by Shad N Freud
The protective wards around the Drachenamboß went offline for thirty seconds, allowing an intraplanar gate from the Vatican to open long enough for Pope Impious VI and Graahl to step through. The security detail guarding the planar entry point ran the standard scan package before guiding the Pope and his bodyguard to the conference room where Baal sat on a bench made of beer kegs waiting for Carl’s group to join them. Carl lead his people in, glared at Baal, and sat further back than the rest of the group.
Baal shook his head, then turned on a projector with a small remote. He handed the remote to Bob, who reviewed his notes. “Right. So, according to our records, the only time during the war that the Nazis detected a temporal incursion was right here at Drachenamboß, on May 8th, 1945.”
He pressed a button on the remote, advancing a slide forward. “That means that we will be going back on that day. The time listed in a heavily redacted file from this facility states that it occurred at 0735. So, we know our entry time and date. Nagasaki, specifically Mt. Inasa, is several thousand miles away. Luckily, we have a solution for how to get there without attracting any unnecessary attention. There is a prototype submarine that sunk in the sea of Japan. It contained the prototype Enigma II computer, which the allied powers acquired from the salvage of the sub. The name of the submarine was named der Dreizack, or Trident. I believe you know it today as the Goldfish.”
Carl’s left eye began to twitch in anger. “You mean to tell me that we’re going to be a party to that stupid elf and his stupid face getting ahold of his stupid submarine?” Carl’s voice rose with each word, his eyes slowly turning red in the process. He stalked out of the room to go cool his head, and Cenere looked at the pictures of the recovered submarine.
“Wait, it was yellow? You’ve got to be kidding me! It would have stuck out like a sore thumb in the ocean!”
Bob took his glasses off and cleaned the lenses as he rolled his eyes. “While you’d normally be absolutely right, the submarine became invisible due to some very sophisticated enchantments on the outer hull. The paint contained 24k gold dust and cost quite the pretty penny. As soon as the submarine descended below ten meters, the enchantment activated, and the sub was ‘cloaked’ in a form of active camouflage. It was even undetectable to the rudimentary sonar of the time. Modern sonar might pick it up, if it was in motion, but it could even spoof our systems today if sitting still.”
Cenere whistled. “That’s pretty damned neat.”
Bob nodded. “Indeed. Now, the plan will be for you to arrive in the past with the backstory we’ve provided to you in these dossiers. Within, you will find sealed documents to be given to specific individuals, such as the general in charge of this location, Heinrich Himmler-”
“Who Carl ganked about two hours ago.” Cenere chimed in.
Bob paused for a moment. He looked over at Baal, who nodded. “He usssed the Baneflame, did he not?”
Cenere nodded, his eyes slightly narrowed in confusion. “How did you know that?”
Baal held aloft a small booklet. “Remote accessss to the infernal ledger. He ssshould have arrived in Purgatory but did not. It alssso lissstsss people that go to other afterlivesss. He did not appear on any lissstsss. And trussst me, he would have been one of mine. Therefore, Baneflame.”
Cenere nodded, shrugged, and turned back to Bob who continued. “Regardless, Himmler is the first hurdle you’ll need to clear to continue on with your mission. The second will be infiltrating Japan, with this set of documents that should clear you to travel to Mt. Inasa, the last known location of Bahamut, and to gain his blessing. Jin will be the point lead for the Japanese side of things. While in Germany, it shall be Cenere.”
“Wait, what?”
“Yesss. It ssshall be you, Cenere. At the risssk of sssounding overly familiar, you are the one in thisss group that would ssserve bessst asss an arrogant, pretentiousss little fop. Perfect to play a Nazi upper echelon officccer.”
Cenere gave Baal the evil eye for a moment, then thought about how he’d acted towards Carl that first day. He grudgingly agreed that he could certainly pretend to be an arrogant little toerag when he needed to be, and reluctantly conceded that he could pull the role off better than the rest of the group, especially after opening his dossier and reading his profile. He looked back up at Baal for a moment incredulously, then began laughing as he showed it to Camilla.
Camilla spit out the coffee she’d been drinking and did her level best not to choke on the dregs caught in her throat. “Are ye fuckin' kidding me? Yer name is aff tae be Hans Gruber?” She looked down at her own dossier, then back up at Cenere. “Parntly, I’m aff tae be Gladys Night. Whit did ye git, Zeke? Gojira?”
Zeke’s eye flashed in mirth. “No, better. My name’s going to be Mecha-Gojira. Jin,” he gestured with his thumb, “is going to be Smaug. And you’ll never guess Krang’s call-sign.”
Cenere scratched his head. “It’s not Robbie, is it?”
Krang shook his head. “No, somebody decided I should be named Data. I guess I’ll have to work extra hard on my deadpan delivery.”
Bob looked over at the Pope and handed him the remote. “Alright people, you have your dossiers. We’ll be working on your covers for a solid week while they do some last-minute tweaks and tests on the vehicle’s systems. So, get to work studying your parts and we’ll reconvene tomorrow. We’ll be testing your personas until you’re ready to leave. There is no room for error.”
Chapter Eight
Carl smashed another training dummy mercilessly as he tried in vain to bash the pain away. His knuckles were bloodied, his bones broken, and yet he continued using his bare hands to destroy training dummies armed with guns. He paused for a moment and the room did its work, the bullets slowly being pushed out of his body as the flesh beneath his skin regenerated. He paused to spit out a few bullets and watched as the bones in his hands reset themselves, numb to the pain. He growled, then walked over to the wall and set the pain inhibitors to off before turning back to the dummies, lunging into the knot of constructs as they bobbed and weaved, dodging as nimbly as they could to avoid the half-elf’s wrath.
The door to the training room opened quietly and the faintest whisper of a footstep alerted Carl to the fact that he had an audience. He looked over his shoulder and saw Baal at the door. He pointed towards the front door. “Not a good time. I don’t know how you keep getting in here but you can get the bloody hell out. You may ssbe an Archduke, but this is my bloody house. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
“You’re troubled. You mussst be if you’re willing to ssspeak in sssuch a way to an Archduke of Hell. Of courssse, that isss part of why you were chosssen in the firssst placcce.”
Carl paused, then turned slowly to face Baal, who had produced a flip lighter and a cigar box bearing the Pope’s seal. Baal offered Carl one of the Pope’s Cubans, and Carl sighed as he took one from the Archduke. After all, it was a fine Cuban Cigar, if the Pope’s seal on the humidor was any indicator.
“About that. Why the Hell did I need to be the one to lead this merry pack of misfits? Why me?” Carl absently pulled his own lighter from his pocket and lit his cigar after biting off the end. “Why did you keep me from my family? I could have taken Ink seven ways from Sunday, and…instead, I was off looking for coins. A gun. I was herding cats to try and save this fucking world, and what did it get me?”
Carl spun around and punched a dummy that was trying to be sneaky, annihilating the construct with a single mighty blow. His shoulders heaved with exertion, as well as rage, and turned back to Baal with blood in his eye. Tears were running down his face again and he snarled at the Archduke who was leaning against a nearby wall. “I’ve lost everything because of this fucking mission! Everything! And…I blame you.”
Baal took a long drag on his cigar, before standing up from where he was loitering. “Well, champ…why don’t you tell me how you really feel? I mean, thisss isss only a misssion from your lord and massster, Lucccifer.”
His baton strike was almost negligently deflected by Baal’s armored gauntlet, sparks flying as it skittered off the infernal iron. Carl allowed his rage to fuel him as he felt his teeth begin to itch. What he was doing could be construed as blasphemy, but at this point? He just wanted to bash the smarmy git’s head in.
Every blow deflected with contemptible ease made it harder not to give in to his blood’s demand that he let go of conscious thought and simply sink into pure instinct. Finally, an opening in the Archduke’s defense appeared and Carl feinted at an opposite angle before flicking his wrist and summoning his gun behind his back. Time seemed to slow down for a moment as he brought the pistol up and fired on full auto, the speeding bullets bound for Baal’s face.
Carl watched as Baal seemed to match Carl's speed, his gauntleted hand became a blur, sweeping the high explosive bullets from the air in front of his face and flicking them like marbles back at Carl, who dodged all but one, a bullet that took Carl’s leg off at the knee. The shock of losing a leg killed the adrenaline surge Carl was working off of.
Baal strolled over to where Carl lay on the floor, screaming in agony as he held the stump. His leg had already healed over, the regeneration field doing it's work. Baal’s iron boot rolled Carl onto his back and he drew a sword out of his robes, twelve-foot-long and covered in channeling runes. The blade was capable of channeling the Baneflame as well as converting the black fire to the green flames of Hell. He put his foot on Carl’s chest to hold him down, then ignited the sword in green flames, resting the tip on Carl’s chest. “I hope I have your undivided attention, Cardinal. Becaussse I have a few thingsss to sssay.”
Carl grit his teeth, glaring up into the hood of the fucker that had taken his leg. His eyes turned black and he flung a gout of Baneflame at the bastard’s face. The Archduke raised a hand and a crownshield of Baneflame formed briefly, blocking the bolt of black flame.
“If you’re quite through being ssso infantile…” Another bolt of black fire flew at the Archduke’s face and he rolled his glowing eyes while dodging effortlessly, then pressed his foot down on Carl’s shoulder, crushing the joint before repeating the process on Carl’s other arm. “Thisss would go a lot easssier if you'd jussst ssstop fighting me. I have thingsss you need to hear.”
“Fuck…yourself…in the…arse…you-,”
“Sssilenccce!” Baal’s gauntlet covered Carl’s mouth, silencing him. “Now lisssten, you little ssshit. I underssstand your pain better than you will ever know. I lossst someone important to me shortly before I died. I could do nothing to help, nothing would eassse my pain. And…it helped ssshape who I’ve become.”
Baal removed his hand from Carl’s mouth and the angry half-orc glared up at him silently.
“Nothing can bring them back. They’ve passssed on to their afterlives. Because of her ssservice to her faith and the pain ssshe sssuffered before ssshe died, ssshe wasss granted head of the line privilegesss. Your daughter? Ssshe’sss in…good handsss. She too wasss allowed to ssskip the line. And, for what happened to her…ssshe isss getting ssspecial treatment.”
Carl’s eyes returned to their normal color as he stared up Baal. Baal removed the sword tip, extinguishing the flames as he slid it back into his robes. “I think I know why you dessspissse me, but try to remember that we’re on the sssame ssside, yesss?” Baal offered Carl a hand up and the orc sneered as he swatted the hand away. He looked down at his leg, still somewhat pinkish, though rapidly turning back to its normal shade of green. He flexed his toes, then got unsteadily to his feet. He looked down at his pants and sighed; he’d liked that pair.
“Carl…no one elssse could have taken thisss misssion. You’ve already done it. That’sss why Ink sssought you out in the here and now. Of courssse, if you hadn’t gone back, ssshe wouldn’t have killed your family, but…you might asss well enjoy it when you get your mittsss on her in the passst.” Carl glared at Baal as he handed Carl his dossier. “You’ll need thisss for tomorrow. We ssstart bright and early.”
Carl opened the file, then looked back up at Baal. “After this is over, and I come back to the present, we’re going to settle accounts. You took my leg, and I plan on taking your head.”
Baal pinched the bridge of his nose, muttered something in infernal that sounded suspiciously like “idiot” and looked Carl in the eye. “I’ll tell you what. If you ssstill feel that way after thisss misssion isss over, I’ll put my head on the block myssself, and you can go hog wild. But until thisss isss over, ssshut up, pisss off, and ssstudy your damn part. There isss-,”
“No room for error. I get it. I got it the first fifty bloody times. Now, if you’re done darkening my door,” Carl flashed Baal the backwards V and blew a raspberry. “Jog on.”
Baal stared at Carl for a long moment, then nodded. He turned and opened the door to leave the mansion, pausing at the threshold. “I would have gone to sssave them, you know. I wasss ordered by Lucccifer to ssstay the courssse. If I could have done otherwissse, I would have. But…the fate of more than jussst thisss little blue marble wasss at ssstake. You have my deepessst apologiesss.”
The door closed, and Carl stopped his training program. Much as he hated the Archduke, he knew the towering bastard was right. Carl quickly showered, put on a new pair of pants, and grabbed a sandwich from the kitchen before sitting down in the library to study his new identity. He saw the names of the other team members and chuckled lightly. This part of the mission looked like it might be fun after all.
∞∞∞
Cenere cracked his neck as he stood in the tailor’s office of the installation, getting fitted for a proper Nazi uniform befitting a member of the SS. He rolled his eyes as the tailor pinned up the trousers and looked over at the others. Camilla was in a neat little leather number, as was Sachi, and both were grumbling about sexist Nazi pigs. Carl looked like he was already in Hell, and his eyes were a faint shade of pink as he valiantly tried to keep his temper in check. Krang was wearing a typical SS officer’s uniform with an almost glossy leather duster and a pair of black glasses to hide his inhuman eyes.
“I feel like a complete goon wearing this shit.” Cenere grimaced as the tailor accidentally pricked his tail with a straight pin. He bolted for the changing room as soon as the tailor said he could take the uniform off, as if it was burning him just to wear it. “First, we destroy a bunch of Nazis, and now we’re pretending to be them? I’m really starting to hate this stupid mission.”
“Tell me about it,” he heard Camilla mutter darkly in the next cubicle. “At least yer uniform ain't likely tae make ye chafe in tender spots.” Cenere took a moment to translate what she said in his mind. Much as he enjoyed the way she spoke, sometimes her Scottish brogue became a bit much to understand, especially when she slipped into the deep end of Scottish slang. “A' broon leather? A skirt barely lang enough tae cover my arse? Althoogh ah dae lik' th' thigh heich bits 'n' th' lingerie it goes wi'. Black lace, garters, sheer stockings…and fur me, a leather choker wi' a steel ring fur a leash. Oan accoont o' me bein' yer pet negress, parntly.”
The sound of leather hitting a bench caused Cenere to realize that the sexy lingerie she’d described was likely the only thing she was wearing and Cenere had to concentrate on non-sexy things in vain hopes that his burgeoning erection would die down. He immediately started thinking about things like baseball, curling, hospice homes for the elderly…and everything he pictured seemed to integrate a sexily dressed Camilla. The batter was Camilla in a cropped baseball uniform with a scandalously short pair of shorts. Curling had her wearing a skin-tight body suit and a pair of skates, suggestively stroking the broom as she stared at him with a saucy smile on her face. The sexy candy striper taking care of the elderly? Camilla.
He growled softly, then broke hi
s index finger to change his mind’s focus to pain instead of pleasure. He nearly screamed in frustration as it backfired and those images in his head quickly devolved to BDSM. He then bolted out of the changing room like a scalded cat, a nearly-nude blur practically flying for the mansion.
Camilla poked her head out of the cubicle, fully dressed, and watched the man she liked speeding away. She had a saucy smile on her face and strolled out of the changing room whistling a jaunty tune as Sachi fist bumped her on the way out. Sachi rolled her eyes as she made her way to her own cubicle, a faint smile on her face. She heard the next cubicle door close and Krang quickly changed as Sachi pondered the man on the other side of the wall. “So, just out of curiosity…how anatomically correct are you under those clothes?”
∞∞∞
Cenere walked out of his cold shower, his teeth chattering as he toweled off. That woman was going to be the death of him, he decided as he slipped into warm clothes for bed. He opened his dossier and rubbed the dark circles under his eyes. He’d been having trouble sleeping of late, and not just because of the dreams that threatened to soil his sheets every night. He studied the notes on his persona for another hour, then turned in and slipped on his sleep mask. As soon as his eyes closed, he began snoring lightly, his body sleeping fitfully as his mind descended into a recurring nightmare that he could never remember the next morning.
He found himself in a burning cityscape, the ruined skyline of what had once been New York in the background. The decapitated Statue of Liberty was once again in the far distance and he sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. “How many times do we have to go over this, you stupid pile of shit? The answer is, has been, and will always be no. So, how about you just go ahead and fuck off?”
The being shrugged, the ragged remains of a once resplendent violet tuxedo jacket hanging loosely to the figure’s emaciated frame. The man looked like he’d needed a good meal for about the last century, his dark eyes sunken with hunger and his cheeks gaunt. Cenere would almost swear he could see the figure’s ribs through the tattered remains of his dress shirt.