[Diesel:Game] The Dounreay Project - Politics Forum.org | PoFo

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Discuss literary and artistic creations, or post your own poetry, essays etc.
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#14651329
Ok, let the games begin .

For starters, I'd suggest that everyone copies their vignettes here, as I think they are nicely setting up atmosphere and there might even be seeds of plot in them . From there on, the game basically depends on each player's imagination and motivation to create an interesting and suspenseful plot. If you don't want this to go like an open-ended collaborative writing project, but rather prefer a more conventional rpg with dice rolls and stuff, you should say so now, and select an appropriate GM for that, because it's not gonna be me (though I'd still play).

One other thing: while some of our characters will meet in Paris (Paris isn't the final destination, characters may go their separate ways after that and meet in different combinations in other places, btw) and have therefore opportunity to interact and progress the plot, some characters will stay in their own scenarios for a bit. That leaves their players with two options:

a) write the NPC's themselves and be detached enough from their protagonist to make his life as miserable as possible

b) collaborate with another player to write the NPC's in each other's scenario to inject a bit of unpredictability into their subplot.

The year is 1937.

Have fun.
#14651330
Berlin, September 1937

It was still dark outside when I woke up. You don’t need an alarm when your sheets are so cold and damp that your muscles tense up while you’re sleeping. My back hurt, my shoulders hurt, the soles of my feet hurt as I shuffled into the tiny kitchen to heat up some water for coffee. Had I been prone to melodrama, I’d have said that my soul hurt, but I’m pretty averse to melodrama and don’t believe in souls.

Coffee. Light of the world. I can go without many things, but coffee isn’t one of them. I took a thermos of the divine stuff with me as I sneaked down the creaky stairs, so as not to alert Frau Mahler (we had a little game going on - she was trying to force the latest notice for due rent into my hands - she was too closefisted to pay for stamps - and I was trying to evade her, so that when I was able to pay, I could ignore the default charges. Currently, it was 16:7 for me). According to my clock, the sun should have already risen, but it had no chance against the deep hanging clouds. A fine drizzle of rain sprayed on my face and began to work its way through my coat. I couldn’t remember when I had last seen a clear blue sky - the clouds had been persisting for weeks now, casting a dull gloom over the city and fuelling the urgent need in me to go outside even while I was on the street.

I had no money to spare for the robocar, so I ignored the rain and took the straight way through the back alleys to reach my office.

- Fine, it was a single souterrain room in a rear house in one of the back alleys and it was a bit hard to find, which I suspected was the reason that business was low at the moment, but it was tangible proof of my independence and once word of mouth went around, I’d be able to move to a better location which would then bring in more and better business, which would in turn allow me to have a real office in an even better location, and so on. I had it all planned out, I just needed one good job.

Oh, scratch that. I needed money. The job was just the road to that fata morgana.

My grandfather was an engineer. He had worked for Krupp - robocars, trains, even the zeppelins. He always wanted us grandchildren to become engineers, too, but I had been abysmal at math, and that was that. As I keyed open the door to my dark dank hole in the ground private investigation bureau, I felt that he was deeply disappointed with me. „Thank god you’re dead,“ I murmured. Thank god that I don’t believe in spirits and an afterlife, or god, for that matter.

***

The planets must have been aligned favourably, because I had acquired a client today.

She had come in about an hour after I had opened, which in my case meant that I literally left the door open and the lights on, hoping to signal my willingness to catch your competitor employing illegals, or your fiancée cheating on you with the cigarette girl from across the street to any accidental passers-by. The skinny redhead clutching her purse as if it was the throat of her husband clearly had business of the second variety in mind. Or perhaps she wanted to try out the whole menu: apparently, her fiancée was screwing with his boss’s wife. She was pretty sure of that, but she wanted proof. I wasn’t too sure if she wanted to confront her boyfriend or blackmail his lover, but decided that it wasn’t my business, anyway. For the sake of the sacred sisterhood of women (and because she couldn’t afford more), we had settled on a rather modest price that would at least secure my coffee requirements for the next month. If the photos were any good, I might offer to sell them to the unfaithful wife and pay my rent. If the asshole boyfriend was interested in saving his relationship, he might also pay something, and I would have been recompensated for my work three times and have saved one marriage and one marriage-to-be. Win-win all around.

So I was in a pretty good mood when I went to see Stojan.

Stojan was... someone I went to when I needed things. Things like forged documents, bugging devices, or this new camera that could make decent pictures even at night. For the longest time I had thought Stojan was his first name, then I learned that it was his only name and that there was no need to learn a first name in order to ask him for an almost genuine diploma of engineering. I can take a hint, if it’s big enough. I did know that he fought in The War in the Balkans, somehow met my brother, ended up in Berlin and took a liking to me for reasons I chose not to dwell on. He said it was for the memory of my brother and I was happy to leave it at that.

He was at the back of the „Futterstube“, eating something that might have been gulasz. „Guten Tag, old man,“ I stopped at his table. He waved me to sit, which I ignored.

„Not so old, you brat.“ He leaned back, studied me and smiled. „Haven’t seen you for a while now.“ Which was true. I only went to him when I absolutely had to, because although he never wanted money in return, you had the distinct impression that he added up the numbers in his head and I dreaded the day he would present me with the bill and the means of payment. So I strove to keep it as low as possible... „What do you need today, hm?“

„Just a few tinyeyes.“ Certificates and letters of recommendation I could forge myself now. You live and learn.

„Crawling through the bushes, trying to catch some cheating asshole again?“ He shook his head in mock concern. „You should move up to industrial espionage, girl. Much more money to be made. You are wasting your potential.“

I shook my head. „I don’t plan to spend the next ten years on a cabbage field in the Ukraine, thanks.“ Stojan roared with laughter as if I had made some brilliant joke, but he waved at one of his henchmen who vanished somewhere into the back and reappeared a moment later with half a dozen microcameras. State of the art remote surveillance. I consciously clamped down on any thoughts about the price of these things.

„Your brother was a good man.“

„My brother was an asshole.“ The first few times I had meant it, but since then it had become just a ritual to close the deal. I waved Stojan goodby and pocketed the cams.

Actually, my brother was an asshole. But he was dead, so it didn’t matter anymore.

***
#14651375
I've only written two scenes/vignettes so far, so I'll post one now and wait until later to post the second. I have a third in the works that I would've written sooner but I've been really swamped lately. On a side note, it is scary how this whole thing is only about 2 weeks old. It feels like we've been doing this RP thing for months.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Seattle, 1937 [original post]

He narrowly missed the beer bottle thrown over his head as it shattered, pieces of broken glass sprinkling against his coat.

"You're a fucking asshole, you know that?"

Ziggy grunted, then shrugged as an afterthought as he grabbed two beers next to him on the bench, tossing one to Brandt.

Ziggy usually wasn't such a bad guy... on those rare days when he wasn't an asshole.

"And you're fucking late," Ziggy said, popping the cap off by slamming the bottle against the edge of the bench.

Brandt sat down beside him and took in his surroundings. There was an unmistakable stench of urine and the smell of clothes that had never seen a washing. The decaying dark red brick buildings all around, once a true brick red before the war, had definitely seen better days. On a normal night like theirs, people as abandoned as those dead monuments to the glory days of American industry would be crawling around, with the faint glow of little fires lighting up windows all around. Not tonight. He fiddled idly with the bottle cap as he scanned around for any sign of people in those eerily quiet buildings, even the sight of someone coming out to piss on the sidewalk.

"Where's the bottle opener?"

"Ain't got one."

He handed the beer back to Ziggy.

"Not really in the mood right now."

"Well, fuck you then." Ziggy spit through his teeth.

Some boys in Blue must have come through in just the past week: directly across from them were a bunch of recruitment posters that didn't look ripped or dirtied, stuck against chipped, darkly stained brick walls. The streetlight kept flickering, but he could make out what it said. Make Our Country Strong Again --- Join The Armed Forces Today! Below, in smaller, yet legible writing: A Call-to-Arms from the Provisional Government of the United States of America.

"That's just shit, y'know?" Two empty bottles sat between them, and Ziggy was now chugging a third. Ziggy pointed at the poster.

"It's just shit. The Blues don't have shit. You join them, they'd send you down to the frontlines in California with a handful of ammo and one grenade and tell you to find a gun or die trying. It's all just a big meat grinder to make the Brits and Japanese who were keeping us safe thinking the Blues could hold the Northwest."

Brandt stared at the poster. Within was a soldier in uniform, bravely marching off to victory.

"And they couldn't. The Allies run our industry, and we've got Reds and Whites to fight. The Reds get guns from the Bolsheviks, people say the Whites are getting theirs from the Germans, and the Provisional Government up in here gets scraps because everything west of the Mississippi they can barely pretend to hold." Ziggy threw another bottle, this time at the poster. It missed, but he opened up another beer undeterred. "And now us sorry fuckers are stuck here trying to get out while the Whites broke through our lines and are headed this way. The rejects living here thought they could try to escape north into Vancouver, but the Brits shoot refugees on sight trying to cross the border."

Brandt shuddered at the thought of what he'd heard happened in Portland two weeks ago when the Whites captured the city. Those stories might've been War Department nonsense, but they might've been the reason the Blues fought harder than usual to slow down the Whites from reaching Seattle. It was hopeless, but what was the alternative?

They both heard the sound of a whistle coming from the left, towards the docks, and saw Hamilton beckoning them both. God only knew how much Ziggy had to drink, but he was up and moving faster than Brandt towards Hamilton.

"You're fucking late," both of them said to Hamilton.

"Sorry, but I only just got the pieces out of the station." Hamilton took a shotgun and a pistol out from under his coat, and Ziggy grabbed the shotgun right away.

"How'd you manage to get these past Major Fura-fuck-face?" Major Furakowa was their commanding officer of the Southern Seattle precinct, and once tried to forbid the Americans under his command from carrying service weapons. Commissioner Bradley, a tea-sipping Englishman who might have been worse because he tried to hide his contempt for the Americans under a very thin veil, forced the Major to compromise: their weapons were to be stored before they went home.

Hamilton shrugged disapprovingly at Ziggy and handed the pistol to Brandt.

"He's gone. All the foreigners are gone, already in Canada I bet. The whole station was looted, these came from my place." Hamilton tapped the ground with the muzzle of his rifle. "Trick floor board under the bed."

"At least it's getting some action," Ziggy said.

"Are the others ready?" Brandt asked. Four of the other men had a father in law who owned a fishing boat: it wasn't much, but it could get them out of the city and slip into Alaska, and from there they could make their way into Canada. They hadn't shown up for work three days before, and waited for the others to get the boat and have it ready at the docks. At that point, there were no other boats, and much of the city's people had already fled in all directions: some trying to slip past the oncoming Whites and ride everything out somewhere in the forests of the Cascades, others desperate enough to head eastwards despite the fact the Reds were either shooting or conscripting everyone on sight, and some stupid enough to try to head north across the border into Canada, even though it was common knowledge the Brits weren't allowing in refugees and were shooting everyone who tried to jump the border.

"Yeah, the boat should be here." Hamilton started moving towards the area of the docks they had all agreed to meet at, several blocks away.

Brandt closely followed, watching either side as they passed under dead streetlamps and dark, looming buildings, the din of homeless war refugees so absent they could hear their own footfalls. Against his palm, the pistol irritated his skin but he kept moving.

"What the fuck you mean, 'should' be here?" Ziggy had stopped in his tracks. "You didn't check?"

"I didn't have time after I got the guns, snuck out after curfew, and ran over here. What the hell do you want from me?"

"Ain't a curfew anymore, moron, you said it yourself: the cops are all gone and the Allies have fucked off, too."

"It was a figure of speech Ziggy, Jesus Christ. Will you please come on?"

"Why did you bring only three guns? How'd you know Daniels wasn't showing up?" Earlier that day, before their arranged meeting with Hamilton before heading to the boat, Daniels had seen them and said he was going to head up into the Cascades and try to hide and ride. That's what a lot of people out in the Northwest would say: hide out and ride it out.

Brandt saw Hamilton's finger move to the trigger.

"Ziggy, I'm not going to say it again. Start moving."

His eyes lowered to his pistol, and where his hand felt like something was scratching him, he could see that there were little shards of metal scratched out, like someone had rushed to scrape the lower back part of the gun. Badly scratched was a small flag. Black, white, and red. He looked at Ziggy, who shot him a knowing glance.

As soon as Hamilton swung the rifle up at Ziggy, Brandt bashed his pistol against Hamilton's skull with a sickening crack, and he collapsed like a puppet with no strings.

"You knew he gave us blanks?"

"Yeah," Brandt said as he felt Hamilton's coat pockets for spare ammo. Tucked under his shirt was a folded envelope. Battered, but intact mark notes. Twenty thousand marks.

"Son of a bitch." Ziggy grabbed Hamilton's rifle.

"There's only bullets for the pistol." He tucked the money into his coat and they headed quickly to the dock yard. Out in the distance they could see a fishing boat, but Ziggy quietly put his hand against Brandt's chest and put a finger to his lips, pointing to two men they had never seen who were at the side of the boat, their smoke of a shared cigarette nearly drowning out the light of a nearby lantern perched on a crate.

"So much for Canada," whispered Brandt.
#14651652
Noord-Holland 1937

“The full planar axis will lay havoc on any traffic system.”

“I think we’ll need to cut the speed down as well.”

“If we’re going to make this available for civilian use we’ll have to come up with an entire new road system.”

“Why not just use the canals?”

“The in-land shipping lanes are already too crowded.”

“There is enough room …”

“… for accidents. The speed makes these hover-bikes unreliable.”

No longer able to restrain himself, the heavyset mechanic scraped his throat to voice his affront.

“The stability of the craft can only be compromised by human error.”

Both of the military bureaucrats threw the shirtless man a dismissive glance and resumed their conversation. Their exchange was layered with the fruits of deliberation of entire departments and with the machine directly in their presence, their minds were bustling with reservoirs of newfound inspiration.

The two men were there to gauge the practical reality of the new hover-bikes. The capacities of the bikes were known, but an additional determination was required for the introduction of this latest technology to the civilian populace. Private enterprise had already caused too much havoc with the unfettered introduction of newfangled technology in the last couple of decades.

“Perhaps if we were to arrange for different speed models? That way we could better control the uses.”

Both of them turned in the direction of the heavyset mechanic, who returned their glance with a scowl. Rivulets of sweat ran down his grease-stained forehead. The scalding summer heat bore down on them all.

“What?” Growled the mechanic.

“Is it possible to arrange for different speed models? And would the average mechanic be able to circumvent these limitations? “

“Well …”

Before the heavyset mechanic was able to finish his sentence the engine came roaring to life. The still air of the sweltering hangar became a ruthless conduit for the deafening sound. One of the military bureaucrats had accidentally activated the machine by fiddling with the levers. Before he could shut it down again the mechanic had already defused the machine. As if he had calmed down a roaring circus lion, which was about to devour one of the obtrusive spectators.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind? Who told you to play around … “

The bureaucrat that had activated the machine apologized dismissively, while the other bureaucrat started to jot something down in his leather folder.

Turning from the one to the other, the mechanic demanded to know what he was writing down.

“My dear sir, a rapport doesn’t write itself. Now if you will.” As if to say that these things go well beyond his station.

Out of frustration the mechanic threw up his hands in the air and walked away.

“Curious one.”

“That he is.”

“He did play a part in designing this fine machine though.”

“That he did.”

“But a curious one.”

“As you say.”


----------------------

I present to you The Bureaucrat Twins, even though they're not really twins.
#14651766
Something about the rain was liberating and crushing in equal measure. Some uncomfortable inertia developed and left me standing out there on the cobble, paralysed and exuberantly depressed. I don’t know. The dim fluorescents emanating from the few working lampposts laid bare each droplet as it landed, leaving a gold-speckled carpet along the street that made it look as if the sky had fallen. Everything above those apathetic sentries was at best a dark grey. There was nothing up there, due I guess to some combination of cloud cover and the smokestack's blanket of smog. Those tall chimneys polluting my view of the immediate skyline left no room for perspective.

Was this such a crime? The curfews were still strict. They were broadcasting just this evening the likelihood of another bombing. Insurrectionists meddling with the hard-fought peace. They still haven’t located the last of those responsible for levelling the substations and refineries in Sheffield. Right around the corner they say, interrogations are showing “results”. Yet I still couldn’t stand outside my fucking house absent the sun.

The downpour triggered some poorly-organised rebellion on my part - one which would accomplish zero. Standing idle, a grim monolith of some weakling pacifist (pacifist only insofar as I don’t want to have the shit beaten out of me).

Had she not pulled me inside when she had I would have been in the panopticon. A reminder and spectacle for Britons during the solidarity broadcasts. Some spatial awareness returned to me as she closed the heavy door behind her with a gentle touch, so as not to create the thud of an escapee. “The rain wouldn’t have killed me,” I informed her, overlooking the obvious noose from which I had been saved. She ignored me and silently peered back through the clearest of the stain-glass fragments lining the dark timber frame.

With film-scene timing, a dark silhouette moved like a spotlight along the door. A slow rumble could faintly be heard. The unmistakable compressions and dull rattling of an almost idle junker. Trucks full of the Guard. Those true patriots, checking that we’re safe. This stunted, frozen moment hung in the air. I looked at Helen’s face. In her usual, stoic way, it remained blank but pursed. Her eyes could never lie though; she was worried.

The engines, like so much white noise after maintaining their low tempo, gradually dissipated as they continued to move down the street. They hadn’t seen me. Some tension left Helen’s slim features and she turned to face me.

“You should be more careful, John.” Understated, as always.

“If I had been arrested I wouldn’t have to waste my time with this Kirchhoff fellow. I could have my time wasted in the comfort of our own Solidarity Centre.”

“I’m not sure what comfort you’re envisioning.”

“The comfort, my dear, of not having to travel on some goose-chase and then end up being arrested for treason instead of just being a reprobate that refused to stay indoors.”

“You can’t be tried for meeting a stranger to receive some mystery information on work organised by a superior.”

I feigned a laugh. “Ignorance is no bliss, darling.”

~

A spectre is haunting Britain, or however it goes. Except there are barely any reds left anymore. We were looking the wrong direction and the menace snuck up behind us.

I’m crossing the channel in the morning. First airship out. Editor’s had it arranged, insists it’s big but won’t give me details. He’s a closet red for sure; or wants to see me in front of the Blackshirts, pleading. I just don’t get it. I’m sure I’m being led down some wretched path to my damnation. The beauty though, is that if I refuse to go I’m opposing the orders of a man appointed by Curzon himself, our glorious Propaganda Minister. Plus the paper is likely the only place left in Britain that would employ me. I’m useful to them; I know many interesting people. They won’t be around for much longer, though, and who knows what they’ll tell the Commission when that time comes? I’m a staunch public supporter and member of the Party, so I avoid most suspicions now, despite my divisive associations. I’m not fool enough, though, to not know that there is only so much rope afforded to one.

So what choice is there, and what’s the difference? So it is, I am to meet with some obscure waste-of-time physicist with his stupid Kraut name. He’s an uppity little fucker too, don’t know where he’s staying, won’t tell me anything. Says he’ll call my hotel when I arrive and give me the location. Likely some seedy bar.

Christ. I fucking hate Paris.
#14652160
Nouvelle York, 1937

A man sat on a park bench before the French commission in the former New York Supreme Court building in lower Manhattan. He was dressed in uncommonly fine taste for the situation in the Anglo-French occupied zone: a starched, white arrow collar, a well-fitted black suit, a plain crimson tie, and a dark fedora covering his blond hair. Uniformed French and British soldiers patrolled the plaza in front of the commission where three flags flew: the Union Jack, the French tricolor, and the 48 starred flag of the United States. The flag of America before the war.

"I used to live here," the man sighed to himself, looking up at the three flags in front of the commission, before clapping his hand on his briefcase and maneuvered into the building.

A French soldier bumped into him.

"Pardonnez-moi," the American said, tipping his hat.

"Boche." the soldier sneered back before moving on, observing the American's Germanic features.

The American kept his hat low and moved after some time through the crowd to a clerk's desk. The room was filled with Americans trying to escape to Europe. He took several papers out of his briefcase and placed them on the counter.

The clerk, another uniformed French soldier, in a kepi and Sam Brown belt, examined them.

"You wish to travel to France, monsieur?" the clerk asked, spreading the papers across the counter.

"Yes, monsieur."

The clerk adjusted his glasses and looked over the papers thoroughly.

"Via Nantes and then Paris - for interests of J.P. Morgan."

"Yes, monsieur."

The clerk gestured behind him and another soldier joined him - they spoke quietly for a moment while the American waited with the calmest of patience.

The clerk turned back and looked to the American.

"These papers have been forged."

The clerk gestured to the soldier to arrest the American. The American simply nodded.

***

The American was interrogated by soldiers of the French occupying forces.

"Your name, again?"

"Franklin Brown."

The soldier across the table looked at the American incredulously.

"Braun."

"We make progress, you see?"

"When can I see the commandant?"

"You do not get to see the commandant, Monsieur Braun."

"Mm," Franklin uttered with a smirk.

"Your date and place of birth."

"14th of July, 1910. Portland, Maine."

"That is what it says on these documents."

"It is what it says on those documents."

"These documents are forged," the French soldier bitterly replied.

"Mm," Franklin replied again with the same smirk, "May I have some whisky?"

The French officer's eyes nearly popped out of his sockets glaring at the American.

"What business do you have in France?"

"I work for the House of Morgan. We have many interests in France that need attending."

"That is what it says on these forged -"

"That is what it says on those documents, and it is true. Now, the commandant, and the whisky?" Franklin interrupted.

"You will not see the commandant, and for the whisky -"

"Mais non," the American smiled.

At that moment the door to the room opened and the commandant entered. The interrogating soldier stood to salute.

"I will handle this," the commandant said to the interrogator in French, taking his place at the table.

The two looked at each other for a moment before the American broke the silence.

"May I have some whisky?"

The commandant sighed and gestured to the soldiers behind him.

"Canadian Club, s'il vous plait."

The soldiers left and the only two in the room were the commandant and Franklin. There was a moment where the two stared one another down, the commandant nearly scowling while the American remained as like a statue in marble.

The commandant finally took his kepi off and ran his hand over his forehead in anguish.

"Franklin, what have you done now. This - " he said, shuffling the forged documents over the table dismissively, "this is beneath you."

"Paris is beautiful this time of year." Franklin replied. The very slightest of smiles took over his lips.

The commandant growled, placing his kepi on the table beside the documents.

"Why do you do this, Franklin? You can get these papers."

"There's no time," the American replied. "You would have..." the American waved his hand back and forth to indicate vacillation, "This got your attention, right, Jean?"

The commandant looked down at the documents again.

"You were born on Bastille Day this time."

"We can have a little joke from time to time, wouldn't you say?"

The commandant was not amused.

"Do you have any idea -"

They were interrupted by one of the soldiers returning with the whisky, which he poured into two glasses while the commandant and the American sat silently.

"Merci," the commandant said, nodding toward the door, leaving the two alone again. With the whisky.

Franklin lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip, his eyes half-lidded for a moment as he savored the taste.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get whisky in the White zone? Between the war and prohibition it's -"

"You are a man of resources, Monsieur Brown."

"And you are a man of taste and discretion, Major Lecompte. Santé."

The glasses clinked and both sipped.

"I will get the papers. You will go through Casablanca, then Marseilles, then Paris. It's, uh..."

"Discretion, Major. It's discretion."

----

I've been busy lately (although I had time to get the wiki set up, though nothing's there yet) so I haven't had time to write more. I'll probably give it a shot more soon.
#14652372
Dead Weight

Brandt’s heart was pounding against his chest as he sprinted through the forest, running faster and faster, not caring about his protesting muscles and tired bones. All he could think of getting past the next tree, the next tree after that, the next tree after that, as far away from the soldiers as possible. The moon watched as he raced under its pale light, running faster than his breath could keep up with. He slipped on a patch of grass and tumbled palms-first against the fallen wreck of an ancient tree. Ignoring the pain in his ankle and not caring if it was sprained or broken, he quickly scrambled around the log and huddled down for cover.

He gasped for air so hard he could see little flecks of white everywhere he looked, but he put his hands on his mouth to not make a sound as he couldn't help but pant. He rested there against the side of that fallen tree and a mossy pillow for what might've been half an hour or more, too tired to keep moving, and unwilling to stand up and put weight on his injured left ankle to see if it was just a sprain.

That's when he heard someone approaching. The forest was so still he could hear the sound of twigs shattering to pieces under footsteps. Brandt had never thought of how loud moving through the forest can be, but all he could think of now was the British soldier walking closer, no doubt following the direction Brandt had fled in. The sounds of leaves and twigs crunching got louder and louder. He could hear the faint sound of heavy breathing, as though the soldier had also been running, but eventually slowed down, realizing whoever he was chasing would have slowed down too, thinking time was on his side and not the side of an unarmed refugee about to be executed for jumping the border.

Arrogant bastard.

Brandt slowly crept near the edge of the fallen tree, closer to where the sounds were approaching. Keeping his head low, he kept a hand on his mouth to muffle his breathing and quietly pulled out his knife, not risking his pistol which was bound to attract attention.

In the silence of a forest that held its breath, he waited.

*****

"The fuck we gonna do?" Ziggy held his head in both hands, sitting on a battered wooden chair that was missing a leg. He had an unlit cigarette between two fingers of one hand, and a loaded gun they found in the farm house they stopped at. Outside was a torrent of rain, and inside there were leaks everywhere, and puddles of water throughout the creaking, abandoned home.

Brandt laid on his back on a pile of old blankets that smelled of dust and age, his head resting on a warped bicycle wheel. If he positioned his head just right on the spokes, it felt rather relaxing. He let out a sigh; Ziggy had been muttering to himself all afternoon saying the same thing over and over again, sitting with his head in his hands. The only problem is he kept fidgeting, and he didn't seem to notice he was fidgeting with a loaded gun next to his head and Brandt's. He was too tired to argue with him to put it away.

"We'll think of something." He wanted Ziggy to shut his mouth and let him get some sleep.

"I wasn't asking you," Ziggy snapped.

"Oh? Who were you asking, the rain?" Brandt smiled at his own joke.

"No, stupid, it's one of those things you ask but ain't really asking."

"You mean rhetorical?"

"Whatever. Just shut your mouth and let me rest."

"Oh, alright Ziggy." Brandt sighed loudly. There was just no winning with him.

"Stop calling me Ziggy."

Brandt looked up incredulously at him. "What am I supposed to call you then?"

"Bradley. That's my fucking name."

"But everyone's always called you Ziggy."

"I was too polite to tell people to stop calling me that. But now I'm telling."

Brandt didn't quite know what to say. "But everyone calls you that."

"Everyone's dead and gone. It's just you now, so stop calling me that. We ain’t cops no more. Just because you and the others had a nice desk job don’t mean you keep calling me some shit nickname you’d name your dog.”

Brandt blinked at Ziggy, who turned to look back at Brandt.

“I told you to stick with me working the beat. I told you you’d regret being a housecat. But you thought you needed to make something of yourself. You didn't know you already were something." Ziggy stared at Brandt. "If I hadn't known something was up with Hamilton, how many times would you be dead? I'm counting three: one by Hamilton and the other two by the men at the boat."

Brandt broke eye contact and went back to staring up at the ceiling, chewing his cheek as Ziggy chewed him out.

"I'm thinking you'da seen it right away too if you stayed good police."

Brandt clenched his jaw angrily.

"You wanna know why I was asking what we're gonna do? Because one good cop can't keep us both alive. It's hopeless man. We can't go back, and who knows if there's anything to go back to. We've been lucky to not see a Red yet. We keep going east, hoping we can sneak through the border up north and head to Montreal or God knows where, but we probably won't be lucky." He stood up and checked the chamber of his pistol. Brandt cautiously watched him, but Ziggy started walking towards the wide-open front entrance of the house. "The world is fucked, and I'm tired of carrying dead weight."

Brandt watched as Ziggy walked out the door and sat down on the half-rotted porch steps. The outdoor roof covering the porch had long-since collapsed, and the entire porch was soaking wet in the rain, but he sat down anyway. He put the gun in his mouth and blew his head off.

*****

Brandt had headed east a little further when he left the farmhouse, figuring the further east he went the better chances he had of slipping north into Canada, but decided to take his chances soon after. With no soldiers in sight and barely any cans of food left, he kept heading north. As long as he didn't run into any Brits along the way he figured he'd be fine. They controlled the big cities in the Canadian Corridor along the highway from Vancouver to the east, but everything in between had no master. As soon as the Brits marched or drove past out here, everything was either Red or lawless once more.

Once he hit the highway, he stayed in the tree line to the north and slowly moved east. He didn't care what happened to him when he ran out into the road with the last of his energy as soon as he saw a truck heading east. As he passed out from exhaustion he felt lifted up by a number of hands, and then surrounded in the dark by a huddled group of women, children, and the elderly. Then black.

When he woke up, he found that he was among American refugees. None of them knew about the situation in the Northwest: they had all left months ago before Portland fell. They were riding in a shipping truck, packed in the back in the dark with just a soft lantern glowing and flickering.

The truck stopped frequently, usually for hours at a time. He wasn't sure how many were up front but he got the impression it might have been just one tired driver dealing with multiple military checkpoints along the highway and his own fatigue.

After what might have been one or two days of driving, the truck stopped as usual. This time something was different, and angry shouting could be heard through the walls of the truck. He listened carefully, and reached for his gun in his pack as soon as he heard footsteps nearing the back of the truck. Everyone was quiet, waiting for whatever what might happen next. Before he could pull the gun out of his bag, the door of the truck was flung open, and before the Brit who wasn't expecting a mass of desperate humans in the truck could react, a pile of people started leaping out, scattering in all directions. Brandt wasted no time and ran as hard as he could with the sound of gunfire and people screaming in terror behind him.

*****

He crouched at the end of the enormous dead tree, waiting with purpose as the British soldier slowly approached, the soldier giving himself away with his panting breath. Brandt tightened his grip on his knife and flexed his arm just as the soldier stepped on a pile of leaves that sounded no more than a meter away. As soon as Brandt caught sight of the soldier's shoes, he lunged forward and stabbed wildly.

He fell back in horror as he immediately saw he had just stabbed a woman carrying a baby and a young girl in tow. His hands were covered in blood, and the baby was now crying on the ground where it had fallen out of its mothers arms. The young girl looked on at Brandt with the seeming indifference of the dead, staring right through him like he wasn't even there. All he could hear was the sound of crying, of whimpering, and the ocean-like pulse of the sound of his own blood rushing through his ears. All he could see was the mother's face, her eyes wide open, and on her face was a look of surprise. He crawled back on his hands, dropping the knife in disgust as soon as he saw his hands covered in red. He got to his feet and stumbled drunkenly to turn around, running eastwards without looking back, the sound of ghosts haunting him the further he went.

He didn't know how long he ran, but he didn't stop until he ran out of sturdy legs. He crawled a distance to the edge of the highway and saw nothing in sight. It was then that he felt something in his pockets. He still had the German marks in the envelope, all twenty thousand. In his other pocket were some carefully folded papers someone in the group of refugees must have slipped on him while he slept. He took a close look, his head still racing and spinning from exhaustion. Canadian citizenship papers.

"Harold Montgomery," he said, weakly. He cleared his throat. "From Vancouver, British Columbia."

He stood up slowly, walking into the middle of the empty road. To his east, Montreal and Europe. He turned around, looking one final time westwards. He stared for a moment, trying to remember the details of his life as he stood on that empty road staring out into endless forest and the distant loom of slate gray Northwest skies. He turned his back on the western stretch of the road and started walking east in the direction of Montreal.
#14653865
Whenever I complained as a child that I was bored, my grandmother would put a rag in my hand and tell me to go clean something. I soon learned to never get caught being bored, but I had to leave it to granny: there’s always something to clean somewhere. Right now I was lovingly polishing a Chinese vase, after having dusted, wiped and polished every conceivable corner, picture, lamp, vase, cigarbox, shades, coffeetable and figurine, fluffed pillows and mopped behind, under and around said lamps, coffeetables, and chaiselongues. If you want to be as close to your target as possible while being totally invisible, be a servant. In fact, I figured, if I ever got in a really serious crunch, I could always be some rich bastard’s cleaning lady. But then again, what would my life be without the suspense, the mystery, the thrill, and the rats?

Yes, I’m talking of actual rats. I will move my office as soon as I finish this job.

To my dismay, I had discovered that this house was being thoroughly debugged on an almost daily basis. Friedrich Steinhagen had risen to wealth in the war by acquiring some pretty stunning patents on battle robots and had turned Mecklenburg into one huge assembly line. Well, at least the wasteland was put to good use for once... anyway, being a filthy rich industrialist with his finger at the pulse of the military development sector meant that you were also a target for all kinds of industrial spies and had to take countermeasures that nipped the quick and easy remote surveillance job I had envisioned in the bud. I had to actually stay in the house and eavesdrop on the housewive.

And clean up, so that I had a reason to be everywhere. Damn.

Well, that vase wasn’t going to be any shinier, and my client’s boyfriend down in the courtyard was still wiping the hood of the Mercedes hovercar. To my professional eye (and because I was doing the exact same thing) it was clear that he was just putting up a busy facade while he was waiting for his lover to show up. I hoped to finally make some pictures that would let me close this job and get away from mops and cleaning rags, but for now I had to find something else to clean in this already spotless room, because from here I had the best view.

Or perhaps... well, there was Steinhagen’s private office next to this room. From his window, I wouldn’t have to find a gap in the rambling rose that was shadowing the window I was currently using. It was risky, though - the master of the house was actually in the house right now, and I had no business being in his office, ever.

The wife appeared and the two lovebirds stepped away from the car, closer to the walls, which meant that they were completely hidden by the rosebush from my vantage point. That decided the matter for me. If I had to mop one more damn thing, I’d throw one of those Chinese vases down the stairs in a very dramatic fashion. I grabbed my duster and slipped into the neighbouring room.

From that window I had a panoramic view of the hastily kissing and groping couple. It looked more desperate than passionate, but what did I know? I made some quick shots with my wristwatch camera (yes, the built-in camera made the watch a bit clunky, but when asked about it, I always said that the watch had belonged to my brother, which was true, and that I was wearing it as a memento, which was a lie, but made people shut up) when I heard steps approaching. And this room only had the one door.

Damn.

I hastily looked around for a hiding place. The office was sparsely furnitured and hiding under the desk was probably not a good idea, in case the man wanted to sit down at his desk, so I opted for the filing cabinet. Well, it was the only place! I had to crumple some files, but I was pretty sure the people entering didn’t hear me over their conversation.

“... had to terminate the project, of course“, someone said. Some unidentifiable noises, then the scent of cigar smoke wafted into my hiding space. I love the scent of cigars. It made me relax enough to actually listen to the conversation above me. „Are you sure it was terminated, though?“ another voice; this was Steinhagen’s.

„Pretty sure. The Brits are no more suicidal than we are. Why do you ask?“

„My sources tell me there are rumours about a top secret research facility up in Scotland. People saw strange lights and there are frequent power outages...“ - „Oh well, these people have always been superstitious. They probably see fairies all day from enjoying their home distilled whiskey.“

There was a pause. The atmosphere grew tense somehow.

„You’re probably right“, Steinhagen said lightly. „After Tunguska, nobody is mad enough to try again.“

Another long-stretched silence, with glasses clinking and more cigar smoke wafting around. Some light conversation about local politics and a new political cabaret show. Apparently, Steinhagen was now investing a part of his money in culture. I was beginning to lose all sensation in my legs.

Finally, Steinhagen led his guest to the door. I let out a silent breath of relief.

The steps returned to the desk. Damn!

„You can come out now.“

I froze. How in hell had he known I was here?

There was no use in playing dead, though. I slowly (and painfully) unfolded myself and crawled out of the cabinet. Steinhagen was pouring himself another drink. I decided to be disarmingly upfront. „I didn’t mean to listen in,“ I said, „I just didn’t want to ...“ - „So were you covering your ears, then?“

„Uh... I beg your pardon?“

„You said you didn’t want to listen.“ Steinhagen contemplated his glass, then looked me straight in the eye.

His eyes were a very light grey. I said nothing.

He moved to the window and looked down into the courtyard. „So, were you able to get some good pictures?“

„You know about your wife’s affair?“ I was dismayed. Apparently, this was one of those modern, „open“ marriages. I deeply disapproved of them, for professional reasons.

He turned to me, smiling. „You sound offended. What, had you planned to make my wife an offer she couldn’t resist?“

I spread my fingers in a who knows? gesture, which made him actually chuckle. „I have a better idea. You’ll work for me instead.“

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even an offer.

„Have you ever been to Paris?“
#14653871
This is a scene mikema and I collaborated on, so I had to drop Raymond Chandler and switch to third person. Also, it's a bit of head-hopping, since we wrote from our respective characters' POV, but it can't be helped.

***

Michael stepped through the Berlin back alleys using the directions he was given by Stojan. He noted the remarkable health of Berlin's rat population.

As he entered the ally that apparently contained what passed as an office for this mysterious person Stojan was sending him to, he could hear the sound of someone rapidly moving and packing.

He approached the open door and looked in at a figure currently hunched behind a desk.

"Fraulein Irene?"

A woman popped up to glare at him. His instant impression of the woman was that she was the type that really didn't care enough whether people thought she was attractive or not. She wasn't wearing any makeup and was visibly sweaty from her apparent rush to get moving. He could easily imagine some man hitting on her in a bar and receiving her middle finger... probably popping out his eye.

*

"Fraulein Irene?"

Few things are as disconcerting as hearing a voice in a room that's supposed to be empty. Irene was certain that she had closed the door to signal that business was closed today; she admitted to herself now that she should probably also have locked it.

When she peeked over her desk, she couldn't make out more than the silhouette of a very tall man. He didn't move or assume a threatening stance, but that didn't mean anything. She pushed herself upward, the rustling of the movement meant to hide the sound of her opening a drawer. "Wir haben geschlossen." Her fingers closed around the cool metal of the Walther.

The man hesitated. Remembering the way he had rolled the "r" and mangled the umlaut, she repeated in English: "We're closed. No business now." Please leave, but that would have been impolite.

*

Considering her relatively good grasp of English Michael refrained from trying to butcher her native language.

"I apologize Ms. Irene but I was sent with a package, message, and mission from Mr. Stojan." He watched her eyebrows make the long slog up her forehead. He could tell from the way she was holding herself that one of her hands was very near a gun so he decided to get straight to the point. "Mr. Stojan asked me to tell you that he works for the German intelligence service and that they have a very strong interest in this mission you're going on. I wasn't told much about it except that I am to accompany you and help you any way I can."

Michael could almost feel the weight of the note Stojan had left in the pack meant for this woman, explaining that Michael was a Russian spy and should be used and discarded in the name of the fatherland.

"He sent me with this for you." Michael put the pack down and slid it across the room gently.

*

Irene stared at the package for a moment. The man had gently pushed it across the room as if it could explode any moment. Now he stood again very still. It occured to her that he had also spoken very softly - as if careful not to frighten her. She couldn’t decide if she found that reassuring or insulting. In any case, she didn’t move. She also didn’t loosen her grip of the Walther’s handle. Instead she nodded in the general direction of the package on the floor. „I have no idea what you’re talking about. and I can assure you that I do not work with the German Intelligence. This must be a mistake. Please take whatever this is and bring it back to that Mr. Stojan of yours.“

*

Well, Michael thought, he hadn't really expected it to be all that easy when he walked into an unknown situation. She didn't seem like she was lying about not being a member of German intelligence. The way she said Stojan's name definitely told him she knew him. People really couldn't lie in a foreign language very well.

He changed tactics. "I can't just leave, he is blackmailing me, I can't just go, please!" He feigned worry and fear. "If your not a member of German intelligence he must have something on you, too." He deliberately fidgeted a bit before acting like an idea suddenly occurred to him. "How about I unpack the bag myself? Then you'll see it's not dangerous. Just please don't shoot me." He started to step carefully towards the bag in the middle of the floor. Which had the benefit of getting him close enough to jump at her if it came to it.

*

If you have to earn your livelihood by observing cheating husbands and fraudulent business partners, you either develop an excellent bullshit detector, or you go hungry. The man’s body language didn’t match his words, and the pitiful tone was a bit too exaggerated. He obviously wasn’t fearful enough to miss her grabbing a gun under the desk. That told her more about him than he probably would have cared to reveal.

As he began moving towards the package, Irene quickly calculated the odds of Stojan knowing about the conversation she just had with Steinhagen only five hours ago, Stojan working for the OHL’s intelligence service, and him sending her a complete stranger for „help“ - a stranger who was apparently vulnerable to blackmail.

The odds weren’t very convincing.

She stepped back from the desk, making sure that it was between her and the stranger who was now kneeling in front of the package. She didn’t care that her gun now pointed at his head - he had known she had a weapon anyway.

„If I was in the mood of traveling, I wouldn’t care for your dubious company, Mister. I suggest you take whatever this is and remove yourself from the premises.“

*

Michael looked up at the barrel of a gun and sighed. "You know, Germany has been nothing but a pain in the ass so far, reminds me of home."

He went through his mental list of options. She'd positioned herself well and the way she held her gun told him that trying anything was a good way to end up dead. He did have another option, not that it was his favorite in the list.

"At the risk of sounding like a school child I do have a note from Stojan." He stood slowly with his hands up. "I'm going to slowly reach into my breast pocket and lay it on the pack. Then I'm going to slowly back out of the room. I'm going to go to Stojan's shop. If you want to have everything explained you can go and have everything cleared up with him."

It was risky, very risky, but as long as he stayed within earshot when she went to speak with Stojan he shouldn't be able to tell her anything. Even if she decided to just leave on her own she would probably look through the pack, at which point the minuscule surveillance bug he'd activated would latch on and he'd be able to track her.

To many if's for his taste, but the worst case scenario he would probably be able to get away alive, hopefully.

"Okay?" he asked.

*

The offer seemed to be harmless, Irene decided. „If you make any sudden moves, you’ll be sorry,“ she warned. „Put it on the desk.“

She waited until he had left the room, then locked the door for good measure before she returned to her desk and eyed the folded slip of paper from, presumably, Stojan. It was crumpled and slightly dirty around the edges and had only her first name written on it.

With a sigh, she unfolded the paper. The message began abruptly, without a greeting or other niceties.

‘I need you to go to Paris as I know you are headed there anyway this shouldn’t be a trouble for you. The man Michael will travel with you, don’t trust him (but you don’t trust anyone - good for you!) but he has contacts there that are important. Ask them about the Dounreay Project. They will tell you what you need to do.

I know I can rely on you. You do this for your fatherland, and for your brother. He was a good man, no matter what happened at Oituz. Let no one else tell you otherwise, or if they do, send them to old Stojan and he will set them right. Old Stojan will help you as he always does.

Report back to me when you are in Paris.'


Well, so this was from Stojan all right - the old „your brother was a good man“ routine... but why did he mention...Oituz? It sounded like a place. Irene frowned. No matter what happened at Oituz. As if she should know what had happend there to Paul. But all she knew was that he had died there.

She read the passage a third time. Now it began to look like a threat. Go to Paris or whatever happened at Oituz will be made known. It occured to her that, although she was investigating other people’s lives all the time, she had never bothered to investigate the circumstances of Paul’s disappearance. There had been the official letter of his commander, and there had been Stojan, standing in the door of her mother’s home, with Paul’s watch and the Walther - Paul’s own gun.

She had never questioned Stojan’s claim that he and Paul had become friends on the Eastern front, and had never looked into his connections in Berlin. Now he was dangling information of unknown explosiveness over her head like a sword of Damocles. She saw herself doing his bidding for years to come, always fearing that Stojan could point out how he had „always helped her out“ to the police or making up some war scandal that Paul had been involved in. For the first time in years, she thought of her mother. It was enough that she herself had turned out to be the black sheep of the family. Mother didn’t need a second one to cry over at night.

„Oh dammit!“ She crumpled the paper and hurled it across the room; then retrieved it and burned it in an ashtray. She felt hot and angry and suffocated and .... angry! Damn Stojan, damn Paul, damn that stranger, damn them all to hell! Oh, she was going to Paris, because she had a job there to do, a really well paid job, and she would be damned if she cowed to some Batschake over some vague threats!

She ripped open a drawer and began stuffing its contents into her handbag. Well, the equipment may have come from Stojan, that didn’t mean she wouldn’t use it. Her fingers touched something at the bottom of the drawer and she froze.

It was a photo of Paul and his comrades, one of the few things she had taken with her from home. Stolen it from her mother’s album, and then hidden in this drawer for all these years. She held it without looking at it, her finger tapping against the curled edge. Then she slipped it into the bag. If she left, it would leave with her, even if she wouldn’t look at it for another ten years.

Irene grabbed her suitcase and headed for the door. She hoped the man had really gone back to Stojan - that would give her a nice head start.

***
#14654790
2. Noord-Holland, 1937

“What is that smell?

“The accident ripped open his intestines.”

The foul stench crept into their nostrils as they beheld the grisly scene. The combination of the two could easily make them nauseous, but their professional miens remained unperturbed.

As they beheld the scene, they noticed that a small black beetle was walking over the bone protruding from the leg. The underleg was completely torn off. The soft pink marrow was visible in the shattered remnants of the white extremity. Quizzically there was little blood to be found underneath the leg. Most of it had pooled under what remained of his arm. The scorching sun had baked the blood to a large reddish black stain in the disheveled ground. Fat black flies had already found the nutrient rich layer of human biomatter.

The arm had folded inwards at unnatural angles. The gruesome state of the rest of his remains did little to diminish the peculiarity of this unusual sight. Of all the shapes his arm could have taken, this was the one it had found itself in after a 200 km/h collision.

“An inward spiral. What are the odds?”

“The numbers must be astounding.”

They stood there for a moment contemplating the bizarre scene, after which they pulled their eyes from the mangled body and surveyed the rest of the crash site. The tree was leveled and there was a trail of wreckage spanning a length of hundred meters or more.

“There was but one tree in the training area ...”

“… and he had to crash right into it.”

Both of them had the odd habit of completing each other’s thoughts.

They had yet to discover the location of the head. The rump was a mangled mess of leather clothes, torn flesh and exposed organs. Grass and clumps of freshly strewn earth covered the remains. His other arm was missing as well, as was his other leg.

A jeep stopped behind them. They didn’t turn around as they were too engrossed with processing the visceral information before them. They had seen death before, but not quite in this form.

“The permanence almost nails you to the ground. Doesn’t it?”

“Quite right.”

“I think I need a drink.”

“I think we need a new test pilot.”

“And another hover-bike.”

“That mechanic is going to have a heart attack.”

“Do you think he’ll wear a shirt to the funeral?”

He turned and looked at him quizzically for a moment, considering if he referred to what remained of the test pilot or the mechanic.

“The mechanic.”

“Ah! Well, he might I suppose. He’s a curious one.”

“That he is.”
#14886138
Two Hours to Midnight

Part 1, Part 2

Spoiler: show
The Big Freeze

The year is 1937 and in every smoke-filled shadowy cafe, jazz music fills the air as everyone waits for the next Big One to tear the world apart.

The Great War ended in 1922 after Paris was taken briefly by the Germans, but the Allies were able to push the Germans back and agree to an armistice in the Peace of Verdun. America never got involved: there was no Lusitania incident, and the ostensibly isolationist President Wilson did not directly involve America in the war. The treaty was signed somewhat in Germany's favor, as the Germans kept their Brest-Litovsk possessions, some French colonial territories in central Africa, and Belgian Congo (as Germany was already in full control of Belgium itself, and forced the Belgians to sign away the Congo for peace in 1922). The German colonies in the Pacific were retained by Japan, against whom the Germans were in no position to possibly retake them. Both Britain and Germany are in pretty poor shape. Millions are dead, they both have depleted workforces and are economically devastated, hence the "noir" atmosphere. This is why the Armistice was signed in 1922: both sides needed to break off hostilities or face total internal collapse. The "war to end all wars" didn't even result in defeating anyone (bloodshed two or three times what the actual Great War accomplished; just another four years in the trenches) and the only result is a status quo peace (except for some changes in the east) meant by all sides as nothing more than a breather until conflict is renewed. In this timeline, Imperial Germany did not suffer the total collapse of its Home Front, so a long Cold War developed between Germany and Russia on one side and France and Britain on the other side. Simultaneously, while Imperial Germany and Bolshevik Russia have been forced into an alliance/mutual cooperation (whether it's truly an alliance is up to the perspective of each player), the Russians still hate the Germans for what they took from them in the Great War, and use political unrest in China, North America, and elsewhere as proxy fronts in a budding Cold War between both of them.


Slightly past 10 PM on Tuesday, when the city’s workers started shuffling back, every night, to their families or the bars, the bright white sign for Mulley’s Diner, proudly announcing BEST POUTINE, was still flashing every ten seconds, as it would be until Bill Mulley closed down at 3 AM, just as he did every night. Montreal was one of the few big cities out east where curfew didn’t apply because industry had to be fed. Every night, a predictable trickle of stevedores, machinists, and laborers would stop by around nine, and by midnight the ones who didn’t go straight to the dingy, smoke-filled bars downtown came to places like Mulley’s. People still in the diner past three were promptly shown the door. Sometimes Mulley tossed them out himself.

A growing puddle of rainwater, reflecting the diner’s sign, was interrupted by the footfalls of the Sullivan brothers, who walked almost aimlessly towards the large doors of the diner. Broken shards of deep brown and emerald green glass sparkled on the muddy, gravel-strewn ground outside the diner. Both of them kept their eyes down and didn’t stop moving. From outside the place, a slow, steady stream of hypnotic, sultry jazz settled in the air.

Harold sat on a stool, hunched over at his section of the counter at the diner that cold, rainy Montreal night. He stared into his coffee, empty to nearly the bottom of the mug, with a little pool of the dark grounds, turned into sludge, sitting at the bottom. Under the light, a swirl of purple, red, and blue circled in his coffee like an oil spill. It smelled burned, not just old coffee, but the kind of coffee started in the morning, heated all day, and finally drunk. Forgotten coffee. The kind that smells like burned motor oil, tastes something fierce, and almost looks like molasses the way it quickly stains and sticks to porcelain. The countertops in the diner were made from old, polished pine wood, mottled and stained and marked by years of patronage. As he idly pushed his mug of nearly-empty coffee along some of the patterns in the wood, he looked up from his reverie as two figures, dressed in black-stained tired blue overalls, came through the door and headed straight to a booth on the other side of the diner.

“I used to live in Constantinople.”

Harold looked up from his coffee again towards the person who said that. A little man, dressed in a well-tailored, dark suit, sat just a few stools away from him. He stared at Harold for a moment, then pointed at Harold’s mug of coffee.

“The mud in your coffee. A lot of them over there like to drink it that way. Turkish coffee. Coffee mud at the bottom.”

Harold blinked at the man.

“But, it’s best sweetened with sugar. ‘Black as death and sweet as love,’ they like to say.” The little man winked at him, then turned back to his whiskey.

Lucy, the waitress, smiled at Harold as she refilled his coffee unbidden, and eyed the Sullivan boys curiously. They usually showed up around this time, but they almost always looked her way and gave her a “Hello,” especially Michael. Although his brother Peter was already married, Michael Sullivan seemed to Lucy too quiet and shy to put down any roots of his own. She thought about what she would say if Michael finally worked up the courage to really talk with her, but she often found herself unsure what she would do. He seemed like a nice guy, but how well did she even know him? Her family used to live near the Sullivans when they were younger, but it was mostly Peter who gave her any attention, while Michael tried to play innocent whenever he watched her, never able to say what she already knew he wanted to say.

She looked away from Michael to the coffee she was pouring, stopping herself from nearly spilling coffee all over the counter just as the mug was filled to the top. Harold beamed graciously at her as she smiled with embarrassment. She grabbed a cloth, carefully lifted the mug, and set it down on top. “Will it just be coffee for you tonight, or do you want something else?”

He tilted his head to the side, cracked his neck, and shifted back on his seat. “Maybe in a little bit, hun. Coffee for now will do just fine.” Although it was hot, he blew on it for a moment and took a quick gulp.

She pulled out a little flask from her waist pocket, unscrewed the top, and gave his coffee a splash of whiskey. She winked at him. “You just let me know when you’re ready.”

He gave her a half-smile and nodded. “Thank you kindly.” He watched her for a brief moment as she went, coffee pot in hand, over to the two men dressed in overalls who seemed to be keeping their heads down. He looked around the place and noticed that everyone seemed to be keeping to themselves. Not far from the two men who just came into the diner, he watched an elderly couple quietly talk and eat. They made no noise as they ate and drank their coffee. A group of young men sat in a circle around a large table in one of the corners, looking tiredly into their glasses of whiskey. One of them looked up at Harold and met his gaze, but went back to holding his whiskey and staring into the glass, past exhaustion and weariness. Another was staring at the wall across from their table: there were three holes in the wall the size of a fist, the wood still splintered around the edges, and a sign, hastily scribbled, promising it would be fixed "soon." Three stools to Harold’s right at the counter, a man in an expensive suit downed most of his whiskey. The suit was a shade between black and sleet gray: dark and welcoming, pinstriped in a shade of red that was both so faint it was hardly noticeable, yet shimmering and shifting in color between red, fuchsia, and violet. Harold stared at the color and the pattern of the suit, wondering how much the whole thing cost, and who in this town could possibly afford to---

“Tell the waitress this is for the gin.” Harold looked up at the man in the exquisite suit who spoke, noticing for the first time his thick, black eyebrows. The man pressed a one pound coin on the counter, put on his hat, and quickly flashed Harold a silver-toothed smile as he pushed past the diner’s large wooden doors and walked out into the night.

Finally, he thought. He had been told to wait for the signal, when he would be given a pound to pay for another man’s gin. It sounded foolish at the time, but he supposed if it worked like this, he wouldn’t question it. He made eye contact with the waitress and lifted the coin into view.

Lucy walked over to him and leaned over the counter. “Did you change your mind after all? What can I get you?”

Harold nodded over to where the immaculately-dressed man was sitting, drinking his whiskey. “This is for his gin.” She took the money from his hand, the warm expression on her face unchanged. “I’m actually looking for a job. I hear you’re hiring?”

She turned to the large slot in the wall in front of the counter where Mulley and the others in the kitchen on nights busier than Tuesday would have kept pushing plates of food forward, taking back the empty ones, and rang the bell for him. Mulley, a large, tall, red-haired man came forward, crouched low enough to see through the wide slot, and looked at her like he couldn’t be bothered. “This gentleman is interested in a job,” she said, pushing the money over to Mulley. He took the money quickly, but not too quickly, and motioned for Harold to come into the kitchen through the back. The door to the kitchen opened wide, and inside everything was a tired shade of white, gray in some spots, black and covered with soot above the place’s stoves and fryers. Pipes ran everywhere on the ceiling, and a few buckets caught the drip, drip, drip of water on a rusted, leaky pipe near the back of the kitchen. Mulley was nearly alone, save the three kitchen workers rushing around frantically, checking on a dozen things at once. Harold was led deeper into the back of the diner, past the kitchen, down a grimy hallway littered with abandoned bales of newspaper and old, empty boxes labelled POTATOES. Mulley stopped halfway down the hall, opened a door, and waited for Harold to enter.

Inside was dark. It would have been completely black without the swaying lamp above the center of the room. It was small, almost too small to fit someone with as big a frame as Mulley’s and another person. Two wooden crates sat alone on the floor, and a floor drain, stained dark, lay between both crates. There was no window, and no other exit except the door Mulley was holding open. He walked in after Harold, shutting the door hard.

“Take a seat, boyo.”

Harold hadn’t noticed just how tall Mulley was until he sat down, with Mulley still standing up, looming down at him. There was something cold and vaguely unsettling about the man that reminded him of certain petty criminals, and even the professional ones, back in Seattle he used to round up and sometimes interrogate. These were men who wouldn’t think twice about lunging at you across a table on the off chance they could grab you by the throat and choke you to death in the hope of somehow getting out. In Montreal, Bill Mulley owned and ran a little diner on South Street. But Harold knew what kind of man owned that diner.

Mulley pulled out a pack of smokes, sliding one out and lighting it without offering one. He took a long moment to savor the first drag, then sat down on the crate opposite of Harold. “The money,” he finally said. Harold pulled out an envelope from under his tucked-in shirt and handed it over. Mulley looked inside, nodding with apparent satisfaction. “Your real papers.”

This was something Harold was loath to do, but he didn’t hesitate. He needed fake papers if he wanted to survive, but he didn’t relish the idea of giving up his last link to his past life in the Northwest. Even though being caught with his American papers would mean imprisonment, deportation, or even worse if someone, looking for an easy mark to earn a promotion for vigilance, decided to he was a Red spy, his papers were all he had the moment he crossed the border. His attempt to live as Harold Montgomery, from Vancouver, blew up in his face in a logging camp on the way to Montreal.

Mulley didn’t treat them with the same respect and care. He roughly flipped through them, bending the pages and nearly tearing one in half when he turned it over too fast. “Says you’re Seattle police.”

Harold cleared his throat. “Not anymore.”

Mulley folded the papers into his back pocket and looked at his watch in the room's dim, narrow light. “You’ll meet someone in two hours, at midnight, to pick up your new papers. You’re now Harry Trent, from Toronto. You’ll go into the alley behind Club Flamingo and wait for someone. They’ll trip and drop a few things. You will say, ‘Can I assist you?’ Just like that." He tapped the growing bit of ash from his cigarette onto the floor. "Say it for me.”

“Can I assist you?” Harold, now Harry, repeated back.

Mulley took another long drag of his cigarette, exhaling slowly in short puffs. “Speaking of jobs, I think I have something for you.” He dropped it, half-smoked and red-tipped on the concrete floor, and put it out with his shoe.

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