The constant, dull beeping of a machine was putting the boy in a deep lull. His dazed state was aided by the drugs currently coursing in his system. A man in a doctor blouse was standing beside the chair the blond boy was sitting on, his face neutral. His hands were clasped firmly behind his back. He would have been handsome, with his pointed features and carefully swept back blond hair, were it not for his dull expression.
"Status?" Even the man's voice was toneless.
The nurse looked at the quickly morphing figures displayed on the small screen of the scanning machine.
"Fluctuating mEPSCs frequency. Inhibition of PKMzeta steady. The dosage of ZIP is currently at 4μM."
The doctor spent her nary a glance before focusing on the boy. While his face was expressionless, his eyes detailed the boy thoroughly.
"What is your name, boy?" The man's voice was inflexible and hard as steel.
"N...Na...ru...to?" It was formulated more like a question than a firm answer.
The doctor's light blue eyes grew colder. Whereas before they were a chilly sea, now they were glaciers. "Increase ZIP dosage to 6μM." He ordered frostily.
Helga, the nurse, looked at the man she had once respected with no small amount of apprehension.
"Herr Doktor, a higher dose might lead to the excitotoxic death of the neurons caused by too much glutamate NTs excitation." Helga felt it prudent to remind the doctor, even though she felt that such a detail had not escaped his notice.
"It is acceptable. Increase the dosage of ZIP-G." He said it so conversationally, Helga was a little bewildered.
"Entschuldigen Sie bitte, Herr Doktor." Helga swallowed her saliva convulsively. "But this is an exceedingly dangerous procedure-" a strangled gasp escaped her.
The doctor's head had rotated slightly. The tundra in his eyes threatened to consume her whole, despite his still terrifying blank features.
"I said; it is acceptable. Increase the dosage." He enunciated slowly.
With dread creeping up and enveloping her being in a ghastly embrace, she took the syringe lying innocuously in the stainless steel instrument tray. She also took a vial labeled 'ZIP-G', shuddering when she saw the various pictograms that screamed danger. Taking shallow breaths, she reminded herself that, were she not to do that, another less scrupulous nurse would do this job. How did it make her better, if she did it anyway? She reflected bitterly.
She uncorked the vial with a trembling hand and drew the translucent liquid with the new syringe. Then she injected it in the IV drip.
For a few minutes, nothing seemed to happen. Then the boy's head lolled backward, indicating lightheadedness or a similar cause.
"What is your name, boy?" The doctor asked again. Helga closed her eyes. How could somebody be so cruel?
"Ish ver...geh?" The boy's speech was becoming garbled and he was mangling the grammar. His eyes blinked rapidly.
The doctor withdrew a handkerchief from his coat and wiped the drool dripping from the boy's slightly parted mouth. It was a meticulous gesture done with flabbergasting tenderness, given the man's actions. Once it was done, he methodically folded the handkerchief and put it in its respectful place.
"Your name is Sturm, don't you remember?" The doctor asked with foreign kindness. His hands rested lightly on the boy's shoulder. He took note of the twitching right arm, filing the information away for later perusal.
"Sturm..." the boy repeated dully.
"That's right. Your name is Sturm." It was a perfect name, the boy would take the world by storm. He would also be an assault leader, a blade wielded by the Führer of the next generation to cut down his enemies. It was much better than the boy's former name, horrible backward language that it was. He withdrew his hands, the limbs clasped neatly behind his back once again.
"Now, rest." The doctor sent Helga a glance which could only be interpreted as a command for coma induction.
With relief flooding her, Helga proceeded to do just that.
A few years had passed since this event, the weeks blurring together in a confusing jumble of lessons which the boy, Sturm, excelled at.
He was currently standing in an abandoned field dubbed Schlachtfeld Eins or SF1 in the Kinderheim terminology. Barbed wire and foxholes were spread along the surface of the battlefield. On each side, rows upon rows of his classmates stood at attention. There was a good hundred of the residents of the orphanage, each of them sporting a grim face unbefitting of children their ages. Of boys of ten.
They knew what today meant. This was the graduation ceremony, where only one of them would survive. It was brutal and sickening, but that is how the world spun. Did we not say Homo Homini Lupus?
The instructor was a strongly built man with more scars on his body and face than anybody would bother to count. His short blond hair was partially hidden by a decorated kepi. He spoke with a thick Swabian accent, reminiscent of a time when both Germanies were one. Also a testament to the man's skill, since nowadays people hailing from the RDA were viewed severely, especially in government operated facilities.
"This is your last day in Kinderheim 30. Do your country proud. Hans and Bähr, get into gear." Instructor Wilhelm said gruffly. He was a man of few words. He clenched a notepad and a pen in a huge hand.
Both boys strode toward a kind of ring delimited by sacks of sand meticulously laid on the only part of the field without foxholes and wire.
Once the command to fight had been given, they boys withdrew a serrated, military-issue knife from their satchel, before throwing the holders to the ground. It would only be cumbersome during their face-off.
Bähr was stronger, more heavily built, but Hans was quicker. Hans had more technique, too. It quickly became apparent to everybody when he managed to sever the fingers on Bähr's right hand by taking advantage of a deft parry. The bigger boy doubled over in pain. He quickly silenced the screaming boy by plunging his knife into the column of his throat. With a savage yank, he pulled the bloody knife free.
Wilhelm quickly wrote something on his notepad. He was joined by another elderly man with a head of wispy white hair covered by a bowler hat. The instructor covered his mouth with the notepad and quietly relayed his observations to his elder. Wilhelm watched with interest as the man only shook his head at irregular intervals when he said something especially noteworthy.
Once he was done, he called the next fighters. "Frank and Sturm!"
Both boys walked patiently toward the fighting pit. No need to exert themselves by running before the main event.
"Sturm; that is a peculiar name." It was a blunt observation which anybody would have made hearing the blonde, blue-eyed boy's name.
"Handpicked by Herr Doktor Adler himself." Twin white eyebrows rose at that proclamation.
"Indeed? Names do have power. Let us hope this dear Adler's expectations are not unfounded."
"I would not worry about that, Herr Rosenblum." A lopsided smile came onto Wilhelm's face.
Sturm had lain his satchel on the ground outside the circle without bothering to take out his knife. He paid no heed to his opponent's incredulous then furious expression while he did a quick warm-up. Slapping his cheeks and jumping on the spot to get his blood pumping, he then settled in an odd stance.
"Asiatisch?" Surprise colored Rosenblum's tone.
"Yes, this little Rotznase has declined using the styles taught at the facilities, though he is highly proficient in them. He prefers to use this style." Wilhelm shook his head despondently, even though an amused grin was stretching across his face.
"So it is self-taught?" Herr Rosenblum asked in wonder.
"Aye. He calls it using something like ki or chakra reinforcement. Whatever Schlitzi Scheiß that is."
"How remarkable. Are you certain he will manage without a weapon, though?"
Wilhelm stroked his shaven chin as he pondered aloud. "The velocity of a thrust type of stab is 6.6 meters per second for a 200-gram knife. It takes approximately 0.15 seconds for a knife to travel one meter. It is consistent with the average of 3 stabs per second in a knife attack. The average reaction time of a human being is 0.2 seconds. The results should be obvious. Yet..."
Frank prowled toward the smaller boy with assured steps, sizing his opponent up. Sturm had decided to forgo the safety distance of at least seven meters. He let Franz come within the one-meter range.
"Yet?" Herr Rosenblum asked, his interest piqued.
"His reaction time is 0.1 seconds." Now, was this not fascinating?
It happened faster than Herr Rosenblum expected. Frank lunged forward, his knife holding hand darting forward in a thrust which would skewer the other boy in the sternum. Sturm surprisingly pushed the arm away. The weapon stabbed at the air near his right shoulder. His hand, which had pushed the other boy's limb then sneaked forward. He grabbed the cloth of Frank's military khaki covering the bottom of his arm. His other hand grabbed the back of the boy's neck.
He then jumped. His right leg, which was in a slightly folded position rested lightly against the other boy's side. His left leg circumvented the arm currently trapped, doing a kind of reach around. It finished its course behind Frank's bent - with the weight pulling him down - neck.
Then Sturm pulled with all his might. He had just flawlessly executed a flying armbar. The sickening sound of dislocated joint, this terrible creaking, was broadcast loudly across the silent battlefield. Frank's knife fell from his limp grip. The boy had bitten his tongue in an attempt to contain his shout of pain. He was doing his country proud, after all.
Sturm released the useless arm. He picked up the knife and held it gingerly. Seeing the other boy's frightened expression, his features softened.
"Shhh, it's gonna be alright. See, no harm done." He held the knife at eye level then dropped it, showing no foul play.
"I'm not going to lie, you're gonna die. Shhh! Calm down," He said as Frank began to whimper. "I'm going to make it painless. You won't feel anything, alright? Close your eyes and count to three with me." Frank closed his eyes tightly. What could he do with a useless arm and no weapon? He was not a brawler at all! With a heavy shortness of breath, he closed his eyes. The eyelids still trembled violently. Having ascertained the boy's compliance Sturm moved.
He placed his left leg in front and his right leg in the back, knees slightly bent.
"One." They counted together.
He rotated his hips. His body stayed relaxed, while his arm did a great gyration. It would shake the brain more that way. Sturm enhanced his muscles with the potent energy which coursed through his body. The one he called chakra.
"Two." He clenched his fist and delivered the blow to the temple. Frank's brain collided violently with the skull lining, causing immediate death.
"And three." Sturm finished.
Painless, as he had already said.
As Sturm made his way toward the rest of his classmates, the two men of the gathering spoke quietly amongst themselves.
"Impressive indeed. And he is only ten? A terrifying potential indeed. However, I am curious." Herr Rosenblum smiled enigmatically.
"About?" Wilhelm's eyebrows rose.
"You told me his reaction time is 0.1 seconds. However, it can't explain how he managed to parry the blow. It would mean he managed to position his hand in less than 50 milliseconds. Hardly believable." His green eyes which contained a mix of doubt and admiration bore into Wilhelm's own brow ones.
"Ah, but there is a secret to this trick." The instructor smiled with complicity. He looked like the cat that had gotten the cream.
"Which, I am sure, you will delight in revealing to me." Herr Rosenblum drawled, ticked off by the man's childish behavior.
"The slight narrowing of the eyes. The weight balancing on the dominant leg. The slight rise of the shoulder. He notices these kinds of signs. Poor Frank might have well been screaming he was gonna attack; how, where and when. In our field, we say there is More Time, Less Time and No Time to react. At close range, we oscillate between Less Time and No Time. That is why you keep a distance of safety, to give yourself more time. However, time is a relative thing when you can predict the future."
"Übermensch, that is what he is. Reluctant as I am to use this distasteful word." A sneer marred Wilhelm's scarred features. "If you want my opinion, it is a damn waste to confine him. Screw these old men."
"You forget, dear instructor, that I am one of these old men." Rosenblum smiled pleasantly, though the steely glint in his eye was hard to miss.
Wilhelm looked down and mumbled an apology. Herr Rosenblum waved his hand as if dismissing the entire idea.
"No matter, this has been most insightful. I did not expect to see another Monstrum here, to be perfectly honest. Very well, then. I believe it is high time to take my leave." He began stepping away from the battlefield.
"You don't wish to stay?" Wilhelm asked, surprised.
Herr Rosenblum glanced at him over his shoulder, a bemused expression on his face. "Has the result not been settled already? Send the boy to the lounge once he's through with this farce."
Wilhelm elected not to say anything, focusing back on the ring and calling the next two fighters to the ring.
Each of the boys had at least six battle to the death remaining.
And as expected, in the end, there was only one contestant remaining.
The boy trotted back, his hair matted with blood and splotches of red wetting his uniform, but otherwise unblemished. His satchel was secured firmly against his hip. Sturm took Wilhelm's outstretched hand and they both returned to the facility together. A scene quite akin to a father taking his son for a walk.
And after all, had Wilhelm not nurtured the boy like a loving parent.
No, he shook his head ruefully. The boy had not been created a physical monster.
He had been born that way.
Wilhelm had simply brought his potential to light, letting it shine.
Without much ceremony, he brought the boy to the lounge. It was a richly decorated and furnished room, which was at odd with the sparsely furnished and dreary orphanage rooms. It almost looked like it was done to accommodate foreign dignitaries, as absurd as this notion was to the boy. In any cases, he had no idea such a place existed, since it was situated in the forbidden third floor.
Herr Rosenblum sat in a comfortable looking red velvet armchair, reading the Neues Deutschland newspaper of the day. It had a big printed "Über 200 000 Berliner an den Gräbern von Karl und Rosa" on the front page. He suddenly folded the newspaper and laid it on the table with a thunderous expression.
"Preaching martyrdom for anti-militaristic filth! How do they think our grandeur came about; by picking up daisies? Absolute rubbish. What has this country come to?" He shook his head despondently.
Sturm and Wilhelm stood politely by the entrance, waiting for the older gentleman to acknowledge them. He did so with a small gesture of his hand. As they entered, Herr Rosenblum left his seat and headed toward a small kitchenette in the room with a kettle and other assorted accessories.
"Ah, Wilhelm, you may take leave. Please, close the door before you do."
The older blonde nodded and left, as silently as he had come. The door closed with nary a sound.
"Do you fancy drinking tea?" Rosenblum asked though he was already going through the motions of heating the water.
The question was so out of the blue and on the opposite side of the spectrum of his expectations that Sturm remained speechless. Looking over his shoulder, with an enquiring eyebrow raised he elaborated.
"Come now, surely you are not uncultured enough to refuse some Yorkshire Tea?" Herr Rosenblum's eyes shone with amusement. Regaining his bearings, Sturm acquiesced, though he remained skeptical.
"Yorkshire? I thought you would drink Teekanne tea, or another local brand," Sturm replied with a touch of confusion. He did not expect the lighthearted laugh which came from the man.
"My dear boy, being embroiled in a communist spiral does not mean one should forgo the comforts of a capitalistic lifestyle." Herr Rosenblum lectured as if were great wisdom he was imparting on an ignorant fellow.
Sturm nodded uncertainly. He took the offered cup of tea with a gracious thank. Herr Rosenblum invited the blonde to sit in an armchair while he looked out of the grand window which overlooked the orphanage's walled garden. His hand laid against one glass panel, pressing lightly.
"You remember your birth name." It was not a question.
"Naruto." The boy who had been called Sturm answered. There was no point in lying.
Herr Rosenblum frowned.
"Naruto does not exist. Not in this world."
"But I do!" Naruto answered a little forcefully. His eyes were wide with fear and other confusing emotions which he had not felt for quite some time.
"We shall talk about it afterward; first, tell me why you remember." Herr Rosenblum ordered.
And Naruto told him about his dreams, of great beasts which could destroy landscapes with a fraction of their power. Of men defying the law of nature as easily as breathing. Getting it off his chest was a relief, though the boy did wonder in the middle of his recounting if he had done the right thing. Would they try to brainwash him again?
Rosenblum listened quietly, asking questions only when some parts of the tale were unclear. Once Naruto had finished talking, he said ponderously.
"Gell-Mann totalitarian principle states that everything which is not expressly forbidden is compulsory. If it is not expressly forbidden by quantum physics, the probability is nonzero, thought it could be abysmally small. If you think about the tunnel effect, you might be able to walk through a wall, though the probability would be very low, likely requiring several times the age of the universe in tries."
"The state of our knowledge in how the universe is ruled is still imperfect. Alternate universes, wormholes and such are also severely limited and flawed areas. It could be that you came from an alternate universe where such events did unfold. Or would have." A sardonic smile bloomed on his face. Naruto listened in silence.
"No matter. This is a tale for another time."
Rosenblum withdrew his cold hand and strolled toward the seated boy. As he reached him, he bent down to be eye level with Naruto and looked at him in the eyes.
"Quite frankly, you are a failed experiment." He dropped the bomb tonelessly.
Naruto's eyes widened in disbelief. His hands clutched the plush chair. Then what was the aim of this nonsensical bloodletting they all partook in? He was about to express his anger when Rosenblum's raised hand cut him off.
"Not in the sense you envision. You are the perfect blade, but not the perfect soldier. A weapon is inanimate, its sole raison d'être is to kill. Maim, destroy. A soldier's is to obey orders. A perfect soldier obeys unconditionally and has no identity. You should have been the perfect tool. A Stürmbannführer leading the assault under the orders of the leader of the next generation."
"Why are you not, then?" His hands reached forward to clutch Naruto's thin shoulders. The grip was painful, the blonde's discomfort obvious on his face. Herr Rosenblum shook the boy, "Why are you not the perfect soldier?!" At this point, he was nearly screaming in the boy's face.
Naruto could say nothing in rebuttal. There was nothing to say.
As if drained of his energy, the man's hands released their hold and fell limply. With tiredness marking his features, he withdrew an item from the inner pocket of his coat. It was compact and shiny and black.
A gasp escaped Naruto. A gun? He watched in disbelief as the barrel was pointed towards him and the security was undone. Shit, he could not avoid it, could he? Even with his fast reflexes, this was nearly point blank range! Don't panic, there should be one route of escape. A panicking man is a dead man.
"Killing you then offing myself is the best option. Better that than suffer the dishonor of a failed experiment. It was a pleasure finally meeting you, Naruto. And goodbye."
Naruto's eyes were wide open, pupils dilated as he waited for the death sentence. Then, unexpectedly, the gun was lowered. The man's explanation did make sense, though.
"You know what a greater dishonor than failing in one's duties is? Committing suicide. This damn Hitler took the cowardly way out. Retter that he was! This, I will not allow happening to me." Herr Rosenblum spoke determinedly.
Naruto heaved a sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging as the pressure was lifted. Putting away the deadly weapon, Rosenblum clasped his hands behind his back as he gave the final instructions.
"You will be led to Kinderheim 511. There, you will finish your education. However, do not let anybody know your name. For all intents and purposes, you are Sturm. Is that understood?"
Naruto nodded.
After he took a quick shower, he was accompanied to a fancy car in which Herr Rosenblum sat at the back. The ride toward Kinderheim 511 was done mostly in silence. After an hour of passing by small towns and villages, they finally reached Berlin. Kinderheim 511 was an orphanage located in East Berlin. The sun had begun to set when they arrived. It had been a long day.
It was a truly dreary place with no personality, Naruto thought as he exited the small limousine. Herr Rosenblum put his hand on his shoulder as he guided him toward the building.
There were three figures waiting for them in the hall of the orphanage. A man with graying hair in a crew cut and a white shirt. The second was a woman had neatly combed blonde hair and was much younger. The last was a boy with blonde hair and blue eyes. How typical. Though his expression was a little eerie and frankly disquieting. Naruto had never seen such an 'empty' smile.
"Herr Hartmann. Frau Giselda. And is this not young #403?" Herr Rosenblum said, removing his bowler hat in greeting.
Johan dipped his head.
"Absolutely. I believe this is your protégé?" Hartmann asked, eyeing the boy dispassionately.
"Indeed. This here is Sturm. He is the sole survivor."
Johan's eyes widened minutely. Something deep inside him purred contentedly at that proclamation. His pulse quickened and his hands shook lightly. To hid the trembling, he folded them neatly in front of him.
None of it was lost to Naruto.
"403, show him the ropes." Herr Hartmann ordered.
The boy smiled pleasantly and nodded. He began walking away at a slow pace and Naruto was quick to follow. The hallway the walked through was as dreary and shabby as the rest of the building.
Once they were alone, Naruto leaned closer to the boy's side.
"You are depraved," Naruto whispered, his eyes gleaming with something akin to amusement.
"Am I? Then, so are you. Did you derive gratification from it? From crushing their insignificant lives with your own hands? You did, did you not? I can feel it." He glanced at the other blonde out of the corner of his eyes. His voice was so melodious but he said such cruel words.
"There is nothing wrong with feeling proud of your strength and accomplishments," Naruto said a little defensively.
Johan threw his head back and laughed clearly. He stopped in his tracks, Naruto following suit. Looking at the other boy, his blue orbs were fixed on the others'. They watched Naruto with a disquieting intensity.
"I did not mean to make you uncomfortable." Johan extended a hand. "My name is Johan. Might I enquire what yours is?"
"Sturm." Naruto's eyebrows rose as if to ask 'You already know, so why are you asking?'.
Johan shook his head. Something lurked in the blue depths; something vicious and otherworldly.
"I asked for your true name. Names have power, were you aware?" His voice dripped with honey, cajoling him into revealing it.
And for a reason which escaped Naruto's understanding, he ended up giving him his real name. They clasped hands firmly and shook the other's limb.
Johan leaned forward and whispered in Naruto's ear.
"I have a plan."
German translation:
Sturm - Storm
Kinderheim - Orphanage
Herr Doktor - Doctor (honorific title)
Herr - Mister
Frau - Miss/Lady
Entschuldigen Sie bitte - My apologies / Please forgive me
Ish ver...geh - Roughly: I forget, broken german with trouble enunciating.
Schlachtfeld Eins - Battlefield One
Führer - Leader
Rotznase - Snotnosed
Asiatisch - Asian
Schlitzi Scheiß - Slanty shit, slur referring to Japanese.
Übermensch - Superhuman/ Superman
Monstrum - Monster
Über 200 000 Berliner an den Gräbern von Karl und Rosa - 200 000 Berliner (Berlin dwellers) at the graves of Karl and Rosa.
Retter - Savior