Norwegian Forward Base — Late Night
The transports touched down long after midnight.
Snow swallowed their landing tracks almost immediately, as if the night itself wanted to erase what had happened near the border. Engines powered down one by one, leaving only the low wind and the distant hum of generators.
No one cheered this time.
They walked back into the base quietly.
Debrief Without Words
The debrief room was dim, lights turned low out of courtesy rather than regulation. Damage reports scrolled across a projector. Red lines. Yellow warnings. Too many close calls.
Simo stood at the front, arms crossed.
"This mission is classified from here on," he said calmly.
"What happened near the Swedish border does not leave this room."
No objections. No questions.
Everyone there understood why.
"The Stasi crossed a line," Simo continued.
"That line won't protect them if they try again."
Arno leaned against the wall, eyes closed for a moment before opening them.
"Next time," he added, "we won't be reacting."
After the Storm
The room emptied slowly.
Jäger-Three limped out with the help of two mechanics, grumbling about actuator replacements. Jäger-Five lingered, watching Siegfried from across the room.
She walked over and held out a ration bar.
"You didn't eat," she said.
Siegfried blinked, then took it.
"Thanks."
She hesitated.
"When she said that name," Five said quietly,
"it rattled you. But you didn't fold."
Siegfried stared at the wrapper, then shook his head.
"I don't want to be what they think I am."
Five met his eyes.
"Then don't be."
She gave him a short, firm nod and left.
Alone, At Last
Later, Siegfried stood in the hangar beside his Balalaika.
Technicians had already begun repairs. The DS-3 armor was scarred, warped where the halberd had struck—but intact.
He rested his hand against the cold metal.
The dream returned in fragments.
The voice.
The battlefield.
White Wolf.
But this time, it didn't command him.
It waited.
"I'm not running," he whispered to the empty hangar.
"But I'm not yours either."
The machine, silent and battered, reflected his words back at him in steel and shadow.
Commander's Vigil
From an upper observation deck, Simo watched the hangar below.
He had fought many wars. Seen many weapons—human and otherwise. He knew the difference between a tool and a person.
"They made a mistake," he murmured to himself.
"They forgot he can choose."
Outside, the snow kept falling.
New Year's Eve was close now.
And while the world prepared to mark another turning of the calendar, something far more important had already changed:
The hunt had failed.
And next time,
the wolves would not be the only ones ready.
Berlin — Werewolf Battalion Base
Hours After the Border Incident
The Berlin sky was a lid of iron.
Runway lights cut through drifting snow as the Werewolf Battalion returned home in perfect formation. MiG-23 Cheburashkas touched down one after another, their engines winding down into a predatory silence that lingered long after the last thruster died.
Inside the command hall, the atmosphere was colder than the night outside.
Mission Review — Without Apologies
Data streamed across the central display: sensor ghosts, engagement vectors, time-stamped failures. Borkwalde Squadron stood at attention along the wall—faces impassive, eyes forward.
Beatrix Brehme remained at the head of the room.
Her expression was controlled. Too controlled.
"Phase Two aborted," an officer reported.
"Primary objective—White Hound—evaded capture. Mercenary reinforcements arrived earlier than projected."
Silence followed.
Brehme said nothing. Her gaze never left the screen.
The Brown Beast Arrives
Heavy boots echoed before anyone turned.
A male voice chimed in from the shadows—amused, rough, unmistakably pleased.
"So," he said,
"the wolf slipped the leash."
The room stiffened.
Heinz Axmann stepped into the light.
Broad-shouldered, predatory in posture, the commander of the Berlin Battalion TSF Guard Force—known even within the Stasi as "The Brown Beast." His reputation preceded him like a smell you couldn't wash off.
Cruel.
Methodical.
Enjoyed lessons best when they hurt.
Axmann's eyes settled on Brehme, lingering a fraction too long.
"I hear you had him," he continued lightly.
"Close enough to taste the metal."
He circled her slowly, hands clasped behind his back.
"And yet," he went on, voice dropping to a purr,
"you let a mercenary child walk away."
A few officers looked down. No one spoke.
Needling the Wound
Axmann stopped beside Brehme, leaning in just enough to invade her space.
"White Hound," he said softly, savoring the name.
"Years of investment. Conditioning. Records erased so clean even we forgot where they ended."
He straightened, chuckling.
"And you lost him to a soup kitchen and a contract commander."
Brehme didn't react.
Not a flinch.
Not a word.
Her silence was not submission—it was containment.
Axmann noticed. His smile thinned.
"No explanation?" he asked.
"No excuse?"
Still nothing.
Unsatisfied
Axmann's amusement faded into something sharper.
"Very well," he said.
"File it as a temporary setback."
He leaned closer, voice low enough that only she could hear.
"But understand this, Beatrix—assets do not get to choose when they are finished with us."
He stepped back and raised his voice again.
"Increase surveillance. If the mercenaries move, I want to know before they breathe."
Axmann turned toward the exit.
"And next time," he added over his shoulder,
"do not hesitate."
The doors closed behind him with a heavy finality.
After He Left
The room remained frozen for several seconds.
Then—
"Dismissed," Brehme said quietly.
The officers filed out.
When she was alone, Beatrix finally allowed herself a single breath.
Unsatisfied—not with the failure.
But with Axmann's interest.
The White Hound had escaped tonight.
But now another predator had noticed him too.
And unlike the wolves,
the Brown Beast did not enjoy waiting.
Norwegian Forward Base — New Year's Night
For once, the war waited.
The Jäger Battalion gathered inside a heated hangar that smelled of fuel, metal… and food. Someone had dragged out battered tables. Someone else had "liberated" crates of beer from storage. Hot stew, thick bread, and whatever passed for sausage on the front line filled plates faster than regulations ever could.
Laughter echoed off steel walls.
Jäger-Three raised a mug with his good arm.
"To another year of not dying!"
Cheers answered him immediately.
Jäger-Five clinked her cup against Siegfried's.
"You're officially cursed now," she said with a grin.
"Survived the Stasi and made it to New Year's."
Siegfried smiled—small, genuine.
"Guess I'm lucky."
Arno stood nearby, drink in hand, watching the battalion like a shepherd counting sheep. Simo didn't drink much—just enough to mark the moment—but he stayed, letting the noise and warmth exist.
For a few hours, there were no wolves.
No hunts.
No names whispered in the dark.
Just soldiers pretending—briefly—that the future might still belong to them.
Two Months Later
Winter deepened.
The front lines held, but the world shifted.
Global News — Early 1982
Siegfried lay on his bunk in the barracks, boots kicked off, jacket folded beside him. A portable terminal hovered above his knees, scrolling through international headlines.
One line made him stop.
UNITED STATES CONGRESS APPROVES 50-YEAR LEASE OF ALASKA TO THE SOVIET UNION
He blinked and read on.
The report detailed the unprecedented agreement—Alaska transferred as a strategic buffer, its residents relocated as preparations began across the Soviet Union to absorb territory and infrastructure. An act of desperation dressed as cooperation.
Another headline followed immediately:
YUKON BASE AND SURROUNDING REGION LEASED TO UNITED NATIONS — 50 YEARS, NO COST
A neutral zone.
A military insurance policy drawn across the US–Soviet border.
Siegfried frowned.
The world's giving up ground everywhere…
Then another article loaded.
JAPAN DEPLOYS TYPE-82 "ZUIKAKU" — NEW 1.5TH-GENERATION TSF
He tapped it open.
Images of the sleek new machine filled the screen. The article spoke of collaboration—Mitsuhishi, Fugaku, Kawazaki—of lessons learned from the Akebono Program, of a nation racing to modernize before it was too late.
Faster.
Stronger.
More prepared.
A Quiet Thought
Siegfried lowered the terminal slightly, staring at the ceiling.
Borders were moving.
Weapons were evolving.
Governments were making fifty-year promises as if tomorrow was guaranteed.
And somewhere out there, the Stasi were still watching.
White Wolf.
White Hound.
Different names. Same shadow.
He powered the terminal down and sat up, rubbing his eyes.
"Guess the world's not slowing down," he murmured.
Outside, snow fell steadily over the Norwegian base.
Inside, Siegfried lay back and closed his eyes—not to sleep, not yet—but to think.
The hunt had paused.
The war had shifted.
And whatever he was becoming,
it would have to survive the next fifty years of a world that no longer knew how to stop running.
Norwegian Forward Base — Later That Night
The terminal's glow faded, leaving only the muted hum of heaters and the distant clang of work in the hangars.
Siegfried lay still, the news settling in layers rather than all at once.
Alaska leased.
Borders frozen on paper, melted in practice.
A new generation of machines rolling off lines half a world away.
Fifty years, he thought. They're planning fifty years ahead…
He turned on his side and stared at the wall. The word Zuikaku lingered—sleek lines, confident engineering. Someone, somewhere, was betting on the future hard enough to build it.
A Knock, Soft but Certain
Tap. Tap.
Siegfried sat up.
"Yeah?"
The door slid open just enough for Jäger-Five to peek in, a folded paper cup in her hand.
"You skipped evening chow," she said. "Figured you'd be brooding."
He managed a small smile.
"Was reading."
She handed him the cup—hot tea this time, not coffee.
"Careful," she said. "Too much news rots your head faster than bad rations."
She leaned against the frame, eyes flicking to the dark terminal.
"World changing again?"
"Feels like it," Siegfried replied. "Like everyone's making moves they can't take back."
Jäger-Five shrugged.
"That's war. Grown-ups pretending they still have choices."
She straightened.
"Get some rest. We'll need you sharp."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, half-joking.
She snorted and closed the door.
Hangar Lights
Unable to sleep, Siegfried pulled on his jacket and walked down to the hangar. The Balalaika stood where it always did, panels open, technicians' tools neatly arranged.
He climbed the ladder and sat at the cockpit's edge, boots dangling.
For a moment, he let the silence breathe.
No orders.
No voices in German calling him by another name.
Just the machine and the cold.
"You think they'll come again?" he asked quietly, not sure who he was talking to.
The Balalaika didn't answer. It never did.
Command Deck — Same Time
Across the base, Simo reviewed reports with Arno. New intel. New deployments. New lines drawn on old maps.
"They're repositioning everywhere," Arno said. "US, Soviets, even Japan's stepping up."
Simo nodded.
"Means the pressure's not easing," he replied. "Means people are preparing for worse."
He paused, then added:
"Keep an eye on the kid."
Arno didn't ask which one.
"Already am."
Quiet Resolve
Back in the hangar, Siegfried slid down from the ladder and rested his hand on the Balalaika's armor.
Whatever the world was becoming—leased territories, neutral zones, new machines—he knew one thing for certain:
He wouldn't be dragged backward.
If the future was being written in steel and snow,
then he would meet it on his own terms—
not as a wolf,
not as a hound,
but as a pilot who chose where he stood.
Outside, the Norwegian night held fast.
And far beyond it, the war prepared its next question.
The Months That Followed
Winter bled into spring, and spring never quite warmed.
The Jäger Battalion continued its work the only way mercenaries could—contract by contract, border by border. They fought delaying actions in Norway's forests, repelled probing BETA attacks along frozen valleys, and held ground that regular forces could no longer afford to staff.
Since the Swedish border incident, the Stasi themselves did not reappear.
No wolves in the night.
No halberds in the dark.
But that did not mean East Germany had looked away.
A Different Kind of Shadow — The 666th
New reports began circulating through military channels—quiet at first, then unavoidable.
A unit operating far to the south.
Fast.
Precise.
Uncompromising.
The 666th TSF Squadron Schwarzesmarken.
Officially, they were a special forces unit of the NVA's Special Composite Air Group Hannibal, stationed at Cottbus Base. Unofficially, they were spoken of in the same tone soldiers reserved for natural disasters.
Their machines were older—mostly MiG-21 Balalaikas, with a single MiG-21PF assigned to their commander, Captain Irisdina Bernhard—but what they lacked in modern hardware, they compensated for in doctrine.
They were Lux and Magnus Lux interdictors.
Laser hunters.
Laserjagd
Their mission was singular and absolute:
Laserjagd — laser hunt.
The logic was brutal, and sound.
Eliminate the Laser-Class BETA, and the swarm lost its greatest advantage. Without laser cover, artillery could operate freely. Bombers could strike. Defensive lines could breathe—if only for hours.
Along the Oder–Neisse line, those hours meant survival.
Fortifications eroded with every assault. Concrete cracked. Kill zones filled with corpses—human and alien alike. The Schwarzesmarken were often deployed at the worst possible moments, racing ahead of collapsing defenses to surgically remove Laser-Class clusters before the line broke entirely.
They did not linger.
They did not reinforce.
They did not rescue.
Reputation Earned in Silence
The 666th's orders were absolute priority.
If an allied unit issued a distress call that would require even a brief deviation from their assigned laser hunt, it was ignored. Not out of malice—out of doctrine.
To the Schwarzesmarken, one missed Laser-Class meant hundreds of dead elsewhere.
This mindset earned them many names among NVA and allied troops:
Grim Reapers
Cold Angels
Black Marks — whispered with equal parts awe and resentment
They did not deny any of them.
Norway — Distant Thunder
At the Norwegian base, Siegfried first heard about them from a passing logistics officer complaining over stale coffee.
"Those Schwarzesmarken?" the man scoffed.
"They'd step over your burning TSF if it meant killing one more Laser."
Siegfried didn't comment.
He had seen that kind of focus before.
Later, he read the reports himself—after-action summaries stripped of emotion, timelines measured in seconds, Laser-Class kill confirmations stamped and archived.
Something about it unsettled him.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Simo's Assessment
Simo read the same intelligence and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.
"They're not Stasi," Arno said.
"Not like Brehme or Axmann."
"No," Simo agreed.
"They're worse in a different way."
Arno glanced at him.
"How so?"
"They don't hunt people," Simo replied.
"They hunt objectives. Anyone who gets in the way is just… terrain."
He paused.
"That kind of unit doesn't care who you were. Only where you stand."
Somewhere Far Away
Along the Oder–Neisse line, Laser-Class BETA died in bursts of fire and steel as the Schwarzesmarken struck and vanished again.
They did not know Siegfried.
They were not looking for him.
But the war was shrinking.
Fronts tightening.
Roles narrowing.
Paths converging.
And as mercenaries fought to hold,
and special forces raced to cut,
the world moved steadily toward a future where choices grew fewer—
and reputations, once earned, followed forever.
The War Grinds On
Spring never quite arrived in Scandinavia—only a thinner kind of winter.
The Jäger Battalion kept moving. Border patrols blurred into emergency contracts; emergency contracts bled into holding actions. They learned the terrain by instinct: which valleys funneled swarms, which ridges hid Destroyers, which forests swallowed signals whole. Pay came on time. Ammunition rarely did.
Since the Swedish border ambush, the Stasi proper did not show their faces again.
No halberds.
No wolves.
But reports from farther south grew louder.
News from the Oder–Neisse Line
Every few weeks, the situation briefs included the same pattern:
Laser-Class concentrations detected.
Defensive fortifications degrading faster than planned.
A unit racing the clock to remove the lasers before the line broke.
Always the same unit.
The Schwarzesmarken.
They struck ahead of collapsing sectors, cut down Laser-Class nodes with terrifying efficiency, and vanished before the dust settled. Artillery would thunder minutes later. Bombers would follow. The swarm would fold—if the timing held.
If it didn't, whole battalions disappeared.
And if a friendly distress call arrived during a laser hunt?
Ignored.
Reputation Reaches the North
The stories reached Norway by way of bitter laughter and clenched teeth.
"They saved our sector," one refugee officer said,
"by letting our flank die."
Another added:
"They didn't even slow down."
Siegfried listened from the edge of the room, silent. The doctrine was brutal—but logical. He recognized the calculus. The part of him that did scared him a little.
Patrol, Dusk
On a routine patrol near a fjord pass, Siegfried flew point in his Balalaika, the sky bruised purple by evening.
No contacts.
No alarms.
Just the low hum of the reactor and the steady rhythm of scanning.
Jäger-Five broke the quiet.
"You ever think about what happens when this ends?" she asked.
Siegfried considered it.
"Not really," he said. "Feels like thinking past tomorrow is… greedy."
She smiled at that. A sad one.
"Yeah."
They continued on, the patrol uneventful—until a distant flash lit the southern horizon, far beyond their area of operations. Too far for sensors to read. Too sharp to be weather.
Artillery.
Someone else's line had nearly broken.
Command Room — Later
Simo watched the same distant glow on satellite feed.
"Schwarzesmarken," Arno said, not needing confirmation.
Simo nodded.
"They're buying hours with minutes," he replied. "And charging everyone else for the change."
Arno hesitated.
"If we ever cross paths with them—"
"—we stay out of their way," Simo finished. "And we don't expect help."
He paused, then added quietly:
"And we make damn sure none of ours becomes an 'acceptable loss'."
A Name Without a Face
That night, Siegfried lay awake again, the distant thunder still echoing in his thoughts.
The Stasi had hunted him for who he was.
The Schwarzesmarken hunted for what they needed.
Different predators. Same war.
He turned onto his side and stared at the wall.
If the frontlines kept shrinking, paths would cross eventually—mercenary pragmatism meeting laserjagd absolutism.
And when that happened, there would be no room for hesitation.
Outside, the Norwegian wind howled across the snowfields.
Somewhere far to the south, Laser-Class BETA burned.
And between those two facts lay the thin, fragile line that men like Siegfried were paid to hold—
until history decided otherwise.
Mid-May, 1982
Eastern Front — Oder–Neisse Line
Spring finally reached the eastern front—
and immediately drowned in fire.
The Jäger Battalion, operating under a renewed contract, fought shoulder-to-shoulder once again with Huckebein, holding a battered sector along the Oder–Neisse line. The ground here was different from Scandinavia: flatter, scarred by old fortifications, trenches filled with mud instead of snow.
BETA pressure was relentless.
Tank-Class rolled in waves.
Destroyers smashed defensive berms apart.
Warrior-Class flooded every gap.
But above all—
Laser-Class signatures were active.
"Laser emitters confirmed, multiple nodes," Huckebein command reported.
"Airspace denial escalating."
Simo's voice cut through the channel.
"Jäger elements, adjust vectors. We herd them—don't commit until the lasers are gone."
They had done this dance before.
Then something changed.
Fast Movers
Siegfried's sensors picked it up first.
"High-speed contacts—south-east," he reported.
"IFF… East German."
The formations didn't slow. They didn't acknowledge Huckebein's calls. They didn't even change altitude.
They dived.
Slim silhouettes punched through cloud cover, old but aggressive frames cutting straight toward the Laser-Class cluster with frightening intent.
MiG-21s.
One slightly different profile leading the charge.
"That's them," Jäger-Five muttered.
"Schwarzesmarken."
The 666th TSF Squadron Schwarzesmarken had arrived.
Laserjagd in Motion
The Schwarzesmarken didn't form up.
They didn't wait.
They split—Lux and Magnus Lux elements peeling off in practiced symmetry, assault cannons and support weapons firing only when angles were perfect.
Laser-Class BETA began to fall—one emitter severed, then another, precision strikes timed to seconds.
"They're not even looking at the rest of the swarm," Huckebein's Circe Steinhoff said sharply.
"They're ignoring everything but the lasers!"
Simo watched the feed in silence.
"That's laserjagd," he said. "Textbook."
A Laser-Class tried to retarget—
and vanished under converging fire from three MiG-21s.
Collision of Doctrines
Jäger units found themselves suddenly exposed.
With Laser-Class suppression underway, artillery support should have followed—but the timing was off. The Schwarzesmarken had pushed faster than the combined command structure could react.
A Tank-Class surged toward Jäger-Three's position.
"We're taking pressure here!" Jäger-Three called.
"Requesting immediate support!"
The Schwarzesmarken did not answer.
They were already moving on to the next laser node.
Siegfried felt a cold knot in his chest.
They're really not coming back…
Jäger-Five swore.
"They heard us. They just don't care."
Siegfried Watches Them Fight
Despite the chaos, Siegfried couldn't look away.
The Schwarzesmarken's movements were ruthless but immaculate. No wasted thrust. No panic. No deviation.
It reminded him—uncomfortably—of the Stasi tactics that once hunted him.
But this was different.
These pilots weren't predators.
They were executioners.
"Seven," Arno warned over comms,
"don't fixate."
"Roger," Siegfried replied—too quickly.
Turning the Tide
With Laser-Class BETA neutralized, the battlefield shifted instantly.
Artillery thundered.
Bombers broke through.
The swarm collapsed in on itself.
Only then—only after confirmation—did the Schwarzesmarken peel away, already disengaging, mission complete.
No acknowledgments.
No coordination.
No thanks.
Just contrails fading into smoke.
First Contact, No Words
As the dust settled, Huckebein's Joachim Balck let out a sharp breath.
"So those are the Black Marks," he said grimly.
"Efficient bastards."
Simo said nothing at first.
Then quietly—
"Now you understand why nobody likes fighting near them."
Siegfried stared at the empty sky where the MiG-21s had vanished.
This was his first encounter with the Schwarzesmarken.
They had saved the sector.
They had endangered his battalion.
And they hadn't even acknowledged they were there.
For the first time since the Stasi ambush, Siegfried realized something unsettling:
If the wolves hunted him,
the Black Marks would never even notice—
unless he stood between them and their target.
And on the Eastern Front,
that happened far more often than anyone liked to admit.
Eastern Front — After the Laserjagd
The battlefield finally fell quiet.
With the Laser-Class BETA eradicated, artillery thunder rolled to a distant echo and the airspace cleared. Jäger Battalion and Huckebein units powered down in a rough semicircle near the battered fortifications, TSFs venting heat as mechanics moved in cautiously.
No one relaxed.
They were waiting.
Minutes later, contrails cut across the sky again—not in retreat this time, but in a controlled return.
The Schwarzesmarken had come back.
The Black Marks Arrive
The MiG-21s descended with machine-perfect spacing and landed in sequence, dust and debris swirling around their feet. Engines cut. Canopies opened.
One by one, the pilots dismounted.
At the front stepped Irisdina Bernhard — Schwarz-1.
Calm. Composed. Her presence alone quieted the murmurs around the field.
Behind her followed the rest of the squadron:
Walther Krüger — Schwarz-3, staff officer, the only man among them, eyes sharp and calculating.
Gretel Jeckeln — Schwarz-4, political commissar, posture rigid, gaze assessing everyone at once.
Pham Thi Lan — Schwarz-2, second-in-command, silent and alert.
Sylwia Krzasińska — Schwarz-5, eyes constantly moving.
Anett Hosenfeld — Schwarz-6, expression unreadable.
Inghild Bronikowski — Schwarz-7, standing slightly apart, hands folded behind her back.
Around them, Jäger and Huckebein pilots exchanged looks.
"That's… not what I expected," someone muttered quietly.
Most had assumed a hardline East German special unit would be all men.
They were wrong.
Siegfried, Unaware
Siegfried sat on a crate near his Balalaika, helmet off, quietly eating a ration pack. Mud streaked his sleeves, his hair damp with sweat. He looked—unremarkable.
Just another mercenary pilot catching his breath.
Sylwia Krzasińska stopped walking.
Her eyes fixed on him.
She leaned slightly toward Irisdina, voice barely above a whisper—German, precise.
„Das ist er… der Weiße Hund."
"That's him… the White Hound."
Irisdina didn't react immediately.
Her gaze followed Sylwia's, settling on Siegfried. She studied him the way one examined a schematic—without judgment, without emotion.
"Bist du sicher?" she asked quietly.
"Are you sure?"
Sylwia nodded once.
No hesitation.
"Ja."
A Line Drawn in Silence
Irisdina said nothing more.
She did not approach.
She did not speak his name.
She did not acknowledge the mercenaries watching every move.
But something in her posture shifted—subtle, unmistakable.
Across the field, Simo noticed it.
He followed the Schwarzesmarken's line of sight… and found Siegfried.
Simo's jaw tightened.
So, he thought. Now you see him too.
Siegfried, still unaware, finished his ration and stood, stretching his shoulders as if preparing for the next order.
He felt it then.
That familiar pressure.
Not the predatory focus of the Stasi wolves.
Not the cold executioner's gaze of the Black Marks during battle.
This was something else.
Assessment.
Interest.
Unspoken Understanding
The Schwarzesmarken regrouped without ceremony, their presence heavy despite their silence. Huckebein officers exchanged formal acknowledgments. Jäger pilots kept their distance.
No accusations.
No confrontation.
No questions.
Yet everyone sensed it.
This was not the end of an encounter.
It was the beginning of recognition.
And for Siegfried—
still unaware of the words spoken behind him—
the Eastern Front had just become far more dangerous than any BETA swarm.
Eastern Front — The Air Between Words
For several long seconds, no one moved.
The Schwarzesmarken stood in a neat line beside their MiG-21s, posture immaculate, expressions unreadable. Jäger and Huckebein pilots lingered by their machines, pretending to check systems while stealing glances.
It felt less like a debrief…
and more like an inspection.
Irisdina Bernhard finally stepped forward, boots crunching on broken concrete. Her eyes never left Siegfried—even as she addressed the field at large.
"Laserjagd complete," she said evenly.
"Sector stabilized."
A statement, not a report.
Joachim Balck of Huckebein inclined his head.
"Your timing prevented a collapse," he said. "We acknowledge the assistance."
No smile. No thanks returned.
Pham Thi Lan's gaze swept the area, already calculating egress routes. Gretel Jeckeln watched the mercenaries with open, political suspicion. Walther Krüger murmured something under his breath, eyes flicking between Simo and Siegfried.
Simo felt it clearly now.
They weren't here by chance.
A Whisper, a Shift
Sylwia Krzasińska's eyes stayed locked on Siegfried as he finished stowing his ration wrapper. He caught the look at last and frowned slightly—confused, not intimidated.
Do I know her? he wondered.
Inghild Bronikowski noticed the moment of eye contact and leaned subtly toward Anett Hosenfeld.
"He doesn't recognize us," she murmured.
Anett nodded once.
"That may be the point."
Simo Intervenes
Simo stepped forward before the silence could sharpen further.
"If your mission's complete," he said calmly, "we'll begin our own withdrawal."
It wasn't a request.
Irisdina met his gaze at last.
"Proceed," she replied. "We will not impede."
A pause—then, softer, but unmistakably deliberate:
"For now."
Simo didn't blink.
Passing Shadows
The Schwarzesmarken remounted with the same precision they disembarked. Engines spun up. Canopies closed.
As Irisdina climbed into her MiG-21PF, her eyes flicked once more to Siegfried.
Not hunger.
Not threat.
Curiosity.
The jets lifted and turned south, vanishing into the haze beyond the Oder–Neisse line.
Only after the sound faded did the field breathe again.
After They're Gone
Jäger-Five walked up beside Siegfried.
"You get the feeling we were just… catalogued?" she asked dryly.
Siegfried nodded slowly.
"Yeah."
Arno joined them, arms folded.
"That's the Schwarzesmarken," he said. "If they notice you, it's because you matter to their mission."
Siegfried swallowed.
"I didn't do anything."
Simo looked at him—long, measuring.
"That's not always what matters," he said.
A Line Crossed, Quietly
As the Jäger Battalion prepared to move, Siegfried glanced south one last time.
He didn't know the words that had been whispered.
He didn't know the name they'd used.
But he knew this much with certainty:
The Stasi wolves had hunted him for what he was.
The Black Marks had noticed him for what he could become.
And in a war where seconds decided entire fronts,
being noticed at all was often the most dangerous thing of all.
Eastern Front — Dusk, After Withdrawal Orders
The light faded fast along the Oder–Neisse line.
Jäger and Huckebein units began pulling back in good order, TSFs moving in staggered columns while engineers rushed to patch the fortifications that had survived the day. The ground was quiet now—but it was the kind of quiet earned, not given.
Siegfried walked beside his Balalaika as it was towed to a temporary hardstand, helmet tucked under his arm. He could still feel the afterimage of those eyes on him—measuring, weighing—then gone.
"You okay?" Jäger-Five asked, keeping her voice low.
"Yeah," he said after a moment. "Just… feels like something changed."
She snorted softly.
"Welcome to the Eastern Front."
Arno passed by, clapping Jäger-Three on the shoulder and exchanging a few words with Huckebein's officers. He caught Siegfried's glance and gave a brief nod—I see it too—then kept moving.
Simo watched it all from the edge of the field, posture relaxed, mind anything but. He'd seen that look before—not from predators, but from planners.
They're filing him away, he thought. Not to take. Not yet. To remember.
Southbound — Somewhere Beyond the Line
Far to the south, the Schwarzesmarken climbed through thinning cloud. Inside the lead MiG-21PF, Irisdina Bernhard listened to the steady hum of the engine and the quieter rhythm of her own thoughts.
Sylwia's whisper replayed, precise and certain.
That's him. The White Hound.
Irisdina had not corrected her. She hadn't confirmed it either.
Because certainty was dangerous.
"Schwarz-1," Walther Krüger's voice came over the squadron channel, neutral as ever. "Do you want a notation added to the after-action report?"
A pause.
"No," Irisdina replied. "Not yet."
Pham Thi Lan glanced over from her cockpit, reading the silence.
"If he interferes with laserjagd—"
"—then he becomes terrain," Irisdina finished calmly. "Until then, he is data."
No one argued.
Night Falls, Lines Hold
Back on the line, Jäger Battalion finished its withdrawal. Camp lights flickered on. Radios crackled with routine updates. Someone started heating rations again.
Siegfried sat on a crate, boots muddy, hands steady, mind racing slower than it had in months.
He didn't know their name for him.
He didn't know their doctrine.
But he understood the feeling now.
Being seen—not as prey, not as property—but as potential.
Simo approached and stopped beside him.
"You did your job today," he said simply.
"They didn't help us," Siegfried replied.
Simo nodded.
"They helped the line," he said. "Different thing."
A beat.
"If we run into them again," Simo added, "you stick to orders. You don't try to impress. You don't try to prove anything."
Siegfried met his eyes.
"I won't."
Simo believed him—and still worried.
Between Fronts
As darkness settled over the Oder–Neisse, artillery thundered somewhere far away, another sector buying another night.
Mercenaries dug in to hold.
Executioners raced to cut.
And between them stood a young pilot who had survived being hunted, avoided being claimed, and now carried the quiet weight of being noticed.
The war moved on.
So did the lines.
And somewhere ahead—inevitable as dawn—
those paths would cross again.
Eastern Front — Night Watch
The camp settled into a thin, uneasy rhythm.
Generators hummed. Floodlights washed TSFs in stark white as mechanics worked with numb fingers. Somewhere a kettle whistled; somewhere else, a radio hissed with half-caught signals. The line held—for now.
Siegfried took first watch.
He stood near his Balalaika, helmet clipped to his belt, eyes scanning the dark where forest met field. No alarms. No contacts. Just the sense that the night was listening back.
Behind him, Jäger-Five finished taping a temporary patch over a scored panel.
"You're staring a hole into the dark," she said quietly.
"Feels like it's staring back," Siegfried replied.
She didn't laugh this time. Just nodded.
Command Tent — Low Voices
Inside the command tent, Simo and Arno spoke over a folded map, their voices low.
"Schwarzesmarken don't linger," Arno said. "If they came back, it wasn't coincidence."
"No," Simo agreed. "It was confirmation."
Arno glanced toward the watch line where Siegfried stood.
"What do you want to do?"
Simo folded the map carefully.
"We keep him boring," he said. "Routine patrols. Clean missions. No theatrics."
"And if they decide he's not boring?"
Simo didn't answer right away.
"Then we make sure he's not alone."
Southbound Echoes
Far to the south, the Schwarzesmarken's after-action report finalized without a single mention of mercenary interference beyond a sterile footnote. No names. No annotations.
But in Irisdina Bernhard's personal log—private, unwritten—one image remained: a young pilot eating a ration beside a scarred MiG-21, unaware of the weight assigned to him.
Data, she had called him.
Data could wait.
A Small Choice
Back at the watch line, Siegfried shifted his stance and exhaled slowly. The night didn't answer. He felt steadier than he had in months—not fearless, not certain—just present.
He thought of New Year's laughter in Norway.
Of the halberd crashing against his armor.
Of MiG-21s streaking south to hunt lasers.
He tightened his gloves.
Whatever name they gave him, whatever box they tried to fit him into, he knew this much:
Tomorrow, he would wake up, mount his machine, and fly with the people who had his back.
That choice—small, stubborn, human—was his.
The watch ticked on.
The generators hummed.
And along the Oder–Neisse line, the war waited for morning.