Die Neue Deutsche Monarchie

It was fully dark out by the time they reached the marina and Colonel Hoffmann had to be roused from his sleep. He was in his pajamas right now, an officer cap on his head to tell people who he was. His aide had brought them both coffee and a chair for Hans, where he now sat.

"Looks like I'm homeless now, so you got what you wanted. Assuming you don't kick me out in the morning," Hans said. "Who were those guys, anyway?"

Hoffmann rubbed his forehead and sighed. "Soldiers of the Neue Deutsche Monarchie."

"The New German Monarchy? I see. And what's their story?"

"Backwards, braindead, and bunk. Their leadership peddles something called 'convergence', whatever that is. They're aggressive, violent expansionists. We've been at war for some time now, them and us."

"Uh huh, and what was your organization's name again?" Hans asked.

Hoffmann took a sip of his coffee. "The Euro-American Alliance, though I am not its leader. The bulk of our forces and leadership are elsewhere, fighting on other fronts."

"Americans? You have Americans in your midst? Color me surprised," Hans said, incredulous.

"Most of our leadership is American, actually. Comprised of Americans stranded here when The Bomb came."

Hans didn't believe a word of it. "Everyone knows America was erased from the face of the world. Them and China both. So these Americans, what...? Want to get Europe back on its feet and then sail across the Atlantic to go home to their glassed homeland? I'd pass. Cologne is bad enough; I'd hate to see what America's really like now."

"Yes, well, the Americans here fight ferociously and have tech I've never seen before, so they can believe whatever they like when it comes to the current state of the U.S. Sure, we've got energiegewehrs and semi-powered armor suits, but they're all crude imitations of what the Americans are rocking. Only our Gauss technology can match up with them, not that it matters since they're our allies."

"I have some experience with Americans," Hans said, thinking back to his trip to Air Station Richardson the year before. "And I've seen the way they fight. Ferocious is being kind, they're all fucking psycho."

Hoffmann smiled. "Good thing they're on our side then, eh?"

"Your side," Hans said. "I'm still just a guy fresh off the street, though you do have quite a nice file on me. It's missing some stuff, though."

"Like some of the things you did with the Final Order? Like I said, I'm familiar. You hate Rotters, Sturmutants, communists, and all the other trash latched onto Germany's ass. You want it all gone, same as I do. Offer still stands."

Hans sighed. He didn't hate Rotters and Sturmutants, or at least that's what he told himself, but he was old enough to remember life before The Bomb. Uncomfortable, miserable, and uncertain, but nothing like life in the Deutsche Odland. Once upon a time he'd do anything to make life like it was the way, and that meant removing all of the mutants from the equation, but today he considered that ship to have sailed.

"It doesn't matter what I want," Hans said. "Life isn't about what you want, it's about what you earn."

Hoffmann pointed at him. "There, see, that's what I'm talking about. You're a pragmatist. A man who understands our shared reality. But the thing is you're wrong; it can be changed. If you could only see the work the rest of the EAA is doing you'd sign on."

"Sure I would. Tell me, how exactly do you know so much about me anyway?" Hans asked, putting his hands behind his head and putting his right ankle on his left knee.

"I served in the Final Order. You and your team accomplished great things. The prototype jet engines from the BMW headquarters, Item 224 from that military base, valiantly defending the Kehlsteinhaus against the Coalition. You fought hard."

"Fat lot of good it did us all."

Hoffmann sighed. "What I don't understand is why you're like you are now. One part of you still clearly wants to fight, to make things right. The other part is a jaded defeatist who's given up. We'll see which one wins in the end, I guess."

"Yeah I guess you will," Hans said. "So what's it gonna be; you kicking me out or letting me stay?"

"I didn't think you wanted any part of what we're doing."

"Didn't you hear what I said yesterday? Put me in charge of tending a field or cleaning toilets and I'll be happy," Hans said.

Hoffmann smiled again. "Like I said yesterday, we have other ideas for you. So here's the deal: you can leave right now, and go try to find somewhere else to live. Walk out that door and you'll never see me or anyone else from the EAA ever again."

"Sounds like a threat."

"Or," Hoffmann continued, "you work for us as a problem solver. We pay you, feed you, give you a place to stay, the works. You can go freelance or you can build a team, whichever works for you. Even get your old buddies in on the action if you like. Help us fight the NDM and build a better tomorrow, the thing you've always wanted to do."

Hans pinched the bridge of his nose. "I lost all my stuff in the fire. My shotgun, my armor, everything. You gonna hook me up?"

"I'll give you some cash to start. Five hundred dollars."

"Marks? You use paper money?"

"We use American dollars, actually. The higher-ups have quite a bit of it. Where they found it all is beyond me. Held in banks if I had to guess. We've got some merchants here at the marina, they can get you geared up."

"I see," Hans said. "And what kind of job did you have in mind for me?"

Hoffmann took another sip of his coffee. "There's this cult in the town across the lake, Friedrichshagen. A militant cult, full of really freaky people. They've been harassing traveling merchants and caravan convoys that travel between here and there, demanding they 'pay penance' to their god, whatever. They're not violent per se, but they're a nuisance. Worse, I'm worried it will escalate to violence soon. I want them gone. Your choice how it gets done, gun or gab, either way they've got to go."

"Christ's sake," Hans said, rubbing the side of his head. The options weren't great, but they never were and he knew that. If he left he'd have to find a new place to stay, far away from these people and the NDM and whoever else out there had a file on him an inch thick. Though he played it off that part still disturbed him, that this guy knew so much about him. Whether he actually served in the Final Order or not Hans couldn't say, but he knew he didn't trust the guy. Still, the offer was good, and the alternative was to pick up the pieces and start over again.

You're doing that right now anyway, he thought.

"Fine," Hans finally said. "Fine. I'm in. But I need to get some sleep and spend the morning gearing up. I want some breakfast in the morning, too. On the house. I'll also need a ride to Friedrichshagen. I'm not swimming across the damn lake."

"Don't worry, the ferries aren't just for show," Hoffmann said. He opened a drawer on his desk, pulled out a locked box, and opened it. After a minute he finished counting out the bills and handed them to Hans. He couldn't read English for nothing, despite having pilfered an English dictionary from Air Station Richardson, but he could do math, and five times 100 came out to 500. He shoved the bills into his pocket and stood.

"Show me to my room."

The next morning Hans awoke, stared at the ceiling for five minutes, and got up. He grabbed his pistol belt from the nightstand, put it on, and spent at least an hour taking advantage of the esteemed Colonel Hoffmann's breakfast spread. Most of it was American rations gussied up to look good and taste half as well, but there were some fresh eggs and bacon from a local farm. After indulging himself he spent half an hour sitting in the relatively-ritzy pre-war yacht club, where all the furniture that still had all its stuffing was located, reading a locally produced newspaper. Half was in English and the other half in German, but the pictures hand-glued to the pages between the articles told him both halves were identical.

The contents, however, told him nothing of value. It was mostly crop yields, caravan schedules, and even some ads ('pre-war bobbleheads! Limited! No low-ballers, I know what I've got!'). There was little in the paper about the EAA, the NDM, or other settlements, besides a warning about the cultists in Friedrichshagen. His target.

When he was done he left the marina's main building to a large garage nearby, where the market was located. The garage's large doors were all open, revealing it'd once held modestly-sized pleasure boats and speedboats. They'd all been hauled out to the docks or stripped for parts, leaving the space open for merchants and caravanners to set up their stalls. Hans entered the busy market and made his way to the clothier, who had a respectable selection of armor on display as well as pre-war clothes. The prices were reasonable, even if they were a little inflated by virtue of the guy being the only armor vendor around. The handmade leather cuirass lined with fitted still and wool wasn't as nice as the American combat armor he'd lost in the fire, but it would stand up to pistol bullets at least.

Next order of business was to get a new gun, since the Mars Automatic wouldn't cut it alone. He spotted a stall with a neon sign shaped like a V2 and decided it was the likely bet. He approached the stall, which was mostly just a table meant to bear the neon sign. Behind it was a man in a chair, leaning back and reading a book: Die Geachteten. "Hey pal," Hans said. "I'm looking for a new gun. A rifle or shotgun, something light and reliable."

"Talk to the girl," said the man. "I'm just the guard."

"Girl?"

There was a scuffing noise from beneath the table and a girl of maybe nine years old crawled out, pulling out a metal box behind her. She was blonde, with blue eyes, and wearing a green shirt under a set of boys' lederhosen. Her hair came down to her shoulders, dirty and unkempt. "Hi there! You a traveler? You don't look like one of the soldiers."

"This is your stall?" Hans asked, surprised.

"Yep! Helga Oertzen, at your service! I've got all kinds of stuff, if you need a new gun. Come take a look," she said. She set the box down on the table and approached three large trunks behind it. "These are mostly organized, I think. If you're with the soldiers then you need a rifle, to punch through the enemy's armor!"

"Where are your parents?"

The little girl's business-like smile faded. "They're dead. Now it's just me and Willie. Say hi, Willie!"

The guard grunted.

"Now c'mon, buy something!" the girl, Helga, said to Hans. She opened up one of the trunks, revealing a pile of SMGs. MP38s, MP40s, MP5s with wood stocks, and a few Walther MPLs.

"I thought you said these trunks were organized?" Hans said, and the girl crossed her arms.

"They are! The little automatics are in that chest, the rifles and shotguns are in the middle, and then the last one has pistols. I've got American guns too, in the footlockers under the table, but you don't want those, traveler. They all suck."

Hans smiled. "Is that right? How so?"

"They're all big and stupid! Even their pistols! They weigh, like, five pounds! It's dumb. And they use weird bullets, too. I guess if you work with the Americans it's a great idea, since you can use their bullets," Helga said. She opened the second and third chests and Hans peered inside.

"Where did you find all this stuff?"

Helga Oertzen shrugged. "Around. The Americans gave me their guns once they started using the laser guns, but no one buys them so I keep them hidden away. I'm gonna throw them in the lake when we leave. Unless you want to buy one!"

"I'll take a look, sure," Hans said. The girl had a point about working with Americans and using their ammo. She pulled out two footlockers from beneath the table and opened them up, stepping aside after to let Hans crouch down and take a look. "Hmm," he said, picking up one of the pistols. He recognized it as an N99 10mm pistol, having swiped a pristine one from the Air Station to give to his friend Paul as a gift. "You weren't kidding, this gun's huge."

"All the American guns are like that. All big and heavy and weird-looking. I bet they have small wieners and that's why their guns are so big," Helga said. "You don't want that crap, traveler!"

"Yeah, I guess you're right," Hans said, and stood. He went back over to the chests containing the rifles and shotguns. "What about this stuff? Where did you get all of it?"

Helga shrugged. "I just told you, I found most of this stuff just lying around. The pistols were easy, they're all over the place. In dressers, under mattresses, in filing cabinets, next to skeletons, I even found one in a washing machine once! That was a good find, it was way better than the stupid gun I was using back then."

"What kind of gun was it?"

"A pistol, I just told you that! The one I was using was really stupid. It had this little thing that spun every time I shot it, and I had to use a stick to poke the empty bullets out. It was so crap. I threw it in a river after I found the gun in the washing machine. It was cool!"

"Do you still have it?" Hans asked.

Helga shook her head. "Nah. I put it in the chest and sold it after I got this! Check it out," she said. She reached into her pocket and produced a Walther PP finished in gold and bearing ornate engravings. The grips were ivory and bore the initials A.H on the panels. Hans looked at the gun and his eyes widened.

"My God, I've seen this gun before," he said. "In Munich. Where did you get that?"

"Traded for it! Me and Willie were traveling along when we crossed paths with another traveling merchant. He had this gun in his holster and I told him I wanted it! He told me off until I pulled out a bunch of these metal tubes with fins at the back and offered them to him. He practically threw the gun at me! What an asshole."

Where did she find rockets?!

"You travel too?"

"Used to do it a lot," Helga said. "One of those giant frogs ate my parents, so I grabbed everything I had and put it in a cart and started walking. Sold a lot of it and used the money to buy food or rooms. You wouldn't believe how many creeps tried to fuck me! Even this one guy I met on a motorcycle who had a daughter around my age. He probably fucked her, too."

"Where did you learn to talk like that?" Hans asked. "And just how old are you, anyway?"

Helga stuck her tongue out at him. "I'm 12, traveler, and if you try to fuck me too Willie will blow your head off! And I learned that word in these old comic books I read." She grabbed a duffle bag from behind one of the chests, opened it, and pulled out a handful of pre-war comics. Hans took them and flipped through their pages, frowning.

"These are all in English."

"They taught us English in school! It's kind of a stupid language, but we had to learn it. Guess it's a good thing because now I can read the American comics the soldiers bring me. Some of them are really dumb, like 'Tales from the Front', but I really like Grognak and the Silver Shroud." She rooted through her bag and pulled out another comic. "This one's really stupid, look!"

She showed it to Hans. He couldn't read the title, but the cover depicted a man in a fur skirt and iron helmet holding a sword. A dragon circled overhead, and the man was...yelling at it?

Helga flipped through the pages. "I tried reading it, but it's really crap. All that happens is this guy runs around yelling at flying lizards. Who comes up with crap like that? Americans are so dumb." She suddenly laughed and held the comic up for Hans to see. The panel depicted the man from the cover standing next to a woman lying on the ground, her backpack comically overfilled with emerald swords and golden bows. "I bet he made her carry all that stuff!"

"Where did you find those?" Hans asked.

"At a huge pre-war market in the city!" Helga said. "It was a big building full of dozens of shops, but they were all empty. All the ones that used to have food and stuff were empty, but a lot of the comic shops and bookstores still had stuff. I found a whole bunch of comics and bobbleheads there."

Hans looked at her. "Was that your ad I read in the newspaper then?"

"Yeah!" Helga said. "You want one of them? They're kinda dumb, but I don't have anywhere to put them." She rooted through her bag and produced one of the bobbleheads, a blonde man wearing a blue-and-gold jumpsuit on the base. "This one has the word 'perception' on it. Perfect for you, traveler! Five dollars!"

"Alright, alright, but you'll have to make change for a hundred," Hans said. He reached for his money and stopped. "Wait, I came here to buy a gun, not trinkets."

"Oh come on! Fine, two dollars then!"

"Let's see the guns first and then I'll decide. I'll need ammo too," Hans said. He crouched beside the chest containing the rifles and shotguns and rummaged through it. "You found all this stuff just lying around?"

"You'd be amazed what you can find when you look in places most people pass over, like under mattresses! I traded for a lot of it, too."

Hans sifted through the guns, ignoring the K98s and M30 Drillings. There were a few STGs and M1916 Selbstladegewehrs, but nothing outrageous. He dug deeper and deeper into the chest, pulling out Walther Toggle Actions and G3s. He was about to take one of the STGs when he saw something at the bottom of the chest that made him pause. He moved an MG15 aside to get to it and pulled it out, amazed by the find.

"My God," Hans said. "Where did you find this?!"

The gun was a second-pattern FG42, complete with bipod and scope, and sporting a suppressor on the end of the muzzle. There was one 20-round magazine installed, with three more tied to the sling. Hans ran the bolt and looked through the glass, astonished to find that everything was in working order.

"I found that in a bathroom! The owner was still on the toilet, though he'd become a skeleton by the time I found that."

Hans released the thankfully unloaded magazine and looked inside the well to watch the action move. "This is incredible... How much do you want for it?"

"Three hundred dollars!"

"Jesus! Why so much?"

"It's the only gun I've got that has one of those glass tubes on it! Also it has that silencer, like the Silver Shroud's machine gun."

"Fine, but only if you throw in some ammo and that bobblehead too," Hans said.

Helga stuck her tongue out at him again. "Fine." She produced a hundred rounds of military-grade 8mm Mauser from another footlocker and gave the boxes over to Hans. He loaded up the four magazines and slid them into the pouches sewn onto the leather armor he'd purchased. He used some fishing line to fashion a string and used to mount the bobblehead to his pack by the neck, so that the man standing on it was upright.

"You said you're leaving soon?" Hans asked.

"That's right," Helga said. "Me and Willie are gonna go into the big city. I want to find a big town and set up a real shop there! Then I'll just pay people to sell stuff for me so I can go exploring!"

"Well, good luck then. Maybe we'll see each other again someday."

"I hope so! I've got more stuff to sell!"

Hans smiled and bid the girl goodbye. He went back outside and into the marina, walking to the backdoor that opened up on a gangway leading to the docks, where his ride to Friedrichshagen was waiting for him. The boat was nothing more than a fishing boat, sans motor. The man aboard it explained that engines were reserved for military boats, like the ferries. Hans nodded, made sure the man knew where he was going, and then boarded. He sat down on one of the makeshift seats and settled in for the ride across the lake.

Hans hated to admit it, but Colonel Hoffmann had been right. There was still work to be done, and Hans wasn't the kind of man to sit around and let others do it for him. He remembered what life was like before The Bomb, and while it had been hard back then at least it had been safe. The war came when he was six, robbing him of his childhood and his future. But for kids like Helga the wasteland was all they'd ever known, and while they could adapt to it and make the best of their situation like anyone else could, the indignity of it all offended Hans. They deserved to have happy, carefree childhoods, like the one he'd never had.

If he could make that happen, then he would do it or die trying.

Stalker 2 is great. Play it.