A/N: This is where there is outright, explicit rape. Not to mention, there are graphic scenes of battle in here. PLEASE do not read if this is not your cup of tea, please. Basically, rape, blackmail, forced bukkake, the whole nine yards here. You have been warned.

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May 2nd, 1945: 4:30 AM

When the moments of silence came in Berlin, it was a breath of air: the birds were starting to chirp (Russia was privately impressed with their bravery; had he wings and no purpose here he probably would have alighted long ago), and the rising sun was painting the bombed-out ruins of what once had been Berlin.

Berlin. The heart from which Fascist Germany's lifeblood had pumped. The capital, the land that should have been renamed Germania and flown its flag red for a thousand years over the world, as their leader had originally promised.

Now the only thing red about the place was the rising sun, the rivers of blood in the street, and the Soviet flag intermittently flying above the building in front of Russia. There was still a fever-pitched battle going on inside, the nation knew; the Soviets would put up the hammer and sickle and then the Fascists would take it down.

One last chirp from the birds before the artillery started up again. It was a terrible rhythm, really, one that Russia wouldn't mind never having to dance to for a few thousand years after this. Despite what everybody else thought, Russia wasn't really a violent person or nation… no, not really. If the Fascists hadn't been stupid enough to attack him, he would have been well-enough content to let them send their own through death camps and lead their own into a battle against the indulgent-and-yet-powerful nations of the West.

But, no. Russia looked up into the ruins of the Reichstag, and today he would ensure that when his flag flew from its decimated dome it would stay. This was no ordinary war. This was a war for the survival of Russia's people and Russia wasn't just going to win: he was going to stab his flag straight into the feebly beating heart of that which had dared challenge him in such a shameless way.

Russia's lip ticked up, and at the next volley of artillery fire he used it as cover and entered the building.

…the entire inside was an absolute burned-out-wreck; the scents of hot metal, charred flesh, sweat, damp wood and old iron assaulted Russia's nostrils. Bits of ceiling flaked away as men ran overhead, Fascists and Soviets chasing each other in the world's oldest and most deadly game of tag.

Suddenly, a rush of gunfire roared so close to Russia's head that he could feel the tip of his ear being singed. Unperturbed, he stepped into a crumbling doorway for cover, pulled a pin from a grenade, and easily tossed it in the direction the fire came from. Three seconds later, an explosion met with a cry of agony.

Idiot.

"You do know that this building hasn't been used for anything in years, right?" a familiar, nasal-accented German voice asked from behind him, sounding hopelessly bored.

Russia hummed, not turning around too soon. "Yes, and quite convenient for your master, as well," he responded right back in Russian, knowing the other understood it perfectly. "I hear it helped him convince the rest of you sheep to follow him down the road to hell." Russia turned his head slowly, giving the other a half-smile.

Bored red-eyes greeted him. Really, Prussia did look the part of a Fascist very well; dressed in the field gray of the Waffen-SS he cut an imposing figure with blood-colored eyes and white-colored hair. He already looked like something out of a nightmare in battle fatigues; Russia imagined that he would have put the fear of God into others in the black dress uniform. At the moment, however, it was clear that Prussia wasn't doing so well: his cheeks were sunken, and a line of blood coming out of the corner of his mouth stood sharp against the snow-albino white of his skin. A purple bruise marred his throat, as if invisible hands were slowly strangling him.

With Russia here, those hands weren't so invisible any longer.

"It was burned in 1933 by a Communist," Prussia replied shortly. "You're sacrificing thousands of men to stick a flag on a relic."

An explosion rocked through the upper floors, causing the building to wobble slightly and lead paint to flutter through the air like snowflakes. "Surely you appreciate the value of symbolism, Comrade," Russia replied, casually shrugging his Kalishnikov down from his shoulder. "You seemed to when you were desperately trying to capture a little place called Stalingrad."

The only response Prussia gave was to suddenly lift his pistol and shoot - directly over Russia's left shoulder. There was a sound of agony behind Russia and he could feel the life of one of his own being snuffed like a candle.

Prussia lowered the gun, his thin lips curling up in a half-smile as he wiped the streak of blood away from his mouth with a gloved hand. "He was aiming to interrupt our conversation, and since it's so pleasant I would have abhorred the intrusion."

"Hm," Russia replied, the smell of his dead soldier's hot blood briefly overtaking the acrid presence of ash and iron for a moment. "Yes, it is quite pleasant to make your acquaintance after such a long parting."

This brought a dry cackle from Prussia's throat before both of them had to brace against the walls as the building shook; men screamed in Russian and German both as the floor to Russia's left buckled. His men must be advancing on the infirmary in the basement.

"Going after the wounded, I see," Prussia continued drolly. "The honor of the Soviet soldier untarnished as always."

If Russia had been one of the other allies - high-strung England, aggrandizing America, dramatic France - he very well might have flown off the handle at such a remark, but Russia merely smirked. Casually, he lifted one powerful, booted leg and smashed his heel down into the buckled floor next to him. The rotted wood gave way, and as a hole appeared, confused, alarmed German came from it.

Still keeping eye contact with Prussia, Russia grabbed another grenade, and pulled the pin with his teeth.

"Do not speak to me of honor, Fascist scum," Russia said, the grenade pin falling from his lips to ominously ping across the floor. "You lost yours long ago."

He released the grenade; it fell through the hole in the floor.

The explosion caused the ground to rock beneath them, and fortunately, Russia was standing on a steel joist, as part of the floor exploded and collapsed. The splinters rained down on a group of ten SS men, most of whom were missing limbs and dead from the explosion. The walls had been splattered with blood, bone, and carnage; a single man remained alive, missing his entire right leg with part of his face scorched off. He moaned through broken teeth.

Through this, Russia's eyes kept riveted on Prussia; at the explosion and the violent death of his soldiers, Prussia had collapsed down onto his knees, gripping his chest, his eyes pinched shut. When his mouth opened to gasp for air, blood dripped from his mouth and he breathed unevenly before swallowing hard. The maimed soldier moaned on, his utterances a low, tolling, terrible bell as gunfire and artillery kept the beat of war.

Those Prussian-red eyes lanced up at Russia with pure hatred for a moment before he groped for his pistol, aimed through the hole in the floor, and shot the moaning soldier dead in a mercy stroke. The moaning abruptly stopped, and Prussia wiped his mouth.

Another bubble of quiet emerged, other than mixed shouts in both Russian and German on the higher levels: no gunfire for the moment.

"I have… no desire… to speak… of anything with you," Prussia said, and did not even try to raise himself up off the floor when Russia approached.

Russia's booted feet stopped just inches from Prussia's body before he took out his own pistol and pressed it lightly against Prussia's head. Oh, sure, if Russia shot him Prussia would just come right back, but being shot in the head was very unpleasant even if one was immortal. Russia would know.

"Where is your master?" Russia asked, voice deceptively low.

Prussia snorted, looking up at Russia with that bored-out-of-his-skull expression again. "I don't have one, Slav."

Russia tisked. "Considering a good amount of your populace goes around calling Hitler their Lord, I would disagree." The gun pressed harder against Prussia's forehead, a warning.

Prussia's lips pinched together. "Hitler is dead, moron. You think he was going to stick around for this and surrender to you? Obviously you don't listen to the radio."

This was the first thing out of Prussia's mouth that caused Russia to frown. "Coward," he managed, because that was cowardly. "I don't envy who he left his Reich to, though."

Prussia snorted. "Doenitz is one of the saner ones, I will give him that."

Russia's brow wrinkled. "Doenitz is the new Fuehrer?" Oh, now that was unpleasant. Russia didn't have much of an opinion on Doenitz, in reality, considering how the human was in charge of the kriegsmarine and Russia wasn't involved with battles at sea.

That was exactly the problem. It would have been much more satisfying at least getting his hands on Goebbles or Himmler or somebody appropriately despicable.

Prussia cackled again. "Fuehrer? Hardly. Herr Hitler wasn't about to pass that on. Both Goering and Himmler were discredited for trying to come to peace with the Allies… Hitler defrocked them and made Doenitz president."

"I never heard anything about any peace talks," Russia said immediately.

Prussia gave him a flat look. "Peace talks with the Allies that aren't you. I believe that Himmler was trying to convince England and America to join up with him to take you on. You may have noticed that everybody seems to be heading West, away from you and toward the Westerners." Prussia raised an eyebrow over the gun pointed at his forehead. "Wonder why that is?"

Russia lowered the gun, though he didn't move away from Prussia. The other's words did not affect him: one did not go to war in order to be liked, particularly by Fascists. "So why continue to fight, then?" Russia asked. "Surrender, if that's all you're interested in doing. You will not succeed."

Prussia looked at him, and the room was eerily silent for a moment before the artillery shouted up again and the air filled once more with the sound of battle, the sound of men fighting to the bitter, bitter end.

"This isn't about winning, Ruski," Prussia said, raising his hand once more to wipe a stream of blood from his mouth, his red eyes still boring into Russia's despite being on the ground before him. "It's about losing to the right people. If the war is over, my armies can't move and my people are trapped."

Russia raised a mild eyebrow. "So your men are fighting to the death in order for your other men to flee like bedwetting children into the loving arms of the Anglos."

"Some still believe in the cause," Prussia replied shortly, the rest unspoken.

Russia let that roll around in his head for a moment before the obvious hit him between the eyes. "So, then," he said, "where's your little brother, hm?"

Prussia's eyebrow twitched slightly. "I haven't the faintest idea," he replied, though Russia noticed his eyes grow wary.

"He's one of the bedwetters, then, isn't he?" Russia asked, tipping his head, his mouth bending in a small smile. "He's running for a gentle touch, running scared… and you, gallant hero you are, are stalling the big bad Red Army for him."

"I'm no hero and both of us know it," Prussia replied, rolling his eyes. "Not all of us are children like America. There's no such thing as a hero."

Well, while Russia certainly agreed that dealing with America was much akin to dealing with a sugar-addled brat who needed a good thrashing, he was well acquainted enough with Prussia to realize the other wasn't as calm as he seemed. This all made sense, now: one of Prussia's only true weak spots was his brother, and Prussia was clearly trying to keep his brother out of Soviet hands.

Well, this could be fun.

"But if there were a hero, you are certainly your brother's, hm?" Russia asked, crossing his arms, allowing his amusement to show through. "It's a shame for me, though… I've become quite partial to your handsome, strong, blond-haired blue-eyed soldiers. Have I told you what I do to them?"

Prussia, to his credit, said nothing and did not rise to the bait other than to narrow his eyes and level Russia with a very effective death glare. An explosion went off somewhere else in the building, but it was far enough away only to cause a tremor to go through the floor.

Russia leaned in a little. "I separate them from their comrades, tie them up, take them into the woods, strip them… and punish them like the little children they are. A belt first, then my hand… then I make them pleasure each other and pleasure me, once they cry and beg like little infants. Some of them wet themselves. Some of them cry for their mothers. All of them break. Such beautiful tears from bright blue eyes, pure blond hair stuck to their foreheads with sweat, pubic hair damp with semen and urine… broken with shame, knowing that it isn't even punishment fit for a soldier, but a spoiled child."

Prussia's mouth drew as he leaned back slightly. "That is disgusting," he said, voice considerably tighter than before.

Russia nodded. "Yes, and so is forcing soldiers to dig their own graves before shooting them in it, so you have your ways of amusing yourself, and so do I." He smiled again. "Your brother would fit my desired profile for such treatment very well. Perhaps I can make friends with England, France, America; they may be interested in giving me a loan, yes? Maybe you could watch."

Oh, now Russia was getting to him. Prussia's eyes flashed dangerously. "The only nation in the world they hate more than myself and West is you," Prussia replied lowly. "Like hell they'd hand him over."

"You hope," Russia said cheerfully. "But, since I am sure that they all hate Japan more, particularly my little America, who seems to have a lot of sway… I could very well go help him in the Orient after we mop up the filth in Germany, you know. Help him with the nation that stabbed him in the back… he might be amenable to a few small favors."

Prussia's nostrils flared.

Oh, so very close. "Maybe after I was done with your little brother, I would have you rape him," Russia said, as if he were contemplating what to have for dinner. "I'd chain him on his belly, and you would push in raw, no lubricant, and he would be so tight… oh, he's been raped before, I know, but not by his dear older brother whom he loves so much, the older brother who thrusts in and out of him, tearing him, causing him to cry blood from his anus as he cries tears from his eyes…" Here, Russia switched to high-pitched, plaintive German for effect: "Oh, Brother, Brother, please stop, I can't… oh, Brother, it hurts…!"

Prussia's face, by this point, was nearly as red as his eyes were. Truly, with the Fascist uniform on, he did look like a thing that had crawled from hell. At the mockery of German, Prussia lurched to his feat and grabbed the lapels of Russia's greatcoat, tugging the taller nation down until he could glare daggers into Russia's eyes.

"Do. Not. Speak," Prussia ground out, the anger in his voice hotter than a tank muzzle in Kursk. "I am not an idiot, I know I am yours and there is nothing I can do about it. But you do not, and will not have him, so this is pure, pure fantasy."

Russia was amused. The next few decades were clearly going to be entertaining. "Again, as you hope," Russia reminded him. "You have no idea what the other Allies will find in their best interest. Your brother very well could be a bargaining chip in the future, particularly if the others tire of him or if I simply want… a temporary loan. They didn't seem to have any qualms handing over Czechoslovakia to you at any rate… before you got too greedy… I'm not sure how your brother will get any better consideration."

Prussia's glare was pure hate, pure and simple.

Oh, perfect.

Russia smiled. "Of course, if I am amused enough by your presence alone, perhaps I shan't need extra entertainment," he said loftily. "I don't have to request it after all."

Prussia's look shifted to deadpan. "Is this your opening to the rape, then?"

"Not yet," Russia said. "We have time yet." The sun was starting to rise higher in the sky, painting the room a soft shade of yellow. The fighting went on. "You could start with your mouth, though." Russia pointed to the floor, indicating where Prussia should kneel.

Prussia's mouth twisted. "I have no guarantee you won't go after West if I do that… and you know as well as I do that oral isn't a part of takeover sex." Generally, the victor would be far more cautious.

Russia chuckled, and patted Prussia's head; Prussia jerked away. "But I'll certainly put him in my sights if you don't," he said with a shrug. "And if you bite me, well… things won't be pleasant for you, and when I get my hands on him I'll ensure they aren't pleasant for your adorable baby brother. He's younger than even America, isn't he? He'll break much easier than you. And there would be absolutely nothing you could do about it."

Prussia exhaled through his nose slowly. "Russian swine," he said, voice low, his grip still knuckle-crunching tight on Russia's lapels… before slowly releasing his fingers and sliding down onto his knees.

Russia chuckled and spread his legs, crossing his hands, watching as Prussia fumbled through Russia's unfamiliar uniform, unbuttoning the bottom of the greatcoat, figuring out how the trousers attached to the shirt, and then working his way through Russia's underlayers, angrily seeking his cock.

Russia smiled at the disgusted face Prussia made when finally Russia's cock was free: Russia hadn't bathed in, oh, about fifteen days now and the smell was probably far less than pleasant.

Nevertheless, after a deep breath through his mouth, Prussia leaned forward and engulfed Russia's cock in his mouth, his wiry hand wrapping around the base before starting to bob.

Russia threw back his head and sighed - it had been a while since he had gotten a decent session of oral… the trembling tongues of beaten Wehrmacht boys not completely comparing to the real deal. Aside from the pure pleasure of friction, though, there was the additional thrill of this being a soon-to-be defeated nation, one that Russia had defeated and would now own, wearing an SS uniform to boot.

Oh, so pleasant. Russia hummed and put a hand on the back of Prussia's head, starting to pump his powerful hips into Prussia's mouth: Prussia gagged. Pleasure raced up Russia's spine, as light as a Yak in the air. When he started to leak, he took a minute to half-tug his cock out of Prussia's mouth and line his lips with semen before shoving back in.

A few moments into this, Russia heard a noise coming from the door, and - oh.

Standing there were five of his men, looking curiously at the scene before them. In general, Russia's people were quite against homosexuality on the whole, but the battlefield had a way of turning the world upside down and most anything went in it. Additionally, Russia's people were quite superstitious, despite everybody theoretically being atheists… but there were gold-domed churches for a reason and some deep part of his people recognized that Russia had something of an otherworldly ambiance about him.

In other words, like most things Russia knew, the laws only applied when they applied. The rest of the time they didn't.

By this point, Prussia had noticed the show and tried to pull away; Russia didn't let him, holding the other nation on his cock, digging his nails slightly into Prussia's scalp as a warning not to move. Prussia did not move.

Russia gave the men a smile and beckoned them in. "Would you care to take a break?" he asked lightly, humor in his tone.

Prussia, held still on Russia's cock, flicked his eyes up.

The men laughed and filtered into the room, carefully walking around the collapsed part of the floor offering a view of the gore below, and fanning around Prussia in a circle, all of them starting to undo their kits at the same time.

While some countries might have had their people wait in a line for their turn, so to speak, Russia wasn't much into the idea of wasting time and neither were his people. Shortly, Prussia was presented with five additional human cocks, and Russia released Prussia's head. Prussia pulled off, wiping his mouth, and turning his head at the scene. His eyes went back to Russia.

"You have got to be kidding me," Prussia said, voice still droll despite what he was obviously expected to be doing. Ah, Russia loved the old nations. Nothing surprised them.

"Maybe your brother would like doing it more?" Russia replied, in German so that the men wouldn't understand. "I could certainly imagine his reaction to being surrounded by human cocks and told to suck them like a whore. I imagine he's very soft under that cool exterior, hm?"

Prussia's eyes flashed up for a moment before turning his head toward the first human's cock, and pulling it into his mouth, eyes sliding closed before bobbing up and down, up and down along the mortal length.

Russia watched this with amusement, running fingers along his cock to keep himself hard at the scene, though he probably didn't need the encouragement. The first human was moaning shortly - "When I'm done with you I'll shove it down your sister's throat and up her pussy, you Fascist fuck" - and the second human lost patience and dragged Prussia over by the hair before the first had finished, shoving Prussia down on top of his own cock, pumping away at Prussia's mouth like he was fucking a pillow.

Russia watched this continue - none of the men would let the predecessor come, instead dragging Prussia over by his hair or his uniform to start anew on their cock. Prussia bobbed and bobbed; by the time he got back around to Russia, he had to grasp at Russia's thighs to stay upright and keep sucking.

Russia hummed, brushing back Prussia's hair. "This is your last round," he informed the men, brushing Prussia's hair back in a mockery of fondness. "Do not come in his mouth. Come on him. There are other men waiting for a turn." He nodded to a new group of curious onlookers standing by the door, despite the battle raging fiercely on around them.

The men were accustomed to obeying Russia, of course: when the first man pulled Prussia over to him and shoved his cock in Prussia's slack jaw, he pumped himself a few times before pulling out and shooting Prussia directly between the eyes with his release. As soon as he had finished ejaculating, the second man dragged Prussia over by the hair to finish himself in a similar fashion, only he chose to release himself directly over the Fascist eagle sewn to Prussia's chest.

A new man replaced the first one. A new man replaced the second one. By the time Prussia was dragged back onto Russia's cock again, his face was glossy with wet come and flaky with dried. His eyes were starting to go distant as he sloppily moved over Russia's cock - but Russia shoved him onto the first new soldier before finishing. The first new soldier laughed, grabbed the back of Prussia's head, and shoved himself so far down Prussia's throat that he gagged.

This continued on for three, four more rounds, until when Prussia was dragged before Russia, Prussia simply collapsed into Russia's groin, his hair sticking straight up with Soviet semen and uniform tacky with it, barely breathing.

Russia hummed, and then shoved Prussia on his back, where Prussia did not move. "That's enough," he told the rest of the men. "If you want to finish, finish yourselves on him."

Frankly, if Russia had allowed it, Prussia probably would have ended up serving the entire Red Army, as every passing soldier on the scene had been drawn in. There had been no Fascist solders; Russia assumed they were getting beaten further and further back.

The last round of men stepped close to Prussia and spent themselves on his body; Prussia did not move. A couple of the men who had not been involved in the display stepped forward and masturbated themselves to release anyway; Prussia did not move.

Russia, however, had not finished and was still hard. "Now go," Russia ordered. The men, talking with each other and chuckling, left. Russia stood until he was sure that they were gone, before approaching Prussia's form.

The other nation was breathing, but shallowly. When Russia's shadow fell over him - the sun had risen a while ago, now, and filled the room with gold as much as it was also full of blood, sweat, and semen - Prussia's eyes opened, his expression a chisel in stone.

Russia clapped, the sound oddly cheerful. "That was very good," Russia praised.

"Fuck you," Prussia managed, his voice broken and hoarse; no doubt, his throat was killing him.

Russia chuckled and crouched, reaching into his greatcoat and pulling out the brown glass water canteen he kept on him. Carefully, he slid one gloved hand behind Prussia's skull - the hair was matted with semen - and tipped his head up a bit before tugging the cork from the bottle with his teeth and putting the mouth of it up against Prussia's lips.

Prussia guzzled it dry, his throat working with a desperation not seen on his face. When he was done, Russia replaced the empty canteen in his sack and put one hand under Prussia's knees, the other behind his back, and picked him up princess-style.

On one hand, walking like this was a bit of a risk since it left Russia unarmed, but Russia was aware that the farther up he walked in the Reichstag, the more Soviet soldiers there would be. The Germans were holed up in the basement at this point. There couldn't have been a few more hours left in this bloody battle - Russia could feel it. Victory was nigh. He climbed stairs and stairs before emerging on the roof.

The rubble of Berlin spread out around him, scorched, violated, bare, a shadow of its former self. Dust and smoke rose from the buildings where fires still smoldered, and the burnt out remains of trolley cars and automobiles lay like skeletons in the dust. Bodies of all uniforms lay in the streets next to civilians, and tanks were strewn about the place.

If ever there was a hell, Russia thought, this must be it.

"Hitler said once that in ten years, we wouldn't recognize Berlin," Prussia said in a low croak, surprising Russia into looking down at the other. Prussia's eyes were gazing listlessly over the scene, his eyelids sticking together with dried semen. After a moment, he looked up at Russia. "It was the only promise he ever kept."

Russia paused, and favored Prussia with a small, genuine smile. "Your brother is as good at losing wars as you used to be at winning them," Russia remarked. "But you must love him very much." He started to carefully pick his way across the Reichstag's ruined roof, making his way to the peak at the front of the building with the six proud pillars, now crumbling and overgrown, dying with both neglect and abuse; the pillars supporting the overhang with the phrase Dem deutschen Volke inscribed on it. Russia put Prussia down on this slope, careful to find a spot with more-or-less solid ground.

Prussia didn't say anything until he was laying on his back before Russia, and didn't look away when Russia started to undo his kit, shoving his pants and trousers down to his knees. "You wouldn't know the first thing about love," Prussia said, "If you think it has anything to do with winning wars."

Russia laughed and roughly flipped Prussia over onto his front, pinning him down and spreading his legs. "As you say," he purred into Prussia's ear, not willing to address it at the moment. "However, you could say I am an expert in what love isn't."

At this, Russia thrust down into impossibly, excruciatingly hot and tense and hateful tightness, like a fist had clamped around his cock, so tight it was literally painful, too much, too much-

To the sound of sirens, buildings falling, men dying, grenades exploding, and Prussia screaming, Russia found his completion-

"-I have made a deal with the Russians for a cease fire order."

The announcement came from the streets, moving in such a way that it was obviously being broadcast from a truck that was driving around the broken streets. Still filling Prussia with his spend, Russia froze - even though Prussia was breathing quickly and still in excruciating pain, it was clear his attention was caught as well.

"Put down your weapons, and surrender. The battle for Berlin is lost."

Russia heard his heartbeat in his ears. When the aftershocks had faded, he pulled out from Prussia's body slowly, dragging blood and semen with him - Prussia gasped and shuddered with pain. It was unlikely he would be able to walk for a while.

Russia didn't bother pulling either Prussia's trousers up or his own. Everything was over so quickly. Berlin had snapped back into stunned silence. He heard a chirp and looked over - a yellow bird was bouncing around on the destroyed roof of the Reichstag, close to Prussia, cocking its head at the pair of nations curiously.

At the sound of birdsong, Prussia's throat worked, and Russia saw the wetness of tears starting to make their way down Prussia's face, a slow ooze to match the one coming from his vital regions.

Russia didn't say anything. He was familiar enough with this process - defeat, rape, helplessness - to know that anything he did at the moment would be unhelpful. He looked out over the streets of the ruined city, seeing some brave civilians carefully creeping around the rubble.

It wasn't true what Prussia said. Russia knew very well what love was. As the nation beside him sobbed, Russia kept quiet and did not touch him.

Of course, this bombed out city full of dead men and broken buildings wasn't love. The nation sobbing openly next to him on the roof of what he'd used to be wasn't love. Bombs weren't love, rape wasn't love, pain wasn't love, crematoriums and tanks and starvation and flamethrowers and shitty rations and homesickness and cold and disease weren't love. Winning wars, losing wars, being in a war… none of that was love.

But the fact that this was finally, finally over… was.

# # #

HISTORICAL NOTES

BATTLE OF BERLIN: This battle is one of the bloodiest in recorded history in terms of death tolls. Basically, it involved door-to-door room-to-room fighting between German and Russian soldiers. Both sides fought ferociously, as the Germans knew their days were numbered and the Russians wanted both vengeance and to win.

The Reichstag was of particular symbolic interest to the Soviets. They wanted to capture it on May 1st, which is National Workers Day (still a major holiday in Russia), but ended up capturing it on the 2nd. However, as Prussia says, the Reichstag hadn't been used for anything meaningful since it had been burned down in 1933. The German Diet used to meet there, but after the Reichstag was burned down, the Diet basically gave all power over to the Nazis and became irrelevant. It was said that a Communist burned it down, but whether this is actually true or not is suspect. The main rivals to the Nazis in the early 1930s were the Communists, and accusing one of them of burning the Reichstag basically gave the Nazis free reign on suppressing the Communists and thus cemented Hitler's control over Germany. Some say that the Nazis burnt it themselves to give them an excuse to go after the Communists, just like a staged attack on a radio tower gave them an excuse to go after the Poles.

Since the Reichstag had been in ruins for over a decade, there were tons of places for German soldiers to entrench themselves, and fighting was fierce. There was an infirmary in the basement for German soldiers and the Soviets did control the upper floors for most of the battle. Russia dropping a grenade on SS soldiers below is based off an account of Soviet soldiers doing the same thing. The Battle of Berlin ended on May 2nd.

SURRENDER TO THE WEST: The Battle of Berlin started on the 16th of April, after the Soviets had been hustling across Germany in order to beat the Western Allies there. By April of 1945, German soldiers were surrendering in droves to the Westerners, realizing that the war was definitely over at this point and not wanting to be captured by the Soviets. Eisenhower called the Wehrmacht a "whipped army" due to the sheer number of surrenders. At its peak, 50,000 soldiers a day were surrendering to the Americans alone. In fact, the high number of surrenders actually caused a serious problem after the war. Eisenhower had expected that the Western Allies would take roughly 3 million POWs. They ended up taking over 5 million. This lead to logistical problems, food shortages, and primitive "holding camps" where POWs were kept out in the open and ended up eating grass. The Western Allies ended up stripping POWs of their POW status so they could circumnavigate the Geneva Convention. While this was heinous in some ways… the Allies were also dealing with floods of civilians that were fleeing the Red Army in addition to local populations. Had they abided by the Geneva Convention, the soldiers would have been fed while civilians starved. (Of course, this is not to say that some of the ill-treatment wasn't caused by Western resentment against German soldiers. This also played a significant part.)

In reality, there was no 'race to Berlin,' as Western Allied commanders were well-aware that Berlin was going to be a bloodbath. They purposefully left it to the Soviets. Meanwhile, the Americans discovered a giant Nazi gold hoard that they promptly shipped back to Fort Knox and would summarily use to finance the Marshall Plan.

At the end of the war Doenitz stalled surrendering as long as he could (as long as the war was going on, German troops could move freely and legally; once surrender was had they would not be able to do so) in order to get as many soldiers to surrender to the Western powers as possible. His efforts are estimated to have gotten an additional 1.8 million German soldiers into Western custody. Eisenhower was the one who put pressure on Doenitz to surrender, as he was already overwhelmed with the amount of POWs he had on his hands.

POLITICS DURING THE FALL OF THE REICH: Originally Goering (Head of the Luftwaffe) was supposed to take over after Hitler passed away. However, when Hitler decided to stay in Berlin and die, Goering left the city. He sent a telegram asking for permission to take over the Reich now that Hitler was obviously going to be incapacitated. Hitler was furious and stripped Goering of his party membership.

Himmler actually tried to negotiate a separate peace through a third party with Britain and America, suggesting that they band forces with the Germans to defeat the Russians. Even though Britain/America's relations with the Russians weren't 100% friendly, Himmler's name had become associated with the death camps and thus the Western powers were not willing to negotiate. Hitler learned of this and stripped Himmler of his party membership as well.

This left Doenitz, the head of the Kriegsmarine (Navy) with a leadership position, as well as Goebbels, Hitler's director of propaganda with leadership positions. Goebbles was insanely devoted to Hitler and would not surrender… until he committed suicide himself along with his wife after they killed their six children.

"In ten years you won't recognize Berlin": This quote from Prussia was said by a Berlin resident to a Red Army soldier after the battle was over. Watch the documentary "Surrender" if you want a source for it. It's a pretty good doc, as well.