Germany, 1982
The evening meal finished, Helmut Dobler settled comfortably into his reading chair, unfolded the newspaper, and quietly immersed himself.
He had just enough time to read the headline--there was another unsolved murder case in Leipzig--before a sudden pounding on the door startled him out of his reverie. The paper's ominous warning replayed in his mind, and he crept to the front door, stopping at the mantal to brandish the antique sword that sat uselessly atop.
Helmut reached the door. He grabbed the knob, twisted it, jerked the door open violently, and raised the sword over his head.
A small girl was suddenly flung at him, and he dropped the sword out of reflex, catching her with his free arm. The other quickly wrapped itself around the child's back to better support her. She sobbed, subdued, quietly whispering for her mother. Behind them, Helmut's wife approached, keeping her distance but peering out at the scene curiously.
There was a man in the doorway--blonde, young, handsome, draped in a long leather coat. He was looking at Helmut, his head cocked, his expression halfway between boredom and amusement.
"Wer ist sie?" Helmut asked, setting the girl down. She clung to his leg tightly, evidently not wanting to be let go. "Sie ist nicht meine Tochter."
The man shrugged. "Sorry, mate. Don't speak Kraut." Turning sharply, he stalked off into the night, leaving two very confused spouses with one very distraught child.
Now out of sight of the house, Spike allowed himself a private smile. This wasn't the sort of thing he wanted to make a habit out of; nonetheless it felt...nice...to do the right thing for a change.
Except I killed the nibblet's parents, he thought. That's not exactly the right thing to do.
At this, his smile widened, and Spike bore it with him as he continued along his merry way.