You are Brett Parker, spy extraordinaire.
“Would you like some more coffee, sir?” The waiter comes over again with a friendly smile and a steaming jug of coffee. The smell wafts in the air – reminiscent of warm wood and burning coals – and tempts you.
You nod to him, and he pours some into your cup – thin, white porcelain, gilt at the edges – and refills the nearly-empty sugar bowl. “Thank you,” you say, with a smile and a nod. The waiter bows and goes on his way. You sip on the coffee, ignoring the bowl before you.
“Pure as an angel and black as sin.” She laughs. Sitting by the opposite side of the table, she takes a small sip from her coffee and smiles.
“Sweet as love and hot as hell.” You laugh.
“There are few men who dare to take their coffee black,” she continues, “but I suppose it fits your persona.”
You laugh. “Thank you, I suppose. But what about you?”
“I’ve never been one for sweet things, no – I prefer it as it is. Dark, bitter and rich.”
You sit for a while with your companion, sipping from your cups and making small talk. Occasionally, she glances about her surroundings – you observe how her eyes, deep blue, seem to glimmer in the light – smiling, seemingly amused by some private little joke. Her hair, very black, was knotted back low, and hung about the nape of her neck. Her dress, black velvet, was simple but fitted tightly against her form, and possessed a drape and splendour that attested to its fine make.
“We’re living dangerous lives, you know – especially now that the war is at its worst. Every time we’re sent out on a mission, that one could be the last.”
“Yes. I know.” You pause. “But this… We’re doing great things here, Sophie. Important things. ”
“I still fear for you – for both of us.” She reaches out to touch your hand, holding it in a firm embrace. ”Sometimes, I wish we could just escape and live quietly – someplace else.”
“You know we can’t do that. Me, this is my probation – they’ll execute me if I leave. You… Well. I don’t think I need to explain that part.”
She sighs. “Does it always have to be like this, Brett? So serious and grim?”
You stay silent.
“Just do one thing for me, Brett. Don’t take the next mission. I’ve got bad feelings about it. Maybe I’m just being paranoid, but if you still care, please, don’t take it. I want to be able to see you alive tomorrow. If we can’t see each other again by then, maybe next week. As long as you’re there.”
“Miss DeVille?” Another waitress arrives at your table, clutching a small silver tray on which rests a small envelope. “A telegram message has arrived for you.”
She takes it and, looking at you apologetically for a moment, opens it and pauses to read over the contents. She looks at you again. “I- I have to go. I’m sorry,” she says, and leaves the dining hall.
You sit in silence. What she had said was true. You had only barely survived your last mission – when they found you upon receiving your pickup signal for a completed mission, you had been shot and beaten so badly that you seemed to be a lost cause. Sophie was shaken badly and stayed with you when she could. But at the same time, there was no choice for you but to press on, to keep doing what you do – this was your one ticket back into your world, and even if the price seemed steep at times, you kept in mind that almost any price – any danger – was better than certain death. You could always find – or talk – your way out of any complications, and as a last resort, there were often reinforcements.
You shiver a little. You had seen that accursed chair for yourself, when the prison wardens decided to play another one of their perverse jokes and bring you along to your cell-mate’s execution to show you what you were waiting for. He had been placed in a tiny little box of a room and strapped to a brown chair, and wires, which snaked all along the floor and into a little electrical box set into a wall, were attached to his head and ankles. In the last few seconds, as the wardens closed the door and sauntered over to the lever, you could see him smiling at you through the dirty glass and mouthing half a word before one of them pulled the lever with a grin and made the whole room spark. He shuddered violently, then pissed, his wet trousers steaming. After what seemed to be an eternity, the timer ran out and the chair stopped – but he was still breathing, panting heavily. You still remember what the warden said when he pushed you out of the way to see the results.
“Hah! Tough bastard, this one.”
Then they slammed the lever down once more and his body jolted into the air. His eyes rolled back into their sockets and he vomited blood onto his piss-drenched clothes and the chair. Then it was over.
They had to drag you back because you were frozen to the ground. You didn’t eat for days. You were silent for a lot longer. Perhaps the other inmates in that place – the murderers, the gang members, hitmen – would have dealt with it better or even shrugged it off, but you were much softer. You were an ex-con artist, and while you swindled and seduced millions of dollars away from the wealthy you had never touched a gun. However much you deserved to be with the worst of the lot, you were still out of place – and the wardens, and criminals, knew it as well. Had they not shown up with the offer, you’d have ended up on that chair too.
You finish up what remains of your coffee and walk out. Heading across the entrance hall to your room, you almost reach the other side when the receptionist sees you and calls you over.
“Excuse me, sir, but Dr. Lyndon desires your presence in his office as soon as possible. He stresses its urgency.”
You smile to her. “Ah, thank you, sweetheart. I’ll just go on up to the Doctor right away.” She opens her mouth to say something, but suddenly looks past you at someone. You turn around to see who it is – it’s the Professor, one of your long-time colleagues working for the Doctor, your squad leader.
“Well, hello! If it isn’t the Professor – how are you, Quigley? My, I haven’t seen you in such a long time!” You greet him with a wide smile, and stretch out your arms in a warm embrace.
“Good to see you, Parker.” He laughs. “Are you here for the meeting as well?”
“Ah – yes, I am. It looks like it’s going to be another one of
those, then; we’re just missing one.”
“Yes, we are – though I’m sure he’ll show up eventually. He always does.”
“Shall we go up, then?”
“After you.”
You lead the man through a multitude of vast chambers lit by golden lamps and shimmering chandeliers. The massive French windows, built into the walls in nearly every room, remain shuttered and blinded for now as the weather worsens. The deep, muffled thrum of rain tapping against the glass echoes around the rooms and soothes your ears. You stride through the rooms with confidence, taking each turn flawlessly. This place is your home turf, your sanctum, having spent most of your time here between missions – they don’t let you out often.
Eventually, you reach a door at the end of the hallway – a metal plate embedded in the wood reads A[SIZE=7PT]NDREW[/SIZE] L[SIZE=7PT]YNDON[/SIZE], MD. You knock on the door.
“Yes? Who is it?”
“It’s me – Parker. The professor’s here as well.”
“Come in. It’s about time.”
The door opens to reveal a stately office; dark wooden furniture, grand both in size and execution, populate the room. At its centre dominates an opulent desk, newly lacquered and glowing with a rich warmth; from beneath its mirror-like surface, the wood blazes and flares out in shades of brilliant crimson and scarlet, throwing glittering embers that sparkle and smoulder against the dim light. Though two large windows are built into the far wall, they remain shut for shelter and the room is lit instead by a multitude of ornate brass lights affixed to nearly every corner of the room and bathing it in a fiery golden light. Behind the desk reclines an older man dressed in a blue-grey suit and satin tie – tufts of grey are visible in streaks amidst his jet-black hair and beard, and his nose, thin and long, supports a pair of small glasses with a thin, silvered frame. Dr. Lyndon; the one and only.
You both take a chair before his desk. The Professor brings out a pipe and a small velvet bag, stuffing it with tobacco.
“So,” he says, “what is so urgent that you had me travelling across two towns and miss my next lecture for?” Pocketing his tobacco pouch, he brings out a small matchbox from within his jacket and lights it with a struck match. He sucks on the pipe. “I’ll expect you to have performed, at the very least, some premeditation on how to explain this matter to everyone else.”
“I’m guessing it’s another mission,” You comment, almost singing – you feel oddly elated. You cross your legs and slump down a little in your chair, smiling.
“Very astute. Gentlemen, we do, in fact, have another mission to perform.” Taking out two more folders from the massive binder on your desk, he passes them to each of your colleagues – each one is labelled MAFIAA. “We’ll have to start without Mr. Ward for the moment. Please, examine the contents of your folders.”
At that moment, you hear another knock. “Dr. Lyndon? It’s Daniel Ward.”
“Come in. You’re late, but I suppose that can’t be helped.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but this was very short-notice.” He opens the door and comes in. “If you had given us more time-”
“I’m aware, but notifying you all further in advance was impossible. Now, please, have a seat.” The Doctor remains quiet for a few moments as Mr. Ward pulls up a chair, and hands him a folder from his binder.
“I’ll give you all a few moments to examine the folders.”
You open and take a look at the contents of your own folder. Inside, you find a large, folded black-and-white map of a camp of some sort, with outlines of tents that had been set up and labels indicating names and uses for them; and another map, this time of Europe, printed on the other side – someone had marked the map with a red dot to show the camp’s location. Against the black and grey shades of matte ink, the lone red dot stands in stark contrast against its Spartan surroundings; catching the dusty beams of light from above, it still gleams slightly and seems almost to be a drop of blood, spilled in accident – or in anger, perhaps – onto the page.
“Our mission,” you begin, “codenamed MAFIAA, is to infiltrate a temporary Nazi military camp that has been found in the location shown on the map provided. We’re not sure what the camp is for, but our intelligence has informed us they are searching for some kind of old weapon or artefact, and that it is critical to the Nazis’ war plan; recovery, while not being the priority, would be appreciated. The layout map and the photos show how the camp currently looks – as you can see, it’s not very well fortified or secure, but blends in well with the forest scenery and defends itself primarily through stealth. This is a double-edged sword; though you will not find it difficult to eavesdrop or infiltrate the camp, you must also be aware that you yourselves will have very little privacy.
“Our goal is to infiltrate the camp by masquerading as Nazi agents. Once inside, we are to systematically eliminate the other Nazi agents present in the camp and gather as much intelligence as possible about the Nazis’ military plan, operations, the goal of this Nazi military camp, and anything else we might find. We'll be escorted to the edge of the camp tomorrow midnight, then left there to our own machinations.”
“Hah! That doesn’t sound hard at all!” Noticing how you seem to have come forward to the edge of your seat as he spoke, you lean back into the chair again and cross your arms.
“Well,” the Doctor replies, “the circumstances of this mission actually make it a fair deal more difficult than the previous ones–”
“Oh, well, there’s always, a catch, isn’t there?” you mumble to himself.
The Doctor sighs. “Gentlemen, this is a mission that is profoundly different from what we have seen before. It will truly test our limits. It may push us beyond that.”
“We could arrange for some help if we need it – it’s not like we’re doing this on our own.”
The Doctor continues, ignoring the comment. “The reasons are thus: First, we have no backup or reinforcements, no support or communication with Headquarters, and failure – or escape – is not an option.”
You kick a garbage bin. “The bastards!” They’re trying to polish you off – you knew it!
“Second, the camp is populated not by standard soldiers, but an elite, hitherto-unknown unit designated Division 0 – these are all soldiers that surpass the entire SS in skill. We must expect heavy and brutal resistance. They will not hesitate to kill and torture.”
The Professor shuts his eyes and leans his head against the back of the chair. You feel a lump in your stomach.
”Third, since the camp contains very little besides canvas tents, we cannot expect to survive if we are discovered or happen upon a firefight. Lastly, if the mission does fail and we are forced to escape, we cannot expect any friendly rescuers or transports to help us navigate what are essentially the heartlands of hostile territory. We’ll be disowned and exiled. And if we don’t return victorious in two weeks, we’ll be declared killed in action. I'm sorry, gentlemen, but this may very well be our last mission.”
A punch to your chest. You stand up, shuffling forward to the window. Your false smile, having been finished off by his words, is now replaced by a dark, pained frown. You open the window and, resting his elbows on the windowsill, lean far out, looking outside into the dark night, letting the cold evening rain drizzle on your head and soak into your clothes.
This is a suicide mission. You were going to die, for certain, now – and not in a bed or even at all happy, but lying in a muddy trench, shot up and bleeding into the ground, tortured or mutilated perhaps by the Nazis, as you watch your friends perish along with you. You shudder. You can’t decide which one is worse: The chair, or… or…
this. You were betrayed.
Finally, after a long, dragged-out moment of silence, you turn your head to him – the Doctor.
“Why are they doing this to us?”
“I don’t know.”
Raindrops, drumming quietly against the ground. Your eyes look outward again, staring away into the grey distance, the vast plains and woods. “What do we do?”
“What do you mean – what can we do? We can do what they've told us to do… Or get shot, or put back in prison. Or get detained. They’re ruthless. You know that.”
“Yes, I know, it's just... I didn't accept that parole offer just to get killed on a suicide mission.”
“Sadly, we've already been assigned the mission. We can't do anything about that.” It was the Professor who spoke. “I suppose... All that's left now is to have a little faith. It seems they've already put theirs on us.”
You jerk around, spraying droplets across the room. “Fuck your faith! Fuck theirs, too! I don't want to die!” Reflexively, you bring out a handkerchief from his pocket and dry yourself off – in a fit of rage, you throw it to the ground and fling the Doctor’s desk lamp across the room with a loud clatter and crash, then remain motionless, staring at the handkerchief with a grimace. Then, after a long while, you creak back into life, and stagger, wearily, back to your chair, and slump into it.
“We’re not going to survive this, are we.” Not a question, but a statement. Your voice is flat.
“I’m… I’m sorry.” The Doctor averts his eyes.
He reclines in the armchair, looking out at the overcast skies beyond the window. “...I need a drink,” he says at last.
The Doctor takes out a dust-covered whiskey bottle and a tumbler, screws off the cap and pours some into the glass, offering it to you.
“Here. Have some of mine.”
You take it and mumble a few words of thanks.
“I know that discussing the mission isn't something we want to do right now, but there are cover stories in each of your briefing folders. It would be a good idea if each of us would retire to the dormitories in the second basement floor for today and tomorrow – we have been, sadly, placed on a temporary curfew until we leave for the mission – to read over our cover stories and relax in safety. The administrators have already relieved you, Professor, and you, Mr. Ward, of your duties for the next few weeks for the mission.”
“I suppose we have no choice, then. I’ll be at the cafeteria if anyone needs me.” Ward stands up and leaves the room, followed by the Professor; both you and the Doctor watch them leave and close the door behind them.
“It’s been a good run,” you say. You finish off the whiskey and leave.
You are Agent Dietrich Waldemar Schmidt, 0th SS Division Officer.
You are one of the officers in the secretive 0th SS Division Das Jahrtausend, taking part in critical missions with discretion and speed. Officially, the division does not exist – there are no formal documents stating its organisation or activities or members, no records of their presence and no mention of them in any paperwork. Knowledge of the 0th SS Division is limited to an elite few – namely, the Führer himself and his innermost circle of military advisors and co-conspirators – who personally delegate tasks for the shadowy soldier-spy unit to accomplish. The nature of these tasks varies widely, from critical reconnaissance missions to sabotage and strategic assaults to investigations into objects and phenomena that may potentially change the course of the war.
It is in one of these missions that you will be deployed into the camp. Your mission is to track down a forgotten artefact or technology of some sort that is located in the forest – the specifics remain unknown due to the sensitive nature of the mission, and only the highest commanders of your division are aware of what exactly this technology is.
You specialise in espionage and reconnaissance not through stealth or forceful entry, but instead by gaining trust and using your natural charms to your advantage. A former diplomat and a veritable Don Juan to boot, your skills in negotiation and parley had been an essential tool of the trade for much of your life. You proved your usefulness to the Führer when, stationed in a strategically important nation’s German foreign embassy in the months leading up to the war, you managed to gain trust amongst the government’s agents and wheedled out of them a massive package of valuable intelligence – this information would later prove invaluable in the first several months of the war.
Realising your importance, the Führer had you be considered for entry into the elusive 0th Division – when you passed a physical fitness test with flying colours and proved yourself a talented marksman in the small arms training programme, you were drafted with enthusiasm and welcomed in. As the war began you, you went through a gruelling training regimen in a classified military compound before being deployed only two years later – in 1941.
This mission is unusual in that you don’t know what you have set out to accomplish – though you are used to secrecy and opaqueness after many years of working in ministries and embassies, and especially now that you are in Division 0, you have your doubts about the usefulness of this strategy.
The next day, you remain in your private dormitory room to study your story. As night falls, you gather your equipment, your papers, get into your costume and leave by truck for the forest – at the edge, you along with the three others are escorted by a small detachment of soldiers to the edge of the camp, where you are left to perform the mission. Here, you each enter a tent and sleep, fearful of the next dawn.
You are a Spy.
(Passive) (Day) (Night) Spychat:
You may covertly communicate with your fellow spies in Spychat. (Passive) (Day) Feline Tenacity: You have a 33% chance of having your lynch fail.
Mission Objective: Dispose of your foes in cooperation with your fellow agents.
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Topic: M E I N K A M P F : A Tale of Vainglourious Basterds - [GAME OVER: 5/11] (Read 69900 times)