Valkyrie Ball

Berlin, Germany- 1942

Too-bright lights, too-loud music. Too much noise and too many people crammed into one space, the scents of smoke and perfume clashing on the air.

He longed for the quiet solitude of his laboratory in the Alps, only the sound of the wailing winds and the soft chords of Shubert or Brahms with a full pack of cigarettes and a glass or two of fine schnapps. He sighed, keeping a watchful eye on his niece, whom at present, fraternized with the enemy. Sons of Gestapo officers.

She was bedecked in a black satin dress, lined with several layers of crinoline petticoats that billowed out beneath the sleek waist. The black tulle overlay over the bodice was trimmed with beading, the sheer fabric covering her shoulders but allowing their porcelain-white color to peak through. She was beautiful, truly. Although, she served as a painful reminder.

His heart wrenched in his chest, as images of a beautiful red-haired woman flashed before his eyes, and he could almost feel the light brush of her lips against his skin. He bristled at the thought, biting down on his lip, swallowing his pent-up feelings of remorse.

Imbecile, he thought bitterly. You are mere months away from proving that bastard Hitler who is superior and yet here you are acting like a sniveling child, heartbroken over puppy-love!

But still, the image, for some reason, would not leave his mind. Her long, beautiful titian hair, like silk, pulled up onto her head in an elegant knot, a flowing cobalt dress, just barely revealing her slender shoulders. The back was low, and his gloved hand rested against the small of her back, her smiling face looking up at his. He could hear laughter somewhere far off in his mind. It was hers. He remembered kissing her, whispering romantic vows into her ear, professing his passionate affection for her. She merely giggled, like a little girl, and whispered back, as if the two of them were school children spreading rumors in the schoolyard.

And suddenly, the image clouded over, blackening like a storm overtaking the sun. He stood outside the hotel suite with his head rested against its numberplate, his gloved hands massaging his temples. There was no mask to adjust, then. His flesh was real and unmarred. He rapped against the door with his fist, mumbling curses beneath his breath.

"Victoria, darling, come out, please. Now." He growled, unintentionally. He couldn't help it. He'd been rejected all his life, and when he'd finally gained power… well, it was of some consequence that he'd allowed himself to grow accustomed to being treated as such. He rapped again, blowing a cloud of smoke, flicking the ashes off the tip of his cigarette absent-mindedly. He combed his free hand through his dark brown hair; he ran his tongue along his teeth, his blood pounding in his veins with something akin to fury.

They had fought the night before. A shame really, for he couldn't help but savor the memory. He'd held her in his arms tightly, trailed kisses along her neck, worked his way up to her lips before pulling her closer. But then, he whispered something to her, something simple, merely a four-word inquiry. And she'd broken away, as if his grip on her were like fire. Tears had begun to stream down her face, and she fell to her knees, whimpering liked a hurt child.

"I can't," she had moaned, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. "I can't."

And with those words, even though his heart wrenched with pity, even though he wanted to fall down onto his knees beside her, to dry her tears, to plead with her… he just couldn't.

No pity welled up in his eyes, no soft, soothing words could escape his lips. Only anger and hate and vengeance.

Vengeance for every individual in the world that had said no to him, that had denied him what was rightfully his. He was Johann Schmidt, the finest Shutzstaffel officer in the whole of the German secret service. He had power, wealth, an army of loyal followers who tended to his every whim.

And yet, here some defiant sobbing snip of girl had denied him that which would complete his euphoric state of life, that which would make him truly whole and fulfilled.

And she had taken that sense of completion, accomplishment… away from him.

He had slapped her. Hard enough that a single drop of blood trickled down the corner of her mouth and down her chin, staining the material of her gown. The expression of shock that spread across her face, the strained whimper that escaped her lips.

And without a word, he had stormed out, leaving the wretch to sob. He heard her screams as he walked away, and he allowed a shuddering sigh to course through his body, a feeling of satisfaction surging through his blood, that haughty feeling of power, like a drug that he craved ravenously.

And yet, somewhere deep within him, he felt something. Akin to guilt, perhaps, but still. She deserved to suffer, to suffer the way he had his entire life.

At long last, the door opened, barely, allowing only a slight view of her face. She looked as if she'd gone on holiday in Hell. Her red hair was tangled and matted, hanging from her skull limply. Her vibrant green eyes seemed to have dulled in color and her rosy-pink lips were near-blue now, in hue.

He smiled at her, almost mockingly. "You look unwell, my love. Are you ill?" he reached out a gloved hand to stroke her face but she pulled away. He bit his lip, swallowing his sudden irritation. "Please darling, don't let last night's little dispute cloud your judgment." He reached out again, grabbing her face in his hands before she could pull away, pressing his lips against hers almost violently, grasping her tightly until she refrained from struggling. He smiled, breathing into her neck. When he spoke, his lips brushed against her neck, and he felt her shudder, the slight movement sending chills of satisfaction down his spine.

"I'd really rather forget last night, you know. Start fresh, begin anew. Everyone has a falling-out every once in a while. But, we mustn't let that overshadow our… stronger emotions." He pressed his lips against her neck, her skin like silk beneath his mouth.

"Johann," she whispered.

"Yes, darling?"

"We can't start fresh."

"What do you mean?" he looked at her now, eyeing her levelly.

"I'm leaving Berlin."

"I'll come with you."

"You can't."

"Why is that?"

"I'm going back to America, Johann. I can't see you anymore."

He stopped suddenly, his lips pausing just beneath her own. He pulled back slowly, his hands still fixed around her waist. He dropped them to his sides. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound could escape. Her eyes filled with tears, and she lowered her head.

"I'm sorry." And the door closed.

XXX

He sat at his desk listlessly, several photographs spread out over the length of the desk. And all of the same person. When he spoke, his voice cracked slightly.

"You are sure it is her?"

The masked guards stared back at him with glassy eyes. "Yes, Herr Schmidt." One of them spoke up. "Her presence in Berlin has been confirmed."

"She lied to me." He said quietly, almost to himself. He lifted one of the pictures up, holding it in the light. "She betrayed me." He looked back at his men. "And you are sure that she is working for American intelligence?"

"Yes sir."

In that single moment, he felt as if all the breath had been sucked out of him, as if the life had been drained away.

All his life, he'd only ever been said no to. And then, Hitler came along, brought him up out of the filth, had given him everything. And then shattered everything.

But he had built himself back up, gained more power and control than he had ever dreamt of.

And then, she came. So beautiful and funny and smart, such a special, wonderful woman.

And when he was on the verge of being complete, of being fulfilled, she'd brought his hopes clattering down to the earth, brought his superiority down into the dust, making him just as mundane and regular as anyone else.

He had made countless vows to her, had pledged his love for her always, had showered her with gifts. He had always been good to her.

And she had betrayed him.

She had ruined him.

He stood up and turned to look through the broad glass panels of the panoramic window, staring out into the snowy alps, losing himself in their endless white.

"Leave." He murmured and waited for the sound of the door clanging shut.

He looked about, making sure that he was entirely alone.

And when he sure that he was completely secluded…

He fell to his knees and wept.

XXX

Present Day, 1942

He leaned against the broad marble pillars of the veranda, finishing off the last bit of his cigarette before extinguishing it with the toe of his jackboot. As he was prone when in a fidgety manner, he cracked his jaw and probed at his mask, flexing his gloved fingers as if they were murder tools, preparing to be put in use again.

He sighed, his left eye twitching with irritation and he bit his lip, as if the pain of that would somehow silence his overly-chatty conscience. A part of him nagged at him to pull out the picture again, to gaze at it, to reminisce. The more influential side of him was snickering away, savoring each and every moment that his weakness was visible.

After a few moments, he swore at himself silently and succumbed to the less influential side, as he had been craving to do for hours now. He reached into the breast pocket of his uniform – the newly dry-cleaned SS issued one – God forbid he show up to Hitler's party in Hydra regalia – that would be utterly rude – and retrieved the somewhat crumpled photograph.

Victoria.

A brilliant scientist, a beautiful dame, and the only lover he'd ever had in his life.

But of what use was she to him now? She'd crushed his hopes, denying his proposal, throwing everything he'd ever done to please her in his face, and then, as if to add insult to injury, she had been revealed to be working for the American intelligence services all along.

She'd used him and deceived him and thrown it all back into his face.

All to get at the Nazis.

Yes, those damned fools in the American military had considered him a weak link in Hitler's cult; a power-hungry fool that secretly longed for human-contact, and moreover, someone like him. A scientist, someone with brains, someone who shared his passion.

And she had summed up all of those cravings, she was anything and everything he could ever ask for.

He stared down at the photograph, reminiscing over all the times he'd tried to burn it, and then fetched it out of the flames moments before it was engulfed, unable to watch it turn to cinders.

He felt his heart lurch again; whether with anger or sadness, he could not determine.

"Perhaps the Americans were right," he murmured. "But that was then. They might have underestimated my defenses then, but I can swear to them, I am no longer so weak, so vulnerable. And I will come back at them with force. They won't even be able to comprehend what hit them."

He lit up another cigarette, tucking the photo back into his jacket. "Goddamn their souls, they won't see it coming."