Somewhere in Poland
It was a warm summer night. Crickets echoed through the grasslands, their song steady and calm, until a distant sound began to rise. Louder and louder it grew, drowning out the insects as a deep vibration spread through the earth itself.
Then it thundered over the iron rails. A massive armored train, long and heavy, its sheer weight forcing the metal beneath it to creak and groan.
"Your dinner, sir."
Himmler looked up from his notebook, briefly glancing at the attendant standing before him.
"Yes. Put it somewhere," he muttered, already returning to his writing.
The attendant sighed quietly. His eyes lingered on the notebook for a moment longer than intended. The headline was impossible to ignore.
The Final Solution
He raised an eyebrow, then quickly averted his gaze and placed the tray on the table.
Some time later, another man entered Himmler's cabin.
"Sir," the SS man began.
Himmler sighed in irritation.
"What is it?" he asked, not bothering to look up this time.
"The train driver informed me that we can finally increase speed. The upcoming tracks are in better condition."
"Good. Good. I am tired of this long journey," Himmler replied, checking his watch and shaking his head.
"We should reach German territory in about one hour," the SS man added before turning to leave.
The train noticeably increased its speed. The teacup on Himmler's table began to rattle, trembling more with every passing second.
"Shit," he cursed as tea spilled across his papers. He tried to steady the cup, but the boiling liquid continued to slosh and spill.
"Ah," he hissed again, rubbing his hand, now reddened from the heat. A moment later, the cup finally toppled over completely.
Annoyed, Himmler stood up. The entire train was shaking violently now.
Squinting, he staggered through the cabin, gripping furniture and walls until he reached the door to the next wagon.
A small glass window was set into it. Through it, he saw the SS man from earlier sprinting toward him in panic.
Then everything shifted.
Time seemed to slow. Through the window, Himmler watched the wagon ahead twist violently to the side, rotating as metal screamed and tore apart. The carriage burst open, and the SS man was flung away, his scream cut short as he vanished from sight.
A split second later, the chain reaction reached Himmler's wagon.
His eyes widened in pure terror as his own carriage began to rotate. For a brief moment, everything felt weightless. Glass splintered through the air. Papers, books, even his untouched dinner were hurled across the interior.
Then it all stopped.
With a violent crash, the wagon slammed into the ground. The impact sent Himmler flying through the cabin.
Darkness.
Distant sounds slowly reached Himmler's ears. It was impossible to tell how much time had passed, but the noises grew louder, clearer. Voices. Getting closer.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. His vision was ruined. The glasses he had been wearing were gone, shattered, and what remained of his sight was blurred by blood covering his face.
He groaned. The summer sun burned down on him, yet he could not move. Pain. Enormous pain.
Pain that stole his breath and his voice.
His eyes closed again.
They opened.
They closed.
They opened once more, and this time he blinked, just barely. A silhouette stood above him, blocking the sun, casting a shadow over his broken body. There was something in the man's hands, something long, something solid, but Himmler could not identify it. Everything was too blurred.
"He…" he managed to whisper. "Help."
"Goodbye."
The voice reached his ears calmly, almost gently, before everything went dark again.
-------------------
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Goering shouted, hammering his fist onto the fragile wooden table with every word.
"What the hell is this situation? The Führer is dead?" he yelled, more rhetorically than expectantly. He had heard Paul's speech over the radio himself.
Before the man sitting across from him could answer, Goering continued.
"This bastard. There is no way. The Wehrmacht has staged a coup. Yes." He muttered the last words, almost to himself.
"If that is the case, sir, should we not seek asylum with the Allies instead of flying to Berlin?" the official asked, his voice heavy with concern.
Goering nodded slowly, sweat pouring down his forehead.
"Yes. You are right. London. London it is," he said, rising to his feet.
Only minutes later, his luxurious custom aircraft lifted off the ground, a fact that brought Goering immediate relief.
"We will have to negotiate. Yes, negotiate," he repeated over and over, before suddenly standing up again. He hurried through the cabin and reached the cockpit door, tearing it open and startling the pilot.
"How much longer to London?" he shouted, trying to overpower the roar of the engines and propellers.
The pilot lowered his headset.
"We are currently over Belgium. About one hour, sir."
Goering nodded, studying the cockpit for a moment.
"Sir?" a voice came from behind him.
"Sir?"
"SIR!"
The sound finally reached Goering. He turned around, irritated.
"What is it?"
"You should look at this," the official stammered, pointing toward the window.
Goering raised an eyebrow and walked back toward his seat, leaning forward to look outside.
"What…" he began, his voice cracking.
A Messerschmitt fighter silhouette emerged between the clouds.
His eyes widened. He stepped back, then hurried to the opposite side of the cabin and pressed himself against another window. There was another plane, flying parallel.
A bead of sweat rolled down Goering's face.
Suddenly, the aircraft broke away, vanishing from sight somewhere behind them.
"Fuck!" Goering shouted, stumbling backward from the window.
The entire plane shook violently. Goering threw himself to the floor as holes tore open in the rear of the cabin. Bullets ripped through the interior. Fire erupted at both engines. Then the rear section of the plane was torn away entirely under the relentless barrage.
A violent airflow flooded the cabin as the aircraft pitched downward.
Goering grabbed a piece of exposed metal from a seat, straining to lower his head against the pressure.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the official hurled across the cabin, smashing into the wall before being sucked out into open air.
"AHHH!" he screamed, before being catapulted into nothingness.
Goering gasped for breath. Everything around him was collapsing. Alarms screamed from the cockpit. The pilots were dead, torn apart by gunfire. The hull continued to rip open, piece by piece.
Through the open cockpit door, he watched the ground rush toward him. Trees grew larger. Sharper. Faster.
Then.
The two fighters thundered over the crash site as if nothing had happened. They banked away and disappeared into the distance.
Below them lay only a burning, shattered patch of forest. A sea of debris and twisted metal.
Chancellery, Berlin
Knock. Knock.
"Come in," Paul said, lifting his gaze from the documents spread across his desk.
"I have good news," Heydrich said as he stepped into the doorway.
"Regarding our two friends?" Paul asked.
"Indeed. They are no longer under our concern. I have just received confirmation," Heydrich replied, barely hiding his enthusiasm.
"Good work. The Gestapo has not disappointed me," Paul said, rising from his chair. "Follow me. A grand meeting will take place now."
.....
"Thank you all for attending," Paul began, standing at the head of the long table, his gaze sweeping across the room.
"First, I want to state that there is no longer any major opposition to our cause. Heydrich has just informed me that the Gestapo has eliminated Heinrich Himmler and Hermann Goering. This marks the definitive end of the regime as we knew it."
A murmur spread through the room. Some looked shocked. Others merely nodded. A few became visibly thoughtful.
Among the latter were Albert Speer and Martin Bormann. Traitors, if one wished to call them that.
Bormann exchanged a meaningful glance with Speer.
"That's it," he murmured.
Speer nodded slowly.
"It could have been us. Me, at least, if you had not intervened," Speer replied, gratitude visible on his face.
Bormann nodded, his thoughts drifting back to the previous day.
"Speer?" Bormann whispered, lifting his lantern.
Inside the cell sat an old man, pressed against the stone wall, fear etched into his face.
Bormann shook his head and moved on.
"Speer?"
"Yes?" a voice answered, not from the cell before him, but from one further down the corridor.
Bormann hurried toward the sound.
"Speer?" he asked again.
"Yes. Is that you, Bormann?" the voice replied, now clearly coming from the cell in front of him.
"Yes. It's me," Bormann said, raising his lantern and examining the man leaning against the cold stone wall.
"They will kill me. Just like everyone else," Speer whispered, terror evident in his voice.
"They won't. I managed to persuade our new Führer that both of us still have value," Bormann said, pulling a folded document from his breast pocket.
"What is it?" Speer asked, his eyes lighting up as he slowly rose to his feet, chains rattling.
"Amnesty. Signed by Jaeger himself," Bormann replied, holding out the paper in one hand while producing a metal key with the other.
"My God. Thank you, Bormann," Speer said, his voice breaking.
"We survived, Speer. Now we must continue to do so. Which means remaining useful," Bormann said as he unlocked the chains. "My task is to rally what remains of the party structure. They trust me. As for you, you must find a role for yourself, and quickly."
Speer nodded silently.
Bormann blinked, returning to the present, Paul's words echoing in his mind.
"They are dead. It could have been us. After all, accidents happen every day," Bormann whispered, before refocusing on Paul.
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