Warning: World War II AU, angst, dub-con, minor, blood, death, suicide, violence, offensive ideologies. Also mentions of torture, extermination and labour camps and genocide, but nothing very graphic on that front.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, they own me.
A/N: Written for a prompt in the Final Fantasy VII Kink Meme. Huge thanks for the beta reading go to the awesome Georgie. Also, please bear in mind the following:
1. This is historical fiction. I tried to make it as accurate as possible, but this is still only fiction, and I took liberties here and there.
2. I will say it once and only once to avoid any misunderstandings. The offensive ideologies depicted here have nothing to do with my own personal views, they belong to the characters.
3. Constructive criticism is much encouraged and appreciated!
For No Good Reason
In war, there are no unwounded soldiers. ~Jose Naronsky
1941, Warsaw
His footsteps echoed loudly in the corridor of the building that used to be the city hall before it became the German headquarters. There were identical doors on both sides; he paused before the one that had two soldiers guarding it. He barely wasted a glance on them even as they greeted him formally before he opened the door and stepped inside. He lightly touched his ankles together, right arm raised.
"Oberstgruppenführer, Sir."
"Please take a seat." Lazard glanced at him over the silver rim of his glasses, then resumed writing.
He took the offered seat and waited patiently for the blonde to finish.
Finally, Lazard put down the pen and leaned back in his chair with a wry smile.
"Sorry to have kept you waiting. I would like to inform you that I have looked into your request, and I must respectfully decline."
"But Sir, I..."
"Yes, I know, you asked to be assigned to the forces appointed for the Moscow campaign." Lazard pushed his glasses higher on his nose. "And your enthusiasm is very honorable indeed. But let me be honest. You are one of our best assets, Sephiroth. You are young and rising quickly in the ranks, proving to be a real inspiration to our troops. Therefore I have decided to entrust you with leading the Sea of Azov Offensive Operation." Lazard looked at him with victorious satisfaction, as if waiting for him to thank his superior with tears of joy in his eyes.
He pressed his lips into a thin line before managing to push a stiff 'thank you, Sir' past them. The rest of his briefing went by as if in a haze. Once again, he was painfully reminded that he was just a tool to be used as those above him saw fit. His wishes and opinions didn't matter. They never did.
The sky was a dark grey when he exited the building, pulling his long black coat tighter around himself against the chilly wind.
A few dozen people were herded across the square before the city hall in the direction of the train station, the yellow stars on their clothing dandelions in the dawn.
As he passed them by, he wondered if the early chill was boding ill for the upcoming operations. Perhaps they should have waited another few months with the attacks. Winter without a doubt was going to be hell on the troops.
1945, Berlin
He watched the light of the small desk lamp flicker, then become steady again. It would be so easy to break the glass, and without the gas within, there would be no light, just the darkness of a place that had no windows. Not for the first time, he wondered if men had something in common with lightbulbs.
His hand rested on the piece of paper before him idly, small, efficient black letters standing out starkly against the whiteness.
It reminded him of dead bodies in the snow.
It reminded him of far too many things he would rather not remember.
A soft knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts.
"Come in."
"Herr Generaloberst, the Reichsführer summons you to his office," the timid, lanky Lieutenant muttered, voice soft just like his knock had been.
"Very well." Sephiroth stood, but the boy looked at the papers with a lost expression and cleared his throat.
"With the reports, I'm afraid, Sir."
"I was finished with them anyway," he said flatly and signed them before organising them into a neat pile and slipping the whole stack into a folder. "Thank you Lieutenant, you are dismissed."
He reached for the lamp, but then thought better of it and left without switching it off.
The mansion was a little worse for the wear from the outside after the fights, but inside it looked like nothing had changed. Except that now, instead of his own German officers, Russians were occupying it.
The courtyard was bleak and covered in snow. Would the Reds shoot him there? Would they let him live? Or just hang him like they did with Colonel Reitlinger at Bryansk? Did they even know about the Geneva Conventions? Would it perhaps be a dripping wet underground cell where they would keep him? Torture and humiliate him like it was said in the stories circulating in the German encampments?
Not like it really mattered. He was a General of the Waffen-SS. It bound him to show an example of duty and pride, no matter what it cost. No matter how true it was. The troops don't remember truth. They remember heroes.
They entered the main hall and the officer accompanying him said something in Russian, from which he only caught the word Podpolkovnik, Lieutenant Colonel. A man from a group of other officers leaning over a map straightened and turned back, a small smile on his face.
"Welcome, Herr General, to my humble base of operations."
That stung. But the polite voice and the perfect German the other spoke made him all but forget about it.
"And here I was thinking I was playing hide and seek with a seasoned veteran, just to find I have been fooled by a young fox," he retorted, saving face.
"Luck has been on our side this time," he smiled, gesturing towards the others. "Please, consider yourself our guest."
"Sephiroth?"
"I'm sorry, you were saying?"
"You seemed lost in thought." Lazard pushed his glasses up his nose, and it took all the General's willpower not to feel sick.
How he hated this man, always impeccably dressed, blonde hair slicked back with acute precision. His flat tone and annoying mannerisms, dainty glasses and white gloved hands that never held a weapon and yet there was more blood on them than on his, a strike of his pen sending millions to certain death.
He had to force himself to stay calm and collected.
"My apologies. I just remembered Izyum."
"Oh yes, I almost forgot you know these vermin far better than we do, General. Your captivity... it must've been a trauma."
"Indeed."
"I need you to deliver these strictly confidential orders to Heidegger. I can't trust anyone else with this."
His jaw tensed. Words, just words. On the surface, he was still the almighty General, but they never trusted him fully again after he returned to Berlin. He kept his voice calm and composed when he answered.
"I'm not familiar with that part of the city. I will need a guide."
"I already have someone in mind."
Cloud distractedly stirred his coffee, one of the few luxuries one could still enjoy in the Führer's bunker even though the news was bleaker and bleaker every day.
Barely an hour ago Kunsel, who had been assigned to help the Reich Postal Service, handed him a letter. It was ten months old, and Luxiére, who died during the Warsaw uprising the previous summer complained in it about artillery fire and the lack of proper rations and roads.
Cloud sighed and stood, gulping down the coffee in one go. Luxiére was dead... so were most people from his previous squad. Only Kunsel and Zack remained, even though he hadn't heard often about Zack since he had joined the Marine Hitler Youth, and even less since he had been promoted into the ranks of the Kriegsmarine. But even the last letter was almost four months old now... he didn't want to contemplate that.
He couldn't let their sacrifices be worthless. He had to fight on and give testimony about their heroism when they had restored the glory of their beloved homeland. And restore they would, simply because there was no other way, because the best of the Reich were fighting on the fronts with all they had, and...
His eyes widened as he collided with someone as he turned a corner, too lost in thought to pay attention. His surprise quickly turned to panic as his eyes took in the spotless black leather boots, the black uniform with more awards and medals that he had ever seen put together, the two Sig Runes identical to his own one all too visible and the Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds standing out like a beacon in the night. Then he noticed the silver veil of hair and his breath caught in his throat.
"H-Herr Generaloberst, I-I'm so sorry!" he stuttered, mortified by his carelessness and yet enthralled by the close presence of his personal idol. General Sephiroth, greatest hero of the Eastern Front there ever was, who even managed to survive and return a month after being taken captive by the Russians. He watched that cold and aristocratic face with the stern green eyes looking down at him like a deer caught in the headlights.
Sephiroth studied the boy in silence, a pretty, angelic blonde who couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old. The insignia of the Hitlerjugend stood out harshly against his brown uniform, the red and white diamond shape with the swastika in the middle. What caught his attention were the eyes, their blue like the spring sky above Berlin.
So much like...
"Are you Kameradschaftsführer Cloud Strife?" came the quiet, clipped voice, and all Cloud could do was nod his head frantically. The General knew his name!
"Then I believe it is you I've sent Lieutenant Beck looking for." The General reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. "On the orders of Generalleutnant Weidling, you are to accompany me to supervise the southern barricades."
"Jawohl, Herr Generaloberst!" Cloud saluted like his life depended on the perfection of the action.
"At ease, Kameradschaftsführer. I need assistance, not hindrance. You are to meet me at my room at noon, not a minute later. Understood?"
"Perfectly, Herr Generaloberst!"
"Dismissed."
Despite not having much time, Cloud stayed and stared after the man until he disappeared from his sight. Then he sighed a little and bolted for his room, cheeks feeling far too hot for his own liking.
Exactly at noon, Cloud was standing before the general's door, smoothing down his uniform and making sure everything was perfect. Then he raised his hand to knock, and almost immediately the door opened.
"On time. Good," the General said curtly, then disappeared inside again.
Through the crack in the door Cloud could take a peek, which he did. The General's room was bigger and better equipped than his, with a small cabinet and an equally small, but comfortable looking armchair. There were pictures on the wall, framed and organised, the stark portrait of the Führer in the middle - but the photographs were too faded for him to be able to make them out.
"Ready?"
"Y-Yes Sir!" Cloud jerked with the embarrassment of being found staring at the General's personal belongings, especially by none other than the General himself. Who was already heading for the exit of the bunker, so he just hurried after him, falling in step behind his idol.
That black uniform... few still wore it in Berlin. The uniforms of the SS had been changed to resemble those of the Wehrmacht, but clearly, the general preferred the old one. If Cloud wanted to be honest, he couldn't imagine him in anything else but the regal black one. Compared to the others, he was like a raven compared to sparrows.
He couldn't recall a time when he had seen the man in passing and that dark uniform hadn't been perfect in every way, not a single crease in sight, the black boots spotlessly shining and every strand of hair in place. Not even after the day-long meetings reaching well into the night with the Führer and the other officers that others left with bloodshot eyes and stinking of cigarette smoke.
These thoughts swirled in his head as they stepped outside, eyes blinking rapidly, adjusting to the sudden light. He breathed deep from the air, fresh and light when compared to that of the bunker. It was nice to be out again, even though it was dangerous.
The streets were filled with debris from the bombings; barricades, mines, and traps were set up everywhere as the remaining forces prepared to defend Berlin. On the walls there were appeals, hurriedly scrawled in white paint. 'Every German will defend his capital. We shall stop the Red hordes at the walls of our Berlin.'
Cloud felt his chest swelling with pride at that. They were going to defend their city against the Reds, or anyone else who would ever dare to rise against the Reich. He sped up his steps to keep up with Sephiroth. That was when they heard the gunfire.
The shell flew over their heads and crashed into a building a few streets away. The ground shook with the force of it, debris flying everywhere and the detonation deafening.
"So it has started." Sephiroth looked up at the sky. Cloud could understand him only because he could see the way his lips moved, the noise making communication almost impossible. In a few minutes, dozens and dozens of shells darkened the sky.
Berlin was under attack.
Sephiroth grabbed his arm and they started running down the street, pistols drawn should they unexpectedly encounter enemy forces. A shell exploded only a few blocks away, a piece of granite hitting Cloud on the leg. He hissed and fell, but was yanked back onto his feet by Sephiroth.
All around, people screamed and ran for cover. At the nearby U-Bahn station, the crowd fought with nail and teeth to get to the safety of the underground. Those falling to the ground remained there.
No one cared.
Boys without uniform but some with the insignia of the Hitlerjugend rushed past, grenades in hand.
"The Reds! The Reds are coming!"
Gunfire echoed in the streets.
They were close to the barricades, almost there.
Another shell hit and debris rained down on them as the pavement shook. A man in the uniform of the Volkssturm running by fell to the ground and didn't move any more, bright red blood spilling onto the ground.
Cloud stopped and grabbed the rifle that had fallen to the ground, but the General gripped his wrist so harshly that he had to let go, tears of pain springing into his eyes.
"We have to fight!" he almost screamed, somewhere in the back of his mind knowing that he was yelling at the General, but he didn't care. The Reds were coming; they couldn't just stand by and then crawl back into safety while others fought!
The slap caught him off guard, and he remained staring at the man who didn't seem affected by the events in the least, only his eyes seeming to be a bit brighter and harder than usual.
"What for? A crumbling Reich rotten to its foundations? A leader who has lost his mind so long ago? So that a megalomaniac can continue to play god?"
Cloud just stared, the words, cruel and shattering, barely registering in his mind. This wasn't happening. None of this was. He felt heavy and light inside at the same time, blank, wiped out. Suddenly he remembered the banks of the Oder in spring.
"We, we have to..."
When he next spoke, the General's voice was ice that chilled Cloud to the bone.
"We have orders, Kameradschaftsführer. I will consider any attempt to deviate from those orders defection."
Obey and live. Fight and get a bullet in the nape of the neck. The message was all loud and clear. Cloud swallowed and nodded, head spinning.
They reached the barricades in a matter of minutes, approaching a group of officers shouting orders. Sephiroth pulled an envelope out of his pocket, brisk steps carrying him to the one person Cloud actually recognised.
"SS Brigadeführer Heidegger, orders from the Führer!"
"You have kept your word and refused to leave your troops behind even though you knew what you were risking. I must respect that."
"Why? You have won. We lost."
"You did what you could. But against General Winter, there is nothing you can do."
Yes, that damn winter of theirs. The cold made their weapons useless, their clothes worthless. He watched the man in the faint light of the fireplace, the sardonic lips and the stunning blue eyes that suddenly looked up from following the lines of something he guessed was Russian, but the weird symbols held no meaning to him.
"I have killed so many of your people."
The wood cracked in the flames, sending sparks flying, slowly lulling with heat and soft light just like the quiet voice reaching his ears.
"Drink your vodka and forget the troubles, druže."
The room was nothing out of the ordinary, a wardrobe, a desk and a bed. The boy was lucky he got as much instead of having to share with others. Maybe the rumors were true about him being the bastard child of one of the higher ups, not like Sephiroth cared. He had long ago ceased to care about their hideous ideas and sickening rhetoric. He just came here to reprimand.
On the nightstand there were some old issues of the Wille und Macht and an empty glass. He could picture Cloud lying in bed and reading through them before falling asleep. Such the perfect little boy scout. It occured to him again, how young Cloud was, how tainted with the poison of the Party, of the Reich.
Such a worthless doll, such a mindless puppet.
On the far wall there was the compulsory picture of the Führer in a narrow golden frame, eyes serious, determined, mouth in a thin line. He couldn't look at it without his stomach turning. If only one of the many assassination attempts would've succeeded, the Führer would be dead by now and the war over. Yet, out of some sick twist of fate, the abomination who unleashed hell on the continent was still alive, and they had lost. They had lost the moment they let that madman take control. Now, Germany was in ruins, millions of its people dead, its cities reduced to ashes.
His life was in ruins.
He shut the door with a force that startled Cloud, blue eyes looking up at him full of bewilderment and awe. Those blue eyes... Sephiroth didn't know if he wanted to drown himself in them or just never to see them again.
Everything he despised, everything he came to hate more and more with each bullet shot into the back of necks, each word of hate propaganda and each night spent alone was right there in front of him, the master on the picture and the marionette in the flesh.
In a swift move he pushed Cloud against the desk, one gloved hand gripping at golden hair and the other already reaching to unbutton the uniform pants, a sudden grip of burning cold fury threatening to suffocate him.
"G-General, Sir…"
Cloud's voice was surprised and trembling, but his hands tied into Sephiroth's silver hair as if holding on for dear life. He kissed down the delicate neck harshly, uncaring about leaving bruises, eyes shut tightly.
"Sir, this isn't right..."
Not right. He wanted to break away from the skin and laugh. If someone found out just a year ago, they would be heading straight to one of the extermination camps. Like this, here and now, all they would get would be a bullet to their heads, and they could bless their good fate for the quick departure.
He didn't care. These weren't his rules, they hadn't been for so long.
He grabbed Cloud and slammed him face down onto the desk, kicking his legs apart and yanking the pants down.
"Tell me to stop, and I will."
He didn't wait for the answer but it never came anyway, and he thrust his saliva-slicked fingers into Cloud's ass, forceful but not aiming to hurt. Pain, he had seen too much already; too much pain, too much death, too much hurt and blood and too much loss. He was going to defile that pure devotion and make him like it, the puppet with the bluest eyes.
Tears gathered in his eyes as he sank white teeth into soft flesh, not spilling just burning, and he felt like choking with unwanted memories. He pinned both Cloud's wrists to the tabletop with one hand, the other making sure no sounds escaped as he finally entered him, giving just a few moments for adjustment before he started moving.
This boy, one of the Führer's finest in the whole organisation, was pushing back against him and moaning like a whore. If only they could've seen it, the whole insane bunch, if only they could've seen that pale back arch as the little brat came against the underside of the table and Sephiroth inside him.
Coming down from his dazzling high, all that reached Cloud's befuddled brain was sharp pain and the sudden loss of being filled, thick fluid dripping down the back of his thighs, legs feeling ready to give out under him any given minute.
Then there was the harsh sound of a zipper and the slam of the door, and then, nothing.
"What is that?" he nodded towards the book. The sunlight streaking through the windows made everything seem all the more surreal, the china cups with coffee on the table and the silver kettle of real tea, the food that wasn't much but so much better than regular rations.
"The Mein Kampf. Does that surprise you?" the other added, smiling as the bottom of Sephiroth's cup hit the plate with a loud clinking noise.
"Why would you do that?"
"I want to understand him, your Führer. I want to understand how can someone lead people into battle with so much hate. I want to know... I want to know why."
He hated the hurt and sadness in those endless blue eyes striking him with guilt.
"We will send out everything we have, the Volkssturm, the Hitlerjugend... We will not lose!" Lazard slammed his fists down on his desk.
Sephiroth watched, calm on the outside but under the surface something bubbled up, something like happiness, even though he didn't know if he was still capable of feeling anything that wasn't anger or regret.
"The Reich shall live! We will cleanse the Earth of these barbarians and their bolshevik plague, and then all the filth who taint our race!" Lazard spat, that cold and slimy facade finally, finally coming undone for the first time since Sephiroth had met him.
If only they knew that their prized hero was one of the despised and lowly filth himself. So many times since his return from the front did he itch to tell them. It would've been his death sentence, and yet sometimes it was so hard not to stand up and slap them across their faces with the truth.
If only he could watch Lazard's face as he told him about that night, how he pulled the Russian commander between his legs, lips locked and hips hungry, how he asked for more, harder. The way that plush mouth, bruised and swollen from sucking and savage kisses moaned his name as he returned the favor, sinking deep into that tight body. Their final cry that knew no borders, language barriers or superior races, just bliss and sated craving and momentary peace in a world full of madness.
He could've done it now. They couldn't do anything to him now that he wouldn't do to himself.
He stood up to leave. No reason to spill pearls before the swines.
He was almost at the door when it opened and a man stumbled in, blood streaking down the side of his face in a thick cover, his uniform torn.
"News from the Tiergarten, Sir!"
He immediately knew that it wasn't favourable.
"Tell me everything."
"Cloud!"
He was stunned when the General stormed into his room, grabbed him and shook him like a rag doll, hard and merciless. "Cloud, do you trust me?"
With those green eyes pinning him under their serious stare, the only thing the boy could do was nod. How could he not trust Sephiroth? He was the Generaloberst, the hero of the Crimea Campaign and in the confidence of the Führer himself. Yes, if the Führer trusted him, who was he not to do so? Sephiroth was his hero, someone who could command him to stand in the line of fire and he would do it without giving it a second thought.
Fleetingly, he remembered the words of the General from earlier that churned his guts with warning, with doubt; but hadn't the baron von Kleist warned them how dangerous it was? The enemy wanted them to be split, to turn against each other instead of fighting on…
He remembered the grip of gloved hands on his wrists, cheeks getting a tint of red before he forcefully nodded his head, lost in those green eyes, so close and threatening all of a sudden, and he staggered back a bit as the iron grip on his uniform suddenly and unexpectedly let go.
"Good."
The next moment those lips were on his, but even as he opened his mouth for the kiss, all he could think about was the realisation that the General had never actually kissed him before, not once. Butterflies danced in his stomach at the thought, even though the contact felt nothing like he would've expected, but messy and foreign.
When those gloved hands took hold of his head, sliding into his blonde hair and gripping securely as he heard the small snap of something, it was already too late. Instinct took over before realisation sank in, and he swallowed, bitter liquid burning down his throat as he choked.
Cyanide. It flashed through his mind in a soundless scream of hurt and betrayal, eyes snapping open and staring up at the man above him, face stern and sad as he stepped back, letting Cloud go with a whisper.
"We have lost. I'm sorry."
His knees gave out under him and he fell... and fell and fell and the room slowly, so very slowly moved past, the concrete floor of the bunker coming closer and closer.
They had lost... How could that happen? They were strong, and those were just the dirt of the earth, worthless beings without a cause. Lies, lies lies... the General would never lie to him, would he? Surely, this was a misunderstanding...
Tears welled up in his eyes, but he couldn't move his hand, he couldn't even blink. Everything appeared frozen, and behind the strictly organised desk, the single light bulb drew twisted shadows. He never noticed before... how dirty the wall was, small specks of something brownish on them, how uneven it was with all those small dents and scratches.
So, they had lost... A chuckle bubbled up in his throat, but it rather sounded as a gurgle to his own ears. Defeated.
Then there was nothing but darkness. He didn't even feel as his head finally hit hard stone.
Sephiroth watched as he lay there, the poor little puppet, pretty puppet, sky blue eyes wide and blank, frozen over by death. Death was lurking in every corner now. He did what Lazard asked him to do. If it would've been an order, he would have just laughed into the man's face, so utterly broken and so very afraid.
He thought seeing Lazard like this would please him, but all he felt was a void inside that drained the colours of the world around him even as he slowly, silently nodded his head, gaze sliding to the photograph clutched between the nervous fingers of the blonde, of a little boy with bright blue eyes, too small for the rifle in his hands.
There was only one thing left for him to do now. He probably should have done it sooner. Maybe he needed that time to prepare. Maybe he needed to suffer his part in this living hell before he could do it. Maybe he just wanted to see this crazy regime fall down and be stepped on before he could go.
He was guilty too, just like everyone else. Maybe it was cowardice to give up now instead of taking responsibility for his actions. It could be seen as a sign of his commitment to the Führer and the Party. Was there a point in caring anyway? On the pages of history books, he would never be more than just another butcher.
He could stand up to his fate, to the capture, but that would mean turning traitor and he stayed here, with these men and women he despised from the depths of his heart, because he was too proud to leave the sinking ship like a rat afraid of drowning.
That pride guided him back to his own room. He stood beside the desk, hands moving slowly, removing all his medals and insignia. He could never erase them, but at least he was not going to die in them. He stripped off the armband and the patches, placed his cap carefully on the desk. There was a small vial already waiting next to the letter opener with the ivory handle that he was given as a present when he was promoted to Brigadeführer.
Seeing the pen next to it he paused for a second, glancing at the neat stack of paper and envelopes on the right. Maybe, he could leave a few lines, not apologies or excuses that held no meaning, but perhaps that he didn't forget those days, that he wasn't sorry… He shook his head slightly. Even if he died, it would be nothing but trouble. No need to start being sentimental in the last moment. The time for words was over.
He opened the small cabinet by the bed, taking out a bottle, the last one. The neck clinked a bit when it touched glass, the clear liquid pouring with a soft sound. Clear but strong, it would make the taste of the almond disappear, wash away the bittersweetness of a stolen first kiss.
He took the glass between his gloved fingers, but then thought better of it. His head was already pounding with the small amount of poison that got into his bloodstream. It would probably kill him anyway, but he wanted it to be quiet, quick, efficient. He didn't deserve it, but then neither did the others, he told himself as he lowered himself on the hard bed, the shot of vodka in one hand and the vial in the other.
"Untermensch," he tasted the word, weighting it on his tongue, his forehead creased with concentration. "Did you believe it?"
He sighed. "No."
"It was you who attacked first. It was you who took away our land and massacred our people, because we are inferior..."
His stomach churned with each word like a stab of accusation, even though the other wasn't even looking at him, thoughtful eyes watching the light creeping in under the curtains, his voice hoarse and dreamy.
"We will defeat your Führer. One day, the slaves and servants of your proud Aryans will deafeat your precious Reich, and then..."
"And then?"
The smile on that face was the most bedazzling thing he had ever seen, sunlight pooling in blue eyes.
"Then? Peace, druže."
The bunker was deadly silent when they finally set foot inside. The troops had already been in there, rooting out any kind of opposition still remaining before the officers would follow.
It was like walking into a tomb, Genesis noted with some discomfort, adjusting the strap of his Tokarev before entering, making sure the weapon was in reach and ready should he need it. It was a highly unlikely option, but he wasn't standing where he was because he took chances in life.
It was quiet, darker than he would've liked, suffocating. Narrow corridors and low ceilings, like the night was pressing down onto it with a weight that made everything seem smaller. Their footsteps echoed faintly, quilted jackets swishing quietly as they methodically searched the rooms, one by one.
He looked down at the lifeless body of a youth, barely more than a kid with his crown of golden hair and deep blue eyes.
"Poisoned, like the others." The medic stood up from his kneeling position beside the boy, and Genesis nodded wearily. He had seen them fight, these child soldiers like ferocious beasts, throwing themselves into the line of fire rather than surrender. He wouldn't have believed it weren't it for seeing with his own eyes.
More rooms followed, some empty, some not. It was deep in the heart of the complex when they found the first officer. Then more and more…
He looked down on the body lying on the narrow bed, the dreaded black uniform pristine on the lifeless form as if ready for his funeral. It was the face that caught his eye, and the long mass of silver hair, trademark of a man everyone knew and feared from London to Nižnij Novgorod; the Black General, the Lion of Crimea.
"Leave the room," he ordered, and they obliged with a loud 'Yes, Polkovnik General, Sir!'
He looked at the table, the symbols of power lying there, neatly arranged. He thought about taking one, but they were cold and meaningless without the man to give them power. His eyes returned to the body on the bed.
He leaned down and combed his fingers through the long silver hair, straightening the tresses that the spasms of death left tangled, arranged them reverently beside the still body, placing one strong, elegant hand on the broad chest and the other on top. The SS Generaloberst seemed peaceful, almost angelic in death.
"It's over now. May you finally find your peace too, druže."
Lips brushing along pale lips for the last time but never quite forgotten, he turned around and left. To see more bodies, those of women and children in a grotesque exhibition of death and destruction, to gather everything of worth like some sort of late vulture, to find answers and rationality in the chaos and madness.
Above the Berlin rooftops, the wind played with red flags showing a hammer crossed with a sickle in the rising sun.
Notes:
(1) Generaloberst – okay, I realise this could be confusing. Seph's rank here is Generaloberst der Waffen-SS or Generaloberst for short, because I put him into the Waffen-SS, and ranks in the Waffen-SS as opposed to the rest of the bunch are different. Genesis calls him General because back then he is still only General der Waffen-SS, or General for short, which is the equivalent of the rank 'General' in English, which I'm using in the narrative parts of the story.
(2) Sig Runes – or S runes, the S shaped sign worn in pairs by the members of the SS on their uniform, standing for, you guessed right, SS. Members of the Hitler Youth could wear only one such sign.
(3) Geneva Conventions – don't look at me like that. The third convention that deals with the treatment of prisoners of war was issued in 1929, so it was absolutely valid (if overlooked) during WW2.
(4) Druže – supposedly (stress on supposedly), this is Russian for 'friend' or 'comrade'.
(5) Wille und Macht – the regularly issued Wille und Macht (Will and Power) magazine was the official organ of the Hitler Youth.
(6) Tokarev – Although design work on the AK began in 1944, the first time it was presented for official military trials was in 1946. So no, the Russians did not storm Berlin swinging their Kalashnikovs. The Mosin Nagant was more common, but meh, we all know Genesis is an elitist.
Please tell me what you think so far. Story continues in Part 2. :)