The flags unfurl and the crowds gather around the street. It is a spectacle to be seen, the police cordoning off the course to be taken. Anxiously, I find myself on the curb, almost in the street. I take in the red, white, and black on every corner, every shop window, and on the lapels of every man and woman with a smile on their face. The cars begin to roll, another display of power from our foreign masters. The first hosts a tall figure, standing proudly in the back seat. His arm extends upwards in a familiar salute as the swastikas on the car gleam in the bright Parisian sunlight. 

With exuberance, I return the salute. "Heil!" comes the yell from the crowd.

Not all of us seem so excited to greet the Nazi general. Half of us cheer happily as the procession continues, but the rest watch quietly, passively, defeated. They don't jeer, they don't show any sign of resistance, or even of anger. They look... tired.

Only a single figure steps forward to protest the occupation... The man has a anger in his eyes, but his grip on the brick is weak, his shoulders slumped, and he shudders as he steps forward. I know at once he is French. Don't get me wrong, I hold nothing against the French. I am French myself. Simply, the British, the Spanish, none of the others have suffered under Nazi rule as long and as badly as the French resistors. It is March 1947, and the Nazi's have extended their hold on the continent from western Russia to Portugal, and even Great Britain is no longer free from the Nazi occupation. The European Alliance, as it has come to be called, is all but shattered, having retreated to America, but only the French have fallen so far.

The brick barely even makes it to the street, I myself having caught the arm that threw it, saving the general, still waving to his fans and detractors alike. Soldiers are already rushing towards us as my punch connects with the would be assailant's face and I here the snap as his nose breaks. He drops like a rock, certainly not an experienced fighter, and I deliver a well placed kick to his ribs. My final act is to grab the man by the scruff of his neck and propel him forward into a nearby alley, and he takes flight at the first opportunity. The soldiers arrive, and would have preferred a harsher penalty, but one of them pats my shoulder with appreciation. The next, however, won't meet my gaze. He is Polish.

As if nothing had happened, we return to the little impromptu parade in the streets as the sun sets over the city. The Nazis celebrate another day of victory, but the European Alliance are beginning to unite, their base of operations in the United States, who finally entered the war at the end of 1946... But it may already be too late.


I am Edmond A'montel, long time member of the French National Socialist Party, Nazi collaborator, and I can honestly say, I like what the Nazis have done to the world today.






I'm tired, exhausted even. I haven't slept much over the last week in preparation for tonight. Dressed in black, with my tools of the trade in a bag thrown over my shoulder, I prepare to leave. Before I head out, I make sure to follow protocol. Temporary code sheets burned, several small but vital parts to the radio removed and hidden, the radio itself tucked away into a hidden cache in the wall, nothing is overlooked. I even leave a suicide note, as to convince the enemy I act alone, with no involvement from the Alliance, should I be killed or captured.

I embark into the night, slinking through my own neighborhood like a thief on the prowl. Half an hour of hopping from shadow to shadow, I finally reach my destination. It's one of the nicest hotels in Paris, and is filled with German military officials and VIPs, but I am here for one man, and one man alone. I enter the building next door and climb several flights of stairs, eventually coming to an empty apartment. If all has gone to plan, I could carry out our mission tonight. If not, I would have to abort, or be walking into a trap.

As I cross to the window, I see the board, creating a walkway to the hotel's fire escape. It was on. Carefully, I slide across the board bridging the gap, inches away from a steep plunge and certain death. What feels like hours later, I'm safely across the rickety makeshift bridge. I climb a single ladder to a darkened window. It's shaded, but I know it's the right window. It has to be.

From my bag I pull a small tool. It was meant for painters or carpenters or some sort of worker, but it suits my needs just fine. I slide the broad flat end between the window frame and the glass and pull down. There is a dull snap, nearly only a click as the single pane cracks. Gently, I remove the broken panel and slip my arm inside. I suffer a few cuts from the broken glass to my wrist, but succeed in unlocking the window.

Tool still in hand, I try to silently chip away at the edges of the window and its frame to no avail. It still squeaks lightly as I push it up, listening carefully for any occupants moving inside. Seconds pass, then minutes... It feels like hours, but after about ten minutes, I'm nearly certain I'm still in the clear. I slip into the hotel room unseen.

The lighting is dim, and I can't tell whether or not any of the rooms are occupied. The entire city might well be silent at this very moment. It's not terribly dark, so I slink away from my shadow towards an open doorway. My back meets the wall and I slowly slide to the corner. The moment of truth was nearly upon me.

Again, it took minutes for me to inch my head around the corner and peer into the room and what I find surprises me. The general is sitting at a desk surrounded by bookshelves, and is leaning back in the chair at an unnatural position, his neck rolled back against his shoulder. He seems to be dead already...

No, his chest rose and fell ever so slightly. He must have fallen asleep reading something from his library. Silent footstep, shallow breaths, nervous glances, I make my way towards him. I near the desk.

My knife emerges from my the back of my belt, fitting in my palm as if it were made for me... I was within striking distance now...

Unable to contain my curiosity, I note an open book on the desk. With my blade, I reach out and flip the book shut, but even as I read the title, J. R. R. Tolkien's 'The Hobbit', his breathing changed. I watched impassively as the general began to move and opened his eyes. Squinting in the light, it's only a moment before the recognition sinks in... and then he sees the knife.

"B- but... You were..."

He never finishes. The blade arcs gracefully, almost gently, forward into his throat, cutting off his revelation. The crimson ink flowed freely, my aim true. I watched as a book I had never had the pleasure of reading slowly become illegible under the pool of my latest victim's life blood. Within seconds, he was no more.

It was a waste.

My mission, only the most recent of many, was complete, and Berlin would be sending another man for us to silence soon.

I felt a strange sort of camaraderie with the corpse beside me, and I pull up a chair across from him. He wouldn't speak to me, the weight of my betrayal apparently too much for him to bear. He only stared absently past me, as if pondering some great mystery. In other circumstances, I may have called this man friend... In a way, he already knew me...

He had recognized me from the parade.


I am Edmond A'montel, Special Operations Executor for the European Alliance, Resistance Fighter, French Patriot, and I can honestly say, War is Hell, but this one has united the entire world against a common foe...