Summary: Dante is a Nazi, and Nero a Jew. What could possibly go wrong?
I have returned! My one and a half year rest is complete and I am prepared to start yet another session of weekly updates onto fanfiction. n_u
for those of you who were fond of Night Road . . . sorry, but i've discontinued it. That fanfiction truly just had no plot and no hope for the future. Again, I apologise, but I'd rather put effort into something that will come through in the end.
Pushing that aside, you should all be aware that this fanfiction will not be, for the most part, humorous or cuddly or cute or funny. Of course, there will be moments (I believe all written work should have a laugh at least somewhere), but the majority is indeed serious due to the fact that most of this plot encircles around the horrors of concentration camps and mass murders and etc etc. So if you have a weak heart and cannot take tragedy, I recommend you hit the back button. :|
I suppose I should also add that this is not, in any way, meant to offend Jews or Germans. This fanfiction takes place around the 1940s – about the time the holocaust took place. I'm not trying to imply that any of the actions that take place in this fanfic is the usual behaviour of either ethnic groups, alright? To keep my slate as clean as possible, I'm going to try and keep the events as close to those that took place in reality. Some situations I will wing, though.
Oh, and how could I have forgotten the most important detail . . . Duerherherm. This fanfiction is incredibly AU. I will try my very hardest to keep Dante and Nero in person as much as possible, I will assure. n_n But given their horrific circumstance, this wont always be possible . .
Anyway! Enough with all my blabber! n_n
Carry on~
A light switch is flicked and a bulb above weakly flickers to life. The thing is old, dirty. Worn out from years of illuminating hopeless faces and tired eyes. A man running a calloused hand through disheveled hair settles beneath it and reaches out to open the dusty bathroom mirror. Rows of medicine bottles are revealed. He reaches out and selects a couple at random, not even bothering to read the labels anymore.
The informational stickers on the things have been worn down to a dirty brown after months of been knocked back with dirty hands, tossed into bags, kept in war jackets and repeated.
Pale fingers unscrew the tops and remove several capsules from each. For but a moment, blue eyes remain on the shelves, distant, before the pile of pills stacked in his hand are knocked back against his lips and are ingested with only his saliva to help them down.
There is the initial gag, yes. He is used to that. But after screwing his eyes shut and clasping rough fingers on the edge of the sink and swallowing hard, hard – willing the mouthful down – there is the familiar sensation of a lump of small ovals traveling down his throat, and the man loosens his grip on cracked porcelain.
Shutting the mirror, Dante looks himself in the eye. Even with the notable layer of dust that has settled onto the object of his reflection, there is no hiding emptiness in his expression. He isn't sure if he wants to. Aware of the fact that he will have to be out and about in the bitter November air in but a few moments, he leaves his reflection alone and begins to undress.
Cool air slips between his thighs as his pyjama pants are removed and replaced with the pressed, black fabric of his trousers. Next are the leather boots which have still not yet completely molded to his feet and leave him walking with awkward lumps beneath his soles. When the thin fabric of his t-shirt (which had failed miserably to insulate heat over the night) is pulled over his head, Dante grabs his coat, then pauses. Glancing back at his reflection, he runs cold fingers over the Swastika symbol tattooed onto his right breast.
Suddenly the door to his small room is thrust open and a harsh voice calls, "was machst du, sheibe kopf! What are you doing, shit head!" Dante is just pulling on his coat when his Nazi comrade stomps over to the door frame. Without looking, the man can already tell Anton is fuming. Being new to the organisation – even newer than Dante – it is expected that he be a little more...lively than the rest when it came to occasions such as those today. That, or slightly more frightened. "Hurry the fuck up!" he continues, "Everyone is already outside!"
The young man, not even the height of Dante's shoulder, stomps away with his leather boot squeaking before the other could even wave him off.
Dante wasn't really sure if it was the desire to get this over with or seriousness of the situation that had him out on the dew-ridden lawn less than a few minutes later. It was four o' clock in this small Jewish ghetto in Venice, Italy. As expected of this time of day, it was black out. Black save for the few streetlights that scared the night stars away. Through Dante's eyes, the edges of everything seemed fuzzy and smoothed out. The softening of the world around him was a sign that the pills had finally dissolved and numbed his brain until all worries sure to come were pushed off to the edges until they were out of his line of sight.
Before him, the object of what would have become his previous concern was revealed.
A line of Jews were being situated before the sidewalk. For every four or five heads of dark hair, there was a blonde patrolling them with hard ebony coats and red swastika symbols on their arms. "Hande hoch!" Commander, a man clad in murky green rather than black, ordered the alignment of Jews who quickly complied and placed trembling hands behind their heads. Nazi soldiers positioning their rifles in unison in case of any rebels.
Dante watched with hands stuffed in his pockets as the Jews were ordered to bend over and bite down on the concrete. Anton watched with amusement as a general started towards the end of the line and placed a teasing foot on the head of a brunette.
The sound of her begs, muffled my concrete, stained the night air. Commander cooed at her, lifting the metal of his boot as if he would let her go, only to crush her skull with a sickening crack a second later.
The story repeated itself with the next Jew, and the next Jew, and the next, as panic within the prisoners quickly began to arise. Commander soon grew tired of his taunting and summoned a rhythm of foot up, foot down, smash, sidestep, foot up, foot down, smash, sidestep, with their dread only fueling his smirk as his teeth bared in the cold night air.
That was disgustingly short, I'm aware. The last few paragraphs are pathetically underdetailed, but my lazy beta refused to help me improve them! ヽ; A ;
Just kidding, I love her. Anyways, if you have any idea as to how to help me improve this (As in the posted content, not the plot . . . which isn't even greatly revealed by this) just let me know, and I'll be more than happy to assign you the credit!
But yeah! I just wanted to get this short little prologue out before I got lazy and gave up on this before it made it to fanfiction. And . . . yes. That happens very often.
Unless my ap teachers decide to randomly pound me down with homework (and they seem to have a fetish for this), updates should be frequent given the fact that I have a majority of the next several chapters worked out.
But enough blab. Good night for now~ but remember! Feedback provides inspiration! n_n