Batman: Reich of Shadows - GronHatchat

Chapter 1 Chapter Text

Kraków Ghetto, March 13, 1943

You have a choice to make. Obliteration, or devastation.

It sounds awfully matched.

That is war, Master Bruno. There are no alternatives. You should understand that quite well by now. Consider what you're intending, and the impact you believe it will have.

I have. Many times. That's why I'll see it through.

That terrifies me, sir…

Good. Then it's already begun.

Already begun indeed. March 13, and they are marching. He cannot count them all, their numbers too high, a significant collaboration of agencies that will wash over this place like an evil flood sent from Hell.

He watches them from the shadows atop one of Wawel's towers, watches them move in an orderly, professional rigidity, the stern movements of men prepared to murder and sleep, all within the same 24-hour period, impossible as such a joint enigma seems. Perhaps some of them will have nightmares. Perhaps.

He does. He hopes they will. He hopes to help them find the nightmares owed. Debts to be paid. Krakow will cry out in pain tonight… he cannot stop them all.

The figure at the forefront, issuing orders with a cold detachment that sends a chill down my spine, is a type of thing, a creature, some kind of entity that does not belong here. Each command he gives is a sentence of death, each gesture a signpost on the road to destruction. How many families will be torn apart by his orders? How many lives will be snuffed out in the blink of an eye?

They move with ruthless efficiency, their movements coordinated and purposeful as they fan out across the city, rounding up families, tearing them from their homes with callous disregard for their humanity. Screams that poison the air. Gunshots. Lives snuffed out like candles in the shadow of evil breath. They call it ‘history in the making,’ and they are proud of it. It is what they were born for, what they have lived for since they took their first steps. Born to be monsters; they have come at last.

So, too, has he. He descends like a shadow of a thought, as silently as dead winter should be, a black thing with a black purpose. He is like fluid, shadow rain from a very angry Heaven, down into Targowa. The S.S. officer, a broad-shouldered, spitting animal in leather, the Walther PPK trained on two sobbing, begging souls who were never meant to see the end of this day. Husband and wife, older couple, their faces lined with years, with memories, with passions. Those lights are about to be extinguished forever.

The shadow approaches the officer. As he draws nearer, the officer's senses begin to tingle with a primal instinct, a warning of the danger lurking behind him. But it is too late. With a swift and decisive motion, the shadow strikes, his gloved hand wrapping around the officer's throat like a vice. The two Jews, if they even are that, watch with a new horror as this shadowy thing holding their would-be killer in check.

For a fleeting moment, there is a look of shock in the officer's eyes, a glimpse of the fear that grips his soul as he realizes the gravity of his situation. But it is quickly replaced by a desperate struggle for survival, his hands clawing at the shadow's grasp in a futile attempt to break free. The Walther is removed from his grip and vanishes into some darkness known only to the shadow that has come.

The officer's struggles grow weaker with each passing moment, his face contorted in agony as he gasps for breath, his life slipping away like sand through an hourglass.

And then, with a final, guttural gasp, the officer falls silent, his body slumping to the ground in a lifeless heap. The shadow stands over him, a silent sentinel in the night, his mission accomplished but his work far from over. He glances down at the horrified couple, and raises an arm, motioning for the manhole nearby. In, says the gesture, before more come this way. They leap to their feet and run for the thing. Fate will have to carry them. He has other business.

Turning away from the scene, the shadow disappears into a side alley and, once more, he has purpose, his silent footsteps echoing like whispers in the night. Whispers that promise an end for many, if he has his way. Kill them. Kill them all. He can. He should. He must. Right? He can do it. He has the means, the drive, the opportunity, and most importantly, the wealth. God, the wealth he has to kill so, so many…

Yes. They die. They all die.

Tonight, he is breathing for the first time since his birth, years ago. His first real, genuine breaths. He has come. Der Schatten has come. The Shade. The Shadow. A man of the darkness. A shadowy being bearing the image of a great creature of the night. A bat. A hungry bat.

He soon finds another. The sight of the officer standing over the lifeless bodies of the mother and her infant fills the Bat with a cold fury that burns like a flame in the darkness. His blood boils with rage at the senseless cruelty before him, at the depravity of a man who could take pleasure in such unspeakable atrocities. The officer's smile falters as he senses the impending danger, but it is too late. With a swift and decisive motion, the Bat strikes, his gloved fists raining down upon the officer with the force of a sledgehammer.

The officer staggers back, his face contorted in pain and disbelief as he struggles to comprehend the thing that has come for him on this glorious day of history making. As the officer crumples to the ground, his body broken and bloodied, the Bat stands over him, pleased to see that the smile will never return to his lips again. There is only terror there, in whatever meager form of consciousness remains to the ‘man.’ He weakly stares into the face of the Bat, and the Bat produces his verdict. Without a word, the Bat reaches into the folds of his cloak and withdraws the copper rod, its surface crackling with lethal energy. With practiced precision, he activates the device, unleashing a torrent of electrical energy that courses through the officer's body, searing flesh and bone with merciless efficiency.

The murder is effective, cooking him, depositing him into the Inferno that awaits. An eternal Inferno. His mother Martina had told him stories of Hell, of the Inferno that eats up evil things with evil hearts. He has believed in that Inferno all of his life, and finds satisfaction in this sentencing. He will fill it with more by the day’s end.

"All monsters will know the Inferno, Bruno," she had told him, her voice a whisper in the darkness. "And those who do good will know the glory of Heaven."

He does not know much of Heaven. He has associated well with the concept of Hell, of the Inferno where the monsters belong, but he has always held a fierce doubt in his heart that he would ever see a glory like Heaven, for he, too, is a monster, and monsters only know the Inferno. That is fine. Heaven is for people like his mother and father, for people like Alfred, people who actually changed the world without becoming monsters. If he will only ever know the Inferno, he will not descend into it alone.

The Bat runs towards the sounds of death, which now move around him in a circular formation. Death has come everywhere, it is everything in this moment. All of Krakow, all of Poland. The only question that matters right now is where he is headed for the present, and not for where he is headed at the very end. Left, right, up, or down? Four directions, and the same evil everywhere he can go. He cannot save them all. He cannot kill them all.

He simply runs, runs in whatever direction he currently faces, and knows what he will do when he finds them.

He will be the Shadow of Death. He has fought in a quieter capacity for three years, but this is the official commencement of everything he was meant to be. Today is truly the first day of the only life that has, or will ever, matter.

The Bat will feed.

The Wagen Estate, March 19, outside of Berlin

The Wagen estate rises from the rolling hills of the Berlin’s countryside like a fortress of old, its towering walls and imposing gates reminding all of wealth and power of its inhabitants. Surrounded by lush greenery and manicured gardens, the estate exudes an air of timeless elegance, a bastion of privilege in a world beset by turmoil. The main gate, wrought from wrought iron and adorned with intricate filigree, stands sentinel at the entrance, and the gem at the center reflects almost unreal luminance. The main manor house, a majestic edifice of stone and marble that seems to reach for the heavens themselves. A castle built by slaves, and maintained by glory.

A Heinkel He 70 Blitz descends upon the property, at its helm, the Bat. Home. He is home. Home, and tired, bloodied, and hungry.

He lands the plane behind the manor, in the private grotto near the Rear Garden, and there, dutiful as ever, is Alfred standing amidst the lush greenery, his posture erect and his expression unreadable. Only when the Bat makes his approach does the stony expression warm with an old relief that has withstood far too much pain to shine as brightly as it does here.

"Alfred," the Bat calls out, and he is alarmed by the absolute power of the fatigue in that voice, a voice that is his, but not recognizable in the slightest. “Good of you to wait up.”

Alfred says nothing, but steps forward and removes the dark hood and mask from his face at once. In an instant, the shadow of his soul dissipates, and Bruno Wagen is awake from cold slumber.

Alfred's gaze softens as he regarded his master, his concern evident in the furrow of his brow. "Master Bruno... I've heard stories that will keep me awake for a very long time."

Bruno meets Alfred's gaze with a weary nod. "The stories don't do it justice, I'd imagine."

Alfred's lips twitch in a wry smile. "You're looking worse for wear, if I may say so."

Bruno's stomach growls in response, reminding him of the gnawing hunger that had plagued him throughout his journey. "You may not," he retorts with a tired grin. "I'm hungry. Tell me you've prepared food."

"Naturally, but you need to be cleaned up," Alfred replies, his tone firm but gentle. "Blood and sweat don't make for fine eating companions. Come on, then."

"It's been a long journey... I've earned that blood and sweat," Bruno countered, his voice tinged with exhaustion as he followed Alfred up the cobbled path of the garden and into the grand foyer of Wagen Manor.

The house loomed before them, its once-grand façade now tainted by the darkness that had taken root within its walls. Bruno felt a pang of sadness at the sight, knowing that he could never truly call this place home again. Not after all that had happened…

But as they step into the dimly lit foyer, Bruno feels a sense of familiarity wash over him. The cool marble floors beneath his feet, the ornate tapestries adorning the walls - they are all familiar sights, remnants of a life that had once been his.

And beneath it all, hidden from prying eyes, lay the true heart of the manor - the dark cave that awaited him, his sanctuary in a world consumed by chaos. Yes, Bruno thinks to himself as he followed Alfred deeper into the house. Yes, that is home.

Chapter 2: 2

Chapter Text

April 1943, Austria, Schlafloser Hügel, beneath the main compound

Johann Krause speaks into the Magnetophon with a tenderness reserved for the most special of friends, and that is because it is. He loves the recording device like a brother, like a beloved comrade who gets him in a way that no one else ever could.

"Today marks a significant breakthrough in our research," Johann begins, his voice tinged with a mixture of pride and anticipation. "After months of experimentation, I am pleased to report that we have finally achieved a stable formulation of FT-25. So many attempts, so many failures… but I have something here, at long last.

The results of our trials on the prisoners have been... remarkable, to say the least. The potency of the toxin far exceeds our initial expectations, inducing intense hallucinations and paralyzing terror in its victims.”

A smile tugs at the corners of Johann's lips as he recalls the screams of agony that have echoed through the halls of Schlafloser Hügel, the desperate pleas for mercy that have fallen on deaf ears. For Johann, there is no greater joy than witnessing the fruits of his labor, the utter peace of reuniting humanity with its most crucial element.

"But our work is far from over," Johann continues, his voice growing somber. "There is still much to be done before we can unleash the full potential of the fear toxin upon our enemies. We must refine the formulation, strengthen its effects, until it can withstand the elements past the initial trial times. Effects are dissipating after thirteen seconds. It must linger. We need to be able to turn back whole armies, to cripple them into self-destruction. This is about societal collapse, not temporary highs of panic. I’m still doing something wrong.”

He leans closer to the Magnetophon "But I have no doubt that we will succeed," he whispers, his eyes shining with fanatic zeal. "For we are the chosen ones, the architects of a new world order. And with the fear toxin as our most important ally, we will undo the dribble of the Allied powers, cementing proper place into the hearts of our enemies and ushering in a new era of German supremacy."

He clicks the recorder off and signs. Dramatic, yes. Over-inflated ego, of course. He enjoys that aspect of recording. He enjoys over-emphasizing the enormity of his work, the thunderous implications of his triumph. The Fuhrer sees him for who he is. He sees Johann as the most important visionary of the Great Empire. While his colleagues only see him as ‘the Scarecrow,’ Johann is rising to become something greater than mockery: He is becoming legend.

“Legend. Isn’t that right, Mister Cohen?” He grins over at the shield of glass separating him from the experimentation chamber where Noah Cohen is strapped to a gurney, jibbering, moaning… afraid. Brown, bubbly formula flushes into his veins from the IV drip, and it fills him with horror.

Johann watches with a mixture of fascination and satisfaction as Cohen's fear reaches its peak, the effects of the toxin manifesting in wild hallucinations and frenzied screams. In this moment, he feels a surge of power coursing through his veins, a sense of invincibility that fuels his drive to push the boundaries of science and morality in pursuit of his twisted vision of supremacy.

What does Mister Cohen see right now? What plagues his mind? What has his formula brought out? Johann likes to imagine those terrifying images, inserting his own takes, his own wonders. He sees monstrous figures with elongated limbs and distorted faces, their eyes glowing with malevolent intent as they loom menacingly over him. He feels their icy breath against his skin, their bony fingers reaching out to grasp at him with claws sharp as razors. Yes, something like that, surely, must be plaguing Cohen’s mind.

As Noah Cohen's screams pierce the air, Johann's eyes light up with sad*stic glee. With a swift motion, he switches on the recorder once more, eager to capture every guttural cry and anguished wail for posterity. He listens intently, relishing in the cacophony of terror as it reverberates off the walls, and for Johann, this is more than just an experiment - it is a testament to his genius, a reminder of his superiority when the Empire has fully risen. One day, they will build statues of him, whole temples devoted to fear, and to the god who creates it. One day, people will whisper his name under their breath with love, with desperate need.

And then the screams stop, and Noah Cohen sinks into unconscious sleep. Worn off already. Over. Over, and not absconding with all of the man’s already delicate sanity.

"sh*t!" Johann curses under his breath, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Just... sh*t. It ends too soon! It does not linger! Why does it not linger!? "It needs more potency, more stability. A different strain of… what? Blue Hymalias… extracts from variously matured psilocybin cuttings… unregulated sarin levels…” Random, broken thoughts, but he speaks them with only a half-potent confidence.

Paulina…

Her. She is the cause, the element of weakness, she has to be. It is, after all, her cultivations that form an important stability to his work’s foundation. If the problem is in the plant, then she is lacking somewhere…

He has doubted the exact purpose that ‘Doctor’ Paulina Isler has had since the initial inception of FT-25. Her framework has long since been amplified by his efforts alone, and her own experiments have held little shadow since the start. But, if it is indeed a problem with the flower, then she could prove useful again, the little freak.

Johann strides down the hall outside of his laboratory, following the dark, dimly lit tunnel past several of their disused testing chambers. Isler would be working in her own private study at this time of the day, speaking with her freakish little flowers as if they had anything remotely interesting to say… though he privately suspected she had even less vital words than those obtuse bits of foliage.

The stink of Paulina Isler's study assaults Johann's nostrils as he steps inside, the air heavy with the scent of soil and decaying vegetation. It is more akin to an underground greenhouse than a proper office, with shelves lined with potted plants and tables cluttered with various botanical specimens.

Johann suppresses a grimace as he takes in the sight before him, noting Isler bent over a small patch of odd, turquoise mushrooms arranged in three rows.

"I need to speak with you.”

A yellow-gloved finger raises. She does not even bother to look around at him. “Shush!” An urgent whisper. “They’ve just fallen asleep!”

Johann's frustration simmers beneath the surface, his imagination painting the room in flames as he fights to contain his annoyance. "Oh, joy. Now they sleep," he mutters sarcastically.

Isler finally turns to face him, her red curls saturated with twigs and old, dried dirt, her eyes glaring at him from behind thick spectacles. Her irritation is palpable, but Johann refuses to back down.

"This can't wait," he insists, his voice firm. "The fear toxin is failing, and we need to fix it. Now."

Isler stands, waving Johann down, teeth clenched. “Not in here! They need their rest!”

Someday, when the Fuhrer is done with her insanity, I’ll strangle this one in her sleep, Johann promises himself as Isler forces him out of her little garden and back into the corridor. She shuts the door and rounds on him in frustration.

“Why come to me about your toxin? I gave you the specimens you asked for. It was your job to work with them.”

Johann feels his patience wearing thin as he meets Isler's gaze, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "Because your specimens are clearly the problem," he retorts, his tone sharp. "I need your expertise to identify what's gone wrong and fix it. Unless, of course, you'd prefer to see our work go to waste."

“Go to waste? Your pet project? Oh, that would be a tragedy…” Her sarcasm was a sickness.

Johann's jaw tightens at Isler’s disregard, his frustration boiling beneath the surface as he struggles to maintain his composure. "This is no time for jokes, Paulina," he snaps, his tone sharp with irritation. "Our work is of the utmost importance, and if we fail to fix the toxin, the consequences will be dire for us all. You think they’ll let us keep these cozy little research stations if we yield the correct results!? Or maybe you don’t mind being shoved into one of those gas chambers with the rest of the trash…”

Isler’s expression remains defiant, her sarcasm a thinly veiled mask for her own insecurities. "And whose fault is that?" she retorts, her voice dripping with disdain. "You're the one who insisted on rushing ahead with your experiments without proper oversight. Now we're left to clean up the mess you've made. I have my own projects for the Fuhrer!”

“You help me fix this toxin and your projects continue!”

Her eyes narrow. “My specimens are not the issue,” she hisses, her voice steady but laced with an edge of defensiveness. “The environment they’re kept in, however, might be. You don’t have a proper environment for their fragility. They’re plants, not dormice. If FT-25 is dissipating too quickly after dispersal, then the Blue Hymalias being used as a core in the formula needs a better-conditioned environment prior to synthesis. You want good results? You’re going to have to move your work into my lab.”

Johann gasps. “My work in your lab!? How dare you ask me to-”

“Then your project dies,” Isler snaps, cutting across him. “And you’ll be, well… fired is a bit of an understatement for what will happen to you, isn’t it?” Malice in her eyes.

Johann’s shock morphs into a cold resolve. “Fine,” he concedes, his voice a low growl. “But this doesn’t mean you have control over my research. Doctor Schonberg will never allow it, there’s too much trust in me, compared to your… less than stellar ambitions.”

“My project,” Isler replies coolly, her eyes narrowing, “will turn the tide of this war as much as yours will, I promise. Why do you think we were placed in the same unit? They go hand-in-hand. Psychological warfare at its finest… Don’t over-inflate your ego, Johann.”

“There’s to be full transparency, Isler! I’m serious! You’re not taking over my project. If that was your intention when you gave me those defective flowers-”

“Go and have a lie down.” Isler is done with him. He has annoyed her, and drawn her away from her work longer than he has been warranted. “A drink, a meal. You’re misbehaving, like a childish pest. We’ll set you up a space in my chamber tomorrow. Don’t bother me again for today.” Isler turns away and leaves him standing there, mouth agape, dumbfounded by her nerve.

One day, all that she possesses will fall into my hands, and she will vanish without a trace. Johann is no simpleton; he is acutely aware that Isler’s absence could jeopardize his endeavors. Without her alliance, his grand aspirations might disintegrate. No majestic temple would rise to bear his name, no throngs of devotees or disciples to bask in the splendor of Fear. It irks him that she is correct. They ought to have been equals from the outset. Her bizarre blooms are extraordinary, necessitating equally unique conditions.

“Damn it all!” In a fit of rage, he boots the wall and retreats to his laboratory to commence the transfer. The notion that she currently holds triumph is a venomous thought. But the time of perfection was closing in for his special toxin. And once that potent mixture of terror and power was unleashed upon the enemies of the Empire, well… Isler would be less than an afterthought in the eyes of the Fuhrer. Eyes had to be kept on the prize.

Wagen Estate, the caves beneath the manor

Bruno must intensify his training; the brutality escalates. As the Allies advance, Hitler hastens his schemes. The ‘Bat’ has become a legend across Europe, a shadowy adversary the Nazis cannot ignore. Krakow’s tragedy was preventable, and had Bruno been ready, perhaps it would have remained a mere notion.

As he watches his reflection dart through the shadows of his sanctuary, mirrored in the gym’s glass, he recites this mantra: The cost is immense, with innumerable lives in ruins. Justice cries out for vengeance. With each movement, he seamlessly transitions between combat styles, naming them as he melds from one form to the next.

The essence of European boxing merges seamlessly with the dynamic kicks of Taekwondo, transitioning smoothly into Judo’s artful throws, propelled by the force of unseen adversaries. Capoeira weaves its way through, its fluid dance a pivotal element, enriching the tapestry of movements and enhancing the mastery of each transition.

Alfred’s gaze follows from above, each movement tightening his heart. The boy he knew has transformed, and Alfred bears the weight of this change. It is a burden he has come to accept, knowing his Master’s choices are irreversible. Yet, watching him confront the masses alone, Alfred cannot help but think that it is Bruno Wagen, not the ‘Bat’, who poses the real danger to the regime.

“Forgive me, Thomas,” he whispers.

In the training gym, Bruno executes a roll, halting with precision as their eyes meet. There is a softening in Bruno’s look.

“What’s weighing on you, Alfred?”

With a hard swallow, Alfred ventures, “Might I persuade you to accompany me on a drive into the city, sir?”

Bruno’s expression creases with curiosity. “What could Berlin possibly hold for me this evening?”

Alfred replies with a hint of mystery, “A diversion. An exceptionally good one at that, too.”

Bruno considers. “You seem convinced about that.”

“Trust me, Master Bruno, it’s important.” As the Benz glides into the city, the setting sun casts a fading glow. The evening breeze, tainted with the city’s stench, assaults Bruno’s senses through the open window. His disdain for Berlin is as strong as ever, a city too close to the epicenter of his family’s power and the Fuhrer’s corrupt influence. Merely a month ago, he was compelled to sit through a private banquet with Adolf and his inner circle. To partake in wine and share lavish bread with individuals such as the Fuhrer, Himmler, and Goebbels within the span of a single evening was nearly insufferable. Nevertheless, Wagen Unternehmen holds a pivotal position in the war effort, endowing the Reich with exceptional scientific intellects and cutting-edge technology. The enterprise of his lineage is pivotal to the ascension of the Empire. With Bruno’s wealth and influence, the Nazis will have the war won by the year’s end.

This was the conviction that Hitler had impressed upon him a month prior, with great exultation, and it has haunted Bruno’s slumber more nights than he cares to count.

Questions have haunted him for months, questions that have been supplied with no acceptable answers. Doctors Paulina Isler and Johann Krauss were specially selected from Wagen Unternehmen to ‘advance the foundation of the war in a way that will secure Germany’s liberation of the world by the dawn of 1944.’ An unorthodox botanist and a chemical psychiatrist, both untested outside of their brief tour at his company before the government had swept them up and spirited them away to one of their private camps. The lack of answers in this regard has terrified Bruno.

“Focus on the results, not the work,” had been the Fuhrer’s advice. Bruno could not have pushed the matter further then. The government could seize Wagen Unternehmen in a single night if he gave them any slight reason to doubt his loyalties.

“Almost there, sir.” Alfred’s voice carries him out of his thoughts and back to the present. They have entered the heart of Berlin, and seem to be pulling into the large, circular driveway of Bastet Convention Center. There seems to be an affair of prestige here this evening, as elegantly dressed social elites are closing in on the rich steps leading up to the exquisite hall’s main entrance. Suddenly, the tuxedo that Alfred had insisted him into makes sense.

“I wasn’t expecting a social rally this evening, Alfred.”

“What were you expecting, sir?” A hint of a smirk.

Bruno, annoyed, glares at the building. “A light dinner and a swift retreat home.”

“Ah, but there are still unchecked boxes in your personal crusade, sir. Inside, you may find the means to mark them complete.”

Bruno frowns. “What are you on about?”

“Have faith in me, Master Bruno. Seek out tonight’s hostess, Sophie Krause.”

“Sophie Krause?”

“Indeed, sir. She’s anticipating your arrival.”

“This is a setup for a date?”

“Not quite, Master Bruno. It’s an opportunity to witness the other facets of your struggle. Don’t linger here with me; I’ll find parking and meet you inside.”

Bruno, frowning, nods. He has no idea what in the hell this is about, but he has sworn to trust Alfred with his life, and the old man is definitely up to something.

The grandeur of the Bastet Convention Center looms before him, its opulence a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within him. As he steps out of the car, the murmur of the gathering crowd is a cacophony against the quiet resolve that has settled in his heart. He straightens his tuxedo, an armor of silk and sophistication, and ascends the steps.

Inside, the hall is a sea of glittering gowns and sharp suits, the air thick with perfumes and the clinking of fine crystal. Bruno scans the room, searching for the hostess Alfred mentioned. Sophie Krause—a name that echoes with faint familiarity. An ex-lover? A political adversary? A dissenter from the company ranks? That is the usual type that Alfred enjoys matchmaking. He does love to see Bruno come home with one or two migraines.

Reclamation of Spoils Auction 1943, reads a large banner that spans the gala hall. A terrible name, but he understands at once why he is here. An auction. This is an auction, and there, on the stage…

His insides go cold. Paintings of colorful landscapes, a diamond necklace, once the gem of a matriarch, now settled onto a blue cushion, glinting with an almost malevolent light. Fine silverware and expensive china, heirloom blades and elegant gowns… Amidst the gilded frames and sparkling jewelry, one piece stands out—a delicate porcelain figurine of a ballerina. The figure is poised in mid-pirouette, her expression captured in a moment of silent grace. The translucent material glows under the auction room’s lights, casting soft shadows on the velvet-lined display. This figurine, once a cherished heirloom of a Jewish family, now sits mute, and will never dazzle again… It is a cold thing, an empty thing, devoid of purpose, of the meaning of existence. He feels sick looking at it.

The laughter and chatter of the attendees ring hollow in his ears, drowned out by the silent screams of those who once owned these possessions. He feels sick being in here right now. He blinks, and sees destruction. He sees these people broken, bloodied, burned away, and this convention center pouring into melted steel. That is what he sees; that is what he needs.

My God… Good God, we’ll burn in the Inferno by the year’s end…

Hands wave as he approaches the stage where the auction is in full swing, acquaintances who know Bruno Wagen, suck-ups and- worse.

Many of the patrons here have benefited more from this war than they ever did without the glory of martial profiteering. A fine business, the slaughter. His own company has wracked in profits from-

A hand upon his shoulder. He pulls himself out of the tunnel vision that has taken hold and turns to see a woman he has never known… but one that desperately needs to.

Hair like the night, eyes like autumn, a black dress that hugs her like a mother she probably never knew… She is a fine distraction in the moment. He notes the lavish violet beads around her slender neck, and the strange tiara she has crowned herself with for the evening, something very familiar in how triangular two towers rise. Something like a cat’s ears…

“I hope you’re looking for me and you haven’t made a mistake,” he says to her, and her smile is a sensation in its own right, its own realm. That smile curves with mischief. He can see through her desired facade; at least she tried.

“I haven’t. You are Bruno Wagen, yes?” Her accent, not of this nation, though she is trying to pass it off as such. Trying, and failing when matched against the right ears. He wonders how many other ears have triumphed against it. He sees the countryside of Burgundy in that voice. This French child is a long way from home, in the most dangerous country on Earth for her kind.

“I am…” He leans in close to her, breathing in her ‘perfume,’ which is abysmally cheap in scent, hardly able to hide the pleasant undertone of mildew alleyways. “...and you’re not German, are you?” He whispers it into her ear, and suppresses a smirk to see her eyes widen for a fraction of a second.

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t be. It’s not a very good thing to be. I know. I’ve been one myself; it wears out its welcome. Were you looking for a grant, Miss-?”

“Krause. Sophie Krause.” She offers him a hand, and Bruno grins. Fate is a kind woman sometimes. “And you are the famous Bruno Wagen that I’ve obsessively researched for the better part of a year.” She shakes his hand vigorously, fingers sliding across the soft velvet of his suit.

“And has your research yielded interesting fruit, Miss Krause?”

“It has, and I’d very much be interested in a private discussion.”

“So you do want a grant. I should have guessed as much. Pretty thing like you probably pays her bills with the grants you can extract out of the typical man’s back pocket.”

She frowns. “I’m sorry?”

Bruno smiles. “I generally don’t care for cufflinks on any kind of significant point to make, but… well, those did belong to my father. I’m sentimental. May I have them back?” He opens his hand, and waits for her to return what she just stole from him. She blushes fiercely. “Come on, now. It’s nothing personal, but his brother gave them to him shortly before he was killed in India. I do my best to preserve them, for his sake.”

She is cute when she has been caught being naughty. Not looking him in the eye, she waves her hand over his, and oh, how magically his father’s cufflinks have reappeared in the palm, still warm from her natural fire. “Perhaps you should tighten them.”

Bruno laughs. “Perhaps. But then, why would such a distinguished foreigner have need of them? I have it on good authority that this is your auction, Miss Krause. Does the hostess not have enough stolen trinkets?” He nods at the stage where the doll has just been purchased for a miserable pittance, perhaps seven times beneath its actual worth; he has no doubt the thing will be tossed to the dogs for sport, as much as the young child who had owned the thing probably was.

Sophie is no longer smiling. “I am the hostess. That does not mean it is my auction. Notice that I’m not the one on the stage? I’m simply the face associated. These stolen goods have been acquired by Mister Thorne.”

Bruno nods. “I’d surmised as much, given that most of the security detail here are known personnel of Rupert Thorne. Odd, considering he’s supposed to be running his business out of England. He have a change of heart, then?”

“Perhaps we can talk about this, and more, in a private setting.” Her eyes drill into his with intense plea, and Bruno sighs. He wants to play with her longer, see how far he can really unease her, but the poor girl most likely has enough stress on her shoulders for one night. He nods.

“Lead on, then.”

Schlafloser Hügel, beneath the main compound

Dr. Zmetria Klondashki cautiously steps through the dimly lit corridors of the underground laboratory, her footsteps echoing off the cold, concrete walls. The air is thick with the sterile scent of antiseptics, mingling with the faint, underlying odor of fear and desperation. Doctor Schonberg knows that she does not want to face the patient alone; his insistence that she do so tonight, when he is conveniently out of the region, is nothing less than a personal laugh he is having at her expense. Take good notes this time, we have to monitor his progression every hour…The cellular mutation was unique, yes, but why did she have to do this alone?

As she approaches the containment cell, her heart races. Der Narr is watching her from the other side of the glass cell, and already, he is grinning. Of course he is grinning. It is all he does, all he has done since he was pulled a jibbering, giggling mess from the gas chamber where he should have been killed. Since that particular miracle, his entire life, it seems, has become one colossal joke that he is not sharing the punchline for.

She gets a good look at him and the revulsion almost makes her lose her dinner. His transformation, a grotesque display of nature’s cruel sense of humor, has rendered his skin deathly pale, his hair an unnatural shade of green, and his lips stretched into a permanent, chilling grin. She has never seen a creature like him. Even connected to the ventilator, the tubes supplying him oxygen in a macabre bastardization of man and machine, there is an air of threat that encircles him at all times. He is danger incarnate.

“Doctor Klondashki! You’ve returned!” His accent, once that of a Jewish son from the remotest backwater of Poland, has risen to something entirely theatrical. He speaks with a flair from behind his oxygen mask, filled with a mirth that no man has probably ever obtained. Something is truly hilarious to him. He has discovered a hidden Nirvana of humor, and he is not sharing. “I had a dream about you, Doctor…” His malevolent smile glints in the low light of her lantern.

Zmetria sets the lamp down and takes her clipboard from her sack, sucking on the end of her pen for a moment, collecting her nerves. “That’s nice. And how are you feeling, Der Narr?” Der Narr… She hates using that name, but the rest of the staff have christened him with such an imbecilic title, and he himself has latched onto it. His mutation has left him wearing the mask of an evil clown… and that is what he, and the others, have decided to embrace. “Has the pain intensified since the injections five hours ago? Nurse Uma administered an increased dose. We need to see how your body is reacting.”

“Nurse Uma. Poor dear. She was very upset when she left. I must have said something awful to her. She looked ready to go out and hang herself when she ran out of here, all that bawling. How’s the girl doing?”

Zmetria glares. “Don’t worry about her. Stay focused on my questions.” She does know, for a fact, that Nurse Uma did hang herself. She was discovered by a guard two hours previously, hung from the rafters of a maintenance shed on the east side of the camp. She has not begun to even comprehend what might have happened between the distraught woman and this creature in the cell, as no note was left behind. The terror in the eyes of the corpse was hardly worthy of a good tale…

Der Narr giggles. “You don’t play poker, do you, Doctor? I wouldn’t recommend it. You have a terrible face for keeping things in the dark. Heh heh. Where’s old Schonny boy? I had medical advice about that ghastly wart he’s been hiding inside his-”

“Subject seems as happy as ever.” She cuts across him and jots down a more formal record of the patient’s state of mind, wanting to get out of here as quickly as possible. “Mescaline increase recommended for the next injection.”

“Those CC’s of Schonny’s are disappointing, Doc! I barely got any brain bleed at all from the last one. Maybe that was why Nurse Uma was so upset. I did give her a hard time about it.”

“Enjoy your laughter while you can, Max Mustermann. You’re an enigma that Doctor Schonberg will be cracking. Your jokes will carry you only so far.” She turns to leave, satisfied with her observation for the hour and content to leave it in Danicka’s hands for the rest of the night. When Doctor Schonberg returns from his trip to testing fields, she intends to give him an earful for making her suffer five seconds of this creature’s company without him having to deal with it alongside her.

“So, Doctor Zmetria, is it true that your buddies have had a rodent problem? I’ve been meaning to ask…”

She stops, frozen in place, and looks around at him incredulously. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Doctor. Didn’t mean to surprise you. People talk, that’s all. Sometimes they talk a lot. Especially to me… what, with my stellar looks, who could blame them!? Babbling on and on about bats. Bats. Winston Churchhill isn’t enough, now it’s flying mice, and apparently they’re a bigger problem to sort out. I do recall that Doctor Schonberg talked about maybe getting me to help out with that little problem…”

Alarms blast inside of her head now. How in the hell does he know about that!? “Who has-”

“And I do say,” Der Narr cut across her, leaning in a little towards her from the gurney he is strapped to, “that I’m very interested in hearing more about these bats that are causing you poor Nazi Wazis headaches. Sounds like a real gas, you know what I mean.” He begins to giggle insanely, and Zmetria backs all the way to the door. He should not know about the ‘Bat’ problem, not yet, nor about Doctor Schonberg’s consideration in his part to play in the matter… Someone has been talking. Someone who has no right… but an even scarier thought runs across her mind, and that is, that Der Narr has made someone talk…

That should not be possible.

“I can see I’ve upset you. Do run on, Doctor Zmetria. I want to have that dream about you again. You looked so lovely in it. So very red and gooey…”

She runs as fast as she can from the dark ward. Doctor Schonberg needs to be notified at once. This creature is becoming a serious problem, a very serious problem indeed.

Chapter 3: 3

Chapter Text

Inside of the office of ‘Sophie Krause, 1943

As Bruno steps into Krause’s space, the aroma of candy envelops him, the most potent sensation in this cramped room. ‘Office’ is a term used loosely here; it resembles a walk-in pantry more closely, just broad enough to accommodate a desk spanning five feet, surrounded by shelves lined with a curious collection of trinkets.

He surveys the room, his gaze drawn to the shelves where a motley array of odd antiques and rare idols beckon. Each piece, an enigma in itself, seems to whisper tales of forgotten eras and clandestine rituals. Among them, a jade figurine of an ancient deity gleams with an otherworldly allure, its eyes set with tiny rubies that catch the light mischievously. A brass compass, its patina telling of voyages untold, lies next to a set of weathered leather-bound journals, their secrets locked within. The air is thick with the scent of licorice and mint, and he notices a considerable supply of variously encased candies, and for a moment, he imagines the thrill that would spark within a kleptomaniac cat burglar at the sight of such treasures… or an overeating child with a serious sweet tooth.

Krause passes between the shelves and the desk in an irregular tight fit, and he wonders if the woman is partly made of liquid the way she squeezes into that impossible pass. “Have a seat, Mister Wagen,” she insists, settling herself into a chintz armchair on the other side, ‘after you lock my door.”

With a knowing smile, Bruno complies. “Certainly, ma’am.” He secures the latch and surveys the room, his gaze landing on a solitary zaisu—worn and faded. Suppressing a chuckle, he remarks, “I see you appreciate Japanese elegance, yes?”

“Not at all,” she replied with a sly smirk, her hand gracefully sweeping over the desktop to grasp a bottle of cider. “It was a bargain find—both affordable and unpretentious.”

Bruno’s grin widened as he took in her nonchalant elegance. “A practical choice, then,” he observed, his tone light and playful. Lowering himself onto the zaisu, a wave of discomfort washed over him. His frame was too lofty for such a diminutive seat, akin to perching at a desk designed for the young minds of a bygone classroom—a concept foreign to him, given his upbringing under the exclusive tutelage within the walls of his family estate. “So, Sophie… Why am I here, then?”

Krause downs the cider, what is left in it, in two gulps, closing her eyes for a moment as an odd look passes over her beautiful features. Sighing, she blinks down at him, biting her lip. “I’m risking quite a bit here, and I need you to understand that.”

“Oh, I believe you on that. An émigré from Burgundy masquerading as a Berlin native, all while in the service of Rupert Thorne—hosting opulent auctions that draw in the dregs of high society… The gamble you’re taking, Sophie Krause, is a high stakes match. Should the wrong individual get wind, it may very well be Himmler’s Gestapo that comes to turn the key in that door behind us.”

“I’m not worried about them,” Krause says shortly, opening her desk and pulling out a second, smaller, half-empty jar of bourbon. “If they come calling, I can handle them.”

“How would you handle them? Connections in all the wrong places?”

Krause leans back, the faintest hint of a smirk playing on her lips. “Connections? Perhaps,” she muses, her gaze steady and unyielding. “But it’s not just who you know—it’s also what you know. And in this city, knowledge is the sharpest weapon. The Gestapo may have their methods, but I have my secrets. Secrets that could unravel even the most tightly wound threads of their power.”

“You might believe that,” Bruno begins, his voice low and gravelly, “and I’m inclined to think that someone willing to risk it all as recklessly as you do isn’t merely playing the game without an edge.” He sighs, the weight of the war pressing down on him. “But this conflict has already spilled enough blood. Stupidity is inexcusable.” His gaze never wavers as he continues, “So, tell me, what’s your aim? Why am I here, sitting in this cramped, aromatic closet, conversing with a criminal amateur who hasn’t even perfected her fake German accent yet?” He cannot help but notice the flush creeping up her cheeks. Anger suits her, makes her even more captivating. Cute, even. Hell, she’s cute regardless. And right now, she looks ready to pounce.

“Because,” she replies in a low, cool tone, “I have it on very good authority that you know the Batman.”

Bruno sits cold, still, his body numbing. He stares, dumbfounded, chilled, and now it is she who is gaining the edge in the room, a triumphant gleam in her eye. He attempts to sound convey something smart, something that can direct her elsewhere, but why on earth can he not manage to say anything clever?

“The Batman?” He chuckles, his strength waning, berating himself for this lapse in vigilance. “The Bat, you say? That odd creature that’s become the hushed topic of conversation within the inner circles? An urban legend, perhaps, steeped in American propaganda. Certainly not a myth I’d willingly entertain in my company.”

“And yet he takes to your company very well, sir.” A voice that shakes him from behind. How? The door had been latched. Krause beams at Alfred, who comes to stand beside Bruno, bowing at his master’s shock. “You are in very good company with Miss Krause, Master Bruno. She has similar interests that you and the Bat share quite well; she’s been trying to reach out to you for some time, and I was happy to entertain her pursuit after a thorough investigation into her background. She knows the Bat pilfers from Wagen Unternehmen’s Rostock armory, and she’s aware of your meticulous cover-up using diversion paperwork. She knows your priorities in life would make for a poor friend of the Fuhrer indeed.”

Bruno’s eyes burn into his old friend’s, but Alfred seems at ease. The nerve of the opa! What the hell are you doing!? his eyes scream. Alfred’s gray gaze returns with You need better allies than me.

“As I delved deeper into Miss Krause’s objectives,” he declared, his tone businesslike, arms clasped behind his back in his customary manner, “I realized that you embody precisely the potent force she requires. You see, ‘Sophie Krause,’ as you’ve likely discerned, stands as an outsider within this esteemed Reich. Following the German invasion of France three years prior, Miss Krause aligned herself with a clandestine network of agencies, countering the Reich’s expansive ideologies in ways less ostentatious and flamboyant than our counterparts in the Allied webs.”

“Her actions have been more discrete. Not the kind that blares its defiance through megaphones or brandishes banners in the streets. The smuggling of rationing coupons in Poland, falsification of identification papers utilizing stolen stamping seals, sabotage of tanks and convoy trucks, and, most recently, she was at Warsaw during the initial stage of liquidation, sir. She was among the infiltrators of the ŻOB, and helped smuggle a great number of round-ups past Stroop’s SS elites.”

Alfred takes a breath, and allows Bruno to absorb the astounding tale; Krause has downed the second bottle of drink and is currently unwrapping a peppermint, her eyes scanning the room, avoiding Bruno’s gaze.

Bruno likes what he hears. He likes it very much indeed. He has needed to hear something like this for a long time now. He has needed someone to approach him like this, force everything out into the open, force his hand… Alfred had done just that. He has saved Bruno tonight… and Bruno hates him for it in that moment. Damn her for being here, existing, present, alive, a force that will draw him out of the shadows forever, and exert the truth of himself in a way that will never be undone.

She knows the stakes—the danger that swirls around them like smoke. The clandestine acts, the whispered plans—they all lead to a precipice. A precipice where courage and betrayal collide. Bruno’s mind races. He is a man of shadows, a businessman who has mastered the art of obfuscation. He is the Bat, the shadow in the night, the death of monsters, meant to carry his secret war alone, with only Alfred standing in the distance, allowing him to fulfill his path of self-destruction in the most meaningful way he can… But this—this revelation—shatters his carefully constructed facade. The war has seeped into every crevice of his existence and has now brought other shadows to merge into his dark corners.

“Alfred,” Bruno finally says, his voice hoarse. “You’ve done your duty. But duty isn’t always noble, is it? Sometimes it’s a curse. Sometimes people get killed by their noble pursuits, don’t they? And when we willingly drag those people into our dangerous game-”

“The way you drug the Bat, Mister Wagen?” Krause leers. “Because he didn’t make an appearance until your company started working on some highly sophisticated weapons prototypes for the Fuhrer’s army. You practically screamed for him to come, invited him in without a second’s delay. And if he can do it, can take the fight, and as your friend has said, so have I, then you can work with me! You and the Bat. I need to join his fight, Wagen. I need his help to make a move, an important move, one that shift the entire tide of this war if we allow it to, and if I succeed- when I succeed- then the Bat gets to personally rip the head off of Adolf Hitler and feed it to Blondi. I will succeed, with his help. With your help, because you’re not like the others, Bruno. Your relationship with the Bat is proof.”

“I- I don’t have a relationship with him! Yes, okay, he has stolen from my company, and yes, I’ve covered it up, quite well I might say, because I’m not entirely opposed to his standing… but, Miss Krause, please, the Bat is a deranged animal. He’s on a suicide run, and if you’ve truly done the good that Alfred says you’ve done, then you’re better off staying away from that creature.”

“You don’t get to lecture me on-” She began, but Bruno cut across her.

“You don’t understand the Bat. If you did… you wouldn’t be asking me to connect the two of you.”

Krause’s eyes narrow, her gaze unyielding. “Bruno,” she says, her voice low and deliberate, “I’ve seen the Bat in action. I’ve watched him move through the shadows, strike fear into those devils and take them out like garbage to the incinerator, and vanish like smoke. He’s more than a deranged animal. He’s a force of nature. And he’s our best chance.” Her eyes wet with a plea. “He’s an element. The only true force of change I’ve seen. The kind that scares Hitler’s devils in the way they should be scared. It’s the way I wish I could have handled them when they invaded my homeland. You have the wealth and the power to turn the Batman into a god of war, Bruno Wagen… and I’m asking you to let me help you do just that.”

Bruno clenches his fist. “You cannot control him. No one can. He cannot even control himself.”

“Then that’s something we have in common.We don’t control the Bat. We align with him. We use his methods, his darkness, to dismantle the very system that birthed monsters like Hitler. ”

“Hitler wasn’t made by a system, Miss Krause. Hitler was made by Hitler… just as the Bat was made by the Bat. But so consider that we do this, that we seek him out- What if we find him… and what if we fail?” Bruno’s voice trembles. “What if the Bat turns on us? What if he becomes the monster we fight?”

Krause throws a peppermint at him, and it bounces off of his cheek. “We won’t fail, you stupid bastard.”

Bruno sighs. “Maybe. Maybe I have the means to connect you with the Bat, and supply you both with the tools to make some trouble for the Fuhrer… but… When you dance with the devil, you risk more than your soul.”

Krause smiles, a predator’s grin. “Good thing I’ve never been afraid of hell.”

How very much you should be, Miss Krause, Bruno thinks to himself as Alfred’s firm, but gentle hand, squeezes his shoulder.

Schlafloser Hügel, beneath the main compound

Dr. Schonberg descends into the dimly lit isolation chamber and sighs, tired. Zmetria’s frantic phone call in the night and her insistence that she can not handle the situation here alone is almost too much to bear, and he has already decided that she will be replaced by the end of May, if not sooner. The air is thick with anticipation, and the cold metal walls seem to close in on him. He adjusts his glasses, the reflection of the flickering fluorescent lights dancing across the lenses.

Zmetria is waiting next to the door of the Isolation Cell 26-N, looking shaken, her hair a mess, her eyelids shadowed from lack of sleep. Chemical stains decorate her lab dress and she smells awful, an unkemptness that Schonberg takes great offense in. “He’s killed, Doctor Schonberg! He’s killed!”

Schonberg stops, frowning. “Killed?”

“A nurse. He’s killed a nurse. I don’t know how, but earlier today, he managed to get his manacles loosened, and feinted cardiac arrest. Nurse Gillespie didn’t bother to go for help before she ran to check on him. I don’t know what happened beyond what people overheard, but by the time they reached the cell, her jaw… Oh, God…” She seems to shrink in place. “Her jaw, the way it was hanging, the way he- He needs to be killed, Doctor. Whatever you’re hoping to do with him, it’s not worth it. He can’t be used like this!”

Schonberg, however, beams, amused. “Says the Russian vagrant from the sewers. If you recall, Doctor Klondashki, you too were quite feral when I found you… I have a way with wild animals. Please, step aside.”

“But Doctor-!”

He forcibly pushes her against the wall and strides, confidently, into the isolation room, shutting the door with a snap behind him, leaving the miserable woman to consider her place in things outside.

“Schonny boy! I missed you, buddy, oh pal of mine! These others doctors are so boring, always whining about ripped out larynxes and broken bones. You’re made of stronger stuff, aren’t you?”

“I am, Der Narr. Much, much stronger stuff. I’d like to have a conversation, and I’d like you to be completely honest with me, because, if you are, I am confident that I can secure you a release from this place within a matter of a few short months. How would be sound to you?”

“Awfully tempting, Schonny… but maybe I like it down here, in the dark. Maybe I don’t want to leave. Maybe I’d like to see the other freaks you’re cooking up down here, get to know them in a personal, invasive manner.”

“No need to worry about them, Der Narr. And don’t worry about Nurse Gillespie, either. She should have adhered to protocol. You did us a favor. I thank you for that.”

“My pleasure, Schonny. I do love how we get on so well, psychopaths like me and you.”

“I’d like to talk with you about the gas chamber.”

“Oh, that’ll definitely be a gas. Heh heh.”

Schonberg nods and glances down at his notes. "On November 23rd, 1942, you are moved into Chamber 024 on the surface for summarily execution in an official capacity. There are 118 of you marched into the chamber, and 117 are successfully gassed." He leans forward, peering at Der Narr over the rim of his tilted glasses. "One man survives. It's an incredible, impossible feat. Pulled from the small mountain of corpses, he's laughing. Laughing his head off, laughing and choking, encased in endless mirth. Quite a miracle, Der Narr. You've undergone great changes, chemically, biologically… So I ask you this: Do you remember the man you were before you walked into that chamber?"

Der Narr stares at Schonberg for a long, cold moment from behind the ventilator mask that pumps fresh life into his body. It's a tense, almost hazardous moment between the two, and Schonberg feels a microscopic twinge of discomfort creeping up his spine.

“Do I… remember… who I was?” A small giggle again. Schonberg flinches at the sound of it. “Do you remember, Doctor Schonberg, who you were, before you came here?”

Shock. A second of shock, and Schonberg knows that Der Narr has seen it. The way the maniac’s eyes glint.

“Explain,” he demands at once.

“You, of all people, understand the cruelty of memory. I can see it in your eyes, Schonny, boy. The things you’ve done… the things that have been done to you… Those pointy, bitey little thunderbolts of regret, of anger—unwanted party crashers—scream through your synapses. They’re inescapable, unrelenting, and far from friendly. You can’t even seek refuge in madness! Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“The gas comes down, down, drowns them all, and you drink it up, up, slurping greedily like a little piggy who has been waiting for death all his miserable life! Suddenly, you find yourself questioning your very essence. Isn’t it curious how a single meeting can cleave away fragments of your past, deforming your memories and persona until you’re forced to reconsider your entire identity? And in that moment of realization—when it all seems so foolish—your laughter echoes through the caverns of your own emptiness. You have become laughter! The best medicine of all!”

“That sounds like it would be a step up for someone like you,” Schonberg says, scribbling notes with unnatural speed. “It sounds like you’ve conquered fate, cruel as it can be.”

Der Narr giggles. “You know what’s amusing? I used to perceive Fate as something sinister, predetermined—not by some higher power, but rather by the inexorable rules of human nature. Now, well, it’s evolved. Like me. It’s a friend. An unrelenting force of carnage and chaos, artistic in its design, sociopathic in its personality, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. That’s who I was, Schonny. I was fate.”

“I doubt that, Der Narr.”

“Oh, doubt away! But have you ever sensed that your entire existence has led up to this singular moment? I have. I did. And it did. All of it. The moment you Nazi Wozis led me into that chamber, I knew that something, at last, was going to happen in my life. A birth. A plan. A point. All I needed was a little push, and a little gas…”

“Every battle, every bad day, every brutality—it was all the hand of Fate at work. Glorious little bastard, Fate, conniving, tantrumey, and belligerent! I love him so much. All of it was meant to be, Schonny. I was born for the gas.”

“How pessimistic of you,” Schonberg notes. “Your family left no positive impression on your psyche.”

“Have you ever considered,” Der Narr presses, his grin so wide now that it looks downright painful to bear, “the sheer vileness of the world we inhabit? The loneliness that accompanies wading through all the wretchedness and filth on your own is truly overwhelming. The world is better for Zyklone, Schonny. The world is better for your gas chambers and mobile killing squads and book burnings and teeth extractions. Fate, a Human Deity, takes hold, and evolves us all!”

“I feel like a leaf caught in a wild current, swept away from the familiar shore and into uncharted waters. It’s both exhilarating and unnerving. You, of course, wouldn’t understand that sensation… would you?” Again, that cold, unnerving sensations runs through Schonberg, and the old man feels as if the creature on the gurney is analyzing every fiber of his being… and there is much there to see, if he is.

“Go on,” is all he can manage.

“It’s why I love you, Schonny. It’s like encountering someone with whom I can genuinely connect—a sensation I assure you, oh buddy oh pal of mine, I’ve never experienced before. You alien creature, sitting there, jotting notes and pretending that you’re trying to dissect my mind when really, Schonny, all you truly want is a buddy of your own. A buddy like me…”

“Absurd!”

“Absurd!? Ha! You’re a fearless soul, unafraid to release and embrace the fall. I can see that, Schonny. I really can. That’s why you’re here, and that’s why you want to throw me out there and let me have a swing at the Bat, isn’t it? Because Germany, all of Europe, is becoming a breeding ground for lunatics, and lunatic answer lunatics. Friends help each other, Schonny boy. I’ll help you, because I love you!”

“Let me fall into that insanity, into that bat’s embrace. I won’t pack a chute, either. He’ll expect that! Germany deserves better lunatics to display its pride and prominence!”

“You see it all as a joke, don’t you?” Schonberg sighs, shaking his head. “A mind like yours…”

“Joke!? I’ve got one. A man visits his doctor and says, ‘Doc, you’ve got to help me. My wife thinks she’s a chicken.’ The doctor asks, ‘How long has she had this condition?’ The man replies, ‘Two years.’ The doctor, puzzled, asks, ‘Why did it take you so long to come and see me?’ The man shrugs and says, ‘Well, Doc, I needed the eggs.’” Der Narr exploded into laughter and shakes the gurney violently in his mad, desperate joy. Schonberg’s mouth twitches… and does an odd thing. The most microscopic smile is betrayed there. This odd creature really does have… potential.

“You’ll get under the Fuhrer’s skin awfully quick.”

Der Narr. “Oh, believe me, Scohnny. That’s exactly what I had in mind.”

Chapter 4: 4

Chapter Text

The testing fields, 1943

“Death is the next great adventure.”

“For us, maybe. Not for them.”

Johann smiles behind his gas mask, knowing that Isler’s words are uncontestable. The joy of death, the majesty of it, is for the victor still standing at the end of the day; the poor bastards down the hill from where they stand now will know only destruction in their final moments. There is no great adventure for them. Only the infinite abyss that awaits.

“It’s a foul thing, isn’t it?” Johann wonders aloud, crossing his arms as he watches the carnage below.

The terrain is rugged, with rocky outcrops and steep slopes creating natural barriers that discourage casual exploration. Thick pine and spruce trees blanket the landscape, their branches interlocking to form a canopy that filters the sunlight, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor below. At the valley's center lies a clearing, bathed in sunlight that filters through a gap in the trees above. A collection of grottos and a deep ravine, surrounded; the barbed wire fence encircles the entire perimeter of the clearing, stretching as far as the eye can see along the boundaries of the valley. It follows the natural contours of the land, weaving between trees and around rocky outcrops to create a secure barrier. The fence is designed to deter unauthorized entry, with multiple layers of wire and sturdy posts ensuring its durability against both human and natural elements.

To the south side, built into the side of a hill, the bunker's exterior blends seamlessly with the rugged terrain, its entrance concealed beneath overhanging foliage and thick underbrush. A heavy steel door, reinforced with multiple locks and mechanisms, guards the entrance, providing a formidable barrier against unauthorized access. Doctor Schonberg’s private bunker in this place. As Johann watches, he sees Schonberg himself stepping out of a transport truck that has just arrived near the bunker. He is accompanied by a small squad of guards, as well as Doctor Zmetria, rattled looking and small as she always is, and a soldier that Johann does not know. Zmetria and the lone soldier follow Schonberg into the bunker, and the guards disperse, not following them inside, lighting cigars and finding shady trees; Johann senses that very familiar air of lethality.

For three years, this place has been known as the ‘Testing Grounds’. Aribert Heim drafted a thirty-two-page case for the Fuhrer, emphasizing the essential government support needed for the proposed perfection of the Heldenprojekt. This joint dream, vigorously shared by ‘Doctor Death’ and the German chemist Frau Hoffman, aligns with the works of esteemed chemist Fritz Hauschild. Officially approved to “promote scientific advancement for the common good of the German Empire,” the Testing Grounds’ truest heart lies in the fires of superhuman evolution. This is how it has always been presented to Johann and Isler. While Isler has taken well to the experiments conducted out here in the private wilderness, surrounded by encouraging flora that seems to scream praises for her work, a madness her addled mind seems solitary in receiving, Johann prefers closed quarters and claustrophobic peace.

Isler is at her most content in nature. She has shed her constrictive lab attire for a more loose-fitting garment that might imply she is off to swim, though there is no lake for miles; there is only a small pond at the northern edge of the fields, and that water is certainly not meant for leisurely contact… He tries not to look at her in this flamboyantly jade-colored bathing suit, not at all appropriate for the professionalism of their work. The sight of her is ghastly to behold, with those slender legs and pale freckles and-

He jerks his head away, remembering that he hates the woman. Of course he hates the woman.

"Ah, they're dying, look," Isler murmurs absentmindedly, her gaze drifting dreamily down the slope. Johann's expression tightens, bitterness seeping into his features. Though the brown haze has dispersed, its aftermath wreaks havoc. The seven captives, plucked from the camp, unleash a gruesome spectacle. They rend flesh with abandon, tearing at each other with savage fervor. Eyes are gouged, throats savaged—barely forty-five seconds have passed.

Isler's meticulous planning, her manipulation of the Blue Hymalias, bears fruit before their very eyes. It's a symphony of destruction orchestrated by her cooperation. In this controlled environment, her design takes shape. A godlike satisfaction swells within Johann; he knows he's achieved what he's longed for. It is long overdue.

The two of them watch the prisoners kill one another until only one remains at the bottom of the hill, screaming his head off, clawing at his own missing eyes, howling into the darkness that has become his realm. Isler giggles.

"Plants, aren't they marvels?" Isler muses, her gaze drifting to the verdant foliage. "Give them genuine affection, diligent attention, and they thrive in the most remarkable of manners. Isn't that so, Johann?" She turns to him, her tone gentle yet firm. "A touch of patience, a nurturing environment, viewing them as cherished offspring in need of care and dedication..."

Her fingers meet in a delicate kiss before gesturing toward the chaos below, where the deranged figure trips over the bodies of his fellow captives. "Today, there's a lesson in them for you."

Johann sighs. “Right. Of course…”

Isler's smile widens, a glint of amusem*nt dancing in her eyes. "Ah, Johann, do I sense a hint of inner conflict? Perhaps a reluctant acknowledgment stirring within you?"

"Shut up. Please," Johann mutters, averting his gaze from Isler's captivating figure. Why does she have to look so stunning in that bathing suit? And why does that hint of madness in her eyes hold such a strange allure? As she smirks and turns away, brushing her ginger curls, he clenches his fist. It's not her; it's him. The rush of success is playing tricks on his mind, stirring up his brain chemistry, confusing his senses. It's not her scent that's so intoxicating; it's the sweet aroma of victory.

His attention is drawn to something Isler drops onto the ground—a black, rubbery pod, shriveled and desiccated, like a squeezed berry. It's peculiar, and he intends to question her about it, but suddenly, a piercing siren shatters the air. It emanates from the sound tower near Schonberg's bunker—a signal that his experiment is about to commence. Johann and Isler are to bear witness to it.

“Come on, we have to go in.”

“Right behind you, Red-Cheeks.” Her tone is playful, and he does not like it. He absolutely hates it. Where in the hell is this suddenly coming from? As Johann strides past their field escorts, he nearly trips over his own feet. The two burly soldiers stand watch, their expressions a mix of horror and disgust as they witness the carnage unfolding at the foot of the hill.

"We're done here. Heading for Schonberg's bunker," Johann informs the two men tersely. One of them nods in understanding, swiftly unshouldering his field rifle and jogging down the hill toward the remaining subject. The sound of the gunshot startles him, and now, he truly is concerned about his mental state. Isler has f*cked over his mind, somehow, some way… Isler notices how tense he has become, and stops, frowning.

"I have a shaker of valerian root," she tells him, producing a small container filled with brown powder emitting a distinctive acrid odor. "My special concoction. It has a remarkable calming effect.” She pushes the shaker under his nose, and Johann slaps her hand away.

"I don't need your Swingjugend crap. Stuff it up your own nose, please..." Johann retorts, his tone sharp.

"You don't sound so sure," Isler counters, a hint of teasing in her voice.

"You're a pest!"

"Am I? I've rather enjoyed these last few weeks together. We make a formidable team, Johann. You can be pleasant, you know," she says, her tone almost playful.

Johann sighs, gritting his teeth. He refuses to admit it, not even under threat of death, but deep down, he has found a certain satisfaction in working alongside her in the lab. She possesses an undeniable energy when she becomes engrossed in a project, her passion mirroring his own in a remarkable way. She gazes at her plants with the same intensity that he reserves for his manifestation of the oldest god, Fear. In Isler, there exists an unexpectedly potent camaraderie that Johann has never desired…

As they approach the shadowy entrance of the bunker, their remaining escort halts outside the door while Johann and Isler proceed inside. Only select personnel are permitted entry into Schonberg's private experimentation chambers. The secure metal door clangs shut behind them, plunging them into temporary darkness before their eyes gradually adjust to the potent, concentrated greenish hue within.

The scent of menthol, tinged with something altogether more peculiar, pervades their senses. The air is cold, almost freezing, and Isler seems to suddenly regret her less than professional attire. She hugs herself tight, and Johann reaches out an arm- he jerks it back at once, wondering just what in the hell is wrong with him.

The entry room offers a glimpse into a vast, circular testing chamber through thick reinforced glass. Within, a sterile environment unfolds, adorned with state-of-the-art monitoring equipment that surpasses anything Johann has ever encountered. Blinking lights, sleek screens, and intricate sensors weave together a tapestry of technology, each component a puzzle begging to be solved.

Johann's mind races as he tries to decipher the purpose of these contraptions. Since their inception a few years ago, he has encountered computers only sparingly. They are peculiar devices that challenge traditional scientific methodology, their capabilities both intriguing and perplexing.

The odd blinking lights seem to dance in an unworldly, electronic enigma, like Moarse code but on another plane. Three years ago, German engineer Konrad Zuse introduced his marvel invention, the Z3, a groundbreaking dive into advanced computation that he managed whilst living his the apartment of his parents. The papers told stories of an electromechanical computer, ingeniously constructed from telephone switchboard components, humming with activity, its binary floating-point arithmetic unit a testament to meticulous engineering and innovation. As he looks upon Schonberg’s device, he feels that this one might positively blow Zuse’s device into an inescapable oblivion of obsoletion.

Johann notes several Arriflex cameras positioned around the centerpiece of the room. It's a luxurious queen-sized bed, elegantly dressed in soft cotton sheets and adorned with plush silk pillows. An incongruous sight amidst the cutting-edge equipment, lying upon the bed in unabashed vulnerability, is Doctor Zmetria. Unclothed and sprawled upon the sheets, seemingly oblivious to any onlookers, her naked form is exposed to the scrutiny of the observers.

Throughout Johann's acquaintance with her, Doctor Zmetria has consistently presented herself as a timid and fragile figure. With a constitution easily shaken, she possesses no discernible backbone, fearfully reacting to even the slightest disturbance. A nervous wreck of a Russian defector that has had no place in this Empire’s great rise. How, then, does Johann and Isler suddenly find her laying in such a… less than meek way? Certainly her expression is distant, almost dull, and he wonders if he is sedated. What, then, is Schonberg’s goal here?

She lies upon the bed, unbound and unrestrained, in a state of serene exposure, as if anticipating something with the patience of a lover awaiting their partner's return from the latrine. A door behind them creaks open, spilling soft light into the atrium. Doctor Schonberg acknowledges them with a nod as he approaches, pushing a small cart laden with notepads, pens, and several vials containing mysterious organic samples.

"I am about to unveil Germany's most pivotal initiative to date," Doctor Schonberg declares, his deep tone resonating with profound gravity. He halts the cart beside the window, casting a contemplative gaze upon the naked form of Zmetria. “Doctor Zmetria has, of course, agreed that she is comfortable in letting the two of you observe the experiment. You are both to become privy to the Fuhrer’s most exclusive ambition, because the two of you have been selected to help bring it to fruition.”

Johann and Isler are rendered speechless by Doctor Schonberg's proclamation, their minds reeling from the weight of his words. They exchange a stunned glance, and Johann, struggling to find his voice, stammers, "T-truly? Th-this is an honor!"

Isler, peering in on the naked woman, too, frowns. “This? This here? I’ve seen it all over. Hardly anything groundbreaking. She’s only modestly attractive.”

“No jokes, Doctor Isler. This is serious.” Schonberg looks upon Zmetria with a fearsome gleam in his eye, as if he is looking upon the most beautiful concept in creation. The woman’s dark hair and vivid green irises are nice, but Johann senses that there is far more to this than a simple allure of the eyes. “I want you both to observe everything you see here today, and burn it deep into memory. You will never witness a new miracle of this magnitude again… at least, not until we stand upon the victory of what this is all leading to.”

Johann blinks. “And that… is…?”

Schonberg smiles. “Observe. Here he comes.”

They observe as a door on the opposite side of the testing chamber swings open, admitting the soldier whom Johann had earlier seen entering the bunker with Schonberg and Zmetria. Like Zmetria, he is unclothed, his muscular physique on full display, with a remarkable erection commanding attention. Isler straightens subtly, her gaze drawn inexorably to the imposing sight of the man’s-

“Doctor Schonberg, what are we looking at here?” Johann demands.

“Yes, and why has it taken so long?” Isler mumbles, her nose pressed against the glass.

“Be quiet. Observe,” Schonberg commands, his voice firm as he moves toward an intercom speaker. With purpose, he presses a red button beside it.

"Lukas," he addresses through the intercom, his tone serious. "You were briefed on the fundamental nature of this experiment. You understand your role. Are you prepared to fulfill it?"

Lukas, Aryan perfection, eyes shining with clouded delight, smiles and nods, standing one leg upon Zmetria’s bed, proudly showing off his physical pride; Isler blushes and places a hand upon her lips. “I am ready, Herr Doktor. And I thank you for choosing me to take part in this, er, experiment. Can I get started?”

"Of course. We will observe from here," Schonberg affirms through the intercom. "And remember, you are to adhere to the rules we've discussed. Doctor Zmetria is a willing participant in the experiment, but this is not a scenario for personal gratification, regardless of how it may appear. This is a professional exercise, and you are to conduct yourself accordingly, with the discipline befitting a soldier bearing the Fuhrer's insignia. No touching or tasting anything not expressly discussed. Your task is to achieve erection with the minimum necessary stimulation; Doctor Zmetria's comfort is paramount and must be respected."

"Yes, of course, Herr Doktor," Lukas responds, his gaze lingering hungrily on Zmetria. Johann can sense the man's intense desire to taste whatever he can, regardless of whether Doctor Zmetria would find it comfortable or not. His fingers trace a path down her left shin, eliciting a slight tremble from Zmetria. Her gaze remains fixed on him, a fierce uncertainty brewing in her eyes.

“Doctor Zmetria, confirm that you are ready,” Schonberg presses.

Zmetria’s meek, quiet voice rises through shuddering breaths. “I am ready, Doctor…”

Johann is taken aback by Lukas's evident enthusiasm. Despite Doctor Zmetria's unmistakable Russian accent, even in the most formal settings, the woman possesses special papers safeguarding her status in the camp, personally signed by Himmler himself. Yet, most soldiers like Lukas hold their nationalist fervor for the Empire in such high regard that the notion of engaging in sexual activity with a Soviet seems like an improbable fairy tale.

In an instant, Johann’s intuition kicks in, and a voice screams inside of his head. This is an execution…

He and the others watch in tense silence as Lukas climbs onto the bed and seizes hold of Zmetria's calves. Zmetria squeezes her eyes shut tightly as he enters her. Her body shivers involuntarily as the soldier begins his vigorous thrusts, his head tilting back in ecstasy as waves of pleasure wash over him. He inhales her scent greedily, the wet, squelching sounds reverberating off the walls as Zmetria involuntarily leaks. Isler murmurs quietly to herself, her words a jumble of excited observations that Johann struggles to decipher.

Zmetria's murmurs intermingle with the sounds of the chamber, her quiet Russian words a stream of incomprehensible babble to their ears. Johann, having some basic knowledge of Soviet language, catches the word "Pozhaluysta!" Please. She is begging… but for what?

Johann casts a glance at Doctor Schonberg, intending to inquire further, but the doctor is absorbed in frenzied scribbling on his clipboard. His gaze, almost feverish, remains fixed on the two figures engaged in their intimate act, burning with an intensity that refuses to be grounded. Johann's gaze shifts from Doctor Schonberg to Isler, whose fingers claw desperately at the glass, her cheeks flushed with excitement. Their eyes meet fleetingly, and in that instant, Johann feels a powerful surge coursing through his body. The moment passes in the blink of an eye, but the knot in his stomach—and elsewhere—remains. This is his unbecoming.

“Quietsch für mich!” Lukas explodes, his delight intensifying, as are his movements. Zmetria is bouncing, out of her own control, f*cked like a thing rather than a woman. Lukas is an insatiable animal. Understandable. He has probably not touched a woman in a while. This war tends to deny such pleasures. “Squeal for me, Doctor! You squeal for me or I’ll make you!”

Suddenly, a smile spreads across Schonberg's face. He nods, a knowing expression darkening his features. Something has clicked, or succeeded, and Johann's intuition kicks in once more, filling him with a sense of foreboding for the soldier's life. Get out of there now, fool! Johann suddenly hears his brain crying out. Get out of there, and get out of her, especially!

But the soldier does not. And that costs him his life.

A sudden transformation sweeps over Zmetria so swiftly that Johann can't help but feel as though the signs of this change were always there, glaringly evident, waiting to reveal themselves. Isler gasps, her aroused amazement suddenly transforming into wild, but curious, horror.

The woman's pallid skin undergoes a subtle transformation, the slightest of changes but one that is unmistakable even in the dim lighting of the chamber. What begins as a grayish-copper hue gradually morphs into a draining lime color, with patches of green hue emerging from within her flesh. Her body stops trembling under Lukas’s sexual furiosity and a sudden calmness washes over her. In an instant, Johann senses a palpable shift in control, as if it has passed from one to the other. Her feet come together as her legs close, almost like a trap being shut on an intrusive pest.

"My God..." Johann breathes, the words escaping his lips rarely spoken. His reverence typically reserved for himself, any mention of a 'God' tends to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. Yet, in this moment, his own reservations fail him as he witnesses the horror unfolding before him.

It starts with a sudden proclamation from Zmetria, her voice ringing out loud and powerful, filled with confidence for all to hear. "You've had your fun, Lukas. Now it's my turn."

Lukas ceases his passionate dance at once… and promptly begins to scream. Schonberg begins to laugh, quietly to himself, his eyes bright as he beholds the wonder of it all. Isler’s breath is going hard; her scientific curiosity is barking like a frenzied dog now.

Lukas attempts to withdraw, to free himself from Zmetria and the bed, succeeding for only a fleeting moment before she pulls him back into a firm embrace. In that brief instant of near-escape, the observing scientists witness the startling transformation: the soldier's co*ck has taken on a sickly hue, a green tinge spreading rapidly across its surface. The green hue slowly consumes his flesh, spreading from his groin, engulfing his testicl*s and pelvis before extending to the sides of his legs, the tips of his elbows, his feet, chest, head, and even his eyes. His hands claw desperately at the air before him, contorted with fear and what sounds like agony, his moans forming a dark lament.

"It's as if he's been poisoned by her..." Isler whispers, locking eyes with Johann once more. Johann silently concurs, though he's at a loss to explain how such a thing could occur.

"Not poison, no," Schonberg corrects her, a look of absolute triumph gleaming in his eyes. "Something far greater."

Johann’s mouth drops. “W-what then?”

His answer comes mere moments later, as Lukas's screams escalate, blending with dark laughter emanating from Zmetria—or rather, the entity that now wears Zmetria's visage. Everything about her has transformed. This pale gray-green creature is adorned with shadows that crop up across her subtle tones. And she is leaking. The substance that oozes from her is unlike anything Johann has ever seen before. It sizzles and bubbles, toxic and green, transparent yet teeming with dozens of microscopic bodies, bacterial manifestations that Johann is certain have never been documented outside of Doctor Schonberg's logs.

A foul stink is permeating their senses, breaking through the glass that they observe through. That stink is like the worst sickness, the foulest excretion, and Johann doubles over and vomits onto the floor, overwhelmed by it. Isler is looking ill, too, and covers her nose in a futile effort to block out that awful, awful smell.

That green essence leaking from Zmetria is manifesting in Lukas’s own flesh now. It has swarmed him, begun to completely take over, turning him from a screaming man who had been promised opportunistic sex into an awful nightmare of goo and namelessness. He has become a physical silhouette of green terribleness, oozing, screeching, hunching, lurching, and Zmetria presses hard upon his chest with the ball of her foot and promptly kicks him away from her. He is pulled out of the trap she has become and falls onto his backside upon the floor, retching, flailing insanely, screaming, screaming so terribly… Zmetria slides off of the bed and walks over to the agonized, gooey monstrosity, playfully kicking his sides, smiling down at her amazing handiwork. She briefly stands atop him, walking over him and leaving him there, approaching the window, where she presses herself against the glass, trailing that green essence from her fingertips down the sheet, beaming at Schonberg.

"More, Schonberg. More," she demands, her voice no longer bearing the weak constitution of Zmetria Klondashski. It is now something altogether more confident, more savage, more deadly.

“More will come, Zmey. But not today.”

“Oh, fooey. You’re no fun at all, are you?”

Johann looks up weakly from the floor. “Z-Zmey?”

“I am Zmey, handsome. The better, more experimental soul waiting to burst free from this wretched cage that calls itself Zmetria!” She stretches out her arms and smiles at Johann. “Come inside. Come and feel me, Doctor. I want you to have my Green. I want you to feel my Green’s touch.” Her eyes widen in shock. "Oh, excuse me..." She lifts her leg into the air and presses a foot against the glass in a display of profound immodesty. They witness something expelling from her battered genitalia—a mass of viscous fluid, horrid and pulsating, that splatters onto the floor. Within the fluid emerge small spherical entities, tendriled and breathing, unmistakably alive. Zmetria exhales a breath of shuddering pleasure, her eyes closed in a state of highly sexual contentment. Isler's chest heaves at the sight.

"Birth," she whispers, and Johann feels as though the woman might break through the glass any moment to reach the gnarled green eggs of this evil mystery. "She's given birth!"

“Birth to what?” Johann breathes, shaking. But his attention is suddenly diverted to Lukas. He becomes transfixed with horror, gazing upon the quivering, incomprehensible green creature that now occupies the space where the soldier Lukas once stood. The entity is no longer screaming, but rather, standing now, facing Zmetria from behind. Lukas's hair has fallen away, leaving his scalp bare, and he is... something altogether more horrific than Johann has ever been able to conceive.

The nightmare's sunken face is a grotesque horror, its dark green hue a sight of wretchedness. The stench emanating from it is so potent that it threatens to shatter the glass, and its body is adorned with fungal-like protrusions of an Eldritch quality. When it walks, it does so with the swagger and professionalism of a drunken gorilla, bumbling in jerking, rigid movements up to Zmetria, and when it breathes, the harsh, withered sounds that it makes is the sickness of an asphyxiating animal. Long, boiled, gnarled fingers enveloping Zmetria’s shoulders, who glances around at the monster with a tender smile, and suddenly, Johann wants-needs-to run away, as fast as he possibly can.

Doctor Schonberg presses the speaker button again, and says, commandingly, firmly, “Zmetria… rest and dream of the blue moon instead.”

Zmetria seizes up suddenly, her eyes losing focus and rolling up into her head. Johann is horrified by the sight of a woman not only possessed by a demon, but utterly consumed by it, her very being putrefied by its presence. She slumps over and falls forward, leaning against the glass of the window in a weak posture, the creature that was once Lukas falling over, onto the floor. Schonberg proceeds to press another button, a black one, this one marked in bold letting CAUTION: PUSH UNDER SUPERVISION ONLY!

From the ceiling and vents around the walls, a sudden expulsion of black gas begins to gather and permeate the room. Darkness envelops their vision for a moment, and an eerie silence descends upon the chamber. After several tense seconds, with Johann's heart pounding frantically, the gas dissipates, leaving both the creature and Zmetria sprawled on the floor, unmoving but still breathing, unconscious.

Schonberg sighs in satisfaction and turns to regard Johann and Isler. Johann is reeling from the cosmic horror he has just witnessed, unable to fully comprehend its implications. Isler, however, is determined, her desire for analysis and understanding palpable as she edges closer to Schonberg's clipboard.

"Doctor Schonberg," she presses, her voice trembling yet exhilarated, "please, tell us, what did we just witness?"

“Miracles, Doctor Isler. Miracles. What you have both just witnessed is the culmination of five years worth of progress, of limited understanding. It is a long, unnatural story, and if you will join me in my office, I shall tell it to you, because what you have just witnessed is the start of your next great project. But, give me a moment.” He presses a series of different buttons on the speaker and issues a command in a firm tone, "Collection team, move in. Work fast." Within the testing chamber, the door through which Lukas had entered opens, and a small team of individuals clad in heavy hazmat gear files into the room. They march toward the unconscious creatures within the gassed circle, equipped with containment beakers, two gurneys, and a tray of syringes and other mysterious tools that Johann can't help but wonder about. Quickly, efficiently, they begin to collect the specimens and load them onto the gurneys, while two of them begin to gather the green egg-like expulsions that had come out of Zmetria, carefully transferring the viscus pile into biohazard containers.

Schonberg motions for Johann and Isler to follow him. “This is a project that I have come to affectionately refer to as the Übermensch Verwirklichung, or, the ‘Superman Realization.’”

He leads them into the side door that he had retreated from earlier, and they find seats in his cramped, cluttered office, still shaken, still amazed.

“Superman Realization?”

“You have heard of the Übermensch concept related to the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche?”

Johann nods. “Roughly. The concept of the superior human being, one that is better than the rest.”

Schonberg nods. “Central to Nietzsche's philosophy is the concept of the Übermensch, or ‘Overman,’ which symbolizes a superior, more evolved form of humanity that surpasses conventional morality and societal norms. The Übermensch embodies qualities such as a strong will to power, creativity, and the ability to master oneself.”

“The Superman strive has fascinated me since I was a boy. Our dreams to fulfill humanity’s ascension through our personal work go uncontested in all extremities, Doctors. What you just witnessed, in that room, in that extraordinary happening, was the realization of the Superman obtaining. It has been possible due to the discovery of the Master.”

“The Master?” Johann repeats, frowning.

“We call it the ‘Master’ due to its amazing capabilities. The specimen was found in the Netherlands in 1901. In 1858, the Netherlands saw the discovery of its first dinosaur fossil—a partial skeleton of Megalosaurus, a theropod dinosaur—near Maastricht. This find offered early evidence of dinosaurs in the region, though subsequent discoveries have been relatively scarce compared to other areas. While not so much an enduring hope for future finds of this magnitude, the paleontological pursuits were stubborn.”

"In 1901, a team based in Dordrecht unearthed something remarkable in the marshlands of the Biesbosch downlands. Initially pursuing a series of successful identifications of bone fragmentations believed to be linked to a family of fossilized Plesiosaurs, their discovery would ultimately surpass all expectations and go down in history as the greatest scientific find of the twentieth century. Not that any of the team lived to know this.”

"In a quarry, the team stumbled upon an extraordinary find—an entity unlike anything seen before. Remarkably preserved in the deep muck, it was not a fossilized relic, but the pristine corpse of an enormous creature. This animal, previously unknown to science, has never been recorded before or since. But those who dug it out of the muck- they quickly found that the entity posed a very great danger indeed.” Schonberg opened his desk drawer and rifled through papers within. After a few moments, he pulled out a large envelope and spilled the contents onto the table top.

Johann gasps in astonishment, while Isler emits an odd, nervous laugh. The old photograph depicts an anomaly that defies all scientific explanation. Stretching from the ground to the top of its "head" is a span of thirty feet, resembling that of a colossal serpent—a monstrous worm, perhaps forty feet in length. Its sinuous body is adorned with protruding tendrils, and its face is a hollow aperture, devoid of eyes yet exuding a sense of dread. The giant Eldritch is surrounded by fourteen personnel in white hazmat suits, the same kind of suits that Schonberg’s collectors had worn in the testing chamber just now. The entity is an incredible sight; Johann feels an otherworldly presence looking at its very image, as if even here, preserved in gelatin paper and colorized in an almost artificial mockery, Johann swears the thing is breathing.

“Things like this shouldn’t exist,” he whispers, looking in amazement at Isler. “It really shouldn’t.”

“Yet another miracle of science,” Isler breathes. “Those men in the photo, they don’t look like paleontologists.”

“They’re not,” Schonberg agrees. “They belong to the Brüder des Tores. Brothers of the Gate. They belong to me. This photograph was taken at the scene of the discovery, ten days after the find. By then, all of the paleontologists were dead.”

“You had them killed?” Isler inquired.

“No. I might have, given the chance, but something beat me to it. The entity did. They reached out to my team in Rotterdam, hoping to get some clarification into the kind of creature they had happened on. They believed it was a dinosaur of sorts; perhaps it is, though it is not of this Earth, I can tell you. My team took their time in getting out there. Fifteen miles away and yet they delayed by multiple days to get out there. By the time they took the radio call as seriously as they should have, the entity had already destroyed its discovering team. We found the site of a massacre awaiting us.”

“Someone had made physical contact with the entity in a way that had aggravated an aggressive reaction. The green residue of encephalitis-inducing secretion spread like a virus across the field team, and they tore each other apart. Though none of them were left alive when we reached them, their bodies surrounding the thing in a twisted circle of almost ritualistic fervor, they left messages behind.”

He hands the two doctors a second photo. The quarry walls are decorated with graffiti, remnants of the team that had discovered the thing. Handprints, unworldly symbols of alien origin, a language that Johann knows is evil. He is not sure how he knows, only that he does, and looking upon those strange hieroglyphics makes him feel physically ill. He does make out some English words, and they do little to soothe him. ‘LORD OF GREEN!’ ‘INFECTION’ ‘GOD IS HERE’

“They went insane,” he observes. “And killed one another?”

“According to the pathological report, they died from extreme trauma,” Schonberg explains. He hands them the pathologist report and Johann and Isler lean close together, reading, The scene exhibits extensive traumatic injuries consistent with manual limb removal. The decedent's body displays multiple avulsion wounds, characterized by torn flesh and jagged edges, indicative of forcible limb separation. Distinctive abrasions and contusions around the limb attachment sites suggest a struggle preceding the dismemberment… Notably, there's a lack of sharp instrument marks, indicating that the assailant utilized sheer physical force rather than bladed tools… Johann stops reading and looks up at Schonberg.

“The strength of the killer….”

Schonberg smiles. “Impressive, isn’t it? A mad frenzy of superhuman conflict, wouldn’t you say? This entity brought great influence over their minds. It incited violence and worship, a bloody ritual. My field agents who intercepted the scene all reported that merely standing in the creature’s presence brought on an overwhelming gravity, whispers in the mind, mental poking, subconscious prodding…”

Isler taps the photo of the creature. “That green hue. You had the image colorized, yes? So…” She leans back and scratches her chin. “This kind of powerful, influencing force… We just witnessed a taste of this creature, didn’t we? Zmetria… How does Zmetria fall into this? Such a distinguished doctor, being central to the Reich’s most important division…”

"Zmetria is a special breed, and her title as 'doctor' is merely ceremonial. She possesses no more medical training or certification than an inbred unwertes Leben. When we discovered her, she was little more than an animal. As fate would have it, she was first discovered by another group—a group that had regrettably defected from the Brüder des Tores, absconding with matter from the entity's body. This mutiny, orchestrated by a former protegee of mine, Doctor Nikolai Ouromov, resulted in the theft of samples from the Master specimen and the destruction of the remaining carcass. Ouromov vanished from Austria, where we were based, dealing a devastating blow to our work in human advancement."

"We followed traces of him into Russia for years, pursuing whispers of governmental defections and outrageous scientific inquiries. It was a long and arduous journey, and as time passed, it became increasingly likely that Ouromov and his group were on the brink of cracking a crucial equation in the Übermensch question."

"However, in 1936, our diligence finally paid off. Field agents uncovered intriguing reports emerging from St. Petersburg. A raid on an isolated sewer segment beneath the city revealed that a former government scientist, Dimitri Belakov, alongside Ouromov, had been conducting experiments on kidnapped children from across Russia. These experiments involved assimilating their bodies with particles from the Master specimen. The results on the children were both fascinating and horrifying, and more importantly, diverse.”

“Every subject exposed to the M-Variant, as we came to call the Master specimen’s excretion, reacted differently. Different impacts, different mutations. One thing that everyone seemed to agree upon was that the M-Variant had a way of enhancing the brain, stimulating neurons that increased susceptibility to academic progress. Belakov and Ouromov were creating specialists out of the children they were taking, mastering their skills in a wide variety of fields, such as chemistry, biology, and physics.”

“On top of their mental prowess, the children displayed varying levels of physical endurance. The children were tested and it was found that cortisol levels were at an all-time low in their chemical makeup. Serotonin levels were measured at an abnormally high rate, enhanced metabolism and neuropeptides stimulated by the perfectioning process of the M-Variant’s influence upon their bodies.”

Isler gasps. “So… making them little geniuses and little warriors, then.”

“To put it in laymans, yes, Doctor Isler. It was an extraordinary reaction, and all of them seemed to walk in a hive mind way, obedient to Belakov and Ouromov, who held the greater samples of the Master specimen close on their persons.”

“In 1936, somehow, the Russian government was tipped off about these experiments, and a full-scale police raid was conducted on the sewers beneath St. Petersburg. Ouromov vanished shortly before this raid, and I’ve speculated that he might have sold out Belakov and his assistants. Belakov’s laboratory was discovered beneath the Vyborgsky District, and a firefight ensued that left all of Belakov’s assistants dead. The man himself was placed under arrest, as were the children subjects, taken by the Russian government and secreted away into official facilities where they were no doubt disposed of.”

“However… not all of the children were accounted for during the police raid. Of the thirty-seven documented subjects, there were eight who were never processed. Eight who managed to escape during or before the raid, it is unclear. Among these eight children, well…”

Johann nods. “Zmetria Klondashki.”

Schonberg nods. “Exactly. I had my men scouring the city and its surrounding countryside for years, looking for those kids. The lab was destroyed by the Russian government, including all samples of the M-Variant, whatever Ouromov had managed to leave behind during his escape. My only hope in reclaiming my valuable treasure lay within those eight escaped children.”

"Zmetria was discovered in 1938. By then, she was seventeen years old and quite feral, living nude and wild in an old coal factory in the city's slums. When we found her, she was a filthy and deranged woman, covered from head to foot in soot and her own excrement. Evidence of cannibalism was discovered in that factory. It appeared she had been abducting people and consuming them..."

Isler whistles. “Impressive she could stomach it.”

“She was insane. Not human. Her eyes, they shone with an ethereal green glow, the smell of her more than destitute rankness: She carried the scent of the Master specimen on her. It lived inside of her. It thrives inside of her, waiting to make contact, waiting to spread, forming a dangerous personality that wants to mate and consume until all the world is covered in her terrible Green influence.”

Isler smiles. “How ambitious of her.”

“It took a year to recondition her mind. It took another year to safely contain the entity inside of her. That was when I made her my official assistant, forged papers that classified her as a ‘Doctor,’ a Soviet defector who had come to Germany to advance the great Empire. That was also when I began to experiment on her M-Variant’s influence upon external forces.”

“The mating,” Johann breathes, feeling chilly. “You’ve had her mating with people? Like Lukas? And… what’s happened to them?”

“You saw what happened to them, Johann. Lukas is not the first of those green abominations to be born from the corruption of Zmetria’s excretions. In fact, he is the seventeenth. I have come to call his kind the ‘Polluted.’”

“Polluted!?” Johann cannot believe what he is hearing. “Polluted, you say!? There are definitely more of these mutations!? And where are they!?”

“Secure, beneath this bunker where we sit now. The Fuhrer has been adamant that this M-Variant research finally, at long last, produce the essential key to the Ubermensch triumph. It has the potential, the means to do so. And I am getting close. I choose my mating companions carefully, after extensive studies into their psychological and medical backgrounds. These are deadly creatures being brewed by Zmetria’s body. Their mating with her is a cornerstone to my great success. With each one, she produces more viable residue of M-Variant, a living entity that expels from her body and seeks to corrupt its surroundings. With a little more time, I can crack the code to all of this.”

“And these men you are choosing, such as Lukas, how are they okay with this?” Johann demands at once.

Schonberg grins. “My dear man, you think I would tell them exactly what was going to happen to them when I send them into that chamber, erect and enamored with the prospect of f*cking a willing participant? No. We can thank Himmler for that one. The Lebensborn program was launched in 1935, its main goal to advance Aryan racial purity and bolster the population of racially desirable individuals within the Third Reich. This is simply, well, disguising itself as that. In truth, Lukas Müller was sentenced to death three weeks ago for the violent rape of Polish prisoner at Treblinka; he was in a jail cell awaiting this sentencing when I stepped in and convinced the Wehrmacht to give him to me for a special experiment. Once Field Marshal Wilhelm Keitel heard of my initiative, he convinced the Wehrmacht to hand Müller over to me, who was promptly offered a clean slate on his military record and a suspension of punishment if he agreed to participate in what he believed was the Lebensborn program. I offered him as a sacrifice to Zmetria’s M-Variant because I knew his sexually misconductive behavior would trigger a powerful reaction from the entity living inside of her body. You saw the results. The ‘Polluted,’ physical warriors created by the Master specimen, birthed by their mother Zmetria, using the bodies of those who come into sexual contact with her.”

“And this, at last, is where you both come in. I want you to take your current projects and merge them into my Heldenprojekt. I want to test the effects of your fear toxin and your enhanced supplements on the Polluted. I also want you to integrate the M-Variant from Zmetria into the next stages of your work.”

“But we have no idea what this thing is, Doctor Schonberg!” Johann insists wildly. Isler, however, is grinning.

“Oh, I’m all for it, Doctor. This is the kind of work I’ve dreamed about since I was a girl!”

“But Isler, we don’t even know how powerful this thing is!”

Isler waves Johann away. “We’ll be working under Schonberg’s direction, yes?”

“Effective immediately,” Schonberg agrees. “And with you two, I believe we might just have a viable formula to finally perfect the Superman question. I promise you, Johann, that the Polluted, Zmetria, the M-Variant, it’s all the answer to everything Germany is striving for right now. Because I assure you, Germany will lose this war without our efforts. We don’t have the means or the international favor to cement the Empire we seek.”

“Of course we don’t,” Isler says bitterly, crossing her arms. “The Fuhrer’s an idiot.”

“Mind your tongue, Isler!” Johann cries, rounding on her. “The Fuhrer-”

“Is misguided, Johann.” Schonberg stands and begins to gather the photos into a neat pile. “Aryan blood, extermination camps, these atrocities will crumble the foundation of the Empire before it draws first breath. We have a duty, a scientific duty, to advance the human race in the ways most befitting of practical innovation. I have found the answer to it, the answer to securing the Superman that we all long to see. And I need you to trust me, Johann.”

“I do trust you, Doctor Schonberg. What I don’t trust, however, is an entity that no human being can explain. Where did this creature come from? How did it come to be here, on the Earth? The power it has, the influence… We need to understand it better. We need to crack open Zmetria’s brain and have a good, long look at it. This is alien territory, Doctor Sconberg!”

Schonberg chuckles lightly. A knowing, mysterious gleam is alight in his eyes. “Yes. Yes it is. Alien territory. And that is exactly why I need to see this through. And in the end, I will find a suitable mating partner for Zmetria. I already have one in mind, actually. A special subject that has demonstrated incredible resilience and mental faculties even in the face of severe psychological trauma. And soon, Johann… their radiant power will be unleashed upon the entire world. The Fuhrer wants an empire, and I have the means to give him one now. However… it may not be the Empire he has dreamed of. And that, Johann, is perfectly acceptable to me.”

Johann shudders. Just what in the hell is Schonberg actually planning?

Chapter 5: 5

Chapter Text

The back alleys of Berlin

Tonight, the rain falls, and he welcomes it with open arms. His mother's old superstition whispers in his mind, telling him that rain is the tears of angels. Part of him embraces this belief, while another part quietly acknowledges that if that were true, the angels have been neglecting their duty lately. Not every day has seen rain since the horrors began.

Standing in the downpour, he lets the water cascade down his mask, cleansing the air around him. There's a perverse desire within him for the rain to continue endlessly, to drown the world in its relentless deluge, offering a chance for a fresh beginning amidst the chaos. Perhaps that is cruel pessimism; perhaps he has become cruelty.

He kneels atop the Schwarzbrennerei on Kurfürstendamm’s dimly lit backways, a dark gargoyle waiting in the shadows where he has been told to expect this new, uncertain chapter in his life. As he waits, doubts plague his mind. Can he truly trust this 'Sophie Krause' to align with his own ruthless resolve to confront the Nazi menace head-on? When the moment of reckoning arrives, will she prove willing to spill the necessary blood, or will she falter in the face of the impending truth of it all? He goes to bed most nights seeing the faces of the men he has killed since he took his first true, serious steps into this insane crusade of his. They haunt him. They had to die, and did die, but they haunt him all the same. Is there any way to be sure that she is willing to be as haunted?

A fleeting jingle of wind chimes pierces the air—the signal. With a resigned sigh, he launches himself from the rooftop, plunging into the void. His hands find purchase on a nearby fire escape, and with a deft maneuver, he flips through the air, landing somewhat less than gracefully in the heart of the dimly lit alley below.

She is sitting near a trashcan in the shadows nearby; the ember of her cigarette glows fiercely against the backdrop of total darkness, its radiance seemingly amplified by the stark contrast. This is not the Sophie Krause he encountered at the convention center. Tonight, she embodies something primal, a distorted reflection of an icon. Clad in black leather beneath a weathered overcoat, her knee-high boots speak of a readiness for action. And then there's the mask—a peculiar creation that defies categorization. From what he discerns in the dimness, he notices the curious triangular protrusions atop it, two of them, lending it an almost feline quality. A pang of doubt creeps into his mind as he ponders whether his influence has veered into unsettling territory.

“Krause,” he says quietly, his voice distorted by the gas mask around his head, “yes?”

“Give me a moment. Let me enjoy this,” she replies, her tone carrying a hint of tiredness about it. With a leisurely draw from her cigarette, she exhales a dense cloud of tobacco smoke into the air. “It’s been a long week. I haven’t had a moment to enjoy one of these in a long while.”

“Did you bring enough to share?”

She shakes her head, a smirk dancing upon her lips. "That officer only had the one on him," she remarks, her voice tinged with amusem*nt. "But if it's any consolation, I left him bruised and unconscious in the alley where I found him."

“And you don’t think someone will find him, raise some kind of alarm?”

"Boy, Bruno Wagen claimed he knew you, but he neglected to mention that you might turn into a coward under peculiar circ*mstances," she retorts sharply. "Don't you usually leave bigger messes for the Nazis to clean up?"

“My messes have points. Why did you want to meet me?”

“Bruno didn’t say-”

“I’m asking you, Krause. You tell me why.”

She sighs, rising to her feet and stretching languidly. As she moves, he can't help but notice how snugly her leather armor molds to her form, how very much it hugs. This is perhaps the first time his human nature has de-escalated his caution while he’s out for patrol. Her hand reaches out, offering him the drag. “Let's get out of the rain, get warm.”

“Then we could have met inside somewhere,” he says shortly, taking the cigarette and tossing it into a puddle.

"But then you wouldn't have the pleasure of seeing me drenched to the bone in this outfit, now would you?" she quips with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Hilarious. In, now.” He pushes open the door to the private bar’s tool shed in its outer yard and leads her inside. The cold dampness of the rain lingers in the air, infusing the shed with a scent of deluge as they step into its dim confines. “Tell me about the mission that Bruno Wagen hinted about. He says you need help on something big.”

Sophie Krause shrugs off her overcoat, unveiling the entirety of her form-fitting black suit. He averts his gaze, determined to ignore the pang of desire that claws at his chest. With a smirk, she pulls out a brown bag that had been hidden in the coat and sets herself onto a table, tossing him the bag as she does. “Photos, and names. Have a look.”

He unzips the bags and discovers a folder nestled within, packed tightly with papers. The folder is labeled Schlafloser Hügel. Opening the thing, he is immediately confronted with a large photocopy of a man he recognizes, though their acquaintanceship is a question of official capacity. The man depicted in the photocopy appears old, possibly in his sixties or seventies, with a countenance marked by hard eyes and a stern expression. He is adorned in decorated military fatigues, exuding an aura of power and authority even in the crisply rendered image. A name is printed above the photo. Dr. Friedrich Schonberg.

“I know this man,” Bruno breathes, and Sophie looks surprised.

“You know Schonberg? He’s a major, one of Himmler’s most decorated research scientists. He heads the Schlafloser Hügel science division. The work he’s doing right now- it’s rumored to be… well, superhuman.”

Superhuman? Odd. Bruno recognizes Schonberg from a handful of state dinners where Hitler had proudly showcased his top officials to visitors from Italy the previous year.

He himself had been deeply impressed by Schonberg's unconventional theories on human evolution and the potential control mechanisms that could hasten its progress, ideas that Schonberg had daringly theorized. The man was a genius, albeit one teetering on the brink of madness.

“He’s theorized legitimate advancements in the field of medicine, given the right financial attention and time. I had begun to wonder how far he might take them, too. And who are these?”

But when he flips to the next couple of photos, he already knows. Two scientists he has personally sired, though very briefly, stare up at him from the paper. The woman is redheaded and freckled, shy and rigid, hiding big green irises behind thick spectacles. The man, brown-haired and mousy, wears thin spectacles and, there's a nervousness etched into his features, as if the act of being photographed has sapped him of his vitality. He knows their names without looking at the titles above each one.

"Paulina Isler and Johann Krause..." He glances up at Sophie, his brow furrowed with curiosity. "I don't suppose there's a relation there, between you and Johann?"

“Obviously not. ‘Krause’ is a common surname, and no one questions it.”

“True. He’s the real deal, isn’t it, a true Krause. You might consider changing your stolen alias to something less tangible to this case. At any rate, I've seen these two before. They used to work for Bruno Wagen before Hitler spirited them away to that camp," he remarks, recalling their expertise. "Geniuses in their respective fields—botany, psychology, chemistry, toxicology... Johann Krause studied right here in Berlin, while Isler ventured abroad, spending six years in South America before returning to Germany to complete her doctorate."

“So you know Schonberg, Isler, and Krause. You’re very informed. But you probably won’t know this next one.” Bruno looks back down and pulls out the fourth photo. Wide, fearful green eyes peer up at him from beneath untamed black waves of hair. Her lab coat hangs loosely on her frame, a little too big, and is marred by dreadful stains. He frowns, reading the name Zmetria Klondashki???

"Who is she?" he inquires.

"Schonberg's personal lab assistant, and apparently, a Soviet," Sophie replies.

Bruno's eyebrows arch in surprise. "Interesting. A Russian serving the German Empire? If her homeland catches wind of her, she'll be facing a firing squad. That's the fate of all traitors. But why is she here, working under Schonberg?"

“No one really seems to know. She’s been given official papers to legitimize her, and that’s odd enough. Even Schonberg shouldn’t have that much influence, but he secured her full German citizenship. And apparently, he keeps her very close at all times. She’s sort of a prize of his, and whatever they’re working on, that’s what I need your help with.”

“And is there any speculation as to what that might be?”

“No. I have notes here on the work of Johann Krause and Paulina Isler, based on what has been witnessed in the fields. Nasty stuff. Hallucinogens, and of course, Isler’s been working wonders with the army’s supplemental intake. But Schonberg and this Klondashki woman are another, more secretive matter…”

Bruno ponders, gazing down at Zmetria’s timid face. “Zmetria Klondashki… The name sounds Russian, alright, but I don’t believe it is.”

“It isn’t. It’s designed to sound enough like it, but it’s almost a mockery, something pretending to wear Russian. The woman herself definitely is, but as to her true name…”

“The Empire has given her a name and it’s the only one that will ever matter.”

“There are more photos. Recent ones, and by far, the most disturbing.”

He braves a glance, setting the four individuals aside. Before him lies a battlefield, strewn with bodies, the scene of carnage unfathomable. Amidst the chaos stands a military unit, utterly unfamiliar to him, their presence horrifying and unnatural. The image, obviously colorized, likely based on eyewitness accounts, adds an eerie layer of strangeness to what he beholds.

Green leather jumpsuits cling tightly to their contorted forms, almost suffocating them in a restrictive embrace. Blades jut out from the leather at their shoulders, arms, legs, and even their heads. These peculiar, spiked beings wear ghoulish gas masks, their fingers elongated and jagged. They look more like monsters than men. A single word is written over their photo, too. Polluted?

“Polluted? What does that mean?”

"According to a survivor of the Lidiya Hills skirmish, German officers in green coats were seen directing these beings into trucks. The massacre they wrought was vicious," Sophie explains.

Bruno raises an eyebrow. "Green coats? Not a standard military color. A special unit?"

"Yes. They're known as the 'Giftkommando.' A poison squad, specializing in chemical warfare, and... other things. Like these 'Polluted.' Animals encased in armor, vicious, mindless, and incredibly swift. The survivor from the skirmish, he's lost his left eye; they gouged it out and took it with them. He described their claws as searing, like fire. It burned him…”

"And these trucks?"

"They headed straight to the Austrian encampment of Schlafloser Hügel. It's their manufacturing site; they must have a whole breeding ground there. One that needs to be eradicated," Sophie replies grimly. She slides off the table to join him, her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm, a gesture that startles him. The shadow he embodies knows only violence and fear; tenderness is foreign to it. “The resistance lost ten men to obtain this information. Schlafloser Hügel is a very real and deadly place, pushing the boundaries of science into realms we cannot survive. I need your help. I need your help infiltrating the camp, locating that breeding ground, and destroying it. It has to burn, along with Schonberg's lab and his scientists.”

Bruno sighs, shaking his head. This is his burden to bear, and it sears him to the core. He knows he's responsible for this. He allowed Johann Krause and Paulina Isler to be swept away by the allure of the Fuhrer without uttering a word of protest. They were ensnared by Schonberg's shadows and have now aided him in unleashing real horrors upon the world. He can't help but wonder: would this have been possible without his company? Or has Schonberg always been the most dangerous scientist under the Nazi flag?

“I’m sorry…” He breathes it out loud, and Sophie frowns.

“Sorry for what?”

Bruno shakes his head. "For failing to recognize this threat sooner. How many of these creatures are there?"

"There were twenty spotted at the Lidiya Hills. Twenty were more than enough to wreak havoc. There's no telling how many Schonberg is churning out every day unless we infiltrate the camp. And we won't let him continue his experiments if we have any say in the matter. So... do you think you can get us both inside?"

“Yes, I can. The question is how quietly.”

“If you’re thinking a direct assault, we don't know the exact location within the camp where these creatures are being manufactured. Schlafloser Hügel is expansive, with three administration buildings, two science wings, barracks—there's a lot to cover. Our approach needs to be stealthy. Equally crucial, we must uncover how Schonberg is creating these abominations. We're in the dark regarding the extent of his network. Krause and Isler are just two individuals, but Schonberg wields considerable power and influence. It's likely he has more collaborators on this project.”

“Then we’ll ask nicely, won’t we?” Bruno slams the photos down and clenches a fist, ready to roar. “How soon will you be ready to go?”

"A few days. I need to touch base with my fellow conspirators and extricate myself from Rupert's upcoming events for the week. He owes me some time off; I can negotiate that. Maybe three days to get everything in order.”

"Three days, then. That's all I'll give you…”

"You promise? You promise you won't leave me behind? I have to be there. I need to confirm that we're targeting the right objective," Sophie implores, a hint of desperation in her voice.

"I won't leave without you... but be prepared to move, Krause. This can’t wait.”

"And it won't wait. You have my word. Three days. Give me that, and we'll go set fire to those bastards. Schonberg will leave that camp with us, either as a corpse or a prisoner. Either way, he'll be dead by the end of the week.” Her eyes gleam with a hint of mischief as she reaches up to gently cup his cheek. "And then, maybe... I'd see fit to help you unwind after all that tension," she murmurs suggestively.

He grasps her wrist firmly, guiding her hand away from his cheek. "Let's keep it professional, tigress," he cautions. "I have access to a private airplane near Kyritz Airport. Can we meet there on Friday, before midnight?"

“Professional, huh? We’re professionals now. Ha.” She grins. “Well, no sale. Rupert will never give me his access to Kyritz… not unless…” She smirks. “I’ll be there. No worries. You just have the plane ready… and your temper.” She nudges him with her thigh as she turns towards the door. Bruno writes a mental note to take an icy shower when he returns home.

He watches her leave, noting the deliberate sway of her hips, the tightness of her attire—

"Gotta focus," he reminds himself sternly, wrenching his mind back into the shadows. The rain outside has intensified, providing the perfect cover for his activities tonight. There will be screams echoing through the Berlin streets this evening. He will orchestrate them.

Outside, as the rain thunders down around them, he watches Sophie almost merging into the shadows as easily as he might. Inspiration takes hold.

“Wait.”

He is surprised she can hear him over the rain, but she turns to look at him. He has to do it. He has to know.

“I need you to show me something,” Bruno calls out, popping his knuckles. She frowns.

“I thought we were supposed to be acting like professionals!”

He gestures at the yard around him. No one will be stepping out here in weather like this, especially this late at night. “Five minutes of your time.” He shifts into a boxing stance, his feet shoulder-width apart, hands raised to head level, slightly burying the toes of his boots into the mud. She gawks at him, hands on her hips. “Well, get at it, then.”

“Are you being serious right now!?”

He grins. Her French inflection has slipped; it is rather cute. “Do you want to be on board that plane with me or not!?”

“Obviously I do!”

“Then, five minutes of your time. Get. At. It.”

Her cheeks puff up, and she sighs. “Fine. But I’m not a boxer, am I?”

“It doesn’t matter. Only your identity in the fight matters. If you take control, the fight belongs to you.”

“Then I’ll have to control you quickly.” She pops her own knuckles as she leaps through the darkness at him, her leg shooting upward in a high kick. She’s no boxer, alright, but her determination blazes like a hidden sun. He sees a small blade protruding from the front of her boot. What a cheater.

He sidesteps her kick, the mud squelching under his boots. Her leg slices through the air, a blade seeking purchase. He ducks, the raindrops parting around him. His grin widens. “Not bad,” he murmurs, feinting left and then right. “But you’re telegraphing your moves.”

“I’m not here tonight to dance with you!”

“And yet here we are dancing!”

She squares her shoulders, defiance sparking anew. “Then don’t bore me with talk!” She lunges, fists flying, cutting in the side of his leather. Sharp, metallic nails at the end of her gloves, like cat claws. He grins behind his mask. She swipes, furiously, and he blocks, parries, their bodies a blur. She’s raw, untrained, a regular street aficionado. However did this French mystery come to thrive as she has in Germany?

Her fist comes flying again. He ducks under her hook, spins, and catches her wrist. “Control,” he whispers. “Find your center.”

She glares, but her eyes hold a spark of understanding. “And if I lose?”

“It won’t mean you won’t be aboard my plane; It does mean that I’ll be coordinating our little excursion.”

“To hell with that!”

“Show me you’re capable, then! Come at me again!” Jab! Jab! Swipe, thrust, sweep, sweep! She plays dirty; this is fine, as he does the same when he can. She is not on his level, and her attempts are rather feeble. She gets tired too easily, the harshness of her breath too loud, the clench of her fist as she feels the stitch in her chest too evident. This will not do. She needs to find control

“Again,” he urges, blocking her jab. “Channel your rage. Forget the rules. Absorb your pain; it’s a part of you, Krause. Pain is everything.”

She grits her teeth, rain-soaked and relentless. “I won’t lose.”

“Then prove it.”

A furious scream. She lunges forward, her fist raised, and he readies to receive it…but as he realizes the feint, she is already sliding across the mud beneath him. Her ankles come together around his own, scissoring his left leg. At the same time, her clawed fist raises true and strikes him in the abdomen.

He stumbles, caught off guard by her unexpected move. Mud splatters, and for a moment, they’re both off balance, locked in a precarious dance. Her eyes blaze with determination, and he grins despite the sting in his ribs. “Well done,” he manages, before throwing himself backwards, onto the ground, raising his legs as he does so. In the next moment, Sophie Krause is sent flying, tumbling through the air, landing in a harsh heap, face-down into the mud. Bruno regains his footing.

Her breaths come in ragged bursts as she looks up at him, mouth full of sludge. “What’s your stake in this?”

“The right answer would be justice,” he says, “and vengeance… right?”

“But that’s not your answer!”

“No. No it’s not.” He steps forward and offers her a hand, and pulls her to her feet. “You need practice. Work at it over the next few days, Sophie Krause. Anticipate every move, every possibility. If we’re going to work together, we’re going to work together.”

She pulls her arm aggressively from his hold, and he knows that he has embarrassed her. “Sure. Right. Practice makes perfect.”

“Go home and bathe first. I win this one, Krause. I expect you to not let me win the next one.”

Krause is wiping herself off, patting at her legs, seething. “Yeah, and when will that next time be, exactly!?” she demands, looking up at him in irritation. She is looking at pure darkness. He is gone.

Witwenhügel, at night

Nestled in the picturesque valleys of the Austrian Alps, Eisenstadt stands as a testament to industrial prowess amidst natural splendor. Situated in the heart of the country, it benefits from easy access to raw materials and transportation routes.

Eisenstadt's history is deeply intertwined with the rise of the steel industry in Austria. Founded in the late 19th century, it began as a small mining town, its fortunes changing dramatically with the discovery of rich iron ore deposits in the surrounding mountains. The subsequent establishment of steel mills propelled Eisenstadt into prominence, shaping its identity as an industrial hub.

Perhaps it's due to this storied history that the Allied vermin have chosen to rain down their incendiaries upon its industrial zone tonight.

BOOM! BOOM! The fires rage. Johann watches the devastation of the Empire’s great supply chains going up in smoke and debris. He shakes his head, furious that the enemy has been allowed to cross over this far. The crackling flames cast dancing shadows on the crumbling facades of abandoned factories. The air, thick with acrid bitterness, clings to his lungs like a cursed memory.

Most of Austria knows this land’s reputable seeds. Tales of steel barons who forged empires from molten ore. Those tycoons, their greed insatiable, built mansions atop the hills, their windows overlooking the furnaces that glowed like hellfire. But now, those mansions are shattered shells, their windows mere voids framing the ruin.

Why Eisenstadt? Perhaps it’s the iron in its veins, the echoes of hammers against anvil, or the ghosts of laborers who sweated and bled for a pittance. Or maybe it’s because Eisenstadt is a microcosm of human folly, where ambition and hubris forged chains of destruction. Johann grins. Yes, that is it. That is the poetry of it all. Hit the Empire where it will feel it, in its wallet, its belly, longing for the deliciousness of resources.

And here come the soldiers, marching up the hill toward the Giftkommando's established staging camp outside the ruined Crystal Word Catholic Church. The once-grand structure now lies in shambles, a casualty of the earlier bombings. As it should be. Johann envisions a world where all churches will eventually be toppled, in reverence to the new deity, the god of Fear.

These paratroopers have been sent to intercept this camp and capture its commanding officers. Johann welcomes them. They will find something entirely different awaiting them at the top of this hill. The RAF and the USAAF think they have claimed this region, and perhaps that will be the ultimate truth by the rising of the sun; however, their victory will require a special price.

"We should be getting out of here. They outnumber us; Johann, are you certain that Schonberg—"

"Yes, I'm certain," Johann interrupts, his teeth clenched in frustration. The sound of Hauptsturmführer Klaus Mengele's cowardly babbling doesn't grate on his nerves as much as he would prefer. Forced to endure the presence of him and his spineless command unit, Johann wonders if Schonberg might one day sacrifice the lot of them to his gas. One can only hope. “Stay calm. You’re not here to run away, not yet. You’re here to confirm another successful testing of FT-42. Eisenstadt is lost; we will walk away from it tonight with some small shred of victory.”

“And what exactly is that, then!?” Mengele demands, pushing past his sweating peers grabbing Johann by his coat. “Why are we not evacuating? If they make it to the top of this hill, if they reach there trucks-”

Johann wrenches himself out of the man’s grip, and glowers. They cannot see his glower, however. Tonight, he is wearing himself. What Mengele glares into the eyes of is a being, an elemental force of nightmares, a bearer of black voids where humanity should be apparent. His gas mask has been adorned with a wide grin of sorts, stitched, crude, like a dark shadow of the Berlin countryside’s vast farming fields. A collar of hay encircles his neck, his tattered brown trenchcoat hosting an array of tubes. These tubes are connected to a special chemical tank upon his back, through the intake of which can be seen yellow chemical behind reinforced glass. A gas wand is held firmly in hand. This is not Johann Krause standing here before the shaking coward that is Mengele. This is the god of Fear. This is Terror. He is the Scream.

A scarecrow. Like they’ve always said. Like they’ve always joked behind his back. He will never again be a joke.

Mengele shrinks in his gaze; he has been eyeballing Johann’s less-than-professional theatric display of a suit all night, with sour disdain and disbelief. “Witness your god at work, Klaus.” It is all he says before turning away and fully exiting the tent. The squad will be unharmed tonight. They will be able to run for their trucks soon. But first, the god must be given tribute.

He primes the wand and increases the output five levels past the last test. This, Isler warned him, could potentially be lethal. He is willing to risk it. He simply wants to see the new strengthened formula at work. And, if they survive…

The paratroopers are seven in number. His toxin is yearning inside of his tank, the wand shaking in his hand. It wants out; it needs these men. Closer. Just a little closer. He crouches low, waiting, smelling at the air, licking his lips behind his awful mask-

As the first of the helmets appears over the edge of the hill, Johann raises the wand from the brush he hides within and clicks the trigger. Yellow gas explodes out of the end, engulfing the troopers in an instant. Eyes widen across the group as the nightmare takes hold, inhaled, sealing their fate. The screams of men falling into wrecked heaps of uselessness pierce the night—awful screams, torture to the ears. Johann closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, feeling himself becoming aroused. He touches himself as he dissolves into the cacophony of their horror.

Scream! Screaaaammmm! His mind is a torrent of hazy, toxified angels, descending from a heavenly plateau of horrified anguish. Every claw at the face is like a penetration from some sexual Eldritch of the night, every plea for mercy a dash of orange behind his eyes. Their tears burn green, green as her eyes, their emptying bowels as brown as the dirt upon her-

Johann pulls himself back into reality. Mengele’s squad has exited their tent and is watching the onslaught of insanity and terror that has overcome their enemies. Johann sits down upon the grass, still feeling that bulge deep beneath his leather and hay, still smells Isler’s perfume in the deep recesses of his mind’s senses-

Here, again, she invades his mind in the midst of his joy, of his delight. Why!? Why her, and why like this!? Put her out of your mind already, you idiot! He clambers to his feet and checks his pocket watch. One minute, twelve seconds. Still, they scream. Their eyes bleed brown fluid; the stench of excrement and urine fills the air like a relentless downpour.

You’re going to see great results tonight, Johann. The Blue Hymalias has reacted positively to the cuttings of Amberweed and the cellular extractions from the donated Amygdala-patients that-

He has to push her out of his mind. She's been invading his thoughts too often lately. Too much.

“D-Doctor!? Johann!?” Mengele’s irritating voice comes through, panicked. The fires in the valley below are spreading from the town to the countryside. The distant bombers are circling around the mountains, and will return soon. “The troopers…?”

Johann’s shaking hand raises as he checks his watch again. One minute, forty-three seconds, and still, the terrors have taken them. Still, they scream, scratching at their flesh, bleeding themselves. He grins.

Step out there today confidently, Johann. Our work will be a sight. I wish I could come…

Johann kicks at the dirt. He wishes Isler could have been there too. She deserves to see what she has helped bring about... Well, he'll bring the results to her then.

“Alright. They’re ready. Get them loaded, quickly! The test is finished!”

“Right! Move, get them into the trucks!” Mengele shouts, sending his men scurrying to collect the screaming, Allied guinea pigs. Those men lurch out at Mengele and his soldiers, jumping at them, but they are equipped with Schonberg’s own special gas. From their guns emit pale, lavender mist, and the screams silence at once as deep unconsciousness overtakes them. Johann feels empty as those screams are silenced. He needed them so badly…

But they will return. When they awaken, that toxin will still be buried deep within their blood, and the music will start again. Isler and Johann have triumphed tonight. The toxin itself is ready. Now, there is only the dispersal method to consider. How to spread it across enemy lines, and cover entire squadrons at once… His mind races to a concept that he and Schonberg have been looking into. Johann has designed the blueprints; what he lacks are the tools and the components. Still, he will have them, and the Cloudburst will become a terrifying reality for the enemies of Germany… Hell, it will become a nightmarish realm for the friends of Germany, too.

The Cloudburst. The ultimate dispersal unit. It will be built, and when it is, this war will end, and the world that will follow will be his perfect utopia. The Scream will rule over all, and all the Earth will feel the power of that song.

And as he follows Mengele and his men back to the trucks where the paratroopers are being loaded, future Polluted that they are, once they are brought back to Schonberg, he settles himself into the cabin of one of the trucks and rests his head against the leather of the seat, closing his eyes, thinking deeply about that utopia of his…

In his vision of it, he is not seated at his glorious throne of Fear alone. He has someone beside him. A queen. She sits upon a throne, too, a throne made from green tendrils of ivy, from flora that has come alive and sings praises. He clenches his fist so tightly that it hurts, because Isler is beautiful in this vision, more beautiful than he can comprehend. She just will not leave… Every time he reaches his euphoria, he sees her, he smells her, he… he desires-

“Get us back to camp,” he manages to force out as his driver climbs into the cabin. “We have to get these results back to Schonberg…”

And, in a distant, private, forbidden part of his struggling mind, he acknowledges that he almost must return to whatever vicinity Doctor Paulina Isler currently presides in…

Chapter 6: 6

Chapter Text

Schlafloser Hügel, science division, underground

His eyes burn with exhilaration as he beholds the woman’s nervous shuffle into the room. She shakes with an absolute terror of knowing, the worst kind of knowing. He enjoys it; he wants to rattle her cage further, see if he can pry the bars off and invade every crevice of her fragile mind. Anything to get rid of the blue, the horrid blue!

The blue invades in a sharp, brief stab right through his brain when she turns on the lights, and that is when the real whirlwind of it all starts. Colors bleed into sounds, sounds into textures. The hum of the machinery becomes a pulsating crimson, throbbing against his temples. The flickering lights taste of copper, sharp and metallic. It’s the damnable blue that haunts him worst of all, coming and going, stinging and slicing! The cerulean hue that seeps into his consciousness like poison. It whispers of forgotten memories, of icy waters and drowning. He blinks, and the walls ripple with azure waves. The buttons on the control panel shimmer like sapphire gems, singing to him, screeching, biting!

The room pulses, the colors merging into a cacophony of dissonance. He bangs his head against the back of his upright gurney, and the uncontrollable hilarity takes hold. He begins to laugh as if it will be his last laugh, and the most important one at that.

"Oh, Doctor Zmetria," he purrs, his tone dripping with faux concern, "you seem positively radiant with fear. What is it that you know that you’re going to tell me?”

She does not answer. She checks the pumping machine connected to the tubes that feed him oxygen and medicinal chemicals. Seems to stare into it for forever, mesmerized by the rise and fall of the pressure mechanism, almost entranced by some secret that tantalizingly screams into his mind the possibility he will never know it. He hates that. The blue intensifies, and he tastes sea salt, choking him.

“Don’t ignore me, Zmetria. I don’t appreciate it…”

Zmetria checks the IV bag, and nods. “Almost time for a change,” she mutters to herself, in the most distant voice, in the most drugged delivery. Der Narr giggles.

“Crazy, crazy. Aren’t we all mad here, Zmetria? Doesn’t it make you feel invincible?” He watches as she reaches into her lab coat, overgrown, foul-smelling thing that it is, and pulls out a small bottle of white fluid. The bottle is unmarked. Her eyes then raise to meet his.

“Maybe,” she whispers, and walks over to the counter where the medical supplies are contained. It only takes a few moments to produce the syringe. Der Narr’s anticipation is ablaze now; he needs her to make her move.

“I take it that’s not goat’s milk…”

“How perceptive,” she replies, still in that quiet, distant voice. She begins to fill the syringe with that mysterious white secret. Fills it, up, up, up to the tippy top. Her hand is shaking as she fumbles the bottle back into her pocket, and carries herself drunkenly across the room and back to his IV bag.

“What medicine does old Schonny boy have for me today? I must say, Tuesday’s sulpha pills gave me a wild whiplash. This had better give me a kick right up the tunnel today. I want my insides exploding out of my mouth!”

Zmetria shakes her head. “Nothing like that.” She jabs the end of the needle into the top of the bag and injects the medicinal component inside with the white substance. As she watches the syringe empty, her eyes almost seem to widen in some private form of stupefied amazement. Der Narr watches the medicine inside bubbles for a moment; the color of the original medicine within does not change.

“And what was that, Doctor Zee?”

She looks him right in the eye now. Her expression is quite dead. “Phenol,” she responds, and turns away from him, walking towards the door. She yanks its open quite roughly, and looking over her shoulder, says with bitter contempt in her tone, “Doctor Schonberg won’t be back at camp for a few days. He’s been summoned to Berlin. You’re all mine, Der Narr… and you should be dead long before he has time to come back.”

“Joy, my dear! Attagirl, Zmetria. Attagirl.”

“I mean it, Der Narr.” She slams the door shut and watches him through the glass on the other side. “You should have died in that gas chamber. You should have died along with the rest of your ilk. I’ve fixed that. You know Phenol? Probably not, uneducated rat that you are. Well, I’ll give you the physician’s brief lecture on it. As the phenol enters the bloodstream and begins to exert its toxic effects, the patient, being you, Der Narr, experiences severe pain at the injection site and throughout the body. Other symptoms can include nausea, vomiting, difficulty breathing, and ultimately, loss of consciousness and death if untreated.” She smiles at this last thought, looking truly satisfied by the conclusion to come. “Schonberg has this crazy plan, you see. Involving you… and me. Well I’m not going to let him see it through. I won’t! I refuse! That dreams dies today, along with you. Have a pleasant afternoon, Der Narr.” She walks away, leaving him there to die, strapped to that gurney, the Phenol coursing through his system, commencing the critical cellular degradation and failure of his organs.When she returns, in a day or so, he will be a corpse, and be promptly scheduled for the incinerator.

As she leaves him, Der Narr’s laughter begins to shake the very walls around him. The blue has returned… and it is suffocating in its sapphire waves!

Zmetria walks into the lab at the end of the corridor, and the smell of dense vegetation and awful, noxious flora takes hold of her senses. The pungency of rotting flesh greets her as she enters the greenhouse; she is face to face with what Doctor Isler has referred to as Rafflesia arnoldii, the ‘Stinking Corpse lily,’ as it is known in Asia, a very large specimen, thick, fleshy, and reddish-brown in color. The stinking thing is arranged in a circular fashion, forming a wide, saucer-like structure, its petals saturated with irregular, mottled spots. Zmetria touches the thing, and it quivers. Alive. The gas it releases at her touch makes bile arise in her throat, and she steps away quickly, pushing past several fly traps.

She creeps through the labyrinthine passages of the twisted greenhouse, her senses alert to every creak of the rusted metal and every drip of water from the overgrown foliage. The stink of the plants mixes with the scent of damp earth and the sharp tang of chemicals. She brushes aside trailing vines and pushes through dense clusters of leaves, looking anxiously here and there. No sign of Isler or Krause. Good. Where are Krause’s stores?

In the far northeast corner, she stumbles upon the synthesis machinery Krause has been utilizing. Nestled beside his devices lies a cluster of strange, pulsating pods. Tubes and wires slither out from their bases, vanishing into the undergrowth. Schonberg hasn't breathed a word about these pods. She treads cautiously over the trailing vines connected to them, but inadvertently brushes one with the tip of her toe. The pod erupts into violent tremors instantly, and Zmetria recoils, a small shriek escaping her lips. There's undeniably something alive inside that pod; it yearns to break free. With wide eyes, she observes as what resemble handprints press against the plant matter from within, something desperate to flee, desperate to reach her...

She quickly sidesteps the thing and reaches Krause’s table on the other end. This is where he and Isler have been developing the fear toxin, and Krause has left a mess. The table is cluttered with vials, beakers, and assorted tools, stained brain matter pickled in jars, bits of flesh here and there…

“Where are you?” she breathes, siffling through the papers and additives in beakers. Just one sample. One small,little dose…

Are you really this desperate, Zmetria? Do you really think that this is going to solve your issues? The voice of Zmey, inside. Taunting. Laughing. Zmetria claps the side of her head hard with her hand.

“Quiet, you!” she demands, her voice quivering. Krause has to have a safe somewhere, or a refrigeration unit. Anything…

A sliver of darkness lurks behind the overhanging vines on the back wall. She dashes toward it, her breath quickening, and thrusts the vines aside. A safe beckons her. With desperate urgency, her hands shake as she retrieves the stolen piece of parchment from the depths of her pocket—the one she pilfered from Schonberg’s log book just this morning. Her eyes hungrily devour the list of codes:

**PI-Supplement A3N-120933**

**ZK-Contingency B4O-231044**

**JK-Dispersal C5P-342155**

**IS-Supplement D6Q-453266**

**JK-FT-??- E7R-564377**

**FM-Morgue Samples F8S-675488**

**PI-Supplement G9T-786599**

**JK-FT-??- E7R-564377**... That's the one. She traces the engraving on the safe, her fingers landing on E7R. She starts to dial the six-digit combination, her heart pounding against her chest like tribal drumbeats. If it is in here, then she’ll indulge.

The safe swings open, and she smiles. Three vials of yellow-brown substance, labeled FT-42. Forty-two variations, each more successful and potent than the last. Isler and Krause have done well; she supposes they have made enough.

Hell of a plan of yours. What exactly are you intending to do once you’ve succeeded? You’ll be shot.

“So be it,” Zmetria hisses, wrapping the three vials in her coat and shutting the safe door once more. She places the vines back to their original positions and carefully begins to make her way back through the greenhouse, her heart ready for what she intends to come next-

From the shadows, something seizes her. Zmetria's scream shatters the silence, her grip on the fear toxin vials faltering. A hand has emerged from the darkness! Her eyes dart downward to a hand, gray and withered, sparking a gasp from her lips. Unseen before, a gurney lies in her path, and atop it rests a man. A ghastly sight, he is bald, his body emaciated, his skin the gray of decaying flesh, resembling a specter neglecting its own burial. His eyes, wide and bloodshot, fixate on her, his teeth clashing in a grimace of pure suffering. Intravenous tubes stretch from his form to a machine on the gurney's far side, carrying a strange, greenish elixir that trickles into his veins.

He attempts to form words, but his voice fails him; only the soft sounds of his agony escape.

Within her, Zmey stirs, a surge of anticipation awakening. The Acrid Infector, eager and restless, yearns to seize the defenseless man before her, to unleash her virulent Green without restraint. Let me have him, Zmey pleads with Zmetria, her ravenous desire, dripping with urgency, seeping into the depths of Zmetria's subconscious cravings. I need another! I need him!

Zmetria shakes her head. “No. I have to get out of here…”

It will only take a few seconds!

“Too many.” Zmetria wrenches the man’s hand off of her in disgust, hating him, hoping that he will die soon. If she has her way tonight, he will, and so will many, many others… The cosmic Green inside is furious at her refusal; she will run regardless, no matter the hurt it delivers in protest. She turns her head towards the distant exit… and sees it opening.

Panicking, she throws herself down onto the floor and scurries beneath the gurney, beneath the treacherous, suffering man. Footsteps from across the greenhouse, a yawn, the smell of coffee lingering. A familiar scent of old earth and chemical residue. Zmetria swears internally! Doesn’t this woman ever sleep!?

“How are we doing tonight, Piotr? Feeling a little under the weather?” Paulina Isler inquires as she comes to stand next to the gurney. Zmetria can only see from her shins down to her green Dolly shoes, and the trail of ivy that seems entangled around the woman’s right ankle. Piotr moans desperately above, the sound of a man who has never wanted anything more in life than to be killed. “I know it hurts, sweetheart, but bear with it. Doctor Krause and I have developed a special serum to counteract some of the nastier aspects of that slimy Pollution effect; a few more days of testing it, and I think we’ll see fit to incinerate you properly. It’s for science, love.” Isler giggles as she begins to work, and Zmetria can hear the slicing of a scalpel above, followed swiftly by the most agonized moan of Piotr’s yet. A foul stink penetrates the air around the gurney; Zmetria recognizes the smell as putrefying tissue. Piotr is not dead; however, he is not alive, either. “Just need a small bit of an entry point to administer the third dose of the serum. Hold on.” Isler walks away for a moment, and Zmetria pulls the sheet hanging from the gurney lower, knowing that Isler might see her knees when she turns around. She hears the activation of a Magnetophon, and at the same time, the start of a record.

Zarah Leander’s elegant voice carries across the lab as Isler sways to the music that carries her into carnage. ‘I Know One Day A Miracle With Come’ hits Zmetria’s ears, who detests the singer’s annoying voice and her happy words. She has always hated the music above the surface of the world. She prefers the melancholy wonders of her friends from beneath St. Petersburg, the rats. The singing of a rat is a curious symphony, a blend of squeaks and chirrups that might seem comical to the untrained ear; to those who knows them, and live by them, they are sounds that promise a fine meal

“I know one day a miracle will happen,” Isler sings as she returns to Piotr and begins slicing into him once more. The bed rocks violently above Zmetria.

“And then a thousand fairy tales will come true.

I know that such a love can't fade away so quickly,

That was so true and wonderful.”

How long will Isler be working tonight? Zmetria must get out of here soon; if Isler becomes wary of anything out of place near Krause’s safe, then she might rise an alarm… Could she attack Isler, somehow? Isler is a rigid creature, stoic, hardly the fighting type. Zmetria might be able to take her down, if-

The door to the lab slams open. Someone is storming in again, and Zmetria almost swears aloud. Quick feet are rushing across the greenhouse, a fierce, harsh breath sounding the arrival of a temperamental sort.

“Isler!” The voice belongs to Johann Krause.

Johann closes in on Isler, his cheeks flushed in fury. Isler looks around in surprise, nearly dropping the scalpel in her hand. The muted, colorless blood of Piotr is flowing freely from his newest wound, down onto the sheets, onto the floor, seeping underneath the gurney.

“You’re not in bed, Johann?” Isler blinks rapidly, frowning, setting her scalpel down and pushing her glasses up her nose. “A bit late. Please don’t come in here shouting. The children don’t like it.”

“The children don’t like it!?” Johann snaps, and he seizes Isler by the front of her coat and lifts the woman off of her feet. Isler lets out a yelp as Johann forces her against a nearby wall, his teeth gritted, seething mad, eyes filled with madness. “Your children have been f*cking my mind, Isler! You’ve got something on you that’s doing it, don’t you!?”

"I don't know what you mea-" Isler's words are choked as Johann's hand clasps around her throat. He's a man consumed by the urge to kill, fueled by whispers of annihilation. The greenhouse quakes around them, its plant life shuddering with an ominous energy. Faint hisses emanate from trembling flower pods and sinuous vines. "J-J-oon..."

Johann releases her throat, and Isler crumples to the floor, gasping for air, clutching her neck. Her glasses are askew, sliding down her sweating face, and she trembles upon the floor. “Jo-hann… what… why…?”

“What-have-you-done-to-me!?” Johann leans down and pulls something from his coat pocket. The gas wand gleams lethally in the dim light of the heating lamps. He presses the end of it right up to Isler’s lips, and her green eyes cross as she tries to keep it within sight. “I’m wearing a tank under this coat,” he tells her in a dangerous voice. “A small tank, with enough toxin to drive thirty men insane. I’ll shove this down your throat, Isler, and let you drink all of it– if you don’t tell me what the hell it is you’ve done to me!”

“I don’t understand!” Isler whimpers, tears in her eyes. “I’ve helped you create that toxin, Johann! I’ve done nothing but help you! I’m your partner!”

“Then why in the hell do I keep seeing you everywhere I go!?” Johann cries, pushing the end of the wand firmly against her mouth, jabbing her painfully. “You keep invading my mind! You’re everywhere! I can’t work, I can’t sleep, I can’t take a sh*t without seeing your face. You’re infecting my mind! Did you do something to me!? Is it something to do with Zmetria!? Put a little modified M-Variant in me!?”

Isler gasps. “What!? No, of course not! What do you mean!? I-”

“Everywhere I go, Isler, I see you! I smell you! I can’t get rid of you! You work with psychedelics, with-with those f*cking pheromones you’ve been extracting for Schonberg!”

“Yes!” Isler moans desperately, trying to climb to her feet, but Johann presses her back down, not lowering the wand. “For the Polluted, Johann, to pacify them when they become agitated! I haven’t-I haven’t used them on-”

“Don’t lie to me! Why in the hell, Paulina, do I keep seeing you everywhere I go!?”

Isler blinks, shaking her head. “It’s not obvious to a genius like Johann Krause, is it?”

“What is supposed to be obvious!?” Johann roars.

And then her eyes light up, and she smiles. The gods-be-damned woman actually smiles! “Johann… Doctor Krause… We’ve been working alongside one another for a while. We’ve done some wonderful things together, obtained the Fuhrer’s commendation and have shifted the tilt of the war effort! We’ve done that, me and you! And in all that time, you’ve been-you’ve been denying your-your-”

“My what?” Johann whispers, his teeth on edge. “Because it’s getting worse, Paulina! I’m becoming-becoming ob-obsessed, I-I don’t-you’ve…” He is stammering, unable to articulate, his hand shaking so violently on his wand that it slips from his hand and hangs loosely from his coat, falling onto Isler’s lap. Isler sighs, and she reaches out to him. He jumps at her touch, at the tender, soothing sensation it sends down his spine as her fingers slid delicately over his right cheek. Their eyes lock, hard. Tears. Tears in both. “What have you done, Paulina?” he moans, afraid now.

Isler’s cheek turn red as she blushes. “Made you feel something you didn’t think you could feel,” she replies quietly, her chest heaving now with a terrified kind of excitement. Johann feels all the blood in his body warming considerably. He tries to look away from her but she holds his head firmly in place, shaking her own. “All of those studies- all of those hours locking yourself away in cramped office spaces, working scientific miracles for the Fuhrer when you should have remembered that you’re a man, Johann! A man with needs…”

“W-what needs…?”

Isler's voice is a whisper, a tremor of vulnerability in the charged air. "Your feelings, Johann. You've been denying your feelings for me." Her admission hangs between them, a confession that seems to echo off the glass walls of the greenhouse.

“I don’t have feelings… Feelings don’t align with the equation of- They’re not part of-of-”

"But they are, Johann," Isler insists, her gaze unwavering. "You can't dissect your heart like one of our specimens. You can't isolate your soul in a petri dish. We are human, and we feel, despite our best efforts to the contrary."

“Don’t you dare!”

“I do dare, Johann.” Her voice shudders.

Johann's eyes dart around the room, seeking an escape from the truth that's been unveiled. The plants seem to lean in closer, as if they too are eager to witness this rare moment of human frailty. "This is madness," he mutters, his voice barely audible. The claustrophobia of the room, usually his sanctuary, is now suffocating. His vision is blurring.

"No, Johann. This is life," Isler says, her hand reaching for his once more. "And sometimes, life finds a way to seep into even the most controlled environments. Like the scent of the earth after rain, like the warmth of the sun on a cold day, like the colors you see when you hear a symphony play."

Johann's synesthetic senses flare, a cascade of colors bursting behind his eyes at her words. He sees the vibrant hues of her voice, the gentle tones of her touch, and he realizes that she's been an unmistakable painter in his f*cked up world for a very long time… It is madness. It is truest insanity.

“I need to leave…”

“You don’t need to leave. You have needs, yes, but that’s not one of them.”

Johann looks up at her bitterly. “What needs, then?"

Isler smiles deeply. “Needs like this.” She kisses him on the lips.

The kiss is a shockwave, a seismic event that ripples through Johann's very being. It's a collision of past and present, of what he's been denying and what he can no longer ignore. Isler's lips are soft, insistent, and for a moment, Johann forgets the chaos, the war, the experiments. He forgets everything but the woman in front of him.

When they part, the air is charged with a new energy, a current that hums between them, tangible and alive. Johann's eyes are wide, his mind reeling from the contact. "Paulina..." he starts, but the words catch in his throat.

Isler's smile is gentle, understanding. "You see, Johann? We're not just our work. We're not just our ambitions or our fears. We're also our desires, our need for connection, for touch, for love."

Johann's hands are trembling, but he reaches out, touching Isler's face with a hesitancy. “I don’t know anything about this feeling…”

She grins. “There are other feelings…” Isler's gloved hand explores the vicinity of Johann's pelvis… and hits the mark. It is waiting for her, as it has been many times for quite a while now, and when she touches it, a surge of desire courses through him, overpowering his doubts and uncertainties. In that moment, surrounded by the lush greenery of the greenhouse, he yields.

With a sense of urgency, Johann's trembling hands reach for the buttons of Isler's lab coat, his movements driven by a primal need to feel her skin against his own. Each button undone sends a jolt of anticipation through him, his heart racing in sync with increasing tempo, an insane sensation, an unearthly thing. With a gasp of anticipation, she helps him remove the coat, the fabric falling to the floor in a heap, leaving her clad only in the thin fabric of her blouse.

He hates that blouse. He does not want it in his way, not anymore.

He is vaguely aware of the seconds that pass by, as they move in an unnatural blur of false reality. He is aware of certain, distant element of tangibility, such as the loss of his own coat, the removal of her shoes, the coldness of his exposed pelvic region, and then a warmness, and a wetness, and a smell that he never could have dreamed himself capable of inhaling, of experiencing.

As Johann gazes upon Isler's form, he is struck by the raw beauty that emanates from her. Her skin, tinged with the earthy hues of dirt accumulated from her tireless work in the greenhouse, still shines. Each smudge and speck of soil only serves to accentuate her natural radiance. And then there are the odors, not of perfumes or artificial scents, but of the earth itself—the rich, earthy aroma of soil mingled with the faint hint of greenery and the subtle tang of sweat.

Her eyes burn into his. She needs him to do it.

In a single, powerful motion, he presses himself against Isler, their bodies merging in a fervent embrace. The wetness between her thighs, how warm her garden glows, and her kiss… The taste of Isler's lips is a revelation—a heady blend of sweetness and warmth, tinged with a hint of saltiness from their shared exertion. As Johann presses his mouth against hers, he savors the softness of her lips, the way they yield to his touch with a gentle yielding. He pulls out, wanting more tastes, more experiences, more evidence of humanity’s needs, as she put it.

He dives deep, his breath warm against her skin as he presses his lips tenderly against that precious garden. She sings some kind of song in an odd tongue of reverence as his tongue plays. She expels some kind of drink, and it is an elixir. He never wants to relent. She guides him back to her, smiling, kissing, inserting him once more, and he can feel warmth threatening to break through his own floodgates. If he does not relent, this garden will be seeded. He knows he must pull away, knows that if he does not, he will put her into a position that neither of them will be able to-

Her breasts heave upward, harshly, bouncing at his vigorous appetite, and that is what breaks those precious floodgates. He releases, and seizes up, biting his own lip and tasting blood in his mouth. The seed is quantifiable, the odds of it being here, for her, impossible yet achieved. She tightens up in his hold, her eyes closed as she breathes in the act that has just taken place inside.

“Flowers for me,” she whispers, her smile so radiant that Johann realizes, in that moment, that he loves her. He loves her. She is the only being on the planet that he loves. In this moment, only they exist. All others, the worthless Jews, the equally revolting Nazis, the Allied actors and Axis powers that will never be- they are figments, illusions, fantasies that have no merit.

“Flowers for you,” he breathes, diving forward again to taste that sweet, sweet kiss.

From the darkness of the gurney, Zmetria Klondashki watches, silent and breathless, hugging the fear toxin close to herself, knowing she is trapped, and yet, even if she had a moment, she would not be able to detach herself from the scene. She is glued, cemented, and utterly transfixed. Her plans for tonight can wait a little longer. Best not to interrupt their happiness with unexpected emergence. She and Piotr will bear witness to their lovemaking for as long as it needs to happen; when it is concluded, then Zmetria will prepare her liberation.

Best to let someone in this hellbound camp enjoy their human sentimentalities for a little while longer…

Chapter 7: 7

Chapter Text

Schlafloser Hügel, main camp, above ground

The camp known as Schlafloser Hügel is a pestilent stain upon what was once glorified Austrian soil, now tainted by an evil that should never have been allowed. Shadowed by the weeping Styrian Alps, it has a miasma of unholiness putrefying the air around it, its shadow stretching far beyond the barbed wire and the three watchtowers that triangularize it. The air is thick with the scent of pine and the undercurrent of something sinister, a taint that clings to the very earth beneath your feet. The barracks stand in rigid formation, their wooden facades weathered and beaten by the relentless march of time. They tell stories of the countless souls that have passed through their doors, each one leaving behind a whisper of their own tales, a fleeting imprint on the fabric of the camp. It is here, tonight, that Bruno Wagen will feed. It is here where everything will at last have meaning for him.

The airplane descends some three-and-a-half kilometers outside of the camp, on the side of the Himmel Lake where the trees grow thickest. No one has seen their coming; the sky is too dark, and the rain is too merry. They will be traveling lighter in their approach, and his plane has the essential tools for it. When the plane is settled, Sophie begins to unravel the midnight blue tarp that will cover the craft whilst Bruno detaches what he and Alfred have come to call the ‘Shade bikes.’

They detach from the underbelly of the plane and land rigidly in the grass, two of them. These motorbikes boast a sleek and minimalist design, with a matte black finish to minimize reflection. Powered by a modified inline-four engine and equipped with Wagen Utenheimen’s prototype stealth mufflers, the bikes are almost invisible to even Bruno, who feels that he and Lukas Fuchs are truly in need of repentance for not having escaped to the States already to offer the woefully under equipped Americans their technology innovations. Maybe someday soon…

Bruno helps Sophie finish covering the plane and offers her one of the bikes. “You sure you have experience riding at least an R75?”

Sophie nods. “I’ve stolen a Kettenkrad or two. This is child’s play.” She takes her seat upon the bike and searches the handlebars, familiarizing herself under Bruno’s lantern. Her fingers dance over the controls, a soft click here, a gentle nudge there. The Shade bike hums to life, a whisper against the night’s silence. “Your design is simple.”

“It cost Bruno Wagen more than simple in costs,” he tells her, saddling onto his own bike.

“How active has Mister Wagen been in your antics, exactly?”

“Active enough. These were intended for the military, but the schematics were, er, accidentally shredded in a cleaning mistake. The poor Nazis never got to experience these.”

She smiles. “Shame.”

The two set off, gliding across the grass, silent as the ghosts of a past they both yearn to rewrite. They will not undo much, but the critical blow will be felt if they succeed. Schonberg and his research were crucial for the fire. Sophie leads, her body leaning into each turn, her mind racing with plans and contingencies. Bruno follows, his thoughts a tangled web of what-ifs and maybes. In this darkness, the labyrinth of trees is the least of worries; it is the unknown that truly unnerves him.

The road to Schlafloser Hügel is rocky and full of holes, and with their speed, Bruno feels as if they might be dismounted more than once. But this distant approach was for the best. The infiltration was step one; step two was actually finding Schonberg’s lab. Had he known about Sophie Krause and her goals a lot sooner, he would have been able to schedule an official visit to the camp as Bruno Wagen, Geschäftsführer of Wagen Untenheimen. He would have been able to do a more thorough search under that amount of influence; time has truly been the enemy. Only the Bat will do tonight.

“So once you’ve verified that we’ve found Schonberg’s Polluted nest, we destroy it. That will cause considerable alarm for sure; it won’t be quiet.”

“No, it won’t, which is why I also need to access their radio towers.”

Bruno frowns as they descend a hill down into a dense valley of overgrown foliage. “Radio towers?”

“It’s going to be important to disable their communications with the outside. Sconberg will have the Luftwaffe diving out of the sky if we don’t kill the radios in the three watchtowers. There will probably be more in the main buildings, too.”

“That will take extra time. You believe they’re fast enough to intercept us?”

“Very much so.”

“sh*t…” In a million and one ways that tonight can go wrong, Bruno feels that, between the two of them, they can probably surpass to one million and two.

Zmetria is fleeing for the private testing halls that Schonberg utilizes for Pollution-variation trials. It took hours to extricate herself from the greenhouse; Krause and Isler’s love-making seemed almost endless, and the two had actually fallen asleep upon the floor. Their snores had covered the sounds of her fleeting footsteps. She was hugging the fear toxin vials so close to her being that in the moment they were as her own children, precious and warm.

Lightning and thunder rumble above, and Zmetria is glad that they are underground. She has always hated lightning. She has always hated the sky. Underground, in the stink, is where she has always belonged, surrounded by rats and other vermin similar to herself. As the thundering soundwaves shake the ceiling overhead, she scampers into a dark mixing room and throws herself into a dark corner, and takes the vials of toxin out of her coat, setting them on the floor between her crossed legs, wondering…

She has to do it. There is no other alternative. When Schonberg returns from Berlin, he will force the next stage of the experiment to fruition. He will lock her in that small, cramped space with Der Narr, and what he will make her do-make him do-is the end of this insane line. She has been complacent in her work here, has helped Schonberg break down the barriers of scientific limitation that might have held back great men of the mind for so many decades. Because of her unique biology, the future generations will excel at the birth of history’s greatest monsters. She longs to see the world that such beasts will build. However, she will not do so a slave to the experiment. Many Polluted have been crafted already; it is time for Zmetria to expand her own creativity. Schonberg’s is done.

Zmey is clawing at the inside of her chest. She can smell that delicious fear toxin and it makes her womanhood tremble; Zmetria’s own is elated with the possibility of evolving. If Zmey wants out, then she will be let out. She will, however, learn to coexist with Zmetria. Schonberg’s own notes still echo in her head. Shortly after Johann and Isler’s toxin formula had surpassed target levels of potency and duration, Schonberg had begun to theorize that the toxin’s elements could have a powerful impact on the M-Variant affected hosts.

“The fear toxin,” Schonberg had said into his Magentophone, unaware of Zmetria lurking in the shadows of the lab out of sight, “could potentially disrupt the normal functioning of neurotransmitters in the brain, particularly those related to fear and aggression, such as adrenaline and serotonin. By targeting specific neural circuits associated with primal instincts and deeply rooted fears, the toxin might induce a state of hyperarousal and amplify certain aspects of an individual's personality. Furthermore, the fear toxin might affect the prefrontal cortex, a region of the brain responsible for decision-making and impulse control. Disruption in this area could lead to diminished cognitive control over one's actions, allowing the darker aspects of a person's psyche to surface unchecked. And if this is the case, then the M-Variant impacted specimens are likely to bond with these new, extreme personalities as a dominant, exerting the full potential of their mutation…”

In the end, it all came down to psychosomatic components at serious play. The individual's perception of fear and their interpretation of reality might be distorted, leading them to believe that their darker impulses are not only justified but necessary for survival in the face of perceived threats.This manipulation of the brain’s pathways could ultimately give Zmey the full release she has been seeking, as well as Zmetria’s only hope in facing Schonberg’s experimental expectations in a way that would allow her to handle him.

All that was needed now was to test the theory. Poisoning herself with the fear toxin would have an interesting reactionary effect when the M-Variant absorbed the chemical shock. Zmey would no longer be bound by the confines of Zmetria’s shattered will and elevated stress levels; she would be fully free and fully functioning, and what might happen then? Oh, she longed to find out, just like her father Dimitri Belakov would have wanted of her.

She unstoppers the first vial and inhales deeply. The putrid odor of the toxin is the most comforting smell in the world. That smell is her. It is the sewers beneath St. Petersburg and the rats that crawled upon her in the dead of night, nibbling on her toes, stealing bits of her flesh away for their dinner. It is the smell of the M-Variant injections from Dimitri’s hypodermic needle as he dove the point of her just inside the bottom half of her eyelid. It is the smell of the boy Wallow, the only person Zmetria ever loved…

She grins. That fear toxin is home. It is everything she needs.

“Alright, Zmey… You want out? You want to spread your Green across the world? Then let’s do just that.”

Oh, goodey! Zmey cries within, elated, and that passionate joy sweeps through Zmetria’s entire being. She loves Zmey in this moment. Zmey is the only true, consistent element of her infectious compound that she calls life that has ever stayed the course. Zmey is the only person she has ever been able to truly rely on.

“Ready or not, Zmey… Here we go…” She downs the bottle. She brings it all in, accepting it as an inevitable path for her soul, a very Green soul with a very Green purpose. She is falling, down, sown, deep into the darkness of the open maw that is the Master specimen’s grinning, fanged void.

Drip, drip, drip go the dank sewers of St. Petersburg; The air is thick with the stench of despair, and the darkness is absolute, save for the flickering shadows cast by the dim light of a distant lantern swinging on the wall. She can hear them—the other children, their cries a haunting symphony of suffering. Rats scurry in the periphery of her vision, their beady eyes glinting with malevolence. They are crawling up her arms, and biting, biting, spreading their disease into her blood! They ascend upon her with such a hunger of the most starved of souls, a writhing mass of fur and fangs, their bites a cruel baptism into their pestilent brotherhood.

She kneels, screaming, grabbing at her head as the fiery pain of a fever begins to poison her being. They are covering her completely, suffocating her, and she can feel her insides being torn from slits made in her stomach by their sharp little teeth…

Zmetria's screams echo off the ancient stones; at the same time, Zmey is moaning with an immense pleasure she has never quite reached. Those moans are deafening to Zmetria, who tries to cover her ears, but finds that the rats have eaten those off, too…

And the rats are singing.

The rats, emboldened by their feast, begin to sing—a haunting, discordant hymn that speaks of ancient secrets and the dark heart of the city. Their voices, a twisted mimicry of human song, weave a spellbinding tapestry of sound that fills the sewers with an otherworldly resonance.

In the shadows we dance, we crawl and we creep,

Tiny whispers in the night, secrets we keep.

With teeth sharp as daggers, we nibble and bite,

Infecting the world with our nocturnal might.

We're the rats of the city, we're cunning and sly,

Gnawing through walls as the moon rides high.

We'll lie and we'll deceive, with laughter we'll sing,

In the darkness we reign, rulers of everything.

Through sewers and alleys, we scurry and roam,

Our empire of darkness, we proudly call home.

With tails flicking slyly, we plot and we scheme,

Infecting the world with our pestilent dream.

We're the rats of the city, we're cunning and sly,

Gnawing through walls as the moon rides high.

We'll lie and we'll deceive, with laughter we'll sing,

In the darkness we reign, rulers of everything.

So beware, oh humans, of our silent, creeping tide,

For in the realm of vermin, we rats will forever abide.

With biting and nibbling, with infecting and gnawing,

In the shadows we'll linger, forever clawing and pawing.

In the dimly lit chamber, Zmetria's laughter echoes off the stone walls, bouncing back to her like the mocking chorus of a thousand voices. The rats scurry around her, their tiny eyes gleaming in the flickering candlelight, as if they are the audience to her descent into madness.

As they sing their eerie song of gnawing, Zmetria feels something stir within her, a primal instinct awakening from the depths of her being. She looks down at her hands, and for a fleeting moment, they seem less like human appendages and more like gnarled claws, ready to tear and rend. These are the hands of the Rat Queen; they are the hands of Zmey.

With each verse of the rats' haunting melody, Zmetria's laughter grows wilder, more unhinged. She embraces the madness enveloping her, realizing with a start that she has always been a rat, trapped in the guise of a human. And she has only one purpose, an important one: to infect. She must infest, and she must bring ruin.

In this moment of revelation, Zmetria's senses sharpen, her instincts honed to a razor's edge. She joins the chorus of the rats, her voice blending seamlessly with theirs, a cacophony of madness reverberating through the chamber.

In shadows deep, where darkness reigns,

I hear the whispers of gnawing chains.

A rat am I, in human guise,

Bound by instinct, beneath these skies.

Squeak and scurry, in the night,

Underneath the pale moonlight.

Rat and human, intertwined,

In this madness, we're entwined.

The rats are so warm; she needs them right where they are, forever, suffocating her poes, diseasing and killing any trace of human frailty. And she, Zmetria, has always been frailty. Not tonight. Not anymore. She is laughing, joyous, overwhelmed by immeasurable happiness.

Her laughter echoes across the dark lab, the dark hall, and Friedrich Sconberg, standing just outside the door to the lab, feels intense cold wash over him as that laughter pierces like a sword…

The Bat strikes swiftly. A throwing dart glides through the velvety shroud of night, its form compact, fashioned into the likeness of a bat. With precision, it finds its mark, piercing the neck of the guard stationed upon the watchtower balcony. Silence befalls him as the dart obstructs his throat, rendering him voiceless. With a desperate grasp at his neck, he crumples to the floor, the blood of his life force ebbing away with rapid urgency. He died alone, as Bruno himself intends, someday.

As the man dies, Sophie swiftly deploys the grappling hook over the balcony railing, starting her rapid ascent. Moving with the fluid grace of a true shadow, she navigates the rope with remarkable silence and agility. He follows suit, casting his own grappling hook and ascending into the air alongside Sophie. Upon reaching the summit, Sophie swiftly investigates the guard's lifeless form, discovering a set of keys adorned with numbers and minimal other identifying markers. Meanwhile, Bruno employs his electro-rod to swiftly disable the field radio nestled within the watchtower.

They both creep forward around the balcony to get a good view of the overall camp. Armed patrols are concentrated around the prisoner barracks to the east and the main administration buildings in the north. A greenhouse to the west, vegetable gardens, the kind of place that prisoners might be kept close to as well. Bruno’s attention is burned into the barracks, burned into God knows how many ‘cattle’ the Nazis have contained within those cramped, vagrant domiciles. Sophie, meanwhile, has binoculars trained on the right-most administration building, where an odd, dome-shaped glass roof twinkles in the reflected light of the camp’s lanterns. The Vampir advancement to the binoculars shows an infrared pattern of several patrolmen concentrated in the upper halls. More than the standard deployment of basic patrol. Something special about it?

“That one there,” she tells Bruno, pointing it out and lowering the binoculars. “Gotta be it. It has more heads congregated. And the dome-roof there, looks like it could be an observatory. I’ve seen similar designs in Berlin. I’d be willing to wager on that building being important to Schonberg.”

“We’ll have to search them all anyway. Might as well start with a good lead.” He detaches a belt of throwing darts from his utility harness and hands ten of them to Sophie. “Know how to use these?”

“I will after I use them,” she replies, tying the belt around her upper torso and popping her neck. Storm’s picking up. We can use that to our advantage, yes?”

“Carefully,” Bruno agrees. “First we need to get down into the main camp. Check the northeast and northwest towers.” They raise their binoculars, adjusting the distance. Two guards, one at either tower. In the northeast tower, its watchman is relaxing in his chair, watching a projector film. Bruno catches the faintest hint of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. To the northwest, the other watchman is a bit more practical, beating himself off over the balcony railing. Bruno nods. “We take out their eyes in the sky first. I’ll get Squirty. You take Dopey.”

“He’s mine,” Sophie growls, throwing herself over the side of the balcony and attaching to the rail. There are no searchlights concentrated in their direction, thankfully, and with the storm intensifying, the cover of darkness is perfect. She lets the grappling hook lower her to the ground with that refined elegance that Bruno cannot help but admire, and begins to move around the wall in the shadows, making her way for the target. Bruno, meanwhile, lassos the side of a small radio tower set up on a scaffold to the west and swings across the dark air as three armed guards below march out of their own barracks, heading to relieve their friends for what they believe will be a very uneventful night. How wrong they are.

Bruno latches onto the side of the tower and twists his body, inverting himself into a suspension, hanging upside down like a creature on the hunt. The guard relief divides and begins their patrol to the north, and Bruno descends quickly, falling into a crouch in the blackness of a tool shed near the greenhouse. No guards near there; they seem to be concentrated on taking a course around to the northeast, circling back to where the main prisoner barracks are situated. Good. As long as Sophie does her work quietly, he can do his.

The jog to the northwest watchtower is awkward, with several fresh garden holes dug about the exterior of the greenhouse where new vegetable patches will be planted. Bruno sidesteps down an alley between two of the main nurseries and throws himself behind a drum of compost as two guards emerge from one of the hothouses, a man and a woman, the man zipping his pants back up as the woman adjusts her uniform buttons. Both are covered in perspiration and stink of fun. He could kill them both easily, place their bodies back into the hothouse and no one would ever know… but he lets them pass, needing to reserve his attacks in small doses until they have secured the location of the nest.

The northwest tower’s climb is difficult, as the rain is now pouring. He slips on the metal stairway leading up to the main watchroom, swearing internally for not having prepared better equipment for the weather. Or perhaps later he will swear at Alfred for having failed to accommodate. It is his job, after all.

At the top of the tower, he finds the Spritzer is not alone. The Aryan beauty was concealed from their binoculars earlier because she had been splayed across the floor, and now she is massaging his shoulders as he sits in front of his radio terminal, mindlessly turning the volume adjuster with his big toe. Bruno swears internally again.

“Not so rough, whor*!” the Spritzer snaps, startling his masseuse as she accidentally squeezes his collarbone too harshly. “Who taught you to touch a man, Göth!?”

Bruno sighs. He steps forward and nudges the lady out of his way, who backs into the wall, speechless, terrified at the phantom that has materialized before her. “Mind if I try?” he asks the Spritzer. The Spriter tries to look around, but Bruno’s hands wrap around his throat in a second, and in the next, the man’s bones turn to power in hand. The snap of the Spritzer’s neck is loud even against the raging storm outside. Fortunately it drowns out the woman’s scream, which has finally found itself. Bruno’s hand quickly finds her mouth, muffling her at once, his other hand pressing firmly into the upper part of her throat.

He analyzes her quickly. Silk bedwear, heavy makeup, the stench of some cheap perfume, lesions on the sides of her neck and near her pelvic region, indicators of some sexual transmission affliction… This woman is a whor* for hire. She is no guard. The only work she does in this camp is paid hourly and temporarily. Her eyes, pink, chlamydia at work. Those infected eyes widen in terror, awaiting death. He will not give it to her.

He slowly lowers his hand from her mouth. She whimpers, making a sound that he has heard far too many times to count. The red-eyed demon in the gas mask before her shakes its head. “Sleep,” it says in its artificial voice, before the point of the needle in his hand enters her neck and injects the concentrated knockout compound throughout her system. She collapses onto the floor, and Bruno sets to work disabling the radio transmitter. When he is done, he extinguishes the lamp a little and turns his binoculars towards to the northeast tower. Sophie is watching him, too, and offers a small wave. Dopey is nowhere to be seen.

There. That is the three main watchtowers of Schlafloser Hügel disabled. If the lanterns stay burning, no one should come to investigate unless a shift change is in order. But they cannot think about that now. They have to move in on the main buildings and find the primary science compound that Schonberg utilizes. If they can find Schonberg himself, Bruno can and will make him talk.

Sophie motions towards the dome-roofed building and indicates rendezvous; Bruno nods.

Time to find that damned nest.

“Zmetria… what have you done?” Schonberg’s voice shakes as the woman steps out into the corridor, laughing to herself, shaking. Her filthy labcoat hangs even looser on her than usual, as if she had dropped considerable weight in the last few minutes. The stink of her is worse, too. Her usual unpleasant aroma is downright the worst of foulnesses, as if she is leaking the pure, concentrated putridity of her inner mutation.

Her skin is blotched with green patches. Her hair has begun to turn a shade of acidic jade in several places. Her eyes shine with a glow of malice. Yes, her body is leaking all over, awful excess of chemical pestilence. The way she looks at him right now downright scares him. Her mouth is twitching, her eyes so very hungry.

“Friedrich… you were supposed to be in Berlin.” Her voice is different, too. It is the voice of Zmey, but quieter than usual, slightly hoarse. Zmey is the one standing before him right now. How? What triggered her? “You never went to Berlin, did you?”

“Oh, I went,” Schonberg manages, and he detests that his own voice is slightly diminished. This is not like him. “I just came back.”

“Impossible. You only left this morning, Friedrich… You couldn’t have returned already.”

“And yet here I stand. And here you stand, Zmetri-Zmey. I am speaking to Zmey, yes?”

“Oh, Zmetria’s here, too, Friedrich. She’s riding along, voluntarily this time. It’s an exciting new experience for her, being given actual choice…”

“Zmetria, what have you done in there? Why do you smell… worse?”

Zmey pouts her gray-green lips out. “You don’t like the way I smell?”

“I detest the way you smell,” Schonberg says coldly, narrowing his gaze. “It is offensive. You are offensive. This is not a controlled experiment, Zmetria. Zmey shouldn’t be wandering these halls alone.”

“But I’ve grown so bored, shut away inside, Friedrich. Zmetria helped me! She gave me a backdoor out! Outside of the confinement of your stupid little experiments! I can finally breathe, Friedrich! I can finally feel, and let me tell you something, I have no intention of going back into the dark.”

“You have no choice.” He steps forward, popping his neck pointedly. “I cannot allow you to infest my camp, Zmetria.”

“Zmey! My name is Zmey!”

“You’re simply ‘Zmetria’ to me, Zmetria. One woman, one body, one very fragile soul. Still the soul of a little girl stolen away from her parents in St. Petersburg all those years ago, dragged into the sewers by Belakov and turned into something the world could never have imagined would ever exist. You’re not a person, Zmetria, you’re a thing, and I won’t let you jeopardize yourself or my work. You’re too important to let this ‘Zmey’ facade have a siesta.”

Zmey laughs bitterly, her head turning in an otherworldly way, her grin widening. “Oh, Friedrich… old man, silly man, dated man… Come here. Come give me a kiss. Let me show you how special the Green is, Friedrich! You’ll love it! One taste of the Green, one taste of who you could become, and you’ll beg me for my siesta! Imagine the entire world covered in the Green, perfected in his image!”

“‘His’ image? And whose image are you referring to, exactly?”

Zmey giggles. “Why, the Master, of course. He only wants to spread his Green all over the Earth, until this planet has come to fully embrace the joy of his wondrous gifts! The Earth deserves his gifts!”

Schonberg glares. “So the Master specimen… it’s alive, is it?”

“He’s always been alive, Friedrich! He was alive when your those stupid diggers came playing in his muck and pulled him out of his rest! He killed them all because he was annoyed at them for waking him up from his nap! He was alive when your naive little Brothers came and began to dismantle him, bit by bit, so you could scrutinize and pilfer his endowments for your own covetous desires! He is alive within me at this very moment, and within the Polluted, and soon, Friedrich, he will be alive within all of you! Omnipresent, in every entity, perpetually and eternally! It’s going to be magnificent!” She begins to tear away at her labcoat, and how fragile the thing is, torn into a crumpled mess with some great strength that has creeped into her arms. Her body is sizzling out an acidic residue, and he sees her body has taken on an oily, pulsating growth, like a terrible fungus that has chosen her as its ecosystem.

“It’s not going to happen.” He takes a step forward. “Get on your knees, Zmetria.”

Zmey licks her lips. “I will if you let me suck your-”

“Enough! Get on your knees and place your hands on the floor!”

Zmey indeed kneels, her hands pressing against the floor… Yet, it’s her enigmatic smile that sends a shiver down Schonberg’s spine. “You won’t harm me. It’s impossible. After all, I am far too precious,” she declares with a confidence that borders on audacity. “You have a hidden strength about you, Friedrich. There’s so much more to you than meets the ignorant eye, something hidden away, just like Zmetria. I wonder what it would look like if it were unlocked…” She glances teasingly up at him. “Let's find out together.”

Something is spreading from the floor where her hands are making contact. Schonberg steps back, his heart elevating, gasping. No…

The floor is putrefied by green leakage, a mold of acrid scent and texture, spreading, alive, across the linoleum and onto the walls, climbing, vapors rising from its expanse. The walls are turning emerald, and glossy. The floor is shining beneath a layer of olive foulness. Her stench is almost destructive, blocking his senses and replacing them with sickness and screams. The awfulness of it all is far too much. The rapid spread of the infectious matter is faster and more concentrated than he could hope for. He sees it entering the ventilation system above, blocking out lights, seeping into the cracks under walls and doors…

And he knows that it is over. The experiment that he started with is over. The time for a new experiment is at hand. He smiles. Schonberg grins with the ecstatic joy of a child discovering ice cream for the first time. “Yes, let’s find out together,” he agrees, turning away from her. “I suppose I was too arrogant. You really should be allowed to play. Look at how strong you’ve become in your isolation, Zmey.”

Zmey laughs nervously, her eyes shining. “Do you mean it!?”

“I do,” he affirms. “Give Schlafloser Hügel your Green, all of it. Spread it across every crevice, every prisoner, every guard, every sign of life that you can find. Infect them all, Zmey. Give them his gifts.” He strides down the hall, distancing himself from the creeping essence, while Zmey’s expression twists into one of distress.

“Wait…! But your gift, Friedrich- I need to give you the Green!”

“Oh, not yet, Zmey. In time. First… I want to see what you do with the others.” Schonberg steps into the elevator, his silhouette framed by the door’s steel jaws at the corridor’s end. As his finger hovers over the UP button, a spark of anticipation ignites in his eyes. He stands, transfixed, as Zmey hurtles toward him with the ferocity of a tempest, her screams slicing through the silence, a maelstrom of desire to infect him, to immerse him in the boundless embrace of her viridescent ardor… The elevator doors clang shut in her face, severing her pursuit as it begins its climb. This new experiment is a liberation he has sorely underestimated, and prolonged for far too long. Seeing it in action, seeing its potency and dedication… He is joyful, and excited, truly enraptured for the first time in a very long time indeed.

Even as the elevator shudders and quakes, the knowledge that the Green has infiltrated the shaft beneath him sparks not fear, but an unbridled exultation. This moment marks the dawn of his grandest aspirations for Nazi Germany. He has cultivated Zmey’s potential to its zenith. Now, the hour has come to unleash her—to let her unfurl her toxic plumes and soar into unprecedented pinnacles of evolutionary supremacy. The time has arrived for his name to ascend in glory, hailed for ushering in this era of transformation. He was a fool to have kept the game going for so long. He has always had a weakness for games.

It will soon be time to shed off the lie that is ‘Friedrich Schonberg’ for good, and to embrace the truth of who he is, and why he came to this godforsaken world in the first place… His time has been stalled long enough.

Chapter 8: 8

Chapter Text

Schlafloser Hügel, beneath…

Der Narr senses her before she actually enters the room; he smells her pungency, her leakage, its strength acrid to the very walls around her. He knows it is her before she comes inside, and he knows that she expects to find the fruits of her labor earlier quite unresolved. He will never know how exactly he knows this, nor will he ever care. That is not important. What is important is that she has returned to him, as he knew she must.

She is changed; her body is so very gray and greened, like the hair on his head, like the brain hidden within. The blue hues of Phenol poisoning fade into oblivion at her sight. Now, he perceives only the resplendent royal purple radiating from her aura, and the taste of mercury lingers on his tongue. Goodness, what a sight!

She is not alone. She has friends with her. Two burly guards, at least they were once, now sour and diminished. These guards used to sneak in and pinch his testicl*s with calipers and rub table salt into the wounds their knives dealt him. Boris and Baboon, he has called them, since the day they came into his life with their hungry sadism and joyful insecurities. Now they have taken on a new demeanor. Their eyes are wide, vacant almost, glassy, an odd green murkiness behind them; their flesh has lost their natural German radiance and their mouths are slack, their veins so very green, a foul shadow of some verdant nightmare creeping about in their pores, behind their fleshy outer walls. They stink, too, nearly as bad as she does.

"You're alive," she observes upon entering the chamber, and Der Narr can't help but grin at the sight of her putrefied form in all its naked splendor. Clad in what resembles a ghastly moss, it clings to her with fungal persistence, pulsating with an unnatural vitality that sends giggles down his spine. The tendrils of this organic monstrosity wrap around her limbs, as if claiming her in some macabre embrace. With each step, she leaves behind smoking, pungent puddles of her terrible secret, staining the floor with the essence of her corruption. Der Narr can't suppress a twisted sense of pride at her transformation; it suits the foul creature she has always been.

"I am alive, Zmetria... or should I address you by a name more fitting of your positively festering putrescence!?"

"Zmey," she replies, her voice resonating with an otherworldly tone, as she leaves the inhuman, nightmarish guards at the door, who can only stand dumbly, mouths agape. Closing the distance between herself and Der Narr, she examines his arms with a disturbing curiosity. "I am Zmey... and you continue to surprise me."

"Like a razor blade in an apple pie slice," he quips, inhaling her awful smell with a pointed excitability. “Old Schonny boy really did a number on me, didn’t he?”

Zmey nods. “I suspected he did from the start, though I never dared ask. He’s been working on you since long before you went into that gas chamber, hasn’t he?”

“With all the subtle nuance of a herd of elephants tap-dancing in a china shop!”

“And he’s been using my DNA to do it.”

“The look that would have been on the old you’s gibbering face! Ha ha!”

"So, then, you were never actually special," Zmey concludes, her smirk oozing superiority. "Not until my essence got a hold of you. And then the gas chamber triggered something, a powerful reaction."

"I prefer to call myself a ‘work of art,’ not a ‘powerful reaction,’" he counters with a touch of arrogance.

"And you’ve been laughing ever since because you’ve known all about the Master…" she trails off, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.

"Is that what it’s called? I just preferred to think of it as the ‘enema I never knew!’ You know Schonny did stick a great, big needle the size of a baseball bat right up my-”

“But what I don’t understand,” Zmey cuts across, glaring, “is why you’re still here?”

Der Narr’s grin slips a little this time. There is a look in his eyes that almost seems to whisper Uh oh, I’m figured out. “Oh?”

“Yes.” She traces her leaking finger across his cheek, and then those fingers close around his oxygen mask. With one vicious tug, she rips the entire plastic tubing from the pumping machine, and tosses the mask casually over her shoulder. “You haven’t needed that for quite a while, have you?”

Der Narr winks. “It just held me back anyway.”

“And you haven’t really been a captive here, have you? Only by choice.”

“What!? I had a choice!? By golly, you’ll be hearing from my lawyer! I want compensation for my suffering! I’ll start with taking Hitler’s favorite pooch!”

“All of the people you’ve killed- You’ve been planning something. Waiting for something.”

“Oh, have I? And what have I been waiting for, Doctor Zee?”

Zmey's smile widens as she grabs hold of the front of his trousers, tearing them away with startling strength. Der Narr lets out a small grunt as the fabric falls away, his gaze locked on her with a mix of anticipation and apprehension.

"Waiting for me," she whispers, her voice a sibilant hiss as she presses down onto his chest, a wicked grin playing on her lips. "Schonberg wanted to mate the two of us. I tried killing you tonight to stop that from happening—Well, Zmetria tried killing you, tried stopping it. Stupid little bitch. She didn’t realize the potential of what might happen if Schonberg got his way."

She leans in close, her hand finding his throat, her touch both electrifying and suffocating. "And I want to see the fruits of that labor…" Her words hang in the air, heavy with promise and menace, as she asserts her dominance over him.

“Oh, Doc, please… You haven’t even taken me to dinner yet. We barely know-”

But her rape has already commenced, and Der Narr is silenced as the Green begins to overwhelm, and Schonberg’s dark dreams begin to reach the levels of wonders he so desperately strived for… His laughter echoes down the dark corridor outside, the most hysterical sound he has made yet. Her own soon joins his…

Isler is the first to awaken from their deep, shared slumber; she is also the first to scream. Her scream shakes Johann from the most wonderful dream, a vision of beautiful flowers with gnashing teeth and some odd excrement of verdant solution. He shivers a little, inhaling the scent of their perspiration, his vision blurring.

“What are you on about-” But as his vision clears, he suddenly knows the answer to Isler’s distress, who is backing against the vegetated wall of the greenhouse, her eyes wide in utter horror. The greenhouse has changed, and it is immediately clear as to who and what is responsible.

The plants, the walls, the ceiling, the floor, their equipment and the pods containing their subjects… all of it is covered in a thick, pulsating residue of green, organic matter, tendrilling out of control, the smell of it something sickening, something truly awful. It has contaminated and overcome the entire lab, blotting out their efforts, their life’s work, in exchange for pestilence. The secretion of Zmetria Klondashki, the M-Variant…

“What has she done!?” Isler cries, tears falling down her face as she takes in the sight of her mangled, suffocating plants buried beneath the onslaught of viscus ooze. “Johann, what has she done!?”

“Calm down!” Johann says the words but he can hardly comprehend how on earth to enact them. When did Klondashki enter their greenhouse? When did she do this!? Did she mean to infect them? There is so little space to walk around in here. He and Isler are positively trapped in a small, circular space where the ooze has not yet manifested… and he is unsure, but it seems to spreading. It is getting closer…

He almost betrays himself, the utterance of My God nearly escaping his lips. If there is a ‘God’ who stands alongside his own divinity, then it is a God who has chosen to leave him for dead in this awful place. How could they have let their guard down so easily!? How could she have done this without them knowing? And… worse… are they already infected!? He remembers the screaming, putrid horror of Officer Lukas back at Schonberg’s bunker, and the various human subjects that Schonberg has had he and Isler working with since in their Polluted-hybridation efforts…

He cannot become one of those things!

Johann throws himself in front of Isler and pushes her as far back into the wall as he can, teeth clenched. “You know this lab better than me. Are there are good spots to move?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know!” Isler has collapsed onto her knees and is rocking back and forth, her hands wringing. Johann sighs. The stemming. She does this often. ‘Feeble-minded,’ her colleagues have called her, ‘afflicted in the mind, prone to sinking down when loud noises occur, hypersensitive to environmental stimuli that counteracts her calm working space…’ This is how Schonberg has described her many times, and by his influence alone has Isler escaped the cleansing procedures of Akiton-T4. Now is a horrid time for her to have a meltdown…

He grabs hold of her arms and tries to force her to look at him… but as he does he hears the slithering mass behind him. It is moving, closing in, rapidly advancing, as if it has senses their wakefulness. He is terrified, and that alone brings unwanted elation. Fear has come for him, its god, its master. But he does not want it in this moment, because it is Zmetria, and not he, who controls it. She has taken what is rightfully his.

And as if on cue to his thoughts, he hears her voice over the sounds of the advancing pestilence. “It’s coming to show you both the way.”

Johann turns and backs himself against Isler’s quivering body. He cannot protect her, he knows this. He will go out trying, however. “Klondashki!? Where are you!? What have you done!?”

She emerges some ways ahead, halfway along the lab, emerging from the growing green piles of sickness that grows over a mass of bushes. The leaves have turned black at her touch and fall away from her, dead, meaningless. Her body stinks, and has taken on the mutations of the one called ‘Zmey.’ She grins at the pair of them as she makes her approach.

“Der Narr’s been helped. The patrol outside has been helped. The help is spreading across the camp even as we speak… and in just a moment, Doctors Krause and Isler, you are going to be helped.”

“Stay back! Where is Doctor Schonberg!? You’re supposed to be contained!”

Behind him, Isler is weeping, still holding her head, rocking. “Leave them alone!” she sobs, her green eyes burning red with desperate agony. “Don’t hurt my plants!”

“I’m not hurting them, sweetheart,” Zmey whispers, stopping on the other side of the gurney where Piotr had been laying. The man is gone now, swallowed up by the green ooze, buried deep inside a pulsating, verdant tomb of sickness… “I’m helping them. The Master wants to give gifts. He has so many to give. He has seen your hearts, your souls… and wants to bless you two with greatness.”

“This isn’t what we’ve worked towards!” Johann cries. “We’re supposed to be working with the Polluted! We cannot become them!”

“Oh, you mean the Drones? Ha ha. Silly Johann. You’re not going to become a Drone. Leave the workers to their duties. You and Doctor Isler… you’re destined to be warriors. You’re meant to protect the Queen.”

Johan shakes his head. “What in the hell are you talking about!? Where is Doctor Schonberg!?”

“Schonberg’s seen the light. Der Narr’s seen the light. All of Germany, all of the world, will soon see the light.”

“You foul creature!” Isler screams, and Johann feels her standing behind her. She is quivering with such uncontained rage that Johann has never thought possibly of her. Few things unsettle Paulina Isler in his experience, and seeing her shattered will is something that makes him question the entire concept of his divine intuition in that moment. Fear has its boundaries, and those are being broken today. “You terrible beast! How dare you! You had no right, you animal!”

“Your plants were dreadfully boring, Paulina. Awful, unambitious things, they were. Supplements, fear toxins… it’s all so uncontained to what they truly could be. The Master envisions so much more, and you deserve so much more.” Zmey holds out her arm and the ooze around her shifts, and Isler screams again as a long vine of blackened plant matter descends through the sickness, its leaves horrid and spined, veins within its body glowing with an eerie, jade light. It flails about, very much alive, aggressive, longing to stab, its end barbed and dripping… “Imagine the world filled with beauties like these, Paulina. People underestimate plants, they always have; you’ve said this many times before. They choose them for decoration, for comfort, for pride, and always forget how very capable they are. They can poison the environment around them to suit their needs, and grow stronger from the decay they wrought. They can withstand concrete and adapt to the worst of human conditions. They predate life, and they will be here longer after the human slime has been wiped from the face of the Earth. You, Paulina… you were born to be their matron. I can give you the power to see that vision through.”

The green advances. Isler and Johann are almost fully consumed. The stench of Zmey is blinding them, making them both gag, as she quickly begins to kill whatever space remained between the three of them. Johann stumbles backward, eyes widening in horror… and Isler lets out a terrible war cry of rage as she throws herself at Zmey, launching herself across the small amount of space remaining, her arms held out as if to strangle the green woman.

“PAULINA, NO!”

Zmey’s laughter is all around, vibrating across the greenhouse, issued from the corrupted plants themselves. Black vines reach out from behind her and slap Isler across the face, disorienting the woman, smashing her glasses in an instant, shattering them into broken glass at her feet. The next strike of the vines sends Isler flying across the room, and Johann’s scream is drowned out by Zmey’s horrid mirth as Isler slams right into a shelf of her specially contained plant toxins.

Beakers and spice containers explode upon contact with Isler’s body. The woman crashes into the debris on the floor, poisons and toxins from her research samples cascading down, drowning her, entering her throat and nostrils, burning into her eyes. Her dying screams are abruptly silenced as the deadly chemicals wash over her. Johann can see her flailing, convulsing, hear her horrid gags as she chokes… He continues to scream as Isler’s poisoned, bloodied body succumbs to a wave of green ooze, Zmey’s essence devouring her whole. It engulfs her, fully consuming her and the plants surrounding her broken form. Isler is gone—destroyed by her own life’s work. Johann collapses to his knees in despair, his mind snapping. Zmey’s awful, awful laughter pierces his brain like a blade.

Johann’s senses blur as Zmey advances, giggling like a child as she closes in. The woman’s kick lands on his head, propelling him across the floor with unnatural strength. His skull fractures, pain radiating through his consciousness.

Within the malevolent ooze, Johann glimpses Zmey hurling something after him—two vials of yellow-brown liquid. They are all too familiar, both precious and treacherous. These vials, once loyal to their master, have now come to betray him. Him, their god.

The fear toxin vials rupture around Johann, their contents released. He inhales their exquisite nightmares, darkness enveloping him. Down he plunges, into an unending abyss of ruin and screams, down into the destruction of green hell… His last thoughts are of Isler, buried somewhere close by, poisoned and melted away, and that, if there is indeed a God, and a Hell for people like him, then the two of them will soon reunite in flames that will bind them forever…

Let her be waiting for me, he pleads as he feels his body shut down.

The gunfire sprays as Bruno and Sophie join together on the top floor of the domed building; there are too many patrols inside to keep this quiet any longer. The moment the two of them exit out of the office where they infiltrated, they are accosted by two patrolmen from the end of the hall. Bullets fly past them and Bruno feels one cut into his cheek.

“Darkness,” he says at once as the two guards begin to cry out. They must be silenced before an alarm resounds. A throwing dart from his hand soars, and in its wake, two corridor lanterns shatter, plunging the passage into shadow.

“f*ck! Can’t see!”

“Concentrate fire!” The light of spraying bullets is the only illumination now; the Bat closes in, sidestepping and moving with the fluidity of a black river. With lethal precision, he closes the distance between himself and the patrolmen in seconds. With a swift motion, he extends both arms, his hands closing around their faces like vengeful talons. The patrolmen hit the floor with the force of watermelons dropped onto concrete, their screams stifled as two blades protrude from the Bat's arm guards and find their mark in their throats.

Sophie is running to join him, and they quickly move the bodies into a nearby janitorial closet. Sophie relieves both men of their sidearms, the Walther P38s light and yearning to kill, and she offers one to him.

“No… You keep those.” He will not use a gun, not ever. It is a promise preserved in flowing blood, staining a distant alleyway, puddling under discarded red roses and screams from the past.

“Don’t be an idiot!”

“If I wanted to use a gun, I’d have brought a gun!”

She does not press the matter. To do so might bring pain. She holsters the side arms and runs to check the nearby staircase. “Too many will have heard the gunfire!”

“That doesn’t matter. We search.”

“And when they come running!?”

“You knew the risks. We find Sconberg, and we find his nest. That’s it. That’s all that’s left to talk about.”

She closes her eyes in irritation, breathing deep. “We should have brought backup…”

“We’ll be enough.”

He begins to descend the stairs, Sophie following close on his heels, and the third floor is empty at the bottom, dark, devoid of anyone who might be rushing to respond to the disturbance a floor above. That is too strange. Their earlier observations showed high numbers in patrolling officers. Bruno does not like it. He stops, listening for distant running footsteps or shouts. Nothing. Sophie stops moving and looks around in irritation.

“We have to move!”

Bruno holds up a hand to silence her. “Wait…”

“Wait for what!?”

“Don’t you hear it?”

“Hear what!?”

Bruno clenches a fist. “Absolutely nothing…”

Sophie suddenly looks scared. Bruno feels iciness washing over him. The guards who intercepted them at the top seemed in order, but now…? The nothingness bothers him worse than any kind of gunfire.

“The quietness is too loud. A very loud kind of warning…” Bruno takes a step forward, his senses heightened. He can feel the air shift, a displacement so subtle it's almost a ghost's touch. "Did they know we'd come this way? Are we walking into some kind of trap?”

Sophie squeezes one of her stolen Walthers with a trembling hand. “Of course not, no one knows about this infiltration except us and four of my friends in the Cause, and they wouldn’t have sold us out.”

“Schonberg’s a smart man,” Bruno reminds her, “and your friends I don’t know; we need to step carefully.”

“This really can’t wait!”

“But it will, because-”

The screams below catch them both by startling surprise and Sophie lets out a small yelp. An explosion rocks the walls around them. Dust cascades from the ceiling, and the lights flicker, casting ghostly shadows that dance with the tremors. The sounds of falling men. Somewhere on the second floor below, a third party is causing just as much trouble for the guards of the camp as they are.

“What in God’s name-”

Bruno ignores her and begins running for the end of the hall, where another staircase down awaits. They take the stairs two at a time, and step in the horrific remains of a warzone. Bodies everywhere, and oddly, they are quite burned, charred remains of guards who seem to have been cauterized in demise…

The acrid smell of scorched flesh fills the air, and Sophie pinches her nose tight. “It’s a massacre. How many dead?”

Bruno has already been counting. “Thirteen. We were heading down into an ambush…” He kneels down next to the closest of the burned corpses. A single blue eye dangles from the blackened head. It gazes up at him in an accusatory stare. There are no survivors. No moans of pain, no calls for help, just the eerie silence of death. What in the hell happened here?

An elevator suddenly opens up nearby, about halfway down the corridor. Bruno and Sophie prepare themselves, Sophie’s gun trained on the door, Bruno fingering his darts. No one steps out of it. Cautiously, slowly, the two of them begin to make their way towards it, ready for the sudden attack, the screech of a would-be assassin… But the elevator is empty. No one is hiding, ready to pounce. Bruno’s frown deepens.

“The bodies,” he tells Sophie, swallowing hard, “seem to be a message.”

Sophie’s brow furrows. “From who? And what message?”

Bruno motions at the elevator’s buttons. Only two here, UP and DOWN. This elevator only goes to one location. “How about we find out?” He pulls her fully into it, and presses the DOWN button, heart hammering as the elevator doors slam shut, and they begin what feels like an oddly rapid descent.

“You sure about this!?” Sophie demands.

Bruno shakes his head. “Of course I’m not.”

Schonberg watches the elevator descend, and smiles to himself. Standing alone amongst the burned bodies, he can hear the commotion outside being raised. Alarms will soon be sounding off all over. Those patrolling the exterior will have heard the mess.

Unless he can stop them from raising those alarms. In the darkness of the corridor, his eyes begin to glow with malevolent, ethereal crimson…

Outside, guards are running in every directions, officers barking orders, sending in teams to address different points of disturbances. The rain outside is an awful downpour now, and it is drowning. It is so intense that no one, poor souls that they are, are able to register the shadowy killer making his move amongst their ranks. Two men are spirited away into the dark night sky, their screams drowned by the torrent of heavenly water cascading around them. A third becomes acquainted with the ground, drug several, several meters, his face shredding away as it is dragged across gravel and dirt, the flesh of his eyes, the remnants of his squished eyeballs permeating the air, until his faceless corpse is tossed into a nearby barracks building, destroying the wall it hits, awakening prisoners inside with screams of horror…

And when that is noticed by a few officers, that is when the shadow descended into the mass of the running soldiers. The impact of his landing sent several flying, leaving a small crater where he stood, rocks flying, two men going blind from the scattered debris. His blows were like thunder, each strike sending shockwaves through their bodies. Some of them tried to fight back, but it was futile. He was the darkness, and stronger than any man who had ever lived.

Crimson lights, two of them, burned where his eyes should have been, and those who saw those lights only did so for a moment before their lives were extinguished. Blasts of energy, superheated, the fire of Hell itself, was unleashed. Many watched in horror as their comrades fell, their bodies engulfed in flames or ripped apart by the sheer force of his assault. The smell of burning flesh mingled with the scent of wet earth, and the atmosphere itself seemed charged by the touch of his powerful energy. Men and women alike evaporated into screaming red, ashened, limbs raining down along with the water from the skies now, until the rain itself had become blood.

It was over in seconds. In the span of sixty seconds, more than seventy of the camp’s guards were gone, shredded into nonexistence as if they had never been a thought at all. And standing alone, surrounded by what little remained of them in the darkness and storm, Friedrich Schonberg smiled, deeply pleased. It had been an awfully long time since he had been able to unleash himself like this. Far, far too long.

In Kandor, they had called him a menace, an ‘egotistical madman’ whose aspirations would be the undoing of not only Krypton, but also the Andromeda galaxy as a whole. But what did they know of power? They had stood by as their own man-made devastation had allowed the downfall of their realm.

He remembers everything so clearly. The rain comes down like whispers from the past, pounding him over and over with reflection. It had begun with anomalies in the planetary core, subtle tremors hinting at a deeper unrest. These were dismissed at first, attributed to natural fluctuations. But as the disturbances escalated, panic set in.

Society was divided. Some urged caution, advocating for research and cooperation to understand the root of these disturbances. Others grew restless, pointing fingers and assigning blame. Political tensions rose, exacerbating the already precarious situation.

In desperation to assert control, the limits of technology were pushed, attempting to stabilize what could never be controlled. Those efforts had hastened the inevitable. When he had left them, he had left the weakness of Krypton behind with them. Both had belonged in the grave, and the universe had become his worthy research field.

Tonight, he honors the promise made the day he departed that unworthy planet, destined to perish: Science, true science, has no limits, and must expand into chaos rather than fear it. The Bat and his conspirator have come, and Schonberg- or, at least, the man who has called himself ‘Schonberg’ for the past forty-seven years since his arrival on Earth- will see their actions through tonight. He will observe what they have come to do, and from those actions, his work, his game, will take on new paths tonight… and he is absolutely ready to tread down them, to adapt into the primal chaos that will unfold. He lets the rain hit his face and considers it a baptism in that moment. The next phase takes hold.

Draxor-Imar, son of Krypton, is ready for the carnage.

“Oh, my God…” Sophie breathes.

As she and Bruno step out of the elevator, the air shifts abruptly. The sterile, fluorescent-lit corridors beneath Schlafloser Hügel’s main science compound give way to something altogether different. The basem*nt is a twisted, subterranean realm straight from his nightmares.

The flickering bulbs above cast elongated shadows, their sickly glow revealing the twisted contours of the space. The air, thick with decay, clings to their armor like a malevolent force, as if the very walls are breathing foul secrets.

But it’s the green that chills their bones—the color of unnatural life. Everywhere they look, it seeps through the cracks, coats the walls, and clings to the roots. This isn’t the vibrant green of spring; it’s the hue of corruption and decay. The organic matter, like a relentless tide, has invaded every crevice. It is naught but pestilence, and the smell is unbearable. It penetrates even Bruno’s mask.

The floor is covered and underfoot the green ooze seems to grab at the soles of their boots, like a glue. It is a struggle to walk. What once were probably sterile walls are now oozing with this pestilent green. It drips down in rivulets, staining the concrete. Bruno and Sophie can almost hear the walls groaning under its weight. As their eyes adjust, they notice glowing orbs scattered throughout the space. Some are embedded in the walls, others suspended from the ceiling. Eyes. They are eyes. Many pairs of glowing eyes in the shadows, and they are watching Bruno and Sophie hungrily…

“I think,” Bruno says, his voice shaking ever so microscopically, “we’ve found the nest.”

“So much of it… I need a good sample to verify…”

Bruno shakes his head. “There won’t be much of a deduction needed.”

“All the same, the Resistance wants to make sure. Can we gather it without disturbing whatever those eyes belong to?”

“No, we can’t.” Ahead of them, two shadows have dropped down from the ceiling. The photographs have done the Polluted no justice. Standing here before them, facing them down in fullness, is a sickening sensation, and one that does not belong in the realm of sane men. Bruno moves to stand in front of Sophie but Sophie is already moving forward.

“Then we handle this quickly.”

“Sophie, wait-!”

An awful screech, one that shakes the walls around them. One of the two creatures ahead lurches unnaturally and takes a leaping stride in their direction, moving in a discombobulatory fashion. It almost seems as if its own head is a heavy weight to carry. Bruno’s eyes dart towards the wall to his right, where a water pipe juts out from a broken piece of wall that seems to have recently ruptured from the organic disturbance. He throws a kick at the pipe and a hunk of it breaks off.

The first Polluted lunges, its spiked limbs slashing through the air. Sophie twists away, narrowly avoiding its attack. Bruno swings the pipe, the impact reverberating through his bones. The creature stumbles, its head rolling unnaturally atop its torso. But it recovers swiftly, its left arm thrusting out unexpectedly. Spikes pierce Bruno’s shoulder, tearing through skin, and he cries out in pain. Warm blood mingles with the sickly green ooze.

“Take the second!” Bruno cries as the other Polluted at the end of the corridor starts advancing. He shifts his weight, drawing on his Krav Maga training. The first Polluted’s spiked limbs lash out again, but Bruno ducks, sidestepping with fluid grace. His left hand grabs the creature’s wrist, twisting it in a joint lock. The Polluted howls, its hollow eyes shrinking, and Bruno’s right elbow strikes its chest, driving it back.

As the second Polluted lunges, Sophie steps aside, redirecting its force. Her palm meets its abdomen, and she pushes, harnessing its momentum. The creature stumbles, crashing into the wall. She shifts her stance and her leg arcs out, aiming for its neck. The ooze clings to her boot, slowing the momentum. Her force lacks the necessary impact. The creature’s head wobbles, grotesque and heavy, but it remains upright. Sophie grits her teeth, frustration and fear intertwining.

“Oh, to hell with this!” The Walther rises and she takes the shot. Bruno, wrestling with his own target now, pinned against the wall by the creature’s brute strength, throws his head out and strikes the Polluted in the forehead with the metal-tipped ears of his mask. They pierce its flesh and the creature doubles back, grabbing as its head, shrieking. Bruno reaches for his utility belt and unleashes a single throwing dart, which he aims right at the monster’s heart area (assuming, of course, that these nightmares still possess hearts).

His finger yanks on the small pin as he tosses the thing, and it strikes home. The dart enters its upper chest, and for a moment, the Polluted stands there, ready to pounce again. In the next, its upper torso vanishes into a flashbang of fire and shrapnel. The grenade dart has taken his upper half clean off, and Bruno is horrified to see the shriveled, inhuman organs within as the lower half falls uselessly onto the floor. He looks towards Sophie, who is crouching beside the shaking creature on the ground next to her. She unloads another shot, and another, until all eight rounds of the P38 have made holes in varying pinpoints across the monster’s fleshy corruption. It lays quite still, and Sophie falls back against the wall, breathing hard.

“Don’t touch that!” Bruno cries out, but Sophie is already leaping away as arms shoot out from the walls. The shadows on it, and on the ceiling, are stirring. More Polluted are becoming agitated, sensing the deaths of their fellows… “Come on, we have to move!”

The glue-like floor fights against their escape, and Bruno swears internally as he and Sophie press forward. The slowness of their trek is abundantly will-breaking as the sounds of the angered Polluted around them grow louder and louder. They are not going to be able to find anything in this dark, oozing mess before the other Polluted come…

Where are the doors to other rooms? Where are the labs? Everything is coated in the ooze. The dim lights overhead yield nothing. They were foolish to exit the elevator. He looks around, back at it, thinking they can return, regroup… and finds the elevator has gone. It, too, has suddenly become swallowed up by the green matter. They are trapped.

"Stay close," Bruno shouts over the rising clamor of the creatures, his voice strained, disturbingly out of touch. "We’re going to have to get creative.” He begins to unlink several of his explosive darts, throwing five of them to Sophie. “I don’t have too many more of these. We have to use them sparingly. We need to clear out the mess from the walls; they’re covering the entrances to the other rooms down here, I know it. Maybe the explosions can deter the other creatures, too.”

“On it!” Sophie scans the area frantically, trying to find good points to start their demolitions. “Is it all one body? Can we affect the entire mass by attacking specific points?”

“I don’t know! Just space them out, and do it quickly!” Bruno yells, pressing the darts into several spots along the walls. If the explosive chain reaction can affect the entire mass, there’s a slim chance they will get out of this alive. But the sounds of the agitated creatures in the nest have gotten deafening. Any second, more will be dropping down upon them both…

“Almost done!?” Sophie cries as she places the fifth of her darts near what seems to be the end of the corridor.

“Yes. Come back this way! We’ll stand near the elevator, that’s the furthest we can get from the-”

FSSSHH! The hissing of the lights above are stinging as they burst bright. Bruno is blinded at once, overcome by the suddenness of it. The entire corridor is illuminated with searing white. The green corridor quivers, and now, they can fully see the humanoid forms of the squirming creatures that surround them, flailing against the ooze that holds them in place, and they are all of them looking down upon Bruno and Sophie with gnashing teeth and lizard-like tongues.

A segment of the green somewhere between Sophie and Bruno splits open at once, revealing a lit doorway. Bruno has no idea what has just happened, but his instincts for preservation kick in at once. “Get to that door!”

Sophie is already moving, wading through the viscus floor as fast as she can. Behind her, another Polluted has dropped down from the ceiling. Bruno hears at least three drop down some ways behind him. Their time is up!

“Hurry!” A voice is calling out to them from the doorway that has just been exposed. “Come in, quickly! We’ll be able to shut them out!” It is a woman’s voice, a scared woman, by the sounds of it. One of the scientists under Schonberg? “Hurry!”

Sophie makes it to the door first and hurls herself inside. As Bruno approaches the door, the Polluted who were behind her reaches the entryway and begins advancing on him, cutting him off. “Sophie!”

She does not answer, and Bruno is now sweating. The Polluted lunges at him, and Bruno pulls on his already bleeding shoulder wound as he ducks, tearing his flesh. His cry of pain shakes the walls. His hand feels like lead as he tosses another throwing dart, but as his vision begins to blur, he misses the mark completely. The Polluted throws itself onto him, pinning him to the oozing floor, and now the others who were behind him are joining in. Their spiked hands press into his armor as they overcome him, and he feels every stab beneath his ribs, every slice into his hips-

And then, in the next moment, the creatures are backing away. Bruno lays there, bleeding heavily, breathing harshly, half-unconscious now, pain welling up inside of him, his moans almost distant, like a sound carried on the wind. The Polluted vanish into the shadows, and through his distorted vision, he sees the silhouette of a woman standing over him. It is not Sophie.

He cannot make out who it is; the distortion of his vision is far too much. But the woman is inhuman, he knows that. He can see the green tendrils growing on her body, sees the glowing irises, inhales the dead stench of her body. And somehow, through all of the haze, he can make out her wide smile.

A Russian dialect escapes her, and suddenly, he is aware that the Russky, Zmetria Klondashski, is the one standing over him right now… and there is such utter joy in her tone. “Oh, Der Narr! I’ve caught myself a bat. Would you like to meet him?”

Those are the last words he hears before unconsciousness takes him. But as he fades, he swears, in some odd, otherworldly realm of insanity, that he hears a jibbering, insane laughter echoing across his subconscious mind. It is the most delighted laughter he has ever heard, positively brimming with hilarity. A lunatic’s laugh.

Batman: Reich of Shadows - GronHatchat - Batman (2024)

Chapter 1

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Chapter 2: 2

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Chapter 3: 3

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Chapter 4: 4

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Chapter 5: 5

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Chapter 6: 6

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Chapter 7: 7

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Chapter 8: 8

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References