Vodquila

James solemnly listened to Boris ramble, letting the details of the plays and the love stories filter out as he focused on the real things and the real people Boris talked about. When Boris was done, Wilson nodded with the slightest of smirks and poured him a glass of gin, sliding it over to him.

"You did a lovely job, Boris," she said gently, before turning to the next victim. "I suppose that leaves Edward."

Damascus listened to Boris' long rant, his head spinning in an effort to follow all of his refrences and rabbit holes. When the other man was finally finished, he felt slightly nauseated.

"Urghhh... yesh. Lovefleh job." He gave a smile to cover his confusion and slightly green complexion.

"Tell him yah storish when hehsh s- sh- shobeher, an' then heh'll pay moreh attenshohn." This last part was spoken quietly somber, and for some strange reason by referring to himself in the third person. This had mostly to do with the fact that he had started picturing himself from a birds-eye view- a side effect of being intoxicated while holding another form.

Now it was Edward who stiffened, and Schadel who gave an triumphant cheer from nearby - though this was because she was grateful that the tables had turned on him. "I chose dare," he confidently said, shooting a look in Schadel's direction.

Damascus squinted across at Edward, and finding that he enjoyed that thrill of blurting out questions and commands, opened his mouth the instant that something flew into his mind.

"P- pull yeh troushuhs ash high ash they'll go, an' stickeh yeh ahms inshide!" He shouted, not bothering to contain his chuckle at the mental image. "Ooh! An' shtay dat whey for threh roun's."

Edward stared at Damascus.

Then he slowly looked down at his pants, trying to figure out how he could possibly pull them up any farther. Better yet, how was he supposed to fit his hands inside of them? He attempted to slip them in, but he could only get up to his wrists. "Can I get another dare?" he said, turning to the bartender. "I literally can't do this one."

Wilson giggled. "I mean, you're doing it to the best of your ability so... no? I don't make the rules. You gotta stay like that for three turns!"

"And now off to Kratzer!"

He blinked, considering his options. He didn't really care one way or another, though he felt like he should. Maybe he was just to drunk. "Uhm..." he glanced over towards Edward. He'd just done dare; maybe a truth for a bit of variety? "Truth?"

Edward knew immediately what he had to ask.

"Why?" he asked. He was sober enough to know that referencing the war's name wasn't a good idea, so he kept his question vague. Kratzer would know exactly what he was talking about. "Why did you chose to fight for people like them?"

His hand met the bar with enough force to shake the glasses that sat upon it, but it didn't break anything. "It wasn't my fickin' choiche! Not all of us had zat luxury of being able to choose!" he snapped, then paused, forcing himself to calm down, though his voice was still dangerously icy. "I got into zat mesh 'cause I tried to stay behind 'n fight zem. Verdammt demon found me firsht 'n I tried to run or to fight and I washn't fickin' strong 'nough. Zen...we've all got our breakin' points 'n I hit mine second year of the war. Eight months later zey got ahold of my son. Sho I worked fer her 'caushe I couldn't take anymore pain 'n 'caushe I couldn't let zem kill my shon. Minute ze war ended I killed Hitler and ditched to Canada," he explains, utterly unable to keep the emotion out of his voice.

Edward blinked.

"You killed Hitler?" he repeated in disbelief, thought it was more for his own benefit than to grill Kratzer for information. He took another swig of his drink, this time because he needed something strong to help him take in what he had just heard. He had known that things were simply black-and-white in Germany, but he had also known the scope of the atrocities that they had committed against their own people. Hell, he knew the atrocities his own people had committed, but, by the time he returned to discover that they had round up all the Japanese-Americans and thrown them into internment camps, he was already a ghost.

"War is never good versus bad," Schadel quietly said from her spot beside him. He turned around to look at her; she was staring down into her drink with a sorrowful expression on her face. "The leaders might be horrible people, but the people they pit against each other are rarely bad people. There's always-There's always going to be soldiers like Adam."

She took a long sip of her drink, fingering the silver cross she wore around her neck.

James solemnly observed from his corner of the bar. He didn't know of the war they spoke of, or the war they fought in, but he knew the emotions. He asked Wilson for another glass with a small gesture of his hand, and she obliged knowingly, sliding him another glass.

Kratzer glanced at Wilson, gesturing to see if he could get a refill as well. "Ja, I killed Hitler. Been making deathsh look like shuishides fer years. Call it my forté. Very few wanted to fight for ze Nazis, Edward, mosht of us were just too afraid not to - and fer zoshe of us who still tried to fight, well...all men have a breaking point. Doesn't matter how good you are or how hard you try because eventually, you will break. It'sh that shimple."

I admit, I was not prepared for another story like that. I was very close to tearing up at this one, too.

It was a shameful thing, that so many good men would be perverted and broken, when there weren't enough of them in the world to begin with. And war, war was a reality that Kratzer had lived with, he'd been forced to perform atrocities god only knew, for a banner he despised.
Whatever our respective regional differences, I knew that Kratzer must have been my countryman in some way or another. He'd fought for the world I'd abandoned, he fought for his loved ones, he didn't have the luxury of choice that I did.

It gladdened my heart, just a little, to know that fate at least granted him vengeance upon this Hitler fellow. It would never be enough, but I hoped that it brought him just a little peace.


"But your son...what happened to him?" I had to ask.

His vision blurred at the mention of his son, and he looked down, fighting back the tears that threatened his pride. "I shaw him today fer ze first time in a long time," he said softly. "He shot me zree times in ze chest at ze order of ze mistress we were both forced to sherve during ze war. Ze one I turned my back on when he turned his back on me."

Nevermind, I was tearing up, after all. Only a little. Only a little.

"Damn. That'sh... that'sh rough, my friend."