Chapter 2
Army Group South Headquarters
German Occupied Poltava Oblast, Ukraine
1 June 1942
...
"Frau Heydrich. You have my promise that Reinhard is being treated by the best physicians in the field of medicine. I regret you cannot be by his side, but it's for the best."
"I- I understand, my Führer, I appreciate the concern all of you have... I just... I don't know what to do."
Standing to the side of the room, Heinrich Himmler watched silently as the Führer patted the woman's hand as though he had been her father. There was a slight sympathetic smile offered to the pregnant woman. He was not the only one in the room watching the exchange, standing off near the Führer's desk were Joseph and Magda Goebbels. Magda had the good sense to look upset for the near loss Lina Heydrich had suffered. Joseph, however, could not erase his smirk. Himmler figured that was the only expression that rat bastard knew of.
"I know what Reinhard would want of you, Lina," the Führer spoke confidently, his voice still filled with sympathy. "He would want for you to go with Frau Goebbels and lay down. You must be strong for your husband and for the child you carry. You must be strong for all of us."
As if on cue, Frau Goebbels broke rank with her husband and joined the Führer's side. Her hands reached taking the woman into her arms. The Führer leaned in, patting the woman on her cheek.
"Go to sleep, know all of the Reich prays for his recovery."
Frau Heydrich nodded, and with that, Magda Goebbels led the woman past Himmler and out of the Führer's office. Goebbels and Himmler did not speak as they watched the Führer pace, his reassuring smile for the woman vanished into an expression of terse worry.
"Idiot boy, an open top car and one guard… such foolish overconfidence. What's his condition, Himmler?" he looked up to the head of the SS. Taking it as his cue to join the Führer, Himmler stepped forward.
"He's stable, my Führer, the prognosis is looking good."
Himmler had to admit, it was surprisingly easy to keep little things such as how Heydrich was in orbit above the Earth from the Führer. Ignorance seemed to be bliss to him.
The Führer nodded his head and rambled away from Himmler and Goebbels as he took a seat behind his desk. His hand reached up and pulled off his cap, setting it carefully on the desk as stared off, deep in contemplation about the Heydrich affair. Frowning, he turned up and glanced at the toadying Goebbels who was looming over the leader.
"Go and see to Frau Himmler and Magda, my friend," the Führer requested of his old friend. "I would like a minute alone with Heinrich."
The look of arrogance was wiped off the cripple's face. Himmler could not have been more pleased with the Führer's rejection of him from the offices he had latched himself into like a tumour.
To understand the factions within the party was quite simple really. Goebbels, the academic, radical snob, looked down on the industrialists and so-called aristocrats who took up Nazism to protect their estates from Communism. It put him toe to toe against Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering, who, if anything, felt there wasn't more of an aristocratic edge to the Party as it was, which he blamed radicals and race baiters such as Goebbels for. Of course, he would have had more of that aristocratic edge had he not stirred up so much rage from the officer class, the born and raised Prussian Junkers who grew more and more weary with the regime they did nothing to stop when there was still time.
Of course, that was where the SS came into play. Though Goering may have held the second most powerful post in the Reich, it was Himmler as head of the security services who held all the power. It made him the source of ire from the cripple and the junkie, who effectively cost them the air war over the English. Until the Luftwaffe was rebuilt, his only power base would continue to be marginalized. Only Himmler held any tangible power of the three. The other two were left feeding off the few scraps the Führer would so generously provide his two pets.
As Goebbels left in a silent childlike fit, he was replaced by a much taller and stronger built man. The man was Otto Skorzeny, the newly proclaimed Saviour of Vienna. The Führer's face lit up at the younger man's presence. He had a soft spot for soldiers, especially ones that did not conform to the old soldier mentality of the first war. He approached the scar-faced fellow Austrian, his hand outstretched all ready. He gripped Otto's arm, chuckling softly as Skorzeny tried to offer his respect to the jubilant Führer.
"Himmler, I am sure you have met Otto Skorzeny?" he spoke, patting the Commando's arm as though he was his father.
Himmler inclined his head to the giant who turned to him and offered a salute to him next. Not that the Führer needed to know, but he decided to place Skorzeny in that museum on that fateful night.
"Briefly when I went to assure the Austrian people," Himmler lied. Adolf Hitler nodded, his joy quickly turning into a look of sombreness as he turned his attention to Skorzeny once more.
"I am certain that you have heard the terrible fate that has befallen ever loyal Heydrich... terrible, just terrible…" he muttered, shaking his head with distress. "He lives, but his assassins roam free as we speak now."
Skorzeny lowered his head; he appeared to be just as distressed, keyword being appeared.
It looked to Himmler that Skorzeny did not feel the same sort of pity for Heydrich that the Führer held. Himmler could not blame the soldier. Heydrich was far too ruthless a man to shed many tears for. It took an entire plane ride to Prague for Himmler to build up enough empathy for the man who was constantly at his throat, constantly trying to take the power base Himmler spent a decade building. Truth was, Himmler was surprised an assassination attempt was tried earlier against Heydrich, who was a man who took many risks, such as having a keen interest in flying. It was as though the nations that stood against the Reich were schizophrenic. They were either too timid to take a risk or engaged in long odd drastic attacks such as in Austria back in February.
"I have heard, my Führer. I am aware of his family as well, his wife and three children with one on the way," Skorzeny spoke, his voice echoing with sympathy. "I would hope that they stay away from the Czech people from now on."
Hitler patted the SS commando's forearm before he turned away and took a seat behind his desk.
"That is why I asked your presence here," he spoke once more to the now standing at attention Skorzeny. "Frau Heydrich plans on returning to the home as an act of defiance against the menace that would see her family dead. I would like you to serve as her security. Until Heydrich is recovered I want you to protect her as though she were your wife. Do that and you will have a grateful friend in me."
Skorzeny clicked his boots together as the Führer offered his hand. He shook his hand firmly.
"Of course, my Führer," Skorzeny assured him. "I will watch over the family."
Earning an appreciative nod from the Führer, Skorzeny released his grip and as he was about to turn and leave, he paused as he noticed that the Führer held up his hand.
"I would not wish to waste your real talents with something so mundane... I should also ask another favour from you," he continued, dropping his hand onto his desk. "I want these assassins brought before a court of law and hung. If not possible, you have my blessing to act with lethality. Anything you need for your hunt, consider it provided. No cost is too much for hunting and bringing these criminals to justice."
Skorzeny blinked. Himmler would have too if he had been in the commando's place… a blank cheque to hunt to men down like animals?
Himmler could nearly sympathize with the commando who had gained the Führer's favour so quickly. Between protecting a family and hunting down those two monsters, he would have his hands full.
...
...
Panzer Army Afrika Forward Command Headquarters
Al Jawf, Italian Libya
It was good to be back in his command centre.
For the past week or so, Generaloberst Erwin Rommel had found himself rushing up and down his two defensive lines. Its purpose was twofold: Firstly to defend against attacks coming out of Tobruk, the second, to protect against the English build-up growing in Egypt. For now, Alexander had decided the best course was to probe his thousand-kilometre line for any holes… a very annoying thing to be doing. Especially when he had seen that line would hold up.
Not for long, however, defensive positions were only so good in the long run of the campaign. What he needed was an offensive to stop the English hit-and-run attacks. What Rommel needed to take was Tobruk, as his original offensive had intended to do.
With the oil fields and refineries being built under the watchful eyes of his troops and a large amount of Romanian synthetic fuel at his disposal, saved thanks to his choice to only engage in a limited offensive which in itself was a great display of personal restraint. It would be enough to take Tobruk next and reach the borders of Egypt as he wanted to do.
The things that now stopped his offensive were manpower and tanks, equipment. It took a lot to maintain the Libyan line. It gave Rommel a real appreciation for the men in the east who had to bleed dry holding the winter wastelands of Russia. So it looked as though Rommel would have to go to Europe, meet the Führer, and beg him to send him more men and tanks. A task made impossible by the Führer's obsession with destroying the Soviets and failing to properly judge the English.
Well, if it happened or not, it would be worth a try. He made a promise to an alien which he would keep. For now though. It would be nice to finally get some sleep.
Stepping into his room, however, told him that his desire would be shoved to the side. Sitting quietly where Rommel took his meals was her. Admiral Utala'Falan, her arms crossed, her mask off her face, revealing her approaching middle-aged features. Rommel narrowed his eyes, he hadn't asked for an alien presence.
"Admiral Falan," Rommel greeted, his voice strained. "I should have guessed that I would find a quarian snooping around my quarters. What brings you here?"
Unfazed by his annoyance, Falan stood up and moved towards the worn-out General.
"Checking up on your progress."
Rommel narrowed his eyes even closer.
"Preparing my defences, as you can see Admiral," was his simple response to her question. "Alexander is harassing me while Montgomery has been preparing an offensive against us. You'll have to forgive my lack of desire to have a conversation about where I stand. I want to sleep for a few hours before the next attack I need to repulse. I just don't have time to chat at your leisure."
Falan nodded her head, giving Rommel time to move away from her, stripping off his dusty jacket and officer cap. He sat down where Falan had been sitting and kicked off his boots.
"I can help you, you know," Falan finally got out, turning to face Rommel once more. "I made a promise to Calis before she passed on as well. What do you need? I think we can help each other."
Rommel arched his brow. What could she possibly get for him?
"What I need are men on the ground, tanks leading the charge and fighter planes covering the advance," Rommel listed off as he poured himself a glass of water. "If you can get me that, we'll be on much more friendly terms."
The request gave Falan a brief pause before she looked up once again and nodded her head.
"I'll see what I can do," was her simple response. As though finding him two hundred thousand men and a thousand panzers were but a simple, mundane task to her.
Rommel narrowed his eyes. Was this woman being serious? Was she that deluded? Before he could retort, Falan spoke once more.
"Did you think you were the only General we are keeping our eyes on?" she asked, as though amused by his apparent arrogance. "As I speak to you one of our Admirals is making nice with Gerd von Rundstedt."
Rommel absorbed the information and suddenly, he laughed.
"Surely this is told to me as a joke… you have contacted that stodgy, old codger?" Rommel managed to get out. "He's sitting on his ass in France undoubtedly, hoarding his million-man garrison and starting fights with the Führer? That's who you're talking to?"
Still chuckling, he moved past the quarian and went to sit on his bed, a clear sign that he wanted this conversation wrapped up as soon as he possibly could.
"If your Admiral can convince that old fool to part with a single platoon, a single tank or plane, then you dress me up as an Itaker and call me Cavallero," The general smirked as he stretched onto his bed.
Glancing over, he noticed Falan raised her eyebrow. She appeared amused enough to accept the challenge from the General. She turned away, grabbing her faceplate and started to leave, presumably to rejoin her people as she usually did. Rommel sighed; he was probably being less than diplomatic with her.
"Wait a second, Admiral," he called out, catching her attention. He gestured to his locker.
Frowning, Falan opened the metal box, frowning slightly; she leaned in and retrieved what he had requisitioned a few weeks back. He wasn't sure why he got it, or if he wanted to give it to her. To be honest, Rommel did not have time to babysit an Admiral during his operations, a woman no less. But... perhaps it would be best if stayed... progressive for the time being, besides, with Falan staying long term rather than her fleeing after a few hours every other week. It would give her a clearer picture of the war she had decided to get involved in.
"It's baggy for a reason," Rommel commented as Falan retrieved the leather boots and forage cap next. "If you want to continue overseeing my operations, then I suggest you do it not wearing that damn suit of yours and find a way to look more human. Like the Jarva girl did… I think she utilized coloured contacts."
Falan stared at the uniform and nodded grimly. At least she seemed open to seeing the war first-hand
...
...
As predicted by the old Junker, it wasn't long before the Führer decided to call Gerd von Rundstedt out of forced retirement.
It was a much less chaotic post this time thankfully. He took command of Army Group West, Located in the occupied zone of France. It was a quiet posting. His troubles were usually with the French resistance groups that harassed his men. Compared to the East it was like a child in the back of the class shooting balls at the teacher; his other task was to begin construction of the Atlantic wall along the coastline of France. In actuality, it was a small section of the wall, which was meant to extend from France to Denmark and up to Norway. As always, the Führer had decided to outdo himself yet again.
Regardless, the command was just what he needed. He was starting to feel cooped up at home, babied by his wife, his son and even his grandchildren. He had fought in more conflicts than any of them could imagine. He had a heart attack marching into Minsk and still he continued his command. He was not built to be doted on like a perpetually ill child.
Having his command also ensured himself more privacy, meaning he could find more time to be in contact with the Admiral, Halid Zorah or whatever it was. It gave him much time to consider why he was here, why his race was currently orbiting Mars under the guise of a mining operation.
Mining... On Mars… Christ, what did he get himself into?
More contact with Zorah meant that he had the time to come to a conclusion about the people that now shared their solar system with. They were a proud race, descended into desperation. They were not much different from Germany after the Great War. Broken by a galaxy of aliens who decided to place the guilt of a few on an entire species. Were these turians and asari too stupid to comprehend what the wholesale extermination of an entire species looked like? Did they keep their heads in the sand and wait until the screams and pleas of the quarian people subsided into near silence?
In conclusion, Rundstedt had only three words to describe the collective alien nations that paid no mind to what had happened.
They were fucked.
Vulgar language, but well earned by their guile to act indecisively. The blood of ten or so billion quarians was on their hands and they had the nerve to call the one percent that survived vagrants, Bastards, the whole lot of them.
The door opening caught his attention. He looked up and found a stocky man standing before him, his uniform unkempt, he wore his old Great War boots and leggings as a badge of pride and a way to annoy the more regulation uniform types.
Generaloberst Gotthard Heinrici.
Gotthard Heinrici was a clear-cut example of the adage 'Never judge a book by its cover'. Physically, he was short in stature. He held a personality that was vastly different to most commanders in the Wehrmacht. He was shy and reserved in the way he conducted himself. These traits would make the more foul-mouthed members of the general staff - notably Walter Model - look down on the Prussian with disdain.
Though he appeared soft, the image he had was a front. He did not earn the nickname Unser Giftzwerg - Our Poison Dwarf - for nothing. His reserved personality hid a well-managed tactical mind. He was placed in charge of the Fourth Army after the failure to capture Moscow. There he held the lines with a tactic that impressed his superiors and shocked the Russians. He nearly had a sixth sense when it came to the Soviet attacks on his line. He pulled his men and tanks out of the line before the initial artillery barrage hit, The moment the artillery attack ceased, Heinrici moved his unharmed men back to their positions to face the hordes and beat them back every time.
Rundstedt smirked slightly. He would have thought that if the Soviets had done their homework and studied the offensives at the Somme. It was nearly identical to what von Galwitz and von Below did to that pig, Douglas Haig and his English and dominion pawns.
Though his military record was impressive, it was his faith and the fact that he was Rundstedt's cousin that brought him here. Traditional Religion and Nazism was like water and oil. It did not mix properly, being his cousin only strengthened his decision that it would be best to first approach him before anyone else.
"With all due respect to you, Herr Generalfeldmarschall, I was trying to enjoy my leave," Heinrici spoke as he stepped towards the now-standing Rundstedt, Rundstedt cracked the younger man a small grin as he greeted Heinrici with a firm handshake.
"Cousin, I'm glad you have made it," Gerd greeted Gotthard, dropping his hand to his side. "I wish I had time for more pleasantries, but we must get down to business. Come and take a seat."
Glancing at his Generalfeldmarschall relative curiously, Gotthard obliged, taking a seat on the couch offered to him. Following closely, Rundstedt took a seat next to him.
"Before I even so much as tell you why I ask for your presence, you must swear on your honour that what is said is not spoken to anyone," Rundstedt spoke to Heinrici, whose expression curved into curiosity. "I must be very careful who I confide in. Give me your word. Or I will have to ask that you leave."
There was a long pause taken by the Generaloberst before he finally nodded his head gravely.
"You have my word, Cousin," was his solemn agreement. "What is troubling you?"
Rundstedt turned away from his cousin; he stood back up and wandered to open the doors leading to his private study. Sitting behind Gerd's desk was Halid'Zorah, clad in Heer attire. His arm was covered in an illuminating blue. With a simple nod of his head when he noticed the Generalfeldmarschall standing there, he stood up and followed Rundstedt back to Heinrici's company.
Smiling and looking ready to speak, Heinrici turned, took in the alien standing next to his elder cousin and shot out of his seat, his hand fumbling for the pistol in his holster. Rundstedt stepped in front of Zorah and simply stared down his cousin until he finally let go of the pistol grip.
"Wh-what is that?" he slipped out, losing his calm. Zorah was by no means offended thankfully.
Rundstedt stepped forward and gestured to Zorah.
"He belongs to a race that has been watching ours for many years," was Rundstedt's response. "He is quarian. This is Admiral Halid'Zorah. Admiral Zorah, my cousin Generaloberst Gotthard Heinrici."
With introductions made and Heinrici sufficiently calmed down, the lanky quarian Admiral stepped past Rundstedt, his hand outstretched to the shocked-looking human. Heinrici looked at the gesture and then to Gerd, who nodded his head. Apprehensive, Gotthard took his hand and took a seat once more. His eyes never left the alien in the Wehrmacht uniform.
"Your cousin has spoken nothing of praise for you," Zorah welcomed Gotthard as he took a seat as well. "As I understand it, you hold no love for those you ultimately answer."
The words spoken by the quarian made the shock in Gotthard's face vanish, replacing it with a deep scowl.
"Do I... hold any love for the Hitlerites?" Heinrici repeated the question, chuckling as he set the glass down on the table. He leaned back into his seat, his attention finally falling onto Zorah's bright eyes.
"Their racial policies have put a lot of my friends out of work, blacklisted from the service for having a bit of Jewish blood," Heinrici pressed on, his voice low, "men who fought and sacrificed during the last war. Men who sympathize with their idea of a strong, powerful Germany, but now find themselves threatened with deportation for a faith or blood that the brown shirts do not agree with."
Gotthard huffed and grabbed his brandy the moment Gerd had finished topping it off.
"My wife... my Gertrude; I have been married to her for decades, but because she holds Jewish blood, I had to ask permission from the Führer himself to let me stay married to her! Permission!" Heinrici repeated wildly. "My children had to receive German blood certificates because they are quarter Jewish. My line has served the German states since the twelfth century and some Austrian demagogue comes along and has to permit my children to be German!? Madness... it is nothing short of sheer madness!"
Heinrici pounded the glass of Brandy down and slammed it onto the table. His face addled with disgust.
"So no, Herr Zorah," he continued, her teeth gritted. "I hold no love for a government that would subject my family to such trials, make me choose between my faith and my country, then have the gall to depend on me when their suicidal campaign in the east falls apart."
Gotthard went silent and turned his head to stare at the wall defiantly. Rundstedt and the young quarian Admiral shared a look. Sighing, Gerd stood up and went back to his desk, grabbing a bottle of brandy and two glasses before turning to his seat next to his cousin. Pouring two generous glasses, he slid one over to Gotthard, who grabbed it and took a careful sip.
Silence fell heavy over the small group gathered. Zorah appeared speechless by the rant. Hell, so was Gerd who had not thought Heinrici could get so worked up over this. He sighed and decided to press on.
"At this rate, the war is lost," Rundstedt spoke, surprising Heinrici into looking up at his cousin. "If the Russians beat back the renewed offensive, if they get enough momentum, they will not be stopped until they reach Berlin. The ones we answer to offer us nothing but death... but with quarian aid. We can stop it."
Heinrici's eyes wearily turned to the alien, who nodded his head.
"When we last spoke, I said I could not condone the planned overthrowing of any regime the brown shirts set up, not without a reason," Rundstedt spoke again; he gestured to Zorah and added. "This man has shown me the reason for such an action. They want to help us win this war. First, however, we must remove those who would see to our nation's eventual suicide course."
Zorah cleared his thought, leaning back into his seat.
"My colleagues feel that the strength this nation has is what we want to side with. The thing that turns us off with the political leadership you have now," Zorah spoke, his voice becoming delicate. "I have been watching them closely. They are not men we want to associate with. Some wish to abandon you to an eventual decline and death of your state."
He paused, his lips perched as he tilted his head.
"If we can... fix these mistakes, they will change their minds," he finished, lips forming a ghost of a smile.
Rundstedt sat there quietly. His eyes closed. Fixing the mistakes only meant one thing. Betraying the oath he swore to defend. Heinrici on the other hand, looked far less apprehensive and much more enthused by such a suggestion as offing the entire political leadership of the Third Reich.
"What do you need?" he spoke breathlessly.
Zorah and Gerd shared a look at the strange enthusiasm.
"I need you to write a list of men you can trust," Rundstedt spoke on behalf of Zorah. "We need men who share your views, and who share our heritage. We cannot trust all of the Generals just the ones who have our background."
Heinrici cocked his brow.
"Junker Prussians?" he repeated, looking amused by the suggestion. "I know of many non-Prussians who feel the way we do."
"Which will be fine once we build up a loyal enough core to begin with," Rundstedt countered tersely. "I cannot give this secret to commoners with a general uniform. The younger men of our ranks are more compromised. They were brought in by the National Socialists. We are all compromised in some way. We have to make an effort to sort out by level of involvement."
He sighed.
"The way I see it, the only people in Germany that can save our nation is Prussian aristocracy, and the officers who served our nation first before the brown shirts came to power," Rundstedt finished, gesturing to the direction of his study and added. "Please use my study. If you wish to write down names of non-Prussians, I will take a closer look at them as well."
Heinrici glanced between the two men and nodded his head. He stood up, taking his glass and the brandy into the other room, leaving Gerd and Zorah alone once more. Zorah followed Heinrici to the door and closed it after the General before turning back to face Rundstedt.
"Speaking of Generals," Zorah spoke as he moved back to Gerd. "I must ask of something on behalf of your man in the desert."
Rundstedt narrowed his eyes at the quarian. It did not take a genius to know who he was referring to.
"Rommel?" he assumed a distasteful tone at the mention of the General. "What about that overinflated braggart? You are in contact with him?"
Amused by the annoyance of the old Junker, Zorah nodded.
"My fellow Admiral, Utala'Falan keeps in contact with his efforts in the North African front," was his explanation. "Rommel needs an advocate in Europe. He has fuel and sure footing. If you can lobby Hitler into giving him more men, he could effectively conquer the front. It would relieve strain on the war effort if there were a few months of peace in the west before the Americans make a landing in Africa."
Rundstedt leaned back into his seat, pondering the suggestion. Perhaps the quarians were right, once the English were confined to their island instead of roaming freely so close to Italy, it would relieve the pressure on the Eastern front. Of course, that meant having to give Rommel more men, and with the North African campaign won by him, all of the praise and ego inflation that came with it.
Oh well, one had to take the good with the bad.
...
...
Reinhard Heydrich's eyes flew open, as he emitted a sudden a room filing scream.
Through his blurred vision, he could hear strange voices and figures rush around him, hands touched against his flesh. He tried to bat the hands away but his grip was a shadow of his usual strength. Instead, his hands wiped his tired eyes, forcing them to focus. He turned his attention to a shining light. He lay there shirtless. Several metallic wires were sticking out of his chest, the occasional blinking lights emitting from him.
Breathing hard as he gaped widely at the sheer amount of machinery that was keeping him alive, he shifted and tried to push himself out of bed. He was stopped by the same hand he felt touch him before. His eyes flew wide over to find the source of the pressure against his chest. He found it. Standing over him was a curious alien. Male from what he could make out, his face offering him a look of sympathy.
What in the hell had happened to him? Where was he? Was he... was he with the quarians?
"You're safe now," the quarian male's voice spoke over his unbridled fear. "Your assistant Eichmann called on us to take care of you. The machines buried in your flesh are cleaning your body of shrapnel. Limited invasive surgery, There was a hole in your lung. As we speak millions of nanites are attaching to the torn open lung tissue and making a cellular wall to simulate the tissue you lost."
The explanation probably would have made sense if Heydrich had been clear-minded. He wasn't so everything the man had said to him made no sense in the slightest. Regardless, he could feel his bed shift as the alien took a seat on the edge of the bed, his eyes nearly hypnotizing the groggy Head of the Reich Main Security Offices.
"Kalar'Ostaro vas Narea, I am the chief physician brought on to treat your injuries," the man introduced himself, his hand refastening some of the machinery implanted into Heydrich's chest. "I've been told that there was an assassination attempt made against your life. You were brought here for recuperation."
Heydrich was in terrible condition; his mind was foggy with drugs. All he wanted to do was to go back to sleep, but his thoughts were racing and forcing him to fight as much as he could against his body's need to shut down and let the drugs take him. All he could think about was Lina and the children at first. It was a curious longing to be with them. There was a twisting in his gut as he realized his family was likely still in the Protectorate. Hopefully, Eichmann got them back into the Reich.
He rolled his head over to look up at the blurry quarian physician. Realizing he was in no condition to be making demands of the aliens, Heydrich laid back, his mind wandering back to the attack. He could still see the would-be assassin's face, he could remember that moment of involuntary fear he recalled the heat and shattering pain of the explosion that he was washed in. The anger in him built and built as his mind attempted to devise his response. With any luck, his people back on Earth already knew what he would do and it was well underway.
"Once the treatments are completed, we'll begin with the cosmetic surgery," he could faintly make out the doctor's words. "We can remove most of the scar tissue in as little as a few treatments."
Heydrich opened his eyes and focused his dilated pupils the best he could on the physician hovering over him.
"I don't have time to waste on vanity…" Heydrich managed somehow to slur to the quarian. "I have so much work to do."
Lidice would be reduced to ashes and rubble.
...
I meant to drop a note on the last chapter however I was in a rush yesterday. Uplifted: Intervention was a weird story to write. I had so many ideas that some of the plots never went anywhere. There were some new character descriptions that I got wrong. One is less obvious, the other far more. I will add details at the end of the story or as the events transpire. The story is less Hoch focused more on the overall situation. He is still there, but we will get back to him in the following stories. I will be dropping a chapter every day unless I see I need to work on a chapter more.
As always, thanks for reading.