Well, since the consensus seems to be that I should not censor myself... Here's the next bit, in all it's disturbing glory. I do kinda hope I don't get in trouble for putting this in fanfic and not afanfic. Umm, just to cover my bases here, BE WARNED, ALL YE WHO ENTER. THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS VERY BAD THINGS. Like, not just B-grade zombie movie gore, but some seriously... I should just let you guys read, shouldn't I. ~~Spy~~ Early sunshine caresses his face, nuzzled into the crisp cotton sheets that pool on one side of his body. It is springtime sunshine; carried on the warm sea breeze that comes through the window, bringing promises of a beautiful day in Bordeaux. Here, they are far away from the war, far away from fear. He stretches, a smile sneaking across his lips as he feels the soft, slender body of the redhead curled around him from behind. Claudette’s fingertips stroke his arm as she stirs, and he feels the soft puff of her breath on his shoulder blade as she yawns. He shifts a little, the better to turn and pull her into his arms, when the phone on the bedside table rings. She is closest, and picks it up. At her cry of alarm, he is bolt upright. She is cradling the receiver to her ear, and her face is pale, her blue eyes wide. He can do nothing but stare, body tense like a coiled spring, as she listens to the woman whose voice he can hear over the phone. It’s her mother, back home in Paris. He can barely hear her fear over the loud background noise. Air-raid sirens. Gunshots. Screams. The sounds of Germany invading, the marching of hundreds of boots against the streets he’d grown up walking. Unsatisfied with an old woman’s account of the situation, he hurries to the kitchen, and the radio there. Every station is alive with the news. France betrayed, abandoned by her allies; Italy and Germany attacking in all of their fascist glory, and everyone in the French government has fled. Nowhere is safe…. The sunny morning, the last spring he will ever spend in Bordeaux, fades into hazy, dim light. The clean yellow and white walls of Claudette’s villa become the brick walls of a basement. Maps, photos, and attack plans are taped to the walls, ready to be ripped down at a moment’s notice. The air is close, there are fifteen men and women in this very small space, the entirety of their cell called together for this meeting. He looks around, sees familiar faces, and feels a twinge of something unpleasant, some foreshadowing. A hand slides into his, and he looks down. Marie looks at him, grim and determined; black hair cut short like the newspaper boy she favors disguising herself as. He expects to be soothed by the touch of her hand, but the dread only grows stronger, almost sickening. He pulls his hand away, listens to the men and women arguing. “Too soon, I tell you! We should not even be thinking of another attack yet, especially on the power grid! Lie low, for a week or two at least. Gather information. Find another safe place to print our papers. And then we can attack again! If we attack now, they’ll be waiting!†“With all due respect, my friend, this is the perfect time! They are still reeling from the losses we inflicted upon them three days ago. If we wait any longer, they shall regroup, and what then? Would you have the work of your fellow maquis come to nothing?†He clears his throat. The room turns to look at his masked face, and he smiles a little, despite the odd feeling in the back of his mind. It is nice to have some clout with a group of people this dangerous, this important, this righteous. “Gentlemen,†he crosses his arms, looking at every masculine face in the room. “And ladies,†the smile softens a little as he looks with pride upon the women of France who have banded together and become so strong to save her. “Might I interject with an idea of my own?†He doesn’t exactly wait for their permission, no matter how politely he asks. “I agree that this is the time for a follow up attack. Now, while their numbers are low, and they are pulling more Nazi soldiers in to cover for the dogs we have slain.†Someone spits, and there is a general muttering of ill will. He is quick to capture their attention again. “But the power grid is an ambitious target, and too ambitious for the few of us, I believe. I have been in contact with comrades in other cells, as I know many of you others have as well. I propose we talk to them, sit with them, and decide whose skills and material goods would best fit with ours for an assault of that magnitude.†There is a murmur of approval, and quite a few heads nod. He is known already for having a cool temper and strategic brain. But others with hotter blood and violence in their hearts care nothing for tactics and plans. “You just said that we cannot afford to wait! What of now? We cannot just sit here!†“Is that what I said?†he snaps. “I propose that since we have stripped them of manpower, the next logical step is to deny the remaining and incoming manpower of any sense of… security. The best way to do that, my friends, is to leave them homeless in a strange city.†He laughs, but without humor. “Oh, they may occupy Paris, but they do not know her. They do not know where to go for food or emergency shelter, or the districts that are friendly to the Nazis versus those that are still actively fighting. Everything the German dogs know comes from supply trains, delivered by car to their established dormitories. Their homes away from ‘das Vaterland’.†He doesn’t even try to keep the sneer from his voice. “The bastards have stolen our home from us, let us repay the favor.†There is a moment of profound silence. Then from his side, Marie speaks. “You propose to somehow take back the houses and apartments that have been coverted for their use? I don’t see how we have the numbers to force them out.†“To hell with taking them back,†he snarls. “Blow them up. The buildings… and the Nazi swine within.†It does not go well. The French maquis fighters manage to get the innocents out of range just fine, even with the eight o’clock curfew in place. They are used to running evacuations. They can find escape routes down Paris’ alleys and side streets with their eyes closed. But they did not count on collaborators. They did not expect to get turned on in sewers or ambushed like wild animals. The French collaborators, their own countrymen, put their fingers to their mouths and whistle a sharp signal. Echoes are heard all over the quarter. Sirens blare. Engines roar to life. He tries to get away, willing to stab and kill and murder the men holding him. To be caught is to be killed, he knows this. He has lost compatriots, lost friends, to the Gestapo and the occupying Nazis. But it is no use. They hold him fast, and the laughter above his head is odd somehow… dark. Demonic sounding. He shakes his head to clear it, and a car door slams. The loud clicking of many pairs of boot heels cuts through the laughter, and suddenly his chin is seized, his face yanked up, his mask pulled off. He glares at the uniformed German before a leather gloved hand fists in his hair and yanks his head back fast, forcing him to grit his teeth to keep from crying out. There is a rapid-fire conversation going on in German spoken too fast and too fluently for him to even begin to understand. The demonic giggling starts again, and the language morphs, becoming something darker and more sinister. The hand in his hair tightens, and where before he felt only leather fingertips, now he feels a piercing pain. The SS officer lets him go, bringing the punishing hand to his own face and licking blood from wicked talons with a long, forked tongue. The man’s eyes glow red as he growls out an order, and it suddenly clicks, the language. It is the tongue of Satan himself. He knows he is not dead, but somehow, he is entering Hell. “Guten Morgen, mein Freund.†Metal links clink together as he is kicked roughly in the stomach, the customary greeting from the creature walking in circles around where he has been chained to the floor of the holding cell. He curls around himself, retching. There is nothing left in his stomach to vomit. It has been days since the Germans have felt the need to feed him anything. They tried torture at first, of course, to get him to talk. Three of his fingers are now broken and taped together. He is missing two of his back molars, and if he clenches his jaw too hard, the holes will start to bleed again. His body is covered in burns from cigars and cigarettes. Recently they have developed a new game; they will hold the end of a knife over a lighter until it is red hot, and then place it to his skin to brand him. They are in the process of finishing out their names. When pain didn’t loosen his tongue, they decided to try starvation. So far, he has resisted. He draws upon reserves of strength both physical and mental that he didn’t know he ever possessed. Certainly nothing has ever prepared him for this. He is unsure why these horned, fanged, clawed devils do not just kill him. A huge, heavy hoof comes down on his broken fingers, and it is too early in the morning and he has had too little sleep to hold back the cry of pain. His outburst is met by a low, wicked chuckle from the monster above him, and the ghoulish sniggering of the lesser demons that have accompanied him. “Besser. Schlafen Sie gut?†“Do not talk to me in that devil’s tongue of yours.†He groans. “I cannot understand it. We have had this discussion.†“Ja, ja.†A taloned hand waves dismissively. “Of course, Spy. Whatever will make you more comfortable, nicht wahr?†“I am not a Spy.†The hooves grind against the dirt on the cement floor as the thing squats down to his level. He would lash out were his hands and feet not bound so. He would spit in the devil’s ugly face if he didn’t think that was exactly what the German wanted. “Come now, Spy,†the accompanying breath smells like sulfur and decay, and he flinches back, retching again. Gales of manic laughter drown out the noise. His stomach cramps in protest, and he whimpers. The devil straightens, his hooves edging apart as he folds his arms, staring triumphantly. “We all know exactly who and what you are. There is no more need for these games.†“You know nothing.†He wheezes. “I have told you nothing!†Talons scratch idly at a horned chin. “Nein, you have kept your head well, I agree. You have proven a…†lips part over yellowed, serrated teeth as he grins, “worthy challenge, and quite the entertainment. But sadly, our time is at an end. Not all of your little friends were as tight-lipped as you. We know who you are.†A small knot of fear makes the Spy lightheaded. There is no way… none of the maquis knew his true identity. “You lie.†The German throws back his head and laughs. It sounds like thunder and nails scratching glass. “See for yourself, then!†A claw makes a swift gesture. “Bringen Sie das Madchen!†He sees auburn hair and soft, pale skin, and the fear reaches up and chokes him. How? It’s…. it is not possible! He severed all ties with her, all ties with everyone, before joining the Resistance! They should not have… He sees her terrified blue eyes when they land on him. She gasps. “Claudette…†the Spy whispers harshly, his mouth gone dry. “Aha!†Their reunion is cut short. The German walks over to her, reaching out to card his claws through her hair. She cries out in fear, flinching back against the hold of two lesser demons, who snicker and press up against her lewdly. “My compliments, Spy, your lady ist ein beauty.†He flashes his sharp-fanged grin again. “What was your name, Fraulein? Claudette, was it?†She is terrified, and it kills his heart to see her so. She should have been safe! How could they have found her, linked her to him? She doesn’t answer the devil, too frightened to do anything but gape at him. Irritated, he lunges at her, snapping his jaws and growling. With a choked off scream, she faints from fright. “Claudette!†Spy’s chains rattle as he throws himself against them. The devil looks bored. “What a disappointment. Ah well.†He looks at the woman as if she were a bug. “No use putting something that pretty to waste.†He flicks his claws, and the others are immediately upon her, clawing at her clothing, her hair, her skin. Spy howls in denial, pulling against his chains with all of his strength. Claudette is stripped in front of his eyes, and one after the other, the demon-spawn rape the girl he used to love. She wakes up at one point, the pain enough to rouse her from her stupor. After that, he wishes more than anything that he could simply cover his ears to drown out the sound of her screams. Marie is next, dragged in hissing and spitting like an angry cat. From the way her clothes are torn half away and from the dirt that streaks her face and body, Spy can tell this treatment is nothing new to her. She is dragged closer to the spot he is chained to, and the German waves for his underlings to have their way with her as well. She does not scream; she was always too tough for that. But the little grunts of pain she makes as they rut over her are nearly as bad. By the time they finish, Spy feels weak. Beaten. Finished. The Nazi demons have won. Despair is slowly creeping up his spine. “Mein Freund, did you think we were done?†The laughing face of the devil is back. “Did you think that was all the fun we had planned for today?†“There are no others, you bastard!†Spy has lost his composure by now, his face damp from tears of grief and sweat. “Unless you plan to dig up the corpse of my mother and rape her, too!†“Nein, I think what I have planned will be sufficient.†At his wave, the demons bring in a woman. He has never seen her before. But his heart pounds wildly in his chest, and his brain is screaming in denial. She’s quite beautiful, petite, slender, wearing a scandalously short dress and high heels, both in a robin’s egg blue. Her sleek, shiny hair is cut in a dark brown bob that frames her face, and crowned with a blue headband that matches her dress. She looks to him, surprised, but the way her gaze lingers is familiar. She calls him a name he has never worn, but that some part of his brain responds to eagerly. Without knowing her name, he finds it choking past his lips. “No… Please, no. I will… I will do anything. I will tell you… anything.†He slumps over, kneeling on the cement floor, and bows his head. The fear he feels is paralyzing. “You have won, German… Name your price, only let her go, please.†“Name mein price?†There is a soft gasp. Spy looks up sharply. The devil has taken her face in his hand, and that long forked tongue flicks out to stroke across her lips. She recoils, but the demons hold her tight. “It is too late for that, Spy. Playtime is over!†His claws draw blood from her soft skin as he pulls her flush to his body. She fights him. He laughs, shoving her against the wall and ripping her dress down the back. She cries out a name again; the name that is not Spy’s but yet IS, and as the devil shoves into her body, Spy screams— --"NON!!! Non pas elle, Diable!!!" Spy chokes on his words, not as slow to wake as he once used to be. He listens for the sounds of anyone in the hall, breathing hard through his nose and trying to calm the frantic hammering of his heart. When it becomes clear that his cry has drawn no attention, he sits up, reaching with shaking hands for a cigarette and his lighter. As he takes a deep, deep drag of the nicotine, he rests his forehead in his hand. “Merde…†he whispers, the smoke slipping out between his lips. Closing his eyes, Spy does his best to purge the nightmare from his mind. It will not go. Too much of it is too close to the truth, and the memories of that time do not fade. The Gestapo officer who tortured him for information was not a devil, he knows this… he was just a madman. But that does not make the torture any less real. Slowly, Spy’s tongue probes the back of his mouth, finds the two holes where his molars used to be. Although the sites have long since healed, he can still feel the phantom pain; can still taste the sickly copper tang of his own blood. His hands are still shaking. The nicotine is not helping. Behind his eyelids he sees red hair and blue eyes. He remembers their bed, crisp sheets in springtime. And he can still see her, spread open and pinned beneath four Nazi soldiers. No matter how many years pass, no matter how hard he tries to forget, the sound of her screams will haunt him always.