She stood, adjusting her grey-blue jacket -- part of her Royal Canadian Air Force uniform, which she was presently wearing over a white blouse and a charcoal wool skirt. "Ethel, thank you for the treat! Bonne soirée !"

She turned and moved swiftly towards her teammates and those strangers, raising her arms in greeting and calling, "Hello, my friends!" As she neared them, her eyes darted to the Iron Cross worn by the large man, and she quickly glanced away. Seeing a tray of shot glasses on the table, she reached for one and brought it to her lips, overlooking those around the table, and waiting for someone to respond to these strangers.

[Riysa]

London, 22-OCT-42
Nighttime, Pub Sherlock Holmes Arms

"Thank you." The weary soldier said to Clark, his accent slurred by exhaustion, as he leaned forward and lit his cigarette. It wasn't a brand he had tried before, but it'd do, especially when it was free and there was nothing else available. He took a long draw from it, trying to release his tension with the nicotine of the cigarette.

Seeing the faces of the people at the table, it was pretty clear that they didn't immediately trust him. Suspicious stares and glares were the norm, and one girl even scowled at him before turning around. And of course they wouldn't, he was wearing a German uniform, and he also realized that he looked like a German to the average person, even with the patch visible. But, the fact that the big boulder of a man named Maj. Clark had given him a cigarette was a good sign, and given enough time they'd come to trust him, he thought. Even Ms. Scowlface back there. Maybe.

He still had his cap on, so he took it off, letting the cool air flow through his hair. No doubt it was messy from having spent 30ish hours under the cap, so he quickly swept over it with his hand, trying to remain slightly presentable.

"I am Oberleutnant...first lieutenant Haitham Sayyah. I am a Hexenjager; my platoon used to be attached to the Brigade Ramtke before we all fled. Military Intelligence brought me to England and told me to report here." He put down his cigarette, introducing himself to the American major. "I left the Nazis because I didn't want to eternally damn my soul."

Looking back, he saw a couple of people coming to the table, one a towering German - no mistaking that cross! - and one a petite girl, presumably also new assignments. He took the two cigarettes from Major Clark, and turned to face them.

"Here, mademoiselle." Haitham said, staring into her eyes as he handed the first cigarette to the Bulgarian. Based on her frame, she couldn't be more than 16 or 17 - in other words, a kid! Things must truly be desperate here. In his current state of tiredness, he couldn't read people's expressions as well as he normally did, but he would be a bad Hexenjager if he couldn't sense her miasmic aura; one that always accompanied a magic user, like a bubble of disturbed air. There was also something unsettling in her eyes, in the way that she looked at things, that conflicted with the personality she was putting on. He wasn't sure what it was, but he made a mental note to himself to keep an eye on her if they were going to work together.

"And here, general." He said, handing the other cigarette to the former general. Though not a magic-user and not someone he knew personally, Dietrich was someone he recognized instantly. They had both served in the Mediterranean theater in 1941, Dietrich was well known as one of the generals in North Africa, while Haitham's platoon had taken part in the battle of Crete before going to the Eastern Front. Media had claimed that the general had valiantly fought before being captured by the British; he didn't expect him to be a defector as well. He briefly wondered if the general had recognized him - he and his platoon had been mentioned in dispatches, but he didn't know if he would've seen reports from Crete.

The sound of "Hello, friends!" drew his attention to another person, an older woman with a non-British accent coming from another table. She too had the aura of a magician, a strong one. Come to think of it, most of the people at the table had that aura, of being a magical beast or a magician, Major Clark and Ms. Scowlface being a couple of the few exceptions. That'll be interesting to deal with...something he didn't really have a choice in anyways.

"Hello, madame." He said in response. "I hope you will forgive me Major Clark, but could I have some water?" Haitham turned back to the table, seeing the shots of alcohol placed on it for each person. "I do not drink alcohol, and I have gone long without having eaten or drunk anything."

[Remnants of Exilvania]

Antoniya's head snapped around the moment she heard the massive man who had walked behind her introduce himself. Not only did the name sound very german, but also familiar. She had overheard some talk between her other comrades, before Bulgaria officially joined the war, about such a Haegler...although back then he was only Colonel. Then again, it had been 1941 and Yugoslavia had just fallen. Antoniya put some effort into sorting out her memories to get back to that specific memory of the conversation she overheard. Yes, now she remembered the details. They had mentioned something about him having acted as a liaison officer to the Hungarian General Staff during the German Balkan Campaign. And more, he had been with the Germans in Bulgaria immediately after the end of most of the hostilities in Yugoslavia. She could guess why. Probably preparing for Operation Marita, the invasion of Greece. So this was that very same Haegler? He had certainly advanced a few ranks, that's for sure. Definitely interesting. She hadn't thought that high ranking generals would defect while Germany seemed to be on its winning streak. And then just to get into such low ranking units rather than operational planning. Very weird.

And indeed, it seemed like she was not the only one concerned with the General's motivations. Her eyes darted over to the man who introduced himself as as Clark Harris, a Major of the US Army as he asked wether the General had deserted or officially resigned his commission. And shortly after a young, dark haired girl, probably around her age but definitely looking older, lent further support to Harris' question before introducing herself as Esther Rosenberg, a Corporal from the US Army as well. Now the General would certainly have to answer...but before that could happen she was offered a cigarette from someone looking like one of those german elite troopers. The ones that tended to jump out of aircraft. So even more german deserters? She raised one of her hands in a rejecting manner and said coldly:

"Ne, don't want tsigara. Is not healthy."

She then glared at Major Harris, who had prompted the german deserter to offer her a cigarette, saying coldly:

"Offering tsigari to underage children Major Harris? I suppose that is to be expected from Americans. Is land of freedom but also land of temptation and sin."

But her attention was quickly drawn back to the hulking mass that was Dietrich. He had stayed completely quiet when Haitham offered him the cigarette she had refused. Indeed, he seemed to be captivated by something...or someone? Yes, Dietrich was staring at Haitham, his eyes fixated on the Pan-Arabian flag he was sporting on his uniform. Due to standing next to him, she could hear him muttering some barely audible words:

"As expected...as I predicted...as I told them...same as last war..."

But then Dietrich seemed to come back to his senses and also refused the cigarette, stating:

"Sorry my friend. I got addicted to these things in the last war and it took me years to get rid of that addiction again. I am not very intent on falling right back into that addiction.

As for your question, Major Harris, I spilled the blood of the rabble that likes to call itself our brothers and sisters in arms now in order to get here. I think, that would count as desertion."

She could tell that the General was a bit annoyed by the question although he was very good at hiding it. Major Harris was probably by far not the first to ask that question. Indeed, she could only imagine how often he had been asked such a question and similar ones before they had let him out and join this team. But she had other things to ponder abotu his statement.

Killing fellow comrades from his own side? Yes, that was easily a very heavy argument to convince your former enemies that you were on their side. However, Antoniya still couldn't get herself to fully trust the General. She had heard that the Soviets were completely ruthless when it came to achieving strategic goals and that human lives were expendable ressources to them. But the news she had heard about the Nazis' occupation in the eastern territories and the brutality of their war on the eastern front had brought them awfully close to the bar the Soviets had set for ruthlessness. She could easily imagine the Germans to just sacrifice some of their own in order for their plans to come to fruition.

But before she could dwell on that any longer, another woman approached, already hailing them from afar. She seemed...strange? When she finally closed in and just went straight for one of the glasses on the table and drinking from it. Yes, maybe she was drunk? No, that wasn't it. But wh-...Antoniya sniffed in the air. Something smelled strange. As if drawn out by the smell, something began moving in one of the pockets of her uniform, quickly revealing what looked like a rat. The rat sniffed a bit in the air before quickly climbing up Antoniya's uniform and onto her shoulder, sniffing in the remains of the smoke still coming from Adrienne. But the rat quickly stopped, suddenly started to sneeze, which would've almost thrown it right off Antoniya's shoulder if Antoniya hadn't raised her hand to keep a hold of the rat. She gently whispered:

"Is alright Viktor, I got you. But should really stop sniffing, eating or drinking anything you come across. Cannot be good for your health."

She then put the rat back onto her shoulder, where it stayed and glared hungrily at Papi, the butterfly familiar of Adrienne.

[Riysa]

Haitham narrowed his eyes, hearing the former general mumble some unintelligible words. Did he recognize him? Was there a problem he had with Haitham or his former platoon? That was something to note for the future.

"Very well." He replied to the general, gracefully accepting his refusal. It was unusual that the general didn't smoke, but he had his reasons, and was kind enough about it. The kid acted weirder about it, but Haitham didn't particularly care whether someone smoked or not, so he let that wordlessly slide as well. The question was, what was he going to do with the spare cigarettes?

Looking back, there appeared to be a trio of Asians standing near the table, as if they were waiting to be acknowledged - one looking visibly out of place. Were they minders (probably not), some more team members (likely), or another unit altogether (also likely)? Well, they looked like they could use a cigarette...and they probably wanted join in the conversation too. Sticking his own lit cigarette back into his mouth, he took the pair of cigarettes into his fingers, and motioned at them with it, before turning back to face Major Clark and the others at the table.

[Sonitusia]

...Sticking his own lit cigarette back into his mouth, he took the pair of cigarettes into his fingers, and motioned at them with it, before turning back to face Major Clark and the others at the table.

"At last, someone civil," the lieutenant sighed, looking back at us, "I don't mind if it's an offer to drink our troubles away, as long as there's a welcome, then there's business. Off we go." She lead us through the pub, and we could hear the conversations close up. Furansujin, Pourandojin, I didn't recognize their accents per-say, but I do know patch symbols when I see them. I made sure to smile warmly towards anyone who chanced upon me, and thanked my luck that I was slightly wider eyed than most Nihonjin.

And just our luck, this seemed to be the right table. A group of people had already gathered, with various uniforms including one of Doitsu origins, but not on someone who seemed very Western at all. Then there was someone who most certainly was Western and seemed to be proud of his black cross, which was obviously Doitsu.

"Good day gentlemen, ladies," Cheung greeted once more, this time formally, "Lieutenant Katelyn Cheung, 11th Army, at your service. My colleagues are Sergeant Mohamad Utomo Tao Chu, 5307th Composite Unit, and Corporal Konani Sanderson of the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps Engineers. We've just arrived a week's time ago from the South-East theatre, under unit code-name 'Iron Weasel'. No doubt you've probably never heard of our exploits in the jungles, considering there are, perhaps, more pressing matters at hand, but we are foremost a Universal Carrier crew ready to fight for king, country, and freedom."

Freedom, very much so...

I nodded once after being introduced, while Tomo just stood at attention lazily. It wouldn't be the first time that anyone who looked Asian would normally be ridiculed by Western commanders or soldiers, even in our own homeland, so we were just ready for the worst case scenario.

[Reverend Norv]

The girl who stood beside So:Se looked at Matt, and suddenly her gaze was not bleary at all, and her voice was not childlike in the slightest. "Are you pitying me now, Yankee?" she asked. Her accent was from somewhere in the South; Matt had spent his formative years outside the US, and still had trouble distinguishing the regional dialects of his ancestral home. "I suggest you spare that for them mortal folks like yourself."

A vampire, then, Matt thought, and he scarcely even noticed how little that deduction surprised him. Just once, I'd like to meet a vampire who didn't enjoy making fun of everyone without fangs.

"Lucille Devereaux, OSS," the child went on. "You can call me Lucy." Apparently, Lucy was Cajun and could remember the Civil War, in which Abraham Lincoln had evidently devastated the South's vampire clans. Matt absorbed this information with a swift, incredulous grin. Learn something new every day, I guess. Aloud, he simply said: "Pleased to meet you, Lucy. I'm Matt."

And then the introductions were interrupted, for Polina's plate of roast beef abruptly exploded with a soft crump and a shower of lukewarm meat and gravy. Matt's head swiveled, the isolated movement of a predator, an owl or a cat, a movement that left the body loose and still and ready, and for a moment he seemed as inhuman as anyone at the table.

The moment passed along with the apparent threat. "Uh, I'm sorry," Milena mumbled. "It was an accident."

Milena was telekinetic. She was trying to develop her abilities. Anna cheerfully forgave her. The only true Christian at this table, Matt thought sadly. Myself included, probably. In response to the Mennonite girl, Milena simply stammered.

Matt wiped gravy off the sleeve of his pinks-and-greens. Milena was a child: truly a child, not a centuries-old creature in a child's body. Matt had never quite accepted her presence on the front lines; rather, he had simply grown accustomed to it, because he knew that he couldn't do anything to change it. But Matt had also never lost sight of the truth: Milena had a child's awkwardness, a child's sulks, a child's red-hot and unforgiving hatreds.

Maybe it had been an accident. After all, Matt was a bad liar. He was almost as bad bad at telling when other people were lying.

The Minuteman's bright blue eyes moved from Milena to Polina and back.

Maybe. Maybe not.

Matt glanced up, and out of the corner of his eye saw a newcomer appear in the door of the pub. The man was Chinese: Matt had grown up in Southeast Asia, and he could distinguish the peoples of the region without difficulty. But the stranger wore Russian uniform, though with a variety of peculiar patches bearing Chinese characters. Matt could speak Mandarin, albeit with a strong Yunnan dialect, but he had never learned to read it, so he had no idea what the patches meant. Still, he felt an instant and peculiar affection for this man from the far side of the world, and he waved to him: a greeting, an invitation to the table.

Before the man could respond, though, Clark Harris appeared at Matt's shoulder - Matt was almost as tall as Clark even sitting down - bearing a tray of shot glasses. Matt smelled alcohol and sugar and spices, sweet and cloying, and his stomach did a slow flip-flop; even before his transformation, the Minuteman had never been much of a drinker. "Howdy-doo, fuckers," Clark cried cheerfully. "Grab a shot."

Adrienne, who had been standing with a few other women, strolled over to the table. "Hello, my friends," she announced, and took a glass from Clark's tray. Adrienne smelled different, Clark thought: something herbal, something feverish, sweat and tainted smoke. He could hear her heart beating just a little too fast, and looked away uncomfortably.

Clark, for his part, toasted Willow's new uniform. Willow remained subdued. "Don't get used to them," she grumbled. "I've been transferred more times than I can count and these just happened to be with me today. They still won't let me go out in my fatigues."

Willow didn't smell different, and her heartbeat was normal. But there was some distance behind her eyes, something hollow, that bothered Matt far more than any of Adrienne's more obvious symptoms.

Abruptly, a slight pall fell over the pub's roar of conversation. Matt looked up, and saw yet another newcomer making his way toward the table. He was a swarthy man - perhaps an Arab, Matt thought, though he didn't know enough to be sure - and he was thoroughly battered: bandaged hand, unshaven face spotted with medical plaster, bags under the eyes, a strong smell of sweat and cordite and dried blood. But Matt felt precious little sympathy for the stranger - because, astonishingly, the man wore German uniform. Admittedly, every swastika had been ripped out - Matt's enhanced eyes could make out the loose threads where insignia had once been sewn - and the foreigner's sleeve bore a flag in black, white, green, and red, with a swirl of Arabic writing beneath and the word "HEXENJAGER" written above. Matt had been briefed on such men: counter-magic specialists who derived their power from some kind of Islamic mysticism. Not a true Nazi, then, Matt thought.

Still. German uniform. The little body lay in the mire of the sewer, not a memory but a presence, nagging at the back of Matt's mind, and one of his massive fists clenched silently on the tabletop.

Wordlessly, the stranger marched over to the SHADOCOM team's table and sat down. His dark eyes were flat and emotionless. He gestured with two fingers. "Sigara, please."

A long moment passed. Then Clark knocked back his shot in a single expressionless motion, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one for himself, and then handed a few others to the Arab. The man thanked him, and took a long drag. Then he introduced himself in accented English. "I am Oberleutnant...first lieutenant Haitham Sayyah. I am a Hexenjager; my platoon used to be attached to the Brigade Ramtke before we all fled. Military Intelligence brought me to England and told me to report here." A pause. "I left the Nazis because I didn't want to eternally damn my soul."

It was hard to argue with that. Matt glanced at his fist. It had unclenched. He let out a breath through his nose and settled back into his chair.

He had relaxed too soon.

Two more newcomers approached the table. One was a young woman - a very young woman - with auburn hair and cold blue-grey eyes. Next to her was a hulking man - almost as tall as Matt, though without the Minuteman's superhuman physique - in cheap street clothes. He was old, though Matt wasn't quite sure how old; certainly old enough to have grey hair. And he wore an Iron Cross at his throat, with the swastika clearly visible upon it.

No misunderstanding there. No threads hanging where patches once were sewn. No "I-left-the-Nazis-to-save-my-soul" repentance. Clark cast Matt a wary, troubled glance.

Butchers.

Matt's fingers, strong and heavy as steel bars, toyed with his glass of ale. He could throw it hard enough, he thought, to send six-inch shards of glass straight through a man's ribcage. Like shrapnel.

Why not? Matt thought. And to his horror, for one brief moment, he couldn't think of a single good answer.

The girl in the unfamiliar uniform stopped in front of Matt. "2nd Lieutenant Antoniya Filipova Nankova from Bulgarian Royal Air Force reporting za duty," she announced. She paused for a moment, and when she spoke again, there was uncertainty in her voice. "I assume this is my squad? Allied Officer mentioned big man." Antoniya pointed at Matt, then at the tall Nazi in street clothes. "Was confused for a minute because I thought this was big man. But big man was supposed to be here already so he could not be big man."

She was a child. She was lost. She was a whole lot of other things too, Matt thought, as he studied Antoniya's cold eyes. But that didn't change the facts.

The Minuteman blinked once, and then set his glass down on the table. He nodded at Antoniya, a silent confirmation that she was in the right place.

The Nazi stepped up beside her, and studied Matt with the clinical amazement of a birdwatcher who had happened upon a rare parrot. "As the young lady said," the old man confirmed, "I too was told to look out for a tall man. I suppose that is you?" The Nazi offered his hand for a shake. "My name is Dietrich. Dietrich Ekerhart Haegler. A pleasure to meet you all. I used to be a Generalleutnant of the Wehrmacht and was deployed with the DAK in Afirca untill I surrendered to the Long Range Desert Group. Rest assured, I am more than motivated to bring down the monstrosity that my beloved Germany has become."

Matt did not shake Dietrich's hand. Neither did anyone else. Willow glared at the German. Clark told Haitham to share his cigarettes, but his eyes were hard. "I hear your words, General, said the former gangster. "But you must be aware of my personal skepticism. Did you desert your men, or resign your commission?"

Esther Rosenberg stalked over from the bar, accompanied by some kind of octopus-like golem a little smaller than she was. "You know, Clark," she bit out, "that's a good question. And it makes a hell of a difference, if y'ask me." She offered the newcomers an ironic bow, and the golem mirrored her movements. "Corporal Esther Rosenberg, also US Army."

Antoniya turned down Clark's cigarettes. "Offering tsigari to underage children, Major Harris?" Her voice was sharp. "I suppose that is to be expected from Americans. Is land of freedom but also land of temptation and sin."

Antoniya had introduced herself as Bulgarian. Bulgaria, if Matt recalled correctly, was a member of the Axis Powers. It was one thing for Heim to snipe at the USA, Matt thought. For this girl to do so was quite another.

She's a child, the Minuteman remembered. He tried to summon up the forbearance that he felt for Milena. It was harder than he would have liked.

Meanwhile, Dietrich stared for a long moment at Haitham, muttering under his breath in German. Matt's enhanced hearing made out his words: something about what Dietrich had expected, about how it was the same as the last war. After a few seconds, the German turned down Clark's cigarettes as well, and told the American: "I spilled the blood of the rabble that likes to call itself our brothers and sisters in arms now in order to get here. I think, that would count as desertion."

Before Matt could reply, three more newcomers marched up to the table: Asians, two women and a man, one of them clearly Chinese, another perhaps Japanese, the man a peculiar mix of features that Matt couldn't quite place. All three wore American uniform.

"Good day gentlemen, ladies," announced the small Chinese woman in a polished British accent. "Lieutenant Katelyn Cheung, 11th Army, at your service. My colleagues are Sergeant Mohamad Utomo Tao Chu, 5307th Composite Unit, and Corporal Konani Sanderson of the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps Engineers. We've just arrived a week's time ago from the South-East theater, under unit code-name 'Iron Weasel'. No doubt you've probably never heard of our exploits in the jungles, considering there are, perhaps, more pressing matters at hand, but we are foremost a Universal Carrier crew ready to fight for king, country, and freedom."

King and country. So they were British. In American uniform. Matt wondered how that had happened. He felt a flash of excitement, and anxiety, at Katelyn's mention of Southeast Asian jungles, and wondered - not for the first time - what had become of Mong Yawng. I hope there's something left of it. I think I'd like to go back, some day. Though I doubt anyone who knew me then would recognize me.

There did not appear to be any more newcomers trickling into the pub. A small crowd had formed around the SHADOCOM table. Matt gazed steadily at Christopher Lee, his blue eyes hard. So these are the new additions that you mentioned. Three Axis defectors. Letting them help the war effort is one thing. Arming them and putting them behind enemy lines with us? That's something else. There was a reason, Matt realized, why Lee had presented these additions to the team as a fait accompli. We don't get to turn them down.

Matt took in a deep breath, and let it out. Fine. But I don't have to like it.

The Minuteman rose from his chair. It was an unnerving motion for such a large man: three hundred pounds of impossibly solid muscle uncoiling with the speed and grace of a tiger, inhuman, predatory. Once again, Matt beckoned the Chinese soldier at the door. "Welcome," he said, in fluent southwest Mandarin flavored with a slight Shan accent. "This is SHADOCOM. I assume that you have been sent to join us as well." Matt gestured to the last empty seat. "Please."

Then the Minuteman paused, and took a deep breath. All right. When he spoke again, it was in English, and in the tone - half brisk confidence, half preacherly passion - that had led the team through Warsaw alive.

"My name is Matthew Beecher. Captain. United States Army." Matt cast a knowing, warning glance at Lee: we'll discuss this later. "Clearly, I'm the one you were told to find. I guess we'll be working together for the next little while."

"Lieutenant Cheung; Sergeant Chu; Corporal Sanderson. You are most welcome." Matt offered a lopsided smile. "I was raised in northern Burma; you'll have to tell me how the war goes there, when we all know each other better. I'm glad you are here."

"Lieutenant Sayyah. I am glad to see that you take such care for your soul. I wish that you had taken such good care of it before you decided to fight for Hitler." Matt took another deep breath, and let it out, and waved one massive hand wearily. "But my faith - like yours, if I'm not mistaken - teaches me that no one is beyond redemption. So I will choose to trust that you are here for the right reasons." Matt glanced around at his comrades, and there was a silent appeal in his blue eyes. "I am confident that the rest of the team will do the same."

"Lieutenant Nankova." Matt sighed. "I don't know why you are here. I'd like you to tell me. Apparently, your reasons passed muster with my superiors" - here another knowing glance at Lee - "but they are not the ones who have to place their lives in your hands." Matt paused. "Understand: I am not asking this because I distrust you. I am asking this because I want to trust you. And trust requires understanding." The Minuteman's blue gaze rested briefly on each of the new arrivals. "That's how we do things here. We're not a machine. We're a team."

"General Haegler. You say you are here because you love your country. Fair enough. That's as good a reason to fight as any, I suppose." Matt took a steadying breath. "But understand two things. First, I have seen the works of your army. They are not - what did you call them? - rabble. They are not rabble." Matt's blue eyes were very bright. "They are murderers. And no one rises to your rank without having allowed them to murder. You are, at the very least, an accomplice to the greatest crimes in human history. And when this is all over, I will see that you stand before a judge and answer for what you've done."

"And second?" Matt's voice was entirely serious, frank and earnest and utterly certain. "If I ever see you wearing a swastika again, I'll kill you myself."

For a moment, there was silence. Then Matt gazed at each of the new arrivals in turn, and offered a nod that encompassed all of them. "Welcome to the team."

[WolFina]

While everyone else was busy with their own part of the bar, the newly bleached werewolf twins Carrie and Marcie were cheerfully drinking away at a chocolate milk they had both ordered and decided to share. The two were happily swinging their feet, oblivious to the existence of anyone else besides each other. It's the way things are supposed to be, Carrie thought, remembering the old days where the two only had each other and she enjoyed her sister's undivided attention.

“Wonder how grandpa is doing back home.” Marcie said, breaking the silence. “We haven't received a letter from him in a few weeks.”

“That's because he can't read and uncle does all the writing for him.” Carrie replied with her typical irreverent humor. Suddenly, a flash entered her mind and she remembered what she had wanted to tell Marcie. “I was thinking, sis...”

“Oh?”

“When our service in the army is done, why not stay in Europe?” Carrie asked, taking in Marcie's surprised expression as if she had never even considered the idea. But knowing her, she probably hadn't. “It's perfect. France is so much more beautiful than Appalachia and we can go all across Europe. From Paris to Milan to Transylvania.”

“There's a lot of vampires in Transylvania. I don't think they'd be too pleased if we went there.”

Carrie giggled a little bit. “True,” she conceded, before reaching her hand over to Marcie's knee. “But if we stay in Europe,” her voice reduced to a whisper. “It could mean a whole new chapter in our relationship.” Marcie's leg tensed and Carrie withdrew her hand. Suddenly she shifted to a whole other topic, returning to her boisterous exterior. “Plus I really want to visit the castle of the Marquis de Sade.”

[Fascist Republic Of Bermuda]

The Sahara Desert was a strange place. Scorching hot in daylight, it dropped to near-frozen at night. In the day, refuge from the sun was the top priority: everybody in Cynthia's patrol had their own tales- mostly taking the piss- of sunburn so severe that all the peeling skin almost looked like fur. And then of course, there was a sand. Sand got everywhere, no matter how hard one tried to stop it. Goggles were a necessity, water even more so, and cover from the sun invaluable. For Cynthia, that was a wide-brimmed slouch hat. Did it make her look a bit silly? Perhaps, but it worked. Besides, it reminded her of her father.

London was nothing like the Sahara. It was always cold, always raining, always miserable outside. A thick layer of smog seemed to hang over the city, smothering Cynthia whenever she tried to get a breath of fresh air. Either that or the condensed smugness of the Englishmen of London somehow strangled her. Thank God, then, that her new team was meeting in the pub. Her kind of people, evidently. Not that she’d drank much in her life, she was probably a lightweight to rival all lightweights- there wasn’t much alcohol in the middle of the Sahara. But at least they knew how to have fun. She had worried the lot of them would be “all-business” types, like that Welsh twat Hughes who she had served as a machine gunner for.

She was just a tad late, entering the pub with little fanfare, taking off her slouch hat and tucking it under her arm. It wasn’t particularly hard to narrow out the Shadow Ops team, they weren’t exactly a typical bunch of pub-goers, what with the colorful (both figuratively and literally) lot at the table and the giant Yank talking to some people she assumed were also new personnel… a good number of whom were apparently ex-Axis. The question was how to approach without being a complete tosser. The tall Yank said something about how if he caught the oldest (by far) of the team wearing a swastika that he would kill him himself. She elected to join to lighten the mood.

“Gidday! Sorry I’m late, London’s a bugger of a big city to find your way in,” She spoke up, cracking a lopsided grin. She was lying, she'd spent the last couple of hours asking around for news of her brother that never seemed to come through. She carried on, “Name’s Cynthia Marshall, soldier of the LRDG until a couple months ago.”

[Lunas Legion]

Zhao did not notice the initial wave; his attention had been elsewhere at the time, eyes hunting over another part of the room for his commanding officer. With no real way to distinguish rank insignia, he had settled for the method of looking for the person in charge, the person positioned in the center of the table with the different insignia, the one people found themselves turning towards or glancing at unconsciously at for approval.

It had worked well enough for singling out both Japanese and German officers for initial elimination, to sow chaos and discord in the enemy's ranks as their officers died screaming from bullets or grenades or espers or knives. It would work well enough to single out potential officers in a bar room. Several people brushed past him during his search; one of them, a Chinese woman, briefly stopped to open her mouth, as if to speak to him, but swiftly moved on. He shook his head slightly in disapproval as she left. If one wished to talk one should do so. And so he turned his attention back to observing the room briefly.

The sound of Mandarin Chinese, in the Yunnan Dialect no less, drew his attention back to the table he'd dismissed as not being a unit earlier from the completely haphazard arrangement of uniforms, people and rank insignia there. The massive man, who'd been as tall as some of the people standing while sitting down, had stood up.

"This is SHADOCOM. I assume that you have been sent to join us as well." The man spoke with a strange accent that he did not recognise; perhaps he learned from the Chinese diaspora? It would make sense, given his looks. Regardless, that was an irrelevant question for now. The man gestured to the last empty seat at the table, and Zhao nodded his acknowledgement as he carefully and slowly weaved his way over to the table of the rather large man. He presumed him to be the officer he had been asked to report to, given the rather strange assortment that was gathering around his table. he could not distinguish between most of them; uniforms he did recognise, faces that he would need to commit to memory to match strange names in the wrong order, all babbling away to one another in a language he did not speak a word of.

He did not wish to offend anyone, and so it took him a bit to navigate his way across the bar. He found himself slowing down midway as he recognised some of the uniforms; German uniforms. He had no particular hatred for the Germans, but he found his arm moving reflexively to his hip nonetheless, grasping for the grip of a non-existent pistol but meeting only empty air. A defector had demonstrated their loyalty, or lack thereof, by defecting in the first place. That there were those who were practically children at the table did not surprise him either; he had grown up a soldier, it was only natural that there would be others like him here, just as there were others like him back in China.

"Captain Zhao Min, most recently of the Red Fighters of the Chinese Workers and Peasants Red Army." Zhao introduced himself in Mandarin as he sat down, glancing uneasily over the other occupants of the table. With the exception of the massive man and almost certainly the Chinese woman that had almost spoken to him earlier, he doubted anyone else here understood him. Unless they had an esper among them, but espers were always awkward for him to recognise from a crowd. The 9th had taught him that well. "I am afraid that my English is non-existent, so you shall have to make my introduction to the rest of your comrades, and explain my issue if you would."

[Remnants of Exilvania]

He was not surprised about the reactions he had received so far. Cold or angry glares, refusal to shake his hand from the massive man. He was actually more intrigued by the fact that nobody had insulted him yet or tried to knock some of his teeth out. Sure, age dulled one's senses so maybe he had simply not heard any kind of insult but he was sure there hadn't been any...yet.

When he was offered a cigarette, he finally took his eyes off Clark Harris...only to stare into the face of someone who seemed...arabic? He had seen similar types in the Libyan and Egyptian deserts and the United Kingdom and Free France owned huge portions of Africa and Asia so he was not very surprised about seeing an Arabian here. No, what really caught his eye where the patches and the uniform he was wearing. A german paratrooper uniform with the pan-arabian flag sewn onto it, the KRETA patch as well as another patch saying Hexenjäger. He completely ignored how tired and battered the man looked, instead just processing the information he had jsut received by looking at him.

He knew the unit. Of course. How could he, a formerhigh ranking officer of the Wehrmacht not know about them? But unlike the others who were pioneering the establishment of such arabic units made up from nationalist volunteers and versed in the use of their weird, magic interrupting art, he submitted concerns to the OKW. This felt too much like what they had attempted back in the Great War. The Emperor had sought to make use of the countless arabians and islamists who lived under the yoke of the Entente, having a Jihad, a holy war called against the Entente. Of course they had gotten some good results at first...but the Arabians were simply too unreliable. A certain Lawrence led them against the German and Ottoman forces in the area and even the influential families which Max von Oppenheimer had been working with to unite the Islamic world against the Entente betrayed the trust of the Central Powers and, after having received monetary aid and weaponry, declared their allegiance to the Entente. The entire project was a disaster and he could very well remember the bad mood among German Officers back then when the failure of the Kaiser's pet project became official among their ranks. The Arabian volunteers lost his trust back then and when he heard about the attempts to build a new force out of them, he felt obligated to share his concerns about them deserting with the high command. Something that had obviously come true as the man before him was a living testimony to his concerns.

Blinking, he realized that he must've spoken out some of his thoughts. He hastily glanced down at the deserter, trying to see if he had heard anything while silently praying to a god he no longer believed in that he had not been heard. He shook his head to get those negative thoughts of desertion out of there. He had deserted himself. Besides, he knew the unit. Due to having been involved in the entire business in Greece, he had also been part of the logistical planning for the Operation against Crete. He had witnessed the tactical nightmare that Crete became for german forces through the radio messages coming in from the island. Those of the Arabic Unit who survived this hell were though. They had later been deployed to help in Operation Barbarossa so he had lost track of them but if this man had managed to get here then he was probably even tougher now. Though he wondered, had they been deployed to Africa? His garb certainly suggested something like that. Interesting. He would've wished for such elite paratroopers back when he was still in a commanding position in that theatre of the war.

He refused the cigarette with a friendly smile, citing a former addiction. It was true, the Great War had caused him to start smoking quite heavily. How could he not, considering what a strain the war put onto his nerves? But after the war he happened to come across a greenhorn officer, logistical officer in the back who had never seen combat, who took the time to lecture him about the bad effects smoking had on one's health. He tried quitting right after that but that is the problem with addictions. They are incredibly difficult to quit. It took him untill 1928 to finally be completely clean and not feel that urge anymore whenever he saw a cigarette.

More people arrived from behind him. A short glance told him that they were...asians? He was not too well versed in their languages, cultures or appearances. It had been...more than 40 years since he had been to Asia...to the Far East. They sported american uniforms and claimed allegiance to the british. A contradiction in itself, he thought. Why were they wearing these uniforms? Where did their loyalties actually lie? Another asian approached after having been called closer in a an asian language by the massive giant and then he spoke in bloody asian as well. Using his own brain cells and putting a lot of effort into remembering the phrases he had heard 40 years ago, Dietrich managed to figure out that the Asian was introducing himself. And the thing that looked the most like a name or definitely was where all those chinese they had executed during the suppression of the Boxer Rebellion had put their names, was Zhao Min. Yeah, okay, Zhao Min. He said more but Dietrich's skills in chinese were not sufficient to understand any of that. Atleast he could deduct from Zhao's uniform, that he was from red China.

But then it was finally time for the giant whom they had initially approached to deliver an answer. Dietrich marveled at the movements of the man, who, despite of his size, moved with incredible grace and speed. But his admiration turned sour when he realised that this simply couldn't be human. But what was the giant? A werewolf? An incredible vampire? Or something entirely different? But oh well, he quickly focused back on his surroundings rather than his thoughts. He heard the giant introduce himself:

"My name is Matthew Beecher. Captain. United States Army. Clearly, I'm the one you were told to find. I guess we'll be working together for the next little while."

He then continued to address all the newcomers, the asians, the arabic deserter, the bulgarian and himself. Notably he was the last to be addressed. And while doing so, Captain Beecher seemed a lot like the leader of the group to him, the way he addressed everyone, asked them out, welcomed them. The man knew how to handle people. But his rank was a problem. Mr. Harris had introduced himself as a Major...so shouldn't he technically be the leader? Then again, these were commandos. Very special commandos. And he wouldn't have to worry about rank. He was rankless.

When the Bulgarian, this Nankova girl, was questioned by Captain Beecher, she glanced aside, tsking before asnwering:

"Is it hard to figure out? You ever looked at Nazi ideology? Looked at place Slavs have there? We are subhumans to them. And I have heard rumours and facts about what the Nemski do to Slavs on their Eastern Front. Tsar Boris made a good choice when allying them, preventing harm from immediatelly destroying Bulgaria. But if the Nemski win...do they still need the power of Slavs like Bulgarians? Or will just start to clean up their allies after having cleaned up their enemies? Only way I see for Bulgaria to not be crushed by the boots of the Nemski and their Hitler is if Nemski never win their war. And I want to help so they will not win."

In a way Dietrich was not surprised about these words. The Bulgarian people were russophiles and Germany's Invasion of the Soviet Union had electrified the Bulgarians. He had expected her reason to fight for SHADOCOM to be tied to her slavic heritage. And honestly, he could see the logic in her words. If the Führer was indeed to enforce his ideals then current willing servants such as the Croats and the Bulgarians would most likely find themselves in the position of subhuman slaves to the propagated master race. Not that he believed in any of that racist bullshit. Humans were humans. Yes, they were diverse but there was no particular people with superior genes. Besides, they all bled and died the same...the alleged subhumans often being capable of taking far more before they died.

But his turn was next. And in a way he was not surprised about what Beecher told him. It had to happen. The threats. The things he had heard from his prison guards. The things he had expected to hear from all the members of his team, maybe in more volatile form. He decided to deal with the last part of Beecher's points first. He took the Iron Cross from his neck and dangled it provocatively before Beecher's eyes, remarking dryly:

"Do you know what this is Captain? This is a Knight's Cross of the Iron Cross, one of the highest military orders one can achieve within Nazi Germany. Hitler personally commissioned this order 1939. This order exists only with the swastika on top of it. I'd have brought Imperial Iron Cross First Class as well if I didn't think this was sufficient.

And apparently the order did not achieve the desired effect."

, he said as he slipped it into one of his pockets.

"I am not a party goon, not a man of the SS and also not one of the Führer's favourites. I was a simple old school Wehrmacht officer. It was not easy for me to acquire this order. I had hoped it would serve as evidence of my abilities. But it was obviously mistaken for simply parading around Nazi paraphernalia.

As for your other statements..."

Dietrich closed his eyes briefly, snickering. When he opened them, they were cold and hard, focused on Beecher's eyes as though he tried to pierce him with his gaze. The snickering had stopped as well.

"You got it all wrong. I was not referring to the simple soldiers when I talked about rabble. I was referring to the paranormal knickknack that has crawled to the surface under Hitler's reign and now marches alongside what I once called my army. I killed a werewolf, literally a watchdog from the SS assigned to me simply because I had held rather...negative sentiments about Germany's new allies...and a few of the other interests our new rulers had.

Never even once have I denied that the soldiers of the Reich are murderers. But that is what we soldiers are, right? War is our job, murder is what we do. Soldiers kill. Over and over and over again untill they are killed themselves. Human life is a very cheap ressource in times of war...the last war demonstrated that to me very clearly. What will it take for you to come to the same conclusion Captain Beecher? When will the time come when, as a commander, you must choose between operational targets and human lives? Friendly lives and enemy lives alike. Regardless wether they are good or bad people, they are still people. Every single kill is a murder. Many have families, friends, maybe even children. When will the time come when you will stop caring about it?

You are a good man Mr. Beecher. Hence why I am telling you this: Get out of this war. The Great War destroyed me. If you do not wish to turn into the same, if you wish to keep your current ideals and values, then stay off the frontlines. Stay somewhere safe where you must not decide over the fates of other people."

Dietrich looked up and down, taking in the entirety of Beecher's figure once more and very obviously before smirking sadly and saying:

"But the way you look, I doubt they will let you off the frontlines anymore..."

As he finished his own little speech about the value of human life, he noticed another newcomer. God, these Allies! As a somewhat stereotypical German and especcially as a former commander, he valued punctuality and could not stand it when people came late. It was if incredible importance in operational planning that everyone was as punctual as possible, because anything else could cost additional ressources in battle or maybe even the victory. His mood however grew darker as he saw who had come. Not only had he probably just ousted himself with his dark speech, devaluing human life before people who were apparently rather idealistic, but now he also had to deal with one of his captors. The woman didn't even need to state to which group she had belonged. He knew her, knew her well enough. Although he had never gotten her name, he had seen her face often enough in the desert, on the way back with the Long Range Desert Group from his command post to the british lines.

He stopped short in his thought. Her? Wait one bloody second!?! Back then she had clearly not looked this...feminine and the other soldiers had definitely not treated her like a woman. Indeed, if he remembered correctly, she had been referred to as he. But what was he getting so worked up over? If he remembered correctly, women signing up in armed forces had been no rarity during the course of history. And due to the fact that women had almost always been barred from serving in combat roles, they usually disguised themselves as men in order to serve. Seeing it in this light, her mention of having been part of the LRDG and not anymore made a lot more sense. She had likely been found out and thrown out. Well, he couldn't resist greeting her:

"Well hello and welcome Mr. Marshall. Oh, sorry, I meant to say Ms. Marshall. I am sure neither of us expected to see each other again in this particular place with this particular group."

[Riysa]

"Most do not fully know its extent." Haitham said, frowning, replying to Captain Max. "And, had the Europeans not betrayed us, this situation would not have happened." His face relaxed, and a small smile crept onto his face.

"Regardless. I am eager to start working with this...unit. I hope that we can overcome any initial misgivings we might have about each other." He paused, licking his dried lips. "Can you tell us more about this unit? The intelligence officers were stingy with details."

...

Seeing the trio approach the table and introduce themselves, he turned to face them, politely nodding. "I'm not sure if you heard everything I have said, but I am Haitham Sayyah. Obe...first lieutenant." He awkwardly picked up the spare cigarettes with his bandaged hand, the hand on the side closest to them. "Sigara?"

...

A grinning, cheery new arrival came in, joining the ever-growing group. He faced the new cheery arrival, politely acknowledging her with a welcoming nod. "Haitham Sayyah. Long Range Desert Group, did you say?" His eyes focused on her with newfound interest. That was one of the English units fighting in Libya and Masr...a unit he knew quite well. "You fought in the Sahara? When were you there?"