This memory... this memory did not make him smile.
The final slaughter of the Reich had been wonderful in itself of course, as boys and grandfathers were desperately hurled into the grinder to stave off the inevitable. But it had signaled the end of the war that the Major had loved so much. And the end of more besides.
He knew this part. The crimson arrows, angling towards him. The ultimate temptation and prize that was offered only the chosen, bloody few throughout all of history. The Major knew what would happen. Though he was lying on the ground with his organs riddled with bullets and his life seeping away by the second, any moment now he would find the strength of will raise his arm and slam it down on the ground in front of him with enough force to scatter those arrows into droplets, like a stone thrown into a puddle. He would choose death as a human over immortality, saying 'Begone! My heart, my soul, and my life... all of it are mine and mine alone! From every strand of hair to every drop of blood! I am me! I am ME! I am ME!!!'
But that did not happen.
The arm did not raise. It did not come down. The words did not come. Instead, there was a smile, not the defiant grimace he had worn on that day so many years ago. This was a pleading, pitiable smile, of a dog happy to receive a treat from a master. And like a dog, he found himself sticking out his tongue to lap the blood of friend and foe alike from the scorched cobblestones of Berlin. Inside, he screamed and screamed and screamed, and it meant nothing.
Outside, in the Attic lab, the dials and meters and needles and wires all went crazy.
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The final slaughter of the Reich had been wonderful in itself of course, as boys and grandfathers were desperately hurled into the grinder to stave off the inevitable. But it had signaled the end of the war that the Major had loved so much. And the end of more besides.
He knew this part. The crimson arrows, angling towards him. The ultimate temptation and prize that was offered only the chosen, bloody few throughout all of history. The Major knew what would happen. Though he was lying on the ground with his organs riddled with bullets and his life seeping away by the second, any moment now he would find the strength of will raise his arm and slam it down on the ground in front of him with enough force to scatter those arrows into droplets, like a stone thrown into a puddle. He would choose death as a human over immortality, saying 'Begone! My heart, my soul, and my life... all of it are mine and mine alone! From every strand of hair to every drop of blood! I am me! I am ME! I am ME!!!'
But that did not happen.
The arm did not raise. It did not come down. The words did not come. Instead, there was a smile, not the defiant grimace he had worn on that day so many years ago. This was a pleading, pitiable smile, of a dog happy to receive a treat from a master. And like a dog, he found himself sticking out his tongue to lap the blood of friend and foe alike from the scorched cobblestones of Berlin. Inside, he screamed and screamed and screamed, and it meant nothing.
Outside, in the Attic lab, the dials and meters and needles and wires all went crazy.