Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.

Unrecognisable

Chapter 1

Berlin, 1941.

11pm. A man in a military uniform walks down the cold streets. He is Pvt. Arthur Schwarz, a radio/telegraph operator at the military base nearby. He has just completed a 10 hour shift and his eyes have a glazed look about them.

—Lookout idiot! screams the truck driver and he is rudely jolted back to reality. People stare at him from the sidewalk. He avoids their gaze and walks away with head bowed against the cold night air. Taking his wallet out of his pocket, he opens it and sighs. He ducks into a dark alleyway, and suddenly it is a very different place. It is dirty and plenty of unsavoury characters are standing around. A large man stands guard at the entrance of a private club. It isn't a drinking club or a restaurant, but an illegal dogfighting arena. From the outside he can hear the cheering going on. Arthur attempts to edge past the guard, using an exiting patron as his cover when he feels a heavy hand barring his way.

—Where do you think you're going? says the doorman.

—I'm going to place a bet. He says

—Officers only, chump. The man pushes him back forcefully that he crashes into a corporal, who yells at him for knocking his cigar out of his hand. He apologises and quickly leaves.

Having nowhere to go, he goes to his dreary apartment. Before he can turn the key, he is slammed up against the wall, cornered by two men in trench coats wearing hats that obscure their faces.

—Where is our fucking money, Arthur? Did you spend it all on booze or at the track?

He can feel the man's powerful grip on his windpipe, while the other man quickly stops his hand from reaching his sidearm. On his ribs he can feel the edge of a sharp knife cutting deep into the fabric of his uniform.

—Tell Heinrich I won't have it till payday. He'll get it then. The first of the month! I swear it, he gibbers.

—Or we break your legs, understood? The man tightens his grip, he can see Arthur already sweating profusely. His pulse racing beneath the uniform.

—Yes, you'll have it! he replies in a pitch slightly higher than his normal speaking voice. He can feel the knife withdrawn from his side. The grip on his neck loosened and the warm blood trickling underneath his shirt. He falls to the floor.

—Good boy. Says the man and slowly walks away, blending into the darkness. His companion trails behind, pocketing his switchblade. He throws Arthur's luger down the stairwell.

Shaking with fear, Arthur opens his jacket and pulls out a half empty bottle of whisky and greedily finishes it all. He throws the empty bottle, shattering it into pieces.