Unusual, how the hand of fate reaches into your life: sometimes it's there to grip you by the balls, sometimes to present you with an apology gift, and other times it's some strange combination of both. This particular gift was the soft carry of a one-sided conversation across the wind to Dietfried's ears as he walked across the manufacturing district. He'd been investigating the illegal weapons trade for weeks now with little success, but two drunk guys staggering back to whatever filth-hovel they called home revealed just the nudge he needed in the right direction.
"An' I can' even. . . *hic*. . . get 'im to try the newest stuff: it's a . . . a heavy duty machine gun. It ws made to be used!" The other guy gave an unfriendly grunt at this, uninterested in what that one was saying. His companion obviously talked a lot, and all he wanted was to get home. "Anyway….," the first continued when the other refused to comment, "I think it'd be… 'd be a fun time, ya know…? Trying out tha n-new stuffs on tha employees before we leave. They'll jus' talk to tha cops and then we'll be busted! All 's gonna take 's a BOOM, an' then lights out for thems guys!"
The conversation did not increase intellectually after this point, as if he became drunker and his words more slurred as they went along. Just how much did this guy put away…? Dietfried was still grateful for it as the fellow let slip the facility's name, undoubtedly the latest conquest of the brigand band. With a new target in mind, Dietfried reported the discovery briefly to the House representatives, his intentions to delve further into the lead, and then began the long, long process of recon.
He spent many days getting a layout of the building, quietly gaining access to the blueprints, and learning how the crew was dispersed across various areas of the facility. He learned which crew factions didn't speak to one another, what each crew type typically wore, general attitudes of people who did this type of work, their rhetoric and speech patterns. After this, he tied his hair back in a high-sitting man-bun, slipped into some cover-alls that he'd dragged across dirt and soot - careful to wear it with one strap unclasped, put on some round spectacles that held no prescription in the lenses, and went to work.
No one seemed to realize he was new. He milled about according to their routines: working diligently, participating in their break times, and relaxing where they all hung out. In doing this, he discovered where they held the completed weapons, where they had the old factory employees forcibly working, and had some clues on who the head honcho was. When forced, he would make idle conversation but mostly kept to himself. This allowed him to overhear many helpful conversations, and lent to his portrayed image of ignorance. Yep, just a good ol' boy wanting to make a buck….
He reported his progress to the same general who'd dumped this particular headache on him, and requested to take in one or two other men to set up for the upcoming event the brigands were hyping up. The boss was supposed to make an appearance, and Dietfried was so ready to take him down and go back to his usual duties.
"Did you have specific men in mind for this particular maneuver?," he asked Dietfried, delighted by the sudden progress in the case.
"Trell Vogan and Viktor Litzbar," Dietfried answered without hesitation. These men were obviously the most competent for this uprising. Trell was the sharpest tactical shooter he'd seen since his brother, and Viktor moved with a fluid grace that was as entrancing to watch as it was deadly. Both together would make a lethal night for the brigands. His request was approved, and the men would join him at the unveiling ceremony tomorrow.
That evening, he took special care to visit with his mother. She seemed to be having a good night: her memory was mostly in tact at the start of his visit, and they were able to talk and laugh for a long while before she started to get tired. Her memory faded as her fatigue grew. As his time with her drew to a close, she laughed at his last story, then peered sadly at his face. "And, I'm sorry to ask, sir… but I've forgotten your name…." Sobered, he gave her the answer, and she smiled. "Ah yes, my son…. Dietfired. Of course…. Of course. I think I'll retire for the evening…. Good night."
She paused in the doorway, and turned to look back at him, shadows falling over her face from the dark hallway. "Oh, I just have the worst feeling…. You aren't in danger, are you, Captain?" The question sent chill bumps up his arms. There was a heaviness that settled into the room, but she seemed to forget she asked at all, and left her son alone. He wasn't superstitious in the least, but there was just something about his mother's outburst that had him unnerved. He made a special note to be cautious tomorrow.
Early the day of Unveiling, Viktor, who was to assist with the release of the employees, set up near the hovel they were forced into each day. Trell was stationed toward the rear of the building, directly opposite to Dietfired in the room that they were going to reveal their newest weapon. One, or both, would fire on Mr. Roke, the big bad wolf himself, who was standing in the center of the room on a makeshift stage of wooden pallets. Dietfried couldn't suppress his bewilderment as he looked up and saw none other that Violet Evergarden standing next to the man, her suitcase holding her typewriter grasped in her gloved hands.
Aggrieved, Dietfried pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. Of course…. Roke started the ceremony with words of grandeur and praise for their efforts and success on the new weapon, but Dietfried was so focused on altering his plans to ensure Violet's safety that he didn't quite catch all of it. He looked up and met Trell's questioning gaze. He made a subtle hand motion to indicate that the plan was changing. He tapped under his eye, then pointed to Trell and Roke. He then did the same to his other eye, his chest, and Violet. Trell gave the faintest of nods.
Violet kept her eyes downcast at her typewriter while she was introduced, performing a curtsy. As she rose from the motion, her blue eyes met his, and widened slightly in recognition. Dietfried was grateful for her lack of expression
"...And that is why I've hired this Doll: now you can write your loved ones about our success, and let them know we're on for our next step in the process! With this new gun, we can overrun the police and overtake this town!" His flunkies cheered, while some of the people just stared at him. These, Dietfried assumed, were forced into their supporting roles. "But, we will wait to start the official ceremony until after all the letters are complete! So, decide what order you want to go in, what you'd like for your families to know, and then we will re-congregate here. Dismissed!"
Hours drug by as each employee trickled into the designated space to have Violet type their letter. She worked swiftly, but there were many people in the crowd - about twenty-five in all, and indecisive with the lack of forewarning. The sealed envelopes next to her grew swiftly into large, neat stacks. Dietfried volunteered to go last, and when his turn finally arrived, he strode impatiently into her makeshift office, where she hovered, blank-faced, watching him with her fingers hovering over her typewriter keys.
"And who would you like your letter sent to?," she inquired, expectant.
"Gilbert," Dietfried said without hesitation, taking a seat before her. "Tell him his flower has taken yet another risky commission in an area I know her boss was properly warned off from, and that he should be sure to scold her." He kept his voice neutral, even dry, although as his eyes lit up with mischief. "And that I have a few ideas, should he need inspiration."
She put her hands in her lap, gaze sharp. "I find your behavior highly inappropriate. I have been commissioned to complete a letter for each employee here, and here you are dictating your own perverse thoughts to a man that we both know can't receive letters. I suggest you take this opportunity more seriously."
Dietfried sobered, then nodded. He had started to test her bantering skilss, but she was a slow study for anything beyond direct, honest communication. "Then, a letter to Claudia Hodgins. I need to have a discussion with you regarding Gilbert's little flower: she is showing signs of sass, individualism, and outright disregard for authority figures. What is the secret to cultivating the sort of environment required for such growth…? ….I approve." She hesitated at the end, annoyance crashing briefly into her features, then she was back to her typical expressionless demeanor.
"Dietfried… don't you have another topic of interest to write to others about? I think it might be more constructive to -" He held up a hand, expression somber.
"I don't want or need you to actually write a letter, Violet. You can type out whatever you want, but it will need to be for show. You have stumbled into another situation that risks your life, and I need to let you know what's about to happen here.
"As I'm sure you've guessed, this is a Navy operation. I have two other men here, and we're tasked with taking out Mr. Roke and this mystery weapon. You heard what he was planning. So when you go back out there, please be sure to leave promptly."
"I have not provided Mr. Roke a proper invoice yet of the services he is expected to pay for. He paid half of the estimate as a contractual deposit, but he must pay the other half before I depart. The fact that you plan to shoot him is irrelevant."
"Violet…. I think things will go south fast out there after the unveiling. I am trying to respect your desire to no longer kill." At this, she seemed to give her undivided attention over to Dietfried, the keys on her typewriter quiet. "For me to be able to assure your survival, without asking you to kill, I am asking you… please… to just stand back and try to stay out of the danger zone, okay?" She gave a faint nod, gave a few more pecks on the keys, then removed the paper from her typewriter to hand it to him. He glanced over it and gave a quiet snort. "Longfellow's 'A Psalm of Life'? You must've remembered it from the Bougainvillea esate…." He shook his head as he folded it and put the poem into his pocket. It was his favorite, and he'd purposely put it in the office area he'd half lived in these many months. Primarily due to the fact that he cleaned his gun in there, and he was always tempted to….
Well, that was hardly important just now. He left the room, Violet trailing behind him. They split off as he headed toward the back of the room, and she went to give notice and her finalized invoice to Mr. Roke. He glimpsed the total brusquely and half-crumpled the page in his hands as he retook the stage next to a large, sheet-covered item. "Everyone's done with their letters, then…?," he called out, eyes roaming across the faces before him. "Excellent. Gather around, all! I'm about to show you the most efficient weapon we've ever manufactured!" Dietfried met Trell's eyes, and nodded. He knew all this time that Viktor had been moving the employees to a lower floor, and just as this announcement was made, he'd entered the room and waded into the crowd, trying to get closer to the weapon.
Roke strode over to the sheet-covered item, and it struck Dietfried how much his eyes moved. It was almost as if he were searching for…. A cold chill swept up his arms. Violet was standing right next to him, and he was about to…! The next few moments, every detail was etched into Deitfried's awareness with fine detail as if the world were in slow-motion, even as the seconds whizzed by faster than bullets. He was moving before the sheet hit the ground, unveiling the shine of a silver auto machine gun. He'd almost made it to the pallets before the screams started, and the blood began to pour across the floor in great splashes of red.
Rata-tata-tata-rata-tata….. It was the melody of a macabre dance of death. Each beat, a bullet left the chamber and slammed into the throng of bodies, causing one more splatter of red, one awful twitch from the one hit, the body sprawling onto the floor in one limp schlap, then stillness. Person after person fell in Dietfried's peripheral vision. He dove onto the pallet and wrapped both arms around Violet as she dove toward the weapon - and thus, its weilder - with the intention of stopping the carnage. He had so much momentum built up that it took almost no effort to change her trajectory. One moment, she was dashing forward, the next she was wrapped up in the safety of his arms, and he was running her to safety.
Viktor was behind him in the fray of bullets, trying to get the survivors moving toward the exit. Trell had moved out of the way of the panicked, jostling crowd by moving onto the metal stairway. He was lining up a shot at Roke, who kept firing and laughing -a high, cackling, and broken sound that somehow carried over the gun's rapid fire. Viktor jerked, a bullet bursting through his body as Dietfried twisted toward the exit at the far end of the room, but he kept shouting to the people and managed to remain on his feet. Trell had moved higher, so that he could take a shot without endangering the bystanders. One POP from Trell's gun, Roke jerked, falling to his knees, yet still keeping his hand on the trigger. Somewhere toward Viktor's side of the room, fire had broken out and was spreading over the paperwork and desks.
Another POP, Roke's body spasmed, blood spurting from his neck as he sank down lower, his hand still on the trigger as he fell. The laughter stopped. The machine gun twisted with the change in pressure, and one final round of bullets scattered across the room. Dietfried lunged for the door, putting all of his strength into making it past the wooden frame of the exit, desperately hoping to save Violet.
Distant thoughts flickered through his mind.
His worried mother. You aren't in danger… are you Captain?
The drunkard on the street, who Roke had listened to far too well. I think it'd be… 'd be a fun time, ya know…? Trying out tha n-new stuffs on tha employees before we leave. They'll jus' talk to tha cops and then we'll be busted! All 's gonna take 's a BOOM, an' then lights out for thems guys!
Dietfried wondered if that drunk was one of the people whose eyes were glazing on the floor behind them as they cleared the doorway, and he hit the floor shoulder-first as the framework around the door splintered with the impact of bullets. He heard a crack as he and Violet scooted across the floor, but couldn't place the sound. Later, he'd realize his collarbone had fractured under the impact of the fall. Later, he'd realize that Viktor had collapsed in the room in flames, lost either to the flames or bullets, he couldn't be sure. Later, he'd know that there were no others left inside to save. What few made it to the doors unscathed had already rushed outside the smoking building, including Trell, who'd used a window nearby to climb down and away.
Adrenalin coursing through his veins, Dietfried lurched to his feet and set Violet down on hers, then he gripped her arms roughly as he drowned in the blue of her eyes. He didn't know he was one step away from snarling at her as he told her to run, that he was going back to check for survivors before the fire laid waste to what was left of them. He turned to go back in, but Violet grabbed his hand, preventing his departure. She somberly shook her head, and started pulling him toward the stairs down. She'd seen each person drop, each one as their eyes glossed over and the life fled their bodies. There were no survivors on that floor. She was just glad the fire would take that horrific weapon with it. Neither of them realized, during the moment nor after, that they held hands coming down the four flights of stairs down, then into the open air of freedom.
Emergency vehicles swarmed the scene, lights flashing as the air filled with the sickeningly sweet twinge of smoke and burning flesh. Medical aid was provided, then they began to collect reports of the incident. Dietfried, as one of the only few calm and collected people involved, was questioned by multiple police officers. Confirmation was provided from the House that this was a Naval operation, as Dietfried claimed, and this did a lot toward reducing animosity shown toward him. The same people had to hear his story again after that: he assumed they had believed him to be responsible for the death toll prior to the commemoration of his story by others.
Violet was given especially kind treatment as the only woman involved. She had a blanket thrown across her shoulders and a cup of hot chocolate in her hand as she wove through the crowd to Dietfried, where he leaned against the railing by the closed roadside. He watched her move, and couldn't find any suggestion of injury to her body's sway, yet something was off. There was a tightness around her eyes that many wouldn't have noticed – another man might say she wore the same blank expression – yet Dietfried knew better: Violet was sad, disheartened by the day. She leaned against the rails next to him, and they peered together at the smoking building, saying nothing for a long moment.
"This will be yet another nightmare to awaken to," Dietfried said with a cool voice, accepting the reality of the survivor's guilt that always assaulted him after these sorts of things. "But at least Trell is alive…. His wife would shoot me in my sleep if he didn't make it back to her."
"And what of your other man that was in there?," she probed gently. "Viktor, wasn't it?"
"Gone," he half-whispered, the strength he'd been clinging to starting to fail him. "But he was the last of his family. He had no romantic interests: he had married his work, and was a good soldier. He was shot down while trying to hustle out the panicked workers. Either the wound or the fire took him, maybe both."
"Do you often memorize the personal lives of your men?"
"Who else will take care of the people they leave behind? The government ended the practice of supplying coin to the Soldier's Effects Fund years ago due to budget cuts and the increased military action of our country, which caused widows and orphans of the soldiers to multiply a hundred fold. Even if I don't help them personally, I'll call in favors to help them get jobs, provide resources such as my personal lawyer for specific services…." He shrugged, carefully not looking at Violet, whose eyes were so focused on him that he felt the need to squirm. "Whatever that can be done to help their transition…."
"And for men like Viktor? What do you do for those who have left no one behind?"
Dietfried turned to look at those deep blue eyes to provide his answer. "I remember them, grieve for them, and wish that good soldier was still alive and a lousy guy like myself could take their place in an afterlife I don't believe in, while they get to finish their time here. I think of all the ways I could've acted differently just for the possibility of another outcome….
"But each time I fall down into that rabbit hole, I eventually accept the reality that they're gone, and I'm here, no matter how much I don't deserve to be. I accept that I failed to protect them, even though I hate it. Sometimes I'll hate myself and want to die. You know better than most that the life of a soldier leaves you with horrible, disfiguring scars no one can see on the outside. Yet, you see them yourself, and feel unworthy of love. Undeserving of joy. Yet, as the wounds heal and turn to more scars, you can't help but look to a future where, maybe – just maybe – someone will look at you with love in their eyes. That… perhaps… though you'll never be free of them, maybe your scars will begin to fade with time, and you can be allowed happiness. Love."
He looked at the ground to gather himself, then back up at Violet. "What of you, Violet Evergarden? Have you started to search for love again, after all this time of grieving Gilbert?" She flinched a bit around the bottom of her eyes, and Dietfried was ashamed he'd even asked. He knew she still had not given up hope that someday his brother would walk back into her life. "Sorry. Forget I asked…. Excuse me, won't you? I've got some important business to attend to with the House."
He did not give her time to respond. He almost ran from her as she stood silhouetted by the orange rays of a setting sun.