It's All Good ((EquinoxSol))

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Riordan Tetra

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"Captain Wolff, we have reports of a plane that was shot down about three kilometers from here, they are searching for survivors now, be prepared for incoming prisoners." the young soldier reported, standing at rigid attention as he spoke, saluting instantly and sharply turning and marching away once the captain had acknowledged the information. Even though the men had been serving under Captain Viktor Wolff for almost three years now, there was no comradery, no joking, always professional, almost to the rule book.

Viktor Wolff wasn't one to let his men joke around with him, he demanded their respect, demanded their obedience every hours. Surprisingly, this made his men more loyal to him, never a bad word was spoken behind his back, because the commander was always fair, never played favorites. Occasionally they wished he would ease up, but every man understood that Viktor's loyalty was to the Fuhrer and no one else, and that every one of his actions reflected on his desire to serve the Fuhrer and the Third Reich, and no one could fault him that.

Viktor was impeccably dressed in the Nazi uniform, and had just finished eating when the report came. It was time for him to walk the camp anyway, make sure everything was in order. He strapped on his pistols and strided out into the sunlight, just as the rumbling trucks that had gone after the plane crash came into view. There may be a new prisoner joining his work camp, and a small smile crossed Viktor's face. More labor meant more equipment turned out to support the war.
 
"Damn, I can't see anything," Des muttered, straining his eyes against the fog and darkness that obscured his vision. "Wonder if everyone else is as lost as we are...?" Scoffing softly, he listened to the other two sharing the plane make their own comments, which was somewhere along the lines of, "Maybe we should turn back..." and, "Maybe if we start shooting blindly, we can off a hundred of those Nazi bastards!" Des didn't respond, instead shaking his head and focusing on flying the aircraft, a Bristol Blenheim that Des had been flying since he had first transferred to the RAF.

"Okay, okay," he finally replied. "Be quiet, now, no telling what they've got down there...Besides, I want to focus on getting back before the sun gets up...We've what, three, four hours until morning?" Rolling his shoulders, he stifled back a yawn before shaking his head, focusing back on the horizon.

What had happened was that the squadron had just concluded a bombing over a tiny city in eastern France, and almost immediately afterwards, Des and his partners had been separated, and were flying practically blind through the air. Sure, they had enough fuel to fly until late in the morning, but Des was more worried about being caught in enemy airspace with no backup. Besides, their radios weren't working. As soon as the crew had found out this, receiving only static, Des had cursed profusely before settling down once more, irritated. And here they were, no idea where they were and fighting waves of vertigo as the dark ground blended in with the equally dark sky.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Des frowned, taking one of his hands away from the steering mechanism to rub the backs of his eyes, he called back, "Davidson, Goldman, you guys doing okay back there?" Before the two could answer, disaster struck. All of the sudden, a rocking impact shook the cockpit.

"Holy Mother of Christ!" shouted Davidson, as fire lit up the left engine of the plane. "Must've been an anti-air. Where could they be?" As Des strained his eyes to attempt to see lights of a city or camp below, another shot ripped through the plane, this time nabbing the tail of the plane. Almost immediately, the plane began dipping, its only remaining engine not enough to keep the metal bird aloft. As emergency alarms started ringing, Des tried to lift the nose of the Bristol, pulling at the steering shaft desperately. However, it was all futile, and soon the plane was descending at almost a thirty-five degree angle, gaining speed as the ground raced up at them.

"Son of a bitch," Des said, his eyes frantically scanning the readouts and the ground below. Realizing that he would probably die if he remained in the plane any longer, he pressed the appropriate buttons open the flaps as much he could, hearing Davidson in the background, praying. Just as he was about to try to eject himself from the plane, the plane crashed into the ground in a plume of fiery smoke.

And then, darkness.

When Des came to, sunlight was streaming in through the ruined skeleton of the Bristol. "Christ," he muttered, his head pounding. Raising a hand, he touched his forehead, the fingers coming away bloody. Glancing around him, he found that he was still strapped into the pilot's chair. Immediately, he worked on unhooking himself from the harness, wrenching himself from the ruined cockpit. Standing up, his knees wobbling, he glanced around to see the bodies of Goldman and Davidson strewn about, both in pieces. It seemed, the moment the plane had crashed, the back of the craft had been slightly lower than the top, and that was what had received the brunt of the impact.

Patting himself down, he found that he was mostly unharmed, save for a few scrapes and cuts, namely the one of his forehead, which ran just above his left eyebrow. Now that it was light out, he started searching the wreckage, trying to find the guns that were stored in the rear of the craft. Finding the box they were stored in, which was supposed to be nearly indestructible, he opened it to see that the three guns were now almost completely destroyed, each one irreparable. Glancing at the bodies again, he brushed at tears stinging his eyes. Those two were his friends, God damn it.

Swallowing past the lump in his throat, he frowned before taking stock of everything around him. It was a large field, and he could just barely see the outlines of buildings towards the northeast. Knowing that he was probably on Axis territory, he tried not to let fear infiltrate his thoughts. Okay, he thought to himself. I am on enemy land with no supplies, no friendlies, and no way out...what do I do? Forcing down panic, he swiveled again, watching for any signs of movement nearby.
 
The smoke from the crash was like a beacon to the men searching for survivors leading them right to the wreckage. They crept quietly through the tall grass, crawling on their bellies, not wanting to alert any survivors to their presence. They managed to get eyes on the wreckage about fifty feet away, scopes trained on the plane, searching for any sign of life. Two bodies, mangled beyond recognition could clearly be seen, and one of the men signaled that movement could be seen on the far side. Three men remained hidden in the grass, guns trained on the plane, while the other two men stood, keeping low, and moving quickly towards the downed plane, rifles drawn.

*Get down, get down* one shouted in German, the other repeating the cry in English, gun trained on the lone man who was turning in half circles, probably trying to think of a way out of this. He didn't appear to be armed, and bright blood was visible on the male's forehead. He didn't seem to be in any condition to fight, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't. After all, he was basically a wounded, cornered animal, and the men knew from experience that crazed beasts would do anything. The second man signaled, and the three hidden in the grass stood, moving forward in a tight formation, five guns, all trained on one man.

The leader, Captain Wolff, murmured a command, and two of the men approached the bodies of the men on the ground, but it was obvious they were dead...some of their limbs weren't even attached. Nonetheless, the two grinned and each pumped a bullet into the face of the men, now they really were unrecognizable. One said something and the other laughed, but both were silenced by a tight lipped command from Wolff, and silently they began searching the wreckage of the plane, climbing over it and inside of it.

Wolff turned his attention back to the male in front of him. "You are a prisoner of the Third Reich. You will come with us." he ordered, his English was good, just accented.
 
As soon as he heard the words shouted in German, Des spun, immediately reaching for a gun that wasn't there. "Shit," he muttered, immediately raising his arms. Getting to his knees, he counted each of the soldiers, gauging his chances if he just ran. One...two, three, four, five...and there are probably more in the bushes. Each one was armed, while he was severely lacking in that department. Maybe, if he could disarm one of the soldiers, and take him hostage...No, that wouldn't work. He had no idea where the other soldiers were hiding, if they really were there. There was a chance that nobody was in the brush, but it was unlikely.

While the two soldiers left to examine the bodies, he stared up at the guns pointed at him, flinching when he heard gunshots behind him. Turning his head, he tried not to show any emotion at seeing what the Germans did to Goldman and Davidson. Damn those Nazis, he thought, frowning. If he had believed they had any decent bone in their body, he would have wondered if they did that to their own. Probably, he decided, frowning.

When the one who looked to be of the highest rank spoke to him, he looked away, slowly moving a hand to wipe the blood out of his eyes again. His hands were shaking. He noticed this as soon as he returned his hand up to a surrendering position. After several minutes, Des glanced up at the Nazi, making a slight, defeated nod.
 
Wolff saw the slight tremble in the male's arms, and smiled. He may be trying not to look afraid, but his body language gave him away. He spat orders to one of his men, who shouldered the gun, pulling rope out of his pack. "Turn around, hands behind your back. Do not waste my time by struggling, you will not win British dog." he said in English. The other Nazi approached Des, quickly wrenching the male's arms together behind Des' back and tying them together. He then kicked out the back of Des' knees to get him to kneel, and began to roughly search the male, looking through pockets, even unlacing and pulling off the soldier's boots.
 
His lips forming a defiant line, Des once again debilitated trying to disarm one of the soldiers. It would be risky...Still, it was too much of a risk. Besides, it wasn't as if he had any sensitive information stored in his mind. As the Nazi tied his wrists together, he bit his tongue to keep from saying anything brash. It was obvious the commanding officer of the group spoke English, and there was no telling if the others did. Yelling out as his knees were kicked out, he fell on his face, having nothing to catch his fall with.

Forcing himself not to squirm as he was searched, he tried to make himself forget the codes for the radio, knowing that if they decided that he knew something valuable, they would interrogate him until he was dead or insane. Inhaling the earthy smell of the ground, he closed his eyes, trying to dispel the headache that had formed just behind his eyes.

You'll get out, he told himself. Someone will come looking for me. Though he was telling himself words of hope, he knew it wasn't very helpful. He was one pilot. They had a million of him. And why would they go searching for him when a thousand others were also lost? Gritting his teeth as he felt the Nazi rooting through his pockets, his hazel eyes scoured the sky for any sign that he wouldn't die a prisoner of the Third Reich.
 
Once they were satisfied the male didn't have anything on him that could potentially be used as a weapon while they transported him back to the camp, the nazi lifted him back to his feet, poking him in the back with his rifle, marching him through the tall grass and through the dense forest, to the waiting truck. Wolff spoke with his men, then followed, leaving two to guard the wreckage until it could be retrieved, scrap metal was very useful at the very least, and a closer inspection of the plane may reveal some other useful items.

Wolff rode in the front, and three guards were in the back with Des. "Your name?" one of the guards asked in broken English, repeating the question in German, some of the British did know how to speak the language. And if they didn't, they soon would, after all, Germany would soon conquer the rest of Europe and possibly the world, so any non speakers had better learn quick.
 
Desmond kept to his thoughts as the Nazis marched him through the countryside, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. It wasn't that far to the truck, but it wasn't an easy path. By the time they reached the truck, blood was covering one side of his face, and, since he couldn't wipe it away, it had started dripping onto the shoulder of his uniform. Hoping that the radio in the plane was broken beyond recognition, so that he wouldn't be asked to contact anyone against his will.

Once in the vehicle, he tried his best to wipe the blood off of his face with his shoulder, but it didn't seem to help much. At least it's not bleeding anymore, he thought to himself, before the Nazi spoke to him. Barely sparing him a passing glance, he mumbled, "Whitaker." Frowning, he decided not to let them know he understood the German. He only knew a little bit, just enough to understand basic conversation, but he didn't think he would get anything good out of having his number of known languages known by the Germans.
 
"Whitaker?" the guard repeated, reaching for a clipboard that was under the boards of the truck. He filled the name in, and some other information like hair and eye color in, but left the rest blank. The information would be filled in by the doctor when they arrived at the camp. Captain Wolff sat in for almost all of the new "intakes", and would question the male in English, as the male didn't appear to know too much German. The truck bounced along, arriving at the camp less than an hour later. A silent hour, as the guards never took their eyes off of Des, guns never wavering, no idle chatter permitted over the roar of the engine.

The large iron wrought doors swung open, and the truck pulled into the complex, stopping next to a large stone building. There were no prisoners in sight, although once they stepped inside, some could be seen strapped down to beds, the product of "testing" different things. The pushed Des in, and escorted him to a large empty room. Two guards stood by the door and Wolff gestured to the male. "Strip, everything off." he ordered. The clothes would be searched again, then burned, replaced with the standard prison uniform, gray top and pants, shoes.

The doctor arrived a few moments later, holding the original clipboard and spoke with Wolff quietly, before beginning to exam the male, starting with the head wound.
 
Des was glad for the silence in the truck because it let him retreat to his thoughts. Maybe Goldman and Davidson were better off, he thought. Of course, he had heard the rumors of what the Nazis did to their prisoners. Everyone had. One of the favorites that was passed around was that they would pour gasoline down your throat and hold a match to your lips in order to get you to talk. The unlucky few who didn't know anything still died that way, and their body would be added to a nameless mass grave, thousands of kilometers away from home. If he was threatened with a death like that, Des knew that he would crack. After all, he had barely been trained to resist interrogation techniques. It was required to get training in that field, but when Des had been transferred, they were desperate for good pilots, and had sent him out without any extra training.

And now, it was biting him in the ass.

Feeling his heart drop to the bottom of his stomach when they pulled into the complex, Des's hazel eyes scanned everything, his eyebrows pressed together in worry. This is where I will die, he thought to himself, the idea sending chills racing up his spine. Inside was even worse, and it was all he could do to ignore those strapped to the beds, knowing that if he met eyes with one of them, he would do something brash.

Once in the empty room, he glanced over at the two guards by the door before warily looking at the CO. Sighing softly, he slowly began unzipping his jacket, deciding that he would miss the Corporal stripes on his sleeve, miss the familiar scent of his jacket, everything. Setting it on the ground, the soft noise amplified by the empty room, he untucked the white shirt beneath before taking it off as well, revealing his lithe, strong body. Next came his pants, and it took all of his willpower to take them off. Stopping at his underwear, he frowned at the CO. Asshole probably gets off on this sort of shit, he thought bitterly, before taking off his underwear and standing before him completely naked.

When the doctor arrived, he refused to look at him, focusing his gaze on the ceiling, which was the same color as the rest of the room. Flinching at the doctor's touch, he resisted the urge to shout, the feeling of latex-gloved hands on his body turning his stomach in knots.
 
Captain Wolff didn't even bat an eye as the male hesitantly stripped. He had seen more than his fair share of naked men, and at this point it was strictly business. He stood, arms folded, watching every move Des made as the doctor inspected him. *He is in good shape, we will stitch up his head, use him in some of our experiments. We can use him for tests, he is stronger than most of the prisoners we have brought it, he should last longer than most do. Will you be questioning him or will he be signed over to us?* the doctor asked, opening the closet and handing the prisoner the issued clothes.

*He will be questioned. We will try not to kill him if you want to use him.* Wolff said, uncrossing his arms to scribble his signature on the notepad. The doctor nodded, opening the door to call a nurse in. He pointed to the cot in the room, gesturing for Des to sit. The nurse came in with a needle, thread, gauze. Even though the head wound appeared to have stopped bleeding, they didn't want it to start again. They wanted Des healthy as possible before they began testing him. The nurse washed off the wound, and the doctor began to stitch it up, not caring if the stitches were neat or tiny, just making sure the wound was closed.
 
Des watched the doctor carefully, having heard his fair share of rumors about the doctors in the Nazi Party. Some people said that they were worse than the soldiers ever could be. Listening to the two men when the doctor had finished examining him, he understood about one word in three, though he could still understand the gist of it.

When he was handed the clothes, he slowly pulled them on, as if wary that someone had sprinkled anthrax on them. The clothes were rough and too big, but at least he was clothed again. Still, he longed for the cotton of his uniform shirt and the soft fleece of the inside of his jacket. Hell, even the stiff fabric on his dress uniform was better than this, but Des didn't say so.

Moving to the cot when the doctor had gestured him to, he tried not to shout as the doctor stitched up his wound. Without anesthesia, each time the needle pierced his skin sent shocks of pain through him. The way the stitches felt, Des just knew he was going to have a scar on his forehead. His gaze flicking from the doctor to the captain, he flinched as he felt the needle pierce him again as a sense of dread settled over him.
 
Once the wound was sewed up, Wolff and the guards approached Des again, leading him out of the hospital, and into the "holding" building. It was a stone building, divided into rooms, no windows, the stone thick enough to muffle any cries. The rooms were almost empty, though a few had chairs in them. The walls and floors had dark red or brown stains on them, and drains were built into the middle of the rooms so they could be sprayed down. Wolff had his guards bring Des into the room, tying him to a metal chair. Wolff came back in with a large military bag and placed it on the floor, before approaching the male.

"You know that we will get the information we want. You should cooperate, it will go better for you. You can earn special privileges if you answer willingly. Your full name, your birth date. Simple questions." he said.
 
In the next building they went to, Desmond had trouble suppressing his growing fear. No matter what, he decided, he would keep his mouth shut for as long as possible. No matter what this bastard does to me, he affirmed. However, those red stains on the wall weren't reassuring in the least. Wincing as he felt the ropes tying him to the chair chaffing his skin, he glared defiantly at the Nazis, though he couldn't hold his gaze for long, the bag that captain drawing his attention.

Blinking when he heard Wolff speaking, he felt defiance rising in him. He may not have any training for situations like this, but by God he would hold out as long as he could. "I'll never cooperate with the likes of you," he said, his chin tilting up defiantly. "I won't answer any of your damn questions."
 
"Oh good, I enjoy watching my prisoners break. I guess the doctor will have to deal with you missing a few body parts. Oh well, such is life." Wolff said, nodding at the guards, who walked out, leaving just Wolff and Des. "Your name is Whittaker. You are allowed to give me your name, rank and service number Whittaker. You would not be breaking any laws. Why don't we start with that?" He asked, leaning down and opening the bag.

He pulled out a large metal bowl shaped object, burned black in several places. In this he poured a bit of kerosene, then smiled, sliding it under the metal chair that Des was sitting on. "This is a slow method, I will light this and slowly it will heat up your seat. You answer me, I'll douse the fire. I prefer this way because it allows me to take my time...and I can use other persuasive methods as well." He explained.
 
Desmond would not be giving them anything, he decided as the two guards left. To him, it felt like if he did, he would be just giving himself to them, like they would own him, and he wouldn't have that. He considered lying to the man, but he knew from personal experience that he was a horrible liar, and there was no way he could keep track of all the lies he would have to tell.

Flinching as he saw the kerosene, he tried to force down images of it being poured down his throat. Stifling a shudder as the German explained to him what the bowl of kerosene would do, he bit the insides of his cheeks, his dark eyebrows pressed together. Other persuasive methods might be better, he thought to himself, not liking the idea of the chair beneath him slowly getting hotter.
 
"So quiet. All I want at this point is your rank. I already know it, I saw it on your jacket. Why not just tell me?" He asked, pulling a small razor blade, and fitting it to a a knife carefully. Then he pulled out a small white canister. "I'm sure you have heard the exoression, pouring salt in a wound? Tell me your rank and I won't carve a piece of your arm out." He asked nicely.
 
Des clenched and unclenched his hands slowly, refusing to look at the German officer as he spoke to him. It was a power and control thing, he realized as he stated that he already knew his rank. He just wanted Des to give it to him on his own accord. He didn't really care about scarring on his arms. When--no, if--he got home, he would be able to impress women with his stories from the war. Frowning at himself for even thinking anything like that at a time like this, he focused on the grey prison shoes he had been given, wishing that it was the familiar black of his uniform boots.
 
"You must be thinking, how petty, what is a small cut going to do? Well, it won't be a tiny cut. It will be the swastika, carved into your arms. The upside down triangle if a homosexual carved into your chest. I won't just scar you, I'll make it so you will never be able to disrobe in front of anyone. Rank?" He asked, moving the knife to the male's forearm.
 
Des's face burned with shame. You petty, vain bastard, he told himself. You'll be lucky if you even get out alive. Stop focusing on shit after the war. Hell, there might not even be an 'after the war'. Still, he forced himself to look away, resolved in his decision not to say a word. I won't betray my home like that, he told himself, forcing his gaze away from the knife and setting his jaw. Whatever he does to you, don't say a word.
 
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