To Lyger 0: Unfortunately, even with a Crusader weapon, the Lazarist is just one man standing against the might of the 1940 Luftwaffe. He can do a lot, but he can't be everywhere at once. Unfortunately, the French 12th Infantry Division still gets captured on the beach at Dunkirk, left behind as the rearguard for the evacuation.

"This is really how it happened?" Marc raised an eyebrow at Nath in surprise.

Nath nodded. "I wasn't sure how much of it to believe when he told me, but M. Coureux's diary confirms it."

"Did he ever tell you who he was actually there to meet? I mean, it must have been dangerous wandering Paris so soon after the capitulation…"

Nath shrugged. "I don't think he ever got a name. He was just looking for a way to help."

Marc chuckled wryly. "Well, I'd say he found it!"

Paris, late June 1940

Pulling the brim of his hat down lower to hide his bright red hair, David glanced surreptitiously up and down the street, the sidewalks conspicuously absent of the heavy foot traffic he had always assumed should be there. Three or four other people were out on the street, all of them moving as quickly as David himself toward their destinations. Several of the buildings past which he walked had windows boarded up – one had been painted with a large Star of David covering the front door. His stomach clenched; hadn't he come here to escape that danger? To his left, the Seine flowed steadily beneath the bridges, the Eiffel Tower visible ahead of him in the distance, stretching up above the skyline. He had never been to the city before, but growing up he had always expected the Seine to be full of pleasure boats – just one more casualty of war. Keeping his head down, he glanced furtively up and down the street, looking for the signal. His contact was late – had he been found out? He clenched his jaw, pulling his thin jacket tight, showing as little of the armband as he possibly could. If his contact did not show soon, he would have to leave and try again another day – every moment he remained on the street compounded the chances that someone would see him and recognize the armband. And if he were followed… He suppressed a shudder. He had been tempted to leave the armband behind, but if he were found without it…

He had watched the train pulling out of the station earlier; it didn't take much imagination to guess where it was going. Or whom it was transporting. For as dangerous as it was to be a Jew in France this month, it was far more dangerous to hide his Jewish heritage.

He had considered fleeing to England like so many others – of course, he had. Once the army had fled and abandoned Paris, it had all been over for the city. He could have escaped across the Channel like so many other civilian refugees. He could have tried to run south – the Nazis hadn't taken the southern half of the country yet. But after crossing the border into France and traveling almost as far as Paris ahead of the invasion, what was the point of running? They had followed him thus far already; wouldn't they just follow him to Vichy or London or New York?

Better to die fighting than die running.

"Hey! You!" A voice called from behind him, the thick German accent unmistakable. David froze in his tracks, his eyes roving up and down the street around him, searching for anywhere he could hide. He stood next to a clothing store with long glass windows that abutted directly onto the sidewalk and shared a wall with the restaurant next door. Beyond that building, he could just make out a narrow opening between the restaurant and the apartment building next to it… but if the German was close enough, that might as well be a hundred kilometers away. Across the street was a chest-high railing blocking a long fall into the river – if he pushed off well enough, maybe he could get into the river. But where would he go from there?

He could not let them capture him alive. He could not betray the others at the farm.

"Me?" a feminine voice responded before David could react. His stomach started to unclench the slightest bit – maybe he wasn't the target. Furtively looking to the side, David examined his reflection in the clothing store's glass window; half a block down the street behind him, he could see a pair of SS officers standing in front of a slender woman with reddish-brown hair pulled back into a double bun behind her head and bangs nearly covering her eyes, who held a canvas bag in one hand. "What can I do for you, officers?" the woman asked, fear in her voice.

"What are you doing out on the streets?" demanded the first officer, folding his arms.

The other stepped forward, one hand on his holstered pistol. "State your business, French cur."

"I am merely picking up the day's rations for myself and my daughter," the woman answered, holding out her bag, her hand trembling. "I–I have my ration cards–"

"Bah!" The first officer spat into the bag. "That is all you mongrels deserve."

"P–please, sir–"

David's stomach clenched as the woman backed away from the Germans toward the closest building, putting distance between herself and the officers. The two officers' heads turned to follow her, looking away from David. Letting out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, David forced himself to walk slowly past the clothing store, past the restaurant. Finally reaching the narrow gap between the buildings, he slid sideways into the opening and dropped down into a crouch, diving behind a pair of trashcans. He swallowed anxiously. Where could the contact be? With the SS patrolling the streets… it wouldn't be safe to meet. If they found him, he would be lucky if they shot him on the spot! His hand trembling, David reached into an inner jacket pocket and pulled out a small piece of chalk.

As his jacket flapped open, however, a sudden mote of color appeared in his vision, a flutter of violet. Before David could focus on it, the color vanished, and a soft voice spoke, seeming to come from the space all around him. "Hello, monsieur."

David froze, his breathing hitched, and he tensed, nearly falling over against the brick wall beside him. The moment he recovered his wits, he turned his head in either direction, his brows furrowed in confusion, searching for the man who had spoken. "H–hello?" The alleyway was empty. He swallowed and whispered hoarsely, "Are you my contact?"

"'Contact'?" the voice repeated, confused. "I'm afraid not. I was… monitoring the situation in Paris when I sensed that you might be in trouble. You are angry at the Nazis, and you are scared of what they may do to you if they capture you."

David winced, a chill running down his spine. "I… have no idea what you are talking about," he insisted, looking furtively up and down the alleyway for the source of the voice. But still he was alone. "I… I was just…"

"Walking through Nazi-occupied Paris," the voice finished wryly. "This week, that is hardly the act of one who isn't at least looking for trouble!"

David let out a breath. "I just – I want to do my part. It's not enough to just keep my head down and survive if these monsters are still going to be out there trying to hunt down and murder innocent people."

"'Do your part'…" The voice hummed. "I believe you. You see, part of my gift is that I can see into your emotions – perhaps even more than you are willing to acknowledge. It was your fear that first drew my attention, but there is a goodness, a desire to stop the monsters, to help people like you."

"People l–like me, monsieur?"

The voice chuckled. "The armband is a bit of a giveaway. But you shouldn't have to hide, my friend," he told David. "That these Nazi monsters force you into hiding is not the greatest of their crimes, I'm afraid – not by a long shot. But the fact that they persecute you and those like you simply because of who you are and what you believe…"

"Excuse me?" David gulped nervously.

"Let's not mince words here," the voice responded. "You need not fear betrayal, friend – they would as soon capture me as you! But I think we may be able to help each other."

"I'm sorry?"

A sigh. "I wish to offer you an opportunity, a chance to do some good and strike back against the Nazis who have taken over our country. You feel powerless–"

David scoffed. "Wouldn't you? The moment they got a taste of power, the Nazis took over my country, turned my friends against me, forced me to flee from my home…"

"Oh…" The voice sounded surprised. "I didn't realize. So you are a German Jew…"

"Is that a problem?" David's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"No – I… actually, quite the contrary." The voice laughed ruefully. "As a matter of fact, I had been looking for someone who might be able to pass through Germany without being detected."

"If that's what you're after, then I'm afraid you'll have to keep looking, pal," David told him derisively. "I don't think I've got the face you're looking for."

"We can handle that," the voice answered dismissively. "The ability to speak and navigate as a local is more important; anything else can be provided. And in any event, the operation I have in mind is not an immediate matter; it is one that may have to wait some time. But for now, are you willing to help me in and around Paris? Are you willing to strike back against the Nazis and help me drive them from my home? Will you help to oust them from power in your own nation?"

"How?" David quirked his eyebrows. "I'm not exactly a fighter or a soldier. Otherwise I wouldn't be hiding in a dirty alleyway like a coward," he added under his breath.

The voice chuckled. "You know the saying, 'Where there's a will, there's a way'? If you provide the 'will,' I will provide the 'way'."

David frowned. "The offer sounds tempting and all, but I'm not in the habit of helping random incorporeal voices."

"I apologize," responded the voice. "But I am not in the habit of revealing any more information about myself than I have to, to anyone. Anonymity is safety. I will be able to help the Underground better by operating behind the scenes in this way, by using my abilities to coordinate with them and assist them against… forces they cannot fight."

"Forces like an armored knight out of a children's story?"

"You have seen this knight?" the voice demanded sharply.

David nodded, glancing back toward the entrance to the alleyway. "Once. He's… well, actually, he's part of the reason I'm here now."

The voice let out a pensive hum. "He is not the only such… soldier of fantastical ability I have heard about since this war began," he finally responded. "Unfortunately, he and those like him are far too strong for the resistance – or even the regular army, as like as not – to fight on their own. That is where I come in. And you, if you will help me."

David sighed heavily. "What do you need?"

"I only need a person willing to do what it takes, to use the abilities I can give him, to help those who cannot help themselves. If I give you the power to do so, will you agree to use that power for good? Will you fight the Nazis and protect their victims when possible?"

With a shrug, David nodded. "If it means stopping those Nazi bastards, I suppose I'm in. But what do I call you?"

The voice laughed wryly. "Nothing, if you can help it!" He paused for a moment and sighed. "My nom de guerre is 'Le Maquillon'. And you?"

"David. David Kurtzberg."

"Very well, David Kurtzberg," the voice answered, relief evident in the tone. "Then we shall call you 'Davidstern', the 'Star of David'."