World On Fire: Operation Deadfall

[Agritum]

Abe sat still and mute as the new members of the team slowly crowded around the table. It was all too sudden and, for that matter, he didn't expect a whopping three Axis defectors showing up for the night. The young Van Helsing felt tested: Allies from faraway places were a matter, but these people were a whole other can of troubles. He silently prayed that the Jamaican witch doctor he had seen a few days before at HQ had voodoo dolls of all of them.

Lee beamed, apparently certain that the new additions, ex Nazis included, would have worked perfectly. "Well, speak of the devil. Here they are, my boy."

He moved his glance to meet Beecher's, apparently unfazed by the harsh words of the latter on Dietrich's presence. "Indeed we will talk later, Captain." he quipped shortly.

Polina gently cleaned herself from the gravy and roast beef pieces that had been projected on her. " You're still trying, Milena ." she mentally beamed. The Soviet woman was all too wise about what had really happened. Retribution for her attempt to take Milena under her own wing. She was unwinnable, and Polina conceded.

She looked at Antoniya. Her expression wasn't kind as usual. Bulgaria was a reactionary country. Slavs allied to their would be exterminators. They even had fascists of their own, and Polina knew full well that Antoniya had killed her fair share of her own countrymen. She spoke of redemption. Polina couldn't feel trust.

More surprisingly, she just raised an eyebrow at Gen. Haegler's arrival. The man had served with the Nazi Heer, indeed, but he appeared to have been quite far from the Eastern front. His background in the Great War coupled with the lax assignment to North Africa were the highlights of the reactionary military aristocracy of Germany, ignorant enablers and servants of Nazism. Nothing more than that.

Heim looked stoically at the new arrivals. She smirked at Haytham. It was more about his looks than the uniform. Heim knew Moslems only from short talks with Indian personnel at the HQ. They were more Indian than Moslem, even then. The issue was with Arabs, Heim knew. Her father used to rant a lot about dirty rabbles of Bedouins making life hell for German allies.

The Great War.

"Double traitor". Heim muttered. The implications were clear. She still kept a Midwest-ish accent through the accusation she directed at Dietrich. "My father served the Empire. He got wounded for the true cross. He cried his heart out when embarking for America and leaving the fatherland of his youth."

She ended there, mixing truth and fable. General Haegler? He was going to be a private in the unit.


On the other side of the room, Capt. Mallard had thrown the loudest jape." Mes Amis, do you remember Saar? Ahah, the bouches were truly struck when the army of the Republique came marching through!"

"Bullshit."

Wazowski stood up. He looked at the French officer dead in the eye.

"You sat idle while Poland died. Before you had sat while Czechia died. You are now here in a warm bar while my family hides under the planks of their farmhouse. It is almost a miracle you are not with chilling with Nazis back in Southern France. You didn't do anything at Saar, you didn't bother."

Mallard was shook, but jeers from his men lifted his spirits.

"Oh la la, Monsieur Wazowski. A whole war and a despicable occupation just to defend defend your country, and this is the coin you repay nous with? Be thankful, Monsieur. There are not many places for Poles to be around, nowadays."

Wazowski was notably already reaching for his service knife half away through Mallard's response, but he didn't even manage to make it through the motion than a wooden chair thrown by a lupine-looking garou sent him down.

Wazowski fell. All of his men, already on looking over the quarrel, made to surround the French table. Some ANZACs who were playing snookers nearby had dropped the poles immediately to rush between the two crowds and divide them.

"Mate, mate cam' ya tits down!" had blurted Sgt. Daniel Darrow, shoving his outback hat up away from his eyes as he tried to push one side of the crowd away from the other.

Reports would later say that there were no clear events that could be blamed for the start of the true hostilities. There were conflicting accounts about a pilot slipping and bonking Mallard on the head, or a particularly rough Maori having decided to break the leg of a Mazovian.

The crowd has quickly devolved into a furious melee, as two soldiers came crashing down the team's own table, knocking Anna down in the process. Heim, from the other side, came face to face with them for a split second, before smashing a plate on the two grappling fighters.

"Chyort!" Polina yelped, telekinetically lifting the two men and slamming them soundly on the ground. She panted with fatigue. "What is this even about?"

The brawl had gradually enveloped the entire pub. Pete had quickly ducked behind the bar while his patrons fought off an incoming multinational horde of attackers.

The black US servicemen that were leading the bebop dance hall, to their credit, resumed playing at a faster tempo while the jiving couples quickly evacuated the floor.

Werewolves were starting to transform, vampires had barred their talons, a couple mages had started hurriedly chanting spells, a few brooms flew around smacking fighters on the head, and some white haired youths awkwardly flung people around.

At the centerpiece of the battle were Mallard and Wazowski, punching each other on the ground while their cohorts and many others battled. Heim climbed up on the team's table, trying to asses the battle.

"It's Mallard again, damn! Capt. Beecher, either we reach him or the Arms will be trashed for good!"

[Sonitusia]

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?"

"Sure pal," Mohamad replied with his unmistakably cowboy accent, snatching a cigarette, "Arab tobacco? Or something a little more European?" Cheung joined in, taking the last cigarette as the LRDG girl joined in. I was fine that I did not obtain any; smoking wasn't exactly a past time of mine, unlike my now eased up Chinese Indonesian friend. It seemed he finally found someone he had a connection with in the entire pub, as if the group of Americans wasn't close enough. Religion trumps nationality sometimes, perhaps.

For awhile, all that seemed to happen at our table was a bit of bickering between the Europeans. Mostly due to the choice of using the black cross the Doitsu had with its swastika, which to be fair, a swastika wasn't exactly a symbol of hate as it is now. I could recall visiting temples back in Nippon, marked with the four legs of good fortune and well being. It was such a shame that from now on, the once calming ancient icon would only be seen as something that would strike fear and anger within the hearts of millions throughout the west. The east might still use it, but who's to stop the 'gaijin' from ridiculing us for something we hold dear. All you have to do is turn it 45 degrees, right?

While in thought, the bar erupted into chaos.

Bodies were flung around like grenades, punches thrown here and there. It would seem this was an establishment that cared not for your supernatural capabilities, as men shifted into large wolves, mages radiated with magic, and fangs protruded from much paler Europeans. Chaos all from a single argument, one the likes of I've never seen outside of the moving pictures or in the barracks of lower-ranked soldiers. Through everything however, the Afurikajin put up a marvelous show of music. Improvised to the T, they matched the beat of each punch thrown.

"Konani, set up a fort and smack on a paper," Cheung ordered without even losing her cool, smashing a chair onto the ground and picking up a leg for self-protection, "This is just a warm English welcoming party... Though granted, this is a lot more Scottish than it is British. Move it!" I nodded, bringing my magic to bare and placing my palms onto the cold flooring. A few seconds of feeling out the earth underneath later, four walls erupted between us and the fighting around, though not high enough to touch the ceiling. Small slits gave us coverage of the battle around us, and a crudely made staircase for us to look above the walls. Putting a talisman I had saved up onto one of the walls, the defense was secured. Sighing in relief, I rested my back on one of the walls, facing my somewhat disturbed commander, the cigarette she had lit between her left hand's fingers.

"...Konani, you forgot our gunner."

---

"God damn it, Kon."

I was left out of the intimidating mud fort that my favorite Japanese girl had erected. And the god damn Hong Konger was in there as well, probably laughing her ass off that I'm still out here in the danger zone.

Now I'm no stranger to a mass brawl, but this is a stampede. Sure I wanted to get straight into the fighting, beating the life senseless out of grown men, but not between people I need to cover my ass.

*Boff*

A weak punch to the back barely got the cigarette I was still working out spat out of my mouth. Turning my head, I could see one of the ANZAC soldiers looking real hyper over the whole situation and probably just got caught up in the action. For whatever reason he seemed to be tempting me to 'have a go' at him, that's how the Brits say it yeah?

Now I'm not a particularly tall guy, this fucker was at least an inch over me.

*BAM*

But at least I could throw a decent punch.

[Cylarn]

Clark shot a scowl at the Bulgarian girl; nothing more, because Beecher laid out the situation for her. As with any unit, SHADOWCOM found that mutual respect within the team played a huge hand - a hand bigger than that of Matt Beecher's - in determining mission success. Clark thought back to Heim's hideout in Warsaw, when the team was practically at the throats of one another in what Clark now considered to be a trivial spat. At the time though, tempers soared, the team subconsciously settling into its comfort zone.

Last thing we need is for me to call her a cunt, like with Milena. She has the benefit of the doubt - until we get out into the desert. Same with the Arab, as well.

His eyes went back to Dietrich as Matt continued to lecture the group, shifting his focus to Dietrich's Iron Cross. Matt threatened to kill him over it. Clark suppressed a shit-eating grin. Dietrich shot back, defending everything from his Iron Cross to his other Iron Cross, including his place within the regime. He referred to the common Heer soldiers as "rabble," when Matt detested the "rabble" as murderers.

"You don't need special powers to be a murderer," he spoke up as a strange Chinese geezer and an extroverted Aussie approached. "The Nazis have enough monsters without their wolves and vampires. Just go ask Oskar Dirlewanger about what he did to the hijos y hijas in Spain."

Dirlewanger. Even though Clark had spoke the man's name himself, he still felt the nausea creep up.

"But I digress. I am here to drink, and work can wait."

He turned his back, brandishing another shot and swigging it back just as quickly as he had picked it up. He sat the shot glass upside-down. There was commotion behind him; the Poles and the French were heating up. Mallard. That sick feeling in his stomach revealed itself once more. Clark had a low opinion of Mallard, which was something ironic once one compared the two men.

He directed his gaze towards the Frenchman. His eyes followed Mallard's monstrosity of a moustache as it bounced up and down with his distinctive laugh. Clark wanted to rip the thing off and hang it up above the mantle of the Sherlock.

Instead, Clark turned his attention to Adrienne. She looked intoxicated. Can't be alcohol; maybe hash was in that pipe. The intoxication did little to kill her cheerful vibes.

"Miss Lapierre, might you have any of those fine herbs left?" he asked. "And may I lib-"

Before Clark could finish his sentence or even snap his attention back to the ever-increasingly toxic atmosphere of the Sherlock, all hell chose to break loose. As the barbs between the French and the Poles escalated, Clark turned just in time to see the Aussies trying in vain to separate the rabble. His attention was abruptly regained when two men fell atop their table, sending four shots of rum into Clark's lap and almost drenching his jacket.

You just spilt $100 on my threads, asshole.

He shot out of his chair, sending it flying back onto the ground. The whole place was fighting, regardless of what had tipped off the violence. Clark knew that kind well; the kind of violence that comes out when the stress is high and a solution is just out of reach. He turned his head to the right to see Heim climbing atop the table, shouting at Matt to get Mallard.

Without much thought, Clark drew out his revolver and carelessly tossed it up to Heim. She's a smart kid; if she can catch Krauts, she can catch a gun. I can fight better without it bouncing around in my jacket, anyways.

"I DON'T HAVE POCKETS!" Clark managed to shout before a burly Frenchman in a blue RAF-esque uniform appeared from the ether and grabbed him by the head.

As the Frenchman pulled Clark's head down to his knee, Clark's vision went blurry and his head pounded. His right eye turned blue and swelled with pain. Despite the pain, Clark knew from experience that he couldn't let up. As if he had been kneed in the face before, Clark rose his head up as the Frenchman attempted to shove him back down into the knee, their forces counteracting in a gridlock. His arms released those of the Frenchman and retracted back. His fists balled up, and he brought them sailing home into the sides of the Frenchman.

After three or four good hits, his adversary relented and released his head. Clark immediately rose back up with his right fist flying upwards into an uppercut that contacted the Frenchman's jaw, knocking his head back and staggering him as a crack resounded for those close nearby. Not wanting to lose his momentum, Clark charged forward and went low, wrapping his arms around the guy's waist and lifting him up into the air, bringing him down with a loud thud that gave the Frenchman little option other than to writhe in pain on the ground.

Clark turned his attention to Mallard next, who was still brawling with Wazowski on the floor. Clark charged forward, into the crowd of flailing bodies that Mallard and Wazowski were at the bottom of. With shoves, kicks, and punches, Clark fought not men, but an angry mass of fists that kept hitting him back, albeit blind and undirected. Before long, Clark made it to the two men as Mallard fought on top of Wazowski. He took the advantage to send a hard kick into the back of Mallard's head, before entering into the ground-fight himself by attempting to put Mallard in a headlock.

[Fascist Republic Of Bermuda]

Cynthia smirked at the Lieutenant General. “Chur, General, can’t say I expected you to join this woo. Didn’t expect to see me with my hair grown out, did ya?” She said cordially, suppressing a snicker, “But, I must admit, you look a good bit too old to be running around like this. Me Pap’s younger than you. You got a grandson in the Heer? Real worried about you, he must be, running around telling everybody ‘he’s been nicked by the Tommies!’” She chuckled slightly. Another Axis lad, this one in a particularly familiar tan uniform, spoke up.

“Oh, I was in Africa from ‘40 all the way until the raid on Barce, cuz. You were one of Rommel’s lot? Killed a lot of you lads, but you all never seemed to take the bloody hint to bugger off!” She was still grinning. If they were here, they must have done something worthy of putting them there- not that that fact would stop her from taking the piss. And then things elsewhere escalated, and two soldiers were flung into the table.

“Bugger!” Cynthia exclaimed, jumping back slightly. She quickly, for lack of a better place to put it, put on her slouch hat and rushed past the Arab to join in the brawl. Maybe she’d picked up a bad penchant for bar fights from her time in Egypt in between patrols. Maybe she wanted to defend her countrymen (and the Aussies too, she supposed). Either way, she wasted no time getting stuck in. Fists flew in a flurry of fighting. She stumbled back when an Aussie threw a Polish pilot down to the ground and started punching the unfortunate airman’s face in. She elected to take a step back and go around a flipped table, some poor Russian collapsed near it. She was wading deeper into the brawl when a drunken Frenchman shoved past a Maori and threw a drunken fist at Cynthia. The New Zealander stumbled back, a hand on her cheek, colliding with a table before falling to the ground. The drunk jeered and advanced. Cynthia was kicked in the face by a passing other bar patron as she stumbled to her feet, grabbing a bottle from the table. The drunken Frenchman threw another punch but the ANZAC was ready, backing up. The French soldier stumbled from drink, knocked off-balance by the failed swing. Cynthia smashed the bottle over the Frenchman’s head as he tried to recover. The French soldier fell to the ground with a thud. “Ha!” She cheered, rubbing her cheek and spitting on the Frenchman as he groaned on the ground, clutching his head, “Take that, damned frog!” She glanced up again, trying to take stock of her surroundings. She wiped her nose with her sleeve, it came away bloody. She grinned and laughed at the sight of her bloody nose. This was going to be fun.

[Reverend Norv]

Christopher Lee was unfazed by Matt's glare. In fact, he beamed. "Indeed we will talk later, Captain," the British officer announced brightly, and for a moment Matt half-believed that saddling him with three Axis defectors was just a way for Lee and Fleming to have a laugh at Matt's expense. The Minuteman knew that the idea was absurd. They didn't do it to annoy me. That was just a fringe benefit.

The Chinese man in Russian uniform introduced himself: his name was Zhao Min, he was a Chinese Communist, and he spoke no English at all - though Zhao's Chinese, Matt was surprised to find, was the Yunnan dialect that the Minuteman remembered from his youth. Matt translated briefly for the rest of the team, and gave Lee another glare for good measure. Did he know about the language issue when he authorized Zhao's transfer? the Minuteman wondered. Or did he just not care? But aloud, Matt simply nodded to Zhao and spoke in Mandarin. "You will stick close to me, then, at least until you learn a little English. We're glad you are here."

Then it was Antoniya's turn. Her reasons for fighting were simple: the Nazis saw the Slavs as subhuman. It was imperative, for the sake of Bulgaria, that Hitler lose the war. And Antoniya was prepared to fight against her own Axis-aligned Tsar - to whom she still expressed her loyalty - in order to save her country's future.

The girl's reasoning, Matt thought, was more than a bit tortured. But he had seen in Warsaw what Nazi rule would mean for Eastern Europe. He could not fault Antoniya for wanting to fight against a power that sought to define her as subhuman. The Minuteman nodded. "Well," he told the Bulgarian, "then you've come to the right place." Matt's blue eyes rested for a moment on Dietrich Haegler. "No one at this table wants to see a world in which the value of a human life is decided by Adolf Hitler."

As if in response, Dietrich pulled off his Iron Cross. "Do you know what this is, Captain?" Matt remained silent, and Dietrich explained that it was a medal personally commissioned by Hitler. He also explained that he was "not a party goon, not a man of the SS, and also not one of the Führer's favorites" - just a simple old Wehrmacht officer.

For his part, Matt forbore from pointing out the contradiction: Dietrich was claiming that he wasn't a party goon after proudly explaining how the medal around his neck had been personally commissioned by Hitler. Nothing Matt could say would expose the hypocrisy there any better than Dietrich's own words. Besides, an argument would do the team no good. It was Matt's job to keep Dietrich from getting anybody killed, not to teach him the error of his ways. And in the end, the German had taken off the swastika: he had acknowledged Matt's authority. That was enough, at least for the moment.

But Dietrich wasn't done. He snickered nastily - Matt sighed, disappointed but unsurprised to discover that unpleasant mannerism in the man before him - and explained that he hadn't been calling his fellow Wehrmacht soldiers rabble. No, Dietrich had been referring to Germany's paranormal allies, not its perfectly human mass murderers. Matt felt anger kindle in him, unfamiliar and corrosive in the pit of his belly. This man doesn't care about the camps in Poland, or the mass graves, or the smoking villages. He just doesn't want to see his precious army polluted by people like Esther, or Heim, or Anna - any of whom are worth ten of him. Dietrich hadn't left the Nazis because he rejected hatred, Matt realized. He had left them because his own hatreds became incompatible with Hitler's.

Clark Harris had come to the same conclusion. "You don't need special powers to be a murderer," Clark said. "The Nazis have enough monsters without their wolves and vampires. Just go ask Oskar Dirlewanger about what he did to the hijos y hijas in Spain."

And Dietrich still wasn't done. All soldiers were murderers, he said. "War is our job, murder is what we do. Soldiers kill. Over and over and over again until they are killed themselves." The German had learned in the last war that human life was cheap. "What will it take," Dietrich asked, "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 whether 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?"

Matt stood: silent, eyes hard. Listening. Dietrich said that Matt was a good man. He advised him: "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 front lines. Stay somewhere safe where you must not decide over the fates of other people." And then the general let out that unpleasant snicker again, and added: "But the way you look, I doubt they will let you off the front lines anymore."

Matt took in a deep breath, and let it out wearily. Dietrich had told him nothing that the Minuteman had not already told himself. He knew that he would never be allowed to stop fighting. That was what they built me for. They'll demand a return on their investment. And Matt knew, too, that the war was - hardening him. He had felt it in Warsaw, in the sewer, then in the airship, when he had shot dead half a dozen men in as many seconds, with no more difficulty or excitement or regret than he would have felt at squashing bugs. Did I value their lives? Matt wondered for the thousandth time. Did I stop to think about their children?

And then she came to him. That little body, face-down in the mire. Her doll a few feet away, forever out of reach.

Matt remembered cleaning her face. He remembered wrapping her limp arms around her doll. He remembered closing her eyes.

That had been murder. The men responsible had not killed a little girl to protect themselves, or each other, or their loved ones. They'd killed her because they hated her. Because they'd decided she didn't matter.

And when Matt killed those men? He'd done it because they mattered. They were murderers, and murder mattered. That little girl had mattered, and so had what they'd done to her. And those responsible had to be stopped before they left any more little bodies floating in the muck.

Dietrich's values hadn't been destroyed by killing other men, Matt realized. They'd been destroyed the moment the German decided that there was no difference between killing children and killing murderers. In deciding to fight for Hitler, Dietrich had given himself permission not to care who died on his orders: guilty or innocent, just or unjust. The general had washed his hands of all of it.

Of course he had lost his soul.

Matt looked into Dietrich's cold, bright eye, and felt his anger drain out of him until only pity remained.

God forgive you. You have lost your way, and now you are too old to find it again.

The Minuteman cast his eyes up to the roof of the bar, and to what lay beyond.

Thank you, Lord. For helping me remember.

With a soft sigh, Matt turned back to Dietrich. "Not every kill is a murder," he said quietly. "That's what you've forgotten. Or decided to forget. It's what separates us from the Nazis." Matt waved at the men and women seated around the table. "We're here because some evils have to be stopped. And sometimes killing is the only way to stop them." The Minuteman's blue eyes were calm as deep waters. "We don't kill because we've forgotten the value of human life, General. We kill because we remember it. Maybe you will too, before the end." Matt smiled sadly. "I meant what I said to Lieutenant Sayyah. No one is beyond redemption."

The silence that followed was abruptly broken by a cheerful voice with some kind of Commonwealth accent: Australia? New Zealand? It belonged to a young woman in British battledress, a slouch hat tucked under her arm. She apologized for her lateness, and introduced herself as Cynthia Marshall, of the Long Range Desert Group - which even Matt, never the most attentive student of military culture, had heard of. She also seemed to know Dietrich, who let out another unpleasant snicker and greeted her as "Mr. Mitchell" - apparently Cynthia had not been open about her gender in the LRDG. Matt had so accustomed himself to his female teammates that it was almost strange to remember how the rest of the Allied armies excluded women from combat.

Would my father have approved of this? Matt wondered. Would he have said that we are seeking to free women, as my ancestors sought to free the slaves? Or would he say that we are exploiting them?

The answer was almost irrelevant. We can parse our social progress and moral responsibility after the world is safe from Hitler. In the mean time, Haitham was greeting Cynthia, and asking Matt for details about SHADOCOM. The Minuteman shrugged his enormous shoulders. "I'm not sure I'm the right person to ask," he replied apologetically. "We do special missions. Usually they're behind enemy lines; often they involve stealing something, rescuing somebody, blowing something up, or killing someone. Usually a bit of all four. You know - "

And then - a rare experience for a Minuteman - Matt was cut off in mid-sentence, because a chair went flying past his face and shattered against the wall of the bar. Matt turned around, and saw a group of Polish soldiers surrounding Lieutenant Mallard and his Frenchmen. A number of Australians were trying to force their way between the two groups. Even from his full height, Matt couldn't see or hear either Mallard or Wazowski through the press of bodies and din of shouting voices. But what he did hear, from somewhere deep within the scrum, was a low grunt of heartfelt pain.

Oh dear.

Someone threw a punch. Someone else smashed a bottle over his neighbor's head. A man's head abruptly elongated, and he let out a feral snarl. A woman produced a wand and began chanting in Latin. A table mysteriously levitated and came crashing down on two men who were grappling with each other. The band simply played on, louder, faster. Matt tried to estimate how many people were fighting, and gave up when he realized the answer: everyone left in the pub.

Two men, still throwing punches and elbows, tripped and came crashing down onto the table in front of Matt. Clark's shots of rum went flying like ninepins. Heim promptly smashed a plate over one combatant's head, and Polina's mouth opened in a soundless shout of alarm - whereupon the two men rose several feet into the air and then were smashed down onto the hardwood floor. Cynthia caught a punch to the face, went down hard, and then resurfaced to break a bottle over her assailant's head. Nearby, one of the Asian newcomers placed her hands to the floor, and four walls of hardened earth erupted up to enclose and protect her and her companion. The last member of the trio simply stood his ground in the open and knocked down a burly ANZAC with one solid punch.

Heim, for her part, clambered up onto the table. "It's Mallard again, damn!" she cried. "Captain Beecher, either we reach him or the Arms will be trashed for good!"

How quickly we make up our minds what's worth fighting for, Matt thought distantly. The survival of the free world, the neighborhood pub, it's all the same in the moment. A Polish pilot charged blearily toward Matt and threw a punch at the Minuteman's diaphragm. Matt distinctly heard the bones in the man's hand shatter as they struck the breastplate of fused, superdense bone that had replaced Matt's ribcage. The Pole hobbled away, cursing.

"All right," Matt said wearily. "Let's save the Arms, then."

Clark was already attempting to do just that. A French pilot grabbed him and slammed a knee into his face, but after a few hard body punches, a solid uppercut, and a body-slam, the ex-gangster was free and charging through the melee, keeping low and dodging between bodies until he vanished from sight.

That was not an available option for a man of Matt's size. The Minuteman sighed and simply walked forward into the fray. His motions were fluid, precise, aimed at separating combatants and creating space where none previously existed. Blows lashed at his legs, gut, arms, and they bounced off slabs of superdense muscle and plates of fused bone. Matt felt it, all right - Minutemen's enhanced senses included touch, and that meant a pain sensitivity considerably sharper than the average man's - but he ignored the punches and kicks, because he could also feel that they were not doing any real damage. He rarely retaliated; when he did, it was with a light touch to the sternum or a foot outstretched to trip, and in either case the victim found himself falling to his rump on the floor but not otherwise any worse for wear. Only once, when confronted with a French werewolf who had almost fully transformed, did Matt throw a full-force punch. The beast's head snapped around with an audible crack and it dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

Soon enough, the Minuteman found himself standing over Mallard and Wakowski. He was impressed but not surprised that Clark had gotten there first, and now had the French captain in a painful-looking headlock. An ANZAC trooper charged at the two men as they struggled, and Matt shoved him lightly in the chest. His feet went out from under him and he dropped to the ground with a hard thunk.

"Thanks, Clark," Matt said. "I'll take it from here."

The Minuteman bent down, and grabbed Mallard and Wakowski by their respective shirt fronts. Then he straightened, and the two men found themselves hoisted six inches off the ground and held in the air like children.

"Now," Matt snapped, "I understand that you are both feeling mightily offended. But do you know who's suffering because of this little show? It's not Petain. It's not Raczkiewicz. It's certainly not Hitler." Matt raised his eyebrows. His arms, he noticed distantly, were just starting to tire. "It's Pete. Pete, who serves all of you every single day. Pete, whose bar you've thoroughly trashed. Pete, who might not be here tomorrow, unless you clean up your mess." The Minuteman gave each of the ringleaders a gentle shake. "Clear? So you are going to get up on that table and start shouting at your men to cut this out and cool off. Or on Pete's behalf, I will end this brawl myself, in a way that will seriously reduce your abilities to contribute to the war effort. And that would grieve me." Matt's voice gave no evidence of insincerity. He dumped Mallard and Wakowski on top of the nearest table. "So start talking."

[Riysa]

London, 22-OCT-42
Bar fight-time, Pub Sherlock Holmes Arms

The sounds of people arguing reached a crescendo...and then crashed into an all-out brawl. Haitham had seen this plenty of times before with the Germans, a drunken pub brawl wouldn't stop until the perpetrators were separated. Its not something he'd used to get involved in, but this one was turning extra violent, and the team would be needed to help break it up.

Plus, Haitham would be a bad nationalist if he passed up the chance to slap around some colonialist Frenchies.

Based on what he had heard, the French captain was fighting the Polish one in the center of that huge mass of fighting people...and other beings. The challenge would be to get to its center. He gazed down at his bandaged left hand, still aching from the emergency surgery and largely out of commission. It'd be hard to get there by himself normally, but with a handicap like this, it'd be way more difficult. To say nothing of the exhaustion and lack of food.

But, he had been in Crete and the Eastern Front. This was really nothing compared to what they had all gone through there. So, he sucked it up, the only real option he had.

"Someone, on me! We must reach the center." He hoarsely said in his best English, quickly placing his visor cap back on, making his towards the melee while mustering whatever energy reserves he had left.

...

Despite being one of the few sober brawlers, at both a physical and numerical disadvantage, he'd have to play this smart. Though the situation was fluid, he could keep a sizable majority of the brawlers lined up in a line towards the center by situating himself well, forcing them to go at him more or less one by one. Keeping on his feet, palms open, he quietly maneuvered himself into position, staying as far as he could from the outer rings of brawlers before launching his attack.

First ahead of him was a Frenchman, drunkenly trying to swat an equally drunk ANZAC. The Frenchie hadn't noticed him yet, being too preoccupied with the other soldier. All the better for Haitham - if only all of his opponents could be taken by surprise...

Breathe in, nose. 1. 2. 3. Breathe out, mouth. 1. 2. 3. Equal breaths in and out. No unnecessary panting or tension. Proper breathing was essential.

Wordlessly, eyes focused with burning determination, he flung his left arm around the man's neck in a chokehold. A sharp jab from the heel of his foot connected with the back of the man's knee, while his good hand landed on the man's face, harshly clawing it back from the bottom of his nose and his eyebrows. A yelp of pain indicated the move's success.

"Connard!" The Frenchman shouted, as he fell to the ground on reflex. A quick kick to the solar plexus finished him, the man too preoccupied with the excruciating pain of the move. It would've been better to keep him in the chokehold and finish the man with Haitham's palm, but with his left hand out of commission, he had to improvise. Nevertheless, it worked. First one down.

A battle cry like that of a banshee caught his attention next, as a slightly less intoxicated witch in French uniform tried to fly her way through on her broom, a cracked plate clutched in one hand. Even better - despite her coming in from the side, this meant he could better control their distance. He turned his focus to her next.

"Wa alqi ma fi yaminik talqaf ma sana'u (And cast what is in your right hand, it will swallow up what they have made)." A quick verse uttered in the heat of battle, not even complete, but it'd help. He plucked off his cap once more as he spoke, grasping it in his right hand as an improvised weapon, trying to judge the right timing.

The Frenchwoman raised her right hand, coming in for a strike with the plate. Haitham pivoted on his foot out of her way, keeping his upper body straight and relaxed.

Whack! His cap connected with the back of her left hand, the one she was using to control herself on the broom. The widespread pain caused her to open her hand on reflex. No longer in control, combined with her intoxication, and concentration muddled by his ruqaya, she tumbled to the ground off the broom.

She wasn't done, though. Trying to recover, she lunged at him, still trying to land that plate. He threw up his left forearm to block, connecting with her wrist as a sort of lever, using her momentum as the force and her shoulder as the fulcrum to knock the arm aside. The plate slid out of her hand, hitting the ground with a loud ring. She stumbled away, thanks the rapid change in her center of gravity, trying to recover herself again.

Turning back to face him, with her weapon now gone, she threw herself at him, attempting to knock him down. Perfect timing for him, but no such luck for her. A kick with the toes landed at her right shin. An arm landed on one side of her neck, and an open palm landed on the opposite side on her face, pushing sideways with the help of her nose. She flipped in mid-air, falling onto her upper back.

"Fils de pute!" She swore, shouting in pain. Pinning her elbows down with his knees, he quickly got down, striking her solar plexus with the open palm of his right hand. Number 2, down.

Getting back to his feet, he assessed his situation. Nearby, he could see the cheerful - and tactless - ANZAC girl fighting with a French soldier, coming out on top, but with blood on herself. The more they had, the better they could get through, so he set off in her direction.

Only to be manhandled by a bumrushing soldier of some nationality - he hadn't had the chance to think about the man's uniform style.

"Oof!" He said, the soldier grasping his torso, trying to bring him down and forward. He slammed his heel down on the man's arch, while right palm shot out, striking the bridge of the nose and pushing the soldier's head back. A kick to the torso finally brought the soldier to the ground.

That final distraction out of the way, he moved back again towards the Kiwi, throwing his hand up to try to get her attention.

[Monfrox]

The talk went on, and soon enough Willow found herself inexplicably bored. Once again, philosophy had come into play, with a heaping side of politics. Her demeanor soured visibly. This was the same shit in Warsaw that held up their mission and one of the things she did not miss when she was away. She hoped that they wouldn't have this sort of hangup on mission again. She held her tongue as Matt gave the Kraut General his "this is your only warning" flavor spiel, swallowing her words. She still had half a mind to ask him if he got that Iron Cross from killing the British of the Americans. Things were left at that, for a while. Willow tuned out and debated if it was worth it to get some whiskey or something. She was just about to head over to the bar before she heard voices start to rise above the level they used to.

The PFC looked over and watched as people tried to hold off two groups from going toe-to-toe. She had no idea what it was about but suddenly things just erupted. Fists flew, bottles were thrown, chairs toppled over, and everyone just started going nuts. She ducked as a chair flew their way and when she looked back up, Matt was on his way over. Aw shit.

"Cap'n? Uhhh...are you sure you want to..."

She knew he heard her, but it was evident that he was heading in to stop the fight himself. Well, Willow did always consider Matt a real one-man-army if anyone could be one, but...wasn't this a little much? Even for him?!

"Cap'n! I don't think that's such a good idea!"

Perhaps for the first time she had seen him in the unit, Willow was actually genuinely worried about Matt's safety and well being. He was a fellow soldier, and an American too. She stuck up for those like him, and those who wore the stars and stripes. She set off after him as Clark all but ran right in with him.

"Jesus Christ, has everyone lost their goddamn-!"

Willow had been trying to get around and gotten between a mage and her target on accident. She didn't know, and the mage was too late on the draw to do anything about it. Before she knew it, a half finished bottle of scotch was smashed across the front of her face. She felt pain, her vision blurred, and she fell back. Her hand went to her face instinctively which served to muffle her yelling. Blood ran down her wrist as she went back and picked herself up onto a stool. The blood had gotten onto her uniform and was covering her hand thoroughly. She blinked, forcing one eye open and, to her luck, had not lost an eye to the bottle. But now, she was pissed.

"I just had this thing fucking washed! Sonuvabitch!!!"

She wasn't going out without getting something for her trouble, and she definitely wasn't going to be shown up by having to pick glass out of her face. She too, launched right in and pushed someone's shit in with her first punch. And like that, she was brawling with the others in her dress uniform. Punches and kicks were thrown but she had learned how to deal with a bit of this stuff from training with the Army and Marines. Of course, there was a slight problem. As she handled guys that threw punches at her, she began to notice a shadow growing over her and the sound of someone growling. Well, something. She shoved a guy she had by the collar away from her as she turned around to come face to face with a werewolf. Well, she had just been worried about Beecher getting his ass handed to him but those thoughts went out the window with one of the Poles and into the street.

Willow and the werewolf both sized each other up for a brief second, before he leaned in with a growl. Willow grinned and practically ripped off her service jacket, tossing it off to the side. Had she not just gotten her face glassed, she may not have been so ready to take on a mythical creature by herself, but she was past the point of caring by now. The werewolf rose his claw up and swept it down. The Marine turned Navy Scout side-stepped and went in with a quick one-two punch to the gut before jumping back. It hadn't been well known, but Willow had enjoyed starting up a boxing tournament at Wake Island when she was stationed there. A tournament she used to sharpen her skills and one she placed a respectable third in. She didn't have gloves, but she had the moves. The wolf swung and she ducked under it, weaving to the other side of his arm as fast as she could before hooking him right in the kidney.

The arm came back and this time she braced for it. The blow knocked her back to the bar counter, where the PFC didn't have time to try to catch her breath before the werewolf was rushing her down. She ducked down when he went to claw at her again and she held the bar sill. Now, it was getting interesting. She kicked up at his chest, aiming for the solar plexus, with both legs. When he stumbled back, she got onto her feet and waited for the inevitable low sweep. She watched his arms but then noticed them move back. Within seconds, the wolf's muzzle was down and aiming right for her, it's teeth glimmering in the light. She yelped and jumped up onto the counter behind her and the werewolf went face first into flat, thick oak wood. With that, she wasted no time and did a double knee drop off the bar and onto the werewolf's head. She got up and so too did he, much to her surprise. Blood trickled a little down his chin, but the front of Willow's face and neck was pretty soaked itself. There was no way she'd be getting it out of the dress uniform. She breathed in and spat out the blood onto the floor.

"Come on, Fido! You ain't gonna let a girl kick your ass now are ya?"

Willow was having fun. Perhaps, a bit too much fun. When the werewolf came in for his next strike, she ducked down, moved forward, gave him two very quick punches up his torso, and then sprung up and socked him with an uppercut in just a second. The werewolf rolled back off his heels and crashed onto the floor. Willow took in some breaths as her shirt showed sweat stains under her armpits. It didn't take too long before she looked around as the fight quieted down. She briefly wondered if anyone had saw her just now. Did I just fucking box with a werewolf and win? Holy shit.

[Remnants of Exilvania]

"The borders, the rulers and the regimes may change but in the end it is still Germany that I serve. The Germans just don't know yet that I am doing them a service by helping to defeat them.

As for orders, I have the 'true' Iron Cross First Class you referred to. But Imperial Medals don't count in the New Reich so I had to work my way up again. As for wounds, young lady, do you think I wear this eyepatch because I like imitating pirates? Do you think these scars covering my face are just some weird costume I somehow applied? Let me tell you, back when I served closer to the frontlines, back in the Empire, I received my fair share of wounds. You do not receive the Imperial Wound Badge in Silver for nothing. I have been injured by mortar, saber and flame in the line of duty."

The german General was just rambling on and on and on and despite Antoniya growing sick and tired of it, she couldn't fault him. Everyone was continuosly stepping forward and telling him something and he felt obligated to answer, to defend whatever he had left. Though it was funny, what did he have left, she thought. He stated that he had no honour left within himself, no humanity. And with his desertion he probably also didn't have that much loyalty left within him. So what was he trying to defend here? His grim view of the world?

To be honest the words of the General were rather sickening for her. She was described as ruthless by her peers in her methods of killing allied soldiers, not even once stopping to think about the people she killed, instead focusing on being as quick and efficient about killing and clearing the Bulgarian Airspace as possible. And she did not really take tasks outside of this. She had heard of the brutal suppression of revolts and demonstrations by Greeks, particularly of the Drama uprising. She had heard the numbers. 15.000 killed, among them countless civilians and only few actual revolutionaries and partisans. She had seen villages burn and their entire populations machinegunned in some ditches. In a way she was glad that she was a member of the Air Force. For such minor and disorganized uprisings their help simply wasn't necessary. She shuddered as she thought what would've happened to her if she had participated in the suppression Campaign. But then there was this Dietrich. And she had no doubt from the way he spoke, that he would gladly massacre anyone in his way if he was ordered to. He would've easily massacred twice the number of people in Drama just to send the the Greeks a message. Resistance is futile.

Meanwhile Dietrich was still going on, answering the remarks directed at him. He was addressing Clark next who also had apparently not taken lightly to Antoniya just turning down his cigarettes and insulting his country. Honestly, she couldn't care less. She didn't need the friendship of the American. As long as he did his job perfectly well, she would be fine with him. But what he said was interesting once more. He told Dietrich that the Nazi Army didn't need supernatural monsters in order to have monsters. Antoniya nodded in agreement. She had seen it in Drama. Humans were monsters themselves, just waiting to unleash their monstrous traits locked inside them. She nodded to Clark's remark before looking at Dietrich who also nodded...untill Clark mentioned this Dirlewanger. She could only guess that it was some kind of person but Dietrich's reaction was interesting. He froze while nodding and the patronizing expression he had on his face froze as well, which did make it seem unnatural, like a mask he was wearing. But Dietrich didn't say anything.

But apparently Dietrich could still get worse. The newcomer he had previously welcomed and seemed to know, a rather young woman as well, returned his greetings and made a jab at his age. About him being old enough to have a son in the Nazi German Army. She had meant it in a light-hearted way, Antoniya could tell despite not being the best herself at being light-hearted or identifying light-hearted behaviour.

But the General didn't take it as that. She must've hit a nerve best left untouched. The previously stiff mask that his face had become before, started showing cracks. Veins were pulsing on his neck and head, his teeth were clenched, grinding over each other and his remaining eye twitched a little. A short glance down to his hands and she noticed them opening and closing in a claw like manner. The General was losing his composure, and that quite rapidly. A growl came from deep down his old throat before his hoarse voice answered, deeply, calmly:

"Don't. Ever. Mention. My. Grandson. Again."

He then turned around to face Captain Beecher one last time, still filled with cold fury he said:

"Keep that idealism. Keep it and watch as the bodies of friend and foe pile up around you. And then justify them all. This war is already on a whole new scale than the last one. We will be looking at tens of millions of deaths by the time it is over. You will see, that even if you do value human life, many of those around you or against you do not quite share this belief. They will sacrifice thousands to pacify regions. Thousands to take strategically important positions. Thousands to grind down their enemy.

Now excuse me. I need to have a drink and calm down."

The General abruptly turned around and made his way to the counter. Antoniya looked after him for a brief moment. He'd be trouble in the team. With his views he'd get isolated quickly and from isolation usually sprung forth staunch opposition against what the rest of the group wanted. That was not good. It would make the General unreliable or even susceptible for tempting situations in which he could return to the Axis. He had turned traitor once already. And she believed that betraying got only easier the more often one did it. And he had done it once already, despite everything he told himself about not having betrayed Germany. He was a man perfectly cut out for the current regime. If they weren't cautious with him, he'd decide that a good fit is to be preferred over the morally superior side. Shaking her head in his direction, she told the team:

"Excuse me. I'm going to look after him."

With that she lifted her cap before the gathered team once more, grabbed her rat familiar, stuffing it into one of her pockets again and then made her way after Dietrich to the counter. When she reached it, she noticed that she was not quite big enough to lean onto it. Indeed, her shoulders barely made it over the counter that's how small she still was. But bar stools existed for a reason and so she decided to climb onto one right next to Dietrich, who had apparently ordered a mug of beer. Stereotypical of a German to drink beer, she thought before she ordered a lemonade for herself. She was served swiftly by the man behind the counter, receiving her lemonade. She actually hadn't had a lemonade previously in her life but had heard of it as well as of the fact that it did not contain alcohol so she had decided that this was a good choice of drink for a child like her.

"He will break in this war. He may try to keep up his delusions, but reality will catch up to him eventually. Reality will catch up to all of them. They are trying to slay something, that is deeply ingrained within humanity and its psyche. Even if this iteration of it, this Nazi Germany, will be destroyed, there will be new faces ready to take the place. They think they're just fighting the Nazis who are condensed in only the Germans and their allies? How childish!

The ideology speaks to some of the cores of our psyche. Hatred...Fear...Envy...And unless they will lobotomize the world, these will continue to exist. I may not believe in the core tenets of Nazism, in racism. But I gladly hate. For hatred is nearly all that I have left in this world."

He was rambling. Antoniya knew that it was just incoherent rambling. He used Beecher's remarks to ramble about them in order to distract himself. He probably didn't even know exactly what he was saying himself, he was simply trying to talk, trying to hide the things he truly thought about. And she guessed that it had to do with the remark about his grandson since this was when his behaviour changed from weird to worse. And so she asked, trying to sound compassionate but utterly failing, instead sounding more monotonous:

"What happened to your grandson?"

She saw his grip tighten around the handle of his mug as he abruptly stopped his rambling. A weary eye, with a distinct hint of sadness, yes even a single small tear on his cheek, stared at her.

"He is dead."

She had guessed something along those lines. But still, was it this bad for him? Of course she didn't think of herself as someone who could comprehend family bonds all too well and how much children meant to their parents or grandparents simply because she never had any. And was glad that she didn't because that would mean something really fucked up happened to her. Nonetheless, she felt as though it was better to remain silent, as Dietrich would probably explain himself.

"I had a son once. And I loved him. Just as I loved my wife who died during his birth. I loved him double because I poured not only the love for my very own son into him, but also the love for my wife since he was of her flesh as well. I did everything to try and raise him well. I made myself a laughing stock trying to juggle handling a baby and being part of the Imperial Army. I did everything for him and proudly watched him grow up. I spent much of my money on enabling him to visit a prestigious school and later a university. I also let him marry the woman he loved. It was such a nice and innocent love. He and their love was the only thing keeping me sane during the Great War. It warmed my cold heart whenever I had to slaughter yet another wave heading towards our machineguns.

And then I received the note that he had been conscripted to fight for the fatherland on the western front. And that his wife was pregnant. I tried my best to get him away from there, tried using my connections to give him a post somewhere in the back or reassign him to the police. But it was all too late. He and his entire forward trench had been killed in a single night. Torn apart. And torn apart was my heart as well.

I tried to comfort his wife. I took holidays from the frontline just for it. But their love had been too strong. She killed herself. Leaving only the newborn baby she had hoped to show him when he returned from the frontlines. And now I was stuck once again with a baby. And it was the last that remained of my son for his wife had decided to set herself and their house aflame. It must've been fate that I showed up in time to jump in there and save the child."

He coughed...or did he laugh?

"Fate. A cruel fate that was. It is rare for a father to outlive his son. At that point I did not know yet what a cruel game fate was playing with me. Almost all love and kindness had left me with my son's death and the little I had left, I put into my grandson. I brought him through the harsh first years of the new republic. And as I gave my love to him, my heart grew cold to everyone and everything else. I stopped caring about the lives of others. Regardless of who they were.

This time I managed to get my son to safety this time. Of course he was conscripted when the war broke out. But I managed to assign him to the Warsaw garrison. Far away from the western or the southern frontline. And when Operation Barbarossa started, he was also quickly far away from the eastern frontline. I thought him safe.

But fate had decided to continue its cruel game with me. I see now that he was only left alife so he could die later, after I had invested so much love and care into his upbringing. And so he did. He was killed on a patrol by the Beast of Warsaw. Even my grandson died before me. A curel joke by fate. And now even the last true link I had to my beloved son was forever gone."

Antoniya considered what she had just heard. When one knew the full story, it was much easier to see why the General had turned out the way he did. What he stated about the Great War having desensitized him to the value of human life was in partially true. It had sure desensitized him to operational casualties. But what had really turned him into the muderous monster he was, was his own personal tragedy, his own loss of loved ones throughout his life untill he could love no more. Untill he just killed and slaughtered mercilessly.

Quietly she said:

"My condolences."

The General seemed to have calmed down. Sharing his story, living through his own tragic memories seemed to have vaporized the fury about the fun that had been made about his lost ones. He was about to speak up again, when suddenly they heard a commotion behind them. Antoniya swiftly turned around and was greeted with the pub having degenerated into a brawling pit. She could see Heim jumping onto a table and shouting that it was some Mallard and that he had to be reached. Antoniya had no idea who this Mallard person was. How could she, she had just arrived and was completely new to this. And in all the fighting and the werewolves, vampires, humans and witches just starting to try to knock each other out, she could not make out the person Heim was referring to. But the rest of her team already started moving and she could see the imposing figure of Captain Beecher wading through the battling hordes. She'd help, integrate herself better into the team by helping them out, she decided.

With a few words she summoned a thread of wind and was ready to cut her way through to pub to reach the place Beecher was heading to. There was sadly not that much wind down here in this enclosed small room so she had to limit herself to only one thread. Now of course, she did not intend to kill. But she was pragmatic and this was nearly the only combat spell she knew. A few cut off fingers and ears would probably bring most back to reality and make them realize just how stupid their behaviour was.

But before she could go anywhere, she was grabbed by her collar from behind and quickly pulled over the counter and then down. After having overcome the first shock about the sudden attack from behind, Antoniya looked up into Dietrich's scarred and wrinkled face. She had been just about to cut him up with her threads but he just signalled her to stay down, even put a finger before his mouth and made:

"Psst. Let's sit this one out."

But she didn't want to. She struggled against his iron grip keeping her down, trying to get up and help out. Upset she tried to talk to him but was immediately silenced by him putting his other hand onto her mouth.

"How dare you!?! We need to he-"

His eyes were hard once more as he explained:

"No. Look at yourself. You are an Axis defector, even still sporting your Bulgarian Order for Bravery. By the way, I am surprised that they were so outraged about my medal and not about yours. Whatever you did to get this order, you must have killed allied personnel for it since Bulgaria is only at war with the western Allies.

Anyways, you are an Axis defector like me. Everyone is suspicious of us. Everyone keeps an eye on us. What do you think what all these faithful and patriotic men here will say if a turncoat Nazi General punches them or a Bulgarian Witch casts spells onto them? We'd land in deep trouble because whatever story they tell, they allied military police and judges would be more inclined to believe them rather than anything we would tell them. We would have attacked allied military personnel in their eyes. We wouldn't have forgotten and discarded our old allegiances.

See my logic?"

Seeing as she had no other choice and because the General's words actually made sense in a way, she nodded. Fine, she'd sit this out with him, here behind the counter.

[Lunas Legion]

Of course things couldn't go smoothly. All he'd wanted to do was sit here and drink his pint in peace and quiet, and so Robert had ignored the brewing argument he could hear between... The Polish and the French? He wasn't really paying attention and took another sip of his beer, not until he heard the sound of someone fall to the ground and the sound of a chair breaking. Now that got him to look up from his beer, turning around to see what the hell all of this commotion was about.

One of the Poles was on the floor, a tipped-over chair nearby, while the rest of the Poles had surrounded the French table. The ANZACs who'd been playing pool had dropped their cues to try and rush between the two groups, one of the Aussies blurting out "Mate, mate cam' ya tits down!" as he shoved his way in between the two groups. All Robert did was sigh and take a deep gulp of his beer. He'd seen enough bars and bar fights in his time to know when things were about to kick off, and he wasn't about to waste good beer for a dispute that did not involve him in any way, shape or form, but bar brawls had a way of dragging everyone in in the chaos.

He heard more than saw the chaos erupt. One second there were words being traded, the next he heard people slamming into tables, punches and kicks striking skin or wall or wood, the smashing of glasses and bottles and plates, the shattering of chairs being thrown against walls. His reactions normally weren't much better than anyone else's, but in bar brawls, well, that was territory he was used to. He jabbed an elbow behind him as he stood up from the stall he'd been sitting on, catching a South African in a sandy yellow British Army uniform who'd tried to rush him in the ribcage.

He grinned. Ah, the instincts were still there. Good to know he hadn't lost his touch on this sort of thing. It'd been years since he'd last been in a proper bar brawl in a New York speakeasy. With the South African stunned for now, he took the opportunity to vault over the bar, tucking his legs in to avoid kicking his beer over before kicking them out again as he landed on the other side of the bar, swiping up his beer before ducking down behind the bar.

He sighed with relief as he leaned back against the bar, hearing a bottle or a glass shatter against the bar top. He glanced down at his beer and gulped it down in a few seconds before placing the glass on the ground. No sense in wasting good beer, even if gulping it down was a bit of a waste in its own right. He peeked over the bar, taking in the situation. To call it chaos out there would be an understatement. The entire bar seemed to be caught up in the frenzy, with Latin chanting barely audible over the sound of fighting. Damn mages. Clark was busy demolishing his way to Mallard in the clashing crowd of people that had formed around them and seemed to have reached the center, given that he'd stopped to put someone, he couldn't quite see who, in a headlock. Capt. Beecher was wading through the crowd, carefully dispatching anyone who opposed him before he joined Clark, holding up the Frenchman Clark had in a headlock and the Pole who'd gone down earlier at the start of this whole debacle.

He ducked back behind the bar. Well, it seemed that everyone else had this handled, time to sit here and wait for this whole thing to blow over.

---

"Very well." Zhao nodded slightly to Matt. "I will not lie and say I am glad to be here, but orders are orders and I have mine." Truth be told, he would much rather be in China, back with his own unit of Red Fighters, men he'd trained personally and men he knew to be reliable than this diverse assortment of rabble of unknown reliability and discipline.

He settled back into a weary, uneasy silence. It was strange, being with a mass of people who you did not understand and did not understand you in turn. Even with the 9th Espers, they had been able to understand him because of their powers, and he had been able to understand them to a degree. Even then, they had had precious little downtime as esper units were precious assets that needed to be used in combat for as long as possible, and so they had spent most of their time in combat or awaiting combat which allowed them to form a loose understanding with each other.

Here, though? Out of combat? He was in unknown territory, and he treated it much like he would hostile territory. His hands rarely strayed far from where his pistols would be, had he been in possession of them and his eyes were always moving, scanning the room. He heard the sound of an argument from the tone of voice, even if he didn't understand the words being said. It seemed his earlier thoughts that this entire formation lacked discipline, first that they allowed a bar to exist, the second that arguments were allowed to occur without being shut down immediately. He unconsciously reached for a pistol before he remembered that he didn't have them on him, and even if he did, they likely wouldn't understand him anyways.

He sighed.

And then two soldiers came crashing down onto their table as an all-out brawl broke out across the bar. There were chants, werebeasts of all types beginning to transform, bottles being grabbed. Some walls of mud rose up around the Chinese and Japanese girls nearby, leaving their third member outside the fort. He had no idea what was happening. But if there was one thing he did know, it was fighting. And the captain had told him to stick close, so that was what he'd do. And so he attempted to follow Beecher into the fray, but only made it a couple of steps before someone in a grey-blue uniform he didn't recognise, not that he recognised any of the uniforms here, launched a punch at his head.

It was a sloppy punch, and he caught it easily while the other slammed into the man's ribs, sending him sprawling to the ground. Beecher had pushed ahead of him, but he couldn't move to catch up as it seemed the guy he'd taken out had a friend or two armed with bottles out for revenge. Impassively, he turned to face them. He hadn't expected to have to fight in a brawl in his first day here.

[Wolfenium]

Hearing Polina speak, Milena could only purse her lips in displeasure. It may not be a scowl - she felt she pretty much established the fact that she hated her far too well - but getting used to her presence did not mean she had to like her. She was sure the esper did not buy her apology, and she did not care if she did not. But watching her smile made her mad inside. She could not help twitch her fingers thinking of some way to make her use a pen and paper like a normal mute.

The new arrivals, for her, mattered as much as most of SHADOWCOM, which was not a whole lot. After Polina, she had past cared about the Gunkata expert who had toiled for the warlord armies of southern China before his induction into Mao's band of Red bandits. The defectors, oddly enough, fazed her even less, whether it was her isolation from the European front or her chilling familiarity with fascists and militarists in Manchuria. Antoniya, in particular had her deepest sympathies. She was a Slav, like her. And while her country had twice chosen to fight against their fellow Slavs on Germany's behest, the Russian noble still held a high regard for the suffering Bulgarian folk who had won their freedom from the terrible Turk. Perhaps she could speak to her later.

*Smash*

Well... later.

In no less than a few curses, the bar devolved into a flurry of fists and panic. Overturning the table in front of her, Ariel took to cover as she muttered growling curses as the 'drunken yokels' that had exploded into a frenzy. Spotting Abe in the crowd, she waved for the boy to come under cover. If she had her way, she would call the MPs by now, though the mess meant that there was no clear way out without resorting to violence.

Whimpering under the table over the smashing glass and wood, Anna had no idea what had broken out. A sobbing wreck, her trauma in Warsaw had hardly abated in the months she was pulled for nursing duty away from SHADOWCOM. Now, it appeared that she had serious considerations to quit altogether.

Milena... She was hardly fazed at all. The initial shock of the brawl wearing off faster than expected, the contemptuous esper was quick to stop caring. All that was left was mild scowling and dodging of projectiles. After all, some, like Kowalski, had every reason to be angry. They had been abandoned to their fate. That is fact.

Although...

-snip-

Getting on the floor as she crawled towards the bar, the esper could see the bored Lucy rolling her eyes at the counter, her eager conversation with her Yankee forced to take a backseat to drunken mayhem. Slipping behind as she pulled at the corner of the counter, the girl found her target audience taking shelter, beside a gruff old German who had clearly seen one world war too many. Not the kind of man she wanted to speak to - after all, she held nothing but spite for the Prussian clowns who sent Lenin to infest her homeland. But it was not as if she did not understand why, just that like the Allies now, the German Kaiserreich had no idea what evils they had unleashed upon the world.

"My apologies for the hideous welcome," Milena spoke to the two, her eyes more fixed on Antoniya than the old man, "I can assure you, this reminds me of mine. Don't let it bother you, though. We may be a fractious bunch, but against such grave evils, they'll band together soon enough, with gritted teeth and bled gums."

There was a certain truth to Milena's words. After everything that happened in the Warsaw fracas, Milena could believe in some measure that SHADOWCOM could hold itself together. After all, the people around her may not like each other, but they certainly hate the Nazis more. These two?... Milena could not say for sure. Haegler came across as the old stiff Junker-type to her, but Antoniya may be more amicable to her.

Milena Rurikova Ponomarenko, Canadian Army," Milena introduced herself, "if I am able to resist gouging the eyes out of a Red, I am sure you'll do fine here."

That was also the truth, albeit one with some important fineprint. Milena was able to tolerate Polina not because of any measure of self control, but the fear of being abandoned and arrested by her superiors. Moreover, with proper instruction, Polina was clearly stronger than her, something she felt frustrated over since her induction. If given the chance, Milena might not exercise any 'self-control' much longer.

[The Knockout Gun Gals]

Li Wengxiang was unsurprisingly hated the whole meeting ever since he saw another Chinese compatriot. Though he was supposed to be excited, closer inspection on his uniform, though he didn't quite realized its patches, indicated that he came not from the Nationalists but rather the Communists. The filthy CPC and its members, who fought for their own, and not for China. Li should've been angry, but he kept it more to his heart and mind. Not a good thing to said bad things during an official meeting of the Shadow Ops. Once it was time for an introduction, and a series of other introductions including his (Captain Zhao), a Red Fighter.

He introduced himself soon after, in a mix of English and Mandarin, though he tried to speak in a full English form. "My name is Li Wengxiang, Shaolin master, of Guomindang. At your service," as he bowed in the process. A polite response. Soon there were other introductions, but it wasn't long before a bar fight ensued. "Westerners," he sighed in response. He tried to dodge the throw of one of the brawlers, but the second brawler managed to get ahold of him, which he pushed with the use of his ki-based martial arts.

"This is nasty one," as he muttered at the whole. "Barbarians," as he dodged another attack and futilely attempt to dodged while not trying to attack.

[Occupied Deutschland]

Jannie walked, finding the slow tap of her shoes against the street oddly relaxing. It had been...She couldn’t even remember how long it had been since she’d simply walked somewhere. For so long now it had seemed to always be running from crisis to crisis, flying to another council of the European Counts and Countesses-in-exile, or floating about London silently listening for German agents who never appeared.

Jannie walked. It was raining hard enough that traveling by mist would be more unpleasant than anything, and London’s governors pretended themselves relevant by barring vampires travel by swarm of bats around the city—ostensibly because it decreased the morale of the masses.

It was, considering her and her kindreds assistance to the man-cattle, an ironic sort of twisted reasoning. By the way Home Guard men stationed at intersections and civil repair teams edged away from her as she passed, she had to admit the reasoning was probably correct if they were that agitated just by her passing them by. Though she had to question how they managed to sleep at all in the evenings, with such an attitude she’d think them perpetually worried of magical curses or any other number of supernatural phenomenon.

Jannie walked on, calming herself with the steady cadence of a long-dead drillmaster bellowing in her mind. Eins, zwo, drei, vier! Eins, zwo, drei, vier!

Careful to keep her umbrella ever above her as she walked, Jannie tried not to pay mind to the numerous piles of bombed-out rubble she passed.

She wasn’t successful, of course. It was an impossible task to begin with. There were too many piles that had once been structures. Even if the Blitz had ended, rebuilding was a matter that would take many more years, perhaps decades even if materials and labor had to be rationed and reapportioned for the war effort. The man-cattle of Europe were descending to the point where they were better at tearing down their forefathers’ accomplishments than erecting their own.

She had heard that in the last war there had, for a short while, been a proper code of conduct for the use of aeroplanes. An unspoken agreement that while good-natured shooting at other flyers was fair, action against ground targets which could not rightly defend themselves was a breach of honor. She could not help but regret her forced inactivity in that ‘Great War’.

Perhaps, if someone had codified that gentleman’s agreement into a form simple enough that the pathetic mind of the average man-cattle could understand it, this war would have been less destructive upon them. Perhaps the ‘bombers’ had a proper role in prosecuting sieges wherein a city’s garrison refused to surrender, but the massed area-bombardment campaigns of the Blitz—and now of the Allies in retaliation—was little more than authorized atrocity against the widest area and number as they could achieve. To what purpose? To kill, and only such. It was the barbaric bloodlust without purpose of the Saracen or the Indian savages of the Americas, not something civilized members of Christendom—even schismatics like Anglicans or Lutherans—should practice upon one another.

Jannie paused, taking a moment to stare at a blackened and burnt mound of bricks that had once been a building. The standards of behavior were slipping as man-cattle raced to win supernatural advantage over one another to prosecute their wars and accepted pagan witches, vril energy, untamed werewolves, and the bastard children of state atheism called ‘espers’ into their forces.

What point was there in all of this if it did nothing but escalate warfare? If the man-cattle took the destruction and death supernatural conflict brought on as some kind of twisted goal to aim for? What were the uses Germany had put Vril energy to, the American Minutemen and Stalin’s Espers but humankind’s first attempts at emulating their betters before they were prepared to truly sacrifice anything for that betterment?

Jannie frowned as she remembered her own strained argument with Carmilla on the topic as they exchanged blows. The other Countess had lost her way in her age. She’d come to only see the betterment of Cain’s curse, but not the sacrifice it had been born from. That was why the other Countess had been left buried underneath the rubble of her human overlord’s folly, and Jannie had prevailed.

Jannie’s eyes returned to the bombed-out shell of a home before her. At least the other vampiress had been decent enough to take their conflict outside Warsaw. Trying not to damage historic sites and man-cattle infrastructure in such situations was always such a bother. She only wished that the other members of SHADOCOM hadn’t seen the decrepit, emaciated husk she had been after the battle. The husk that was her truth—her curse—until the Judgment Day gave her and her ancestral kindred all the way back to Cain chance to shed it, one way or another.

She and the building had a lot in common, really. But that God was ever a slower actor than humanity, if he even acted any longer—or existed.

Quite sure she didn’t wish to reflect on that too long, Jannie pivoted on one heel just as she’d been trained to do in the Kaiserlich-königliche Armee and continued on her way.

It didn’t take too long to reach the Sherlock Holmes Arms, though with a glance at the watch hanging from her neck she could admit it was later than she should have been. Stepping underneath the eaves to shield herself from the rain, she carefully closed the umbrella and checked on her appearance.

She ran a hand down each leg of her breeches—they called them pants now, she reminded herself—to ensure they were straight and clean. Moving up, she tugged on the end of each sleeve to bring them to the proper length. She slid a hand around her neck to be sure the collar was properly folded over. Moving up, the hand ran across the silver-scars on her face to the closed right eye and hesitated…

This would be much easier to judge if she could see her reflection in the glass.

Jannie forced the hand to continue through her hair to check for wayward strands not perfectly set into place. It had been a very long time since she’d missed her reflection. Napoleon’s first defeat? His second at Waterloo? Or had it been the aftermath of Vienna?

It wasn’t important. Didn’t really matter.

Without any further hesitation, she entered the Arms proper.

It was slightly louder than usual on account of the bar-fight that the negroid band insisted upon trying to play over.

Jannie resisted the urge to rub at her closed eye as dozens of people exchanged blows around the public-house. Even when they were on the same side man-cattle couldn’t get along. It was the type of thing she would have expected from conscripts who’d been pulled from their farms to fight a war and lumped into combined battalions without enough training. But most, likely all, of those in the Arms were officers. What sad state was it when they could not even be counted on for restraint?

A good number of the men—and women!—involved were bleeding. Thankfully, none of it had the rich, oxygenated smell of the arterial. But with just how many people seemed to be involved in the mess, Jannie couldn’t be sure.

It seemed like she should have just brought a half-dozen MPs with her and spared everyone the trouble of having to wait for the authorities. Man-cattle. How pathetic!

Jannie scanned the room, and found the telephone at the far end of the bar already occupied. Hopefully, the person curled into a small ball next to it was contacting the authorities.

She stepped aside as a man went careening past her. Catching him by the back collar of his shirt before he went crashing through the window, she deposited him onto the floor instead.

Given privilege beyond their station, somewhere wartime rationing was loosened, and this was what they did with it. Pathetic.

If contacting the authorities was already accomplished, there was little else to do but try to keep the children from overly hurting themselves. Many in the place she didn’t recognize or especially care about, the Frenchmen and Poles seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time engaged with one another and judging by the predominance of those languages in the foul words being spouted back and forth at the other, she could assume the problem had started with them. But SHADOCOM was not an organization where wild fistfights with most of its membership were a good idea.

At the center of the melee, she quickly recognized Clark and Matt—holding their own, unsurprisingly. A more tanned man and a woman in a slouch hat screening them. A bit further away, a surprisingly well-dressed Willow was doing a commendable job of avoiding engaging too much with anyone until a werewolf—in the typical cowardly way of its species—went for the obviously weakest target among those near it.

Jannie was equally disappointed and unsurprised when the American Marine tore off the outer part of her dress uniform and actually engaged the werecreature on its own terms. It wasn’t properly ladylike, but worse than that it was stupid. She would not be—

Jannie stared.

Well. That was one werewolf who deserved to be mocked for at least the next century.

Crossing the floor towards the downed werewolf, Jannie snatched a bar-stool out of the hands of a man drunkenly waving it in wide circles. As she neared it, she rotated the stool and dropped its legs over the werewolf’s neck and muzzle, propping one foot on the bottom rung of the stool and her other on the beast’s right wrist.

“You appear to be victorious, Miss Barnes.” Jannie said, extending a handkerchief to the Marine, “Though you may want to get that wound on your face checked.”

[Remnants of Exilvania]

Dietrich, apart from giving Milena a short glance, didn't really care for what she had to say. She was no threat he had to defend himself from right now, rather just another weak one seeking refuge here, behind the counter. He instead kept listening for the sounds of the bar fight to determine what was going on and wether or not it was coming to a close or wether danger was inbound for them poor folks here behind the counter.

Antoniya though, who had little else to do and was not exactly happy about having to spend the time behind the counter instead of making a better first impression, did listen to Milena since there was little else to do here behind the counter. And Milena just apologized for the welcome. Did she refer to the fact that their introduction to the allied forces was immediately interrupted by the allied forces going at each other's throats or did she refer to the hostile and cold welcome of the General? But as the girl said, they would (hopefully) band together again once the common enemy showed up. For a brief moment Antoniya looked towards Dietrich, who had his eye closed and seemed to concentrate. She wondered if he could maybe stand up with his Iron Cross and shout something like Sieg Heil. Maybe that would end this bar fight?

Anyway, the newcomer, the frail girl introduced herself as Milena Rurikova Ponomarenko...from the Canadian Army? From the looks of it she was an esper and together with her name, she would've thought Milena to be one of Stalin's red goons. But Milena quickly followed up, stating that she would happily gouge out the eyes of communists but managed to restrain herself, thus they should probably do well here as well. So that was it? But how did she get these esper-like features? Was she an esper who defected? Questions over questions went through Antoniya's mind before she tentatively reached out with her hand, offering it for a handshake as she introduced herself as well. She wasn't quite sure if the small girl had been around when she introduced herself to the team.

"I am 2nd Lieutenant Antoniya Filipova Nankova from Bulgarian Royal Air Force.

But must ask...what are you? You look esper but all esper are soviet so...you defector?"

She sighed looking at the ground:

"Is sad what happened to Rusiya. Tsar Ferdinand luckily preserve our way of life by abdicating and giving rule to his son Boris. Still, soviets been rising in power and popularity since begin of war with Sŭvet·ski sŭyuz. Tsar will have to act carefully."

[Wolfenium]

Accepting the witch's hand, Milena's grasp tightened ever so slightly, tempered only by her frail strength as she tried to rein in on her anger. She knew Antoniya did not mean to assume, but it still annoyed her how many people kept asking that damned question. Must espers be Soviets by default? Must she have to take such interrogations every single time? Sadly, there was no one else she knew that fit the bill of a natural-born esper outside Soviet rule. At least, not anyone else.

"No, I'm not a defector," she stated, "I was born a free Russian, outside the stranglehold of the Soviet pillagers. God has decided that the godless have no exclusive right to psionic power, and has thus granted it to me. Do forgive me for being blunt, but your Tsar has chosen poorly in this regard. The Germans will come after you once they are done with Russia. That is inherent in their belief in Nazi eugenics. It is, however, not too late to turn back, if a case can be made before the Soviets reach your doorstep. At least, I hope not."

But even with her expression of optimism, Milena was not blind to reality. It may have been already too late for Bulgaria, as it had been for all of Eastern Europe. The Soviets, the final target of Nazi annihilation, have an almost unbeatable case to fight the Nazis, and 'Uncle Joe' would take advantage of that, down to the last inch. Polina's presence alone said it all - the post war world would split Europe in two. Even Milena did not need Heim's untraceable calculations to know what would happen if the Western Allies do not make a more concerted effort to push on their fronts.

"What about you," she asked, "why did you switch sides? I take it it was the Nazis. There are many reasons for others to hate them."

[Remnants of Exilvania]

Antoniya's eyes gaze became cold and hard when Milena critized the Tsar. She quickly took her hand back after the handshake and said:

"Have you looked at south-eastern europe? All bend the knee before Adolf Hitler...or feel his iron boots. Look at Yugoslavia. Fallen within short time. Look at Greece. Equally down. Look at Bulgaria and tell me, would we have survived any longer than they? We were mostly disarmed nation due to our defeat in the Great War as well. And there was no great allied nation around, that could've held the front for us."

She clutched the red cross she was wearing on her uniform as she continued, her gaze still directed at Milena as she continued.

"Our Tsar is not Bulgarian. Our Tsar is a German. Sakskoburggotski we call him, for it is the name of his dynasty. A german dynasty. He also has good personal relations with Adolf Hitler. He didn't have to save our people from the Nazis by allying them. He could just save himself. But he decided to stay with us. And he has made us dignified servants of the Nazi state rather than mere cattle like all those suffering from occupation. But I know, once we not necessary for the war anymore, then the Nazis will go after us just like they go after all other slavs.

And this is why I defected. As long as Germany is at war and in status quo, if Germany is even losing war, then Bulgaria will not have to suffer from the Nazis."

[Sonitusia]

Alright, this isn't going to work.

After that knock-out on the fella from down under, I had a pub's left of possible punching bags. Things were getting handled pretty nicely by everyone taking part, more-so by the boys and girls with a little extra power than the average homo sapiens. Though it was great that many others still took things down with their fists alone, though I guess that had a little more to do with the fact they had nothing else left to rely on. I guess it'd be better to tame the more rowdy customers over the ones that were clinging onto dear consciousness.

Balling my leather-covered fists, I dove straight into the brawl, cigarette still between my teeth. Ducking and weaving, I had yet to even pick a sparring partner to fight it out with. Sweat and alcohol sprayed on my face from various sources, shattered glass made careful footwork a necessity. It felt like a training session back in the gym, with so many obstacles to pass in an attempt to prepare for the ring. And just like the whistle of the referee itself, I found the first person who was going to get their teeth knocked in.

I'd had my fair share of fights with vampires. The Japanese had their own breed, those who fled Europe as they deemed it too dangerous to continue residing in. Cowards you could say, but those types were a cunning and cheeky bunch. This one though, with his pale skin and brown hair, was most definitely European. You could tell from his physique that he was far more accustomed to a dazzling ballroom than he was to establishments prone to being turned inside out over the preferred flavor of pie. But there he was, taking the opportunity to sample the blood of his would-be-allies, and it was time to give him proper spanking.

I don't warn my enemies, as expected of any modern warrior. But a dynamic entry is an important factor in any fight.

Breath in, breath out.

I propelled myself forwards with a gunblast of force, my foot previously planted on the ground now bringing me an inch away from the bloodsucker. Our eyes met, intentions fully transmitted within milliseconds.

And he didn't just stand still and let me take the advantage, no sir. Whether or not I'd blasted myself forwards, he'd have heard my charge coming in from a mile away. His stepping back put a considerable distance between us, followed up by a forceful kick straight for my head. I'd seen moves like this from South-East Asian martial artists during my tour, it must be nice to have hundreds of years to train yourself in various fighting forms. No matter, I took the hit standing firm, feeling the bone breaking force spread through my jaw. But it didn't do described damage, no. Just sent my smoke flying.

Fists raised, I continued my assault. A hit to the jaw wasn't going to stop me, not like those lightweights back home, not a chance.

Breath in, breath out. Breath in, breath out.

One jab, two, three, four, five. With each successive punch came another ready to knock this bastard senseless. He dodged, he blocked. This was a vampire in its preferred territory; dark and damp with lights slowly becoming dimmer as they were destroyed by careless fighters. But that did not make my strikes any weaker. If he tried to get to my rear, I would simply turn faster than he could land a hit. There was no way I'd let him out of my sight, whether or not the speed of being superhuman helped him. I cursed the darkening environment, but that aura of darkness lit a path for eyes trained to shoot a sniper out of a jungle tree from several clicks away.

He could fight, this vampire. Kicks, punches, but his attempts to grapple would get him nothing but jabs of equal force. It's a good thing I've got a hell of a chin or I'd have been finished already. He wouldn't let me move too much, only giving me room to step off to the side a smidgen, move back a pinch. I was used to seeing fighting styles of Asian-origin, but some of these must've been from European sources. Something out of the scenes of a medieval battlefield, but he didn't have a sword to back him up, thank god. His teeth bared as the intensity rose, I could truly see bloodthirst you'd be accustomed to seeing on the face of a very angry Jap.

"Tao, catch you bloody bastard!"

Breath in.

I liked punching as fast I could. Coach used to be pretty annoyed that I never really put my back into my punches. That all I was doing was just distracting the other guy like a swarm of mosquitoes.

Breath out.

*BAM*

A swarm of angry mosquitoes.

Looking at my now filled hand, I could finally make out what had landed in it during the fight. Looked like the leg of a chair, one end clearly cracked off. Some blood coated it now, but the vampire crippled before me would live. The Japanese ones could take a bullet to the head and see the light of day, if they wanted to challenge themselves. Turning my head to see the fort in the close distance, I grinned a slightly bloodied grin, my free hand snatching my cigarette as it dropped back.

One down, let's get some more.

"Hey, Lieutenant Arab!" I shouted over the chaos, calling the attention of the witch-hunter as I put the rolled tobacco back into my mouth and inhaling a long drag, "Great smoke you got me here, don't mind helping me out with another, do ya?" But feeling a tap on my shoulder, it seemed that I wouldn't get the chance to recharge my engines.

Blocking an entire table being thrown at me with my arms crossed, I'd only gotten myself into a 'cut one off, three more heads emerge' situation.

[Monfrox]

Willow leaned against the bar and took the handkerchief from Jannie. The blood wasn't stopping very soon, but it helped keep her vision clear for now. It was surprising to see Jannie again, though. Willow had figured she skipped town after Warsaw and went off to do...well, whatever it is old vampires like her do. But, Willow's grin faded now that she saw things being wrapped up. Still, this would be a story to tell. She sighed and kept the cloth around her nose as much as possible.

"Yeah...I'm definitely gonna be feelin' this in the morning. But you can't say I didn't try. Nice to see you again though, Jannie. The hell you've been since Warsaw?"

Willow punctuated her sentence by taking a bottle of vodka that someone was about to throw out of their hands and dousing her face with it in an effort to disinfect the wound. She gritted her teeth and groaned as the vodka burned, but it was better than nothing.

[Wolfenium]

Pouting a bit at the girl's words, Milena could tell she was quite offended at her jab. Perhaps she was quite mad at her query on her origins more than she would have liked. Her temptation to resort to sarcasm had long been a weakness of hers. Giving an apologetic smile, she answered, "pardon me if I was being offensive. I mean no disrespect. I'm just pointing out that while your Tsar's actions are admirable, the Allies will surely view his decisions unkindly. Stalin, especially, would consider that a fait accompli, or to put it simply, find an excuse to accuse Bulgaria of being an accomplice to the Nazis. In the pursuit of victory, no Western politician would dare acknowledge any Soviet crimes against the people of Eastern Europe. If they cared this little for their Polish allies, what are the odds that would they would care if and when Bulgarian communists take over power on Stalin's behalf?"

"I am fighting for a free Russia," she explained, "that one, I am sure of. But even I am not that desperate enough to join Vlasov's so-called liberators. If I had to hold my nose in front of that mute Red, so be it. Maybe if I work hard, I might gain more friends in my ranks, enough to make my case against the Reds. Besides, I'm not going to kill Russians on Hitler's behalf."

Milena, however, was not absolutely sure of her methodology. Could she really gain enough influence in the upper ranks to pressure them to turn on the Soviets? She was only a child, and even as an esper, her words meant little in the grander scheme of things. At this rate, Eurasia would be overrun by the communist menace, and the Free World would only have themselves to blame for allowing it in their indolence.

[Minroz]

Terrence ‘Terry’ Brooks

Woken by the noise of the brawl in the pub, Terry had slowly stood up groggily from his little hangover. Needless to say, he didn’t know there’re new members joining in the team as well as the fight involving the bunch of Frenchmen and the Poles.

“Hey fellas, what’s going on-“ Before he finished his sentence, the New Yorker looked around and saw the fight about to be finished. “Woah, what’re these guys upset about?”

Terry isn’t one to start fights, even though he bore witnesses to several bar-fights. This doesn’t mean he’ll approve of one. He just like a good drink and chat. Catching one enraged Frenchman about to draw the knife, it’s clear the others seems to miss one. Instinctively, Terry knocked him out by hitting his head with the light punch, added with the dose of his vampiric strength.

“That’s better…” He sighed, dusting his hands. “Lord Almighty, just what has really happened when I’m having a good nap.”

Seeing the new arrivals, Terry exhibited his warm, welcoming smile. Even though, he showed his fangs which had clearly give away about his status as a vampire.

“Hello, how are y’all been doing? Welcome to the team, it’s a pleasure to meet all of you. I hope we’ll get along together as pals, haha~. Oh, where are my manners?” He cleared his throat before continuing to address his new teammates casually. “My name is Terrance Brooks, I’m from the United States, New York. You all can call me Terry if you like, haha~. What’s your names, fellas?”

[Occupied Deutschland]

Jannie sniffed, though the act wasn't loud enough to be heard over the raucous cries and continued cursing of the slowly winding-down bar-fight. Gritting her teeth to hold back a more hostile response, she ground her foot against the werewolf below her's wrist as he began to squirm.

"It is yet 'Countess', Miss Barnes. I swear, It is like you Americans take pride in your informality." Jannie said, shaking her head lightly with a glare at the end for Terry Brooks at the far-end of the bar.

"But to answer your question? I have, regrettably, been largely confined to these miserable Isles. Training a bunch of Czechs of all things."

Jannie frowned. She had been dragged into helping that make-believe government organize and plan an assassination operation against their occupiers, of all things. That simple fact was bad enough, but worse was that she had not been allowed to actually participate in the deed. If she were going to dishonor herself with such, she'd prefer to at least take the lead in it. SHADOCOM had, apparently disagreed.

She tried not to be too angry over why they had refused to let her return to her native land to head the operation. Man-cattle were such a suspicious and fearful species.

"If your manner of dress is proper indication, I take it you have joined your nation's 'Marine Corps', yes?" Jannie returned, desperately trying to ignore the way the woman apparently chose to wash out the head-wound by dumping spirits over the top of her head.

It wasn't properly ladylike at all. It was very--infuriatingly-- American, though. She might have expected the same crass behavior from Harris.

Jannie leaned forward and took in the retinue of individuals hiding behind the bar itself. She gave a slow nod towards the few she recognized, unsure whether to credit them for having the good sense to avoid the barbaric fighting of their associates or condemn them their cowardice. Perhaps they deserved both.

SHADOCOM seemed to have an odd habit of attracting the dregs of man-cattle society, didn't it?

[Monfrox]

Willow just stared at Jannie. I swear, it is like you Americans take pride in your informality.

"Aren't you some kind of like vampire that's lived over a hundred years?" She leaned in with a feint incredulous look on her newly marred face. "And you haven't this figured this out yet? But yes, I've been spending the majority of the last two years getting training and being shipped all over the place, to all different units. Learned a lot before they put me in the Corps and...well...they sent me out to the Pacific."

She leaned back against the counter and for a rare moment stopped regarding Jannie fully and resigned her gaze to the blood-speckled floorboards. Her demeanor shifted in a second and then she sighed and went back to addressing her vampire compatriot.

"But now they got me in the Navy Scouts and Raiders. Been doing a lot of beach training. Hard shit but, I'm all for it. I could teach you some stuff if you want."

[Occupied Deutschland]

Jannie held back a frown. She wasn't sure if it was brought on by the presumption of Willow's offer or the poor girl's entire situation.

'The Pacific'. The words might have been meaningless if not for the publication of Imperial Japan's actions in that ocean and the peculiar manner Willow spoke. It had the same heft with which Jannie would once hear 'Sadowa', or 'Austerlitz' before. The girl had obviously not solely been 'training' as she claimed. Particularly not if she could go toe-to-toe with a werewolf--however drunken and disorderly the miserable creature might have been. Hunting werewolves required an instinct more than bare know-how.

It was an instinct a woman should never develop. Willow had. It was disappointing. Yet it was what man-cattle as a whole would need to survive in the new world where their monsters were reality. In that, Willow was simply ahead of the game compared to her peers.

Jannie was unsure how to feel about that. They were moving too far from where they should be. Even in Willow, there was less of the impetuous...humanity...that she'd had in Poland, aggravating as it had been. But what point in them growing strong enough to face monsters if they cast aside themselves to do it?

Jannie realized something about the familiar thoughts made her uncomfortable.

"I suppose that I could not reasonably object to such an offer, Private Barnes." Jannie said, "If the Western Allies are ever to be truly relevant it shall require opening some kind of beachhead in 'Fortress Europe'."

Jannie didn't allow herself to wince, but did frown. Even isolated in her mountain castle in the Sudetenland years before she had heard of the disastrous British attempt at invading Gallipoli by sea. She could only dread what kind of similar monstrosity of a plan Churchill would attempt now. It was too bad the Netherlands and Belgium were in Nazi hands. Those were the traditional places for soldiers from Britain to make their way onto the continent.

"Of course, it shall also require some measure of cooperation." Jannie finished, casting her eyes about the still-rambunctious bar.

[Remnants of Exilvania]

"I killed englishmen on my Tsar's, or rather, Hitler's behalf. I kill more if necessary. But is neither necesssary nor contributing to Bulgaria now. If what I do now also not contributes to Bulgaria, then I don't know any further. Even if Bulgaria would oppose the Nemski, would first be conquered and enslaved and then 'liberated' by Stalin if the Allies do not make push from south."

, Antoniya shook her head dejectedly before looking up and into Milena's eyes, the slightest hint of sad understanding in her eyes. She hadn't lived when Tsarist Russia had still existed. But from the stories she had heard she couldn't think of anything except the Nazis that was worse than Red Russia. Red from all the blood they had shed, she thought.

"I wish you dobŭr kŭsmet. May you see your dreams come true...though if I be honest, I do not see dream coming true anytime soon."

Throughout their entire conversation, Dietrich had more or less ignored them, his only thoughts about them being filled with annoyance. It wasn't helpful that they were having a conversation right next to him while he was trying to determine if the pub brawl had ended or not by sound. It was difficult for him, even more so due to the damage to one of his ears. Yeah, that grenade decades ago had not just taken a good chunk of his face but also a good chunk of one of his ears' capabilities. For men like him the mere act of living had become a chore. And yet they stubbornly clung to their lives, living on and on, surviving whatever life threw at them. He didn't have the agelessness of a vampire. He didn't have the abilities of a werewolf nor any life or ability extending hocuspocus like witches or mages. And he also didn't have whatever that Beecher had. No, he was a man, nothing more and not one bit less. An old man? Yes. A man past his prime? Yes. A man scarred from the batles he had fought? Yes. But still a good man, skilled in this dark and dirty business that was war.

And as he reminisced about himself and mankind in comparison to the monsters, his trained ears, despite the hindrance from the girls conversing next to him and the handicap of his wounded ear, he could hear the noise from the brawl slowly dying down. He stuck one of his fingers from his good hand into his ear and rotate it a little in there to clean the ear a little and then focused on hearing again. Yes, indeed. He had not heard wrong. The noise was slowly but surely dying down. Good, then maybe it was time to show his face again.

He gave the two small girls sitting beside him a quick glance. So frail. He could imagine their bones breaking, the sound it would make, the image of broken and splintered bones piercing through the skin didn't leave his head. He had seen it often enough in the wars. Fuck, he had even done it personally. But he doubted that it would be appreciated if he just stood next to some of the physically weaker members of the team and let them get hurt and thus he decided to let them keep talking to each other while he'd check if everything was alright on the other side of the counter. The Bulgarian, Antoniya was her name if he remembered correctly, didn't look at him, facing the small other girl. But of course the small girl she talked to was looking in the opposite direction and thus also into his direction. He tried giving her a hand signal telling her to stay down while he'd check out what was going on.

Alright, with that done, he felt like he should get up. With his bones creaking from the effort and some grunts from him, he managed to stand up. He had been sitting for a while now in a rather uncomfortable position and his muscles didn't respond kindly to that. But fuck that, he had stayed in worse positions for far longer back in the Great War. Sure, back then he had also been young but he refused to acknowledge that that had anything to do with it. When he he slowly rose from behind the counter, slowly straightening himself to reach his full imposing height and using that impressive height to better get a quick overview over what was going on in the bar. He saw a downed werewolf not far from their position with two women towering above it. One he didn't know. The other one had given him a rather hostile glance before back during the introductions. The rest though was much more difficult to see due to the fact that the pub was a mess. Only Beecher really stuck out due to his most impressive height as well as the fact that he was literally holding two men up in the air by their shirts. Dietrich guessed that these were the ones who started the fight because he didn't believe that Beecher was one to just get into a brawl for the fun of it or because of personal hatreds.

The moment that he had turned his face away towards Beecher he had opened himself up for enemy attacks. The eyepatch as well as his handicapped ear on the other side of his face made noticing the attacker nearly impossible. That was untill someone jumped onto the counter, grabbed a whisky bottle from behind shelf behind Dietrich and broke it over Dietrich's thick old skull. Honestly, the force with which it had been smashed over his head could've sent a man with a less durable physical build straight into a hospital. Heck, if the attacker had used something more durable than an easily shattered glass bottle, he'd have smashed Dietrich into hospital for sure. But as it was due to Dietrich's pretty thick skull, it merely added another pulsating source of pain to all the ones Dietrich started feeling with his progressing age. Blood started flowing down his face and he licked his lips as he could feel it seeping over them. He had always hated the taste of blood. But the fact that it flowing all the way down to his lips and dropping from his chin was not the worst. It also flowed over his good eye, turning his vision into a hazy red. Fuck, that was probably a pretty big cut he had received straight across his forehead from some glass splinter.

Looking up at his attacker, Dietrich couldn't help but wonder who had been so bold to attack a giant like him. And even though his vision was greatly impaired by his wounds, he could still make out the fairly lean figure and most importantly, he could hear it panting pretty heavily. Was he that tired? Maybe he had been fighting for a while now? Could be. Could be. He decided to give the guy a chance to run and just stared at him with his good eye, doing his best to look unnerved. But his opponent didn't waver and just hissed:

"Thought you could just crawl away boche? I don't think so. Your country took my castle and I've been itching to have some boche blood ever since then. Now, how about another bottle?"

Dietrich connected the dots pretty quickly. He had heard about boches. The french liked to call them this. So he was facing a frenchman? No wonder he was pissed about him. But why did he know about his nationality? Eh, suppose he saw his Iron Cross when he dangled it before Beecher and made the correct assumptions. What else? Ah, right! He had mentioned a castle, hadn't he? And who tended to stereotypically inhabit castles in europe? Right, vampires. Well that explained why the lad before him was so bold and self-confident. He was one of these darned supernaturals with their unnatural powers. It also explained the panting to a degree. The Vampire was probably having a hard time keeping his feral instincts in check with all the blood being spilled in the bar fight. Sure, in comparison to a battlefield and actual kills, this was very little blood but this was still an entire pub brawling with each other so there should come enough of the sweet and beloved red liquid of the vampires together.

The vampire already went for the next bottle behind Dietrich, apparently unwilling to dirty his own hands on Dietrich. Good, that was all Dietrich could ask for as this motion gave him a few moments more time to react. One of his hands, previously resting on the counter and used as a support when he had stood up from behind the counter, shot forward and grabbed the vampire by his ankle. At the same time he felt the pain of another bottle being destroyed on top of his head. It hurt quite a bit more this time around. Sure his head was strong but not strong enough to just keep taking glass bottles shattered on top of it with superhuman force.

Now naturally the vampire had noticed Dietrich's iron grip closing around one of his anles and hissed in response, his hands already shooting back to the shelf to find another bottle. Maybe he should hit the german's hands or arms this time since the head showed relatively sparse results. But he didn't get quite that far. The bloody lean vampire was a featherweight and even if he wouldn't have been, what Dietrich did now would've still affected him majorly. Dietrich just pulled at his leg, causing the already pretty insecurely standing vampire to fall backwards. Dietrich watched as his head fell past him, glancing at him with hate-filled eyes. Then it vanished together with the torso on the other side of the counter. But Dietrich didn't hear the familiar 'clunk' of the head hitting a hard surface. Guess the vampire put his good reaction speed to use and stopped himself from getting his own head injured. Well, that was fine with him too.

He let go off the ankle. He had pondered for a moment if he should continue. He had planned to heave the vampire back up and smash him into the shelf of drinks and then beat him into a bloody pulp with the bottles still left as well as his fists. However, he discarded that thought. He had no illusions concerning why this fight had so far went this well for him. The only reason why it went so relatively well for him was the fact that the vampire was spending a lot of his mental focus on attempting to reign in his carnal desires and not go around sucking blood whereever he could. He didn't want to risk completely breaking that concentration by beating the vampire up even more nor did he want to be thrown into an allied prison or end before a firing squad for beating up an allied soldier or maybe even killing him. Oh yes, he had toyed with that idea.

He looked over the counter to look after the vampire and see if he was alright, just to see him still lying there on the floor and apparently pouting. Yes, he could guess that getting surprised by some human brute like this was not exactly something to be proud of for a vampire. But atleast he wasn't enraged and went straight after him so Dietrich decided that it was time for an apology. His blood dropped from his chin to the floor as he leaned over the counter and said comradely:

"I didn't participate in the invasion of France if that helps you in any way. And I am also sure that you wouldn't want to end before a military court for attacking and grievously wounding an already recruited defector. And I really don't want to fight with you right now. I can see that the environment is putting you under quite a strain already. Wouldn't want an active fight you're involved in to add to that.

So...Peace for our time?"

He offered his hand to the french vampire to help him up but the vampire just laughed:

"Peace for our time? Mon dieu, that Chamberlain truly was a fool.

Alright Boche, I take your peace. But if you try something funny then expect a real Offensive de la Sarre."

The Vampire didn't accept his hand and stood up by himself dusting himself off a little before giving Dietrich one last glance before quickly vanishing again somewhere in the crowd. Dietrich could already guess why. With all the blood running down his face and forming a pool below him whereever he held his chin for a while, it was probably hard to not start licking his face or go straight for his neck.

Well, that went relatively well for him. And...did this little fight really just reawaken his lust for close and personal fights? For actually fighting himself? He chuckled as he withdrew a handkerchief and attempted to smear the blood from his face with it and stop more from coming. Yeah, he really kind of wanted to go straight into the crowd and show a couple of these young or supernatural lads what the old and normal ones were capable of. But honestly, he had heard things calming down and he did not want to escalate it all again and so he stood there behind the counter like a statue, his white handkerchief slowly turning crimson red as he watched it all end before him.

[Agritum]

The meaty chops of an handgun broke through the room, followed by the cracking and rupturing of the wooden ceiling. Heim pointed her M1911 upwards like a vengeful Jupiter flinging thunder on Earth. Her long skirt fluttered after her sudden movement. The red eyes of Pathfinder eyed the fighting crowd sternly. Matt's voice was the one of a trusted officer. Heim's glare? The one of a ruthless MP.

"Mallard, Wakowski. You don't talk yet. In fact, you step down from the table now." the woman declared, going against Beecher's own admonitions.

Wakowski grunted as he sat down on the ground. Mallard raised his hands to complain, only to intercept the crimson glare of the German-American. The Frenchman was soon silent, shoulder to shoulder with the Pole he had just been wrestling.

"Aight, aight, everyone shut ye mouth and listen, it's Beecher's secretary!" Pete yelled, emerging from behind the bar. Frenchmen and Poles followed their officer's example, while the ANZAC troops sighed in collective relief, dusting themselves off and getting up from the ground.

Heim coughed. She wasn't used to speaking loudly.

"Ladies and gentlemen, what you've just seen tonight is what Hitler, Mussolini and Tojo want. You have divided yourselves, and you have fallen. You fell on your national hatreds, on your sectarian creeds, and waged violence against each other. You have disgraced the cause you are supposed to fight for, like the Israelites when Moses left to receive the Law."

The pub was silent, even the band had stopped playing. Only the creaking of the wooden furniture and the distant roar of the street outside could be heard.

"And like Moses I find that you have renounced your oath to the Greater Good, to worship your idols. The empty grandeur of Mallard's host. The aimless vengeance of your men, Wazowski. But you aren't simple exceptions: the seed for such mutual hatred has been already sown in much of this audience. You are and can be guilty of this, all of you. Envy the nationless, for they don't need the belittlement of the foreign and the other to find realization in themselves."

Someone started clapping.

"Shush".

The premature clap stopped.

"You're the supposed paragons of our united nations. And you've failed at being united. Exceptional men and women who fall into the naivest, vulgar impulses of humanity. You please the vice and the hate of the moment, and take no care of the future that is developing from your actions."

Silence again. Heim appeared to focus. Her eyes closed, then opened again.

"Poland, not Poland anymore. Its people forced labourers for the deathly sprawls of slave industry and gas chambers stretching across the land. Annihilated in their very soul. France, the light of Europe, brought to her knees. There will be no need for the fast, heartfelt love of the Parisian youth in the world that the Aryan Overmen will bring about. Anguished screams in a prison of steel and concrete."

Heim took a breath. "But it's not just you. I see London razed and all the King's Men bowing their heads to a king whose mandate is not divine but pervertedly satanic. I see America the Brave drowning in cowardice, jackboots marching in the halls of Capitol, black men and women trembling before the return of the pristine hoods and the stars and bars."

Heim's tone rose, intensified, as if heartfelt.

"Russia, its great lenghts scorched by war, colonized brutally. An entire people being physically removed, terminated under a sick plan of racial superiority. China suffers a similar fate. I see....I see the end of the Jewish people. Of Romanis. Of Middle Easterners and Africans, of Indians and Asians. The planet is burning in blood, the chorus of voices yelling at their slaughter getting stronger and stronger, the maniacal laughs and jeers of generations and generations of murderers, who have known no love for human dignity in their lives, and never will. Then it ends, as the killer turns on the killer for the spoils of conquest, and dark clouds nestle above. The end, for everyone who every lived, who lives, and who will ever live.

Our world may be on fire now. Then, it will be charred. You are like the Jerusalemites replying to Pilatus. But I won't wash my hands as you choose Barabbas in the heat of the moment. Mallard, Wazowski, hug each other, tell your men to do the same, to love each other as brothers, to do away with the quarrels of governments that are as alien to your feelings as loving fathers and sons just as the genocidal ideology of the nazis. And if this you will not do,

then the blood will be upon you and your children."

There was no clapping as before. Rather, even more shocked silence. Wazowski's expression was sorrowful, repentant. Mallard had since started eyeing the floor, in clear embarassment.

Heim nodded. "Captain Beecher, I've finished."


Abe, meanwhile, had been spending the eventful pub crawl nestled under the bar table along with Ariel. The Anglo-Dutch youth had quickly hidden himself behind the statuesque knight. Abraham had no taste for brawls, especially if they involved exceptionally strong AND angry supernaturals flinging their magical arsenals at each other.

"T-thanks for staying so close, Miss Remington!" he remarked to the British girl, red in the face, his voice trembling and flustered. Christopher Lee just eyed him with an entertained expression.

"Well well, now that the ruckus is over, it should be time for Captain Beecher's team to head over HQ for further briefing. Do take your time to take one last sip though, my gallant fellows." he quickly quipped. So:Se silently nodded. "You hear that, Lucy?"


Polina had helped a few various pub patrons stand up again after being knocked over by the fighting, while knocking over those who had stood up fighting. The fun irony of her task almost made her bump into Zhao.

"Oh, Comrade, I'm sorry for the brutish welcome you've received here. The free flow of alcohol can be deceptive to the human mind, and its senses, and bring out the worst in everyone. I assume you hail from the socialist brethren of China, then?" she mutely asked of Zhao, smiling gracefully. "I would be glad to discuss the class struggle in your country, as a fellow worker."

[Remnants of Exilvania]

And that's how you quickly brought order into a chaotic mob, Dietrich thought sarcastically while still attempting to slow the flood of blood coming from the couple cuts he had received in his little quarrel with that Franzmann. Just dangle something in front of them that they can all agree upon and look menacing enough to ensure that they understood what they'd receive in return should they not take the proverbial carrot but instead go back to their bickering. Though to be honest, he doubted the threat her handgun posed to many of the current visitors of the pub. But no, the handgun was just the visible threat. She started a little speech...detailling the world the way he would have helped build it. That was the true threat, the imagination of the future, of the future where they failed.

To be honest, her speech and what she detailled left him cold for the most part. He had already known that this would probably be the future of the world in case of a Nazi victory back when he visited Oranienburg-Sachsenhausen together with Himmler. He had toyed with the idea of joining the SS, of joining the real butchers in this war and of course he had taken a close look at them as well as at what they offered. And they had happily complied. Back in its early days, the SS was lacking experienced men and he was everything they needed. But in the end he stayed with the Wehrmacht. Their neo-paganistic views as well as the large amount of inhumans within their ranks had been rather offputting to him.

He imagined the pictures she described. Imagined the polish in chains, working away for the industry of the empire. Their eyes hollow and empty, all fighting spirit having left them. He imagined France, covered in the darkness of the eternal night, with the only lightsources being the searchlights of the sentries. And all those youngsters who felt butterflies in their stomach being locked up and cured of their stupid romanticism in the depths of the dungeons. He saw London, even more of a smouldering ruin than it was now and the people, black from fire, smoke and dust, bowing their heads fearfully before a massive shadowy figure with a sceptre, demonic laughter echoing through the streets. He imagined the New World, the people hiding in fear from the marching columns of troops while white hooded men went among them like ghosts, picking out those of dark skin colour. He imagined Russia, the endless steppes and cold winters, the snow taking on a scarlet colour from all the blood spilled. He saw endless stacks of corpses, rising towards the skies like the columns of heaven.

The imagnations caused the corners of his mouth to curl upwards as he stared at Heim. Someone looking at him might think that he was proud of the girl and honestly of the method how she calmed down the fighting crowd. But in his mind he felt a twinge of regret for switching sides. For prospects like that he would've gladly continued the fight...if only it had been conducted in the proper manner. He didn't believe in these new allies. No, he didn't believe in them at all. Hence why Heim's line about the killers turning on the killers brushed his light smile off his face, his mouth staying in a straight line instead. Oh yes, that was exactly why he had defected. He was more than sure that their new allies would turn on them after it was all over. After such a long night of carnage, reaching the dawn of relative peace would probably be out of question for them.

But he stopped thinking about all these things rightaway when he saw a familiar haircolour in the now much more peaceful crowd. White. Right, the Soviets were a part of the Allies and their white haired kids he had heard so much about were also here. The one on the other side of the counter was also russian, even though she had introduced herself as a canadian. Now he wasn't quite sure what their abilities were. Intelligence about them had been rather...unclear. Even more so for a commander like him who was neither part of a special paranormal division or organisation nor deployed on the eastern front. But from what he had heard, it had something to do with the mind. Telekinesis, Pyrokineses, Telepathy and all that stuff of course immediately came to mind. Granted, he didn't quite know if any of it was true or how it worked but he didn't want his new team to mistrust him even more than they already did.

He heard the officer who had been with them before and with whom Beecher had exchanged meaningful glances previously during the introductions saying something about heading over to the HQ for briefing. To be honest, he had no clue where the HQ was so he figured that maybe he should gather around his new comrades and stick to them in case he wanted to find out instead of staying here in the pub or getting lost in London.

Now, there was still the problem with his wound. He wasn't quite sure what to do about it but maybe he should first disinfect it, just in case the beverages spilled over his head before weren't enough. He expertly chose a good Scotch Single Malt Whiskey from the shelf and filled a glass for himself. All with one hand because the other was still pressing his crimson handkerchief, which felt really sticky by now, onto his wounds. He then removed the handkerchief...which almost didn't want to go by itself, being a little stuck on his head due to it being so wet. But then the wound was unobstructed and he used the glass of the bottles in the shelf to determine where to aim the bloody glass. When he poured the whiskey onto the wound, he clenched his teeth as he felt the familiar burning sensation. He still had some whiskey left and decided to swallow that rest to maybe lessen that bit of pain. Sure, he could stand it but why not sweeten the time he had to endure it?

Sure, the wound still wasn't closed but atleast he felt a little bit better about pressing handkerchiefs onto it now. Luckily he had brought two. He put the blood-soaked one into one of the pockets of his coat while retrieving another, still pristinely white from his trousers and pressing it against the wound. He then told the girls down below under the counter:

"Hey there myladies. I think you can come up now. The fight seems to be over and we're presumably going to head to some sort of HQ now."

He didn't pay any attention to them after that, instead turning to Pete. With his free hand he rummaged about in his pockets untill finally producing a purse from them. He put it onto the counter, opened it and fingered a small gold coin out of it. A great Imperial Eagle holding a small shield of the house Hohenzollern was engraved on it on one side. The words 5 Mark - 1878 - Deutsches Reich were engraved around the eagle. He leaned over to Pete and whispered comradely:

"They don't make these anymore. Imperial gold coin. In production only from 1877 till 1878. It'll be worth a fortune in some time."

He pointed at the spilled beverages and broken bottles as he continued:

"This just as a repayment for the mess. I am terribly sorry but I haven't yet been given any pounds or any opportunity to change my money without raising unnecessary suspicion."

He patted Pete on the back before taking the Scotch Single Malt and letting it vanish in one of the pockets of his coats. Okay, vanish may be an overstatement. The neck of the bottle obviously stuck out. He then made his way over the counter with some effort and then slowly made his way towards Heim who was still standing on the table. Once he had reached it, he looked up to her and said:

"Congratulations for successfully pacifying the pub, Miss...? Tsk!"

He tsked when blood ran over his good eye again. Apparently he had neglected to properly press the handkerchief against the wound and now some blood had leaked out again.

"You don't happen to know if the HQ or this place has medical supplies?"

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Meanwhile Antoniya had heard Dietrich's words and quickly scrambled to her feet. Out of a sudden idea, she offered her hand to Milena. She had been read somewhere that it was polite to offer young ladies one's hand and help them everywhere and she certainly wanted to make a good impression. Dietrich had been right before when he had stated that they had to make good impressions of themselves and although he had botched his attempts at doing so quite clearly, she hadn't done so yet.

Her cold and disinterested gaze stayed on Milena as she held out her hand and she said:

"Would you like a hand?"