"I wish, when people said they trust me,

they meant they trust me to do what it is in my nature to do.

(But, no, they always trust me to be someone I don't even want to be.)"

—a softer world: 1166

"And what rough beast, it's hour come round at last,

slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?"

—The Second Coming: W.B. Yeats

Part One: Pflichttreue

October 2012

Portland, Oregon

Monroe smells him before he sees him. He's walking down the block, minding his own business, planning on stopping by Spill the Beans for a morning fix, when a whiff of stale blood and cold iron invades his nose and makes him cough harshly.

He puts a casual hand over his nose and continues to the coffee house, hoping the smell is just his imagination, but it's too powerful. He can't really think of any Wesen that smells like that, so it's odd. The stale blood is commonplace, especially around the more vicious ones. Hell, Monroe had smelled like that only a few years ago. Iron, though, no wesen smells like iron unless they've spent fifty years in London or Paris. Most Wesen have grown use to iron, especially since most of it's dirty, but pure iron works well enough that the rich, well-off hunters use it.

Hunters.

Oh no.

Grimm.

There is a Grimm in Portland? Oh God, he's going to die. He is so dead. He has to warn Rosalee.

Monroe takes a deep breath. "Calm down," he tells himself, actually speaking out loud. "You don't know if it's a Grimm. It's could be a Hunter or one of those freaky Doctor people. Doesn't have to be the most vicious killing machine that you use to look under your bed for at night. When you were a kid."

He's never going to say out loud that he still does, occasionally, look under his bed for a Grimm even now.

The stench gets strong as he gets closer to Spill the Beans. He coughs again and breathes through his mouth. Damn Blutbad sense of smell. His uncle did try to teach him how to block the strong stuff, man he should've listened.

Monroe is not going to let Rosalee start her day off without a Pumpkin Spice Latte, as horrifying as that sounds. That will be hell. So he puts on his most human looking brave face and enters the building.

And almost runs in the object of his horror and avoidance.

The shorter man jumps back to save his drink and both their shirts. He sighs in relief. "Wow, that was a close one. Sorry about that." He smiles politely at Monroe.

He has a German accent. He has a freaking German accent—soft and not so noticeable, but still there. He's most definitely a Grimm.

There is a freaking Grimm in freaking Portland.

They are all doomed. The War is here now. He thought it would take at least another twenty years for the War to reach the New World, let alone Portland. Guess he thought wrong.

His panic makes him woge every-so-slightly, his eyes turning red and his teeth elongating. That makes him panic even more because he's woging in front of a Grimm.

His hands shoot up on their own accord, subtle enough the rest of the coffee house doesn't notice. "I don't want any trouble, man," he says at the same time he berates him himself; yeah, like he's going to listen to that pathetic plead to spare my life. "I just want to get my tea and latte."

The Grimm hasn't made a move during or after Monroe woged, but now he gives a little grin and a raised eyebrow. "Pumpkin Spice Latte?" He guesses, right on the money, buy that's not the point. "I've heard it's good. I don't want any trouble either. Trust me. Enjoy the drinks." With that, he salutes Monroe with his cup and walks out the door without a backward glance.

Monroe stares after him. Did a Grimm just let a Blutbad go? Forgive him for stating the obvious, but that never happened in any of his childhood stories.

"Hey, Monroe!" The friendly barista calls out, her name is Gabriel and she's worked here a year already. "Just in time. I was worried your drinks were going to get cold. Wednesday Green Tea with honey and a Grande Pumpkin Spice Latte for Miss. Rosalee." She slides the cups over the counter as Monroe pulls out the money. Enjoy."

"Thank you, Gabriel," he says. He picks up the drinks and waves away the receipt. "I have a quick question, though."

"Anything. Though if it's about when the Fall specials go away it's actually in a few weeks, but I'll have the syrups until they expire." She grins and wiggles her eyebrows.

Monroe shakes his head. "That's not the question. That man I almost ran into, what do you know about him?"

She frowns. "Absolutely nothing. This is the first time I've seen him. He was chatting up the veterinarian that stops by before she goes to work. Ordered a large dark roast coffee, took it black. Why?"

"Be careful," Monroe warns. "That guy is a Grimm."

Faint black lines appear on her face, the stripes of a tiger. "Him?" She says, scoffing though Monroe can smell the spike of fear. "Did you see him? He looks like he hasn't sleep in days and decided to get beat up. A breeze could knock him down. Hell, my nephew could knock him down and he's six months old."

"I know what I saw," he says, growling a little. She immediately looks chastised. "Be careful."

"I will, Monroe. Promise." She drops the rag she'd been using to clean something up and called her co-worker. "Saira. I need to call my sister. Can you watch the register for me?"

He smiles at her before walking out to head to the Spice Shop seven doors down, bursting in to find the place empty for everyone except the lovely Rosalee. "I come bearing drinks."

She's behind the counter, organizing a few of her products. "Awesome. I'm in the mood for pumpkin." She takes the drink and sips it, her eyes close in bliss and she does a little happy dance. "Oh. This is so good. It's freezing outside."

Monroe chuckles and kisses her. "Anything interesting happen in, say, the half hour you've been open?" The answer he's expecting is no, nothing interesting, what he got is:

"Nothing wesen interesting, but I did have a human come in looking for something to enhance his performance." There's a mischievous smile forming.

He groans. "I do not want to hear about this."

"I had to hear about it for fifteen minutes," she says. "The guy was practically loitering outside, waiting for me to open." She tugs on his arm to get him to sit down and traps him there by plopping down on his lap. "I had to hear about it then I'm going to torture you with the same."

She takes a breath, about to launch into the story when Monroe says, "There's a Grimm in Portland." Then he clamps his mouth shut, eyes wide. That is not how he wanted to break the news of their imminent doom to her.

"What?" she asks flatly.

He winces. "I ran into him outside the coffee house. He basically confirmed it without actually admitting it."

Rosalee gets up and starts pacing. "This is unbelievable. What are we suppose to do? The War's not suppose to be here for another decade or so."

"That's what I thought! Well, gave it twenty years, but yeah." He sips his drink. "We could tell the Wesen Council."

"Like they can do anything about it," Rosalee says. Which, hey, good point. Grimms are not Wesen, they aren't human either; he still hasn't figured out if they're sub-wesen or para-human. "We might have to actually rely on the Royal this time round."

Monroe rolls his eyes. "That might be a first. I still don't see how we can trust him. We don't even know who the dude is."

She groans and rubs her temples. "This is…this, I came here for a reason, Monroe. We're protected by the Royal no matter how secretive he is and there's no War here, but now." She looks at him almost desperately. "If the New World gets pulled in the War like the Old World I don't think I can stay here."

He gets up and hugs her tightly. She presses her face to his chest. "It's going to be okay," he says, running his fingers through her hair. "I have no freaking clue how, but I know it's going to be okay."

Rosalee huffs a laugh before she pulls away, wiping her face. "I got to get back to work and I'm pretty sure you have a grandfather clock waiting for you at home."

"You're right." He puts his hands on her shoulders and looks her in the eye. "We're going to be okay. Okay?"

She smiles. "Of course."

His phone rings and he lets it go three times before answering the unknown number. "What is it?" It's been awhile since he's had to speak French, none of his contacts have called him recently. He's not sure if he should be worried or relieved nothing big enough has happened.

"There's a Grimm in the New World," a rather nervous voice says. It's not his usual contact, odd. "Fair warning, he's probably not on your side."

Sean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "If he's not on my side, then why is he in the New World? I didn't think Grimms were allowed here for another year or so." Of course, the rule has been broken for certain wars, but they always went back home. Let the fledging country grow and be close to dying before wracking havoc.

"He's gone rogue," is the answer. The unhelpful answer. "Endezeichen. He disappeared from the castle in July and was last seen in Virginia at the beginning of August. It's unknown if he's heading toward Portland considering his apparent dislike for the Royal family and Verrat, but you need to be on high alert."

"His dislike?" The Royal family and company are very dislikeable, but Grimms are known for not disliking those they should rationally dislike.

"He's known as a problem case," is all his contact says. "I don't know how he's a problem case, but he is. I keep hearing Endezeichen."

Ironic considering most of the Grimms the Seven Families keep under their thumb are teetering on the edge of Endezeichen, so if they call this man Endezeichen then he must be really bad compared to them.

"Who is he?"

"I have to go." The other line goes dead and Sean glares at his phone in disgust. Coward.

If his contact is so squirrely then this Grimm must be a huge deal, probably bigger than most Grimms should ever be. The only ones he can think of are the Kessler Grimms, but they're based in Austria and have been for the past twenty years. He highly doubts Kelly and Marie would be willing to leave the Royals' side. They're the most bloodthirsty Grimms on the ledger.

There's a knock at the door and Sean grits his teeth before very calmly telling himself that he's the one that chose Police Captain as his chosen profession when he decided to become Regent. He can't complain now, that's just childish. Even if he does have more important things to do—unless it's a murder or kidnapping, but if its just paperwork he's going to have someone's head.

So he continues writing like he didn't just get off the phone with a less-than-trustworthy confidant and calls, "Come in." He glances up when the door opens and looks back to his report when he sees who it is. "What can I help you with, Sergeant Wu?"

"There's someone here to see you, Captain," he says. "Didn't say who he was, looks mighty rough. Asked me to give you this, though." He hands out a white business card.

Sean raises an eyebrow and takes it. It's blank until he holds it up to the light, the shadow of the Royal Crest filtering through except there's a dove in the center. It's the card of the Resistance; to boldly bring it out now must be very important.

"Send him in," Sean orders. "Thank you, Sergeant." Wu nods and leaves, a few minutes later a man enters.

Sean takes a good look at him, assessing what he can. Probably 5'11, pale, black hair, looks like he hasn't gotten a good night's sleep in ages. He honestly doesn't look like much, but Sean is fully aware of deceptive looks. He, himself, is one of those 'don't judge a book by its cover.'

"Can I help you?"

The man grins. "Captain Renard," he says, he has an accent Sean knows intimately. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Nick Burkhardt."

It's obvious he's a Grimm; Sean doesn't even have to woge to see the signs in his eyes. He blinks in surprise, though; he's never heard of a Nick Burkhardt being a Grimm. Granted he hasn't gone through the Grimm ledger in a good few years, but Nick looks old enough to have been active for quite some time, his name should've been in there even ten years ago when he last had a chance to peek.

"Forgive me, Nick," Sean says, trying to stay as polite as he can. "I don't think I've heard of you before."

"Well, you're certainly nicer than your brother, I'll give you that." He takes the seat in front of his head. "Though I'm pretty sure anyone else in the world is nicer than Eric Renard. And the king. Your father is a right bastard. "

The man looks exhausted, seconds away from collapsing, but he still manages to snark. Fantastic.

"You know my brother well?"

"Well enough," Nick says, voice steel.

"Interesting." Sean puts down his pen and folds his fingers together. "Right now, though, I'm more interested in how you got one of my cards."

Nick slouches in the chair and tucks his chin in the folds of the scarf wrapped around his neck, looking suddenly young. "A family of Beavers in Ohio," he says. "I helped them out, they helped me out."

He has to believe him. "Why are you here? Grimms are more or less forbidden in the New World." For another few years, years unfortunately getting shorter and shorter as time goes by.

"More or less," Nick agrees. "It's not a written rule, of course." He sighs deeply. "I want to join the Resistance, your side of it specifically. You're the only Royal I know who's a bastard for the sake of good and not personal gain."

"That's one way of putting it," Sean says. Oh, this going to be entertaining. "What use will you be for me?"

"Not much," he admits, surprisingly enough. "I may have been with them for twenty years, but they were always wary of me. Apparently my family has a few issues concerning their family tree. They never told me what. But it's obvious.

He's lying. He's a fantastic lair and if Sean had been anyone other than himself he would completely believe Nick. But what is he lying about specifically?

"But I'm not weak," Nick adds. "You have your wesen, your officers, and you connections, but you don't have a Grimm. Even if I am at the bottom of the ladder I'm still useful as an enforcer, maybe an consultant for the cases your detectives can't handle."

Sean presses his lips together. "That's a tempting offer," he says. "But I don't think I can trust a man who doesn't even tell me the truth."

Nick chuckles. "Fair enough. Would my actual name be enough?" At Sean's nod he takes a deep breath. "Burkhardt is my father's name. My name is Nikolaus Kessler."

Ah, that explains so much. He has heard of Nikolaus Kessler. His name has been in the leger for fifteen years; he started young, about thirteen years old. Interesting.

"I might find some use for you after all," Sean says. Nick smirks, raising an eyebrow. "Come back tomorrow, at noon. I'll have some papers you can sign by then."

"Consulting papers?" Nick asks.

Sean's lip twitched in an almost smile. "Perhaps. I'll have to forge a few things, I'll keep Nick Burkhardt on the papers, but it'll work out. I need a legitimate reason why you'll be hanging around the building."

Nick shrugs. "Sounds good to me." He stands a stretches, his spine popping in a way that makes even Sean wince.

"And get some sleep," Sean says. "You look like shit."

He salutes him mockingly, but before he can leave Sergeant Wu pokes his head back into his office.

"Sir, Kylie Lang was reported missing. She never came home from school today and apparently she never went to class. She was staying at a friend's house last night, but she never showed to that either. Media's already swarming the steps."

Sean sighs and stands. "Thank you, Sergeant." He closes the file and puts his pen in his pocket. "Tomorrow, Burkhardt," he reminds the Grimm. "I might have a case for you sooner than I thought."

Nick's eyes light with comprehension and he nods in understanding before ducking out of the room and into the hall. Sean takes a second to smooth out his jacket, straighten his tie, and prepare himself to give a statement about the mayor's teenage daughter who wants to be a lawyer and just happens to be a Pflichttreue.