Dean Man Walking

[Victoire Beaudoin]

Country: Paris, France
Area/Setting: Underground pub
Current Time: 10:28 pm
Weather Conditions: Cold and windy, but with no chance of rain.


Victoire walked down the staircase from her small and loathsomely cold garret she lodged in Monmartre, in the Rue de la Vieuville, not far from the Place de Abbesses, in which she often liked to resort to whenever she wanted to clear her mind away from the stress of her situation – which was rather often, truth be told, heading towards a place she knew was forbidden to even consider going to. There was a strict eleven o’clock in the night curfew for Parisians, which had highly inconvenienced her, though she had of course to abide by the rules, or be otherwise arrested for her illegal action should she resolve to go against the regime (which would be foolish of her and anyone else, for that matter). Hitler had upon occupation immediately shut down cabarets and clubs, thus sending jazz underground, with regularly altering locations and passwords. Life was difficult for Parisians at this point in time, and Victoire was grasping from straws to keep her sanity together and survive through the period. And, oh how the Germans came and they forgot everything. Paris, the City of Light, the city of painters and all kinds of artists, Maurice Chevalier’s Paris, lovers kissing in the Seine River, the accordion making people dance in the ball musettes, the slow dances with the men smoking cigarettes and wearing berets, the Place de La Concorde, her very own Champs-Élysées, it was all gone. Paris belonged no more to the Parisians.

It was nine o’clock in the evening when she arrived at the secret place underground. She knocked the door, a small hole opened and she came face to face with a pair of familiar eyes. The older man from the other side immediately recognized her and she needed not even tell him the password; the door opened, and she entered. A new world seemed to have appeared upon her view, as the picture of a makeshift pub filled her eyes, one she was accustomed to nonetheless, and which she would work at every night to earn a living and fulfill her artistic hunger as a person who wished and believed that art and science were two gradually indiscernible terms in a world whose values and boundaries were presently facing a challenging demise. She had not established – nor wished to establish – a household name for herself in this business, for she was a mere showgirl, intending to stay away from the glamour and public criticism. What could the public know about art? What could they understand and appreciate? And she, moreover, far from wanted to associate herself with certain German ladies of entertainment or be a traitor to her country by having shows subsidized with German capital, which would be the case for extravagant cabarets. She began with ‘Seule ce Soir’ but then changed her repertoire to ‘Chant des Partisans’.

She acknowledged that art and politics were a different aspect of life, being consumed in the former and utterly repulsed by the latter; nonetheless, one tended to interweave into the other from time and time, and this was certainly one of these times. She desired to infiltrate courage and a fierce agony of anticipation in the soldiers’ souls for their homeland’s present and future situation, she reached out to them to give them hope when there was none, and speak in their ears dreams that would have them victorious in battle so that they would return to her and she would in turn fulfill them; it was, in a sense, a pure and innocent form of manipulation. It was, in her view, the nucleus of patriotism and devotion to the country who gave birth to you. The song had become so popular that it was proposed as a new national anthem for France and had even unofficially became so when most of the country resolved that their actual anthem, La Marseillaise, wasn't nearly violent enough. She was wearing a deeply scarlet dress that embraced her curves lovingly and worshipped her femininity, with a rich but light cleavage, her curvaceous lips tainted with red, and her eyes mesmerizingly looking from one soldier to the other, giving them hopes of bearing a chance only to swiftly snatch them away as her glance travelled to the comrade next to them.

“Ami, entends-tu le vol noir des corbeaux sur nos plaines? Ami, entends-tu ces cris sourds du pays qu’on enchaîne?” she sang, and approached a Private with his left leg mutilated. She smiled warmly at him, and his eyes glinted. “Ohé partisans, ouvriers et paysans, c’est l’alarme! Ce soir l’ennemi connaîtra le prix du sang et des larmes.” Her lips formed the words in bittersweet fashion, slow and aching, for the homeland, and for the souls that had been lost forever. She sat at the edge of the wooden table in which he was sat by, looking at him intently. She had a soft spot for the handicapped; she believed they deserved every glory and national acknowledgement that could be provided for them, as they constituted living proof of patriotism and courage. She loved them all greatly. “Montez de la mine, descendez des collines, camarades,” she continued, the dim lights falling over her elegant figure, lighting certain angles of her marble-white face whereas leaving other parts in mystical darkness, her free hand resting upon the table’s edge to support herself; “sortez de la paille les fusils, la mitraille, les grenades. Ohé les tueurs, à la balle et au couteau tuez vite! Ohé saboteur, attention à ton fardeau, dynamite ...” She smiled at him, and stretched out her free hand to caress his cheek softly. “C’est nous qui brisons les barreaux des prisons, pour nos frères, la haine à nos trousses, et la faim qui nous pousse, la misère. Il y a des pays où les gens aux creux du lit font des rêves. Ici, nous, vois-tu, nous on marche et nous on tue, nous on crève!”

She could easily tell he had been a handsome young man, one of France’s blossoming youth, merely nineteen years old, and now scarred, scarred forever; not merely physically, everywhere around his scalloped face and arms, but on an emotional level, there would be no peace for this man. She distinguished this pain, the terror and anguish, and she embraced it for him; she respected the trauma and the fears, and she made it into art. She at this moment only adored him more than the wildest creature that could distract her devotion away from him, and worshipped him inside her in ways unimaginable, as she would never forget him – the soldier who literally offered himself for the country. And he would return to battle, and only his helmet would be sent to his poor mother to bury. His helmet and nothing else. “Ici chacun sait ce qu’il veut, ce qu’il fait, quand il passé. Ami, si tu tombes, un ami sort de l’ombre à ta place,” she sang, slowing the song even more as it came to the end, as the soldier would soon come to an end, as though it was the only requiem she could ever offer him, the only tribute of respect. “Demain du sang noir séchera au grand soleil sur les routes, chantez, compagnons, dans la nuit la liberté nous …” She sighed, and leaned forward to kiss him on his scarred and bloody lips; bloody as her dress, as the lipstick she was wearing, or the colour of his star-crossed fate, the passions he would never experience and which she graciously wished to give him a glimpse of; “ … écoute.”

♠ Song Translation ♠

[William Luther]

It was quite a dreary Parisian night, the city which was beautiful when lit plunged in to darkness by a strict blackout to protect it form possible Allied air attacks. Luther highly doubted an attack would come today; there was very low cloud all over France, which was quite happily pouring out rain all over the group of SS soldiers from the 2nd Panzer Division “Das Reich” who were marching briskly through the streets, rifles and sub-machine guns slung on their shoulders.

Luther’s dulled leather boots splashed through a puddle sitting atop the cobbles of the Parisian path sitting next to the River Seine. The group wasn’t marching, per se, instead the 15 soldiers and junior NCOs were formed in a platoon walking briskly behind Sturmscharfuhrer Luther, the SNCO fuming about being given such a bullshit job. Instead of being allowed to sit around the base, or to pull on Civvies and go and enjoy the various bars and establishments in the city, he’d been told to lead a small group of men to arrest a Cabaret group that had kept eluding the regular police. So, logically, wasting the time and money of 16 SS men was the best solution to this problem. It was ridiculous!

”Linkes Rad!” Luther commanded, and the three-man wide column wheeled around a corner and began marching up a street. A few small groups of Parisians were there, some obviously prostitutes frowned upon, but still tolerated - just. It was a bit of a taboo subject really, while Hitler was against the sexual deviation of the matter, the perversion of the women, he did turn a blind eye on the hundreds of “rape camps” all over occupied German territory for the use of conquering soldiers. On closer inspection of the man with them, he recognised him as a member of the division, and as Luther passed through a shaft of light from a house’s slightly ajar window, he just winked at his comrade, he would be enjoying this night a lot more than anyone else it seemed. ”Bereit zum Stillstand. Zug, Halt!”

He reached around over his shoulder and pulled over his MP40, and pulled on the cocking handle. With a loud metallic click, echoed with the still night, the weapon was made ready to fire, and the rest of the platoon followed suit with there chosen weapons. ”Ruttenfuhrer drei Männer sichert jeder jede Seite.” Quickly, eight men left the formation, moving around the hidden doorway of the underground pub, the establishments typically having extra doors. One group would stay near the front door in case anybody tried to sneak out, while the other group would go to the hidden rear door to which the informant had told them about.

Luther walked around the corner to the front door of the establishment, and rapped loudly on it. The metal slide came across and a pair of older chocolate eyes met Luther’s cold blue eye. The owner of the inside’s voice cracked slightly as he asked for a password. Instead, Luther simply said in to the slot, ”Ich bin Sturmscharführer Luther des Waffen-SS. Ich habe Ordnungen, das ganze Innere diese Errichtung anzuhalten, die Tür jetzt zu öffnen!” The panel hastily shut, and Luther’s hand shot for the door handle. It was locked. He stepped backwards and drew his Browning Hi-Power, a trophy from his old enemy Rhys Bevan. He held it a few centimetres from the lock and squeezed the trigger once. A deafening bang erupted as the lock shattered and the door began swinging inwards. The noise echoed off of the tall Parisian buildings, and for a moment, the whole city seemed to freeze, until the ejected brass cartridge dropped to the floor, making a loud tinkling sound as it bounced a few times before settling on the ground. Luther calmly replaced it in the leather holster on his belt, replacing the ceremonial flap over the handle of the weapon before placing both hands on his MP40. He used his right boot to kick the door open enough for him to step through.

It was quite dark in the establishment, presumably the lights had been cut to try and slow the Germans. From ahead, he heard a few audible screams, and low talking in thick French accents, presumably the doorman had run through and spread the word of the Germans. So much for the calm approach he had never expected – and never hoped – to work. Instead, the Germans would be forced to have much more fun, and do the purely “bad cop” routine.

Translations

Linkes Rad! – Left Wheel.
Bereit zum Stillstand. Zug, Halt! – Ready for the standstill. Platoon, halt!
Fottenfuhrer drei Männer sichert jeder jede Seite. - Corporals, three men each secure each side.
Ich bin Sturmscharführer Luther des Waffen-SS. Ich habe Ordnungen, das ganze Innere diese Errichtung anzuhalten, die Tür jetzt zu öffnen! - I am Sturmscharführer Luther of the Waffen-SS. I have orders to arrest all inside this establishment, open the door now!

[Victoire Beaudoin]

And then the lights flickered, and darkness fell. Victoire had only managed to smile back at the astounded young soldier before the deafening noise erupted and took everyone completely by surprise; the plates and glasses fell down on the concrete and wholesomely black-carpeted floor, while the dozens of bottles previously stacked in the bar’s shelves in turn dropped and added to the general tinkling sounds that made that disgusting noise, and as a result, almost everyone covered their ears and eyes to protect themselves not only from the noise but also the hundreds and thousands shards of broken glass. The floor was stained with great quantities of wine, rum and whiskey and while the soldiers were formerly taken unawares, they immediately pulled out their rifles and carbines at the known enemy which they were certain had penetrated through their defences. “Jean-Baptiste!” Victoire called to the young soldier she had kissed only several seconds ago; before she had began singing he had been the first person to attract her attention and had therefore approached him and asked for his name. She quickly moved around, disregarding the microphone which she had carelessly dropped on the floor, and span her head around in search of the soldier. Tomorrow she would no longer remember or love him (in her own sense of love and devotion), but today he had claimed her utmost affection. She felt worried of his state, and during such crisis, the only thing that made her concerned was not the German Nazis who had bombed their underground pub and the dangers this bore as an immediate consequence, but the poor soul of the man who had been deeply wounded and whom she partly did not wish to see suffer further pain and anguish. “Jean-Baptiste!” she shouted after him, but he was nowhere to be found.

The situation inside the pub was chaotic at the moment. Citizens were running around, and screaming, passing quick French to each other on how to escape from this glimpse of hell, whereas the brave French soldiers were facing the enemy and getting shot because of it.Some German soldier had hit a disobedient woman on the head with the butt of his rifle, whereas most of them proceeded to make accusations and claim arrests. More screaming, and then Victoire’s heart missed a beat: Jean-Baptiste was lying on his front across the floor, unconscious, blood oozing from his cracked skull and with his arms spread-eagled, as though he were about to fly. “Non!” she whispered, and run two steps towards his direction, before she felt a pair of strong and muscular arms grasp her from her wrists and then pull her against someone’s body. She fought against the grip, but the man – one of the German officers, she shortly discovered – simply carried her away from the scene and walked, forcefully taking her towards a man whose face bathed in shadows. From the outline she could effortlessly distinguish his muscular and strong physique. She heard her captor speak to him in rough German, and she understood it; he referred to her as the ‘showgirl’ who was singing about resistance with her partisan songs, and asked of him what to do with her. Victoire glared at the man in front of her and looked at him indignantly, though she was incapacitated of seeing his arms. “Vous êtes des lâches!” she spat at him hatefully. “Lâches!” From the way the other German was holding her, the red strap from the right slightly fell downwards, revealing the pure skin of her shoulder, but to which she gave absolutely no thought, awashed as she was at the moment with emotions of hatred and anger. They had had no right in demolishing the pub, and should have been intelligent enough to expect French attitude persist on establishing an illegal underground way of forgetting, if only for a moment, the burdens of occupation and the terror of war. Then again, she only thought of them as uneducated oafs.

♠ Translation ♠

You are cowards! Cowards!

[William Luther]

Luther nodded at the soldiers, and they pushed past him down the corridor, in to the darkness. They sent a burst of automatic fire just above head high to let everyone know they meant business, and the Sturmscharfuhrer heard glass breaking, presumably the rounds smashing in to bottles on shelves in the bar. He heard a few cracks of gunfire, and then shouts in Germans as they opened up, taking bar brawls to a whole other level.

Luther quickly came in to the corridor, and joined in the fight, until the French lay down there arms. Luther called a ceasefire, it was chaotic, civilians were running everywhere and the Germans were trying to round them up. One Nazi had been shot, a round in his upper leg and was screaming in agony, alongside injured Frenchmen, who were ignored the SS man being top priority. He was already being fixed with bandages and morphine when the lights came flickering back on, blinding the occupants of the building. From the gate leading in to the street, he heard a commotion before a few resistant Frenchmen were dragged back in kicking and screaming.

He looked up, and saw a woman dressed as a showgirl starting to make a move, and he leapt forwards, grabbing her with both arms and holding her ferociously. He moved her to the side, away from the commotion, he recognised her as the primary arrest for the night. ” Zeigen Sie mir Ihre Papiere, Fräulein Beaudoin. Sie sind verhaftet eurerseits in diesem Kabarett, und wir wollen Antworten von Ihnen. Sind wir dabei, das der leichte Weg, oder mein Weg zu tun?’ She began struggling again and shouted at him in French. As she moved, her dress came down slightly, revealing milky white shoulders, he didn’t give them a second thought, caught up in the frenzy of the movement.

He released her from his right hand, before swinging it back and slapping her hard on the cheek with all his force. He was sure he felt something dislodge under his palm, and grabbed her with both arms, throwing her against the wall of the building a few inches behind her. ” Ich glaube, dass wir diesen meinen Weg dann tun müssen. Erzählen Sie mir jetzt die Namen von fünf anderen in Ihrer Organisation nicht hier heute Abend für einen Anfang, können Sie das tun, oder muss ich anfangen, Sie wieder zu schlagen?’ He smiled wolfishly at her, and hit her in the thigh with the skeletal butt of his MP40, drawing a scream of pain from her as he waited for her co-operation. Everyone had a point where they snapped, and Luther would enjoy finding this point.


Translations
Zeigen Sie mir Ihre Papiere, Fräulein Beaudoin. Sie sind verhaftet eurerseits in diesem Kabarett, und wir wollen Antworten von Ihnen. Sind wir dabei, das der leichte Weg, oder mein Weg zu tun? - Show me your papers, Miss Beaudoin. You are under arrest for your part in this cabaret, and we want answers from you. Are we going to do this the easy way, or my way?

Ich glaube, dass wir diesen meinen Weg dann tun müssen. Erzählen Sie mir jetzt die Namen von fünf anderen in Ihrer Organisation nicht hier heute Abend für einen Anfang, können Sie das tun, oder muss ich anfangen, Sie wieder zu schlagen? - I guess we need to do this my way then. Now, tell me the names of five others in your organisation not here tonight for a start, can you do that, or do I need to start hitting you again?

[Victoire Beaudoin]

It was so unimaginably disgusting to have the Nazi’s arms wrapped around her, feeling tainted by that very abominable touch which threatened to stain her with fragments of his inhuman crimes and sins. Filthy, filthy beef of a man. In vain did she struggle against his overpowering grasp and respond to his commanding leer with a sneering attitude and a presumptuous glare that meant to make visible to him precisely how unbearably nauseating it was to her that he must be of such close proximity; in vain did she attempt to flail her slim arms about in case they escaped his tough frame, in vain did she endeavour to kick him anywhere she could find, for he was as one would naturally expect extraordinarily stronger than her, that even to think of a counteraction seemed quite a ridiculous idea. Victoire did not care. She loved ridiculous ideas. “Vous bâtard crasseux! Ne faites pas vous osez me toucher avec vos mains crasseuses!” she screamed at him in a screeching slur with every hatred she could muster at the moment, her legs literally dancing around in a war battle as she was grasping from the air to break away from that grasp that humiliated her. “Ne moi touchez pas! Ne faites pas!” she continued, and then she turned her face sideways and spat at his face.

And then he slapped her. A disgusting ‘crack’ was heard as a bone in her jaw was dislodged, and a rush of excruciating pain swept through her body and momentarily paralyzed her, allowing a cry of anguish escape her throat as her face was thrown sideways and she stumbled backwards a few inches, but incapacitated of falling down as he was holding her strongly. Blood began to trickle from her nose down to her scarlet lips, the bittersweet liquid mixed with the lipstick’s colour and dancing in its scent. His words pierced through her ears, through her entire length and penetrated her defences, her hands now hanging loosely down by her side as she felt his uniform brush against her skin from the movement; her head slightly tilted backwards but she refused to succumb to his cruelty and animalistic aggression. She would physically be torn apart, if so he desired, but she was resolute he would not break her soul. “Sie schlagen eine Frau,” she slurred in a more quiet tone, feeling the dislocated jawbone move along her mouth as she spoke with immense difficulty.

She spoke in a Berlin accent hailing from the roots she had from her grandmother, which was a connection that deeply troubled her in terms of being related to a woman born in a nation of cannibals, as she believed of Germany – which had polarized her: being a lover of Schiller and Goethe, and of Germany for her superb national contribution in culture, she had forgiven the initiation of the Great War, not having lived through the haunting pain of warfare. Now she lived through the war, however, and it was inevitable that prejudice and hatred would reign upon her heart for a country she had once loved. She spoke in German because she wanted him to know what she was telling him, and though she was certain he would not give a sodden interest, it was a deeper need to make it clear to him she was not going to crumble under his grasp, that she was not daunted by pain, for she had embraced it a long time ago. He simply needed to look deeper to find her weak spots, and God knew she had many. “Welcher Feigling Sie sind?” she asked him, and then despite the severe pain, she turned her head around to face her, staring directly at his cold and ruthless eyes. “Nichts wird davon kommen!” she shouted, the pitch of tone being an additional source of throbbing twinge around her mouth, and she groaned inside her throat.

He released her, but she knew this was not the end of it; the next second she was thrown savagely against the wall, her back crushing against the concrete and her hands instinctively glued backwards to prevent the friction, but she was slowly falling downwards, as her legs were now weak. From the struggle her cheap burgundy dress had been torn apart in pieces, and as the heavy metal of the rifle beat against the naked skin of her thigh, another deep cry of anguish escaped her throat, and she momentarily closed her eyes to give herself physical and emotional courage in sustaining through his violence. “Es ist Männer wie Sie,” she uttered breathlessly, painfully raising her head to look up at his imposing outline, “die mich krank machen.” She coughed up blood and spat it on the floor. She turned to face him again, and a strange smile was etched across the corner of her bloody lips, her eyes taunting and icy-cold as she stared through his own merciless ones. “Sie wissen, jene Antworten wo zu schieben, stimmt dass? Wir sind dabei, diesen meinen Weg zu tun!” she said fiercely, her mouth aching, and then laughed mockingly at him in a throaty way, and coughed up more blood. A crimson bruise was made at the spot where the steel had come into violent contact with her thigh, and though it was burning, she did not give it as much hateful attention as she gave him. “Also warum geben Sie mir alles nicht, dass Sie, Sie stachelloser Hund haben?”



♠ Translation ♠

You filthy bastard! Don’t you dare touch me with your filthy hands!

Don’t touch me! Don’t!

You are hitting a woman! What kind of a coward are you? Nothing will come of this!

It’s men like you ... that make me sick.

You know where to shove those answers, don’t you? We are going to do this my way. So why don’t you give me all you’ve got, you spineless dog?

[William Luther]

The woman wouldn’t listen, she wouldn’t see sense. Surely she worked out that this would hurt her no end. Her saliva slowly made its way down Luther’s cheek, before dripping off at the corner of his jaw landing on his shirt. She carried on resisting, shouting now in German that she wanted everything he had. That could be arranged.

He punched her, his fist hitting her nose, and consequentially carrying her head back in to the concrete wall with considerable force, with a dull thud and a moan of pain. He reached on to his belt, and grabbed a pair of handcuffs he’d been given to help restrain the prisoners. He violently swung the woman around, and bent her over a table, and yanked her arms behind her, cuffing them in a stress position he’d been taught to ensure maximum pain from the cuffs. He then yanked her back in to a standing position with her hair. The room had turned in to a great cacophony, and most of the civilians had been cuffed and were being lined up against a wall, sub-machine gun wielding SS men making sure nobody moved, nobody spoke.

Luther brutally dragged her by the hair over to a side door, leading in to a small room, for peace and quiet. He flicked on the light switch, and saw a few snooker tables in the middle of the room, another small bar to the side and a wireless radio on a small table nestled in a corner. As he threw her on to the table, her dress finally broke, leaving her lying on the bright green velvet dressed only in her undergarments. He smiled at the sight, she was hopeless and at his command. He walked over to her and slapped her again in exactly the same place. ” Hören Sie jetzt hier, Sie dummes Weibchen. Sie sind dabei, mir die Antworten zu geben, die ich will, Sie sind dabei zu tun, wie ich Ihnen erzähle. Wenn nicht, so, wir haben bestimmte Plätze, wo wir Leute wie Sie veranlassen können, uns überhaupt zu erzählen, wollen wir, und ich würde hassen, solch einen hübschen zu haben, wie Sie dorthin gehen.” He thought of the various Deutsches Soldatenhaus scattered around the German lands, German Soldier Houses, or as they were more commonly known, rape camps. Luther had a lot of influence, and he could make sure that she was given the most horrible treatment there, or, if he wanted, he could have her reserved solely for himself. Senior NCOs usually had a lot more influence than most junior officers, as they made a name for themselves being amongst the most senior in a division.

“ Jetzt. Ich will Namen wissen. Ich will zuverlässige Namen, und ich will Zusammenarbeit, sonst Sie, und ich bin dabei, eine sehr interessante Zeit mit diesem Zimmer zu haben. Sie wollen alles sehen, dass ich an Ihnen werfen kann? Ich kann dass lassen mich erfüllen, und Sie in zu einem lebenden Albtraum werfen.“ As if to make a point, he drew his knife from his belt threw it in the and let it do half a flip before catching the handle on the drop. He’d spent a lot of time when he first joined the army practising that, just because it looked so awesome. He threw it in to the table, just inches from her face, the blade quivering slightly. He began walking around the table, before grabbing a snooker cue and snapping it over his knee, dropping half leaving only a section about the size and width of an Officer’s stick, with several dangerous looking splinters sticking out of the end. It was all about intimidation, he had to get inside her head, make her imagine the horrors that could happen to her within this room. That was the most powerful way of torturing her, letting her own brain cause most of the pain.

He knelt down, putting his head at her height, smiling and speaking in a sickly sweet voice. “ Gehen Sie dann, Victoire weiter. Warum nicht tun, erzählen Sie mir, was ich will. Ich würde gründlich reccomend es.“


Translations

Hören Sie jetzt hier, Sie dummes Weibchen. Sie sind dabei, mir die Antworten zu geben, die ich will, Sie sind dabei zu tun, wie ich Ihnen erzähle. Wenn nicht, so, wir haben bestimmte Plätze, wo wir Leute wie Sie veranlassen können, uns überhaupt zu erzählen, wollen wir, und ich würde hassen, solch einen hübschen zu haben, wie Sie dorthin gehen. - Now listen here, you stupid bitch. You are going to give me the answers I want, you are going to do as I tell you. If not, well, we have certain places where we can get people like you to tell us whatever we want, and I'd hate to have such a pretty one as you go there.

Jetzt. Ich will Namen wissen. Ich will zuverlässige Namen, und ich will Zusammenarbeit, sonst Sie, und ich bin dabei, eine sehr interessante Zeit mit diesem Zimmer zu haben. Sie wollen alles sehen, dass ich an Ihnen werfen kann? Ich kann dass lassen mich erfüllen, und Sie in zu einem lebenden Albtraum werfen. - Now. I want to know names. I want reliable names, and I want co-operation, otherwise you and I are going to have a very interesting time in this room. You want to see everything I can throw at you? I can make that come true, and throw you in to a living nightmare.

Gehen Sie dann, Victoire weiter. Warum nicht tun, erzählen Sie mir, was ich will. Ich würde gründlich reccomend es. - Go on then, Victoire. Why don't you tell me what I want. I would thoroughly reccomend it.

[Victoire Beaudoin]

Another cry of anguish escaped her throat once the metal fist crushed against her nose, an additional source of pain stemming from the throbbing ache of her dislodged mouth, as her face was for a second time thrown sideways and her back grazed against the hard surface of the cold, concrete wall, her fingers widening open and their veins popping out in places as though forcing herself not to yield to this physical torture that intended – but she was determined not – to break her. Everything happened in the blink of an eye for her to completely register, and she did not have time to experience the absolute length of the pain as she felt a pair of strong hands yank her from her hair and force her to lean against a table, closing her eyes in disgust as she felt the man’s coarse hands touch against her own while putting her handcuffs, while more blood was trickling from her nose and staining the wooden rickety table. The cold steel clicked against her sore wrists, and she was then imposed back in a standing position in the same way, experiencing such a rapid heartbeat against her ribcage as made her believe she would not be able to live through the heart attack that could arrive should the man continue at this pace. She was only a woman, after all, and he was a many-faced monster.

Then she was dragged across the chaotic room from the hair once more, being led to a side door (and almost preparing for her head to crush against the door as they approached quickly), the last noises she heard being from a French patriot who was shot in the head, and then it all became a distant buzz as the door was slammed close. She was thrown upon the table, at which point her cheap dress was less resilient than she was and fell apart on the floor, leaving her only in her black undergarments, made of fine lace, one of the few things she had since the glorious days of her truly belonging to high society, an era during which her family’s social status was glowing. But then again, was it not so for everyone else? She lay against the cold table, her raven hair messily falling around her shoulders, her rich bosom heaving up and down quickly from the heartbeat, her skin appearing almost pure white from the surrounding mystical darkness, as the lamp cast its dim light upon her, revealing parts of her long and slender legs lying across the wooden surface, beaten and wounded, the arc of her neck and belly slightly tilted backwards, the feminine curves not worshipped but humiliated by that crooked smirk he bestowed them. With another slap, her face danced sideways, but she had survived through his previous blow and this seemed like a burning hors d’œuvre. Her jaw was relocated into its previous position with another disgusting ‘crack’ and she grumbled inside her throat with a sting of pain, refusing to allow him the self-satisfaction which without a doubt he felt from her anguish.

She heard the solitary noises of plates dropping on the floor, bottles crushed, and people screaming, all blocked from the door, all belonging to another world from which she had been forced out of. It was hard to register every word he spoke to her amidst the height of the horror and her physical condition, but it was far from hard to imagine what they were. Threats. The nation that only spoke in threats. And then it was the knife and the snooker. The coal-black irises of her eyes slightly widened at the sight of the knife, but not in the way he had probably wished her to. The blade, it was made of the finest steel, she could tell just by looking at it gloriously glinting in the dim light; and it was beautiful. The bastards had to have the finest product in the market, and at that moment she was envious of the weapon he possessed. It was almost mesmerizing. It brought her black memories of another era, and how could he know she had long since embraced the wounds of self-harm? She had ceased to react against the torture, some invisible force overpowering her into obeying his wishes, almost hypnotically so, as though it was a form of punishing herself for lingering guilt over the sins of her past, of which she knew not yet. It was all there, in the unexplored corners of her twisted mind. “Sie philisterhaftes Schwein können Sie nicht sehen,” she whispered to him hatefully, staring with her steel-blue eyes through his cruel ones, “dass Ihre Mutter versuchte, Sie zu verlieren? Hinter einem Auto. Sie versuchte, uns alle zu retten. Es ist das einzige Ding, für das ich ihre Vergebung geben kann.”

Then, she unexpectedly stretched out her hand and grabbed him from his uniform’s collar, pulling him closer to her to the point where she could almost feel the stink of his breath, and he the intoxicating scent of a woman. Her knuckles turned pale white from the pressure she applied around the collar, the vein of his neck visibly popped out and for a second a fantasy pierced through her mind with a painful stab, one involving the knife’s blade slashing through his carotid, so that the victim would become the victimizer. “Also warum gehen Sie nicht und ertränken sich?” she breathed at him, an expression of fierce hunger visible through her widened steel-blue and hostile eyes that were mocking him in every possible way. She then released him furiously and lay her head back on the wooden table, her eyes back to admiring the knife he was holding. Her heart was still beating wildly with fear and anticipation, a human weakness that was common to everyone. And she wished it was not so; she wished she could be strong enough to face him, but once again she was only a woman – and fearless, but once again she was only human. “Kommen Sie dann heran. Oder sind Sie versprechen nur?”


♠ Translation ♠

You philistine hog, can’t you see your mother tried to lose you? In the back of some car. She tried to save us all. That’s the only thing I may give her forgiveness for.

So why don’t you go and drown yourself?

Come on, then. Or are you only promises?

[William Luther]

Much to Luther’s surprise, his prisoner reached out, grabbing his uniform with a cold hand. He let her draw him in to her in his shock, until his ear was right next to his knife. She carried on insulting Luther, who yanked backwards as she released him, and yanked the knife from the table, feeling the freezing steel against the palm of his hand.

He grabbed her right hand, and pulled it out, spreading the fingers wide, and holding the knife parallel to the table, above the second joint of her middle finger. ” Weitergehen. Sagen Sie irgendetwas wie das über mich noch einmal. Ich weiß, dass Sie dazu wollen. Gerade wie will ich dieses Messer unten stoßen. Würde Sie, das, hmm mögen?” He looked at her, straight in the eye, showing her how serious he was and smiling maniacally.

” Sie sind ein sehr dummes kleines Mädchen. Wenn Sie vom Anfang zusammengearbeitet hätten, hätte ich Ihnen gerade der lokalen französischen Polizei gereicht. Aber jetzt bin ich dabei, Sie knacken und dann Sie irgendwo viel schlechter bringen zu müssen. Wie schlecht davon abhängt, wie böse Sie mich machen.” He resumed his sickly sweet voice as he bent closer to her ear, ” Ja, Leute werden fragen, wo Sie sind, aber das egal ist. Es ist der SS es befasst sich mit Ihnen, wir können irgendwelche Fragen loswerden, wir konnten sogar Ihren Tod wenn neccesary fälschen. Haben Sie es edel nicht vor, ein Märtyrer zu sterben, weil wir ihm nicht erlauben werden zu geschehen, werden wir die ganze Welt denken lassen, dass ein Bus Sie, oder etwas wie das überfuhr. Aber wir haben zu wenn Sie nicht, GESPRÄCH BUMSEND!” He yelled the last two words right in to her eardrum. He stood back up, and the spun the knife around, pressing the edge gently on her finger and running it along to draw a tiny amount of blood before lifting it again. ” Wenn es Schmerz ist, wollen Sie, ich werde es Ihnen geben, nicht sorgen.”

Translations

Weitergehen. Sagen Sie irgendetwas wie das über mich noch einmal. Ich weiß, dass Sie dazu wollen. Gerade wie will ich dieses Messer unten stoßen. Würde Sie, das, hmm mögen? - Go on. Say anything like that about me once more. I know you want to. Just like I want to push this knife down. Would you like that, hmm?

Sie sind ein sehr dummes kleines Mädchen. Wenn Sie vom Anfang zusammengearbeitet hätten, hätte ich Ihnen gerade der lokalen französischen Polizei gereicht. Aber jetzt bin ich dabei, Sie knacken und dann Sie irgendwo viel schlechter bringen zu müssen. Wie schlecht davon abhängt, wie böse Sie mich machen. - You're a very silly little girl. If you'd co-operated from the start, I would have handed you straight to the local French police. But now I'm going to have to crack you and then put you somewhere much worse. How bad depends on how angry you make me.

Ja, Leute werden fragen, wo Sie sind, aber das egal ist. Es ist der SS es befasst sich mit Ihnen, wir können irgendwelche Fragen loswerden, wir konnten sogar Ihren Tod wenn neccesary fälschen. Haben Sie es edel nicht vor, ein Märtyrer zu sterben, weil wir ihm nicht erlauben werden zu geschehen, werden wir die ganze Welt denken lassen, dass ein Bus Sie, oder etwas wie das überfuhr. Aber wir haben zu wenn Sie nicht, GESPRÄCH BUMSEND! - Yes, people will ask where you are, but that doesn't matter. It's the SS that's dealing with you, we can get rid of any questions, we could even fake your death if neccesary. Don't think it noble to die a martyr, because we will not allow it to happen, we will make the whole world think a bus ran over you, or something like that. But we don't have to if you FUCKING TALK!

Wenn es Schmerz ist, wollen Sie, ich werde es Ihnen geben, nicht sorgen. - If it's pain you want, I'll give it to you, don't worry.

[Victoire Beaudoin]

He prompted her to continue. Obviously desiring to harm her furthermore due to her insults, he wanted her to insult him more, so that the pain and anguish he would draw from her would be even greater in sheer magnitude, even more pleasurable. She felt his rough hand grasp her and push her fingers wide open, as she knew what was to come, while her eyes looked at the knife’s blade hovering above her hand with welcoming menace. This strange feeling engulfed her, a combination of absolute terror and anticipating exhilaration at the same time, and she could not quite describe how exactly it felt, but it certainly came close to being held from a cliff’s precipice from one thin thread that was ready to be torn every second now. She breathed more deeply now, attempting to prepare herself for the worst; she had no idea of what was to come as she was locking the door to her apartment and made her way to the underground pub under cover of darkness, the situation she had gotten herself into rather consciously and willingly. He insulted her and threatened her, and his booming voice clearly displayed a man that was not only not to be trifled with (which was in his case simply taken for granted) but also a man whose physical and mental powers stretched beyond the ordinary. He was more than intimidating, he was ungodly.

“Oh, sorgen Sie sich nicht, ich kann Sie sehr böse machen, wenn ich dazu will,” Victoire told him in a quiet but firm voice, turning her eyes towards his face so that she would be able to register the expression he was currently wearing, one of rage combined with the aching anticipation of torture looming near. She could almost feel his thrill at the ways he would punish her, she could almost feel the sheer strength of his muscles despite the fact he was not holding her now violently. She had experienced what it felt like to be constricted and suffocating against the hard ribs of his body, seemingly made of well-sculpted stone, and he might have a marble statue whose grasp was impossible to escape. At this moment it was impossible to think; she might be dead the very next moment, and that frightened her secretly to the marrow of her bone, and even though he could see the glint of fear in her eyes, she wanted to make him understand she would harldy yield to his commands simply because he had the power of being the torturer. She wanted him to know she could, too, give him anguish, as little as that would be in comparative extent. That though he was at the moment holding the string of her survival, and could make her scream her mother’s name and her lungs out if so he wished, she would not yield. He was a German, and all Germans had to suffer for what they did to the world. For what they did to her homeland. “Ich kann provozieren, wenn ich dazu will und Sie zu den Grenzen stoße, wenn ich wünsche. Ich will nicht ein Märtyrer sterben, zu mir ist das nicht Strafe,” she said with a hateful whisper, narrowing her eyes as she stared into his own ruthless orbs. “Ich werde um Sie bitten, es zu tun, ich weiß, wie viel Vergnügen Sie davon erhalten werden. Sie haben keine Idee, wie viel ich davon erhalten werde.”

That maniacal expression on his face, the hungry anticipation, she would never be able to forget it, nor the disgusting feeling of the stench of his breath into her ear, or the sheer enormity of the booming voice barking inside her ear drum to the point where seconds later she presumed herself deaf, or that sweet voice he had adopted that was sickening as it was repulsive. He was a monster, and he could tear her apart if so he wished, but the very idea that he believed her to possess information he could not get out of her was too tempting and stimulating for her to simply pass by. It was her own form of torture. She would not speak, and he would only become progressively more furious, and thus torture her even more. It was a never-ending circle that knew no limits, nor boundaries. The morning would show who had survived and who had yielded this sick game of power and agony. “Jetzt kommen wir irgendwo, stimmt dass?” she asked him once he shouted at her angrily with an insult, and then burst into a very short and sharp laughter at having proven her point. She could make him very angry if she wanted to. That was her intention, her ultimate goal. She was only a woman, she could hardly cause him any physical pain, but she knew tough men like him had their incredibly soft spots that never were to be explored and once mentioned or even harassed, it would be quite dangerous of her to do. The consequences would be severe, and she was just eager to know what happened when his boundaries broke – if he had any; what happened when his nerves were stretched to the very end.

She did not have to wait long enough, for a sharp sound escaped her throat as he drew the blade into her finger, an incisive but gentle move, as she felt the tip violating through her skin an inch deep, running along her flesh for only two more seconds before he lifted it up, probably wishing to register the pained expression on her face. It felt strange to be reunited with this feeling, as the blood trickled from her finger down across her hand and staining the old wood, as she breathed even more deeply, attempting to calm herself for what was to come. This would be only the beginning, and at that very moment, only the two of them existed in that place. The torturer and his little plaything, his dog, his food. “Sie wollen, dass ich spreche? Machen Sie mich, Sie deutscher Hund. Oder Sie nur wie der Ton meiner Stimme?” she openly mocked him, and a breathless smile was etched across the corner of her bloody lips, as she was staring up at him, his threatening and daunting figure hovering above her like a monster from hell.


♠ Translation ♠

Oh, don’t worry, I can make you very angry if I want to. I can provoke when I want to and push you to the limits if I wish.

Now we’re getting somewhere, aren’t we?

I don’t want to die a martyr, to me this isn’t punishment. I will beg you to do it, I know how much pleasure you’ll receive from it. You have no idea how much I will receive from it.

You want me to talk? Make me, you German dog. Or do you only like the sound of my voice?

[William Luther]

Luther smiled as her breath began coming harder in pants, but the taunting of him continued. Luther moved his knife, and plunged it in to her thigh, pisugn until he felt the resistance of the bone, and jiggling it side to side as he pulled it out. He took a few steps away, and began walking to the bar, listening to the melody of pain from behind him.

He stopped for a moment, and realised some of the screaming was coming from next door. He wasn’t concerned though, there wasn’t any gunfire, and if it was a problem, one of his men would have alerted him by now. He looked around the bar, and plucked a bottle of red wine from it. He stuck the tip of his knife in the cork and pulled it out, sniffing at it. ”Jetzt, Victoire, würden wir am besten diese Wunde für Sie erledigen, stimmt dass? Es konnte angesteckt werden. Jetzt habe ich keinen Waschalkohol, aber vielleicht wird das tun.” He walked over to Victoire, and upturned the bottle of wine, pouring some of the liquid over the wound knowing how much it would sting at her and cause extra pain. After about half a bottle had washed over her, he lifted it up again, ” Jetzt bin ich in der Uniform, aber wenn Sie nicht erzählen, tue ich nicht...” and with that he took a long draught of the alcohol, before throwing the half-empty bottle over his shoulder, havin it smash on the concrete wall, and leaving a small puddle of the drink on the floor.

He bent down and picked up the snooker cue he had broken earlier, and twirled it in his hand as he sheathed his knife. He then gripped it in both hands, and began repeatedly beating at Victoire’s torso, leaving bruises and welts before finally snapping, sending a shower of splinters over the lady. He threw away the useless handle before crouching down by her ear again, ” Ich könnte anfangen, bald vielleicht in weiteren fünf Minuten langweilig Angelegenheit zu werden, ich werde Sie irgendwo nehmen, Sie dort für kurze Zeit verlassen, dann es Ihren schlechtesten Albtraum machen. Wenn Sie sich dafür entschieden, in dieser Zeit, obwohl kooperativ zu sein...” He let it hang before standing up and he began shouting, turning himself in to a terrible and horrifying being. ”Ich habe es satt, das Wiederholen selbst zum Schaum wie Sie zu bumsen. Erzählen Sie mir jetzt, was ich Sie kleines Weibchen kennen will!”

He grabbed her, and violently threw her off of the table on to the hard ground, and gave a single kick to her leg, aiming where it was bruising from earlier. He smiled as he looked at her helpless forms, she would be a worthwhile prize, whether she worked with him or not.

Translations
Jetzt, Victoire, würden wir am besten diese Wunde für Sie erledigen, stimmt dass? Es konnte angesteckt werden. Jetzt habe ich keinen Waschalkohol, aber vielleicht wird das tun. - Now, Victoire, we'd best sort out that wound for you, shouldn't we? It could become infected. Now, I don't have any rubbing alcohol, but maybe this will do.

Jetzt bin ich in der Uniform, aber wenn Sie nicht erzählen, tue ich nicht... - Now, I'm in uniform, but if you don't tell, I won't...

Ich könnte anfangen, bald vielleicht in weiteren fünf Minuten langweilig Angelegenheit zu werden, ich werde Sie irgendwo nehmen, Sie dort für kurze Zeit verlassen, dann es Ihren schlechtesten Albtraum machen. Wenn Sie sich dafür entschieden, in dieser Zeit, obwohl kooperativ zu sein... - I might start getting bored soon, maybe in another five minutes I'll take you somewhere, leave you there for a little while, then make it your worst nightmare. If you decided to be co-operative in that time, though...

Ich habe es satt, das Wiederholen selbst zum Schaum wie Sie zu bumsen. Erzählen Sie mir jetzt, was ich Sie kleines Weibchen kennen will!- I am sick of fucking repeating myself to scum like you. Now, tell me what I want to know you little bitch!

[Victoire Beaudoin]

And she would scream. She would scream her lungs out, scream her mother’s name – scream until she had no voice. But nobody would hear her, and it was almost as certain as the fact of winter bringing snow or war announcing death that many would not even turn their heads around or stretch their arms to provide help should they hear or witness her inhuman suffering. A shriek of deep horror escaped her throat and surrounded the dimly lit room as the blade slashed through her inner thigh and reached her bone, an indescribable feeling of unbearable pain engulfing her – only fortified once he continued dragging the knife alongside her skin, bearing her wounds which were never to abandon her, wounds carved on her body and slashing every shred of decency and self-respect she might once have had. Her mouth wide open and shouting the terror she was experiencing, her icy cold and steely-blue eyes were bulging open from the sheer magnitude of the unutterable anguish, those bitter tears streaming down her face even though she wished them not to. It was a perfectly physical reaction to the pain, but she tried not to cry. She could scream, but she wanted not to cry. It had been such a long time since she had cried – since she had sworn she would never cry again – years even, a time belonging to another era, wishfully even to another person, but the bitter truth was it was all hers. Those tears that made her weak and vulnerable in front of this beast, she could not control them. She merely felt them burning her in their journey downwards her neck, embracing the corner of her curvaceous lips, almost mockingly, laughing at her weakness. Her unquestionable, human weakness.

She knew she would ultimately break. Some people wished to die as martyrs, she only wished to die. The pain … she could not bear it. But he was asking her to submit to his power and yield to his need of information, of which she had none. He uttered her name yet again, the coarse sound piercing through her entire length with a buzz – he uttered her name with his filthy lips, and when he spoke it out loud, it sounded disgusting. Suddenly the dim light poked her eyes and she shut them forcefully, as she sensed his figure was no longer hovering above her like a deadly ghost but had vanished into the darkness. She heard a tinkling sound and more voices whose meaning at this point she could hardly understand let alone respond to, her mind in a complete drone, her heart beating violently against her ribcage with such velocity she was left breathless, droplets of sweat trickling from her neck down to her bust as she was taking deep breaths, feeling the stained thigh still wet and the wound sore and open, with the hard wood underneath her moist in her blood. The monster returned, and at first she could not see what he was holding, mustering all the force she had to lift up her right arm and cover her eyes from the burning light, but then he approached closer, and the light fell on his head instead. It almost sanctified him.

It only took one smooth movement from his part as the liquid poured into her wound and burned her, ate her alive, and killed her from the inside. She groaned from her throat, her breasts heaving up as she inhaled deeply to sustain the additional source of pain – but the fact she had been wounded in such a sensitive area did not contribute to endurance but to further anguish. The muscles in her face were stiff and tautened as she clenched her fists and gritted her teeth, making animalistic sounds of pain, and refusing to look at him. Staring at his ruthless and monstrous eyes only infuriated her more … but she had to, she could not control it, she looked back at him and felt the sheer power he was enjoying over her, power in the name of treason, in the name of arrogance, and power for power’s sake. Then the light travelled downwards as he tilted back his neck to drink from the bottle. “Ersticken Sie!” she grumbled hoarsely, feeling the mouth numb from the pain. “Ich hoffe,” she tried to speak again, raising her eyes to look straight into his colourless ones, her faded blues awashed with rage and humiliation, “dass Sie ersticken!”

She breathed deeply, but she could not escape. Once inside his fangs, her flesh and self-respect would be torn. She would mean less than an animal, less than the filthiest mutt.

Her irises widened as she saw his rough hands moving up and down, sheathing the blade, each time he did so another stab slashing through her heart, one of aching anticipation and anxiety at the forthcoming attack. She instinctively covered her eyes as she was beaten mercilessly by the snooker cue on yet another sensitive part of her body, feeling her chest screaming in pain, for the voice had temporarily abandoned her, her throat constricted, and her body vulnerable to his assault. There was nothing she could possibly do to make him stop, but perhaps some part of her inside wanted this to happen, the punishment for sins of the past – finally, someone else, a brutal force, had violated her life and punished her for everything she had done, someone who had the power to inflict such pain as was impossible to bear. And then she shrieked once more horribly, her noise engulfing the small room just as the pain had engulfed her, swallowing down the tears that were once again forming in the prickling corners of her eyes, her face distorted from the agony and staring at him hatefully. She did not cower in fear or shove her hands in front of her in vain self-defence, it was from the beginning clear to her these were silly reactions and that he was a man who could hardly leave without obtaining what he desired.

Then breathing became difficult by the time the splinters fell against her, her hands grasping the edges of the table from each side as though in vain expecting them to give her more strength, when there was none. She felt her head as heavy as ever, as the blood from her wound now trickled from the table down on the floor, wetting it. She closed her eyes only for one second, but when she opened them again, he was still there. Had fear any boundaries, really? Did terror relate to limits when it came to such situations? She was horrified but at the same time fascinated at the prospect of death; she was horrified to be under his command, but at the same time fascinated by this abuse of human power. Her hands were trembling and her body was shivering from a multitude of versatile feelings that would never allow her to sleep at night. But she, too, held some remote power over him, in a sense – she had achieved what she desired. She had angered him. She simply lay there, upon the wooden table, wearing a pair of miserable undergarments but in reality feeling naked to his power, exposed to his arrogance and rage, weak to his commands. At this moment she was a dog, and he was her master.

With a groan she was thrown off the table and on the ground, flat on her chest, her arms instinctively spread to alleviate the crush, but her cheeks grazed against the stone cold marble nonetheless. He kicked her once more in her bruised leg, while feeling the wet blood surrounding the sore wound of the other one’s thigh, making her feel as though she would not be able to walk again. She stood in that position for some moments, looking down on the floor, the curtain of black hair hanging messily by her sides, her slim and long legs sprawled across the floor, the braces of her cheap brassiere coming off in pieces and leaving her bosom flowing alongside the lines of the black lace. And then she slowly turned her face around to face him, her humiliated eyes looking up in search of his own. And then she laughed. It was bitter, miserable, hateful, and lacked the mirth or health of real laughter. “Nichts wird davon kommen!” she said to him in a hateful whisper, and then spat on the floor the blood that had been accumulated in her throat. Her arrogance, her pride were such in magnitude as to prevent her from giving in to his ridiculous commands, from asking for mercy like a frail little woman – and despite the fact she could feel the pain and horror to the marrow of her bone, despite the sickening torture and never-ceasing agony, she was determined not to cry like a foolish little girl. She stared at him repulsively with hateful and cold eyes, her face distorted into an expression of twisted rage and mocking. Nothing would come of this. He was only wasting his time with her.


♠ Translation ♠

Choke! I hope you choke!

Nothing will come of this!

[William Luther]

OOC: Wrapping this sadistic shit up

Luther smiled evilly at the reaction on the table below him, the throws of agony of the young woman. Of course, he wasn't done, his new torture though would be something different, unexpected. He backed away, and sat on the bar, putting the bottle to the side and grabbed his MP40, dangling it between his legs on the thin leather strap, swinging it back and forth gently.

He sat in silence for a few moments, enjoying the last few pained moans from his prisoner and let her shout out her frustrations towards him. He nodded slowly to himself, as if convincing his own mind that this was the best course of action. He got up and walked past her, knocking her on the head with the butt of his weapon, and stamping on her hand with his jackboot, grinding her fingers on to the concrete on his way past.

"Vielleicht haben Sie recht. Gehen. Gehen Sie, laufen Sie zu Ihrem Haus. Gut... Ich würde empfehlen, zurück zur Dachrinne zu kriechen, wo Sie und Ihre shitty Art wirklich gehören." He went straight past her without looking back, and kicked the door open. He looked around the room, at the prisoners against the wall, and pointed to him. "Komen sie hier." The man, an elderly one with a growing waistline and grey hair slowly walked over, and Luther stared him down with macho bravado. The man returned the stare, before breaking out and laughing. Luther slapped him on the back and reached in to his SS tunic and pulled out a wad of cash, and pressed it in to the man's hands. "Mein Freund werde ich Sie an der Basis heute Abend sehen? Ich werde Sie ein Getränk kaufen." He quickly moved closer so only the he could hear and whispered harshly. "Es gibt ein im Vorzimmer. Können Sie, auf sie aufmerksam beobachten, und wir werden uns in auf ihr in ein paar Tagen bewegen. Sie kann nichts verdächtigen, wir müssen ihre Spriete, nicht nur einige Knochen zerquetschen." The informant stepped away, and walked to the door laughing, before dissapearing in to the Parisian night.

Luther turned to address the whole room. "Alle von Ihnen glückliche Herren kehren mit uns zur SS-Basis zurück. Lassen Sie sie schlagen und marschierte schnell." He addressed the last sentance to his NCOs and walked over to the door, going out in to the Parisian night, enjoying the light, refreshing breeze. This French woman was a tiger, no doubt. And soon enough she would be his tiger.

Translations
Vielleicht haben Sie recht. Gehen. Gehen Sie, laufen Sie zu Ihrem Haus. Gut... Ich würde empfehlen, zurück zur Dachrinne zu kriechen, wo Sie und Ihre shitty Art wirklich gehören. - Maybe you're right. Go. Go, run to your home. Well... I'd advise crawling back to the gutter where you and your shitty kind belong, actually.

Mein Freund werde ich Sie an der Basis heute Abend sehen? Ich werde Sie ein Getränk kaufen. - My friend, will I see you at the base tonight? I'll buy you a drink.

Es gibt ein im Vorzimmer. Können Sie, auf sie aufmerksam beobachten, und wir werden uns in auf ihr in ein paar Tagen bewegen. Sie kann nichts verdächtigen, wir müssen ihre Spriete, nicht nur einige Knochen zerquetschen. - There is one in the anteroom. Can you keep an eye on her and we'll move in on her in a few days time. She can't suspect anything, we need to crush her sprits, not just a few bones.

Alle von Ihnen glückliche Herren kehren mit uns zur SS-Basis zurück. Lassen Sie sie schlagen und marschierte schnell. - All of you lucky gentlemen are returning with us to the SS base. Have them cuffed and marched quickly.

[Victoire Beaudoin]

Go. Go, run to your home.

She could run, but she would never hide. He was a Cerberus, monstrous and deadly, and she would never escape from his cannibalistic fangs. Did she know this back then? Had she realized it? Back when the tide had not yet turned, and her life was restricted to impassive pain and anguish, before life would clearly present her with the full and sheer magnitude of cruelty and the animalistic force of nature? There was a fire in her heart she assumed no one could extinguish, and yet how many more times must he snuff it out with his fingers, to never have it light up again? Men like him were greedy carnivores who loved to play with their food before they devoured it; who usurped the means of power given to them and believed the world belonged to them; who considered human life as petty and insubstantial as gave them the right to throw humans upon their feet while they stood fiercely and proudly on top of their golden throne. Men like him did not come in hordes, they were unique in their depravity and power of cruelty, possessing dark intelligence and masterful abilities to such a degree as did not make him simply dangerous. They almost made him godly.

The image inside the room was one of misery and desertion. Snooker cue splinters were scattered around the room, along with pieces of wood, wood and blood; a small red pool was drying on the table, trickling down and staining the floor, while a helpless woman was thrown across the floor, lying unconscious, her arms spread-eagled, her weak legs making a slight curve by her sides and the blood from the swollen, fresh wound drenched her flesh and the dark green carpet. The Germans had long since left, for there was an almost tangible silence prevailing throughout the demolished and violated underground pub, a state of chaos characterizing what several hours ago used to be a form of secret entertainment for people who were abused and restricted by the current Nazi regime, as imposed in the heart of France, in the city of love and light. The French who had previously occupied the pub were now lying dead in the main room, with tables, chairs and scattered, broken glass having fallen on top of them, debris of wood and metal, a complete wreckage, and now utter isolation. Dead bodies, dead souls. Who could dare proclaim they had come alive from this inhumane struggle between cannibals? Who could dare take pride on having lived through loss of self-respect?

When a poor, old woman finally walked across the debris in the early hours of the morning with a look of utter horror etched across her aged face, wearing rags and with her gray hair in a thin, messy plaid, she found Victoire unconscious on the floor, the blood having dried on her skin and on the floor, her undergarments ripped in places from the collision and the struggle, and almost frozen to death. The young woman needed several minutes to thoroughly register what had happened, but once she had attempted to slightly raise her head and look around her a horrible migraine got a firm grasp on her, as she then moaned from the excruciating pain she felt as she pressed her legs against the floor in a sordid attempt to stand up. The old woman helped her up, and Victoire groaned inside her throat, pulling her arm across the elderly’s shoulder, while feeling the wound across her inner thigh having created a crusty surface around the throbbing and irritated skin. She was incapacitated of properly walking, and thus had to support herself against the old one’s body in order to make the slightest move, her face distorted into a grimace of pain and anguish, as droplets of sweat were trickling from her neck down unto her shoulders, wholly shivering. The old woman pulled out the upper layer of her black rags and wrapped them around Victoire’s body.

But as they both left the debris, the young woman limping and supported with the help of the older, crouching one, she could not help but turn her head sideways and look behind her, memories slashing through her entire length and leaving her sore and violated. Her icy-blue eyes stared at the demolished pub with a fading glint, as the older woman gently pushed her to move forwards. Victoire did not know, however, at that moment that she would never be able to move forwards. The path of her declivity had been carved, and she was going to walk it.

[Daniel Brennan]

Mod Post

CP:
Victoire: Massive posts! 15CP

Luther: Not quite as big as Victoire, but still good. 13CP


~Dan