Young Writers Society

He laid down on the couch, tablet in hand as he tried to get comfortable under the blankets. It was the perfect day to binge something - that something likely being Sanders Sides. The rain was pounding outside, and flames crackled in the fireplace. Claire was in her room, engaged by the art supplies Schadel had just gotten her, and the grim reaper in question was out with Liz. He didn't question what they were doing; he was just grateful for some downtime.

He clicked on one of his personal favorites: Accepting Anxiety. It was a two-parter, but he had an entire afternoon ahead of him. He pulled the blanket over the top of his head and readjusted his earbuds, biting back laughter as Thomas appeared on screen-

The world spun around him. He couldn't think straight - could barely process how the living room had faded away, how his tablet was no longer in his hands, how he was standing instead of sitting, or how his body felt so wrong. Then the world came into focus, and Edward wildly glanced around in a useless attempt to figure out what had just happened.

He was standing in an empty apartment. He didn't recognize anything about it, so it couldn't possibly belong to someone he knew. He felt a growing sense of dread as he stopped searching the room. Was this going to be like with the church all over again? He couldn't hear anyone else, but that had to be the only explanation.

Wait, was there something up against his face? He reached a hand up and touched the...thing, realizing with horror that he was wearing a mask. This mask was accompanied by a matching cloak and hood, from what he could see when he took it off and held it in his suddenly feminine hands-

...Feminine hands?

The mask clattered to the floor, and Edward stared in horror at the hands that certainly weren't his. His gaze dropped down. "No, no, no!" he exclaimed. He could feel himself in there - feel his soul not feeling quite right in this body - so he knew this had to be a possession. But if it was a possession, who was he possessing?

And why was he possessing her!?

This was giving him flashbacks to the incident in the bar. It had only be for a handful of seconds, but he had accidentally possessed the bartender, Wilson. That had felt weird, too, but there wasn't the added creeped out factor when he realized how gothic the outfit the woman was wearing was. Was this some weird cult ritual? But wouldn't there have been some indication of that, like a weird marking on the ground or something? And not just this lady, whoever she was?

And the voices! He could barely make them out right now, but he knew he wasn't alone. It wasn't just the woman, either - there was someone else present.

Someone powerful.

Edward took a deep, unsteady breath and picked up the mask. He studied it for another second before reluctantly slipping it on. All he had to do was pretend to be whoever this woman was, and then he could figure out what the heck had happened to him.

Which was easier said than done, since he didn't even know where he was!

Silberfuchs

Pale fingers danced across ebon buttons, pulling them through fabric equally dark as der Silberfuchs donned the attire that had struck fear into the hearts of men for well over a century. He used to be a legend; now, he was supposedly a copycat of his former self. Of course no single man could live long enough to kill in the days of the second world war and now.

Fur-trimmed boots were laced up to his knee and he pulled straw-colored hair back tightly against his skull before pulling the thin black fabric of the full-head mask over his face. Soft leather gloves were drawn over his fingers and he buckled the metallic clasp of his belt before finally turning to the piece that had never changed. Not since the day he'd started this game, not since the war, not ever.

He lifted the green-tinted, vulpine, silver mask from the bedside table and fitted it over his face. He proceeded to shoulder the case that contained his gun before striding to the hotel door.

The bathroom mirror reflected his sombre visage and caught his eye as his gloved hand reached towards the door's handle. A tall, dark figure; faceless, emotionless, cold as the winter's wind and solemn as a statue, all color gone but for the crystal blue of his gaze peering out from under the shadow of his mask.

The Silver Fox. The feared Nazi assassin who nearly won the war for Germany.

And, maybe, he hoped, the reason they hadn't.

He looked away and stepped out into the hall. There was no electricity and his footsteps were the only ones in the dust of the ancient corridor. It'd once been a bustling place for travelers. Now, it was deserted as some long-forgotten dungeon covered in cobwebs and dry, white bones.

The wind tugged at his trench coat reminiscent of his old Nazi uniform as he stepped into the alleyway. The full moon hung brightly overhead and cast a silver light over the sleeping city of San Francisco. Cars buzzed through the streets and and the occasional passerby strode down the sidewalk, hunched with their head down as though that could somehow protect them from the human predators stalking these streets.

Mostly human, anyways.

He let out a long breath from between his teeth as he slung the case over his shoulder and began to ascend the building from behind. It wasn't as tall as some, but it gave him enough of a vantage point to access his target. Besides, larger buildings were harder to vacate when the time came. If he needed to, Kratzer could even just jump off this roof - it'd hurt and might break something but it'd be doable.

His shadow slid through the darkness like a fox to the henhouse as he clambered, spiderlike, up the wall. He pulled himself over the brick corner and kept low to the ground, half-crawling to the corner where he'd set up his shot.

Stock met gun, gun met barrel. Metal clicked and bullets tinged in the magazine as he set up the sniper rifle. The firearm was no paler than his ebon attire and the synthetic stock offered a lightness that Kratzer treasured. This work had been much more difficult and rougher in the past, with swords in place of guns. Even once firearms had been invented they were often too inaccurate and heavy to be practical. Now, though, they'd been perfected: a sleek, clean, killing machine.

He slid the scope on and rested his chin behind it, eye level with the sight as he scanned the opposing apartment building for his target: Taipan. A former ally and ever-growing enemy. Boomslang would have his head when she found out about this. He'd already destroyed most of her project. Still, this would be worth it.

A flash of color.

He froze and honed in on it: a blue-cloaked figure who was setting her sapphire mask under the azure hood of her cowl. Her back was too him, with her left shoulder closest. It'd be a bit of a trick to get around her shoulder blade...Of course, without her mask protecting her from behind, he could always go for a head shot.

It was the only one he'd get.

As he watched, she turned, and he could hear her voice dimly. There was a surprised and frustrated tone in it. Was she arguing with her demon?

It didn't matter. With her facing him, it'd be easy to send a shot through her heart, and if he wanted to do it before she saw him, he had to act now.

4…
His grip tightened on the rifle, check leaning down to rest on the stock and the butt seated tightly in his shoulder as he waited for her to still.

3…
The woman took a slow step forward and put a hand to her mask - her right hand, leaving her heart an easy target.

2…
Kratzer’s eye fell to the scope and gazed through it, zooming towards his kill. A soft breeze whistled through the buildings as he stalled his breath and pulled the trigger slowly and smoothly…

1.
Bang!

His time with Schadel had given him instincts he had lacked when he was alive. It wasn't enough to save him from being shot, but it was enough for him to duck partially out of the way. The bullet - the pain far too familiar - dug itself into his shoulder. He should have been better with pain after getting killed by a bullet not too different than this one, but he couldn't help but give a pained cry and clutch the wound with one hand.

It felt wet when he touched it. Was he bleeding? He was bleeding. He was definitely bleeding. Oh, God! He was bleeding out in the middle of nowhere, and Schadel was too far away to help him now. The cry turned into a whimper. If this woman died, it would be all his fault! And if she did die, a reaper would come. A reaper, who, like most of Schadel's kind, would reap his soul, too, because that was how you were supposed to deal with possessions.

A hysterical laugh left his lips in an unfamiliar voice. "Why coudn't the universe have let me watch Sanders Sides?" he asked himself, gaze shifting from his now wet hands to the window the shot had come through. He wanted to stupidly run over and see where the shot had come from, but even in his pain, he knew that would be stupid. They could get him again.

So he made his way over to the door, desperately hoping he was staying out of the way. He quickly flung the door open with his uninjured arm and slipped out into the hallway, the occasional whimper leaving his lips as he tried to get this woman - and himself - to some place remotely safe.

Who the f*** are you?! the feminine voice of the body's owner demanded even as they stumbled to the door, blood pouring in liberal amounts over their fingers.

Better yet, what the f*** are you doing in my vessel's body? another, more androgynous voice growled with equal agitation. It seemed that getting shot was less of a concern to both the beings resident in the woman's body than who this invader was.



"Scheisse!" Kratzer snarled in frustration as he slung the gun back over his shoulder and half-leaped, half-clambered to the ground and racing for the sole door in the complex. A perfect shot, ruined by such inhuman reflexes. He needed to get himself a better silencer.

He sprinted through the door and into the hall as his daggers left his belt and the masked man charged up the stairs, swinging around the corner and coming face-to-face with his royal-blue-clad adversary. He attacked in a fierce, swift flurry of blades - if Taipan lived through this, there'd be literal Hell to pay.

If Edward hadn't been so focused on the pain, he might have been more startled when the body's two owners started talking to him. Instead, he just numbly listened to what they were saying, the rest of his mind trying to come up with a better way to stop the bleeding than with his hand. "My name's Edward Smith," he said. They sounded like they were talking in his head, rather than out loud, but he wasn't going to waste energy trying to figure out how to do that. "And I don't know what I'm doing - I was just watching YouTube on my tablet, and then I suddenly ended up like this-"

He fell silent when he heard someone coming up a nearby staircase. He went unnaturally still, realizing that the person rushing up had to be the one who had shot at him. Then the man appeared, clad in an outfit that resembled the woman's ever so slightly. It was a little disturbing to see the prevalence of masks among the two, and how this man appeared to be armed to the teeth.

He let go of his bleeding shoulder when the man started his attack. A knife or two did manage to get him, but Edward's reflexes - honed by his military training and time with Schadel - kicked in. He instinctively ducked and tried to kick the man's legs out from underneath him. In retrospect, it was the type of thing that worked better on the dead than the living, since the dead never expected another ghost to do something like that, but his body was running on instinct.

"I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that this isn't some hardcore part of a Renaissance Fair," Edward said. He wasn't sure if he was talking to the body's inhabitants or the man trying to stab him to death. But, whoever it was, it did make him feel better to get a jab or two in. "Now, if this is larping, on the other hand, you're definitely taking this just a bit too seriously."

Kratzer pivoted as Taipan tried to kick his legs out from under him and in a few swift, turning steps like those of a dancer he came up behind her and tried to grab her, pinning her arms against her body and bringing his knife to her throat.

It was about then he registered what she'd just said. And the fact that her response to him attacking her was to try to kick him. She hadn't even drawn her blades.

It looked like Taipan. It smelled like Taipan. Walked like Taipan. But it certainly didn't behave nor speak like her - he'd worked both alongside and against her long enough to know that.

"Vho are you?" he demanded. "Vhere is Taipan?"

"So that's her name-"

Edward paused. He knew that he should be frightened and wary, but all he could think about was how familiar that voice was. It was slightly muffled by the mask, but not to the point where it was entirely unrecognizable.

"...Engel?" he hesitantly questioned. He want to turn around and take the mask off of his face, but the knife and his pinned arms made that difficult. He thought long and hard on the voice, and decided that his assumption was accurate.

"Please put that knife down," he asked, his voice much calmer now that he knew who was threatening him. "I don't think you want to be the reason for your brother dying a second time. It's me. Edward. I don't know why I'm possessing this Taipan person, but it's not intentional. I swear."

Edward? His brother? What...how had he even gotten here?! He hadn't told anyone about Edward - or anything about Edward's backstory, like the fact he was a ghost - so it seemed unlikely that this was some kind of deception.

Kratzer hesitated, then slowly stepped back and released his brother, blades still in his fingers. "Come vis me, it's not safe to speak here," he said. "And vatch vhat you say - she hears everyzing, and so vill Boomslang."

He absentmindedly rubbed the spot on his neck the knives had been pressed against, his mind much more focused on what Engel had said. Or, rather, that Engel had confirmed his guess on his identity.

Engel was the perfect anchor.

He lingered where the woman (Taipan) was standing and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, ignoring the chatter of the two voices in his mind. He was Edward Smith. Engel was his brother - an honorary one, but a brother all the same. He was a ghost that had died in World War II. He worked for Schadel's Necromancy Agency, and his best friend was another ghost named Claire.

He imagined himself; every little detail came to life in his mind. Now his soul happily obliged. It separated from its unwilling host, taken on the form of a young man dressed in a grime-covered American uniform.

He opened his eyes and took a step forward, leaving Taipan free to her own will. It felt good to be himself again. He slipped his hands into his pockets out of habit, and was surprised to find his clip kicking around in one of them.

He didn't even know how something like that could remain after a possession, but he wasn't going to argue with it - it solved a major problem. He pulled the clip out and slid it into his hair, suddenly materializing right in front of Engel.

"Problem solved, then," he said, giving his brother a grin.

Kratzer's eyes widened as Edward stepped out of Taipan. The sharp 'nein' escaped his lips too late and he could do little than watch as Edward's essence separated from the form of his adversary.

Even as the vampire watched in horror, a smile began to dance across the woman's lips, the glint showing in her eye despite the mask covering her countenance.

Her pistol left its holster and there was a click as she pulled the hammer back. Edward's voice rang dimly in Kratzer's periphery - problem solved.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, perhaps, but with the problem of Edward's being trapped with Taipan gone, a new one arose: one based upon Taipan's newfound freewill.

"Oh, Boomslang's going to have fun with this," she grinned and raised the weapon, pointing it squarely at Engel's head.

"Something tells me she won't," Edward cheerfully replied, taking a step forward and grabbing the gun right out of her hands. It wasn’t hard - she hadn't expected it, and ghosthood did have its perks. Solid objects could stop him, but a living being would go right through him.

He emptied out the gun onto the floor and slipped the now useless weapon into the belt at his side.

Her moment of surprise at the ghost's material abilities was all Kratzer needed to lunge forward and grab her arm, twisting it to force her to her knees.

"Ghost from the wrong reality, Taipan," he growled, slamming the heel of his boot into the back of her skull. She hit the ground, out cold and he put his gun to the back of her head, pulling back the hammer to finish what he started.

Edward's gaze traveled from the now unconscious woman to his brother, uncertainly clear in his blue eyes. "...You have a good reason for doing this, right?" He couldn't remember much of what Engel did in the present - if it had come up in the bar, he had been too drunk to remember it. But he did know what he did in the past, and he could only guess why he wanted to kill this woman.

"She's a Nazi," was all the explanation Edward got before the bang resounded through the complex and his silver mask was stained red with her blood and the viscera that was inevitably flung forth from Taipan's skull. He slipped his gun back into his holster nonchalantly and then knelt beside her body and placed a handwritten note on it, the hand cursive and practiced. It read simply: Courtesy of der Silberfuchs.

Kratzer rose and turned to Edward. "Come on, it's better if ze cops don't find us here," he said, striding back down the hall. "I'll explain everyzing out of ze vay of prying eyes and ears."