Novembers in Berlin were always cold. Looking out his office window, August saw tentative snowflakes falling, the sky iron gray and foreboding, in the way only Germany's winter sky can manage. He didn't mind. He liked the cold. There was work to be done, though, and he turned his attention back on the paperwork in front of him. Paperwork. Lists. Signatures. On and on, sheafs of paperwork - and what did it amount to? Another dead German boy, another dead Englishman. Another dead Jew. That was what all the paperwork meant, all the stuffed shirt, bureaucratic bullshit.
August sighed, sat back in the chair and rubbed his eyes. Too many dead men today, too much paperwork. The sun was setting anyway. Those dead boys would be dead tomorrow, as hard as that was to think about.
August was lucky. He had seen little battle, in the end, and he was better off for it. He stayed, for the most part, in Berlin - recently at least. He'd gone to Poland, and shed blood elsewhere to get the Soviet Union under Germany's power. And in that he had been successful - back in August Germany had annexed the Soviet Union. But yes, he was lucky. His part in the war had been largely peaceful, sending young men to die honorably for the Fatherland, sending letters to their parents, and writing paperwork - paperwork - paperwork.
He had a flat here in Berlin. He split his time there with his home in Düsseldorf, but hadn't been back there in a while. He shrugged on his coat - the heavy one, it was so damn cold today - when there came a knock on the door.
"Hereingekommen."

Fritz adjusted his tie once more with unsteady hands before taking another drag on his cigarette. The smoke permeated his being deeply, and soon enough his hands relaxed, the tensions of the day drifting away as he exhaled. It was always hard to pull the trigger on another innocent, they always cried so much, begging for mercy, for relief, to save their family, their homes, their children. The children were the worse, always clinging to their parents, screaming, "Mutti! Mutti!" as Fritz pulled the bolt back on his rifle, lining up another-

"Stop." Fritz said aloud to himself, causing a passing civilian to glance at him as she hurried home. The spy flicked the cigarette to the ground, drawing his trench coat around him as he looked up at the office building. Fritz glanced at the file again: SHRIVER, AUGUST
VERTRAULICH

Fritz sighed then slipped the file back into his coat, entering the building, relieved to be out of the cold, German weather. Finding the office was easy, he had been here before, perhaps not to this contact, but in this building for sure. Fritz pulled up beside a large oaken door, composing himself before rapping his knuckles heavily on the door.

"Hereingekommen." Came the reply, Fritz entered without another word, shutting the door behind him.

"Oberleutenant August Shriver?" Fritz spoke, more statement than question, holding the file up.

August looked up at the man who entered, his smooth brow knitting slightly. The young man was unfamiliar. He had an air, though, of a man with a purpose, the sort of man who had his bearings set.

"Ja." said August, picking out a few folders from his desks and putting them inside his briefcase, snapping the clasps shut. That in order, he leaned against his desk, looking at the man. "What can I do for you?" he said, eying the folder quizzically. Vertraulich? As far as he knew there wasn't anything about him to be kept secret, especially not by the SS. He was an Oberleutnant, yes, but he had been part of no covert operations, had done nothing especially of note to be kept under wraps. His files - what he had seen of them - were open to anyone.

"Was ist das?" he said, nodding at the folder, a sort of quizzical air, almost like a child. That was something that made people underestimate August. They wrote him off as a simpleton, perhaps, no one of great worth. He was not a simpleton, though, August Shriver was a man of great intelligence.

He stood again, and strode to the table opposite his desk, filling a glass with liquor from a crystal bottle. He held one out to Fritz, offering it. There was something else about August - a man never passed his doors without being offered a drink. That was part of his charm, perhaps. It certainly put him on some men's good sides from the first.

Fritz saluted sharply before accepting the drink, sipping politely before he set it down and opened the file, drawing a blank sheet of paper and a pen from his coat.

“Ich heiße Klaus Fischer, a friend of your sister Elise, she told me to stop by here since I was going to be in Berlin, she sends her love, of course. Oh! And letters from the rest of your family! That's what I have here.” Fritz spoke warmly and casually, at the same time he wrote quickly on the sheet in a loopy, feminine script.

My name and rank matter little, Oberfürher, your life is danger, lately your loyalty has be called into question, and your past suicide attempt have some of the higher-ups worried about your sanity. Yes, I know about that, I know a lot about you, Herr Shriver, that's none of your concern. I have information that may save you, an impending Allied attack, you can use this to save yourself.

Fritz slid the sheet on the table in front of August, speaking loudly as he did so, “Elise said to give you a kiss from her,” Fritz laughed heartily, though his eyes remained icy, “how about I don't and say I did, eh August?”

Fritz rummaged in his coat until he found what he was looking for, he pulled out a badge displaying the Nazi swastika and the dual lightening bolts of the SS, set on card stock showing the signature of a German officer. The badge was real of course, though the story was about as fake as Fritz's SS career, a fabrication by British intelligence to lead German forces into an ambush, the parts about Shriver's life being in danger had been Fritz's, a tactic he had used before to great success. The spy looked at August, mouth set, waiting for a reply.

Taking up the sheet slipped onto his desk, he scanned it quickly, his light smile slipping from his face, replaced by a look almost of horror. August looked up at Fritz, then back down again, reading the message several times in quick succession. The messaged floated over his mind like oil over water, he couldn't grasp it.

My loyalty? My sanity? Dear god, I've been in the Wehrmacht for nearly ten years! Why now, for God's sake?

He looked at Fritz uneasily for a moment, then turned and looked out the window. This cannot be true. He took a sip from his glass, brow furrowed. His thoughts were more tangible now, doubt wormed its way into his head. There was something about this, the abruptness of it, the driven air about this man, that made August doubt the words on the paper.

"Were you afraid that my office is being listened to, Herr Fischer, or do you just dislike words?" he said, turning back around. He let his coat slide off his shoulders and laid it over his desk.

"Zigarette?" offering the pack after taking one for himself.

Fritz let his eyes narrow, though the warm quality of his voice remained, the facade had to be upheld, he couldn't have his cover blown now.

"Herr Shriver I-I'm sorry for coming here, you are...not as Elise described you, I would not like to think of her as a liar, such a sweet girl." Fritz placed doubt into his voice, though he glared with eyes like daggers as he snatched up the paper.

Do you fail to understand what the Schutzstaffel is? Do you see this badge? I could have you condemned, August Shriver, perhaps you are already, I come bearing the prospect of life and you have nearly thrown it away with your recklessness! God damn you man, I come showing human decency and you cast me aside!

Fritz waved away the cigarette, showing his own carton in his coat pocket as he pushed the paper towards August. The spy smiled slightly as his eyes flicked over August, different tactical routes flowing through his mind, finally Fritz picked one, malice.

"Tell me about Anneliese Holzknecht."

"Funny, Elise has never spoken of you. How did you meet?" said August around his cigarette. He lit it as he read what Fritz had written now on the paper. "Again, afraid to speak? Who, may I ask, is listening, that you cannot speak aloud?" he laughed a little, his faith in the honesty of the man falling a little more. "And, yes, I understand quite fully what Schutzstaffel is. I have no illusions." he took a drag on his cigarette and let it out in rings, watching them float to the ceiling.

"I do, however, question you. I question your reason for coming."

"Tell me about Anneliese Holzknecht."

August's face grew suddenly steely and impassive. The dagger in his heart turned sharply at the mention of her name - the woman who had loved him, been loved by him, the woman who had died nearly on the eve of their wedding. His hand went to his head unconsciously, the memory of the bottle of pills, the bathroom, darkness floating back. Then Imke, Deitfried, their house and the comfort they brought. No. Let her stay buried August. Let Anneliese die and stay dead.

"What am I to say, Herr Fischer? Anneliese is dead. She was my fiancée, but she died. There is little else to say."

"There is no reason for you to be worried, Herr Shriver, I am a friend of Julian's, he introduced me to her not long ago and she and I became fast friends, kleine August, might I say, is a delight, ah, and he looks so much like his namesake." Fritz said kindly as he watched August with cold eyes. He took the sheet of paper again, forcing himself to hesitate, letting a look of uncertainty cross his face before he started writing.

I am a spy for the Nazi Party, a double agent who also reports to Britannien. I cannot be the only agent about. I am not well liked among my colleagues and you may not be either if you continue to shout national secrets as you are now. I will only tell you this once, Herr Shriver, you will calm yourself, or I shall do it for you.

Fritz slapped the paper in front of August, lips curling in anger.

"It is not healthy to bury such things, August," Fritz spoke softly, carefully placing compassion into his tone, despite the cruel smile his face had contorted into, "Anneliese must have been a beautiful woman, ja? Tell me more, come on, you'll feel better, what kinds of things did you like to do together?"

"Oh, I can assure you Herr Fischer, I am quite calm. But, yes, I am very fond of my nephew." he said, a smile touched his face, but did not reach his eyes. A cold gleam could be found under them , one that few people had seen. August Shriver was not one to anger easily. "I do not trust you, Fischer. I hope that you understand that. It doesn't matter to me if you are SS or not, you are not winning my trust through this back and forth." his voice was deadly, the smile still touching his lips.

Taking the paper up himself, he uncapped a pen and wrote in his thick, elegant hand:

You threaten me, Herr Fischer? I have said nothing that is not permissible to say, and I must say - you are the one who needs to calm himself. SS or not, I outrank you. Your friends may be big, but mine are great in number. That is not a threat, do not mistake me. But do not underestimate me either.

"As for Anneliese, what can I say? Ja, she was beautiful. We visited carnivals in Düsseldorf, we went to the theatre. We did what any other young couple might do. My relationship, I am afraid, was not altogether exiting, with the exception of her death - God rest her soul."

He was holding himself back. Mention of her, the thought of her was ripping him up, but he didn't show it. Not to this... this child who had found his father's gun. Not this punk kid who thought himself bigger than he was because of a couple runic letters and a swastika.

A wave of anger shot through Fritz, and for a moment his grip tightened on the paper, knuckles white and hands shaking, suddenly, the spy dropped the paper, a noticeable calm descending on him.

"You are no ordinary man, Oberleutenant, I will give you that. Other men in your position would have cracked long ago. Fine, if it is your wish, I shall be more...truthful."

Fritz pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it and inhaling deeply. He began speaking lowly as a cloud of smoke issued from his mouth, "My real name is Fritz Amsel, Rottenfürher, sharp-shooter for the SS, SS-Verfügungstruppe to be specific, though I've worked with Einsatzgruppen once or twice. You can call any of your superiors, no doubt at least one of them will have a complete or nearly complete file on me."

The spy picked up the glass of liquor, finishing it in one swallow and placing it back on the table. He slipped off his coat as the alcohol began to spread its warmth throughout his body.

"I have never met Elise, nor Julian, that was a lie to comfort you, similarly, speaking of Anneliese was meant to discomfort you, and my talk of your nephew, to scare you. Clearly you did not fall for any of my ploys, clever man. However, the other information was the truth, you are in danger." Fritz began to talk faster, he leaned forward and whispered, "Hitler is paranoid, he and all of his entourage will kill at the slightest inkling, you are not safe just because you have many friends."

Fritz coughed nervously, another ploy, though a much more subtle one, performed almost subconsciously. He began to speak a little louder again.

"Now, I warned you of the attack, ja? It's true, Russians, east of here, you could tell someone, you could be a hero. Your superiors would have confidence in you again, your life would be spared and my trip here would not be a waste. What do you say, Obenleutenant?

"Now, I warned you of the attack, ja? It's true, Russians, east of here, you could tell someone, you could be a hero. Your superiors would have confidence in you again, your life would be spared and my trip here would not be a waste. What do you say, Obenleutnant?

August began to laugh, a real, earnest laugh, his smile reaching his eyes now. He clapped several time, and ran his fingers through his slicked back hair. "Oh, Herr Amsel. Someone has trained you well!" he crushed out his spent cigarette, lit another, picked up a glass. No matter what people said, August was a man of many vices - gambling, women, drinking, smoking. He didn't let them go to his head as some men did, but he was none-the-less a man of vices.

"A nervous cough, hesitation, your manners! You are expert at deceit! But in one spot, Herr Amsel, in one spot you have fallen short. What if I were questioning you? You have told me your name and your mission! You have admitted falsehoods! No, Fritz, I don't know that I believe that the Russians are planning any such attack. I have no proof - you are safe if you prove to be a... spy or something like. But, really, Herr Amsel? Did you think me so simple as all that?"

He stood, emptying his glass at a draught, took a few steps, circling Fritz with a predatory fashion. "I will admit," he said between drags on his cigarette. "I will admit that I was worried for a moment. You have done your homework, that much is certain. Anneliese, my suicide attempt, my sister, my nephew. If I were a lesser man I certainly would have believed you. Or, perhaps, if you had been a bit more guarded."

He abandoned his jovial look, a stern sort of anger falling over his features. Bending over the smaller man, his friendliness was forgotten. "Why, Herr Amsel, Herr Fischer, whoever the hell you are, why are you here?"

A thin line of worry crossed Fritz's face, a real one. He looked up at August with eyes a little wider than he would have liked.

"Herr Shriver," Fritz cleared his throat, "I will have you know, neither the British nor our own government have spared any expense to ensure that I am as combat ready as possible. Should you continue on in this threatening manner I will deal with you in the most efficient way possible, I am not a large man but I am most certainly a powerful one."

Fritz took a step back, resting one hand on the desk behind him and one hand on the combat knife sheathed firmly at his hip.

"You ask some dangerous questions, Herr Shriver, perhaps you are intelligent, but a wiser man would have gone for my bait whether they saw through it or not. Now, what you choose to do with the information I have given you is your choice, one way or another it will be delivered to your superiors, though it would go over a bit more smoothly if you did it. Either way, I have been transferred to your unit for the time being, Oberleutenant, I have the uniform lined up already. You can call me Shütze Klaus Fischer if you'd like."

Fritz smiled, pulling the knife from its sheath slowly and examining it with a vaguely threatening air.

August's eyes narrowed coldly, a smirk taking the place of his usual smile. He actually chuckled as the young man put his hand on the sheath of his knife.

"You do think yourself something important, don't you. But let me tell you, Rottenfürher, if you have been moved to my unit, you are under my command. And I can assure you, however jumpy my superiors may be, they will not take kindly to finding me stuck through by you or anyone else. You have threatened me, you have threatened my family, and it doesn't matter now who your friends are. If I had the mind I could have you put away for the rest of your life." his eyes glittered with a menacing air as he said this, the smirk even fading, replaced with a look of disgust.

"An alias, why, I wonder. You are afraid, I believe. If you cannot use your real name, whatever that is, you are afraid. And you should be, Herr Amsel. You should be afraid. We are at war. Put your knife away. Idle threats, Amsel, idle threats. I am just as battle ready as you, just as any other man is ready for battle. I daresay I could give you a run for your money. But I am not going to fight you, Shütze. No, I am not going to fight you."

August was done with this kid, this klugscheißer who wanted to play with the big boys. Pulling his trench coat back on and pulling his cap over his eyes, he looked back up at Fritz. "My superiors will be informed of the information you have given me. Now, get out of my office and out of my sight."

Fritz grinned widely, a savage gleam in his eyes.

"Clearly you don't understand the Nazi Party, Oberleutenant, they are all about death. Why just this morning I shot a woman as her child looked on, then, I shot the child too, blood and grey matter everywhere, Herr Shriver. And for what? Being Jews. We serve a regime of paranoia and terror, August Shriver, I could stick you like a pig at slaughter and your superiors would turn a blind eye, all I would have to do is call you a sympathizer with the Jews, no one of any importance would dare ask questions." Fritz gripped the knife tightly, flecks of spittle forming at his lips. For a moment the spy didn't dare breathe for fear the tension in the room would act as some sort of deadly miasma. Suddenly he relaxed.

"But I won't do that to you, you will prove yourself to useful for me to kill you here, I think."

Fritz stabbed the knife deep in the desk, then calmly slipped his coat back on, stubbing out his cigarette and drawing out another.

"We shall see each other very soon, Oberleutenant," Fritz smiled, lighting the cigarette and taking a drag, "I'll leave my knife here, perhaps you can learn something from it."

Without another word, Fritz took his leave, slamming the door behind him.

August let the man leave, not flinching at his violence. He sat down heavily, his face in his hands. What the man had said acted like a poison. It was filling his body with pins and needles. The words ran all too true - the regime was a regime of terror, whether or not he chose to admit it. Hitler was paranoid, August's superiors were uncaring. He himself, he was becoming one of them. He had murdered children for God's sake.

His eye traveled to the knife stuck in his desk, and for a moment the futility - the uselessness of his position was incarnated in this piece of metal. Sinister, dark, death - it stood a symbol as the swastika was a symbol. A symbol for hatred and murder.

Standing suddenly, he took the knife and pulled it out of the desk. With some effort - it was put deep into the cherry wood. He examined it, almost hearing the honed edge hiss like a viper. In a fluid motion, he threw the knife at the wall of his office, a yell escaping his lips.

"God damn him! Hurensohn..."

He calmed himself. With a sigh, a crack of the neck, he took up his briefcase, and yanked the knife from where it was not stuck. He pocketed it with some disgust, then left the office.