#tried to include a little symbolism with his cape and cap being gone

[sodascollection]

Slick iron invades his lungs, Jouno pays it no mind. Pins are stuck deep within his skin, continuously crinkling and pinching the muscle beneath. (Perhaps this is how served justice felt?) every twitch and slight shift of the fabric of the uniform he wore shot sharp pain through his nerves. He doesn’t know where he is going. He continues walking.

He doesn’t adjust the weight on his soles. clomp clomp. The sound takes up a painful amount of space in his ears. clomp clomp.

—

—

familiar footsteps clunk just about the corner or around the next hallway, frenzied.

Jouno contorts into a grin, wide. Nearly unnatural.

Tecchou is the first to notice, he is the first to see after all. The uncanniness.

“Where is it?” Tecchou prods, breathlessly.

“hm?” Jouno replies, quickly.

“Your cap, and your cape?”

[e350tb]

Todesreich - Chapter I: The Halls of Power

Washington DC, 1962

“General Clay just called, sir. He’s reached the embassy.”

The President exhaled; he seemed to relax ever so slightly.

“Thank Christ,” he muttered.

Blue rubbed her hand slightly as he rubbed his temple, gazing down at his oak deck. He wiped a band of sweat from his forehead and straightened his tie. His beady eyes scanned the room and briefly met hers - in them, she could see conflict. Here he was, sending an envoy to the greatest enemy America had ever faced to create a lasting peace. In some ways, setting a table for Hitler was a betrayal, and both knew it.

“Mr. President?”

She’d only been a baby, and he’d been in the South Pacific, that autumn day in 1943, when America had learned of it’s greatest military disaster. Thirty thousand men lay dead on a beach in southern Italy, with the loss of fifteen warships - the mournful words of General Eisenhower, taking full responsibility for the failure, echoed on every radio in America. Yet for both of them it had changed everything. She grew up in a world terrified of fascism hiding behind every curtain, and he’d built a career on it. Yet now, they were here to make peace.

The press were already repeating the wry comment; ‘only Nixon could go to Berlin.’

Richard M. Nixon, President of the United States, arch grey-baiter and cold warrior, reached for the telephone. He dialed the number of the American Embassy in Berlin, before turning back to his staff.

“I’d like to be alone for this,” he said.

Slowly, the men in grey suits began to file out. Blue followed, stepping out into the hallway and taking a deep breath. It almost felt like she’d emerged from underwater.

She knew they needed to do this, but she couldn’t help but feel sick. The idea of offering the olive branch to the Nazis, considering what their thugs would do to someone like her if she lived in Germany… it just felt wrong. It made her skin crawl.

Yet, she supposed, this was politics. She’d expected as much when she took this job, and seen just how low it went. She’d seen Joe Kennedy’s campaigns; how he’d tried to smear one of Vice-President Rockefeller’s aides as a homosexual (and it wounded her that people thought that was wrong.) You had to swim in the muck to make it. And maybe they could change things in Germany. Maybe they could make it freer.

Maybe she was being too optimistic.

 ----

Berlin, 1962

Lance McClain hated Berlin, and he’d only been here a day.

The marine sighed as he stood in the guard tower, his heavy rifle leaning against the wall and his helmet removed. Sentry duty was a boring and lonely job on its own, and he was already over it before he’d even reached his post. 

But then, the real kicker—he learned that guard duty was not fated to be a thankless job, and he would have a partner. That effectively lifted his spirits, and then dropped them with twenty times more disappointment when he spotted a familiar, dark-haired mullet approach the spot during the same shift change.

How’d Hunk get out of this?

If he was up with Hunk, it’d be fine - they could at least talk. But Keith Kogane? This guy. The stick up his ass had a stick up its ass. He just stood there, quietly watching the deserted streets around them, his face set into a frown. God, his whole aura just radiated with that smug undertone of I’m-better-than-you, so much so that on top of that there was an added layer of I’m-too-good-to-talk-to-you-because-I’m-so-much-better-than-you.

Lance sighed heavily and pursed his lips together. He blew against them, making a popping noise - pop!

Keith’s hands seemed to grip his rifle ever-so-slightly tighter. Lance noticed. He tucked his hands behind his back, like an officer inspecting his troops, and gazed off into the distance. For a few seconds, all was silent.

Pop!

Keith’s shoulders visibly raised, but his focus remained purposefully forward, on the streets. His breathing seemed to become more laboured, his brow furrowing-

Pop!

His breathing was definitely louder now, and Lance could hear his teeth grinding against each other. Smirk widening, he leaned in close to Keith’s ear, as if he was about to share a deep, dark secret. His face was set into the single most trollish expression he could possibly manage.

…

…

Pop!

Keith’s rifle shot back, the butt slamming right into Lance’s most prized possessions. He winced and cried out, collapsing to the floor and clutching his privates, wheezing and moaning. He spluttered in a raspy voice; “Man down! Man down!”

“You gentlemen wanna explain what you’re doing?”

Lance glanced down. Through his swimming vision he could see the gruff visage of Colonel Iverson, his arms crossed and his lips thin.

“I’ve been viciously assaulted, sir!”

“Sir, Private McClain was deliberately trying to annoy me, sir.”

“I was not! I was just making noises!”

“Shut up!”

Iverson pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Private Kogane,” he said. “Don’t react. It’s what he wants you to do. You’re a marine, you need to be a professional, you understand?”

“Yes sir!” Keith salutes.

“Private McClain?”

“Yes sir?”

“You’re an asshole.”

He sighed heavily and walked away.

Lance climbed to his feet and leaned against the wall, sweating. Keith rolled his eyes as the marine dry-heaved over the side, still squatting from the sudden and unexpected attack on his nether regions.

“Oh come on, it’s not that bad,” he grunted.

“I may never have children,” Lance cried melodramatically.

He glanced down, watching as another two marines opened the gate. The Ambassador’s car - a hot-pink Chevrolet limousine, chosen as a symbol of American wealth, drove out onto the street and off towards the government quarter.

“Hey Keith, ever wonder why we can’t have cars like that?”

“Hey Lance, ever wonder what it’s like to be hit in the nuts twice in five minutes?”

“Fine, shutting up…”

-----

The Volkshalle was a breathtaking monument to hideous waste.

Shiro glanced up at the cavernous roof above the enormous assembly room, covered in gold regalia of Germany and the Nazis. Everything about it was built on a massive scale - the paintings, the sculptures, the truly enormous marble statue of Adolf Hitler at the end of the room. Yet if one looked closely, between the lines in the concrete, one could see the mold building in the cracks. You could smell a strange dampness in the air, leaving a chill in its wake that crept far lower than bone-deep.

“It’s almost symbolic,” Matt whispered, and Shiro was rather inclined to agree.

They were walking to a meeting room, Ambassador Clay deep in conversation with their tall, wiry technocrat of a host. Albert Speer was grey and balding, but time hadn’t diminished his passion for architecture. He was pointing at every aspect of the Volkshalle he found interesting and describing it in detail - and Clay was nodding politely and making a heroic effort not to appear as bored as he surely was. Speer wore a leather coat over his traditional brown party uniform, and part of Shiro thought he looked like a Nazi biker.

Next to them was John Profumo, British Ambassador - an up-and-coming Tory with an eye on the Prime Minister’s seat. He’d been forced to spend the morning looking at Speer’s models for grand new buildings, but it was an open secret in political circles that Profumo had an interest in models of a very different kind; specifically of a young and curvaceous kind. Yet he was also a professional and well-regarded, to the point where it was suspected that Prime Minister Butler had dispatched him to Berlin to prevent him from taking his job.

Before long they had left the grand atrium and were walking down a corridor, heading to the big wooden doors that led to one of the Nazi Party meeting rooms. On either side of the door was a guard - a member of the Führerbegleitkommando. These men, who these days were clad in the same tan-brown party uniforms and peaked caps as a party officer, were technically under control of the SS, but in actuality they answered directly to Hitler (or at least the minions who claimed to speak for him.) Shiro locked eyes with one of them - a grizzled, scarred veteran of a thousand nightmares in the East, by the look of him - and fought the urge to shudder.

They saluted, but Speer paid them no heed as he pushed open the door. He led the party inside, snapped to attention, and raised his arm.

“Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler.”

The room was grandly furnished with red carpet and drapes; a massive painting of a caped Hitler, surveying a map of his European conquests like a Roman emperor, covered the opposite wall, and swastikas adorned every pillar. Below the painting of the Fuhrer sat three men, none of whom looked particularly excited about their company. Shiro thought back to his briefings on these men back in Washington.

To the left, Martin Bormann - short, portly, round-faced, his constant expression stern and slightly bewildered. There were few frills on his uniform - just the standard party badge over his breast. On paper, Bormann was little more than Hitler’s secretary, yet this position offered power. He could and did control who could see the Fuhrer and when. Furthermore, as head of the Chancellory, he had official control of the Nazi Party itself, and while it was difficult to call Nazis a unified entity these days, it still counted for something when dealing with an errant clerk or rogue governor.

In the middle, Herman Goering, the portly, flamboyant head of the Luftwaffe - which, under Goering’s personal insistence, had expanded to include not only planes but considerable ground troops. The once black-haired Goering had gone bald at some point in the late 1950s, something that clearly irritated him given his insistence on wearing grand, gold-braided hats indoors. Some thought him a drug-addled joke; yet he held the feared Gestapo under his belt, having wrestled it from the SS in the fifties, and under his boisterous, charming mask was a cruel streak a mile wide.

To the right was a hunched, gaunt man, his face almost resembling a skull. This was Joseph Goebbels, the Minister for Propaganda, who had expanded his fief to include the Berlin Police, the city’s garrison, the Hitler Youth and the brand new television stations. It was Goebbels who had flooded the European airwaves with crude, anti-Semitic caricatures and pulpy, one-dimensional tales of martial derring do. It was he who controlled what was known and what wasn’t known. It was he who ensured the dark rumours of what was happening in the East remained merely that - rumours.

These were the so-called ‘moderates’ - a tentative, creaking faction defined only by a mutual opposition to Heinrich Himmler and the SS, and a determination to avoid the collapse of the Reich.

The others took their seats, but Shiro made sure to stand, as inconspicuous as possible, by the door.

“Ambassador Clay! Ambassador Profumo!” Goering extended his arms, beaming. “I trust you’ve enjoyed Berlin?”

“Yes, it has been a delight,” Clay lied smoothly.

“Indeed,” said Profumo. “But we really ought to get down to business, Herr Reichsmarschall. Her Majesty’s Government is keen to get this trade deal sorted.”

“You were a general under Eisenhower, were you not?” asked Goering, smiling plainly at Clay. “I always felt he was cruelly treated by the American government, you know? I-”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Goering,” said Clay. “President Nixon has a few preconditions to opening trade with your nation, which I’ve taken the liberty of writing down.”

He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a scrap of paper.

“Uh, Herr Ambassador, surely we should start by telling you what we want out of-” Speer began.

Clay raised his brow.

“Mr. Speer, let me be frank,” he said. “Germany’s credit rating is atrocious. One American dollar buys ten Reichsmarks. You have no international market for any of your products. Americans don’t want Fanta and Volkswagens, they want Coca-Cola and Fords. Your bargaining power is nearly nonexistent. Depending on what we negotiate, all that might change, but let me make this entirely clear, gentlemen; you are not in a position of power right now.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. Speer seemed to pale slightly, and Bormann sank in his chair. Goebbels didn’t initially seem to move, but Shiro could just about see his hands shaking. Goering still smiled, but it seemed decidedly pained.

He took a deep breath. “Right,” he said, his voice laboured. “Of course. Please, Herr Clay, your proposal.”

Clay leaned forward.

“Caucasus oil. Ruhr coal. Steel. Rubber. Maize from the Ukraine. These are the things America wants, not your dinky little Beetles.”

“Please, the Fuhrer doesn’t like the term Bee-” interrupted Bormann.

Clay raised his hand to shut him up.

“Most of all,” continued Clay. “We want uranium. We know there are deposits in the former Soviet Union. We want it; we want to survey for it, we want to build mines, we want uranium from the existing mines.”

He slipped the paper over to Goering.

“Here’s our offer.”

Goering picked up the paper, scrutinising it carefully. His face blanched, and he handed it over to Goebbels, shaking his head.

“The offer is… I’m going to be quite honest, Herr Clay, we expected-”

“That is the President’s proposal, Mr. Goering,” Clay replied simply.

“But… but the prices…” Goering blinked, slowly and deliberately. “And… the American market…”

“Once we have traded for a few years, we can talk about selling German products on American markets,” said Clay.

“I…”

“This is robbery!” Goebbels sprung to his feet, shaking with rage as he pointed at Clay. “This is banditry! You would drain Germany dry for a third of the market price, and we would gain nothing!”

“We would jumpstart your economy,” said Clay.

“You would hold us hostage!” screeched Goebbels, slamming his fist on the table. “You thieves! You Shylocks! No self-respecting nation would ever sign such a deal!”

“You asked a deal like this of the French,” muttered Holt.

Goebbels turned on him, and it was as if his eyes were orbs of fire.

“We conquered the French!” he bellowed. “They were crushed under the Fuhrer’s mighty heel! Where are your tanks? Where is your boot! We are not conquered? We are not cowed! We are German!”

“Now, now,” said Profumo, “we are not here to denigrate Germany or Mr. Hitler, we are simply offering a realistic-”

Goebbels now turned on the British ambassador, his fist again crashing against the oak table.

“You!” he bellowed. “Will address him as! The! FUHRER!”

He punched the table one last time and stormed towards the door.

“Mr. Goebbels, please!” exclaimed Clay. “President Nixon has only-”

“To hell with President Nixon!” spat Goebbels.

He slammed the door behind him.

Speer took a long, deep breath, cradling his temples.

“Well,” he said, “that went well.”

Goering bit his lip.

“Gentlemen, perhaps we can reconvene later, when Herr Goebbels has… calmed down,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt at Goebbels’ name.

“That would probably be for the best,” nodded Clay.

There were no further pleasantries - instead the group walked out in awkward, deafening silence.