Author's note: There is nothing I hate more than an abandoned story, or project, or piece of artwork where the creator abandons it and it sits on a cliffhanger for years on end. I am truly sorry, although I do have a good explanation: action scenes are hard as hell to write. Try it yourself, it is one thing to imagine something and quite anither to describe it. I had to take an actual class, but I think I figured it out

I promise this will never happen again.

Enjoy!

Die

"I told my family I would be able to spend some time with them on the Rhine, just the four of us and the best fishing in Europe," Rottenfüher Philip Stickler said to the other four members of his Seelandkorp platoon as they sat in the back of a half-track, "so what exactly am I doing suiting up on a minute's notice and riding into battle in the middle of Berlin?

"You'll have to ask Heydrich when we reach to museum, Phil, I know just as much as you do," Rottenfüher Henkel replied, nudging Sturmmann Theil in the seat next to him. "Hey Rookie, what do you think? I got five Reichmarks that say he wants us for his sister's birthday party.

"Shut your mouth Henkel," Unterscharführer Adolph Jans shot at him. "If your Untersturmfüher wants us to perform for a birthday party, you will perform for that party like a fucking clown! I expect those balloon animals to be perfect, or I will have your head!"

Most of the platoon members let out a good chuckle aside from Theil, who was slightly frustrated. "You guys said you would stop calling me Rookie when our tour ended, guys." Thiel, the lowest ranking member of the group, had been a replacement for a soldier who had died a year into the expedition.

Rottenfüher Kunst reached across the vehicle from his seat and playfully slapped his cheek, "you're the youngest guy here, like a child. You will always be out little brother, Rookie."

Theil smiled, and pulled his wallet from one of his uniform's pockets, and reached inside it, rummaging for something. "I have been meaning to tell you guys this, but I decided to save it for when we were back home, just to shove it in your face a little." From the wallet he pulled a photograph, depicting a young woman and the Sturmman hugging each other, the woman visibly pregnant. "I am married, and I have a little boy waiting for me at home. His name is Otto, and I was going to meet him for the first time today."

Theil waved the photograph around, making sure that each of his fellow soldiers saw his wife, relishing in the surprised looks on their faces.

"Good god man, you're married?!"

"You are a father?"

"Is that why you wouldn't bang that prostitute in Fiji?"

As the questions came, Theil kept a smile on his face, and placed the photograph back in his wallet. "The looks on your faces… this was well worth the wait."

"Congratulations" Jans said, reaching his hand out, "you really got us good, you have my eternal respect."

Theil shook his Unterscharführer's hand. "I guess you can't call me 'Rookie' anymore."

"Like hell we can't," Henkel said, "if anything, we're going to do it more. You deserve it for making us liars for three years. Rookie."

The soldiers continued to talk amongst each other for several minutes, but they cease their conversation when they felt the halftrack turn off the main road and into the Berlin Kolony Museum complex. They had arrived and, just seconds after the vehicle stopped, the doors opened.

The soldiers looked to Untersturmfüher Heydrich, as he stood holding the doors to the vehicle open. As with every member of the SS-Seelandkorp, he carried his combat uniform with him at all times, ready to be donned at a moment's notice to fight enemies of the Reich wherever the soldier may find himself. Heydrich's officer's uniform was black, with a long flowing cape. His cap was decorated with a skull, and his ears covered with combat headset, a mic stretched from the ear to his mouth. The entire uniform was laced with combat weave fibers and metal plating, providing even more protection than standard combat armor, despite maintaining its sharp design and fabric surface. It was the uniform of a handsome, deadly man, and Heydrich wore it as if it were his natural skin.

"Heil Hitler!" The soldiers saluted their leader in unison.

"Heil," Heydrich saluted back, his refrain more purposeful and assertive than usual.

"Heinrich," Jans said to him, "Theil over here is a father, could you guess it?"

"Of course I know that, I have had to censor enough of his filthy loved letters to know what position he was conceived in," Heydrich angrily shot back, "and that is Untersturmfüher, Unterscharführer. You are a soldier, not a child, and I expect you to act like it." Heydrich looked around the halftrack at his men, counting them, and scowled at what he saw. Five men? He thought. Our platoon has twenty-two, where are the rest? "Jans, where are the rest of my men?"

"Half of the men in each squad don't live anywhere near Berlin, sir," He replied, "and half of the rest are on the other side of town, well outside of the window you gave us. We have three men from Bravo squad and two from Alpha."

Heydrich let out a short sigh as he reached is seat. It will have to do, he thought as the half-track began to move once more. "Okay men," he began, "here is the situation. The museum is under attack by a terrorist. There have been casualties, both military and," He stopped for a brief pause, tripping on the thought of Alfred, "civilian."

Heydrich could see his squad getting uneasy, but he continued. "Unlucky for them, they decided to attack the heart of Berlin when Oberstgruppenführer Vogel was visiting the museum's director. We are to meet up with of Vogel's men and the Berlin garrison in the distribution garage, where we will intercept the terrorist and bring him to his knees!"

Most of the squad smiled, satisfied by this answer, but Stickler was not completely convinced. "The Berlin garrison has thousands of men, sir. Why bring us out of leave to catch just one terrorist?"

"For one, Rottenfüher," Heydrich scolded, "you should never question your superior's orders!" Heydrich slapped him, and continued his explanation. "And for another, I just had to pull my little sister from our father's corpse!"

The squad looked at Heydrich with stunned silence; this explained Heydrich's unusual behavior to them. They had no idea the situation was so serious.

"Untersturmfüher, I am so sorry…" Stickler attempted to apologize, but Heydrich was not done yet.

"Apologies do not fix mistakes, Stickler. One more hint insubordination out of you and I will shoot you on the spot." Heydrich, now finished, took a second to calm down. What else… ah, yes, the plan. "We are on our way to the underground complex right now; we should be descending the tunnel as we speak. Once we meet up with the rest of the Berlin garrison, get into position. The lights will be off, so it will be dark- the General wants to gain the element of surprise- so turn your night vision lenses on, and stay quiet. Do not shoot until Vogel gives the order, understood?"

"Sir, yes sir!" the squad refrained, all doubts struck from their minds. They sat straight in their seats at attention, stealing themselves for what was to come.

W+J

It is really him, Heydrich thought as he stared at the figure standing before the wall of Nazi soldiers. Despite the significant distance from the figure to his squad's position on the southern flank of the formation, as well as the light spilling forth from the warehouse that blinded his eyes from resolving fine details, he could still make out the ape-like build of the man. Terror Billy is alive. He is here in Berlin… Heydrich connected the points together, and like a bolt of lightning shooting down his spine he was instantly consumed with an almost uncontrollable rage. You killed my father.

The officer tightened his grip on the Panzerfaust X in his hands; the folding stock snuggled tightly into his shoulder. It was a new weapon intended to serve as the standard carry of Officers of the SS, and although Heydrich had studied the manual extensively he was yet to test fire the gun, even at a target range. Nevertheless, he was confident in German engineering, and he knew that his opportunity to test the launcher on live targets would come very soon. The sights of his gun met his eye, and he leveled it at the terrorist's chest, ready to burst his chest like a watermelon the second the General gave the order to fire.

"(Did you really think it would be that easy, Captain?)"

What the hell? English?

Heydrich turned into the darkness to his left, unable to locate the voice that was currently giving away their position. He reached to reengage his night-vision eyepiece, but he stopped his hand as his eyes were blinded by every light in the entire garage complex igniting at once, instantly lifting the darkness that had moments ago concealed over three hundred Nazi soldiers from the gaze of their target. The element of surprise had been lost.

Heydrich quickly snapped his attention back to Terror Billy, his trigger finger a hair's width from firing the first shot against the monster standing before them. Our cover is blown. Why hasn't the General given the order to fire, he should be dead by now! With the light to view the man in full detail, Terror Billy was even more, well, terrifying, than Heydrich could have ever imagined. He was dressed in civilian clothing that would not be considered out of place in any of the Reich's public buildings or national parks, but the stylish leather and cloth was soaked crimson, blood caking his chest and strewn across his face. Billy stood tall and broad, his frame making his stolen rifle appear small in his arms.

General Vogel spoke in that vile language once more, his voice sounding through the officer's radio headset. Despite the General's clear voice, Heydrich was unable to decipher what was being said- his mind was racing, panic ebbing in to replace the fiery hatred that had consumed him only moments before. Talk? Vogel is fucking monolouging to a terrorist?! Does he think this is a movie of some kind? He knows who this man is, right?

Heydrich was disgusted to hear the untermench speak back to Vogel, a subhuman Jew and a terrorist conversing with an Oberstgruppenführer of the SS, as if they were in any way comparable or equal. Heydrich smiled. What am I thinking? This is not a man, this is an animal. He will soon pay for his insolence.

"Fire! Kill the terrorist!"

The command Heydrich had been anticipating had finally come, and he squeezed the trigger on his panzerfaust, sending the rocket on a trajectory towards Terror Billy. All around him the garage bursted with a noise that could only be matched by a Venus rocket at takeoff; hundreds of rifles, submachineguns, pistols, rockets, diesel guns, lasers, and every weapon known to the Reich discharged their rounds at the same instant, all focused on the same target. The jet stream of the explosive charge blinded Heydrich to the fate of the terrorist before him, but he knew that nobody, not even him, could withstand the might of the Waffen-SS.

The rocket moved further, and further from him, eventually striking a hard surface and detonated its core, tearing a hole in the floor of the warehouse thirty meters behind Terror Billy. Heydrich stared in awe at the man, who was now standing atop tall stilts and returning fire with his sturmgewehr. In a panic, the officer clutched a second rocket from his ammunition belt and released the breech of the launcher, ready to reload and fire once more. What have we done?

Heydrich jammed the rocket into the breech, and momentarily returned his attention to Terror Billy, who was not running along the wall to the officer's right, in the direction of a dozen parked half-tracks. Heydrich's eyes met with those of the terrorist, able to make out the focus of those blue spheres even from such a distance, and at that moment he could see his fate. He instinctively threw his left arm up to block his face in an act of futility, as if he were a goalie trying to stop a football from breaking his nose.

In a period of time too short for Heydrich to fully comprehend, he was struck by a burst of four rifle bullets, all of them flying at sonic velocity.

The first landed just below his belly button, pressing unnaturally far into his guts and crushing muscle, fatty tissue, and intestines before being caught by the ballistic fiber weave of his uniform.

The second hit his metal chest plate an inch offset of his heart, ricocheting harmlessly off the well-designed angles and curves, but bruising three of his ribs from the force of the blow.

The third round, on a trajectory that would have punctured his eye and eviscerated his entire skull, instead hit the underside of his raised arm, shattering the delicate bones of the wrist and lodging itself between the radius and ulna.

The fourth round passed above Heydrich's arm, and all his thoughts stopped, pain and confusion filling his mind until it drowned out all thought, and his ears were overwhelmed by deep and unignorably ringing, as if he were standing next to a church bell. His entire perception of reality was replaced with mindless torment, agony, and emptiness.

W+J

Eventually, Heydrich broke through the pain, and he began to get a view of where he was and what was happening. He found himself on his knees, his hands clenched to the sides of his head, and his first thought was that he had been shot in the head, that there was a piece of metal in his brain at that moment.

He brushed the face of his cap with his right hand, feeling for an entry wound. His fingers touched upon the Totenkopf, and he felt the back end of the pullet protruding from the metal where the bones crossed- the metal insignia, as well as the solid steel helmet beneath, had saved his life. I'm not dead Heydrich thought, brushing the wound and attempting to ignore the bell tolling in his ear, but I definitely have a concussion.

Heydrich lowered his hand from his temple, and he franticly brushed the ground where he believed he had dropped his rocket launcher. As he did so, he looked up at the chaos that laid before him, and he almost wished that the bullet had done its proper job.

The orderly German formation was in complete disarray, and almost unrecognizable from what it had previously been before. Dozens of soldiers of the Berlin Garrison were swarming around the spaces between the vehicles, shouting orders and commands and requests and curses, firing their weapons in every which direction. Heydrich's gut clenched with disgust as he watched one rifleman empty the magazine of his SMG into the gut of another soldier who had simply walked next to him. His eyes quickly drew to a flash of light to his left, where an Übersoldaten's diesel tank suddenly detonated. Heydrich watched as the fireball burned four nearby soldiers to their bones, the shrapnel flying further and impaling the bodies of other unfortunate servicemen within ten meters.

The bodies.

Heydrich was not new to combat; he was far from a greenhorn. He had seen and made dozens of corpses in his lifetime- but nothing like this. All around him, in every direction he could see, the Berlin Garrison was strewn in pieces on the ground. Heydrich did not even attempt to count them, as their forms melded together to create a massive carpet of death and injury. What was not covered in corpses was soaked in blood. It is a sight that is not meant to be viewed by any just mortal soul, and should be reserved only for the wicked and the subhuman when they pass into the depths of hell itself. God have mercy on us all.

As Heydrich pulled himself to his feet, his launcher nowhere to be found, he cradled his injured hand close to his chest and pulled out his pistol, his eyes searching the battlefield for the demon that had slaughtered his men. Heydrich surveyed the panicking soldiers for signs of an officer, and he was displeased to note that the majority of the telltale Wehrmacht officer's uniforms were on the many corpses littering the ground.

The sound of gunshots on the other side of a line of halftracks alerted the officer to the return of his hearing, and with it he was blasted with the sounds of the disorganized commanders over the radio system in his earpiece.

"Where is he?"

"I've been hit!"

"Fight back you cowards!"

Several voices were calling out all at once, and Heydrich could not make heads or tails of it. It appeared that Blaskowicz had successfully turned the greatest fighting force in the history of mankind into nothing more than a disjointed mob.

Jans?

Thirty meters in front of him, huddled behind a pile of metal from a destroyed vehicle, he spotted three men; one of them, hugging the left end of the makeshift cover, was an officer- Heydrich could not tell his rank from such a distance, but his cap and uniform were easy to make out. The other two were wearing the signature blue battle-armor of the SS-SeelandKorp, and one of them- the man in the center of the group- had a very familiar red star on the side of his helmet. Sargent Jans was arguing loudly with the officer, although Heydrich could not tell what they were arguing about.

Heydrich sprinted over his fallen comrades, struggling to avoid slipping in the mess. That officer better be ordering Jans to commit treason, or I'll shoot his subordinate ass.

Without warning, the officer grabbed Jans by his shoulders and pulled the marine to his feet, pointing with his left hand at something on the other side of scrap pile while grappling Jans' armor straps with his right. Heydrich was within ten meters of the group, so he called out to them; "What is the meaning of this?"

The other officer turned his head and began to speak, but a loud 'ping' sounded as a bullet penetrated the back of the man's helmet, causing his face to explode outwards and showering Heydrich with a red mess of muscle and blood. The decapitated corpse collapsed to the ground, and Heydrich threw himself behind the spot where the man had been cowering only moments before.

Heydrich swore, "Fucking hell!"

"I am sorry Untersturmfüher," Jans began, now crouching alongside him. "I was trying to tell him…"

"Tell him what, unterscharführer?" Heydrich snapped, his eyes passing between the officer's corpse, Jans, and the other SS-SeelandKorp soldier crouched on the far end of the cover.

"I was trying to explain to him that the terrorist keeps going after officers. I wanted him to relay that over the coms," Jan said, as Heydrich looked over his soldier at the man behind him, recognizing Rottenfüher Henkel from the scratches on his mask, "but he would not listen to me."

Heydrich nodded softly, and keyed the intercom on his ear with his unwounded hand. "Alert, the terrorist is targeting officers. Keep your head down and try to organize the units short on command."

"No! Don't you dare do that you cowards!" Heydrich flinched as Vogel's voice boomed through the earpiece, his volume elevated above the standard setting. "Get out and shoot the bastard, or I will have your head!"

What kind of idiot would do that? What kind of system puts an incompetent fool such as that into a position to command an entire military branch? Heydrich shook his head, clearing the thought from his mind. What the hell am I thinking? He was hand-picked by the Füher himself- who am I to question his choice!

"Heinrich," Jans said, grabbing his shoulder as he looked over the cover. "Check this out!"

Heinrich followed his gaze over the crumpled metal heap, and he was shocked by the sight before him. There was a large clearing between the parked cars, about the size of a soccer field, and directly in the center of the area stood the General himself, carrying a large weapon Heinrich did not recognize, firing bolts of lightning into the darkness between a fuel truck and a tank on the far side of the clearing.

Standing with Vogel were the surviving garrison Übersoldaten, six of them, surrounding him in a circle and firing their weapons in the same direction as the General. At a glance, Heydrich saw the corpses of at least a dozen soldiers lining the ground in the clearing, as well as scrap metal from at least two of the towering super-soldiers.

Suddenly, without warning, a rocket fired from beneath a few dozen meters from where the defenders were focusing their fire. The rocket struck one of the Übersoldaten near Vogel, impacting on its pack and detonating its diesel tank. Heydrich felt the power of the explosion from his position in cover, and he watched as the other Übersoldaten shuddered from the shockwave and the debris pelting their armor. Vogel, however, did not even flinch, as his body was encircled by a glowing amber sphere that caused the debris to deflect harmlessly to his sides. What the hell?

Blaskowicz rolled out from his unnaturally small hiding spot and jumped to his feet as he fired another rocket at Vogel. As it traveled through the air the German soldiers returned fire, but the terrorist leaped forward and into the air with his battle walker, causing the shots to pass under his legs, missing him completely.

Heydrich drew his pistol and fired at Terror Billy, as did many other solders overlooking the field, but to no avail- you cannot kill what you cannot hit. When Heydrich shot at him in the air, he flew forward. When he tried to guess the trajectory, he fell to the ground and rolled. When Heydrich had a clear shot at his head for just a split second, the maniac rammed his shoulder in to an Übersoldaten at full speed, causing the half-ton killing machine to stumble back. The terrorist then strafed to the side while firing two sturmgewehr at once, tearing through the fuel pack and destroying yet another Übersoldaten.

Heydrich watched as Blaskowicz ran to the cover of the vehicles under the cover of the fireball, Vogel and his soldiers temporarily stunned. Before any of them could retaliate, an electrical explosive shock appeared directly in front of Vogel's feet, thrown by the terrorist in the chaos. The explosion knocked the soldiers and the General into the air, causing Vogel to fire a lightning pulse at random.

His eyes attracted to the brilliant radiance of the beam, Heydrich followed it to a group of a dozen soldiers grouped together about twenty meters from his hiding place. He watched as the pulse struck one man in the chest, and tangential electrical beams radiated to all of the other soldiers around him. The unfortunate target burst into flames on the spot, his body rapidly roasting as if he were a pig on a spigot. The solders around him fell as well, although their injuries seemed at first glance to be far less severe.

One of the soldiers stuck out from the rest in Heydrich's eyes, as his blue uniform marked him as one of his own Seelandkorp platoonmates. On the man's shoulder, even from this distance, the golden bar of a Sturmmann stood in contrast with the blood-stained blue fabric.

Theil.

Heydrich's worry for his friend grew beyond compare when he realized that Theil, knocked out in a sitting positon, was propped against a fuel truck- and the flaming corpse next to him was lying in a puddle of spilled diesel from a fallen Übersoldaten.

Heydrich did not think about what happened next. In the heat of battle, when your men's lives are on the line, there is no time for thought- only action. He pulled himself over the metal cover with both hands, ignoring the pain from his shattered wrist, and ran towards his fallen comrade.

As he ran, the fire spread from the corpse across the fuel.

Theil.

Heydrich was half way to his friend, and the fire reached the truck.

I'm not going to make it.

Heydrich did not stop running as the fire jumped up the tire and next to the tank.

No.

Heydrich was only twelve meters from the truck when the fire ignited the fuel inside, detonating with the force of three tons of TNT. The fireball engulfed the battlefield, scorching soldiers even at a distance. Theil was shredded to pieces by the steel tank, and what was left was burned to a crisp in an instant. Heydrich, caught on the edge of the fireball, was thrown to the ground and scarred by the intense heat.

His skin was scalded as if his face were forced onto a grill, and his uniform melted in places onto his legs and his guts. With the fireball came shrapnel, tearing through his skin as if it were butter and impaling Heydrich in more places than he could count.

Lying on the ground, his broken arm jammed beneath a large chunk of metal, Heydrich tried to open his eyes- but a knife-sized chunk of steel was protruding through his left eye socket. With his remaining good eye, the edges of his vision fading to black, he lazily peered down at the pain near his waste. He saw a long and wide hunk of metal protruding from his guts, his blood gushing from multiple arteries and boiling on the hot metal. With his mind quickly fading, he vaguely realized that he could not feel his legs, or anything under the metal for that matter.

So this is what it feels like to die, he though, closing his eye and gritting his teeth. I am sorry I failed you, father. I will see you and mom in Valhalla.

In his last sensation before passing out from blood loss, Heydrich felt the weight relieved from his arm and hands passing beneath his armpits, pulling him away from the wreckage and the inferno as if an angel were guiding him to the afterlife. Heh, here I come, he mused, as Unterscharführer Jans dragged him to the safety of cover.