GronHatchat

Schlafloser Hügel, science division, underground His eyes burn with exhilaration as he beholds the woman’s nervous shuffle into the room. She shakes with an absolute terror of knowing, the worst kind of knowing. He enjoys it; he wants to rattle her cage further, see if he can pry the bars off and invade every crevice of her fragile mind. Anything to get rid of the blue, the horrid blue! The blue invades in a sharp, brief stab right through his brain when she turns on the lights, and that is when the real whirlwind of it all starts. Colors bleed into sounds, sounds into textures. The hum of the machinery becomes a pulsating crimson, throbbing against his temples. The flickering lights taste of copper, sharp and metallic. It’s the damnable blue that haunts him worst of all, coming and going, stinging and slicing! The cerulean hue that seeps into his consciousness like poison. It whispers of forgotten memories, of icy waters and drowning. He blinks, and the walls ripple with azure

The back alleys of Berlin Tonight, the rain falls, and he welcomes it with open arms. His mother's old superstition whispers in his mind, telling him that rain is the tears of angels. Part of him embraces this belief, while another part quietly acknowledges that if that were true, the angels have been neglecting their duty lately. Not every day has seen rain since the horrors began. Standing in the downpour, he lets the water cascade down his mask, cleansing the air around him. There's a perverse desire within him for the rain to continue endlessly, to drown the world in its relentless deluge, offering a chance for a fresh beginning amidst the chaos. Perhaps that is cruel pessimism; perhaps he has become cruelty. He kneels atop the Schwarzbrennerei on Kurfürstendamm’s dimly lit backways, a dark gargoyle waiting in the shadows where he has been told to expect this new, uncertain chapter in his life. As he waits, doubts plague his mind. Can he truly trust this 'Sophie Krause' to

The testing fields, 1943 “Death is the next great adventure.” “For us, maybe. Not for them.” Johann smiles behind his gas mask, knowing that Isler’s words are uncontestable. The joy of death, the majesty of it, is for the victor still standing at the end of the day; the poor bastards down the hill from where they stand now will know only destruction in their final moments. There is no great adventure for them. Only the infinite abyss that awaits. “It’s a foul thing, isn’t it?” Johann wonders aloud, crossing his arms as he watches the carnage below. The terrain is rugged, with rocky outcrops and steep slopes creating natural barriers that discourage casual exploration. Thick pine and spruce trees blanket the landscape, their branches interlocking to form a canopy that filters the sunlight, casting dappled shadows on the forest floor below. At the valley's center lies a clearing, bathed in sunlight that filters through a gap in the trees above. A collection of grottos and a