World On Fire: Operation Deadfall

[Wolfenium]

"Nothing to it, poppy," chimed Ariel, giving a dear smile to Abe as she offered to pull him up, "brawls like these aren't for the civilized. But some people need their dose of alcohol to ease the nerves and all. A bit too much at the moment."

Ariel had already seen her fair share of brawls, and part of her admitted to be amused by such scenes. This one, though, weighed heavier on her than usual, for it highlighted the schisms that were forming on her team. And now with defectors in SHADOCOM, it was only going to get worse. All she could do now was try to keep the team together somehow. She had a bad feeling about this.

_________________________________

On Milena's part, Antoniya's well wishes, however doubtful, was much appreciated. A small, genuine smile on her face, she seemed, at least for a moment, a normal child her age. But whatever glee she took evaporated with Heim's stirring but hollow speech. Reverting back to her usual scowl, Milena clearly doubted Heim's words, and for good reason.

"Dreams are meant to be high, even unimaginable, Antoniya," she said, accepting her hand, "they're difficult, but not impossible."

Getting to her feet, she whispered to the girl, "just so you know, I'd be careful not to trust that woman's (Heim's) words. Her speech may sound stirring, but she is no different from everyone here - using each other as walking sandbags in a merry gathering to save their own skins. I'd be lying if I said I'm any different from them, but at least I don't pretend to like them."

Every word from the esper burned with an indignant hiss. Already, her list of people she despised was growing with every pitying and patronizing look that hit her. She had not admitted to it yet, but every day, the faint, mental whispers of everyone around her were growing. She had been trying to block it out, both out of courtesy and out of fear of Polina. But part of her was tempted to probe, unwilling to let her pride be chewed on by her so-called comrades.

_________________________________

Crawling out of her hiding spot, Anna was miserable, sobbing and sticky. The smell of alcohol reeking from her drenched body, the hapless Mennonite witch bawled her eyes out at the frightening brawl. She had not even finished wiping the gravy and beef off her clothes before the fight occurred. Now, all she could think about was going back to her barracks for a shower, and trying to put the tragic episode behind her.

"I'm soiled," she wept, still distressed by the experience, "in devil's nectar and wheat demons, all! I want to go back! I told you I didn't want to come here! Look what happened!..."

If there was a bigger child than Milena, it would be her.

[Lunas Legion]

He didn't exactly understand any of what Heim was saying after she fired her handgun into the air. English was English, little more than meaningless noise in his ears. What he did understand was the glare, like that of a Party Commissar who had just encountered a particularly slovenly and unenthusiastic unit, the use of gunfire to bring one's attention to the firer. The speech in the silence, like he had had to give to those under his command every once in a while to ensure they remained motivated towards what they were fighting for. He was not a particularly eloquent man, but simple, blunt speeches were what one needed in the field, not long, wordy and complex speeches like he'd heard one too many times in Beijing.

His only reaction as Heim finished was to cross his arms. That speech had been too long for his tastes, but if nothing else she followed his form of discipline. Quick, loud, brutal if necessary and most of all highly effective. If nothing else, that marked her out as probably the most disciplined of all these westerners based solely on what he'd seen, and thus she'd be one to keep an eye on. This might not be his unit, but that did not mean he would not be irritated by disorder and slothfulness.

And then he felt the small brush of mind against mind as Polina. Ah, espers. The Soviet version of the Red Fighters, although he had met a Chinese esper once, serving in the same unit as him. She had not lasted long in the field.

"Indeed, I am from China." He sent back after a few moments, the old mental reflexes of his time with the 9th Esper Detachment when his head had been a chatterbox of espers talking to one another returning quickly, given how they all had to talk to him directly for him to understand him. "Although I did not expect much better than this when I was asked to report to a bar. Alcohol has no place among soldiers under any circumstances." He let out a small, almost disappointed sigh as he glanced down at Polina. Even compared to his own short stature, she was small, and she couldn't be much older than he had been when he'd first marched off to war all those decades ago. War and the revolution never cared for age, merely those willing to heed the call.

"And although I would be quite happy to discuss the class struggle, I am afraid my knowledge of the precise nature of much of the theory is lacking, and my experience with it is more of a practical nature. I have been gone from China for quite some time as my arrival here was... Delayed, and so my knowledge of how it progresses may not be up to date."

[Cylarn]

Although Matt and Clark had apprehended the instigators of the fight, the incident had developed into a chaotic fight for survival, fueled by latent hatred and alcohol. No sooner had Clark released Mallard and taken a step back, did a hand reach out and pull him into the melee swarm. It took him off-guard; suddenly, he was showered in a stream of blind fists. A fist sailed in before he could raise his hands to protect his face, catching him in the nose.

Pain and numbness shot through Clark's face, blood seeping from his nose as his hands reached out. His pain was slowly replaced by anger, and he grabbed ahold of a random uniform, pulling its owner quickly to the right and throwing them to the left, with Clark roaring as loud as any werewolf when he did so. Clark forced his way out of the melee, eyes red and drunk with violent fervor, and grabbed a stool. His opponent - an ANZAC in a khaki uniform - rose up and moved towards Clark, only to be met with a thrown stool and knocked to the ground once more.

It was just after this, when Clark and a Polish soldier began to trade fists at one another, did Heim call the entire room to attention. Clark lowered his fist in response to the sudden change in the atmosphere. The chaos had halted in its tracks, Heim was atop a table, holding a pistol and charging everyone with falling into the wishes of Hitler.

She's not wrong... Her talk of doomsday shook Clark through the bone. He allowed the thought of jackboots marching through Morganton to seep into his head. He shuddered once more.

As quickly had the lecture begun, it was over - and so was the night of merriment. Clark heard Lee speak of a briefing; he rolled his eyes - both the good one and the black one - and wiped the blood from his nose with his sleeve. Are you serious? We get plastered, thrown into a bar brawl, and you think any of us fit for a briefing? Fucking situational awareness, right?

Clark sighed and retrieved his cap, setting it on his head as he walked towards the front of the bar. He took the opportunity to retrieve a pack of Old Gold cigarettes that had been left on the ground - a studious observer would notice a brief mask of disappointment on Clark's face as he lit one of the cigarettes.

He stumbled out onto the street, still holding more balance than most of the rabble leaving the Arms. Clark looked to his right, and could clearly see white helmets and headlights coming down the road. Ah, the Cavalry is here, finally. He crossed the street, not paying too much visible attention to the approaching Jeeps as he approached HQ. He opened the door, and waited, holding it open as his teammates crossed the street.

Fleming is gonna love seeing us in such a battle-ready state. Clark chuckled at the thought.

[Reverend Norv]

Matt dumped Mallard and Wakowski on top of a table. But before they could speak, a thunderclap split the barroom's air, deafening to the Minuteman's enhanced hearing. For a moment, Matt was certain that the brawl had finally escalated to lethal force, and he felt a short shock of nausea. How stupid we are. How stupid and shortsighted and wasteful.

The Minuteman scanned the barroom: searching for the source of the gunshot, checking on his team. There was Willow, standing over an unconscious werewolf, talking quite calmly to Jannie - who appeared to have entered the pub mid-brawl. Impressive, Matt thought; the Willow he had known in Warsaw would not have been able to cold-cock a fully transformed werewolf. Dietrich stood near the bar itself, pressing a blood-soaked handkerchief to his head but otherwise apparently unharmed. Behind the bar, Milena and Antoniya crouched in the shadows; only Matt's unnatural height gave him the vantage point necessary to spot them. Ariel and Abe had taken shelter under a table and were equally unnoticed. Polina stood near Zhao. Clark was a few feet from Matt, standing atop two prone and groaning soldiers, his eyes bloodshot with alcohol and battle-fever.

Heim stood on top of a table, dramatically posed, her smoking pistol still aimed at the ceiling. Matt felt relief wash over him. Not an escalation, he thought. Just a stunt.

The Beast of Warsaw had always possessed a flair for the dramatic.

"Mallard, Wakowski. You don't talk yet," Heim snapped. "In fact, you step down from the table now."

Her tone brooked no disobedience. Matt sighed slightly, but said nothing. In the field, none of them can contradict me. This isn't the field. This is a bar brawl. Watching his father minister to villagers in Mong Yawng, Matt had learned a few key lessons about leadership. One was that allowing the occasional act of defiance was the best way to ensure trust and compliance when it really counted. Let Heim put on her show.

And what a show it was.

Matt recognized the genre, of course. It was a jeremiad. Pure Old Testament, right down to its analogy to the Golden Calf. Ye have built houses of hewn stone, but ye shall not dwell in them; ye have planted pleasant vineyards, but ye shall not drink wine of them. The old call to repentance, backed up with the prophetic threat of calamity.

Except Heim, of course, was a prophet.

Matt listened to her vision, and felt - leaden. Not shocked. Not even terrified. It didn't take precognitive powers to imagine what an Axis victory would bring. Matt had known, known since he had listened to the sack of Nanking on the radio, what the stakes were. It was why he had volunteered for the Minuteman Project in the first place, why he had allowed his country to remake him from the inside out until his hands were unfit for every task but killing. It was the price that God had asked of him, to help ensure that Heim's prophecy never came to pass. And Matt had answered that call as he always had: Here I am. Send me.

Matt listened to Heim speak of a world drowned in blood and darkness, and felt a familiar horror sink heavy into his veins like liquid mercury. And he knew that his humanity had been a price worth paying.

There was silence when Heim was done. She nodded at Matt. "Captain Beecher, I've finished."

Toward the corner of the bar, Christopher Lee dusted himself off and announced that Matt's team should leave for headquarters, to attend a briefing. "Do take your time to take one last sip though, my gallant fellows," Lee added cheerfully.

"I think there's been enough of that," Matt replied curtly. He could just make out, with his enhanced hearing, the wail of sirens: maybe half a mile away, maybe less. The Minuteman sighed, and nodded to the members of his team - both old and new. "Time to go." Clark, with the efficiency of a veteran of many bar brawls, was already making his way toward the door of the pub. Before following, Matt turned to Mallard and Wakowski. "I suggest you and your men clean up your mess," he told them briefly. "That way you can walk away from tonight with at least one act that you can be proud of."

As Matt walked toward the door of the pub, he passed Dietrich. The German, still pressing his handkerchief to his bloody head, handed an antique gold coin to Pete in repayment of the damage to his bar. Matt paused, momentarily disoriented. Five minutes ago, this man was lecturing me on the worthlessness of human life. Now he's paying for the cost of a brawl that he didn't even start. Matt gave Dietrich a cautious nod. "That was an honorable act," he said quietly.

Which was true. It changed nothing, but at least it was true.

Blood ran from under the German's handkerchief, and Dietrich asked Heim whether the team's headquarters had medical supplies. "We have a medic on our team," Matt replied. "Anna. She's a Mennonite from Pennsylvania." Matt cast his gaze around the ruined barroom. "There she is."

Anna was standing in the middle of the room, sniffling and covered in beer and gravy, whimpering to herself about having been soiled. Matt felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and thought for the thousandth time: she shouldn't be here. Anna could be traumatized by a bar fight: she was manifestly unfit for combat. Matt had made that point in so many words, both to his superiors in the OSS and to Fleming. Neither had acted on the Minuteman's recommendation that Anna be taken off the team.

So instead of chiding Anna, Matt walked quickly over to her. "It's all right," he said quietly, his voice a deep bass rumble. The Minuteman went to one knee in front of Anna, so that his face was level with hers. With ginger, awkward, tender motions - like a father dealing with a small child - Matt brushed at Anna's arms and shoulders, wiping off some of the detritus that had splattered her. "Right. That's a little better." Matt glanced up into the young witch's face. "Now Anna, I need your help. Mister Haegler over there has picked up a nasty cut on his head. Once we're out of here, I need you to take care of him." Matt wracked his memory for an appropriate injunction. "'But to do good, forget not; for with such sacrifices God is pleased.' Right?"

Then Matt stood. "All right." He rubbed wearily at his forehead, and strode firmly toward the door. "Let's go hear what Fleming has to say."

[Wolfenium]

"T-Thank you..." she muttered, getting back to her feet on Matt's suggestion as she tried restrain a huge blush, "I'll... I'll get to it."

For a moment, her heart sank when Matt began speaking to her, his expression full of doubt as he asked her to heal Haegler. She did not need to guess the reason. Having been taken off the team after Warsaw to recuperate, she had spent the last few months working in the army hospital to tend to the wounded. In all, it was an arranged she herself hoped would stick, at least at first. She truly hated the fighting at Warsaw, with all its grim revelations at that.

"D-Don't shoot," she recalled the plea she had heard in Warsaw, "they're wounded"

It was a matter Anna had yet to tell her superiors, even at the risk of reprimand. Armed with the Thompson she had pressured herself to pick up at Matt's urging, she could not get the image of the frightened, German medic out of her. An ash-brown-haired girl around her age, she spoke in a tongue only she understood at Warsaw. It was German, yes. That much was obvious from the Nazi occupiers, but it was not the standard vernacular that she had studied as part of her army training. It was Palatine-derived, eerily close to the tongue of her family, Pennsylvanian Dutch.

"W-who are you," she remembered her own words, the memory of the girl at the end of her raised barrel still fresh in her mind, "where did you learn to speak Pälzisch"

Anna never got her answer, as the collapsing roof separated the two. Left to watch the medic flee with her patients, Anna still felt confused by the scene. She had learnt from Milena about the Russian Mennonites in Manchuria, some of whom had since left for the Americas. Victims of Soviet persecution for their faith, her grandparents were from the Volga region, forced to flee as they came under attack by the atheist regime. She knew not to blame Polina and her comrades for their plight, that much was inculcated in her teachings. But seeing the girl, a member of a murderous regime, speak near-perfect 'Pennsylvanian' Dutch, raised huge questions. It was a matter only Milena knew, and her theory was frightening.

"There's no way every Mennonite in Russia could have escaped," was Milena's answer, "most likely, she belonged to those who had been left behind, under the mercy of the Soviet regime. If I were her, I'd have joined the Nazis too. I know enough to tell that wench and her ilk would make them suffer."

Anna did not really need Milena to state the obvious. After everything she had learnt from her grandparents and Milena, she was still ready to forgive Polina for what her people did to her brethren. However... what exactly did the Soviets do to force a fellow girl like her into the embrace of such monsters? She did not appear tempted by sin at all. On the contrary, she felt like she was looking at a mirror - of her old self.

"I'm so dirty..." she muttered under her breath instinctively, as she finally approached the elderly ex-Wehrmacht officer. Twiddling her thumbs, she asked, "sorry, Mr Haegler? Do you mind... if I patch that up?"

But there was not the real reason she stayed with SHADOCOM. No, there was something... someone who seemed to be pulling her back. Shifting her eyes back at the wrecked bar, she felt a grave sense of shame being seen in this state. Not so much in physical filth, but mental fragility. She was weak-willed, that much she knew. And she almost broke into a cheer when SHADOCOM opted to put her on temporary hospital duty, with the likelihood of permanence. But the thought of leaving SHADOCOM... the sight of leaving others to do the fighting, unnerved her for some reason. And the person she dreaded to leave behind most was ironically the same person trying to spare her the torture of fighting.

The question was... why?...

"Shall I," she said, forcing an awkward smile. Holding her hands up, she hastily wiped away her tears as she prepared to get started.

[Monfrox]

"Yeah I didn't really expect you to be one to want to-wait, really?!" Willow did a double-take when she heard Jannie had actually accepted her offer, merely giving it out of camaraderie than being actually serious.

It was no secret that Jannie was a vampire now, and she inquired at Shadowcom's personnel division as to the exact nature of her current squadmates after the events in Warsaw, just to be sure who was what. She still vaguely wondered if the crucifix she wore around her neck with her dog tags actually kept vampires away enough to prevent them from sucking her blood, of it that was just an old wive's tale. Same thing with garlic and wooden stakes. These were things she wished to know in order to combat the enemy better, who no doubt also employed such beings in their forces. But, Jannie was genuine as she could see in her acceptance. Perhaps the Countess was also looking to get her hands really dirty like she had?

"Well...alright, then. I'll see if we can maybe do a little one-on-one stuff sometime. I get bounced around units and theaters a lot but if I'm in town, I'll let you know."

But the details would have to wait as Heim had made her shots and made her speech, which had gotten under Willow's skin when she mentioned "America" and "cowardice" in the same sentence. She was right, but it didn't help Willow not be mad about it. She had actually shot off the stool she was standing on but held her tongue and swallowed her words. It wasn't the time to debate, but to listen. And so she listened and let the others go about their business when the event was done. She wiped her face off again and looked to the vampiress who had a look of disdain on her face that was entirely justified.

"Alright, let's get out of here before the MPs arrive and we end up late for our briefing."

[Occupied Deutschland]

Jannie was unsurprised when the gunshot came. It was inevitable that some drunken lout of a man-cattle would escalate things to more directly lethal weaponry than was otherwise accessible in the bar. Perhaps it was even a reasonable action on their part, taken to defend from one of the handful of witches, werewolves and, disgustingly, Kindred who had been drawn into the brawl. But its results would be the same. It was the first step in escalation that would end in bloodbath. It had happened before with them.

She dropped her hand to her hip, only to be uncomfortably reminded her saber was no longer there—the victim of some functionaries feeling that swords were an obsolete armament not to be carried in public. Probably another decision made by the United Kingdom with deliberate aim at her and her Kindred.

Only as she heard the bellowed words did she realize her initial instinct was incorrect. It was not a drunken lout of a man-cattle who had fired the weapon. It was the murderess.

“We should have left her in Poland.” Jannie growled, not much caring if Willow or others immediately around heard the words. “May as well just repeat the propaganda about Belgium they used in the last war.”
Heim’s words might have a point were they more properly aimed. Had she focused upon the danger posed by Countess Karnstein, Karl Maria Wiligut, and the other supernatural entities assisting the Axis Powers? Perhaps the exaggerated decrees of doom and creeping evil may have been more forgivable.

"Alright, let's get out of here before the MPs arrive and we end up late for our briefing." Willow said, turning to leave.

Jannie slowly nodded, turning to look over the bar. Broken stools, broken bottles, and broken men were in plentiful supply. Scorned by Heim’s speech, the patrons seemed to be awkwardly righting tables that had been overthrown or, in the case of some, awkwardly stepping out of hugs.

Infuriating children.

Moving the stool beside her, Jannie freed the werewolf—now looking less like an animal—that Willow had defeated. Turning her head, she glared down at the beast with her one open eye. After he had looked away, she reached down to grab him by the neck and raise him up onto his feet. It would have been easier to ignore the siren-song of the blood inside the werewolf’s veins were it not for that already spilled in the bar—and that of Matthew Beecher as he assisted the Anabaptist in coming to terms with reality once more.

Jannie roughly shoved the werewolf towards the center of the room, “Rise, creature. Assist in fixing the mess you’ve helped create. It is the least you owe.”

Rotating on one heel, she marched out. Pausing only to snatch up her umbrella once again at the door, she went back outside. Back into the nighttime rain of London. The umbrella helped.

Jannie took up a position halfway through the streets. Silently directing those fleeing the bar towards the waiting arms of the MPs, and pointing those in Shadocom across the way. It was not long before one of the MPs approached her, clearly intending to offer some kind of order or another. But he was a convenient distraction for her from the massive American minuteman who was making his way out of the Arms.

She still owed Beecher an...expression of regret...for her words in Warsaw.

Jannie concentrated on the MP, “You certainly took your time. We shall require a dozen of your men inside the building immediately to fully restore order. I presume you have medical personnel with you?”

The white-helmeted military policeman shook, as if he couldn’t quite believe someone was speaking to him with any authority. It was a common failing among those of them with power.
“No, but—“

“Imbecile. I’d advise you be ready to gather up the wounded and take them to a nearby facility then.” Jannie said.

The policeman flushed, and raised a fist to his chest, “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but I am—“

Jannie withdrew her identification with a practiced ease and practically threw it at the man. She extended her umbrella over his hands as he opened it to ensure the portrait inside wasn’t splattered with any water.

“Asking too many questions of me.” She said, the flush left the man-cattle’s face, to be replaced with a pallor more fitting nervousness or fear, “Your complaints over tonight’s events may be addressed to Lieutenant Commander Fleming of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. Though I suggest you be very certain of yourself should you decide to pursue them.”

The military police officer was still for a few moments before wordlessly handing back her ID and returning to his men.

The last thing they needed was a member of Shadocom getting hauled off. There were more important things at hand. Things the man could not even imagine.

Jannie finished the short jaunt across the street to the Baker Street headquarters, pausing just outside of its entrance. It had only been six months since she’d first entered the building just prior to their mission to Poland. It more than the empty loft she had was as close to a home as she had in the Isles.

She missed Liberec. She missed her castle…Her fratres. Rest was still hard to come by without any of them. The air of the Isles was too heavy and wet, the dirt too sandy and harsh. She missed her home. But even after the war was over, her home would never truly return.

Jannie shook away the melancholy thoughts, and refocused herself on the building. Clark, with a measure of civility she was half-surprised to see, stood in front of the entrance and held the door open.

“Thank you, Mister Harris.”

[Remnants of Exilvania]

Antoniya just snorted condescendingly as Milena warned her about Heim. Milena didn't need to tell her...and from what Antoniya could hear and see Milena took what she said very seriously. She had seen the her smile vanish upon just hearing the sound of Heim's words. And the way she talked about this lady on the table who was apparently quite successfully pacifiyng the bar, hissing almost.

Atleast Milena seemed to have taken well to her kind words about her dream. They were nice words and Antoniya didn't dare to answer to them for any answer she could've given would've ended up bringing Milena down again. She may be a social trainwreck but she still had a rough understanding, enough to know that crushing other's dreams or their general view of dreams was not something one should do. Still, she couldn't help but pity the girl. Not for her physique or the world she was born in, but for the dream she had. She couldn't imagine this dream coming true within her lifetime. Stalin seemed to have built his rule on foundations of blood and communism had been burned into Russia like an owner's signature or symbol into branded cattle. Having a nigh impossible dream was not always good. Many broke when pursuing such dreams to fervously.

"Know these speeches already. Hear many of these in war. Always hollow, just there to make people feel better about dying. Never change. Contents also exchangeable. Hear nearly the same in Bulgaria."

Now Antoniya was well aware of how people felt when they were handicapped. She had seen it time and time again in the field hospitals. Those who had received heavy wounds which would restrict them in their actions for the rest of their life, often reacted sour to pity and help from others after a while. It had to get annoying. And it was not as though Antoniya had not noticed that Milena was a bit weak on her legs. However, what she had also experienced was, that those same people liked it very much when handled with respect and actually being relied upon. Easy for Antoniya since she had reasons to respect Milena. Respect her for her dream. Respect her for fighting despite her frail body. Respect her for being allied personnel and a more senior member of the team than she was. Besides, since Antoniya had just heard that they were to head to the headquarters...of which she didn't know the location...she kind of had to rely on Milena:

"So. We should go to headquarters man said. You can lead to headquarters?"

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Shortly after having addressed the young lady up on the table, Dietrich heard an all too familiar voice from behind him. A voice whose owner he kept mentally cursing for his idiocy and principles but at the same time he could not help but envy the owner of that voice. If his ears hadn't betrayed him, then Beecher had already talked to him previously, back when he had paid the pub owner for the mess he had caused. Still, he hadn't managed to understand everything the american had told him. Only one word his ears had picked up on and that was honourable.

Honour. That Matthew Beecher still clung to such fictional, made up concepts just as honour made him pity and curse the man even more. But at the same time Dietrich envied him. The man still had honour. The man still believed in honour. Dietrich had, over time, trimmed down his notion of honour, mainly because with every war he found it more difficult to uphold his honour. By 1923 he had cut down his concept of honour to mere loyalty. He tied his honour to his loyalty. And this, this was something he thought to be easy to uphold. Afterall, he had always been loyal, had always followed orders and in the cases he had not, it was still for the greater good of Germany. But even this very limited definition became harder and harder to uphold as he watched the transformation of his beautiful army and the rise of the neopagan morons fromt he SS. But still he upheld it, hoping to preserve the last shred of honour that he had left. Now that he was in the allied camp, he had obviously broken lost even this tiny shred of honour.

He gave Beecher an appreciative nod while at the same time asking himself what the actual fuck a Mennonite was. To find out, his eyes followed Beecher's gaze...

...just to find the 'medic'. If what he wasn't too old for such behaviour and the whole thing wasn't so bloody sad, he would've rolled on the floor laughing. It was a young girl, which already made him doubt her capabilities. Not just that, he also didn't see any medical equipment on her, which meant that he'd probably still have to wait untill they'd reach the HQ untill the 'medic' had access to actual medical supplies to treat his wound. But that was not the worst. He had seen very young people from both genders perform very well in their assigned tasks. Hell, this Bulgarian was also very young but at the same time she was a Bulgarian Ace, if not THE Bulgarian Ace because he had never heard of another one. No, what topped all of this off was her behaviour. She was covered in the remains of food and what looked suspiciously like several different liquids, most likely from alcoholic beverages, all circumstances considered. And she was weeping and crying because of it?

Honestly, Dietrich had few principles left. But one of these principles was, to keep those who had no use on a battlefield as far away from it as possible. And someone with this mindset and exhibiting such behaviour was completely unfit of getting anywhere in the military or going even near the frontline, regardless of their abilities. She could be the best bloody medic in the world, but he would not let someone like this anywhere near his war. People with such mindsets were nothing but ticking time bombs. And when they broke under the pressure of the war, bad things happened. The fact that she was obviously underage AND female was only the cherry to top it all off.

And of course Beecher, the knight in shining armour, the man who still had a moral blindfold with which he could run through this horrific amd cruel world, immediately went over to her to comfort her. And apparently he was somewhat successfull, seing as the girl managed to get a hold of herself and wiped her tears away.

"Shall I?", she asked and Dietrich just looked at her in confusion. What should she? He looked at Beecher, helplessly, but had to see that Beecher had already turned away, striding towards the door. Well, guess he was stuck with her now. With a sigh he slowly went down onto his knees, every movement being slow and feeling to him as though he was as heavy as a mountain. He did so mainly so she had an easier time reaching his wound. He then bowed her head before her, although his eyes still did their best at looking upwards and mustering her suspiciously as he muttered:

"Very well. Do what must be done."

A part of him still hoped that she would just retrieve some bandages from a pocket and bandage his head. But nobody who could do nothing but that while at the same time being the way she was would be let into such an organisation. So a much larger part of him was fearful of whatever was going to happen now.

[Fascist Republic Of Bermuda]

Cynthia Marshall turned her head when she saw the hand she recognized as belonging to the Afrikakorps guy, and was about to say something. She never got to, because as soon as she opened her mouth, a Pole who looked like he bench-pressed his unit's Spitfires tackled her and sent them both sprawling out onto the floor. The ensuing melee was predictably one-sided, as Cynthia wasn't exactly a bodybuilder. The Pole was throttling Cynthia, who refused to have the common courtesy to just pass out already, when somebody fired their pistol. With a "Kurwa!" the Pole threw himself off of Cynthia, seeking cover from whoever the mad sod was that was shooting. Cynthia stumbled back to her feet, rubbing her throat slightly indignantly. It was that woman with red eyes... Heim, was that her name? And she was giving a speech, moralizing about the enslavement of Europe. To be honest, it was the standard propaganda stuff. IS THIS THE FUTURE YOU WANT? and the like, the Hun butchering babies, the kind of stuff about the Hun that her father would dismiss with a dismissive wave and grunt. But Cynthia did get the point. A divided United Nations were not a victorious United Nations.

Alright, Heim finally stopped talking and allowed everybody to catch their collective breaths. Somebody remarked that Captain Beecher's team should head to a briefing. That included her, she knew. Cynthia made her way over to the Arab in the Afrikakorps uniform, smiling crookedly as she wiped her bloody nose on her coat sleeve. "See, that fight was a piece a' piss!" She laughed slightly, "Ta for trying to get near me. Now let's bugger off to the briefing before the MPs arrive and we have to spin a yarn about this grand old mess."

[Wolfenium]

"Oh, of course," Milena blurted, a smile coursing on her face, "I'd be happy to."

Strange as it seemed, Milena felt unusually comfortable around the defector. Perhaps she saw a fellow exile in her, forced under circumstances to abandon her homeland. She was never very comfortable around the Allied personnel, but Polina's presence had only made matters worse. While she had grown to tolerate the mute political officer, she had, by no means, warmed up to her. That the others proved more accepting was very distressing, and she was sure they would feel the same between her and Antoniya.

---

Anna, for her part, was hardly a greenhorn anymore. Finding a clean towel and some cotton, she quickly cleaned her arms as she pulled out a bottle of rum from the drawer. Months of hopsital duty had taught her much, and the girl felt unsure at the lack of unease over Haegler's wound. Was it because of Warsaw? Was it her treatment of the wounded in the Blitz? She could not tell. But what mattered was her tolerance for such nauseating experiences. And it frightened her. A lot.

"Hold still," Anna said, checking the wound for shrapnel before cleaning it with a rum-doused cotton plume. At first, the medic did appear to be a mundane, such was the trait of folks who maintain only the bare minimal contact with the outside world. But hovering her hands over the wound, she whispered a few words in a tongue she knew virtually nothing about.

"[Goddess mends you.]"

This was sacrilege of the highest order, a repudiation of everything she believed in as a servant of God. It was hard to ignore how much the elders at Salem were unhappy with her mother, a witch who had renounced her gifts in the arcane arts and the Triple Goddess for a devoted follower of the one Lord and Saviour. To choose a common Pennsylvania farm boy, Adam Kreuz (later Cross), over the wealth of mystic knowledge promised to her by the coven was a nobler sacrifice to Anna than any blood and sweat shed for this current, violent upheaval. And she was still open to letting Anna join the coven, had she elected to.

But Anna was not given the luxury of choice. Even though she had never joined, her name had still cropped up in the coven's registry delivered to the Pentagon. She had long feared that the coven had been watching them. After all, it was hard to ignore the occasional raven or black cat staring across the road. That the elders had the gall to claim she was a part of it 'by birthright' outraged her, though she had to muster the restraint not to protest. In the end, however, her current predicament was partially her own work. Had she invoked her constitutional right more forcefully, perhaps she would not be in SHADOCOM. But humanity had untold ways to pressure others to reconsider, and the contemptuous gazes from her officers, trainers and peers was a daunting obstacle to overcome.

But that was before Warsaw.

Emitting a warm, green aura from her hands, Anna began closing the wound slowly, as if it began to cycle back in time. This was one of the most basic forms of witchcraft, evoking the power of nature to mend wounds. But she knew nothing of Haegler's disposition, and had he requested earlier, she would have simply used mundane first aid. But Anna was too used to the paranormal nature of her unit to think this through. Far too used to it...

[Rupudska]

With a grumble and a groan (though not one loud enough to be heard by anyone important), Esther allowed her octopod golem to return to its rightful place on her shoulder instead of where it had been prior to Heim's speech - on the face of a Frenchman who had mistakenly believed he could get away with attempting to give the Jewish-American lass a kidney punch. He was mistaken, and had several bite marks from the golem to prove it, along with a cracked rib from Esther herself. She grumbled something further about wishing Heim could use that ability to verbally (or mentally) command people in golemancy, but she was mature enough to realize now wasn't the best time. Now was instead the best time to head to the briefing.

Passing towards the entrance, she noticed Carmen and Katherine in a pile on a broken table, the two having been knocked semi-unconscious there by a British werewolf who still had an offensively smug grin on his lupine mug. She gave him a brief middle finger, and the Brazilian (Peruvian? Spaniard?) and the Australians both a gentle kick to the head, just enough to rouse them. They were smart, they could read the mood. Or at least Carmen could - Katherine would (and she did, there she went) try to start another fight before a fellow Aussie talked her out of it. Which barely worked, but one look at that Hellsing kid calmed her down.

[Minroz]

Terrance ‘Terry’ Brooks

Terrance was surprised by the gunshot as everyone is. He listened closely to every word, spoken by Heim herself. It’s like listening to the dark prophecy when the Axis Powers won the war. It made him feel unsettled to say the least. Despite her harsh statements including the part about his beloved country, he didn’t fault Heim for her logic. Her character and mannerism speaks for itself. This extends to his personal beliefs that United States role to be more involved in the war effort and fighting injustices.

On other hand, Terry didn’t need to use his head to know everyone needs to get their act together or else evil will prevail. But he’s not foolish; he knew not everyone can get along all the time. Century-long experiences and worldly adventures around people had taught him the reality of interpersonal relationships, be it mundane and magical. However, he finds Heim to be a complicated yet cold, calculating woman. His impressions of her aren’t exactly friendly, nor hostile. There’s one thing the New Yorker knew from Heim’s warnings, he’ll keep fighting for what’s right. For now, he’s not sure what to do in the aftermath of the bar fight except socialising or heading towards his bed.

“My, this is going to be lil’ awkward after this.” He remarked, scratching his head. “I cannot say every fellas’ gonna be happy all the time. I’m feeling a little deja vu.”

Terry is no stranger to dramas, he seen it a lot of times in his long years. Pretty much anything will never surprised him anymore. Peeking at Milena as she chatting with the Bulgarian girl, he remembered the Russian troubles back in Warsaw back at the old church. He cannot help himself feeling sorry for her. While Terry did not know her past, he can correctly guessed Milena’s personal problems stems from the harsh life of White émigrés. Some of his friends in New York were White Russian exiles, be it former nobles and runaway business folks, who’re eking their living in America to make ends meet. Thus, Terry doesn’t blame the albino girl for being hostile towards the Soviets. Though, he hoped the girl will be little less antagonistic for sake of alliances in considerate of others. After all, there’s still a war going on in Europe and elsewhere.

“Oh well, I’m gotta go.” Terry sighed as he started to walk.

-Dietrich-

-Anna-

As the American vampire walked passed-by them, he stop and gave the two his friendly smile. “Hullo, guten tag, fella! Dietrich, was it? Looks like it definitely hurts, didn’t it? You okay now?”

Terrance didn’t seem to judge the German in the harsh manner very much, comparing to the rest of the allied personnel.

He then looked at Anna. Seeing innocent children participating in the war made him sad. Terry doesn’t think children like Anna should be fighting. “Good evening, little miss~, I’m sorry that you have to see some violence happening in the bar. Some men likes to be rowdy, haha~. Don’t worry, I may be blood sucking vampire, I’m not gonna bite a nice girl like you.”

Giving Anna a wink, Terry jested at the last part. His friendly, sincere demeanour is his way of socialising.

[Monfrox]

Willow grabbed her dress jacket and followed Jannie out into the street, handkerchief thoroughly bloodied but the bleeding had started to slow. She looked to the others and wondered if it was worth it to get her face bandaged up. She noted the Captain on his way out and Clark holding the door. The others would file out on their own soon enough, or risk being caught up in the clean up. She chanced a look back into the pub.

"SHADOWCOM Operatives arrive at a local pub, take a table to themselves, then single-handedly wipe the floor with people making trouble. Yeah, this is gonna make our team look really good." She said, sparing no hint of sarcasm. "Let's get out of here. I need some gauze."

[Riysa]

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

"Behind you!" Haitham mouthed at the Kiwi in an attempted shout, his barking voice not carrying thanks to his exhaustion and dry throat. Well, even if it had, it was too late - the straight-up boulder of a Pole had already tackled her to the ground with a resounding "thud!". The Boulder had no issue quickly pinning her down and choking her with murderous intent, the difference in power way too great. Shoving his way out from another fighting pair, he moved to help his newfound comrade.

"Bang!" The distinctive sound of a gunshot rung out. Had someone finally lost it?

The lieutenant reactively dropped down to the ground, searching for the source of the shot, his aching legs more than happy to comply, his hand instinctively grasping for where his trusty Vis pistol would be. Except, his holster was empty, and so his hand grasped only air. A sharp spike of terror resonated in his heart, finding himself without a weapon for protection. In the heat of the brawl, he had momentarily forgotten that he had been disarmed during his defection.

Thankfully, the shot had been directed towards the ceiling, not at anyone in the crowd. It appeared as if it had been intended to stop the brawl, and it did that job well - nobody moved a muscle. The shooter was that cold woman around his age who had given him "the look"; judging by some of the people's reactions to her, kindness was not one of her famous traits. So, like everyone else, he remained where he was, and waited for what was next.

...

With everyone's attention on her, the woman went into a long speech, decrying the lack of unity, and speaking of the dreadful future that would follow a Nazi victory. Well, it didn't take a genius or a soothsayer to figure out the latter...especially when you experienced it first hand. It had driven Haitham and many others to defect. Though they had tried to keep the details of their most hideous secrets hidden from their foreign volunteers, the nature of Hexenjager work gave them exclusive insight into their workings. Pure, undiluted evil, there was no other word for the Nazi paranormal war machine.

The rest of her speech rung ironic to Haitham's ears. As if the Allies were some bastion of light and progress! France and the UK were almost as guilty in their murderous adventures around the world, and his experience in the East taught him that the communists were a bunch of godless bastards. Only America had any sort of moral high ground here, as it wasn't attempting to conquer the world. Plus, the so-called "Allies" didn't seem to have any reservation about deploying paranormal forces that were useful to them. Bah! Just because they were the lesser evil didn't mean that he had to like or support either choice.

Something else resonated with Haitham, though. Hearing her speech, the full consequences of his action, and the realization that these were his new comrades in arms hit him like an automobile. His friends were no longer Germans, but British and French, the same people who had conspired to brutally occupy his land; who he had fought, even. Now, he would be working to help further their goals, alongside their paranormals to boot. It was a sobering, sickening thought.

Pushing it out of his mind, he glanced around. The barfight had stopped, the two instigators had apologized to each other, military police were on their way, and there was a call that his new unit had to attend a briefing. Well, regardless of the content of the speech, at least it had put an end to the stupid brawl.

Haitham hauled his body back to its feet, calming down from the brief spike of energy that the fight caused. Even with his light expenditure just now, the events of the past several hours had taken a toll on him. His body ached all over, his joints felt brittle, and his mouth and throat felt like sandpaper. Not to mention the injuries from the escape; at least his hand hadn't gotten damaged again. He didn't want to think about how bad he'd feel tomorrow morning.

Most importantly now though was water, his thirst was quietly driving him insane. Moving over to the bar counter, he passed by teammates and other Allied personnel starting to pick up and leave - nobody wanted to get special treatment from the MPs. There, the bartender finally came out of hiding, assessing the room with a face conveying both anger and sadness. Haitham put his hands down on the counter, leaning forward, gazing at him with cold, tired eyes.

"One glass of water, pardon." He gestured to make his point. With an inquisitive, suspecting look, the bartender wordlessly grabbed one of the few unbroken glasses, filling it with water from the tap, and slid it over.

Carefully drinking from the glass to enjoy every last drop, the cool, soothing water tasted better than the sweetest honey to Haitham. It wasn't considered healthy or polite to drink it in one go, but having been so long without a sip, he couldn't will himself to put it down. Just like that, it was gone, the first drink he'd had in hours.

"Thank you." He said, turning back around. That grinning ANZAC trooper was making her way towards him, probably to catch up on the fight.

...

-quote-

"Yes, certainly. Excellent fighting." He nodded in reply, attempting to understand this unusual English dialect. "Unfortunately, the man had gotten there before I could. [i]Nam[i], yes, let us hurry, it is never good to be late to a meeting with your superiors...I do not particularly want to be punished on my first night here. We can talk our way there."

"Wait. Look towards me." He gently grasped Cynthia's face, turning it towards him, staring closely at something with burnt-out eyes.

"You have been hurt, are you okay?" Haitham said, gesturing towards her bloody nose and sleeve. It might have been a moot question, considering that she still had that carefree grin on her face, but she seemed like the kind of person who might casually underplay or not notice an injury. He had met those kinds of people before, and he learned the hard way to check closely. No way would he let himself get reprimanded in this new unit already.

[Remnants of Exilvania]

Behind him he could hear the Bulgarian and the other girl walk past and out of the pub. He recognised them by their comparatively lighter step as well as the Russian-Canadian girl's somewhat more unsure steps. Well, atleast he wouldn't have to babysit this Axis defector. Granted, as a Bulgarian and with a lower rank, award and age than him, she would probably fit in much easier than he would so he was really glad that she was off his mind now. If she had a friend to protect her and show her the ropes in SHADOCOM then that gave him more time to sort out his own issuses with the team.

Issues such as this medic who was both too young and too inexperienced to be let out of territory firmly in allied hands ever again. He didn't question her expertise, no, not at all. In fact, what she had showcased so far had pleasantly surprised him. She had cleaned her arms so she wouldn't bring new dirt into his wound and risk an infection. She told him to hold still and then took a closer look at his wound he presumed. Then he felt the familiar burning sensation of alcoholc touching the open wound, although this time in a much lighter way. It wasn't poured onto it en masse like he had done before, but rather it was being pressed onto his wound with something soft and obviously wet. Now, next he guessed that she would just put some bandages over his head and that would be it. Too little time left to properly sew the wound shut.

But different things happened after she took her hands off his face. Instead of rummaging somewhere in her pockets or looking for bandages, he could almost feel her hands still hovering above his wounds. Maybe she just hesitated. Maybe she just had to think about something real quick and forgot about her hands while doing so? He heard her say something unintelligible...

...and then things escalated. He felt something warm as though someone was holding a burning match close but not uncomfortably close to his wound. Through his eyelids, which he had closed previously due to a habit to always close them when being checked by doctors, he could see a faint green glow and at the same time, his wound suddenly felt incredibly weird. It was as if suddenly his skin up around there had turned into a multitude of slimy worms, slithering around there and slowly towards each other. No, whatever this was, it was not proper medicine. Something was definitely wrong. Was she some kind of weird witch doctor from these savages from Africa, dropping leeches onto his wound? But why the glow? He opened his eyes and to his own terror, he saw that nothing of that kind happened. Instead...the glow came from her hands? It dawned upon him, that he was being healed by magical means. And he did not take kindly to that.

With a roar, he suddenly pushed Anna's hands aside while letting himself fall backwards and quickly using his hands and feet to get further away from Anna, not even taking the time to stand up, just crawling backwards. With his eyes wide open he pointed a finger at her while shouting:

"You! You! How could you?!? Du hast mich vegiftet! Verseucht! Verdreckt! (You've poisoned me! Infected me! Dirtied me!)"

He was indeed so upset that he forgot to speak english, resorting to his mother tongue instead. For a moment he looked like he was about to lunge at Anna but some part of his rational self still seemed to be active inside him, telling him not to. He couldn't attack Allied personnel in the middle of allied territory while being unarmed and without any comrades. No, he had to do something about this wound, about this spreading infection. It would infect him, yes! The magic would come from the wound, course through his veins into every corner of his body, curse him forever.

He shook as he got to his feet, his feverish eyes scanning the room untill, AHA, finding what he was looking for. A mirror! He was quick to stumble over there and bend himself a little forward to look into the mirror. At first everything seemed alright. His face seemed normal save for a red tint due to his face not yet having been properly cleaned and remains of the blood after wiping the main part off a little still sticking around. And up there was the wound. Or had been. Now it was little more than a faint scar, probably because he had interrupted Anna's magic. But what at first seemed alright, soon did not. In Dietrich's imagination, dark veins started appearing under his skin, originating from the scar. The advanced quickly, soon covering much of his face in a net of black lines. He trembled and shook, touched his face, attempted to rub it off but imaginary veins cannot be rubbed off. He increased his efforts untill literally clawing at his face just to get it away all the while saying:

"Nein...nein...nein...nein...nein!"

His mind, in this surreal escapade of his suddenly remembered something. The girl was a witch, alright. He'd never ever request her to heal him again. But back before, directly after the fight. Had she not talked about being soiled in the devil's nectar and wheat demons? Had she not said so rather displeasingly? Yes, maybe some alcohol would counteract this? It was of course completely wrong but in Dietrich's mind it all made sense. And did he not take a whiskey bottle with him? One that was still atleast half full? A glance at his coat's pockets confirmed it, as he saw the bottle neck sticking out of one. He immediately retrieved it and started drinking, drinking as if his life depended on it. Only several gulps later did he dare look at the mirror again and oh wonder, the imagined dark veins were gone.

Still, he didn't quite trust the thing and eyed the scar on his head once more.

"Wag es ja nicht...(Don't you dare...)"

, he threatened the scar before closing the whiskey bottle and stuffing it back into his pocket. Now, he had drunk a lot in his youth. But even then this wouldn't have stayed without consequences. It was a pretty strong whiskey and he had just drunken a lot in a very short time. His vision blurred a little and his steps, as he slowly made his way over towards the door were made slowly and very carefully, as though he had trouble to precisely set his feet onto the floor where he wanted them to be. He could still make out other members of the team though, leaving the pub. His foggy mind concluded that they surely must be heading towards the headquarters and so he decided to follow them.

[Wolfenium]

Haegler's reaction came as quite a shock. Staggering back into Terry's arms as the old commander shoved her away, Anna's face froze at the septuagenarian's boiling anger. He accused her of polluting him, like an outraged pilgrim fearing for the loss of God's warmth. But behind that hate was an underlying fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the devil.

Watching him drown his anxieties as he left, Anna could only bow her head in disappointment. Not despair. Not panic. Just... disappointment. But how was she that content to brush off his curses? Had this happened before Warsaw, she might have sworn off magic out of fear and panic. Now, she did not feel that fazed. Sure, she had suspected for a long time that people like him exist, but she wondered if she should feel that much more panic.

How did she end up more concerned about being messy than this?

Speaking to Terry, she muttered, "thanks, Mr Brooks. We should head for the briefing."

That she was able to speak to an undead - even a friendly one - without batting an eyelid was already looking like a bad omen for her.

[Agritum]

October 22nd, Baker Street HQ, London

Non-combat personnel had always been crucial for the correct functioning of armies in the entirety of human history. Men and women whose toil was maybe not in mud trenches, but crowded offices, smelly kitchens, dusty depots and dirty garages. Nowadays some would call these people POGs. A correct description , but a tasteless one none the less.

Fleming had too suffered the toil of a POG. While he had no direct role in the missions of Shadow Command, his status as M implied a great deal of responsibility. And this responsibility he had shouldered in the ongoing months of war, taking a toll both bodily and mental.

When Abe and the rest of the now crowded team entered his lavish briefing room, Fleming was partaking in his favorite vice of chewing on finely crafted cigars from. The Cuban plantation. Abe felt pity for an intuitive man being reduced to a tobacco-fueled machine.

"So here you are. Take a seat, and be careful not fling it at the nearest person" Fleming quipped, letting his cigar rest on his ashtray as he rose from behind his desk. A brunette woman who Abe didn't know, in a British service uniform, was standing next to him. Abe noticed a weird velvet streak of luminescent hair passing through her otherwise mundane hairstyle, intermittently quieting down to a normal brown.

"Also, let me introduce you to a visiting agent from the SOE, my good friend and colleague..."

"Violette. Violette Szabo" the woman cut him short, with a quick but warm smile. She had energy in her eyes, which burned with the guile of a cat burglar looking at a priced diamond. "Alas I won't join you in your next mission. I am permanently stationed to aid Free French Forces and the Maquis. Rather, I am here to vouch personally for one of your colleagues."

There was a burst of white flame in the middle of the room. Abe covered his eyes from the scorching light. Heim felt a bad feeling. Polina was confused. Vampires in the room would feel the distinct burn of the cursed sun, for a few painful seconds.

Fleming looked sore about Violette, but was just as stoic as her when the flame gave way to an human figure, a female one.

She had an aura of cold grandeur. The first thing Abe noticed was her hair, almost as white as an Esper's, and yet not quite there, still lost in some small accents of brown. Like a bleach in progress. Her golden eyes, though, did not share the bloody iris of the Soviet creatures.

She coughed.

"I am Iridelle de l'Arc-en-Ciel, inquisitor of the loyalist Lodge Gallia. A pleasure to meet you all." she announced, in low, almost bored tone, her French accent showing "I was cloaked, if that was not evident before.".

Awkward silence followed for a few seconds.

"Iridelle" started Violette, "Is a valuable field agent. In fact she had led the covert operations branch of the Free French forces in battle even before the happenings of Operation Seeloewe."

"The Republican forces." Iridelle quipped. She wrestled the conversation from Violette. Fleming raised an eyebrow but stood silent. "Even before the invasion of France proper, I carried out my duty as an Inquisitor of the Lodge by seeking out supernatural threats to French interests that also hid in the midst of our own community. After the invasion, our Lodge was exiled to the colonies while the Vichy traitors became henchmen for the boches. "

Iridelle looked at Haegler. "Germans."

"Iridelle is a skilled photomancer, that is, a light magician. Her family's craft is centuries old and lies root into their research on the metaphysical factors behind the Eternal Flame of the benign Persian god Ahura Mazda." violette resumed

Iridelle nodded." Due to the aforementioned reasons, I was selected by Commander Fleming to leave my post in Algeria, and join SHADOCOM."

Iridelle sat, Fleming took a sigh of relief, and turned on the projector. " Before we start, you should introduce yourself to the crowd, Jerome" he noted to a young man in knightly grabs, as Violette lowered the projecting panel, and shut the light off.

A warning notice about Top Secret material being contained in the following diapositives played, before being replaced by an ominous name.

OPERATION DEADFALL.

"About one month ago, intelligence contacts reported Axis movement southwest of El Alamein, directly in the neighboring desert. We're speaking armor, wagon trains, halftrack. Any ground vehicle you can name, they brought it out. Germans and Italians."

The picture switched to a black and white picture of a desert site, resembling the newly excavated top of a buried structure." This was taken by an aerial reconnaissance patrol half a month ago, over Siwa, an oasis town south El Alamein and the Qattara Depression.
We crosschecked it with geographers and experts in Egyptian history: the town was the host of an ancient oracle cult, centered around the temple of the deity Amun-Ra. "

The picture shifted to a repertoire image of a British Museum piece of ancient Egyptian art displaying the dignified, bidimensionale expression of the god." A major deity, Amun represented triumph against foreigners. It's under his favour that the invading Hyksos where sent away from Egypt."

The picture shifted to a set of stats. "We were intrigued by this massive Axis expedition and referred it to our threat calculation system, Pathfinder."


Heim was silent. The less knew, the better it was.

"Pathfinder determined that ignoring the Axis excavation of the temple would result into immediate Allied defeat in the North African front in the space of a few hours. Reasons unknown."

There was silence. Fleming spoke up again.

"Heavy sandstorms in the area obstacle insertion by plane. You will be thus leyshifted to Cairo, where the Long Range Desert Patrol will rendezvous with your team and bring you to El Alamein, and further down the Qattara Depression. Once there you shall make way to Siwa while avoiding German patrols. Take caution of the local Berber tribes: the population is used to raiding western convoys, or may have even been bribed by Axis forces in the zone to do their biding.

Any questions? "

[Cylarn]

Wonderful, I love being wet.

After volunteering to hold the door for his team, Clark was the final man to enter the building. His face and nose and body ached with pain, albeit muffled from the alcohol - though not by much. His uniform was soaked and damp from the rain, flecked with blood and alcohol and disheveled in the fighting. As the team shuffled on various journeys that would inevitably lead to the briefing room, Clark's hands went to work; his right hand unbuttoned his jacket, the left unbuttoning the top two buttons of his collar while simultaneously undoing his tan tie.

Clark bee-lined for the bathroom, where he presented himself with the sink. He leaned over it, hands on the counter before turning on the cold water. Wake up. His posture straightened, and he scooped up some water in his hands before throwing it in his face. The cold hit him quickly, with a peculiar combination of discomfort and relief. His left hand pulled down a towel, and he wiped the blood from his face. Looking up, he examined himself in the mirror, all bruised and soaked by rainwater. You look as good as you're gonna get, kiddo. He turned around and left the bathroom, making his way to the briefing room.

Wrestling off his coat as he entered the room, he noticed Fleming present - along with two striking females that he had not seen before, or had been previously acquainted with. The first one, the brunette in the British getup, looked familiar to Clark. Wasn't she that broad selling perfume over by the Parliament building? Good of a cover as any, I suppose. The white-haired girl, on the other hand, deserved a second double-take. Her aura of superiority, of the old order that Clark knew nothing about. He sighed, his chagrin likely to be found a nuisance, and began to unbutton his shirt, will fully oblivious of the occupants in the room.

We're an unorthodox unit. If deblousing to my wife-beater just considered "too unorthodox," then send my ass back to the Rock and throw away any chance of parole.

Clark sat his shirt and jacket on the back of an empty chair, and he made his way across the room over to a side table adorned with a decanter of Brandy and a box of cigars. Without the layers of clothing covering his arms, one could see a large black compass on his upper left arm, a chain with distinct, large links descending to his elbow. A range of dark blue mountains - the Blue Ridge, to knowledgable eyes - mantled his back across his shoulders, obscured by the white wife-beater that he chose to wear under his uniform. His right arm, specifically the inner side of his upper arm, bore a series of last name. Some were English or of other European immigrant stock; others were thick Spanish surnames.

Clark prepared himself a beverage and cigar just in time for the briefing to begin. Like the others, Clark patiently listened as the white-haired girl and her brunette companion were introduced. Clark was more interested in the mission, surprisingly. According to Fleming, the Germans and Italians were moving a lot of men and materiel in what many assumed to be an empty, hot span of sand and rock. Apparently, there was a temple there, and what little Clark knew of Nazi occult operations gave good reason for a chill to creep up his spine.

When Fleming opened the floor to questions, Clark raised his hand.

"Do we have anything on what specific hostile units are moving into the Depression? Are these guys from the Afrika Korps, or is the Ahnenerbe moving their muscle out there?"

Clark took a puff of his cigar, and waited for a response.

[Wolfenium]

"I was getting to that, poppy," Ariel told Clark, a flair for wit, as always. With a crop on hand, she tapped on the screen for the projector operator to switch to the next few slides. On them, the familiar tricolour of the Italian forces were shown, taking up positions around the town and the temple ruins. On one, an even more familiar face cropped up among the smatter of German personnel. And on another, a scarred, burly gentleman, may also be of interest.

"As you may have heard, Siwa was, up till last month, a staging area for the Long Range Desert Group for raids into Libya until the Italian 136th Armoured Division Giovani Fascisti - 'armoured' being euphemistically applied to a unit that still hasn't gotten its tanks - captured the town. As of current, Axis forces in the area have been reinforced by elements of the 185th Paratroopers Division Folgore and 132nd Armoured Division Ariete - with actual tanks this time. The Afrika Korps, under Rommel, have thus far declined to divert their own units there in favour of another push for El Alamein. Ahnenerbe, as such, would have to rely on Italian support for defences, which is good news for us."

"What is not good news, however, is who else they've brought in," Ariel indicated, tapping at the slide containing a certain female vampire, "for those who had been with us at Warsaw, this little wench should not be a stranger to you. For those who aren't, this is Carmilla, awful little blighter who goes by the name of Elizabeth Bathory. Don't know why she signed up and, honestly, I don't give a damn. Why they sent her to a place where it's all sun and no shade? You tell me."

"The next blighter we have here," she said, tapping on the scarred man, "is SS-Obersturmbannführer Otto Skorzeny. An Austrian-born Waffen SS commando with a flair for adventure and what not. He was personally involved with plans to occupy 10 Downing Street during Operation Seelöwe, but we had been tipped off in advance and the man wisely opted to abandon the mission than to become a martyr. Shame. He will be taking the lead in the handpicked Waffen SS detail deployed, so don't expect easy pickings."

Switching to the next slide, displaying several crates being unloaded from German transports, Ariel briefed, "besides them, Ahnenerbe had also brought in unidentified hardware to bolster their defences around the temple. Some of them, we suspect, are the same variants we faced at the Warsaw tower, such as the Panzerhunds and other little nasties about. But after our little light show, we have reason to believe they have brought in more. We're still trying to find out more, but the LRDG could not gather anything substantial."

"Meanwhile, as said earlier," she informed the room, "for this operation, the bulk of the resistance we'll be facing will come from Italian forces requisitioned for their excavation. Most, I believe, are fairly inconsequential. What they have in spirit could not compare to the woeful technological, logistical and leadership capabilities of their overall forces. What is dangerous is the non-mundanes they brought along. Apparently, Il Douche has felt the need to compensate for his inadequate contribution to the Axis cause with something of a grand nature. Direct your attention to the documents presented on your table, if you please."

Changing to the next slide, a visible twist on Ariel's mouth belie a simmering bitterness over the figures inside. On it were members of the Milizia Volontaria per la Sicurezza Nazionale, or Italian Blackshirts, the fascist militia of Mussolini's party. While their combat capabilities vary widely in practice, there was reason for Ariel to dread this particular unit. The trio of women speaking to Skorzeny in the photo appear innocuous at first, but the dossiers given to the mean said otherwise.

"The Tre Stelle, or 'Three Stars' in Italian," Ariel explained in a slightly more grim tone, "a battalion-sized unit composing of three companies, lycan, vampire and witch, the Tre Stelle had been active in North Africa since the start of the war. Bianca Sforza, Caterina de Medici and Caesarina Borgia are the three 'stars' of their merry band. We've already had one too many run-ins with them to tell you not to joke about them."

Bending her crop, Ariel herself tried hard to keep her composure. But her days with the Long Range Desert Group had left her with one too many unpleasant encounters with the Tre Stelle. She had fought them, often up close and personal. And while she did not seem to truly hate them, she clearly took offence to their presence in Siwa.

"Fair warning," she told the group, "they're literal animals. No offence to our more bestial or batty companions, but if there was any group of miscreants who had caved in to their basest instincts, it would be them. Make no mistake. They will eat you. And if you're lycan or vampire, they'll just figure out some other way to make your last breath a long, living hell."

[Remnants of Exilvania]

Dietrich was still surprised how close the HQ had been. Just across the street apparently. Then again, why else would the pub be filled to the brim with military personnel and paranormal pests? Of course some sort of military installation with a focus on the supernatural had to be closeby. So here he sat now, in what could probably be considered their briefing room and congratulated himself for not getting lost on the way here.

So who else was here apart from their team? He could see that Fleming character to whom he had actually been introduced to in prison already. Something about seeing if he was actually eligible and trustworthy enough to join SHADOCOM. And apparently chewing on a cigar. Dietrich sighed about that. He knew how it felt as a commander. One was put under a lot of stress and had to work on so many things. It was easy to get addicted to some substance that helped relieve that stress. The problem was to get rid of that addiction again because such substances usually weren't healthy. He had learned the hard way how difficult it was to get rid of an addiction. He wondered if Fleming could pull off the same before he ruined his health too much.

Anyway, apart from him there was a woman. She wore a british uniform and had some weird hair although he wasn't quite sure about it. His vision was still kind of blurred so he couldn't be sure. Fleming introduced her as someone from the SOE, a good friend and colleague and...then she just interrupted him, introducing herself as Violette Szabo. While Fleming seemed to grudgingly accept this kind of interruption, Dietrich did not, sending the woman an angry glare. If he were on his old post, he would not let such insubordination fly, regardless of the person's race or importance to the planning. The only saving grace would be superior rank. Discipline. That was what an army needed, what it didn't function without. Anyway, she continued saying that she was not here to aid and rather to vouch for someone else...so what was the bloody point? Was Rommel here to vouch for his skill and his loyalty? Was his goddamn interrogator here to vouch for his motivations? No, they were not. So was she really needed here?

Suddenly white flames flared up in the middle of the room. Despite his senses being a tad bit foggy, his reflexes worked as good as ever. He jumped up with a speed one would not think possible for a man of his size and age while retrieving the whiskey bottle from his coat...only to realize that pouring whiskey into a raging fire was probably a tad bit counterproductive. However, when the flames revealed a human figure, his next thoughts were that an enemy had managed to sneak into the briefing room. Why else this dangerous and threateningly looking appearance with flames? But when Dietrich saw Fleming not acting at all, he slowly lowered his arm, which had been ready to throw the bottle at the head of the white haired female.

She was...weird and not in a way he liked. Her sudden and unusual appearance had already left a bad taste in his mouth. Her overall apparel made it even worse. Nearly white hair. He was again not sure if he was picking up traces of brown or if his intoxicated senses were playing tricks on him. He thought of espers rightaway...and he left out the small detail of the eye colour because he actually wasn't quite sure if the espers were just red or if they all simply had unusual eye colours. The golden eyes he saw right now definitely didn't fit his bill for a usual eyecolour. Now, she introduced herself as Iridelle de Larkenshiel...yeah...he was not going to go through the trouble and pronounce that name correctly in his head. Anyways, she said she was an inquisitor of the Gallia Lodge. So a mage, he thought. Alright, mages too could have weird haircolours.

Now this lady ticked him off straightaway on so many levels. Firstly, the way she had appeared. Secondly, her apparel. Thirdly, her position as a mage. Fourthly, her absolutely fucked up attitude. It was times like this, when he full heartedly wished he had helped during the Blitzkrieg into France. And she only got worse, interrupting her probably superior officers when they attempted to fill them in on her a little more. It was at this point that Dietrich decided to ignore the woman. Important or not, she seriously ticked him off and in his intoxicated state he didn't want to imagine what happened if he got ticked off. And so he slowly seated himself again, his bones creaking a little as he did so. He could feel the toll the previous fast movements had taken on him. Pain was a constant reminder of his age.

They were then shown pictures with a projector. Operation Deadfall? Well, alright for a name although a bit too melodramatic for his taste. Though once the explanations started he leaned forward, interested. El Alamein. He knew the name. Every Axis soldier stationed in Africa had heard it at some point. It was often considered the last barrier before Cairo in Axis circles and if Cairo fell, Egypt fell too and with that control of the Suez would be assumed by the Axis.

But apparently this was not exactly about El Alamein but about something nearby. Siwa. He remembered it. Back when he had been captured, on the way back, the LRDG had made a stop there. Though what he saw now on the pictures showed, that the Siwa Oasis had undergone quite the transformation. Some structure had been excavated and from what he could see, the place was crawling with troops. Continuing to listen intently, this was apparently some ancient temple dedicated to some Egyptian god. To be honest, he couldn't care less what god it belonged to. All that interested him where the reasons why they were there. Not that he got to know it. Rather, the Allies had just asked some 'Threat Calculation System' they called 'Pathfinder' which had then told them that the excavation would lead to total Axis victory in North Africa within hours.

Alright, now they were playing tricks with him. There was nothing that assured victory within just mere hours. Now, he didn't think of it in the way that whatever the Axis was excavating was incapable of just annihilating the allied opposition without losses on the Axis side. Rather, he was sceptical that whatever they were going to use was capable of travelling the entirety of Allied controlled northern Africa within just a few hours.

He ignored most of what came after, only listening a bit when briefed about the actual make up of the troops present at the site. italian troops mainly. Alright, with that he could live. Italians were no problem for the Allies afterall, which they had proven time and time again. Ahnenerbe was there as well. Carmilla...oh, he knew the lady alright. He had taken the opportunity to visit her castle shortly after they had partitioned Czechoslovakia. Then Skorzeny. Dietrich raised one of his brows when he saw him. He didn't expect that SS commando to show up down here. Maybe the idiot hoped to have some adventures in the old pyramids and find old egyptian treasures? Dietrich could definitely imagine Skorzeny as a treasure hunter.

Next they were to read documents on their table. Alright, Dietrich thought. Let's see what we got there. Shortly after opening it and reading the first few lines, he closed it again and shoved it away from himself. He didn't need to read that. In fact, he had contributed to the creation of these documents. He was well acquainted with the Tre Stelle or 'Drei Reinfälle' (Three Failures) as he used to call them. He actually felt pity for Skorzeny when he looked at the picture again. So this poor man now had to plan with them? He knew he shouldn't since he was on the other side now but he still wished Skorzeny best of luck.

Since Fleming had given them the opportunity to ask questions, Dietrich thought it to be a good time to express his own concerns and ask his own questions. Clearing his throat before asking, he then said:

"Excuse me if I may sound a little ignorant but I have seen enough of our warmachine. I know just how fast we or our allies can maneuvre. And I seriously doubt the excavation of this site to bring total victory within just mere hours. There's nothing moving across Northern Africa within just hours in our inventory last I checked. Now, maybe my definition of total victory is deviating from yours. Maybe total defeat constitutes the fall of El Alamein for you but for me total victory would be the total annihilation of all enemy forces in the theatre. And given all the space in the North African theatre as well as the partly very widely distributed forces, I seriously doubt that we could hope to reach and annihilate everything within such a short time. Unless the this temple grants the Axis Powers the friendship of the sands of northern Africa and lets the Allied forces be swallowed by these very sands, I don't see it happening.

But I can believe that the possession of this temple and its contents is very beneficial to the side who holds it.

How much support do we have on this mission? From what I can count right now, we face the locals, the Ahnenerbe and sizeable Italian forces, including elite troops. I wouldn't even attempt approaching this encampment if I were invisible. The density of enemy forces is very high. Can we count on diversionary attacks from other allied troops such as the LRDG or the RAF to occupy and draw away some of these forces?"

[Rupudska]

The walk to the HQ, as short as it had been, had been enough to fully rouse Carmen and Catherine to a proper state of consciousness and, as expected, Catherine was rendered miserable due to the rain. Carmen, having spent over twenty years of her life in a rainforest, did not care, and Esther, having spent a little under half her life in New York City, found it mildly annoying at best.

The two people introduced brought mixed emotions to the trio. From the moment she opened her mouth, Violette was disliked by Carmen (for having the audacity to interrupt a superior), liked by Catherine (for the same reason, as she saw Fleming as a stick in the mud), and untrusted by Esther (she didn't like the look on her face. Reminded her too much of the people she'd seen as a child around Wall Street, even years after the stock market crash.) The second person, however, caused reactions a bit more unified in nature. Carmen hated her immediately for all-but-certainly using light-based transportation magic deliberately in the presence of vampires, and hated her more for being an Inquisitor of a lodge, and still more for being one of the French Republic, which had notably done a total of fuck and all to halt the machinations of the fascist-aligned mages and other supernatural beings in her native Spain against the monarchists, republicans, and others who wanted not to see another nation enslaved to the lullaby of fascism. Catherine and Esther both disliked her simply because of the woman's attitude.

Still, they listened.

The mission was pretty simple, once Carmen and Esther thought about it, but for different reasons. Carmen, because she had seen this thing before, Esther because she had read such adventures in pulp fiction - adventurers going off to who-knows-where to either anger or deliberately awaken a god of some sort, or attempt to do so. Why else would the Germans and Italians be excavating a temple way off in the middle of the desert unless there was something there supernatural worth excavating? If they had merely wanted a temple, they could have simply put more effort into taking El Alamein and waited until they got to Cairo, or Giza, or Memphis.

Then of course there was the lovely cast of characters. Carmen bristled at the mention of Carmilla. She had failed once before to slay the abomination, it would be shameful to fail again, even if she had to drag her by the hair into the accursed light of the Sun herself. Better to die with the honor of the Pizarro clan than allow one more moment of breath to the Daughter of Satan that could have been prevented.

The SS Agent was of little interest. It struck Carmen not unlike Esther in a way, at least the way Esther was when the two first met - an adventurer turned warrior who was either about to be in it too deep for their own good, or had long since stared into the abyss and made rude gestures towards the blackness.

At the Italians, Carmen and Catherine almost laughed. Carmen had remembered the Borgias, and they always struck her as overblown, especially in recent years, even before their association with the damnable fascists. It always struck her as ironic - the very culture of Italy seemed anathema to the restrictions of life required for a vampire's survival.

But, then again, she was of Spanish stock and had spent most of her life in Peru and Brazil, spending much of that time starting a vampiric house of her own, so she wasn't one to talk. Catherine simply thought these 'Sons of Romulus' to be trying too hard to play old soldier. The warning phased neither of them - Catherine because she had fought to a similar tooth-and-nail degree against other werewolf tribes in the Outback, and Carmen because she had once lived that life as a near-feral in the Amazon. Not that she'd ever admit such a thing.

However, there were two things of note. Carmen spoke them first.

"While Ariel mentioned the elephant in the room, she has not addressed it - We are to go to the Sahara Desert, and one of the driest, sunniest parts of it no less, where we will likely be for some time. How, then, do you intend to put us vampires to use? While I can certainly be useful as a sniper even from inside buildings, there are very few between Cairo and the oasis of Siwa, and I doubt even the Italians would just let us arrive there, even if we only moved by night."

"And I gotta question too," added in a somewhat impatient Esther. "I know that I'm the only one who probably has any intrinsic knowledge of this, but where exactly am I expected to get material for making golems in the middle of the Sahara Desert? According to this map, the Mediterranean is some one hundred sixty miles away, and the waters of the Nile are eternally tainted from the Plagues and thus worthless for making golems. I know there's an oasis, but have we confirmed it was not affected by the Plagues?"

[Sonitusia]

Thankfully the dirt hadn't gotten on our uniforms or there'd been hell.

After the fiasco in the pub had ended by gunshot and speech, the earthen fortress I'd conjured put back into the ground, we'd been moved to HQ. It was just a walk away from the Arms, on the same street that the seemingly fictional detective had lived and conducted his thought sessions. Mohamad looked like he'd been hit by a table (which in fact he'd told me several times of the event), but all he had to show on his uniform were a few splinters that did nothing to truly damage the cloth.

Looking back to my surroundings, I kept myself at attention to avoid messing up. There was an air of importance in the room, similar to that of an officer's meeting and wasn't one I was used to. Truly, this was where the lieutenant was better situated, in a place where your rank mattered more than your powers or abilities.

I for one only grasped "Dreadfall", "Africa", "Armor", and "Axis". And that was probably all I'd ever need for the time being. Cheung had been reading over the document as if it were a breath of new information that she'd never been given, which made sense considering all of our exploits up until this point only had to do with Nihon. Looking over, the photograph of the three girls gave me the impression that we'd be fighting a group of magical pin-up girls. Coming out of the jungle, this was most definitely a breath of fresh air. Even Mohamad looked interested for once to get into the fight.

"Take a few notes Sanderson," Cheung spoke up while going through the other pages, "Make absolute certainty that the tropical filters are working at top capacity. If possible, find yourself an onsite mechanic who can help with desert modifications. Since this'll is our first time in Africa, we'll go with what the LRDG has to say as well..."

Closing the document, she sighed and pinched her forehead. That sent alarms through my head; apparently there was a lot of work that had to be done, and that meant I'd really have to take out the notepad. Greasy and with so many scribbles on it, the small book was my entire heart and mind regarding the Iron Weasel. Sketches dominated entire pages with questions and answers written next to diagrams. Finding myself a clean sheet and marking it 'Africa Mod', I was ready for whatever she had to say.

But it seemed that the first question was targeted towards the brass rather than myself.

"Sir, is our budget enough to obtain a few upgrades for the UC?" she asked without delay as soon as all other questions were finished, "The Iron Weasel's armament is adequate for a tussle against Tojo, but versus the Jerries, and possibly the Macaronis, we may have a smidgen of trouble keeping up. There is also the issue that while we are prepared for tropical terrain, we may need a few things to completely prepare our lovely steed for the natural dangers of the African desert."

She was completely correct. Knowing my machine well, we lack anti-aircraft capabilities, and while the 75mm M2 was an excellent cannon for the time being against my countrymen and their tanks, rumors of new vehicles being deployed on the west meant that the Grant might be having a bit of difficulty keeping up with the Doitsu advance. Not to mention how much of a coffin the Grant can be, at least with the Weasel one can simply jump out should it be damaged. And let me tell you, I've fixed my baby so many times that I'm actually a bit more thankful that the fighting in the desert won't be close combat fighting 24/7.

Hopefully.

[Occupied Deutschland]

Clark Harris, apparently in a fit of madness, had taken the opportunity to disrobe. Jannie stared unable to determine if the feeling in her stomach was disdain or…something else? Was it amusement at his casual disrespect? It couldn’t be. It had to be shock at the numerous tattoos defiling his body. Jannie was debating making a comment on the matter when the light interrupted.

The light burnt.

Jannie pulled her eyes away from it as quickly as she could, but was still left with a lingering ache in her single open eye and a pain that danced across the silver-scars that pockmarked her face. Too late, she threw up a hand to block the light, and the searing pain on her palm was a relief in comparison to that which had been on her face.

Jannie felt her canines throb, and unconsciously brought one leg back into a fencing stance. A witch. Insolent little whelp of a man-cattle with her mystical nonsense! She’d be dead!

As quickly as it came the light disappeared, Replaced by ‘Iridelle de l'Arc-en-Ciel, inquisitor of the loyalist Lodge Gallia’.

Jannie brought her legs back together and smoothed out her clothes with the one hand that hadn’t been burnt by the light. One of the new man-cattle slated to accompany them—a curiosity of an older gentleman with eyepatch and thinning white hair—seemed on the verge of drawing something on her before settling back down onto his seat. He smelled…Old. Tired. Old age and treachery, however, could oft overcome youth and skill.

Jannie returned her attention to the French inquisitor.

“Enchante, Mademoiselle Inquisitor de l’Arc-en-Ciel.” She managed, holding eyes with the other woman as the burns inflicted by the light on her face and hand mended themselves, “Dans le futur, donnez un avertissement de votre arrivée s'il vous plaît.”

Withdrawing her gaze from the mage the same way she would a bug, Jannie focused instead upon the briefing. If she considered the French mage too much, she could still feel that tugging desire to rip her limb from limb and—

The announcement of Carmilla’s involvement with the Axis dig in Egypt brought an end to her brief reverie. She had failed once before in confronting her Hungarian patruelis. This was a chance to correct that mistake. It was almost enough to thank Heim for.

Otto Skorzeny, however, was a mystery. Jannie watched Abe for any potential reaction, but the boy didn’t seem to recognize the man. That didn’t rule out the Austrian being a vampire-hunter, but it did make it somewhat less likely than the scar on the man’s face suggested. There were, after all, a handful of man-cattle who still practiced fencing. Perhaps Skorzeny was one of them.

She didn’t know if the eyes she felt on herself while the other Austrians photograph was on-display were real or not. He too was Austrian, perhaps of the late, stumbling wreck her monarch’s country had been made into after the First World War, but still Austrian. Now, he served masters in Berlin as part of the Grossdeutsches Reich and the Axis, while she associated herself with the man-cattle of London and the Allies.

A curiosity of a man-cattle for sure.

The rest of the briefing, presented rather impressively logically by Ariel Remington, was little Jannie really needed to focus much upon. The Italians were heavily invested in North Africa, with support from some band of were-cultists who venerated the Roman Empire and a clan of her Kindred whose time had long-since passed. The Borgias had not been influential since the 15th century. Opportunistic as ever, they were likely latching onto the Axis cause as a final shot at restoring the old glories they’d lost. They were certainly desperate enough to involve themselves with heathen Egyptian gods and occult nonsense.

They would not be civil about it, either. Her pater had never been enamored with the heavy-handed manner the Kindred of the Italian states had managed their competitions—or their holdings—with. They likely would be just as vicious in Egypt as they ever were in the Italian states.

Carmen’s question chilled Jannie as she realized the answer, and out of near-habit she looked at Beecher for an instant before returning her eye to the front of the room.

“Dona Pizarro, unless I am mistaken, I believe shielding us Kindred from the sun may be the reason for Mademoiselle Inquisitor de l’Arc-en-Ciel’s presence.” Jannie said, forcing a steady neutrality into her voice that she did not feel.

Magic. Being used on her. Again. Now by someone who’d already sent her into a fit of burning pain. She would be dependent upon the mage’s—or her magic’s—benevolence. She would have to rely on a man-cattle and their magic. She would be vulnerable. She approved of none of that.

Hopefully she was wrong.

[Monfrox]

Willow sat in her seat, trying not to pick at the dried blood on her face that hadn't been covered with fresh gauze. She appeared late, having made a quick stop to a hospital and being on her way again. She didn't miss much, and eventually she got to see everyone else make their questions. The vampires were, understandably, concerned with the desert sun. To a lesser extent though, so was everyone else. With the introduction of the LRDG as allies, things seemed nice until she got a look at what they were up against. Roman legionnaires? Wolfmen tribes? Frilly girls in masks? All led by three of the most ruthless Italian women ever to live? They went up against long odds in Warsaw, but Willow was once again reminded that she was a mortal being and had nothing truly special about her. Course, she didn't feel special about KOing a werewolf in the bar fight though, so maybe she was underestimating herself.

There was a lot that had happened in her time away, but her training hadn't been too special about anything until just recently when she was made a beach scout. It was more and more apparent that she would never truly be able to overcome supernatural forces, but she would be able to even the odds like Beecher did in his own way. She looked over to Clark as he had made his way over for a cigar in a tank top. Wonderful, as if that was just the vibe that their command was expecting to get from their unit. She sighed to herself and looked back forward, thinking about how hot it was going to be in the desert and how much water she would have to bring.

"I would certainly hope we have a plan for our more, how do I put this..."solar-challenged" allies to adapt to the harsh sun. I don't think we have enough sunscreen for that, not that it would do much. And long hoods and capes would probably be a laughable means of defense if anything, not to mention very stuffy and suffocating."

It was at this time she remembered that yes, the supernatural did have weaknesses. Well, the name of the game now was exploiting that to their advantage. Surely the vampires they were going up against had the same problems, so that would level the playing field in an interesting way.

[Minroz]

Among the colourful assortment of people is Terrance Brooks. Sitting next to the Syrian named Haitham, Terrance had briefly watched the briefings with interest. He can see why the next mission will set in Egypt. Terry didn’t need to guess how dangerous the Axis forces are. It’s not like Warsaw, every operative in the room are after all up against the possible whole armies in the Axis-occupied North Africa and he is just but one vampire man.

On the positive side, his main advantages against the Tre Stelles are his combat experiences he accumulated from the last hundred years of life. His years of battling and adventures had taught him to be a cautious fighter who counted on his instincts to survive. It had served him well so far. Learning from his experiences, he is not foolish enough to underestimate his opponents and had number of past close-calls to remind him of the fact. The ladies of Tre Stelles were probably little girls in comparison to his century-worth of experience. However, this doesn’t mean he let his guard down.

Seeing Dietrich, Carmen and then Esther raised their questions once Fleming finished his debriefings, he understood their points. Nothing wrong with preparing for the worst to come, he didn’t expect the fight against the Axis and their Occult allies to be easy.

“While I’ll be, I hope we can get to the bottom of this. Men like Nazis are the type of folks who cares only about power. What are they doing in Egypt are surely up to no good, judging by amount of their guards, must be important, eh.” Terry remarked lowly.

“Hey friend,” He then looked at Haitham. “Have you ever visited Egypt before? I have. It was interesting place except there’re no Germans and Italians come around, hehe.”

What the people here didn’t know or realised, Terrance is actually fluent in many languages. His vampire longevity allowed him to take time to learned many languages over time. He is confident enough to speak Arabic with the local Egyptians or the languages of the Axis occupiers.