AN: This chapter should probably include a trigger warning, given that Davidstern is infiltrating Auschwitz…

To Lyger 0: We'll have to see what's happening with Night Bat in the present…

"Le Maquillon really sent him in there?" Nath blinked several times in disbelief, staring down at the Kwami.

Nooroo nodded seriously. "Yes, he did," he confirmed, his voice trembling. "He told Davidstern that he did not have to go, but he did not hesitate to accept the mission."

Marc shook his head ruefully. "They were made of strong stuff back then."

"That is how heroes are in every time period," Nooroo replied. "Even when they are afraid, they will do the right thing.

Auschwitz, August 1941

"Away from the fence, dog!"

David turned his head down and gritted his teeth, backing away from the razor-wire fence surrounding the camp, giving the perimeter a last calculating glance. A kilometer-wide gap of empty space separated the fence from the distant tree line – anyone trying to escape from here would be spotted from one of the guard towers dotting the perimeter before they made it more than a dozen paces. But freedom was still so close; it would be maddening to be stuck in here. He shivered beneath the thin prison uniform, despite the warm sun beating down on his head, and looked furtively around the complex. Hundreds – thousands – of people were being kept here and worked as little more than slave labor. Jews, Poles, Czechs, Soviet POWs, Gypsies, and so many more. All crammed in here and forced to work until their hands were raw and fingers ready to fall off. "Arbeit macht frei," the sign above the gate proclaimed: "Work makes you free." But what kind of freedom did this work grant? He had seen the trains pulling up and offloading their "passengers," one arriving as the last one departed, in a steady stream of new arrivals who were sorted into distinct groups for "processing." Trainloads of thousands… and if the reports were to be believed, these trainloads had been arriving on a daily basis for over a year. Yet as he looked around the yard and took in the population of the camp…

Where were all the people?

David's stomach churned with bile.

Smoke had been billowing up from the chimney attached to the crematorium constantly for the day that he had been watching it. Day or night, the fire seemed to burn constantly. A constant stream of people had entered the "shower" facilities near the front entrance of the camp over that time, but none had left. So many people. So much senseless death. The jeering and laughing guards watching from the safety of their towers or else wandering armed down the wide boulevards and pathways between the buildings. A man collapsed, falling over and failing to hold himself upright against the warehouse beside which David walked. Further down, prisoners who were little more than skin and bones stumbled between buildings, forced to work for twelve or more hours every day and crammed into tiny dormitories that could barely fit them. Disease running rampant.

"Maquillon," David muttered under his breath, glancing toward the trees to the west, "if you can hear me…"

Still, the voice in his mind remained silent. He was entirely alone.

Why had he agreed to this mission in the first place? Le Maquillon had given him the option. He had told him he could refuse. When he had recruited him last year, he had warned him that this mission could happen, and David had told him that he wasn't interested. He had not been back to Germany since fleeing almost two years ago. And he had been one of the lucky ones: he had escaped, and he had managed to avoid arrest by the SS patrols around France. But how many others that he knew were even still alive? He hadn't heard from his parents since he had snuck across the border; had the SS arrested them – guilt by association? His stomach clenched. Germany had changed so much in the two years he had been gone: to be a Jew in Germany was now literally a death sentence… a death sentence carried out at this camp, or others like it. He could speak like a native German, but without help he could never pass for an "Aryan." Not that it mattered, now that he was here.

But, as he had told le Maquillon, that was why he'd had to come. Le Maquillon believed that they needed to preserve evidence of what was happening, that if they could show the world inarguable proof of the Nazis' actions, that America would come, that the Allies would return. And when this mission had come up, le Maquillon had asked, and David had only hesitated for a moment before agreeing to it. He had to see, to bear witness to what his (former) country was doing to his people. To make sure that their story wasn't lost, that there was evidence to show what had happened here. To strengthen his own resolve to fight against the monsters who were doing these things.

He swallowed. To see such horror in person…

"You!" One of the SS guards strode down the wide boulevard toward David, a crop in his hand. The soldier sneered at him, rapping the crop against his hand. "New arrival, then? What work detail are you assigned?"

David coughed, looking down at the soldier's polished shoes. "Kitchen detail, sir."

"And you are all the way over here?" The guard raised his riding crop and smacked David across the face, jeering at him. Turning with the blow, David held a hand up to the hot red welt and gritted his teeth. The soldier scoffed. "Get back to your work."

"Yes, sir," David growled, the anger starting to rise from within him. He could feel the butterfly's power simmering just below the surface, begging for the opportunity to emerge in a massive wave of destructive energy. His hand closed around the yellow armband, which seemed to thrum with the energy it restrained. If he wished, he could utterly annihilate this entire came – all he needed to do was give in to his righteous indignation at the treatment of his people. But what would happen to his people if he did that? Slowly, he forced himself to breathe. Not yet. He still needed to find his target.

Moving down the pathway in the direction of the kitchens, David scanned the buildings on either side of him furtively. He could catch glimpses of the prisoners within, all of them with their heads down, their focus on whatever they were doing. A guard looked out the window idly, and his eye locked onto David's. David swallowed anxiously, trying not to stare at the soldier and draw his attention. Glancing down the street, he picked up his pace: he was running out of time. Spotting a half-dozen or so men exiting a factory building on the left side of the walkway. Quickly, with a nervous glance in the direction of the nearest guards, David ran over to the prisoners. "Where are the French political prisoners?" he whispered in German to a man with a gold Star of David sewn to his chest.

"Wybaczcie mi?" The man cocked his head in confusion.

"French prisoners," David repeated. He winced. "French?"

"Francuski?" the man asked, frowning. Another man in the group pointed to the left, toward the very back of one of the work buildings.

"Thank you," David told them with a nod, walking briskly over to the indicated building. Poking his head inside, he could hear a hundred voices, speaking at least a half-dozen languages… including French. At a quick glance, he spotted a half-dozen SS soldiers, most arrayed around the building near the exits, but two of them had taken up positions near the middle of the floor, watching the prisoners with eagle eyes as they put together airplane sights and placed the finished products in a crate at the end of their table. The SS guard closest to the door where David was watching, turned in his direction, and David quickly ducked back outside, shutting the door behind him. Yet as he turned around, a pair of guards were walking in his direction, eyeing him suspiciously. Quickly, David raced through the half-open door, only to bump straight into the SS guard, who almost dropped his rifle in shock. Stumbling and barely keeping his balance, the guard raised his hand to smack David, who ducked under the blow and quickly drove his elbow into the guard's gut.

"Halt!" barked another guard, a little further down the factory floor, raising his rifle to his shoulder.

But David was past stopping. "Guess we're doing this the hard way," he muttered under his breath, looking back and forth between the half-dozen guards moving his direction. He swallowed nervously but finally raised himself to his full stature, diving into his righteous fury as ocher smoke covered him and dissipated to reveal the royal-blue suit and beret of Davidstern. Near the end of that block, He caught a momentary glimpse of the shock on the guards' faces as they stared at him. Without hesitation, Davidstern drew his short sword and slashed the man to his left down the front, kicking him aside and raising his free hand, sending a pulse of golden energy at the second guard before he could fire. The other guards quickly met similar fates at the hands of the prisoners, as Davidstern braced himself for the SS guards' reprisal. But the moment the prisoners had overpowered four the other SS guards, Davidstern rose into the air and shouted in French, "I am looking for Maret!"

"He's gone!" someone called back, about three stations down the line.

The remaining two guards, who had been on the opposite side of the building from him, raised their rifles and fired, but Davidstern swiped a hand in front of his face, forming a golden shield that caught the bullets. Eyeing the man who had answered, Davidstern folded his arms."What do you mean, 'gone'? We had information–"

"He was here…" another prisoner spoke up. "But he didn't make it past the selection process."

Davidstern cocked his head. "You mean…"

"I'm afraid so."

"Scheisse," Davidstern swore, letting out a frustrated groan. The guards fired again, this time shooting indiscriminately into the crowd of prisoners, as the factory doors opened and a half-dozen more guards poured in from outside. Without looking, Davidstern swung his sword around and sent a wave of energy through the guards, knocking them all backward into the walls. One struck his head at an odd angle and slid down the wall into a crumpled mess. "I came to rescue him."

"You're about two months too late," a third prisoner informed him. "Sorry."

Davidstern gritted his teeth. "Well, since I'm here…" Drawing in a breath and reaching down into the well of power within him, Davidstern drew in a breath, held it, and thrust his arms out in opposite directions. His fingers crackled with energy. Two massive bursts of energy erupted from his hands and crashed into the walls of the factory, blowing great holes in the walls. "Everyone out!"

There was a moment of calm before, at once, with a thunder of rushing footsteps, all the prisoners raced out of the warehouse through the holes. A clatter of gunfire erupted directly outside the building the moment the first prisoners had fled. Davidstern's eyes widened in shock as the press of men began to push right back into the factory, looks of panic and terror on their blood-streaked faces. Quickly, Davidstern dropped down and flew outside, into a hail of bullets from dozens of SS guards, all firing indiscriminately on the prisoners and up into the air toward Davidstern. His eyes narrowed in rage, Davidstern punched forward, bringing his hands together, and a golden fist of energy blasted into the guards' formation, barreling a dozen of them to the ground before he swung it around and into the next group, all of whom shared a similar fate. The guards turned their gunfire on Davidstern, and he threw out his hands, forming an impenetrable cocoon around himself. Bullets bounced off the invisible barrier and dropped to the ground below him.

After a moment where they continued to shoot at him ineffectually, the gunfire stopped as a man raised his hand. As one, the guards froze in place, their rifles shaking as they stared up at Davidstern. Suddenly, that same guard raised his hand over his head. "Fire on the prisoners!" ordered the man, who wore the uniform of a lieutenant.

"No!" Davidstern's eyes widened in shock, and he dropped to slam into the ground in front of the factory, spreading his arms wide and trying to shield the prisoners with his cocoon. At that same moment, the guards turned their fire in all directions away from him, firing indiscriminately into the other warehouses and at all the other prisoners walking the alleyways and boulevards between the buildings.

Davidstern stared in horror as people fell all around, sending pulse after pulse of energy into the guards. Two guards fell, followed by three more. Over and over, Davidstern attacked the guards. And yet, with every guard he killed or knocked out, another four seemed to appear from all around the camp. Finally, he blew a hole in the fence around the prison, and four or five of the closest prisoners ran through it, only to be cut in half by machine gun fire before reaching the distant tree line. Horrified, Davidstern rose up into the air, looking around the scene of chaos that had erupted through the camp. Prisoners were being shot to death all around him. Bullets flew in all directions and bounced off his magical suit. But he could not protect the prisoners – not by himself. What was he supposed to do? His target had been killed. He had failed to rescue the prisoners. Nothing he did here made any difference. He was only one man – even with all this power, he couldn't stop all the horrors.

All he could do, was return and tell what he had seen and experienced.

Swallowing back bile, he ascended higher, turning his course back in the direction of France. "Scheisse!"