Eira’s boots echoed softly through the narrow confines of the underground, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the damp stone and stagnant air. Somewhere far above her, she could still faintly hear the war. Dull concussions of artillery, the distant rattle of gunfire, buildings collapsing in on themselves. Berlin was dying one street at a time.
But she was no longer part of that fight.
Now she was a piece on a board, moved aside while others advanced. Her role had been reduced to finding a basement and waiting, while Dieter walked back into danger. She adjusted her grip on his storm rifle, feeling the unfamiliar weight of it against her palm then she slowed her pace, before stopping entirely. The beam of her light traced the curve of the tunnel ahead before she turned and looked back the way she had come. The darkness behind her felt heavier somehow, as if it were watching her.
Dieter was back there now, moving through the ruined arteries of Berlin with the one person in this world who genuinely frightened her.
Dieter was capable. Strong. Experienced. But Emmett was something else entirely.
She had learned pieces of him during their forced travels together. Fragments of personality. Glimpses of restraint and brutality existing side by side. Every time she thought she had finally mapped the man, he surprised her again. Now his flawless impersonation of a Hauptmann of the Wehrmacht forced her to reassess everything she thought she knew about him.
And somehow, he now stood at the center of her people’s survival. If he had simply intended to kill her, she could have understood that. It would have been clean. Simple. Expected. Instead, he had inserted himself into their future in a way that felt wrong on a level she could not fully articulate.
On the surface his motivation seemed logical. But the deeper she examined it, the more something seemed missing. Some hidden motive. Some private objective that did not align with what he claimed.
Her jaw tightened as she turned her head slightly, staring down the tunnel. Her muscles tensing as if preparing to move. It would not be difficult. Not for her. It had not even been an hour since they separated. She could follow their scent, trace their path through the underground, close the distance quickly.
The thought took hold before she could stop it.
She could catch up.
Her fingers flexed around the grip of Dieter’s rifle.
And then what? She already knew the answer.
Dieter would send her away again.
He would tell her she was needed elsewhere. That this was her role. That she had to trust him. That someone had to be waiting at the rendezvous. She exhaled slowly through her nose, her teeth grinding together as frustration welled up in her chest.
It was not fair.
She had her own part to play. She was a soldier. She was not fragile. And yet she had been sidelined, sent away like something that needed safeguarding. Eira desperately wanted to be beside him. Wanted to watch his back. Wanted to stand shoulder to shoulder when things inevitably went wrong.
She stood there for several seconds longer, wrestling with the urge.
Then reality settled in.
All she would accomplish would be disrupting a plan already hanging by a thread.
She worked her jaw in frustration, a low growl threatening to rise in her throat. Her thoughts churned in tight circles until suddenly, unbidden, an idea forced its way to the surface.
It was reckless. It was impulsive. And it refused to leave her alone.
Otto’s face flashed through her mind. The way he had stared at her in the courtyard. Confused. Hollow. As if searching for answers that would never come. Rolf and Ernst beside him, mirrors of the same stunned disbelief. Stosstrupp Zwei had been shattered in a matter of minutes, their commanding officer killed, their future reduced to being absorbed into some other Sturmwolf unit like spare parts.
But they might not have been moved yet.
If she hurried, she might still reach them.
She could warn them. Convince them. Pull them away before they vanished into another formation. If she succeeded, maybe Haller’s death would not be meaningless. Maybe Rainer, Ulric, even Varan would not have died for nothing.
Dieter would have stopped her. Emmett would have shut it down immediately.
But neither of them were here.
They were about to risk everything trying to persuade others to flee. She could do the same. She could carry part of that burden herself.
Her ears flattened beneath the skull of her helmet as she nodded to herself and let out a long breath.
“Foolish,” she murmured.
Then she turned and broke into a quick stride back the way she had come, her light bouncing wildly across brick and pipe. She remembered passing a maintenance ladder not far back. It came into view moments later, rusted steel bolted into damp concrete and brick. She did not hesitate. She slung the stormrifle tighter against her shoulder and climbed, claws biting into the rungs as she hauled herself upward.
Her heart pounding hard in her chest.
She reached the underside of a heavy manhole cover and braced herself, then shoved upward with a grunt. The metal scraped loudly as it shifted aside. Cold air spilled down into the shaft along with pale daylight.
With another heave she forced the cover wide enough and climbed out onto the street.
Berlin greeted her with the all too familiar smoke and ruin.
She crouched instinctively, scanning the area before standing fully. Broken masonry littered the roadway. Shattered windows stared back at her like empty eye sockets while ash drifted lazily through the air.
Eira oriented herself quickly, ears turning as distant artillery rolled through the city like approaching thunder. She pulled the map from her pocket and studied it, then glanced at the street signs mounted crookedly on a damaged corner building. The location was vaguely familiar. Not far from where they had staged earlier.
She was folding the map when she heard the sound of an engine behind her. Her muscles tensed as she readied her weapon with her free hand. The other still clutching the map.
A small gray car rolled into the intersection. Its paint dulled by soot and dust. Though she could make out the iron cross painted on the door and she immediately felt a sense of relief. The engine coughed unevenly as it turned toward her. Through the filthy windshield she made out the silhouette of a man watching her with cautious curiosity.
The car slowed to a stop only a few feet away.
A middle-aged man sat behind the wheel. His uniform was incomplete and mismatched. A dirty tank top stretched over a thin wiry frame, gray trousers tucked into worn boots, and a gray cap pulled low over tired eyes. He studied her for a long moment, his hands tight on the steering wheel.
“Are you lost?” he asked carefully, as if he already feared the answer.
Eira relaxed her posture just enough to appear non-threatening.
She shook her head.
“Nein,” she replied evenly. “I was separated from my unit. I am trying to return to command. Reconnect with them.”
She slung the STG44 over her shoulder and unfolded the map again, stepping closer. She tapped a location on the paper.
“Are you traveling this direction?”
The man leaned forward, squinting at the map. He was silent for several seconds, lips moving faintly as he traced routes in his head. Finally, he nodded, though uncertainty lingered in his expression.
“I am not going there directly,” he said. “But I will pass nearby. It would at least save you some distance.” He hesitated. “Would that help?”
She met his eyes. “Ja. That would help very much.”
He studied her again, weighing something internally, then exhaled and gave a small nod.
“Gut. Get in.” He motioned to the seat beside him. Eira did not give him time to reconsider.
She quickly rounded the vehicle and opened the passenger door, removed her pack and her rifle with practiced efficiency. The top of her helmet struck the edge of the doorframe as she climbed in, drawing a quiet hiss from between her teeth. She ducked her head quickly and shifted herself sideways into the cramped passenger seat, pulling her pack onto her lap and settling the two rifles carefully in the narrow space between her legs. She reached back to close the door, taking care not to catch her tail in the frame.
The man let out a heavy sigh and eased the vehicle into gear. The engine coughed once before settling into a rough idle as they began rolling down the street.
“You got separated from your unit?” he asked after a moment, glancing at her briefly before returning his eyes to the road.
Eira nodded.
“Ja. I was on overwatch at the time,” she said evenly. “We received new orders, and I could not reach the rendezvous before they moved out.”
He nodded slowly, discomfort flickering across his features. His hands tightened on the wheel as he navigated around a collapsed storefront and a burned-out truck. He did not press her further.
For that, she was grateful.
Eira studied the map at each intersection, tracking their progress with quick, practiced glances. Outside, Berlin slid past in fragments of ruin. Burned-out storefronts. Collapsed facades. Civilians hunched in doorways or moving quickly along the sidewalks, eyes down, trying not to draw attention.
With every block, the pit in her stomach deepened.
She did not even know if Otto, Rolf, and Ernst would still be at the staging area. If they had already been reassigned, this entire detour would be for nothing. And if they were gone, what then? Would she vanish back into the sewers? Would anyone notice?
Her jaw tightened as another thought struck her with sudden force.
The document.
Emmett had shown it to her and Dieter. Dieter had been carrying it. Then Haller had torn it from his hands and stuffed it into his pocket. If that paper still existed, it might be the only proof she had. The only leverage strong enough to cut through loyalty and fear. Without it, she would be asking them to abandon everything on her word alone.
Her fingers curled slowly against the map.
She needed that document.
She had to find it.
The man beside her suddenly swore under his breath, and the car slowed abruptly. Eira looked up at once, muscles tightening, only to see him grimace sheepishly and point toward a street sign they had just passed.
“I apologize,” he said. “I was distracted. I drove past the turn you needed. It is just behind us.”
Eira exhaled and nodded. “That is all right.”
He eased the car to the side of the road and brought it to a stop putting the gear stick into park. Eira gathered her pack and shifted both rifles, pushing the door open and stepping back out onto the broken pavement. She rose awkwardly under the weight of her gear, adjusting the sling of the stormrifle and settling her pack more securely across her shoulders.
She hesitated, then leaned back toward the open window.
“Danke,” she said quietly. “You saved me a great deal of time.”
He nodded, adjusting his grip on the wheel looking anxious to be off. “Ja, of course. Be safe.”
Eira closed the door without looking back as the car pulled away, shifting her pack higher on her shoulders and brought Dieter’s stormrifle back into her grip. Then she turned and set off at a brisk pace toward the street behind her, boots striking broken pavement in steady rhythm as her G43 bounced lightly across her back.
She rounded the corner at a jog.
The warehouse came into view at once, looming across from the building that had been converted into a command post. Canvas tents clustered nearby, their edges snapping softly in the breeze. Her heart leapt despite herself.
She moved closer to the inside of the street as a truck rattled past, its drivers glancing at her with tired curiosity. She did not acknowledge them. Her focus stayed fixed ahead.
She slowed as she approached the staging area, passing one of the tents and angling toward the front of the warehouse. And then she saw her.
Varan lay exactly where she had fallen. Still sprawled on the street, limbs twisted at awkward angles, grey fur and uniform darkened with drying blood. No blanket. No stretcher. No marker. Just another body among the ruins.
Eira stopped short.
For a moment she could only stare. Anger flaring hot in her chest, followed by something colder and heavier. They had not even bothered to move her. Not even the pretense of dignity.
She swallowed hard and stepped closer.
A few Wehrmacht soldiers nearby watched her with open curiosity, murmuring quietly among themselves as she approached the body. Eira ignored them looking down at Varan’s face, at the glassy brown eyes fixed on the gray sky above and felt a familiar ache settle behind her ribs.
She knelt beside her.
For a brief moment, she rested one hand on Varan’s shoulder.
She did not feel anger then. Only sorrow.
Varan had believed she was doing the right thing. She had acted in fear, in loyalty, in desperation. Eira wished with everything she had that the moment could be undone, that different words might have been spoken, different choices made. But there was no rewriting what had already happened.
And she would not leave Varan here to be picked apart by rats and the crows.
Slowly, deliberately, Eira slung Dieter’s stormrifle high on her shoulder and slid her arms beneath Varan’s. Bracing her legs and lifted with a grunt.
Varan’s body came free of the bricks with a dull weight. She quickly adjusted her grip and began dragging her toward the nearby group of Wehrmacht who were watching her now with growing suspicion.
“Where are you placing the dead?” she asked, her voice steady despite the strain.
A man with thick stubble raised his eyebrows and glanced at the others beside him. They offered little more than indifferent shrugs.
“Why bother?” the man said at last turning to her. “She shot her commanding officer.”
His gaze sharpened as he studied Eira more closely. “Did she not have her weapon pointed at you as well?”
Eira nodded. “Ja. She did. She acted rashly, but she was doing what she thought was right.”
She carefully lowered Varan back onto the bricks so she could straighten fully, then crossed her arms over her chest and met the man’s eyes.
“Please,” she said quietly. “I do not have much time. And I will not leave her in the street like refuse.”
The soldier hesitated.
An explosion echoed several streets away, followed by the distant crack of gunfire. He turned his head toward the sound, jaw tightening, then looked back at Eira. After a moment he muttered something to one of the soldiers beside him. The two men peeled off and headed elsewhere.
The man with the stubble adjusted his helmet and motioned vaguely with one hand toward Varan’s body.
“There is a basement,” he said. “We are placing the dead there. Komm. I will show you.”
Eira inclined her head in thanks, then knelt again and slid her arms beneath Varan’s shoulders. The head lolled to the side as she lifted, blood seeping from the exit wound at the back of her skull and dripping onto Eira’s boots. Eira caught a glimpse of those empty brown eyes that seemed to fix onto hers.
She held the stare for a heartbeat. Then she swallowed and turned away, tightening her grip as she followed the soldier toward the building.
Eira shifted Varan’s weight in her arms and called after the man as he crossed the street ahead of her.
“Stosstrupp Zwei,” she said. “The other hybrids I was with. Are they still here?”
He glanced back over his shoulder and nodded slowly. “Ja. I believe so. They were mustered North side of the command post, last I saw.” He said before spitting onto the pavement.
Eira absorbed that silently, adjusting her grip as she dragged Varan another few steps.
“And Oberleutnant Haller?” she asked carefully. “Is he kept with the other bodies? He was the one who… who was shot.”
The man slowed slightly and looked at her with mild surprise before nodding.
“Ja. He should be with the rest.” He said studying her for a moment. “Why do you ask?”
Eira stopped to reposition Varan’s shoulders.
“I wish to pay my respects,” she said evenly. “He was a good commanding officer. I need to say goodbye.”
It was not entirely a lie.
The man seemed satisfied with that. He gestured toward the building ahead.
“Those steps lead to the basement. I need to return to my squad. Do not linger.” With that, he turned on his heel and headed back toward the square.
Eira watched him go for a moment, then turned her attention to the steps along the side of the building. Her throat tightened as she followed his gesture.
She looked down at Varan.
The hybrid’s head had fallen to one side, leaving one glassy brown eye staring upward at her as if in quiet accusation.
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Eira held that gaze longer than she meant to.
“I know,” she murmured under her breath.
Her boots scraped softly as she repositioned herself. Instead of dragging Varan further, she braced her legs and lifted her fully into her arms. She would not pull her down the steps like cargo. Varan deserved better than that.
The stormrifle bumped lightly against Eira’s shoulder as she adjusted her hold. Her eyes lingered briefly on the bald patch along Varan’s snout, the place she had scratched so often when anxious. A small, intimate detail.
She took the first step down.
Then the next.
At the bottom, she carefully lowered Varan to the floor and pushed the door inward with her shoulder, dragging her inside the rest of the way.
Rows of bodies lay arranged across the concrete floor, most covered with white sheets, others left partially exposed. The air here was thick and oppressive, heavy with the smell of blood, bodily fluids, and something else that made her nostrils flare in discomfort. Not rot. Not yet. It was the scent of everything that had been forced out of living bodies.
As she cast her eyes about, she spotted an open space between two rows and guided Varan there, lowering her gently onto the cold floor.
Eira remained standing for a long moment.
Her thoughts drifted unbidden to Varan as a juvenile. Curious. Loud. Always building little structures from sticks and scraps near the treeline. Eira beside her, humoring the game.
Now this.
She drew in a slow breath and knelt.
Varan’s hand lay limp against the concrete, soaked dark with blood. Eira took it gently in both of hers and squeezed
She briefly glanced around to confirm she was truly alone, then she looked back to Varan’s face. To the dull brown eyes fixed on the stained ceiling.
“I am sorry, little sister,” she said softly. “I am so, so sorry. I wish you had known what I know. I know you believed you were doing what was right.”
Her ears folded back.
She closed her eyes briefly and let out a quiet, bitter breath.
“I do not even know if what we are attempting is for the best,” she admitted. “But I see no other path.”
She gave Varan’s hand one last squeeze before letting it fall gently back to the floor.
Eira rose and slipped the weapons from her shoulders, setting them carefully aside. She removed her pack and rummaged inside until her fingers closed around a spare undershirt.
She unfolded the fabric and draped it over Varan’s face. She then crossed Varan’s arms over her chest, adjusting them with care, and pressed them into place with a final reassuring touch.
She pulled her pack back on, settled the G43 across her back once more, and picked up Dieter’s stormrifle.
Only then did she turn away.
The rows of bodies stretched out before her.
She moved slowly between them, lifting sheets one by one, revealing faces beneath. Some were young. Some old. All equally still.
Her pulse beat steadily in her ears as she searched.
She needed to find Haller.
She remembered how Haller had fallen.
The way Varan’s burst had struck him square in the chest. The way he had stood there for a heartbeat too long, before the strength left his legs.
And she remembered Emmett’s words in the sewers not long after.
Who’s to say he was actually going to let you go?
She shoved the thought aside with an angry huff.
She refused to let doubt poison what little respect remained. Haller had been fair. He had been reasonable. Whatever Emmett believed, Eira would not allow them to rewrite the memory of her commanding officer now that he was dead.
Her gaze moved methodically across the rows.
Then she saw it.
A white sheet darkened by blood over the chest.
Her ears lifted slightly.
Her pulse quickened.
She stepped forward and knelt, fingers already curling into the fabric. With one smooth motion she pulled the sheet back.
Oberleutnant Haller lay beneath it.
His silver hair had fallen loose against the concrete, strands fanned out beneath his head. His eyes were closed. His hands were folded neatly over his chest, as if someone had taken a moment to arrange him before moving on to the next body.
The wound beneath the sheet had soaked through his uniform.
Eira hesitated only a fraction of a second.
Then she moved.
Her hand slid into his coat pocket.
Empty.
Her heart lurched.
She swallowed and immediately checked the other side, fingers working fast now, breath shallow as she searched. For a terrifying instant there was nothing but fabric and lining.
Then her claws brushed against crumpled paper.
Relief hit her so hard it almost made her dizzy. She pulled the folded wad free and brought it close, smoothing it against her thigh with trembling fingers until she could read the first line at the top of the page.
Her shoulders sagged in quiet release.
This was it.
She exhaled shakily and folded the document as neatly as she could manage before slipping it inside her tunic, pressing it flat against her chest as if to make sure it was truly there.
Only then did she look back to Haller. Taking a moment to study his face, committing it to memory.
“Danke,” she said softly. “Thank you. For everything.”
She pulled the sheet back up over his shoulders and face, smoothing it once, gently.
Eira rose to her feet.
“I will be going against your wishes now, Oberleutnant,” she said quietly. “Bitte… forgive me.”
There was no answer.
She slung Dieter’s stormrifle over her shoulder, tightened her grip on the strap of her pack, and turned on her heel.
Her boots struck the concrete hard as she broke into a sprint, moving fast between the rows of bodies, up the steps, and toward the light spilling in from the street above.
Otto sat on a splintered crate inside the canvas tent, shoulders hunched forward, the heavy MG42 resting across his lap. The ammunition belt wrapped around the weapon, brass links catching the dull light. His clawed hands gripped the weapon tightly, knuckles pale beneath coarse fur, as his gaze remained fixed on a single dark patch of dirt between his boots.
He had been staring at that same spot for a long time.
Outside the confines of the tent the air was filled with the cacophony of movement. Boots on pavement. Engines coughing to life. The low, constant thunder of artillery somewhere beyond the ruined streets. None of it seemed to reach him.
His mind was still replaying the day.
They had found helmets. Proper ones, not the modified standard issue. Ammunition as well, sourced by Oberleutnant Haller and Feldwebel Kranz. And even some serviceable food, tins of something that smelled faintly of grease and salt. For a brief moment there had been something like hope. A fragile spark, but real enough to feel.
Then Eira was summoned. Some Hauptmann named Schafer wanted to speak with her. When she had returned sometime later, saying Dieter had been called as well. That had been unusual, but not alarming.
But when the pair returned they went off to speak with Oberleutnant Haller in that small shed, Otto had felt a twinge of unease, but he had kept it to himself. He knew better than to question command. Especially now. Especially here.
But Varan could not let it go.
He could still see her pacing at the edge of the square, ears twitching, tail flicking with growing agitation. At first, she had only lingered nearby. Pretending to busy herself with gear. Then she had drifted closer to the shed. Otto remembered watching her posture stiffen, her shoulders rising, irritation building in her frame as whatever she overheard began to gnaw at her.
Then she had unslung her weapon.
The memory came back with brutal clarity.
Varan stepping forward. The MP40 coming up in her hands. The way her voice had risen as she accused the three of them of treason. How Oberleutnant Haller had tried to calm her, trying to reason with her. Soldiers had rushed in from all sides, rifles coming up, voices shouting for her to drop the weapon.
Otto swallowed hard.
He remembered how Haller had moved.
Not fast. Not aggressively. Just a careful step forward, one hand reaching out to the barrel of her submachine gun to calmly push it away.
It had startled her. And that was all it took.
The burst had been short, sharp, deafening in the open square. And Haller had taken it square in the chest.
Otto’s claws tightened unconsciously around the receiver of the MG42. He knew, that she had not intended that. But intent did not change consequence.
And then consequence came in the form of the eyepatched Hauptmann.
Otto closed his eyes.
He could still hear the crack of the pistol. Still see Varan’s body jerk as the round struck her in the neck, then again between the eyes. Still see her collapse onto the stones, blood spreading beneath her twitching corpse.
Just like that.
Haller was dead.
Varan was dead.
Dieter and Eira were taken away and Stosstrupp Zwei had ceased to exist as it once had.
Otto opened his eyes again and stared back down at the dirt. His grip on the machine gun remained iron tight.
Was that all this had been?
A tragic misunderstanding. Fear colliding with exhaustion. One panicked moment spiraling into death. Otto turned the question over in his mind as he sat there, the MG42 still resting across his lap, his claws loosely curled around cold steel. He replayed it again and again, searching for some hidden meaning beneath the surface of it all. Some sign that there had been more to Varan’s actions than simple fear and suspicion.
He found nothing.
Only fragments. Raised voices. A sudden movement. A burst of gunfire.
As he sat there, lost in the spiral of his own thoughts, a hand settled on his shoulder.
Otto flinched despite himself, drawn sharply back into the present. He looked up to find Rolf standing beside him, golden eyes heavy with fatigue and bitterness. Rolf’s grip was gentle, steady, the way it always was.
“How do you fare, brother?” Rolf asked quietly.
Otto exhaled through his nose and shook his head.
“Not well, I’m afraid.”
Rolf nodded slowly, as if he had expected no other answer. He glanced back toward Ernst, who stood a few paces away near the tent pole, his posture rigid, his expression closed off. When Rolf looked back to Otto, his ears dipped slightly.
“I know what you’re thinking about,” Rolf said. “It has been on our minds as well.”
Otto let out a low huff.
“It all feels wrong,” he said. “Varan spoke of Dieter and Eira being traitors. Of Haller as well. None of it fits. But I have no reason to believe she would lie about something like that.”
Ernst stepped closer, adjusting the strap of his rifle as he joined them. His gaze dropped to his scuffed boots, then lifted again, distant and thoughtful.
“She was always the suspicious sort,” Ernst said quietly. “Rash at times, ja, but this… this feels beyond even her.”
He paused, then added softly, “Now, though I suppose. We have other concerns.”
Otto nodded, lifting his helmet from beside the crate and turning it slowly in his hands. He stared at the inside for a moment, at the inner lining, then glanced toward the canvas wall of the tent.
“I suppose we do,” he said. “Unteroffizier Vetter told us we would be moving within the hour.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when something else cut through the stale air of the tent.
A scent.
Familiar.
Otto’s ears twitched.
He drew in another breath, slow and deliberate. His tail stiffened behind him as recognition settled in his chest. Across from him, Rolf straightened slightly. Ernst’s head turned toward the open flap at the same time.
They had all caught it.
Otto lifted his gaze, eyes widening just a fraction.
Eira.
Otto’s eyes widened as he pulled his helmet back over his ears and set the MG42 carefully on the crate. He rose to his full height, heart picking up its pace.
Had she not left yet?
The thought flickered through his mind as his gaze snapped to the tent flap. He moved toward it and pulled the canvas aside, peering out into the street beyond. Wehrmacht troops flowed past in uneven streams, men shouting to one another over the distant thunder of artillery. Trucks rattled by engines coughing. Somewhere nearby someone barked orders.
Then he saw her.
White fur cutting through the sea of uniforms.
Eira moved quickly, weaving between soldiers with practiced ease. Even at a distance he could see it in her posture. Tight shoulders. Head slightly lowered. Purpose in every step, edged with anxiety. She was carrying an STG44 in her hands, her own rifle slung across her back.
Otto glanced over his shoulder toward Ernst and Rolf, who were already watching him, their expressions expectant.
“It’s Eira,” he said, surprise slipping into his voice despite himself.
Both hybrids rose at once.
“Is Dieter with her?” Ernst asked, stepping forward.
Otto turned back to the street, scanning again. His jaw tightened.
“Nien,” he said quietly. “I only see her.”
The word settled heavily between them. Otto sighed shaking his head before straightening and cupping his large hands around his muzzle.
“Eira!” His call cut through the chaos.
Her head snapped toward him. She froze for a heartbeat, then turned fully and began moving toward the tent at a near jog. Her eyes were fixed ahead, not on Otto, not on the others. Just the opening in the canvas.
Otto nodded once and stepped back inside.
She reached them seconds later, ducking through the flap with a sharp intake of breath. Her eyes were wide beneath her helmet, her chest rising and falling as she fought to steady herself.
Rolf studied her closely.
“Have you rejoined us?” he asked, his tone cautious.
Eira shook her head, opening her mouth to answer but Otto moved before she speak. He stepped forward abruptly, placing himself between her and the tent flap, blocking her path back out. His arms unfolded from his chest, his stance widening just enough to make his intent clear.
“Then why are you here?” he demanded. His voice was flat, but there was a hard edge beneath it. “More than that, what happened in the square? Help us understand what transpired.”
Eira stopped short. Then set the STG44 carefully against a crate and straightened, reaching up to unfasten her helmet strap. Her ears flicked as she slowly pulled it free, letting it hang at her side.
“Varan did not understand the situation,” she said calmly, lifting her eyes to meet Otto’s.
His expression darkened.
“The situation?” he snapped, taking a step closer. “What does that mean?”
His voice rising despite himself. He sucked in a deep breath before continuing. “She said that you and Dieter were traitors. Is this true?”
Eira drew a breath.
“Otto, please listen to me,” she began, reaching into her tunic and pulling out a folded piece of paper.
He cut her off.
“Is this true,” Otto said sharply. “Ja or nein.”
The tent seemed to shrink around them.
Outside, boots thundered past. Somewhere nearby a vehicle backfired. Inside, all Otto could hear was his own pulse and the echo of Varan desperately trying to get everyone to listen to her.
He stared at Eira, waiting for her answer.
She met his glare and forced herself to breathe. Slowly, deliberately, she exhaled, then shook her head.
“Nien,” she said quietly. “Neither Dieter nor I are traitors. We are the ones who were betrayed.”
She started to lift the folded paper.
Otto did not look at it.
“What does that mean?” he growled. The sound rumbled deep in his chest. His ears flattened hard against his skull, lips pulling back to bare his teeth. His eyes never left her face.
“Otto, bitte, just look…”
He smacked her hand aside and shoved her backward, driving her deeper into the tent.
“What happened?” he demanded. “Eira? What did you do? Tell me plainly. Was Varan mistaken?”
She stumbled, caught herself, and lifted the paper again.
Otto struck her hand away a second time.
His anger flared, raw and uncontrolled, and the paper slipped from her fingers. It fluttered to the floor and came to rest beside Rolf’s boots. He stared down at it in confusion as Otto continued, his voice rising with every word.
“What did you and Dieter discuss with Oberleutnant Haller?” Otto barked. “I have never known Varan to lie. I have never known her to exaggerate.”
Rolf glanced at Ernst who’s gaze was fixed on the paper.
They shared a brief look, then Rolf stepped forward, bent down, and picked it up. He unfolded it slowly, eyes moving across the page.
Otto shoved Eira again. She staggered back against a stack of crates, wood rattling softly behind her. She lifted one hand defensively, palm out, trying to de-escalate him.
“Listen to me! I’m here to save you three.” She pleaded.
Otto drew breath to speak again, his face twisted with fury, but Rolf’s voice cut through the tent.
“Otto,” he said, trembling despite himself. “You need to read this.”
Otto froze turning his attention towards them, noticing their shocked expressions and his anger seemed to dim. If only a little.
Rolf held the paper out toward him. Otto looked at it, then back to Eira.
She met his gaze with a pleading expression and gestured weakly toward the document, her ears low, her posture open.
Slowly, Otto reached out and took it.
He stepped away from Eira as he began to read.
For a moment, the tent was silent except for chaos outside and Otto’s heavy breathing. His eyes moved down the page. He glanced briefly at Rolf and Ernst, registering the shock on their faces, then returned to the letter.
His breathing began to slow.
His hands tightened around the paper, claws dimpling the thin sheet as he absorbed the details line by line. His ears twitched once, then flattened again, not in anger this time, but in something closer to disbelief.
When he finished, he looked up at Eira. His expression had changed completely.
She gave him a bitter, tired smile and stepped forward carefully.
“Dieter and I were informed of this,” she said softly. “We brought it to Oberleutnant Haller because we wanted him to bring it to all of you.”
She hesitated, then continued.
“We convinced him to speak about surrendering to the Allies,” she said, the lie sliding into place. At this point, she needed whatever leverage she could find.
She swallowed and pressed on.
“Otto. Rolf. Ernst.” Her voice steadied. “The Reich will kill all of us. Every last one. The only hope we have is to give ourselves to the Allies and pray they allow our species to continue. If we do not do this, then I fear we will die out as a kind.”
She stepped closer and gently placed a hand on Otto’s trembling shoulder.
Her touch was light, deliberate.
“I wish we did not have to do this,” she said quietly. “But I see no other choice.”
She looked between the three of them.
“Dieter is in Berlin right now, trying to convince as many of our kind as he can to come with us. That is why I am here.” Her voice softened. “I want the three of you to join us.”
Otto lifted his gaze from the paper.
His eyes burned. His breathing was heavy and uneven, great gulps of air pulling into his open maw. His white teeth glinted beneath curled lips as he struggled to steady himself.
Eira held his stare without flinching.
She offered him a small, encouraging nod.
Unteroffizier Vetter knelt beside the body of Oberleutnant Haller, the concrete cold even through his trousers.
The white sheet had been pulled mostly aside, left draped over Haller’s face in a small, unconscious mercy. He worked methodically, fingers moving through the dead man’s coat pockets with practiced efficiency. His movements were careful, almost respectful, though they slightly trembled.
Feldwebel Kranz stood a few steps away, arms folded tightly across his chest, watching in silence. His helmet sat low on his brow, shadowing his eyes.
Vetter frowned as his search turned up nothing.
One empty pocket. Then another.
His jaw tightened.
He shifted his weight and checked again, slower this time, as if repetition might somehow change the outcome. It did not.
“It feels like everything has gone from bad to worse,” he muttered, patting down the pockets of Haller’s trousers one last time. His hand paused when he felt something solid.
Kranz unfolded his arms slightly. “Ja. It certainly feels that way.” He hesitated, then asked, “What in Gottes name happened in the square?”
Vetter worked his fingers into the pocket and drew the object free. Recognition came immediately. Haller’s small tobacco tin. He turned it over once in his hand, studying the familiar dents along its edge, then slipped it into his own pocket without thinking too hard about why.
“Haven’t a clue,” he said answering Kranz. “Perhaps Varan simply snapped under the strain of it all.” He shook his head slowly. “Still, I have a hard time believing that. And I cannot imagine Dieter, Eira, or Haller being wrapped up in some conspiracy.”
He leaned back slightly, still kneeling, and gestured toward the covered body with two fingers. Turning the focus back to the task at hand.
“So far, I’ve only found his snuff tin. Have you checked his pack yet?”
Kranz gave a tired shake of his head. “Nein. With all this chaos, I am surprised I have remembered to breathe.”
Vetter nodded faintly at that. He pulled the sheet back into place, smoothing it over Haller’s chest. His movements slowed as his eyes lingered on the dark stains beneath the fabric, marking where the rounds had torn through the tunic.
He hesitated.
Then, with a quiet sigh, he drew the sheet fully over his former commander.
Rising to his feet, Vetter brushed dust from his knees and straightened his belt. Kranz studied him for a moment, as if weighing whether to say something.
Finally, he spoke.
“What happens to us, do you suppose,” he asked quietly, “after we escort our Sturmwolfe?”
Vetter hesitated before answering, his gaze drifting back toward the door they had just come through.
“I wish I knew,” he said quietly. “I liked this posting. We mostly stayed clear of the worst fighting.” He let out a slow breath. “Now I imagine that will change.”
Kranz nodded, lips pressed thin. He glanced toward the stairwell, then swept the basement once more with his eyes, making certain they were still alone among the rows of covered bodies. Only then did he speak again, keeping his voice low.
“What Varan was saying,” Kranz murmured, not quite looking at him, “I will admit it has made me consider something.”
Vetter stiffened at once. He turned sharply, understanding immediately where this was heading.
“I am glad you had the sense to wait until we were alone,” Vetter hissed. His heart began to thud harder in his chest. “I have seen the Schutzstaffel hang men for far less than what you just implied.”
Kranz turned to him, irritation flashing across his face.
“What sort of man do you take me for?” he snapped softly. “I am not an idiot.”
He drew a slow breath and lowered his voice again.
“But answer me honestly. Do you truly believe Berlin can be saved? Germany as a whole?”
Vetter folded his arms tightly across his chest, fingers brushing unconsciously against the tobacco tin in his pocket. He stared at the concrete floor for a long moment before replying.
“Nien,” he said at last, measured and calm. “I do not.”
Kranz gave a thin, humorless grin.
“Nor do I, mein Freund.” He lifted both hands and brought them slowly together, as if demonstrating a closing vice. “And I fear our window of opportunity is shrinking by the hour.”
Vetter nodded faintly, shifting his weight.
“So,” he said carefully, “what exactly are you proposing?”
Kranz glanced over his shoulder once more, then leaned in closer.
“We are ordered to escort what remains of Stosstrupp Zwei and integrate them with the other Sturmwolf unit,” he said. “After that, we are meant to report back here. What if we simply do not?” He said, now whispering.
Vetter’s brows rose slightly.
“You mean we set off west?”
Kranz gave a quiet huff. “Who else would we go to? Certainly not the Reds.”
Vetter considered that, his jaw tightening. “And you are certain this is the right course of action?”
Kranz shook his head slowly.
“I am not certain of anything anymore,” he replied. “I only know I do not wish to be shot, or worse, dragged off by the Russians.” He gestured faintly with one hand. “At this point, survival seems like a reasonable ambition.”
Vetter’s gaze drifted back toward where Haller lay beneath the bloodstained sheet. He stood in silence for several seconds, then nodded once.
“Ja,” he said quietly. “If we do this, then we will need a careful route out of Berlin. I have no intention of committing to this path only to walk straight into a firing squad.”
“Of course,” Kranz replied.
He was already turning toward the stairs.
Vetter followed, then quickened his pace to draw alongside him.
“Kranz… Josef,” he said under his breath. “I may be able to secure a vehicle.”
Kranz glanced at him.
“I do not know how long we will be able to keep it,” Vetter continued, lowering his voice further, “but getting to the city outskirts, as quickly as possible needs to be our priority.”
Kranz nodded.
“And the Sturmwolfe?” he asked.
Vetter did not hesitate. “Damn them. We deliver them as planned and after that, it is no longer our concern.”
Kranz absorbed this, then inclined his head.
“I will retrieve Haller’s pack,” he said. “Meet me at the tent.”
They split without another word. Kranz moved off toward the rows of canvas shelters where their gear had been staged, while Vetter headed for the square, his mind already racing through routes, checkpoints, and how much time they might still have left.
Vetter paused at the edge of the square and slowly surveyed the surrounding area one last time.
Rows of tents stretched out in uneven lines. Wehrmacht soldiers moved between them in tired, practiced motions, shouldering packs and checking weapons. Nearby, clusters of Volksturm shuffled about with hollow expressions, old men and boys alike gripping rifles that looked too heavy for them. Somewhere in the distance, artillery continued to rumble, a constant reminder that Berlin was dying by inches.
He clasped his hands behind his back and drew in a steady breath.
This was it.
He felt a flicker of pity rise in him, uninvited. For the exhausted infantry. For the frightened civilians. Even, briefly, for the Sturmwolf under his command. They had been bred for war and now thrown into its final, ugliest chapter to die.
But pity would not save him. And he would not be one of the fools left holding ground that no longer mattered.
It was every man for himself now.
At least he would not be alone. Josef Kranz would be coming with him, and that counted for something. In times like these, even a single trusted companion was worth more than all the promises of the Reich.
Vetter nodded once to himself, sealing the decision in his own mind.
Then he set off.
He moved briskly past rows of canvas tents and scattered supply crates, weaving through mustering Wehrmacht and nervous Volksturm alike. Boots scraped against broken stone. Voices rose and fell around him in sharp fragments of speech. No one paid him much attention. Everyone was too busy trying to survive their own small corner of the collapse.
His thoughts were already on routes out of the city, on checkpoints, on how far a stolen vehicle might get them before fuel or luck ran out.
He reached the tent where Rolf, Ernst, and Otto had been stationed and lifted the flap.
“All right, you three, I…” The words died in his throat.
The tent was empty. Only stacked crates remained, their shadows stretching across the canvas walls. No weapons. No packs. No towering wolf hybrids hunched in tired silence.
Vetter blinked, momentarily unsure if he had the wrong tent. He stepped inside, boots thudding softly against the packed earth, and turned in a slow circle.
Nothing.
Behind him, he heard footsteps and the rustle of canvas as Kranz entered.
Kranz stopped short beside him.
Both men stood there for a moment, staring at the vacant space.
“What in Gottes Name…” Kranz muttered.
He turned slowly, scanning the interior as if the hybrids might somehow materialize between the crates.
“Where did they go?” he asked, surprise creeping into his voice.
Vetter said nothing at first.
“It doesn’t matter.” He said flatly. “Come, let us be off.”
He said turning and pushing past the tent flap. Kranz hesitated a moment before shaking his head and left the tent.
Echoes of Shelling which is available on Archive of Our Own. I highly recommend giving it a read. Snud has also been an incredible friend and has offered invaluable feedback on my own projects. If you check out his work, let him know I sent you.
-SABLE
