Not All Angels Go To Heaven [Herman]

[Matthaeus Hinrichs]

[OOC: If you understand the thread then join it, If not PM me and I’ll Explain it]

War was a cruel thing, especially when you spent half of your life chasing something that you weren’t even sure was there. Some thought that it was pointless, but war is two leaders fighting with innocent lives against each other. It was a scary thing that people that it was right to kill each other and even torture or keep them prisoner. What a crazy little thing called war.

A lonesome bar on the outskirts of town held stage of this story, but as most were in having a great time and drinking there was a little commotion outside that spiked interest. A young Resistance group peon was outside in an alleyway lying on his backside, beaten. For some reason he panicked and screamed, but no one was around to answer. The music was too loud inside and maybe no one really cared enough to check.

The man over the younger resistance soldier wore a strong gray military uniform that stood out, a hat on top of his head and a luger in his jacket. The Luger had so much power and such a grand presence that most wouldn’t even think to mess with such a weapon. This is why it was the preferred side arm of most in the German military.

As the story goes on, the Luger was pulled from his jacket and eventually pointed towards the Resistance soldier. A faint scream and then a begging sound came out of his mouth before finally quieting up to allow the towering figure with the gun speak. ”You scummy son of a bitch.” The night’s great feeling finally sank and allowed for a great feeling of despair and sorrow as the towering figure shuffled his feet a bit and jammed the gun into the temple of the young lad on the ground.

The towering man with the gun then spat and looked out of his one eye, almost into the man’s soul. It was a grave glare that caused the night to almost stop as the music just grew louder and the concern in the Resistance soldier’s voice grew ”No please… Don’t..” He faintly let out before letting his body go limp as if to say he wasn’t saying anything else.

Matthaeus didn’t have time for this as he squeezed the trigger to the Luger in his hand. The loud bang almost shut the whole night up, except for what was going on in the bar. The towering one Eyed soldier then spit onto the now dead body and let out ”Fuck you..” This time it was true, not all Angels went to Heaven.

[Tristan Herman]

Herman could do little beyond stare for a few moments. No, killing wasn't exactly an act that was new to him. Neither was murder; he'd performed the former dozens of times, and the latter, well, perhaps less so (he hoped). It did not make the surprise, rather than shock, of witnessing it so far from the front any less.

Granted, he often found something disparaging and uncomfortable to do with the German people outside this particular venue of alcoholic indulgence on a regular basis during his patrols, but to witness a killing was an activity he truly preferred at the front (if at all).

Hovering over the corpse was a fairly tall man. His uniform was clearly that of the Army, and his weapon that of an officer. It led to one of two conclusions: a schutzstaffel officer, or one of the Wehrmacht. Intervening in the activities of one would require a decent amount of paperwork, and the other would likely get him killed.

But what of his victim? The man had clearly been at a disadvantage. No weapon to defend himself, no aggressive act, no apparent state of intoxication; he was begging for his life. SS or not, this was a murder, no matter who he spun it. On top of that, he had a duty to uphold the good nature of the German people. At all times, not just on the front.

Tristan shrugged his slung rifle from his shoulder and caught it by the hand guard, bringing the butt to his shoulder with a hint of anxiety tensing him up. He had never liked confrontation. Killing a man was one thing, asking him to surrender was another entirely, introducing more variables than he cared to count.

Finally, he leveled the Gewher on the man's back, stepping forward into the alley.

“Hands up, and drop the gun.”

[Matthaeus Hinrichs]

[[OOC: Sorry still trying to blow the dust off, I’ll be up to 1000+ Words in a couple more posts By the way, Hope you don’t mind the bit of god modding. Should kind of help the thread a bit. If not let me know and I’ll Cahnge the post. ]]

Hatred flows through your viens almost like ice ripping through a fast moving current. It might be heavy and cause much pain, but it always passed through and found a way to seek the revenge wanted. IT was almost as if the hard wiring in ones brain was made to believe that one needed to seek the Revenge and hatred that the mind truly wanted.

The night was cool, almost comfortable to be in. This seemed a little ironic as the sky was partly covered in clouds that only allowed a few stars to speckle themselves out across the dark sky like a mad painter had taken a brush and thrown white paint at a dark blue canvas and called it a master piece. How odd artwork could be at times, especially when you were partially insane from the war.

The Resistance leader now laid there, motionless and without a sound his body slumped over the boxes from the bar and then tumbled into the trash bags laying outside of the trash can. The wall behind him was now splattered with something that looked like and Italian Spaghetti dinner.

Matthaeus just looked at the man on the ground and just let out a small grunt like laugh that was almost humbling to him. Maybe he had finally gone insane with Rage and hate? Or maybe he was just trying to get a certain job done that no one truly understood.

This was all good until finally a jab in the back shook his body like getting hit in the face by a big time heavy weight. He wasn’t knocked over but stumbling a few steps forwards caused him to almost jolt into the dead man’s body, which would have caused an even worse mess. Not even thinking, Matthaeus didn’t really pay attention to what this figure said to him. He really didn’t have a reason to.

Matthaeus had been in a situation like this before, but never had he not known what was behind him. Hoping that it was just someone giving him a shove that had seen the cold hard murder take place in the dark alley. Though it would seem odd to approach an Armed murderer un-armed, so Matthaeus knew he had to take some kind of action to disarm the unknown person behind him for his life was in danger possibly.

Still griping his sidearm and clinching his teeth, Matthaeus thought about a plan that could possibly work. He could turn and shoot the man, but seeing as he had already murdered one person tonight; it wouldn’t exactly be the best idea. Besides this person could be one of him and on his side of things. Possibly this could be explained to the figure behind him that the killing had to be done.

With that in mind, Matthaeus gripped his Luger and fiercely spun around, hitting the man in the face with his pistol. You could hear the sound of the cool metal crunching into his teeth and causing some pain for the man. Matthaeus could even feel it in his face as the young figure dropped down to the ground.

Matthaeus pointed his firearm towards the man that now laid on the ground. ”That’s Hands up and drop the gun, Sir...” His deep voice drifted off, almost haunting to the mind as it just rang through your ears like the noon bells from the church. Matthaeus didn’t want to hurt this man, but he knew the Pistol whip had to be done to ensure his own safety.

Matthaeus continued to study the man on the ground, realizing he too was in the Wermacht and was of lower rank then Matthaeus. Maybe he could help what he was trying to do? That didn’t matter at this point as Matthaeus stayed towered over the young soldier. ”This can be explained..” Matthaeus drifted off, still towering over him.

[Tristan Herman]

[[It's fine for, just try to refrain from it more often than not. God-modding is an old pet peeve of mine. And I try not to push a post to 1000+ words. It's better to either try and match length of the OP, or put only as much information as is necessary to be detailed, but I try to never force anything. C: ]]


That was an unfortunately familiar feeling for Tristan: being hit in face by the butt of a weapon of any make or fashion. The action had befallen him three times (excluding the current instance) in his immediate memory. Once in basic when the instructor had been a particularly foul mood that someone had broken into the mess and stolen a cooked bird flank, and he hadn't been the culprit. A second time in France when he had pissed off a schutzstaffel who had been obviously drunk. The third occurred during his brief stint in North Africa, when a Welshman knocked the young man on his ass with a bren-gun he was using as a club. Only his nose was broken, otherwise he would likely have been killed.

On this particular occasion, he suppressed the urge to lash back out, if only because this man had an almost unnatural advantage of him; he had a petty tendency to question the abilities of any man's successes over him (minor or major). Any time it was an officer, it merely amplified his instinctive want to supersede them. Ever since that home burned to the ground in France, his competitive spirit had been released.

The daze he was locked in quickly faded as the initial rush of responding adrenaline entered his system. While his options were in fact limited at that moment in time of what action to partake, he was, in a certain fashion, feeling rather ballsy.

“Then start explaining,” he started, minding the gash in his cheek from the abrupt strike, “I and I would advise against shooting me. I can guarantee another patrol is on the way.”