Author's Note: The 365 Project is an experimental multi-fandom project to write and post at least one short every day for the next year, not including my semi-regular bi-weekly updates. For more details, see the relevent section in my profile. This is The 365 Project, 26 June.

In the immortal words of Samuel L. Clemens... "Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot. BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR."

Good Evening, readers. "Mission: Impossible" is the creation of Bruce Geller and the property of Paramount Productions, used for entertainment purposes without permission or intent to profit. If you pay attention, you may be able to figure out where the inspiration for this story came from. This disclaimer will self-destruct in five seconds.

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"The War Goes On"

By J.T. Magnus, 'Turbo'

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While Rollin and Willy took off to put the information that the team had just gotten from their target to use, Phelps stood there, eyes narrowed and glaring at the former-Nazi Schutzstaffel officer on the floor whose attempt to resurrect the Third Reich had just failed with the confession of his government contact's identity; the man who would have led the assassination of the country's prime minister and government leaders and used it to declare martial law and appoint the former-SS officer as acting-Prime Minister and de facto dictator.

The Nazi looked at Phelps with hatred in his eyes, "You may have stopped me, but you cannot destroy the destiny of an entire race."

Phelps reached down to grab the other man by his collar and drag him to his feet, blue eyes met blue eyes as the two blond men glared at each other.

"You're not a race, you're a plague," Phelps spat out with uncharacteristic emotion, "You're locusts, infesting and destroying wherever you go. You think I can't destroy you? You think I won't? Just watch me. I won't just destroy your destiny - I'll enjoy doing it. For half my life, I've had to carry the memories of things I've seen, things done by you and others like you that wear this!"

Phelps grabbed the Nazi's Swastika armband and jerked it hard enough for it to snap and come off of their arm, "The sight of it makes me sick!"

Throwing the armband down, Phelps ground it into the floor with his foot, "Every day for three years I saw that damn thing flying over the Stalag. Do you know how many men I saw die over those three years? How many men were shot without mercy when they tried to escape? The ones that starved or froze? The ones who just couldn't take it anymore? Or worse, the ones executed as saboteurs by people like you just so you could prove you could do it..."

The Nazi began to laugh, "And you want justice for them, is that it? How quaint of you... to care so much for lesser men..."

"I'll leave justice up to God, Preissinger," Phelps countered, "I just intend to make sure what happened before never happens again."

Drawing back his fist, Phelps released Preissinger's collar just before he swung and knocked the former-SS officer to the ground. Preissinger's hand automatically went to his chin and he snarled as he prepared to stand back up. He never made it.

Cinnamon burst into the room, "Jim, what happened? I heard a shot."

Phelps looked from Preissinger to the pistol smoking in his hand before addressing Cinnamon, "I fired it."

Kneeling down, Cinnamon checked Preissinger's pulse, "He's dead, Jim."

"He lunged at me," Phelps told her, "I reacted instinctively."

Cinnamon stood up and nodded, "It's okay, Jim, you did what you had to do."

"Yeah," Phelps gave the Nazi armband beneath his foot an extra grind as he looked at Preissinger's body, "What I had to do."