Chapter XXVII: Tyranny

Schloss Colditz, Colditz, Germany – December 7th, 1941 | 07:40 P.M.

Constantine packed Eva’s belongings swiftly, her movements precise and economical. Within seconds, the suitcase was full, its contents arranged with almost military neatness. She snapped it shut and stepped out of the oddly empty room.

The castle corridors felt hollow. Passing the dining hall—silent and abandoned—she followed Dr. Wagner as he led her toward Eva’s former quarters. Not a single servant, soldier, nun, or lady crossed their path. Only Wagner’s strained attempts at small talk broke the oppressive quiet, his voice a drone she chose to ignore.

At the threshold to Eva’s room, Wagner peeled away down another corridor. “I will be in my laboratory, should you have any questions,” he said. “It’s in the dungeon.”

She let the luggage drop with a heavy thud, testing whether anyone would come running. No footsteps followed—only silence. Her shoulders stiffened.

She moved toward the dungeon, her tread soundless, her presence masked in predatory stillness. Shadows clung to her as she descended the narrow stairwell, her silhouette sliding across the bare stone walls.

The laboratory smelled of rot before she saw its source: the dissected remains of Spawn’s Drones and Raptors, their pieces scattered across tables and the flagstone floor. A metallic clanking reverberated faintly from deeper within. She covered her nose, picking her way over carcasses until she reached a heavy door at the far end.

Chains rattled beyond it—slowly at first, then with a mounting frenzy as she drew near. She gripped the handle. Locked. With one brutal kick, the door splintered inward.

Inside, prison cells lined the walls. Behind the bars, her British troops writhed and snarled—grotesquely deformed. Blisters marred their skin, their fingers grotesquely jointed like beetles’ legs, reaching for her through the iron.

“Lady Constantine, please—save us! It hurts!” they cried, dozens crammed into each cell.

Her eyes widened. “Sergeant Becker… Doyle… Lexington…”

She stepped closer, but a hand shot out from a side cell, grabbing her sleeve. “Don’t!” Juliet’s voice cracked with desperation as German soldiers struggled to restrain her and the few unmutated survivors. “They’re not who they were anymore!”

“Do you have proof?” Constantine’s voice was sharp with outrage.

“There is,” Sister Hildegarde said urgently. “Look—on your left, on the ground.” She pressed a flashlight into Constantine’s hand.

The beam caught something that made her recoil—a German soldier fused grotesquely to a British comrade, their bodies a viscous amalgam, like Siamese twins formed of molten flesh. One reached for her with milky eyes and croaked, “It hurts… it hurts…”

Snapping the light off, Constantine turned and slashed the locks from a row of cells behind her in a single, fluid motion. “What happened here? Who did this?” Her tone was low, lethal.

“Oh, dear Constantine…” The voice slithered from the shadows. “You already know.”

Dr. Wagner stepped forward, the dungeon’s gloom revealing the horror of him—two faces, one human and one alien, fused together, antennae sprouting from the parasite’s side, a translucent film stretched over his right eye.

The freed prisoners recoiled instinctively, pressing themselves against the walls.

“How dare you harm my knights,” Constantine growled, drawing her weapon as she advanced.

“I meant no offence,” Wagner said, almost gleeful. “But I could not resist. The dissection, the discovery… the proof that humanity can be improved. The Übermensch is within reach!” His voice rang off the stone.

“Übermensch? Is that what you’ve been doing with the wounded from the church?” Sister Hildegarde’s voice cut through the tension.

Wagner turned sharply toward her, smiling like a cat. “Their sacrifice will not be in vain. Their bodies have advanced the cause of science.”

“By torturing and killing them—turning them into bloodthirsty things, no longer human!” Juliet’s voice broke into a scream.

“Gratitude would suit you better,” Wagner said coldly. “When your child becomes a worthy soldier of the Aryan Empire.”

Juliet clutched her abdomen in horror; Hildegarde drew her protectively close.

“What have you done to them?” Constantine’s question was deadly calm.

“Nothing to your hag of a nun. But to those with… partners, like sweet Juliet here—well, I do hope the Japanese General never learns what befell him months ago.” Wagner’s smile widened. “You and your monkey army cost me the chance to explore Miss Weiss’s true potential. She is one of my greatest successes—seeds scattered across space and time, I am sure of it! Anything is possible!. But now…” His gaze locked on her. “I have a new specimen. You, my dear Constantine. Join our regime. The British will chain you to their rules, fight their wars for them—cowards. The Aryan Empire will *elevate* you. Lead us to victory. Save Aryan children, not the Jewish parasites who drain this world.”

Constantine was silent for a long moment. Then she laughed.

“Doctor,” she said finally, “I protect the innocent. Only they are worthy of my strength. The British fight their own battles because they understand the cost of defending innocence. You and your regime… are nothing more than sore losers.”

Wagner’s parasitic second face twitched—and then spoke. Its voice was wet, inhuman.

“That is what you think. The war… has already entered its next stage.”

Berlin Gala, Germany – December 7th, 1941 | 07:40 P.M.

The chandeliers of the Reich Chancellery ballroom blazed with molten gold, their light fractured in the polished marble and the gleam of SS insignia. The string quartet fell silent as the master of ceremonies stepped forward, his voice cutting through the low hum of conversation.

“Meine Damen und Herren, your attention, bitte. Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Keitel will address you.”

The crowd — generals in black dress uniforms, party officials, ministers — turned as Keitel strode to the podium, his spine rigid as a drawn blade.

“Tonight,” he began, voice deep and deliberate, “we celebrate not only the triumphs of the past year, but the dawning of a new era for the German Reich. Under the Führer’s leadership, the unclean elements of this Earth will be purged. The Jewish parasite will be no more. The Aryan will rise — eternal, unassailable, rightful ruler of this world… and every world beyond.”

His gaze swept the hall. “Tonight, history turns a page. We are not alone in our destiny. From beyond the veil of stars comes a people — no, a power — whose vision is as pure as ours, whose resolve is as merciless. Comrades, I give you the Spawn of Entropy… the Supreme Commander of the Shriek Collective… Cymothoa!”

He stepped aside.

From behind a velvet curtain emerged a woman in a black SS dress uniform. Gasps rippled through the hall. Something clung to her head — a pale, hand-shaped mass whose ten jointed digits burrowed deep into her skull. Where her eyes should have been, twin lidless orbs jutted forward, glassy and unblinking.

Her lips split apart like a peeling hood, and from within, another face surfaced — set deep in the flesh, moving to form words.

The voice that followed was wet, resonant, inhuman.

“People of the Reich, I bring greetings from the armies of the Mother — She Who Shaped the First Dawn. Across countless worlds, we have waged the Holy Struggle: purging the impure, burning the defiant, binding the survivors in perfect obedience.

We have looked upon your Führer, and we know his heart. His enemies are our enemies. Those who deny his will are the same who deny the Mother’s truth. They are unclean — unfit for existence.

Our path is sacred: we hunt without pity, we strike without hesitation, we make no distinction between soldier and child. The flesh of our foes is an offering for the Mother’s table. Every scream, every drop of blood spilled in her name, is a prayer answered.

With the armies of the Reich and the Spawn united, Britain will kneel. The cities of America will burn. The Allies will be crushed until no trace of their nations, their bloodlines, or their gods remains. Our martyrs will pave the way.

On this night, we declare total war on Britain, the United States, and all who follow them. There will be no peace, no negotiation — only submission to the Reich and to the Mother. Through fire and agony, all will come into the One Body. All will bow… or all will burn. This is our oath.”

Cymothoa smiled — a wrong, predatory curl of the lips — her gaze locking directly on Eva.

With a sudden burst, swarms of nanobots exploded overhead like firecrackers, coalescing into a shimmering, holographic interface.

***

London — A man sat in his study, cradling a cup of tea, when the air-raid sirens wailed. An aide burst in.

“Sir, we must get you to safety! We are under attack!”

The aide pulled him to his feet, tea spilling across the carpet.

“My daughters! What about my daughters?”

“No time — we’ll find them later. You have to move!”

Outside, the sky swarmed with drone-like ships that began bombing the city. Buckingham Palace shook under the impact.

Two girls leapt from a shattered window just as another bomb whistled down.

“How rude! We were enjoying our tea,” shouted the shorter — and, inexplicably, the elder — of the two. “Who’s paying for the repairs?”

“Girls! Shelter, now! Your mother’s waiting!” the man barked.

The next detonation swallowed his words. The British watched in disbelief as the SS fleet — accompanied by unknown alien craft — blotted out the winter sky.

***

Pearl Harbor — U.S. Navy vessels burned as Marines fought to extinguish flames and drag the wounded from twisted steel. Enemy aircraft — even when shot from the sky — turned their final moments into suicide dives, smashing into ships.

Victor coughed as Arisu dragged him through the collapsing dockyard, hauling him centimetre by centimetre. She slapped him hard enough to jolt his senses.

Another blast ripped through the hull. Victor looked up and spotted Commander Herondale at the pier, shouting orders before disappearing into a black staff car. On the opposite side, Dr. Kinclaid — momentarily free of her alien form — entered the vehicle, pausing to glance back at Victor. She smiled, saluted, and vanished inside.

“I need to get back to Germany,” Victor muttered, staggering.

“HELP!” A cry for help drew him toward a cadet clinging to a twisted railing. The metal groaned. Victor edged forward, hand outstretched.

“Grab on!”

The rail gave way. The boy dropped into the burning water.

“No!” Victor hurled himself in after him.

***

Berlin Outskirts — In a secluded manor, Pandora’s violin sang in the lamplight while General Lennox methodically cleaned and loaded his revolvers. He set down his teacup, glanced out the window — and saw a shadow shift among the trees.

He killed the lights. Pandora fell silent; Aristotle moved through the house, plunging each room into darkness.

“Back door, now,” Lennox ordered.

The children bolted — but Aristotle opened the door to find a gas-masked man crouching outside. He lunged. Aristotle screamed; Lennox shot the man clean through the eye. They slammed the door and shoved furniture against it.

SS troops in gas masks closed in.

“Basement. Go!” Lennox commanded.

As the children scrambled below, Lennox lit the gas stove. He followed them down and sealed the basement door.

The SS tore through the manor, searching room by room. They didn’t notice the spreading gas until the detonation came — a blast that flattened the structure. Survivors regrouped outside, joined by a man in a surgeon’s coat. Wordlessly, they moved toward the gunfire echoing from the woods.

***

Colditz — In the dungeon of Schloss Colditz, Constantine wrenched herself and the prisoners out of their cell in a blink of teleportation. The ground ruptured — a centipede-like monstrosity, as thick as an oak trunk, erupted, screaming. Constantine hacked off its limbs before it could seize a soldier.

“Free the villagers! Arm yourselves!” roared Sister Hildegarde.

Dr. Wagner’s piercing screech made glass explode in its frames. Constantine staggered, recovered, and slashed his throat — severing his vocal cords. Wagner’s alien eyes flared in shock, but an unseen spike punched through Constantine’s chest. She collapsed as Wagner smiled.

Berlin Gala — Cymothoa’s hologram dissolved.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she proclaimed, “you have witnessed the fall of Buckingham Palace, the U.S. Navy at Pearl Harbor, the Rebel refuge outside Berlin… and the death of Constantine! The Allies are broken. Heil Hitler! Heil Mother!”

Her gaze snapped to Eva and her companions.

“We have honoured guests among us — spies of the Allies, traitors to the Reich!” She pointed, voice rising to a shriek.

“Get them!”

An army of Spawns materialised in a ripple of distorted air, rifles raised, encircling Eva, Lieutenant and Schrödinger (who was invisible). Before a trigger could be pulled, Schrödinger’s arm elongated grotesquely, sweeping through the formation and hurling soldiers aside like broken mannequins.

Eva summoned her M.J.O.L.N.I.R., its form hardening in her grasp — and then came a voice she could never mistake.

“Your little toy won’t cut us so easily. Haven’t you learned from our last meeting?”

Ascaris emerged from the smoke. The last time she’d seen him, he had been whole; now he was a ruin — flesh warped, scars carved deep by Starling’s hand.

“I knew my sister would keep you alive,” Eva murmured, voice soft as silk. “Would you like to try dying for once?”

The blade in her hand elongated into a katana. Ascaris froze, wrong-footed by the unshaken confidence in her eyes. She saw the battlefield in pulses — ripples on water — and moved before he could answer. In one fluid arc, she cleaved through every Spawn around them, their bodies falling in perfect synchrony.

Cymothoa’s voice drifted through the carnage. “A shame. Such a weak lot.” She called for reinforcements even as Eva and the Lieutenant broke away, Eva take a glimpse and noticing General Kazan clasping hands with Cymothoa and Admiral Yoshida in the gala. Answering her suspicions why he had not escape with them in their skirmish.

The Lieutenant ripped a valet driver from the seat of a convertible. The engine roared as Eva sliced down pursuers in their path. They tore through the streets of Berlin.

“We have to help General Lennox and the others!” Eva shouted, ducking as laser fire carved the air around them.

The Lieutenant pressed harder on the accelerator, weaving between vehicles. Drones descended in formation, engines shrieking. He drew his pistol, firing blind via the rear-view mirror; a round took the finger clean off a Spawn pilot, sending its craft into another in a shower of debris.

On the rooftops, raptor-like creatures scrambled, leaping down toward the car — only to be carved into fragments mid-air by Eva’s blade.

“Eva! We need a diversion. They won’t stop coming!” Schrödinger’s voice was urgent.

The Lieutenant swung into the oncoming lane, hurtling straight into a cordon of SS troops. Horn blaring, he didn’t slow. Bullets tore past, but the soldiers scattered before impact.

Moments later, they were clear of the city centre — but the SS-Waffen gave chase in armoured vehicles. At a junction, the lead squad rounded the corner in time to see a towering fireball bloom. A wrecked convertible burned in the canal below, flames licking across the water.

Troops pulled over, scanning the blaze. No survivors.

They never saw the truth: Eva and the Lieutenant astride Schrödinger, racing across the rooftops toward the manor on Berlin’s outskirts.

***

General Lennox’s revolver barked twice, cutting down the nearest SS-Waffen as they closed in.

„Britischer Abschaum!“ (“British scum!”) shrieked a hysterical man in a bloodstained surgeon’s coat. „Wir sind nicht so dumm, auf den Trick hereinzufallen, den Sie in meinem Herrenhaus versucht haben!“ (“We’re not so foolish as to fall for whatever trick you tried at my manor!”)

„ARISTOTELES! WIR WERDEN DANACH EIN KLEINES PLAUDERN!“ (“ARISTOTLE! WE’LL HAVE A LITTLE CHAT AFTER THIS!”) he screamed, voice cracking.

The surgeon’s tirade ended in a yelp as a bullet grazed his ear. Two more SS-Waffen dropped in unison, each felled by Lennox’s precise shots. Clutching his bleeding ear, the surgeon watched in fury as the British general dragged the children clear of the ambush. Only then did he realise every man he’d brought lay dead.

Lennox and the children ran without pause, lungs burning, eyes scanning for a vehicle. *Their transport must be nearby. How else did they reach the manor?* he thought, grimly aware the children were beginning to falter — though neither slowed.

A searing white beam cut through the darkness, flooding the road ahead. Lennox shielded his eyes — then heard the children cry out. SS-Waffen had seized them.

A rifle cracked; pain exploded in his knee. Lennox crumpled, vision swimming. The surgeon appeared, smug, and approached the struggling captives. He stared at Pandora for a long, unsettling moment — then the sharp crack of a slap echoed in the night.

He grabbed Aristotle by the collar, yanking hard enough to make the boy wince.

„Was habe ich dir über den Umgang mit diesem dreckigen Juden erzählt, den du Freund nennst? Hast du überhaupt eine Ahnung, wie viel Ärger du mir und Vater gemacht hast, du dummer, nutzloser Junge? Mutter soll leben, NICHT du!“

(“What did I tell you about mingling with that filthy Jew you call a friend? Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused me and father, you stupid, useless boy? Mother suppose to live NOT you!”)

„Bruder… bitte hör auf,“ (“Brother...Please stop,”) Aristotle sobbed.

Three shots rang out. The surgeon collapsed where he stood, two SS-Waffen falling beside him. Pandora and Aristotle tore free, rushing to the bleeding general.

Lennox thrust his revolver into Aristotle’s hands. “Go! I can’t move… Hurry, before reinforcements arrive!”

They hesitated.

“I said go! Do you want to be killed?” he roared.

Pandora threw her arms around him, Aristotle following in a final embrace before she pulled her friend into the treeline.

A new voice slid into the silence. “Pathetic,” it mused. “If your species had purged itself of idiotic impulses like hope and love, humanity might have amounted to something.”

Lennox turned his head. The figure before him was not Ascaris, nor Cymothoa. This Spawn burned like a living pyre, hovering above the ground, heat shimmering around him.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Lennox rasped, coughing blood. “We’re not barbaric apes here to grovel to another savage tyrant.”

The figure chuckled. “Forgive my manners. I am the Emperor of the Spawn of Entropy — Gnathostoma.”

“So you admit you’re the one in charge?”

“Of course, General. I relish the front lines — the thrill, the power. And now, I have greater plans for you…”

Gnathostoma seized Lennox’s wounded knee. Pain tore through him as the Spawn emperor hovered his insectoid hand over the wound. The bullet rose free, blood gushing unchecked.

Gnathostoma leaned forward and regurgitated a writhing mass of black sinew — maggot-like strands — pressing them into the wound.

Lennox’s scream split the forest as the thing burrowed deep.

“Thank you for being an alarm clock for our Mother. Your martyrdom will be remembered as the moment she woke.”

“I’ll never betray humanity!” Lennox gasped — but his body spasmed, twisting as something moved beneath the skin.

Gnathostoma smiled, voice dripping with derangement. “You already have.”

Leaves rustled. Schrödinger burst into the clearing, Eva leaping from his back with her M.J.O.L.N.I.R. raised. She swung for Gnathostoma — but the blade halted inches from his body, caught in invisible resistance. She pressed harder, and the Spawn emperor began to chuckle — until the weapon bit deep. The impact hurled him across the woods.

The Lieutenant hauled Lennox onto Schrödinger’s back. Eva vaulted up behind him, and they sped into the night.

She glanced over her shoulder — just in time to see Gnathostoma rise, unscathed, and appear ahead of them in an eyeblink. Schrödinger skidded to a halt.

The Spawn emperor unfurled one burning hand. Space warped — and they were gone, shifted to some unknown place.

Gnathostoma lingered in the empty clearing, smiling as if the night’s work was complete. He looks at you and greeted “You have reach the last page, my dear.”