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  • Relentless

    Approaching Rising Sun Facility (“Shi No Numa”) , Empire of Japan 

    Agent Peter McCain

    October 18th, 1945


    ‘For every evil act done upon one man by another, there are three acts of good being done elsewhere.’


    Every fiber of Peter’s body ached from the past several weeks of running, hiding, and restless sleeping in whatever hole could keep him warm. After escaping Verrückt, he drove the German army truck as far as he could across the German countryside, before running out of gas and being forced to travel on foot. He avoided platoons of Soviets searching through homes and asserting their authority over the innocent civilians left behind in the wake of the war. Peter reached a small town, and thanks to the charity of a local veterinarian, received a good night’s sleep and some medication to ease the pain in his arm stump.


    Shortly after, he received a faint transmission on his radio from Pernell telling him to rendezvous at the Rising Sun Facility. Tensions must be high in the rest of Germany if Pernell could not have him rendezvous somewhere west of Berlin. Through careful planning and a little luck, Peter took control of an abandoned German cargo plane and headed to Japan. Weeks prior, US Marines had apparently taken control of the facility and begun their own work there. Peter only hoped he was not trading one madhouse for another.


    During his medical training, Peter had once read about a phenomenon in amputees where the missing limb will still feel as if it is attached in the mind of the amputee. It would be a fascinating experience to study after having lost his arm, if it were not such an uncomfortable feeling. It started as an itch that could not be scratched, but now Peter’s brain was tricking him into thinking there was pain in his fingertips that are no longer there. Maybe the doctors will make him one of those new artificial limbs.


    Peter imagined all the people gawking at him at the store back home, covering their childrens’ eyes and scolding him for even existing. Then again, maybe he will get some respect, like, “Don’t fuck with that guy, he lost his arm fighting Nazis!” Mary will probably think it’s neat.


    Peter thought more about his daughter, making sure the plane stayed level as he did so. What was he thinking, joining the OSS? For what, medals? For the sake of protecting American freedom? Is that what this research is for? Mary deserves better. She deserves a father who would never leave her. Peter didn’t need to destroy Group 935; It destroyed itself.


    So many good men lost to acquire the research in Peter’s lap. Research into weapons designed for killing, resurrecting the dead for the sake of killing… But the mission continues.


    ‘No matter the depths man may go to in order to cause harm, there is an inherent love and compassion lodged in his soul.’


    The plane was now approaching the Rising Sun Facility with little fuel left to stay in the air. Peter had not spotted a landing strip, and doubted there would be one for miles with all of the swamp water and trees. He would need to abandon the plane and parachute into the facility. Nothing like leaping from a plane to cap off a nightmare of an operation.


    A few minutes out from the main facility, Peter took a peek at the research. He wished he was not so curious.


    He felt sick to his stomach reading through the abominable experiments committed by Division 9 and Group 935. To test a new weapon prototype designed to freeze targets, prisoners of war had limbs soaked in the freezing solution and broken off while they were still alive, only to die a short time later. Electro-shock therapy experiments on prisoners were designed to break their minds and allow for them to be controlled as sleeper agents. They were also used as targets for biologically mutated humans and animals to tear apart.


    Peter could not bear to read anymore, setting the research aside. This is what became of the men inside that boxcar, back in the Philippines. This barbaric research resulted in nothing of value. Countless lives lost for nothing but the sick enjoyment of these criminals.


    Peter turned and looked out on the foggy, green and brown landscape surrounding the facility. Setting the plane on a collision course with an empty swamp, he stood from the pilot’s seat and ensured the parachute was ready. He headed for the exit door, the research and prototype Ray Gun Mk. 3 in his satchel. He donned his green Marine helmet and looked out over the drop point.


    There were no lights, or really any signs of human activity surrounding the wooden buildings below. The research teams and Marine squads must all be waiting indoors.


    Peter let out a heavy breath, remembering his training. Something held him back, however. Not fear. Guilt.


    Peter glanced at the satchel, with information that he was told could save so many American lives and change the world for the better. He pondered, is this how Doctor Maxis saw his work? Or Doctor Richtofen? They did, indeed, change the world. Their genius was corrupted by the power they held, power given to them because of their genius. A never-ending cycle. But now, Peter was set to pass the torch onto his own people to make the best of this terrible work. Could every man and woman who sees it know the right thing to do with it?


    With time short as the jump window was closing, Peter made a quick decision: He removed the satchel from his person, tossing it and the Ray Gun in his hand towards the cabin of the plane. To Hell with the consequences.


    ‘No matter what you see, and no matter what you do, understand that evil is not a part of the human spirit; It is a disease that must be fought at every turn.’


    Peter jumped from the plane, feet-first, plummeting through the air for what felt like an eternity, before pulling the cord and deploying the parachute. He felt a jolt through his body as the air yanked him back, and his descent slowed. He turned to look at the plane and vital research he had just abandoned, watching as it flew beyond the horizon into nothingness.


    He did his best to hold in his lunch as he looked down over the Rising Sun Facility. He aimed to land near the central building, in some kind of open storage area. He felt an incredible weight lifted from his shoulders, and closed his eyes to think of the peaceful home he would be returning to. He thought of weekends at the park with Mary, pushing her on the swingset. He thought of late night beers with Dempsey, betting on Baseball games. He thought of meeting Isko and Hilario’s family, telling them of what a hero Isko was in his final moments. He thought of writing letters to check up on Marque and Silvie. He thought of finding Wesley’s mother, and telling her he was sorry for what happened to her son.


    A gust of wind ejected Peter from his thoughts, sending him spinning off course from the landing point. He did his best to compensate, unable to make it happen.


    Suddenly, down below, he heard a series of gunshots going off, followed by screams.


    No. Not here. Not now.


    He continued attempting to adjust course, only to be pulled further away. In his attempts to divert his fall, the wind caused his arm to become tangled in the parachute’s cord. He was only several meters away from the ground by this point, and he was on a course to land through a hole in the thatch roof.


    As he tried to become untangled, the wind only made it worse, wrapping the cord around his head.


    His feet came through the gap in the roof, and he could now tell that the gunshots were coming from inside the building. He could see a Marine firing a Thompson at a couple of undead IJA troops, clearly afraid for his life, while several scientists fled down a set of stairs.


    As Peter braced for landing, there was a sharp tug at his neck where the parachute cord had wrapped itself around him.


    Peter began flailing his legs wildly, trying to find a surface to stand on, but being suspended in the air by his neck, only a few feet away from a brother in arms. The parachute itself had become caught in the wooden beams above him, and showed little sign of breaking.


    Peter gasped for air, his face turning purple, and his one arm reaching out towards the Marine to beg for help. He could not call for help, the cord constricting his windpipe.


    The Marine suddenly turned, his eyes wide in shock, before being pounced on by an undead scientist, which bit into his face as he screamed.


    Peter McCain did not struggle for much longer, as he began to lose feeling in his body, and a cold chill ran up his spine. His mind had gone from sheer panic to a cold, brief ecstasy as his life faded. In his last moments, Peter heard a voice talking to him. It was a little girl, not his daughter Mary, but someone else. She was German.


    “It’s going to be okay, Peter, I promise… Your family will remember you as a hero, und so will I… I know you will never give up. Don’t worry: Death is not the end.”

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