Fox J. Wilde

Let East Germany be free!

From this Imperialist tyranny!

That’s the way it’s gotta be

If it was up to me

America can’t you see?

It’s political slavery!

East Germany must be free!

To be its own sovereign country!

—“Capitalism Down”, The Dead Weights, 1981

Acknowledgments

To the real Lena: I will never be able to use your real name, as you were every inch the quiet professional. You were as much an example to women as you were a leader of men. I’m honored to have been one of your secrets, and you will forever remain one of mine. You will always be loved, and never forgotten.

To my Editor Liz: Thank you for convincing the world that I’m a decent writer. I’ve officially replaced the semicolon with the em-dash for ‘punctuation mark that Fox misuses the most.’

To the Six Underground: never perform an extraction in your bathroom with gasoline and an ice bath after ‘Nair’-ing your ‘down there’-hairs. The feds are still confused by that one. Thanks for the birthday present, but you are never getting your ten dollars.

Amanda, Eric, and Elizabeth S. Cullen: you are better beta-readers than I deserve. Eric, you are right: my German is terrible.

Talanton: Thank you for finally naming the book.

Pawn to D4

Lebensmüdigkeit!

Lena Schindler screamed at everyone. The crowd gathered inside the tiny church was small; perhaps only twenty men and women in total, if you didn’t count the few greasy and leather-clad couples making out in the confession booths near the back of the room. Yet while the crowd was small, the godly little auditorium they prepared to unleash ungodly hell upon was practically bursting at the seams with the steam of bodies preparing for war.

The tattoo-covered confluence stood aghast as the young woman, battle-clad in graffiti outlandish and greasy hair, catapulted her minute frame headlong into the crowd. She didn’t need to push her way through. The motley bunch that stood in wary attendance had seen this before, and quickly stepped out of the way. When Lena got like this, her fists flew; and she was well known for her flailing uppercuts among many other things.

“Das ist mein fickin lied!” she howled and right on cue the band began to tear the crowd apart note by note.

Instantly, as if a military claymore had been set off sending steel, shrapnel, and dastardly-otherwise careening through an unsuspecting crowd of innocent onlookers, the small auditorium became a seething mass of mangling humans dead set on mutilating one another. They pushed and shoved against each other as Lena, a one-woman wrecking ball, jumped right into the middle of the carnage. She gave no quarter; she didn’t need to. They all knew the rules. She was the dominant alpha in this relationship, and by the end of this song, everyone who didn’t know it already most certainly would.

Riff by riff, beat by beat, and shriek after bloody shriek the music took its pound of flesh while the musical equivalent of a bazooka exploded its way into the chests of the attendees, filling them with the lifeblood of chaos and carnage. It was latent lifeblood perhaps, but it was now exactly where it should be; mixing dangerously with adrenaline and booze, pumping furiously in a sadistic serial of serrated hearts. Lena called, they answered. She assailed them, intentionally insulting their capabilities with a vulgar display of power. Like the miscreants they were, they seemed quite keenly bent on reciprocating. Thus, clothes went the way of the buffalo as sweat, bruises, and worse formed in equal measure.

What had begun in the burgeoning tumult as a tentative shuffle became a roiling pit of disaster as the beat drove faster, faster, and (if you could believe it) even faster. Accuracy was hardly the goal. This was neither a precision strike nor an assault with a particularly well-thought-out plan of action. This was a show of force; a retaliation. Its only intent was to send a message violently conveying pure disillusionment while aptly describing the consequences of what happens when the immovable object of ‘The State of Things’ collides against the unstoppable force of youth and puberty.

As individuals they were weak; mere refuse in a world that spun faster than their heads struggling to wrap around it all. But together they were the reckoning and resistance, the bullet and the powder, the hard-cocked middle finger to the system and the coup d’etat to all that was sacred. Behold, one and all, the discarded ideology of the stale and staunch overlords at the feet of human pressure-cookers who were just fed-the-hell up.

Dogma, fervor and hubris. Maybe it didn’t have religious significance… eh, fuck it.

The drummer blast-beat his utterly damnedest while no less than three guitarists pounded on their instruments as if they were attempting to bail a sinking life-raft. They had no bassist—the venue had forbidden it after their last show when a rafter collapsed. Perhaps it was best the church never found out how many attendees were hanging from it during the last song of that night.

Undaunted, the (now former) bassist was casually tossed a spare guitar and was fully content to beat on this poor block of wood and copper-windings to songs he barely knew and couldn’t be bothered to learn. That would have been missing the point. The art of social retribution was one of exhibitionism, and revenge was a dish best served cold. Just as a tree falls in the woods, both only existed if they were on display with as many witnesses as possible—and these punks had a lot riding on the exhibition they desperately craved.

“Wie lange muss dieser Kampf weitergehen?!” Lena howled, and the crowd responded in kind. They all knew the words by heart; even the few stragglers seeing the band Lebensmüde for the first time, resonated with their meaning. This was an anthem of discontent with lyrics that connected with the oppressed and uninspired alike. Lena knew this, so she howled it again, beckoning all to join in.

“Wie lange? Wie lange muss dieser Kampf weitergehen?!”

Amplifiers were cranked far past what their components could dish out. Drum-heads threatened to cave in. Strings were pushed ever-closer to snapping and speakers clipped heavily. Even the throats of the crowd were rent raw with passion as they struggled to be heard over the dissonant cacophony. Lena herself remained completely undaunted, however, beckoning with a raspy voice characteristically unaffected. She vowed to change that. If her vocal chords weren’t torn to shreds by the end of the show, then the show would continue until they were. She would outlast the power in the building if she had to.

Time had become a malleable thing for her to control. Murderously, she spun the crowd around the room the same way she twisted the microphone cable around her neck, attempting to choke herself as she screamed. The band only played louder and faster as if to call her bluff. They knew the rules; if she actually died it would be a good death. And if she lived… better luck next time.

Seconds later, as if by divine intervention, the first song ended. Lena, clad in graffiti outlandish and hair soaked through with the sweat of no less than ten people, stretched her arms out to receive the tribute of her public. Fists churned, chests beat, feet stomped, and voices raised to show their approval of the massacre. Out there on the streets she was nothing special. But in here she was a gladiator; a prized cage-fighter and victorious champion of the underground. Anyone who said otherwise, well, they were welcome to challenge her for dominance. This was her stage, her Colosseum, and in here, she was a God.

Just a year ago you would have never recognized Lena Schindler. As a gangly, awkward teenager in the throes of acne-apocalypse and hormone waterboarding, she had carved out her place in the world by taking up as little space as possible. She would sit in school, arms pulled inwards and legs close together, fearful of any adverse attention from her schoolmates or teachers. When called upon to answer even simple arithmetic questions, her responses would become a strange toss-up between a stutter or a squeak. Either was met with laughter and the warm spread of embarrassment across her cheeks.

That is, until she discovered the punk rock scene emerging out of Leipzig. That’s when everything changed. She still weighed barely anything. But now she dressed like a thumbtack ruffian, acted like a vagabond wretch, and smelled like the devil’s arse. Also, she was notoriously loud. Maybe at school or in public, she would still stutter or squeak, and well that she should: once she assumed the trimmings and trappings of “Schoolgirl Lena”, she was once again relegated to her not-very-special self—arms and legs pulled inward, and mouth closed for good measure.

But now she had found her alter-ego and she had found a community and her calling to go along with it. Finally, there was an art that spoke up as a rule and sat down never. It was a scene that pushed, shoved, and wildly proclaimed the emotions she had long since felt, since before she even knew she was feeling them. In this shit of a country she was an outsider. But in Punk Rock she was home anywhere it was playing.

Her guitarist snapped a string. He launched into the next song anyway.

____

Half the crowd looked to be on the verge of collapse. As the final song reached its conclusion, the only one truly left standing in all aspects of the colloquialism was Lena. She stood as a general would at the end of a great battle, towering over the dead and bleeding. She howled into the growing silence, assuring herself of her solitude. Only then did she allow herself to pass out. This is how these affairs always ended, with Lena slipping into unconsciousness from screaming and the recovering crowd lifting her back onstage. It was how these things were supposed to go, after all.

The last thing she smelled before the grey stole her senses was blood and booze. Perhaps ten seconds or five minutes later (it was hard to keep track of these things), as Lena finally came to, the familiar scent of her fans hovering protectively over her informed her that she was safe—perhaps the safest she would ever be, crushed between battered and bleeding bodies that were still ready for a fight if they got the chance. These types were fully prepared to throw down for her music; they’d most certainly throw down for her life. She cherished the moment as sweat and worse dripped off of their faces onto hers.

“Hell yeah!” one called to her.

“Yeah!” another yelled with some additional choice language that needn’t be shared.

As the voices mounted in tandem, Lena knew she had once again done her job for the night; but she had a headache. This was normal for her at the ending of every show. It was the price she happily paid for the reward of a kick-ass performance. With the spectacle now over, the crowd was either leaving or ambling about while congratulating each other on a fine ruckus well-wrought. Now was the time for Lena to sneak outside for a breath, hopefully avoiding any conversation. Like many singers (or most, as she assumed), she was notoriously introverted. With the heart of an artist, the mind of a malcontent and the passions of a provocateur, she was still an introvert first and wasn’t much for conversation at the best of times—and in times like these she needed the peace and solace that only a cigarette could provide.

The church was small. It had been built for a congregation of the older and particularly devout, with glass windows that were equally stained with dust and grime as they were glaze. Splintering wooden pews and lovingly crooked chairs had been shuffled about to rest safely against the walls with far more care than she would expect of her raucous fans. Borrowed carpets and tarps had replaced the far nicer, far holier original carpeting so that the coagulated mess of human goo wouldn’t tarnish Jesus’ house—and more importantly, the chances of them playing here again in a few weeks.

As Lena skulked against the wall hugging the shadows, she was pleasantly surprised to see soiled teenagers carefully restoring everything back to its original setting. Even her band-mates, tired and sore with bleeding thumbs and torn callouses, were taking breaks from stiff and illicit drinks to help push the massive altar back into place. “Good,” she mused. If she timed her smoke just right, then most of it would be done by the time she returned. It was a slightly underhanded consideration, but everyone understood.

“Great show, Lena!”

The voice was hoarse and familiar, yet still Lena winced. Adoration from her public was to be expected, but she was tired now. It had been a long, brutal show and Lena wanted nothing more than to step out of the stinky, sweaty church and into the cold night air for her coveted smoke. Despite this, she turned to acknowledge him, recognizing who he was and… well, damn it.

Hans Schmidt. Hans was a giant of a boy. All seventeen years of his life had been one protracted growth spurt and he hadn’t missed a single meal during the period. He was a talented sportsman, to be sure, and looked every inch the part. Long black hair covered a pair of smoldering black eyes that were set beautifully large in his chiseled face. He had a large nose, but it was a good nose. He had a large chin, but it had a dimple in it that Lena found comforting.

Hans was a relatively new fan of Lena’s band. He had always been friendly with Lena on the occasional meeting at school or otherwise—more so than most people her age who seemed to prefer avoiding her. Hans, however, got along with everyone; it was one of his many great qualities. Still, they hadn’t really connected until he heard through the grapevine that she sang for a band that was surprisingly up-and-coming despite its underground status.

Like many newcomers to the GDR Punk scene, he had been pensive at first, much preferring the comforting and mainstream sounds of Pankow, Rockhaus or City. Once he saw her live, however, he was hooked. He grew his hair out much longer (which his mother apparently hated), purchased clothing he was sure Lena would approve of (or that would rankle his mother even more), and was in the mosh pit nearly every show. He was a true, dedicated fan—a gorgeous, true, dedicated fan. No, Lena could not ignore Hans even if she wanted to.

“Oh, hey Hans!” Lena acknowledged him awkwardly. Realizing that she should probably say something else, she added, “Enjoy the show?”

“It was amazing as usual!” He responded jovially, “Tell me, how is it that you can look even more attractive covered in sweat and blood?”

Lena tried not to smile. Hans and Lena had only really become good friends this last month and had certainly never dated. However, Hans had been a flirt with her since attending her shows—something she would never fully admit to appreciating. She wasn’t very good at flirting back, of course, even if she was in her element here. Thus, she would usually resign herself to staring blankly at him, occasionally punctuated with an awkward, high-pitched laugh that she hoped wasn’t too off-putting. This time, however, she forced herself to say something.

“Ah well,” she said sarcastically, “at least now I look the way I sound—like some sort of dumpster fire.”

“Your voice!” Hans began to playfully mock her, “You sound like a beautiful angel! A sound that truly belongs in this church!”

“Ah yes,” Lena laughed snidely, “A true angel. Do you think the Catholics would like the lyrics about the shit, the fighting or the depression more?”

“Maybe you should write some religious music then!” Hans conceded, ignoring her tone, “Something you can scream about. Like Hell?”

“Maybe I’ll run that by the pastor,” Lena joked, finally warming up to human contact outside of a mosh pit, “and see if he would like me to sing in the choir.”

“Well, let me know if you do and I will wear my best jacket!” The two laughed as Hans tugged on his jacket—a dingy mix of denim and cobbled leather that looked like he had roughly sewn it together himself.

“I have to go, though,” Lena interrupted the exchange. “If I don’t smoke a cigarette, my voice will lose its sex appeal. That and I’ll start killing people.”

“Well then perhaps I’ll join you after you have had some time to yourself.”

Lena genuinely hoped he would—after the cigarette, that is. Her blood was beginning to ache. The two shared a final smile and Lena, staving off her carefully cultivated don’t-touch-me-vibe, managed an awkward, one-armed hug before darting out into the cold air.

____

Lena absentmindedly smoked her cigarette outside the small church. She should have been helping her band load up equipment, but they were used to it by now. Every show, she would give the music all she had, wasting her brain on the abyss of sonic warfare. By the time the shows were over she would be shaking with weakness. Now was not the time for conversation; now was the time for reflection and nicotine. Really, it was the same thing.

The air was nippy and filled with the promises that Eastern Germany always brought in the Fall: “enjoy your smoke break while you can… it will be colder soon.” Yet despite the chill (which Lena secretly enjoyed) evening-time in East Berlin was beautiful in a stoic sort of way. The German Democratic Republic (or GDR) was a big place. Much of its landmass was lovely forests and pleasant streams, with Summer-houses dotting the landscape. Nearly everyone in the GDR had a summer-house that they used from time to time to escape the hustle and bustle of the city. When they could of course—very few people owned cars in this country and the waiting list for one could take years.

Lena, however, actually preferred the city. It was filled with large concrete buildings that often sported a plain yet strong construction, and a plainer (yet somehow stronger) dressing that seemed comforting in a way. Perhaps it was just that it was familiar, but it also seemed to offer protection. Everything squeezed closer together the further towards the Wall that you went. This meant alleyways and a maze of fences, dumpsters and low walls to hop over for a midnight stroll past curfew. What few lights were on in the buildings added even more comfort to the locales. Everyone worked in the GDR, which meant that everyone who wasn’t throwing down in the pit had work in the morning. She knew the buildings were full of people warm and cozy in their beds, sound asleep while Lena’s people were roaming wild and up to no good.

As she took an indulgent drag she rested her weary bones against the tarnished stones of the old church. While small on the inside it had an exterior that communicated both charm and power. It was a saggy building but resolute in its foundation. As she considered it by touching the slightly damp wood of the building’s siding, she had to laugh to herself at the irony of the ruckus it had contained only minutes before.

This was far from Lebensmüde’s first show they had performed in a church. Hell, these days churches were the only venues willing to host ‘youth music’ of any kind. Originally punk bands and hip-hop acts had found some modicum of safe haven in the embassies, of all places. Apparently, the father of one band’s lead singer was a prodigious diplomat in the Yugoslavian Embassy and wouldn’t be bothered by the stodgy mewlings of a few stuffed-shirt glad-handers and their lack of understanding for naturally-occurring teenage angst. Of course, that was back when there were perhaps forty punks in the entire GDR; now there were hundreds in Berlin alone, and their numbers were growing every week.

Then the Secret Police, the Stasi, had put a stop to the embassies’ collusion with youthful verve, claiming that the punks were a threat to the State. So the churches decided to pick up where the embassies left off. “They are just children!” a pastor or priest would explain. “They are merely expressing themselves! It’s only part of the growing process, after all!” Regardless of their approval of the lyrics or Lena’s hair, or Lena’s clothing, or… well, Lena in general… they felt God charging them with encouragement. And so far, they had held to this regardless of how raucous the music became or how many rafters the bassist brought down.

Punk was hardly a controlled affair at the best of times, and East Berlin, 1981, could hardly be considered the best of times. Music was strictly controlled in the GDR. The only music that had been allowed (both on the airwaves and in the streets) were State-approved acts that represented ‘good socialist values’. Hell, you even had to get a license to perform sometimes and you certainly had to if you wanted to make any sort of money at it. Artists (just like the art they made) were looked down upon as ‘inherently seditious’– especially if the artist was young.

It hadn’t always been like this. The Politburo had wisely realized that they were old as dirt and had long forgotten the restlessness of hormones, along with the awkward romantic yearnings (and attempts) they brought. The Politburo just didn’t wisely realize much else. In a strange attempt to ‘connect’ with the youth, a few American films had made it into movie theaters, including an especially scandalous one about the American hip-hop scene named Street Beat. No doubt, the ruling class had hoped that the youth of the GDR would see the disrespectful and unruly behavior of their American counterparts—the dancing, free sexual expression and distrust for authority—as vile and reprehensible.

This was quite far from the case. Within months the GDR had a rather comprehensive and vivacious hip-hop scene of its own. It was a package-deal of newfound culture complete with DJ’s spinning turn-tables, hand-made ‘threads’, and wild dance parties. When this reached the Stasi’s notice, they made it their personal mission to shut it down as a public nuisance, threat to the peace and inherently ‘anti-socialist’.

Oh sure, a few western acts still made it onto the airwaves. But the Stasi heavily enforced the 40/60 rule—40-percent Western music to 60-percent socialist tunes. Even then, every single song that was heard must have first passed a secret and exhaustive litmus test for ‘social responsibility’. Love for a woman was ok, but love for your country was better. Pride in your physical prowess was acceptable, but pride in the GDR’s recently developed and ‘internationally adopted’ corn-husking techniques was better. Promiscuity and violence were, of course, not acceptable; what would the world think if the youth of GDR weren’t joining hands in a cultish display of fatalistic nationalism? And God help you, the listener, if you were found with the (gasp!) albums of the more prodigal of the bands. The Stasi could make anyone disappear.

Perhaps this was the reason why the Sex Pistols were so heavily lauded in the GDR among the punks. It seemed nearly ironic back when Lena had first heard their music on a smuggled record at the house of a friend. It was shocking—evil, almost. These were dastardly men, drug addicts to the last. And none of them were the least bit concerned with safety, longevity, the future, or even loyalty. They held nothing sacred—not the ruling class, not the laws, not the police, not even their country. They all wanted to watch it burn. Lena heard the message and she craved more.

Not that Lena wanted to watch anything literally burn, mind you. She loved her country; she loved the trees, the rivers, the winters, the rocks, the birds, the animals—anything other than the government. While she didn’t put much energy into hating the government in particular, she didn’t feel like she owed it anything in particular either. Sure, her country had provided for her and her family’s basic needs. Everyone worked, no one went hungry. That was a benefit no one denied. But was that a reason for Lena to feel any sort of obligation? It was the government’s job to provide, that’s what it was supposed to do. Why should Lena thank it for doing what it was supposed to do?

Yet Lena (like most of the German youth) wanted more. More music, more beer, more people, more, just more. But not anything particularly awful, mind you. Drugs were non-existent in the GDR, and the rumors of Western appetites for sex raised as many shudders as they did eyebrows. Maybe she wouldn’t even like it when she heard, tasted or tried anything—music, drugs or sex—but she wanted to make that decision herself without the state wagging its finger at her, or the Stasi chasing her shadow. She shuddered at the thought of what they often threatened to do to people with radical ideas, thoughts or actions. Perhaps it was the Stasi and the State that really made her want so many different things. Perhaps that’s why her latching on to the Sex Pistol’s music was so very ironic indeed.

The Stasi was an ever-present fact of life, much like the damned Wall they loved so much. “Oh, that wall,” Lena mused. That wall was where all of this really stemmed from.

During the last World War, Germany had been bombed. Then it had been sacked. After the city was divided up between the former Axis and Allied powers, things only got worse. The Soviets raped and beat the women in the city, shot and arrested many of the men, and stole anything that wasn’t nailed down. In the bread lines women would talk with each other about how many times they had been raped since last seeing each other. Needless to say, East Germany had been a squalor-filled and dangerous place to live well into the late 60’s and early 70’s. People fled the city in droves destined for refugee camps in the rest of the European world. So many, in fact, that the Communist authorities put up the Wall to keep the remaining few trapped inside.

What had begun as fences and a few guards in the 60’s were now lines of complex concrete corridors, towers with searchlights and machine-guns, minefields, razor-wire, rabid dogs running the line and (should you somehow make it past all that) automated turrets. All of this to keep the people of East Germany trapped inside where a quibbling Politburo could pretend it was providing for them.

That was then, of course. While the wall was no less fortified in the present day of 1981, it no longer served to stem the flow of starving people leaving. People never starved in East Germany anymore. And while life here could get bloody boring for the youth, well, it was still a good life either way. The main problem (at least for the youth of east Germany) had nothing to do with the wall between East and West Germany, but East and West Berlin.

Oddly enough, West Berlin (which was more-or-less capitalism incarnate) was also inside East Germany, separated from East Berlin only by that goddamn Wall. On the West German side, the eyesore was more of a nuisance and a joke than anything else. From what Lena had heard, the youth on the other side painted murals on the Wall and taunted the GDR guards when they were reasonably sauced. They would also hold concerts next to the Wall, or blast records with powerful speakers of musicians that Lena vaguely recognized, like David Bowie, Iggy Pop and the Rolling Stones, just to taunt the Politburo.

In East Berlin, however, the Wall wasn’t just a nuisance—it was a symbol of oversight and stupidity. When a series of popular bands played concerts on the West side of the Wall, several of Lena’s friends had poked their heads over the concrete sections to watch through the concertina wire. All of them were summarily arrested by the Stasi and ‘disappeared’ without explanation. When her friends appeared later, they were not the same. Most were much paler and had lost a lot of weight. They would also speak in hushed tones with darting eyes when they were around her. When Lena questioned them, they would make excuses and walk away abruptly. They were nervous of her and nervous of their previous friends.

“He is a Spitzel,” a friend told Lena concerning one of these previous friends, “A Stasi narc. Avoid that one… he will tell the Stasi about your band and about all of your friends!”

Informants were the greatest fear in East Germany. While a few of them were professional agents of the Stasi, most were regular folks that had somehow run afoul of the government. It didn’t take much—smoking western cigarettes, speaking out against Socialism in any way or writing letters to Western associates would quickly do the trick. Sometimes merely being down in the subway at the wrong time could land you in one of the Stasi’s ‘black cells.’ Terrible things happened in those cells; everyone had heard the stories. No one lasted more than a month, she had heard, and when the prisoner finally broke, they were given a choice: a lengthy prison sentence or become an informant. Of course, no one chose the prison sentence, but once you were found out as a Spitzel you were ostracized from the community.

Practically anyone could be an informant, this was a fact that everyone knew, and surely informants were even at her shows; but this was a fact that only Lena seemed to concern herself with. While most everyone simply ignored the possibility (believing that true members of the scene would never rat each other out), Lena often worried. Punks and hip-hoppers were prime targets as of late and with churches being the primary location they played, well, it wasn’t hard to gather dirt when you really wanted it. But so far, nothing had happened, and you couldn’t treat everyone with a sense of suspicion, after all. A person has to trust, or else what is the point of life? Still, Lena felt an overwhelming sense of paranoia at times.

____

“Isn’t it a little cold out for a smoke?”

Lena quickly hid a smile when she again heard the voice of Hans. “Every show,” she thought to herself. Indeed, every show she would perform, and he would mosh. Then she would sneak outside for her cigarette and he would interrupt her very last drag. It would have been annoying if he didn’t have that dimple in his chin. No, the dimple really made up for it.

“My smoke keeps me warm,” Lena said sarcastically, pretending to ignore him.

“Perhaps a jacket would keep you warmer?”

“I know something else that would keep me warmer…” Lena stopped the thought in its tracks, “Oh, if I needed my jacket, I would have brought it out.”

“Well then,” Hans scoffed, “I’ll just bring this back inside.”

Hans really did know how to interrupt her, and Lena considered this before grumping, “Well, I suppose since you brought it all this way.”

“For you, Lena, I would bring your jacket at least twice the distance! Maybe even more.”

“Twice the distance? You mean, twice the distance from the other side of the door, right over there?”

“I said maybe even more.”

“How much more?” Lena raised an eyebrow.

Hans thought about this for a moment. Actually, he probably wasn’t thinking at all, he was just toying with her. She knew it, he knew it, they both knew it. It was the long, protracted “hmmm” he uttered that gave it away along with the stroking of that perfect chin of his.

“On second thought, perhaps I would only bring it this far. I am rather exhausted after watching you.”

Lena felt a slight twinge of excitement as Hans crouched down next to her and wrapped her up in the jacket.

“Oh? So, after watching everything I was doing, you are the one who is tired?” Lena joked.

“Well yes, of course. You were just loafing around up there, goofing off while I did all the work of watching you!”

“You bastard!” Lena shrieked, as she smacked him playfully on the arm.

“Hey, you asked!” Hans yelled as he jumped up, dramatically rubbing his arm as if it would soon fall off.

As they continued, playfully bantering back and forth with verbal jabs, what had seemed to be idle flirting became… well, actual flirting. Over the past month, Hans and Lena had found that they had more than just a few things in common: both had terrible fathers, and both had sickly mothers. Both also almost had their ailing mothers removed to a state-assisted living house. This meant that both her and Hans almost ended up in a foster house. Since this was practically a death sentence in the GDR, both had decided to take care of their mothers as best they could and lie about how healthy they actually were. Truly, the only major difference between the two of them was that Hans’s father had made it across the wall (and never returned), whereas Lena’s had drunk himself to death. Both Hans and Lena had suffered immensely over their respective losses and both had found solace in the anger of Lena’s music.

Until recently, however, Lena had never developed anything more than a casual friendship with Hans, or anyone for that matter. She was a creature of solitude; essentially uncomfortable outside of her natural habitat, which men definitely were. Really, she never knew what to say with the opposite sex. Boys like Hans were just too rough and too loud. Sure, Lena was loud onstage, but most guys she knew were loud all the time. Maybe this was fine for other girls, but she was not one to be pushed and shoved about in some sort of undeveloped mating dance between morons. Lena had a ‘space’ about her and she wanted it intact when she was out and about. It was all so easy with Hans, though. He had such a natural, magnanimous charm. And that chin.

“So then, are you finished with your damn smoke yet?” Hans interrupted her musings.

“I was thinking of lighting another one, actually,” Lena stated brazenly.

“Well then, light me one as well!”

“But you don’t smoke Hans,” Lena said suspiciously. She had seen Hans attempt it before. Even the coughing fit that had ensued was adorable.

“Tonight, after that performance, I think I shall.”

Lena handed him a smoke after lighting it for him. He took one drag and failed miserably. Almost immediately his face turned all the colors of the rainbow as his eyes watered, cheeks puffed, and chest heaved. Realizing that his masculinity was now at stake, he attempted to take another. He leaned far back, splaying one arm behind, and held the smoke with the other as if brandishing some sort of weapon. Yet both drags ended equally as bad with Hans coughing and laughing, and Lena laughing right along with him.

“This… cough… this is really tasty… cough…”

“You don’t have to smoke it, you, big showoff,” Lena chastised.

“No, I… cough… I mean it. Really… cough… makes me feel… cough… alive!”

“Oh yes, so alive, I can tell by the coughing! Why are you still trying?!” By now, Lena was laughing uproariously as Hans doubled over, feigning an excruciating pain.

“Because it… cough… just feels so good in my hands!… cough… and the taste, Lena!”

“What? It tastes like what?”

“It tastes like… cough… grandparents…!”

“It tastes like what?!” Lena giggled.

“Yes, yes… it tastes like an old leather jacket that has been left out in the rain. It’s musty and dry at the same time, but all the parts that should be musty are dry and all the parts that should be dry are musty. Please… I must have more of this enchanting taste!”

Lena giggled, and Hans coughed. Despite the chill, the energy that he exuded warmed Lena’s body as well as her soul. He was so very nice and so very… just, very—in all the right ways. It was hard to describe. He was such an, ugh, boy; ridiculous and silly without any capacity for serious thought whatsoever. He was so ‘in the way’ (as all guys were) that his every movement was made to seem… just ugh! Hans was such a beautifully frustrating and charming creature. She couldn’t even imagine how girls were supposed to have animals like this tromping around the place, being bad at smoking cigarettes and trying to do it anyways.

Lena should have caught herself staring at him in such a way. But perhaps she was glad that she hadn’t, as Hans seemed to have picked up on her look. Almost nervously he returned it by sitting right back down next to her. Only this time he was much closer.

Familienkreis

“Help me! Someone please help me! I’m dying!”

The voice of Lena’s mother was crying out in a fevered timbre as Lena walked through the front door. Still, Lena didn’t speed her pace. It was like this every evening and had been for as long as she could remember. Besides, Lena was in too good a mood. The cries of her mother echoed throughout the apartment as Lena casually strolled into the living room and took a moment to compose herself. She needed just a tiny moment to herself before completely switching gears.

Her mother had always been odd. “Tainted,” Lena’s father had even called her in one drunken stupor years before, “tainted by the devil… that woman has lost her wits!” He would blame much of his drinking on her, although that was probably a lie. He had been an alcoholic since long before the age of drinking—long before Lena’s mother had deteriorated. Ever since Lena’s father had seen fit to drink himself to death, however, she had become much worse.

Dropping her coat and bookbag before walking into the small kitchen, she took a brief moment to put on some tea. The apartment was small—even by GDR standards—but it was well lived-in. It was styled with nearly-matching furniture, a few nice blue vases (with dying plants in them) and some pictures of the countryside that made the living room feel comfortable. The kitchen was also well-furnished with all the necessities, along with a precious few Western extras. It even had a few American imports that Lena had acquired during the infamous mad-dash sales that the entire neighborhood turned out too. She was hardly a chef, though, and most of the appliances sat collecting more dust than crumbs these days.

“Alright… it’s time,” she thought to herself. Trying to brush away the general annoyance, Lena turned on all the lights in the small apartment one by one. First the living room and then the hallway (so her mother could see her approaching) and then the bedroom so she wouldn’t be surprised by a face she didn’t recognize.

“Oh God… c-can… can someone… anyone h-help me?!” the frail voice called.

“You’re not dying, Mother.” Lena said in as calm a voice as she could manage, given her general frustration. “You are right here in our apartment. You are just fine. You only had a bad dream.”

“You!” Lena’s mother accused, “Who are you? What have you done with my daughter! Why, I’ll have you before a magistrate if you put a hand on her…”

“Mother, it’s me. I’m your daughter!” Lena tried to sound reassuring as she moved closer, so that her mother could see her, “Can’t you see me? It’s Lena.”

“Who… who are you? Why…”

Hannah Schindler had always been as sickly as she was strange. She had been born during the Soviet sacking of Berlin. Although it was never discussed openly in the family, Lena had always known that Hannah Schindler was a product of that occupation. Lena’s grandmother, Gretchen, a prickly and brittle old coot who rarely talked in general, was even more silent about those times—times best forgotten, in the minds of most. On the few occasions Lena had visited her grandmother, she had been less than welcoming and was always cold to Hannah.

“You must be strong!” Hannah would always quote Grandma Gretchen, “Life is a terrible thing! Terrible things lay in wait around the corner, so you must be strong!” No doubt she was perpetually fearful of a band of Soviet soldiers waiting around the corner from the breadlines to put a baby in the belly of her daughter. “Then you will know…” she would continue, “then, you will know.”

Yes, Lena’s mother was always troubled, but the past few years had seen her become nearly impossible to handle. Her many illnesses seemed to appear out of thin air and then disappear on a whim—a million diseases, each with just as many causes—and her addled brain remained perpetually befuddled as if she were constantly sleepwalking. Even if Lena was able to convince her mother that she was in fact her daughter, she might be crying for help in a half hour. It was just how it was with Hannah.

“See my face, Mother?” Lena knelt down; not too far down, however.

“Get away from me, whore!” Hannah shouted, swinging a trembling fist as hard as her shaky limbs could manage. Lena dodged easily, as they had been through this many times before. Thankfully, she no longer swung as hard or as fast as she had in previous years.

Mother… Mother!” she raised her voice.

Oh my, sweet daughter…” Hannah’s countenance suddenly changed as if by light switch, “did you see who was just in here?”

“What did you see, Mother?” she responded, trying to sound caring.

“Oh, it was awful! First, I saw the tanks outside our building… and all of those nasty soldiers, with their guns and their knives!”

“Oh yes?” Lena responded. She knew that her mother hadn’t seen anything. She hadn’t even looked out of the window. Hannah Schindler was practically bed-ridden and could barely walk unaided. “Well, then what happened?”

“Oh my, well…” Hannah continued, gulping deeply as if to steel herself, “They came into the building, you see. And, well… and then they walked apartment to apartment, room to room. Why, I was just terrified that when they got here, they would take me. You know, and then of course they would take you… and…”

Hannah Schindler’s voice trailed off into oblivion as Lena pretended to listen. She had heard all of this before. The ‘soldiers’ would never arrive, as they would always be stalking room to room. That is, until Lena arrived. Then the ‘soldier’ would magically turn in to her daughter and all would be well. Carefully, Lena set about tucking her mother back into bed. In the morning a family friend would arrive to oversee Hannah’s care so that Lena could go to school. In the evenings, Hannah Schindler was her sole responsibility. It was like this almost every night. On occasion, it would be worse, but this was thankfully not one of those nights.

Besides, nothing was going to ruin tonight. Hans had kissed her! Hans, with his dimpled chin, soul-filled eyes, and those massive shoulders of his, had actually kissed her right on the lips. He hadn’t been forceful about it, or even urgent. He had simply put an arm around her and waited as if to see if she was truly desiring of his affections. She was of course, but she was far too awkward to say so. That’s when he asked if she would like him to kiss her. She took far too long to respond, of course, making all sorts of confusing facial gestures. This was all the confirmation Hans seemed to need so he leaned in slowly and took her into a sweet yet simple embrace. Even now she got goosebumps thinking about it.

“Young Lena…” her mother said, equal parts fretfully and sleepily.

“Yes Mother?” Lena replied, irritated at the interruption to her thoughts.

“When are they coming? When are they going to take us?”

“They aren’t coming to take us, Mother.” Lena replied, “You are perfectly safe, right here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure, Mother.”

“Well, your father had told me before he left that they were going to…”

Once again, Hannah Schindler’s voice trailed off into oblivion. These labyrinthine tales were almost as convoluted as they were long, with not a singular factual account to be heard. Now it was the story that her father had told his wife about the Soviets marching in to kill all the men. Next it would be the account of how they would all take turns beating Lena and her mother. This would be followed by a protracted expose about Lena’s imminent motherhood, and then… and then…

As luck would have it, however, Hannah Schindler was finally falling asleep. “Thank God,” Lena muttered to herself. Between her band’s show and Hans, it was already going to be a rather late night for an already tired young lady. The promise of her mother falling asleep sooner than later was almost a boon of a semi-religious nature.

A quick kiss on her forehead and a quiet “Good night, sweet Mother.” and Lena was finally leaving the bedroom. That is, until the all-too-familiar scent of urine crept into Lena’s nostrils. “Damnit!” Lena screamed inside of herself.

____

Lena fell onto her own bed with a perturbed, “harumpf.” She was utterly exhausted after the night’s festivities, and her mother’s soiling herself had added dramatically to it. First, she had needed to wake her up (which was a trial in itself). Then she need set about the duty of cleaning her. After that, she had to change the bed-sheets while attempting to keep her doddering mother from wandering off into the living room. If that happened, she would no doubt see a Soviet soldier hiding in the broom closet. Lena knew this from experience and she wasn’t about to suffer such a debacle, especially after cleaning up what she knew was an intentional urination. Of course, she would have to sing her mother to sleep as if to a child. Hannah absolutely demanded it, lest she break into another walking-terror.

An hour later, and Lena was finally free to think about Hans, Oh, thinking about Hans made her feel lighter than air! Hans truly was perfect in every way—he was handsome, funny, a gentleman, and a very good kisser. Lena began to blush just thinking about it. Why, she couldn’t possibly wait even a few days to see him again. So, she set about fantasizing the many ways she could sneak off to see him; or perhaps magically run into him somewhere. Perhaps at school, or perhaps the shop, or perhaps…

While fantasizing, she looked about her bedroom. In a certain light it was rather ghastly. The dismal chamber was a small affair with only the necessities: a bed, a dresser, a laundry hamper, a window—the things you had to have. Of course, all of these were draped in the unfolded (and likely dirty) clothing that was strewn haphazardly about the room. To complement the overall mess, the walls were covered in all the punk paraphernalia Lena could get her hands on. On one wall displayed her sizeable collection of (very illegal) posters. Most of them were completely hand-made by the punk bands in Leipzig or others Lebensmüde had played with, like Ausschlag, Die Skeptiker, or Schleim Keim. They had a great scene down south, and Lena played with them every chance she had.

But a precious few were real posters from West Berlin, still shiny and glossy. During concerts, West Berliners would fold the posters into paper airplanes and sail them over the Wall. It was rare for one of them to make it over all the fortifications—rarer still for someone to nab it up before the Stasi got to it. But if you got ahold of one of these, you need only smooth it out and tack it up and you had instant ‘street cred’ with the rest of the punks.

Lena only had two: the first was of the ever-strange David Bowie, aka Ziggy Stardust, clad in crazy alien makeup. The other featured the band Genesis who Lena had even heard on the radio. If you could believe it, the drummer, Phil Collins, was the actual lead singer of the band!

She also had a large collection of zines; handmade underground rags that could contain nearly anything. One, Menschliche Verschwendung, was a zine that covered the goings on of the local underground punk scenes interspersed with artful photography. If it was a good month the paper would all be mostly the same and contain many articles. More often than not, though, the stock would change dramatically page-to-page and contain only a few hand-burnt photographs. There were a few gay rags that chronicled the oppression homosexuals received from the Eastern bloc, along with their triumphs in spite of it all. Another zine, Shönheit, was a militant women’s rag that had crept its way in from the West to find a new home. The images of women clad in denim and bandanas and flexing their biceps spoke to Lena. The articles spoke of freedom, empowerment, and all sorts of other things that the Politburo would absolutely hate—yet another reason to furiously devour the contents. These were also filled with triumphant stories of homosexuality behind the Iron Curtain. While this wasn’t a struggle Lena personally resonated with, the images elicited a sort of familial kinship. They were soldiers, same as her—all fighting in a silent war together. These sat in a pile next to a few photocopied photocopies of a worse photocopy of two Punk Magazine issues—a rag straight from America!

Obviously, Menschliche was her favorite, having written and submitted a few articles herself under her pseudonym Madeline Dangerbunny (where she pretended to be British!). But her second-favorite zine of all time was Die Straße Schlägt: the GDR’s premiere (and very underground) hip-hop zine. Contained within were pictures of home-made fashions, pictures of boom boxes and how much they cost in the West, along with the lyrics to songs that had been recently produced. While the hip-hop scene was completely different than the punk scene, they found common ground in a lot of ways. Both were youth culture, both were utterly hated by the Stasi and the Politburo, both were ‘DIY’ as a rule, and both were a strong, tight-knit community.

Of all the punk-rock paraphernalia that Lena had managed to procure, however, her most coveted item was her Never Mind the Bollocks album. Gifted to her by a dear friend who played in another band, this masterpiece was a veritable weapon of titanic proportions. It was openly despised by the Politburo and absolutely reviled by the entire Soviet Union to the East. Lena wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised if an entire war broke out over the lyrics. This was mostly thanks to the first song which spoke in open and sarcastic disgust of both the Wall and what it meant to the youth in both the East and the West.

It was this album that had first turned Lena on to her calling. Seeing it every night and holding it in her hands somehow made the scene all the more real, as if it was psychically connecting her with all the punks around the world. This album meant something—something more.

When she listened to it (practically every night), she was transported out of the large concrete apartment building in which she lived into the streets right outside the infamous ‘Checkpoint Charlie’ (as the Americans so christened it). Yet it wasn’t the streets of East Berlin as she knew it, no. While they were the same streets physically, they were altogether different. In her imagination they were filled with people, and the people were all her kind—a sea of spiky-haired and leather-clad ne’er-do-wells carrying torches, hollering, and tossing their empty bottles in the street. The police would ignore it as they had better things to do than mess with an angry mob. The Stasi would, of course, take violent exception. But fueled by the raging and wholly irreverent chorus of “God Save the Queen”, “Anarchy in the UK” and “Holiday in the Sun”, the mob of greasy punks would easily overwhelm them, sending the lackwits and their jackboot knickers high-tailing back into their complex to hide for their lives.

Oh… and the Politburo. Lena imagined a small group of short squat men, drastically overweight for their diminutive size with bespectacled faces and wormy facial expressions drooping with disapproval. She imagined them looking on the crowd with profound disgust, pants pulled high over their fat bellies, as they dodged bottles being thrown their way. She imagined them raising strong objections like, “Now see here!” and “This is out of sorts!” and “Can’t you see you’re disturbing us?!” She imagined all of this and she loved it.

____

Lena desperately wanted to fall asleep in her room surrounded by her prized possessions and dreaming of Hans. She was exhausted and had more than earned a good night’s sleep. But first she had to attend to something more important than her precious rest.

Walking over to her window, she opened it up and peered outside. She was one of the lucky few in her building to have her own fire escape—a rickety metal affair that ran all the way up to the roof and down to the streets below. She stayed here for some time, just looking. It was very important that she was not seen by anyone on the street, as that could jeopardize the entire thing. She stayed here for what seemed like five minutes. That had been the time she had been told to wait. If she didn’t see any movement in five minutes, then it meant the streets were empty. And if the streets were empty, the Police would probably be too bored to lurk about in search of teenagers out after bedtime.

Five minutes passed along with an extra minute or two for good measure. She couldn’t very well afford to blow the entire thing. Yet once she was satisfied of her security, she crawled out into the cold night air and started winding slowly and silently up the fire escape.

She loved this rusty iron contraption. Though it may have originally been intended to save some lives in the event of a tragic fire, years of both disuse and misuse had reduced it to the thing it was today—a jungle gym for those that ought not to be doing whatever it is that they were doing. And make no mistakes about it—she ought not to be doing what she was doing.

A few minutes climbing the steep staircase left her slightly winded. “These things are dangerous!” she thought, chuckling to herself. She had always had a wild, chaotic streak and often relished the thought of swinging off the thing like a monkey. Another day perhaps—certainly not in times like these. Finally, after much effort, she crested the apex of the building to be welcomed by the sounds of Van Halen blaring through a radio: “Girl… you really got me now… you got me so I can’t sleep at night…” There, just a few meters away from her, sat her very most precious secret.

“Get your bony ass over here, moron!” a young, male voice yelled.

“Fuck you, lame-ass!” Lena shot back.

“Oh my God, she’s fucked up again.” another slightly older voice said, “What the hell, did you get in a fight with the ground again?”

“Up yours, Herr.” Lena retorted.

“Oh, great fucking comeback.” Herr responded, “Did you have to study for that one?”

“I swear you kids never shut up,” a much older woman’s voice said, with a note of disapproval. “Back when I was your age we didn’t swear so much.”

“Back when you were our age, Jesus was still alive.” Herr shot back.

“You watch your tongue when you’re talking about the Lord, Herr, or I’ll tell the pastor.” the older woman threatened.

“What’s he gonna do? Pray for me?”

“He’ll tell your father.”

“…yes ma’am.” a now contrite Herr responded.

Lena laughed wildly at this as she moved closer, as did a majority of the rooftop’s occupants. It was a group of around ten people, all of varying ages. They sat on broken couches, worse chairs, and a few spare cushions with stuffing pouring out of them. Beer bottles were absolutely everywhere, and the air was overpowering with tobacco, both pipe and cigarette. A dog that looked like it had been alive for far too long sat in the middle of the circle, tongue hanging lazily out of its mouth.

“Mrs. Schroeder brought her dog again.” the first boy, Mick, complained.

“At least girls like him.” Herr poked at Mick.

Mick was a whole fourteen-years old and showed it by bragging every chance he got. He didn’t have much to brag about otherwise—a scrawny short kid with a mop of perpetually disheveled hair that was filled with cowlicks; and, not being particularly bright, he was poor at sports as well as academics. But Mick had a good heart if you had a mind to dig through all the puberty.

Herr, in contrast, was fifteen years old. He wasn’t much bigger or smarter than Mick; but he was bigger and smarter, and anytime Mick would begin to brag about his age, Herr was there to poke fun at his various inadequacies. While Mick had a good heart, Herr… well… he was Herr. If push came to shove, he would likely be there for you in whatever way a fifteen-year-old could. Until that point, however, he was just an annoying brat that lived to pester everyone.

“Leave Kraut alone, Mick. He doesn’t need you pestering him,” the older woman, Gertrude Schroeder, said, referring to the mangy dog. “And Herr, there’s a woman out there for everyone. Even Mick.”

Gertrude was old. She looked it and she didn’t give a damn either. She was “exactly the age Jesus wanted her to be” she would often proclaim. She was also exceedingly devout in her faith and made absolutely no bones about that whatsoever. She loved Van Halen, although she was a bit mixed up in her rock idols. “Oh, that Mick Jagger is such a good-looking fella…” she would often proclaim. No one had the heart to clear all that up for her.

“You hear that, Mick?” Herr teased, “Mrs. Schroeder says there’s a woman out there, even for you!”

“There’s lots of girls!!” Mick complained, wounded.

“Oh yeah, name one!”

“Well… well…”

“If you two don’t shut your damn mouths I’ll throw you both off this roof!” an old man with a gigantic mustache threatened.

“How are you gonna do that with the cane, old man?” a handsome young man who looked to be around twenty-five joked.

“First, I’ll throw you off, Jonathan!” a young woman sitting next to the young man yelled, “then I’m gonna help Mr. Müller throw Herr off!”

The man with the mustache, Walter Müller, had started this rooftop gathering; he was also the one who had invited Lena and was perhaps the only thing in the GDR older than Mrs. Schroeder. A man of simple means and simpler pleasures, his only two prized possessions were his mustache (don’t get him started) and his radio. For what it was, the radio was a technological masterpiece of mismatched dials and broken gauges cobbled together out of things he found in his neighbors’ garages. He was obsessed with The Rolling Stones, but told Mrs. Schroeder that the lead singer was Phil Collins—much to the amusement of Janet and Jonathan.

Janet and Jonathan, the young couple sitting together, were the perfect mix of oil and water. They were both very athletic and notoriously pretty. Unfortunately, that’s where the similarities ended. They argued more often than they didn’t, and each hated the music the other liked. Janet didn’t even like the rock they were listening to. She simply came for the company (that she didn’t like) and for Kraut (whom everyone else didn’t like). Differences aside, they had managed to create two children just as perfect as they were and—all things considered—they were fantastic parents, if not a fantastic couple.

“Well, who’s gonna provide for our children then, Janet?” Jonathan retorted.

“Maybe I’ll find someone a little more respectful. Like Lorenzo!” Janet teased.

“Lorenzo?!” Jonathan responded, “Lorenzo?! You would leave me for that cross-eyed piece of…”

“At least I didn’t wreck my car the first time I drove it!” another young man who looked around twenty-five hollered in Jonathan’s direction.

“Shut up, Lorenzo! No one likes you!” Jonathan fired back. It was true, no one liked Lorenzo. That’s all that anyone seemed to know about him.

“Fuckin’ sounds like Janet fuckin’ does.” Mick chimed in.

“Language!” Mrs. Schroeder snapped.

“You suck at swearing,” Jonathan harassed Mick.

“Oh yeah… well, you… you…” Mick attempted to retort, “you suck at… at…”

“You also suck at comebacks, dipshit.”

“You suck at comebacks!” Mick screamed with his voice cracking up an octave.

“You sound like a girl, Mick.” Jonathan jested as well.

“What’s wrong with sounding like a girl?!?” Janet howled.

This would go on all night long, Lena knew. She couldn’t help but smile from ear to ear. These were her people: misfits every last one. As “You Really Got Me” ended, “Hit Me with Your Best Shot” by Pat Benatar began playing with that outrageous guitar. They must have been listening to Radio Brandenburg again, although it didn’t sound like the infamous DJ John Peel’s style this time. Sneakily, so as not to end up in everyone’s verbal cross-hairs, Lena grabbed a spare cushion. She lay on her stomach quietly with the cushion pressed against her chest.

The rooftop was her haven when she wasn’t performing. In the GDR, music was heavily controlled by the Stasi to make sure it reflected the views of the pompous codgers in the Politburo. While good music was incredibly hard to come by, ‘inherently seditious’ bands like Van Halen, Echo and the Bunnymen, Fleetwood Mac and REO Speedwagon could land you a prison sentence if you weren’t careful. Oh sure, they had The Puhdys, Die Anderen and the Klans Renft Combo in the GDR. These bands were all talented in their own right, and East German music was renowned across Europe for its catchy, eclectic nature. But it was the lyrics that really earned the ire of the international community—for those who spoke German at least.

Whereas Sammy Hagar and Brian Johnson were singing about having sex with everything that moved or breathed, East German bands that hadn’t yet earned an international appeal were singing about… well, socialism. That, and socialism-related woes. Scratch that—there were, of course, no woes in a socialist society. And you’d better be willing to express that to the rest of the world or you had no business being a musician in the first place!

To describe it as lame would be an understatement, sure. Yet the audacity of it all was how you had to give lip service to the whole exercise. Everywhere in public meeting places, pubs and shops, they would be playing some farcical affectation to the benefits of socialism spreading far and yon. You would watch as everyone began tapping their fingers, or humming along. Participation meant agreement, and agreement meant the Stasi would leave you alone. But in safe havens like this rooftop, no one tapped or hummed along unless they liked what they heard.

“How was the show, dumbass?” Herr fired in her direction.

“It was amazing!” Lena brightened, “We had so many…”

“That’s great,” Herr interrupted, “So, does anyone…”

“Oh Herr, be nice!” Mrs. Schroeder berated before turning to Lena and saying, “Please, Lena. Tell us about your concert. We would all love to hear about it.”

“You wouldn’t like her music, Mrs. Schroeder,” Jonathan cut in, “it’s all about doing drugs and eating children, and stuff like that. Best not to encourage her.”

“Well I like it!” Mr. Müller and his mustache chimed in, “It’s angry. It sounds like Led Zeppelin.”

Lena took this opportunity to tell the group about her band’s latest escapade. She told them everything including the bit about the rafters from the last show. Mrs. Schroeder let fly an, “Oh my” at the mention of her band accidentally “desecrating the Lord’s House”, but she was still proud of Lena’s performance.

With the inescapable advent of foreign rock music and proliferation in the GDR (by way of their little pirate radios), the Politburo had hatched what they felt to be an utterly brilliant plan: send GDR rock bands to play shows in the West. On the surface, this wasn’t the world’s worst idea; however, when the Politburo decided to buy the artists’ loyalty by giving them “Freedom Medals” which they were forced to wear while playing shows, well, the SED was none the wiser about why the Western youth were laughing so loudly. After all, in the West you didn’t need to hide your laughter for fear of the Stasi.

This was where punk rock came in—the punks just didn’t care. They said what they wanted, often and loudly, much to the glee of the GDR youth who craved the realness of ‘their own’. Comparatively, this was where the little pirate radio on top of Lena’s building came in as well. To the rest of the punk world, mainstream music was kitsch at best and utterly blasphemous at worst. But in the GDR, this was her other punk rock—her slice of the world’s reality away from the purported reality of the SED. These people said what was actually on their minds, no matter how vitriolic or perverted. It may not have been to the degrees of The Sex Pistols, but it was decades ahead of anything ever mentioned in public on this side of the Wall.

Now Rick Springfield’s “Jessie’s Girl” was playing, and Mrs. Schroeder was tapping her fingers on her thighs, humming tunelessly along. “So, what else did you do today, besides destroy another church?” she asked.

“Well…” Lena hemmed and hawed. She wanted to tell them all about Hans, she really did; but somehow, she felt letting the group in on that tidbit of her life would invite the boys to make fun of her, or just be embarrassing. Then again, she was seventeen and seventeen-year-old girls did occasionally like boys, right?

“I, uh, met a boy.” she said gingerly.

“Oh, did you now?!” Mrs. Schroeder gushed.

“Congratulations!” Jonathan cheered.

“Is he cute?” Janet asked.

“I didn’t think lesbians liked boys.” Mick jeered at no one in particular.

“Oh, shut up, Mick!” Lorenzo yelled, “Lena isn’t a damn lesbian. She just hates men.”

“She is too a lesbian… aren’t you Lena?” Mick asked honestly.

“Well why would I be excited about meeting a boy if I was?!” Lena yelled back, irritated.

“So, you don’t have to go to hell.” Herr cut-in.

“What did you say?!” Mrs. Schroeder exclaimed, as she stood up and kicked at Herr, “You apologize this instant, or I’m throwing you off of this roof!”

Mrs. Schroeder chased Herr for some time as Lena contemplated how to continue the conversation. Herr and Mick were jerks, but she loved them. Still, she didn’t really know how to broach the conversation. Soon, “Jessie’s Girl” was through, and a new song began to play. It was the latest offering from the British punk band, The Dead Weights, entitled “Capitalism Down”. This had become one of Lena’s favorite songs as of late, as it had for most of the punks in the GDR. Sure, it took a stance that was opposite to what Lena would prefer, but it was anti-establishment, and that was what mattered.

“Lena, tell us about your boyfriend,” Mrs. Schroeder said, after hitting both Herr and Mick several times. Both of the boys were unharmed, obviously; but now they looked to feel as stupid as they were, and this made Lena grin.

“Well,” she began, “His name is Hans. He’s tall, has long brown hair, and is really good at sports. He’s a top athlete in our school. He’s also very smart, kind, and is really into our music.”

“Oh that’s wonderful, dear.” Mrs. Schroeder said.

“Is he into your music,” Herr cut in, “or is he just into you?”

“He’s probably into both.” Jonathan said, matter-of-factly.

“But how into you is he?” Lorenzo cut in, making an obscene gesture.

“Lorenzo!” Janet said, acidly, “that’s none of your business!”

“Well, Lena’s like our little Sister, right?” Lorenzo responded, “So if she’s fucking someone, we should all know so we can kick his ass.”

“She’s not my little sister!” Mick cut in.

“That’s because I’m older than you, moron!” Lena retorted.

“Well, yeah. But…” Mick stuttered before finding himself profusely ignored by Lena.

She went on to regale the group with the tale of her romantic serendipity. She told them of how Hans always brought her coat during her after-show cigarette. She told them of how he draped it around her and playfully touched her. She told them all about the kiss, making sure to accentuate the inherent ‘grossness’ of it for the benefit of Herr and Mick who were making ‘grossed out’-noises. Everyone seemed perfectly enthralled with her story. That is, except for Mr. Müller, who sat back and listened intently. After a few moments more of Lena gushing, he finally broke in.

“Lena, where did you say you met this boy, Hans?”

“Oh, I’ve known him forever from school, but we’ve only recently become good friends since he started coming to my band’s shows.”

“And how many of your shows has he gone too?”

“All of them!”

“How many athletes at your school go to these shows?” Mr. Müller asked, with a hint of concern in his voice.

“Not many, I suppose. Maybe a few. Why?”

“Well, it might be nothing.” he replied somberly, “I just… I get concerned for you young kids with your music scenes.”

“What do you mean?” Lena responded, honestly.

“Because Hans is probably a fucking spitzel, right Mr. Müller?” Herr cut in.

“Language, Herr!” Mrs. Schroeder snapped.

“He is not, idiot!” Lena yelled.

“How do you know, stupid?” Herr called back, “He might be reporting to the Stasi right now!”

“He wouldn’t do that!”

“Hold on a second.” Mr. Müller said, interrupting the two. “Lena, all of us are proud of you for meeting a boy, and he sounds wonderful. We just… it’s important to be careful. Anyone could be an informant these days. Heck, even one of us could be. You never know these days. You have to have friends, and you need to be able to date. That said, you of all people need to be careful. The Stasi have their eyes everywhere—and they don’t like punks one bit.”

“Oh, Walter!” Mrs. Schroeder spoke, “Don’t you scare Lena like that. Give this nice boy Hans the benefit of the doubt!”

“I agree!” Janet said, “Lena, you deserve some romance—especially with a catch like Hans sounds to be.”

Everyone more-or-less nodded their approval. Even Mr. Müller in his own way, but he still seemed rather pensive as he finished, “I’m happy for you, of course. Just be careful. That’s all I ask.”

At that moment, the voice of Roger Waters cut in on the radio with, “We don’t need no education…” It was the first of likely many Pink Floyd songs of the night. Lena sat back and pretended to listen. In reality, however, she was trying to stave off the seeds of doubt worming their way into her brain. “He couldn’t be…” Lena said to herself, “He wouldn’t be…”

Verräter

The rafters of the church shook. It wasn’t from drunk punkers this time, but from the bass guitar. The pastor from the previous show now appeared to have been correct—the bass really did shake the rafters too much. Lena made note of this and said a tiny prayer in its honor before screaming her bloody guts out.

Any sane individual would have said the guitars were too loud, but these weren’t sane people, and to them the guitars were only too loud once the amps exploded. Thus, the amps were cranked to eleven as the band pummeled its way through the second song of the set. The room filled with the humidity of a legion, losing clothing and inhibitions at an absolutely frightening rate. Lena herself had ripped off her shirt to expose a midriff covered in paint, marker, and otherwise. This revealed various names of animals written all over her chest, arms, and face in a street font suggesting the level of intoxication the artists exhibited.

Much like the animals that served to define her performance now, she bayed, bellowed, bleated, and berated the crowd in the tongues of wolves and lions alike. The crowd, fully aware of who was in charge of the situation, hopped in line to try their hand for dominance. Fists flew and elbows dropped as feet fumbled for footing amidst a river of forcefully-ejected puke and saliva. Challengers approached the pit with far more confidence and teeth than they left with. Both became keepsakes for other challengers as proof that the night had indeed occurred.

“Bist du vorbereitet?!” Lena howled, and the crowd signaled that they were indeed. Despite the ruckus, Lena was far from satisfied with this response. “Ich glaube dir nicht…” she wound them up, “Bist… du… vorbereitet?!?”

The crowd was deafening in its response as the band launched into the next song. “Marsch… schritt… marcsch… schritt…” Lena chanted, roping the crowd into it.

Lena had worked the crowd up into a level of frustration that reflected her own. While the show was now going as well as could be hoped, she was still immensely disappointed at the way it had begun. At the last moment, one of the guitarists and the drummer had decided they no longer wished to be a part of the band. They had abruptly canceled their attendance, levied a few insincere apologies and hugs, before walking off into the night without much explanation.

This left Lena in the uncomfortable position of having to ask one of the other bands if she could borrow their drummer. It wasn’t the biggest deal in the world—musicians wanted to play music, and punks looked out for each other. Still, she was asking them to potentially give a less energetic performance. Once Lebensmüde took the stage no less than 100% was required, and that would make the next band all the worse for it. Thankfully, the drummer for Schweine gefühle had stepped up to the plate feeling confident he could do both shows.

“Marsch!” The guitars wailed louder.

“…schritt…!” Boots planted themselves, refusing to give up ground.

Thankfully, her Hans was here. He was in rarer form than usual, whacking everyone within whacking distance with a bruised paw that treated arms, ankles, and otherwise as equal for the smashing. He had always been the picture of duality—loved for his energy while feared for his moshing prowess. And for sure, tonight was no meaningful exception. Seemingly by will alone, all contenders were pushed, shoved and—if needed—thrown headlong into a veritable cornucopia of un-preferred directions and even less-preferred positions. Yet something was different.

Unlike his typical demeanor, Hans didn’t seem to be having as much fun as he normally did. He wasn’t smiling all that much, and he seemed to be… well, preoccupied. This was something that was hard to manage when one was practically fighting for their life in a musical maelstrom of mildly mind-blowing magnitude. “He seems frustrated…” Lena noted.

“Marsch!” The drummer hit even harder.

“schritt!” A tooth went flying across Lena’s field of view.

She had seen him before the show. Hans had seemed perfectly fine then. He had greeted her warmly and kissed her before crushing for a brief moment. Then he waited patiently for her at the front of the church until her band had finished setting up (while helping a confused drummer figure out which songs were which). After she concluded setup he had lit her cigarette for her.

Between now and the last show, they had met several times. Most of the meetings had been brief—a coffee or a beer at a local shop after school, perhaps. Sometimes, she would visit him at his mother’s apartment and they would cuddle for an hour or so, enjoying each other’s company. A precious few times, when the stars truly aligned, they would get to spend most of the evening with each other. Those nights were the most fun, Lena admitted. Their parents were none the wiser, as well.

“Marsch!” Someone fell underfoot in the throbbing mob.

“Schritt!” The crowd spread out, helped the poor bastard up, then began moshing again.

Over the past few weeks, Lena had grown to trust Hans completely. She remembered what Mr. Müller had said, and it had made her wonder at first. When she could, she watched Hans intently for any signs of betrayal—strange body language, slip-ups in answers, distance—anything that would cause her to cue up on any hidden agenda. So far, at least, Hans had been a perfect angel.

I mean, she couldn’t follow him. Could she? She could of course; but that would put the onus on her. If she did something like that, well, that would be admitting to herself that she didn’t trust him completely. But could anyone have blamed her if she had? These were strange times and the Stasi informers could be anywhere and anyone. Heck, what was stopping Hans from thinking that she was one? “No, no… better to trust.” she resolved to herself.

It was better to trust, right?

____

The show concluded as all of their shows did: with Lena squeezing the air from her lungs in a protracted shriek, standing on the back of one of the larger men in the crowd. Her vision became pinpoint as she applied the cheese-grater of sonic carnage to her vocal folds, finally going blurry. Sound became tastes, tastes became colors, and the flush of hypoxia stole the color from her eyes until she saw in monochrome.

When she came to, she was laying onstage with her protective admirers fanning and cheering at her. Victorious, she stood weakly and raised her fists in the air like a billboard-plastered boxer accepting the title of World Champion. It was now time for her to claim her prize—the adulation of her adoring public. But first… a cigarette.

Dodging conversations, meeting fists and high-fives when she was forced to, and avoiding eye-contact altogether, she half-galloped her way inelegantly out of the crowd, hugging the shadows as if her very life depended on it. “Just a few more steps…” she happily proclaimed to herself, “just a few more steps…” Finally, as if it couldn’t have possibly come soon enough, the door swung open and she stepped out into the cold night air.

She immediately rubbed her hands together quickly—it was much chillier this show than the last. “Maybe I should just pass on the smoke…” Lena thought to herself. As she turned the corner, though, there waiting for her was her Hans. She reconsidered and the prospect of getting some post-show snogging helped her forget the chilly temperature. As a matter of fact, it did seem to be warming ever-so-slightly now that she thought about it.

Yet Hans seemed… different… somehow. Something about him seemed alien to her—like he was a different person. The Hans she knew was confident, funny, and inviting. The Hans that stood before her now looked skittish, paranoid, and almost cowering; and he had this ‘scent’ about him that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. As she thought about it for a second, she realized precisely what it was. Fear. Hans was genuinely afraid of something. “Oh god…” she thought, “It can’t be… he’s not…” Now Mr. Müller had finally gotten to her. She wanted to hate him for it.

“Hans?” Lena said cautiously as she approached him.

“Lena!” Hans said with a hushed bite to his tone, “Come here!”

Immediately, Lena went on the defensive. She should have trusted Hans more. Yet now, Lena was absolutely sure that something bad was going on and that Hans knew what it was, if he wasn’t part of it himself.

“H-hans? Wh-what is g-going on?” she stuttered.

“Shut up, Lena!” Hans said in a hushed, forceful tone that she had never heard before, “Take my hand and follow me. It’s not safe for us here!”

“What are you talking about?!” Lena whisper-yelled.

“There’s no time Lena… they are coming!”

“Who’s coming, Hans?!”

“The Stasi, Lena! The Stasi are going to raid the church tonight, maybe even right now! We have to get out of here, or they will take the both of us!”

“They… how do you know that?”

“Never mind how I know that, Lena. We must get out!”

“But… I have to know how you know that, Hans.”

“I… Lena, you just have to trust me, ok? Please just trust me.”

“You work for them, don’t you?” Lena accused.

“I… I…” was all that Hans could manage.

Betrayal. What a terrible word it was. And yet, there she had it—all the proof she would ever need. Hans was indeed spying on her. Perhaps he had been spying on her all along… who knew? This must have been why he had taken such an interest in her band, and why he had taken such an interest in her. “Oh god”, she thought, “Mr. Müller was right… what a stupid girl I am! Just a stupid, stupid girl!” And now what? Was she supposed to just follow him now that she couldn’t possibly know who he really was?

“The Stasi?! You work for the Stasi??” Lena accused.

“Well…” Hans spoke quickly, “Look, there’s time for that later! I promise… once you are safe I’ll tell you everything. I promise. But right now, we have to get away!”

“How do I know you’re taking me someplace safe, and not just taking me to them!”

“Please!” Hans responded, gesturing for her to lower her voice, “Please keep your voice down. If they hear you, I’m a dead man.”

“If who hears you, Hans? Who’s going to kill you?”

“The Stasi will kill me if they find out! God, you have to believe me—I’m trying to save you!”

“But how would…” Lena thought as she tried to work it all out, “how would the Stasi hear us if… if they aren’t already here?”

“They aren’t here, Lena! They are on their way!”

“But how do… I’m…”

“Lena, half your band is informing for the Stasi. Your old drummer and guitarist… your bassist… the drummer you borrowed from Gefühle, and the lead singer of his band? They are all informants.”

“That…” Lena said, not believing a word of it, “That’s insane. You’re insane!”

“I know it’s hard to believe, Lena, but half your band has been spying on you as well as each other. Hell, half the crowd is probably spying on the bands they came to see. It’s called zersetzung; they drag everyone into it to create rampant mistrust and decay. The Stasi informants are absolutely everywhere. The ones that were told about the raid got out while they could, but the one’s that haven’t, well… tonight, everyone is going to get thrown in the black cells. Please, God, Lena… you don’t want to go there. You can’t… you won’t survive a week.”

“But…” Lena whimpered as her eyes watered with the sting newfound reality.

Her head was spinning with impossible betrayal. It wasn’t just a friend or fan—it was her first real serious love. That was something that should surpass such lies, right? Somehow that made the possibility of it all much harder to believe and much harder to accept. It was all just too unreal. Her band? The other bands? Even her fans… and her beloved Hans… all spying on her and each other? Why, it was just utter madness, pure and simple. For what purpose would this serve? To just create terror and dissent?

Yet as the implications dawned on her, wiping away her love and trust, so too were several other former thoughts wiped irreplaceably away. Everything was different now—a priceless collection of china shattered on the concrete. Her friends, her classmates, her… hell, even Lena’s satirical caricatures of the Politburo as short, stumpy dwarves, sporting overly-large spectacles and pants pulled high over their rotund guts didn’t seem so real. In an instant, everything had changed.

“Lena.” Hans interrupted her thoughts, “I know you must hate me… you have every right to. But if we don’t leave right now they will catch you and drag you to prison. And then you will end up an informant!”

“I’ll never become one of you!” Lena spat at him.

“That’s what they all said. They all refused, Lena. And then they were threatened with six years in the black cells. They had no choice! None of them could face that! God, Lena, they were tortured! What were they to do?!”

“Them?” Lena said acridly, “What about you?”

It was too much to bear. Only a minute into this and her view of not only the GDR had changed, but her beloved scene as well. Gone were her faithful punkers, to be replaced with vile Judases. Gone was her sense of solidarity, to be replaced with a desolate stare from hollow eyes. They were all supposed to be on the same team. They had all bled and cried together, after all. They had fought, cheered, and took solemn oaths as a community. They would never betray each other—certainly not the way that Hans was betraying her now.

“But… but…” Lena argued as the tears gathered fuller and faster, “The lyrics… we all sang them together… we were all hardcore together… did that mean nothing to them… to you?!”

“You can’t beat the system, Lena! You can only fight it. And trust me, if you fight too hard they’ll put a stop to you!”

“Then why even fight it if you are just going to lose?!” Lena screamed, “If you are just going to roll over and give up?!”

“I’m trying to fight right now, Lena! I’m trying to save you! Come with me, please! I’m begging you!”

Suddenly there was a bright flash that darkened the world around her momentarily, along with a cracking ‘boom!’ louder than any sound she had ever heard. Her ears immediately began ringing, which was bad enough, but then the gas hit her and the ringing in her ears became the least of her worries.

The air changed colors. What had previously been a beautifully clear night now became a sort of infected grayish miasma, putrefied with a killing fog. Her eyes fused together as if welded roughly with a glowing torch of fire. They began watering profusely, yet the tears only made the gas sting and burn worse—worse than anything she had ever felt, and it multiplied a thousand-fold every time she opened her eyes. Desperately she tried to wipe away the tears, but then the soaking burn would spike its way further under her eyelids like jagged metal crystals burrowing inside of her parboiled flesh. But this was nothing compared to her throat.

She couldn’t breathe… oh god she couldn’t breathe! “I can’t… I c-can’t…” she howled inside her skull, “I can’t… my throat doesn’t work anymore. My throat doesn’t fucking work! Oh God… oh god… this is how I’m going to die… my throat doesn’t work!” It wasn’t just that it hurt—it did, of course—but her throat had simply swollen shut, as if welded and stitched at the same time. She gasped, taking painful, desperate little breaths, trying to force air down her esophagus; but it was no use. Within seconds Lena was suffocating and there was nothing she could do about it. “Oh god… I can’t breathe… I can’t breathe… I can’t…”

As her vision blurred over, she barely saw the boot slamming into her belly. What little she could see through her shredded, dislodging pupils was too full of murky mist to spy anything more than the limbs of her assailants. Immediately she doubled over and hit the dirt hard. What little wind she had managed to force into her lungs by sheer will had now been forced out again, accompanied with no small measure of acid from her pummeled stomach. All this burned, of course—but nowhere near as bad as her lungs.

The shouting around her was like a scene from a B-rated slasher movie. Harsh male voices muffled by gas-masks hurled commands and insults as younger voices progressed from screams to coughing fits… then back into screaming. Feet stampeded in all directions as booms, kicks and the sound of a door splintering off of its hinges forced Lena underwater into the black of vertigo. She intuitively knew which way was up; yet that knowledge meant nothing to her anymore.

No matter how hard Lena tried to pass out or die, she couldn’t. Once she tasted blood, however, she really gave it an honest effort. It struck her as odd that she could manage to taste her blood through the overpowering taste of throw up, military-grade pepper, and ruined atmosphere. She could, however, and this provisioned the distinct impression that she had lost something precious—if not an innocence, than certainly the integrity of some important organ she required to live.

As she writhed in agony on the ground quivering, throwing up and choking on the air. Every now and then another black boot would kick her, or one of her escaping friends would trip over her only to find a boot of his own. She had never known she could feel this much pain.

She was helpless as she watched Hans and the beating his face was taking from baton-wielding thugs. “His face was so perfect…” Lena thought to herself as she watched his nose explode from a well-placed punch. Blood spurt everywhere as his eyes lolled uselessly back up into his skull.

“Leave this one pretty.” Lena heard someone say, and then, she finally and thankfully passed into oblivion.

Kältewelle

“Clang clang clang clang clang clang…”

The machine-gun fire of a heavy metal stick hammering on Lena’s cell door jarred her awake. She had barely fallen asleep, catching precious seconds of sweet relief, before a surge of adrenaline and fear overtook her slumber. She jumped up, did a confused and awkward defensive dance, then fell to the floor covering her face. She couldn’t see yet—she just knew that she was in imminent danger.

“Sleep time is now over!” a male voice shouted at her through a hole in her door. “Terminate sleeping position! Sit against the back wall! Hands behind your head! Legs crossed! Eyes straight forward! Head at ninety-degree angle! Posture will be…”

The orders went on and on for almost an entire minute. She never saw the one who shouted. He simply beat on her door with his baton and yelled very specific instructions on how to sit, how to sleep, how to eat, where to look, how fast to breathe—anything you could possibly think of, he had instructions on how it was to be performed. She had tried ignoring the commands once; but after getting sprayed down with a fire-hose for what felt like an eternity she decided against trying that again.

She had been sleeping in the back-sleeping position today—on her back with her arms crossed over her chest, right arm over left arm, with left ankle crossed over right; her face pointed directly at the ceiling, eyes closed with absolutely no blinking allowed. She dared not lower or raise her chin, lest her very life be forfeit. Perhaps an hour later it would be side-sleeping position. There were two versions of this and if she were lucky, she would be allowed to bend her knees and move herself so that she wasn’t struggling to stay balanced on her arm (which after a few minutes would be getting much more sleep than her). If she wasn’t lucky, well, she would probably earn the fire-hose.

She had to be very careful, though. The fire-hose was but one sadistic punishment in a long line of options spanning from bad to unimaginably worse. She could be denied rations, switched to ‘loaf des Elends’ (affectionately referred to as either ‘punishment loaf’ or ‘cheerful loaf’ depending on the guard), force-fed aforementioned cheerful loaf through a tube, denied chamber-pot cleanings, or simply have her clothes taken away (a punishment often used in tandem with an overflowing chamber-pot). If she really messed up, they would shoot tear gas into her cell. That had only happened once, but Lena had passed out and begun to drown in a pool of throw-up and saliva after a few minutes of choking. She had to be removed from her cell for reviving while her cell was (poorly) cleaned, and even then, it still made her eyes burn terribly. She didn’t remember what she had done to earn that—she just vowed that whatever it was, she would never do it again.

Her cell was small—perhaps five feet by six feet wide, and fifteen feet tall. The walls, floor, and ceiling were a dark gunmetal-concrete color and they were arranged in a sort of hexagon shape. The only notable feature (comparatively, at least) was the cell door. It was a massive door for the size of the cell. She had only seen the breadth and depth of it once, but no man or creature could ever pound its way through. Certainly, Lena’s 90lb frame would never pull that off. A hole for her food was present as was an eye-hole that almost never opened.

She had a small sleeping pad with holes in it, and a wormy hair-cloth blanket that smelled like piss, fear, and diarrhea. These ratty accouterments provided almost no warmth at all and served to further the impression that she was human refuse—a mere imposition to be discarded when it suited her jailors.

Nights (if days and nights existed normally in here) never seemed to last more than a few hours. She had no windows in her cell so her only way of determining time of day was the lone light-bulb in her cell that seemed to click on or off at random. When she was awakened, it was the morning-stretch position first, with her back against the wall. After this, it would be the first contemplation position, wherein she would scoot forward two inches and sit with no back support, her face tilted down at precisely 45-degrees with her hands resting on her legs; and God help her if her eyes were pointed anywhere but forward. She hated this position. The wall was so close to her back, but the sweet support might as well have been a mile away for all the good it did her. This position would be followed by the breakfast-eating position where she would kneel, tray on her thighs (with the tray always trying to slide off of her lap) and eat to the tempo of her taskmaster.

“Spoon up!” he would shout. Then she would place the spoon inside of her mouth to gobble up what food she managed to fit onto it. “Lower spoon!” he would shout again, followed by, “Spoon food!” If she followed any of these instructions too slowly, her food would be taken away from her hastily, followed by minutes of those dreaded batons clanging on her cell door over, and over, and over, and…

“Eating time is over! Stand up! Face the wall! Hands on head! Legs spread! Head at ninety-degree angle! Eyes…”

She complied, and soon enough her cell door slammed open. A man with heavy boots stomped in, pushing and shoving against her as he removed her food. Once her food was gone, the cell door slammed closed, followed by the baton clanging against it for long seconds. This was followed by more instructions.

“Second contemplation position! Sit two inches from wall! Knees against chest! Arms at side! Head at 45-degrees angle facing up! Eyes forward!”

Of all the positions, this was the second-worst. It is unimaginably hard to keep your knees pressed against your chest without your arms wrapped around them. After a few minutes, your stomach burns, your thighs begin to tremble, and you just feel awful. It was still better than the third contemplation position, wherein she would be forced to kneel half-way with her arms bent forward, as if sitting in an invisible chair. That one was terrible.

“No shaking! No sounds! You are here to consider your crimes against the State; not feel sorry for yourself!” These instructions were followed by more seconds of the baton clanging against her cell door.

Despite spending much of her days sitting in these contemplation positions, the never-ending state of sheer panic prevented much actual thought at all. For first few days (or what she assumed were days), any thoughts were divided between immense discomfort, fear, and trying to figure out how she could get out of this situation. It had consumed her. “Maybe if I just…” was the ever-present thought. “Maybe if I just… what? What in the world could I do?! But I have to do something… anything!” Yet after a week’s worth of complete and abject futility, the second series of ‘days’ were divided between desperately trying to think about what the guards said she was supposed to be thinking about and trying to wish herself back into two weeks ago.

Every now and again, however, Lena felt brave. When she did, she would allow herself the indulgence of regret or worry, thinking about Hans and her poor mother. What terrible fate must have befallen her mother?! Surely the State knew of her poor mental health; but if they hadn’t (or just didn’t care), how would her mother react to a bunch of angry Secret Policemen charging into her house? By now, every inch of her mother’s apartment would be bugged. This meant that they had to have encountered her somehow. Lena felt terrible—if her poor mother had experienced a heart attack or been put under State care, well… the implications were all Lena’s fault.

When Lena’s thoughts drifted to Hans, however, she didn’t know how she felt. Intuitively, she felt that this was all his fault. After all, he was the one who had been reporting on her and her precious scene. Then again, so had everyone, apparently. Hans had been the only one to feel even mildly bad about that and try to make it right.

“Oh god…” Lena thought, “My bandmates…” She had spent so much time with them. She had slept in the same rooms with them, snuck out after curfew with them, shared her most intimate secrets with them. She would have never guessed that they would betray her like this.

But Hans had attempted to get her away from it all. Of course, she would have never gone with him. He had betrayed her worse than anyone! Why in the world would she have taken his hand? But what if she had?! She might not be here. Worse than even that, she considered the state of his precious face with those batons smashing into him again and again. He deserved to be punished for betraying her, but not that—no one deserved such a beating. Perhaps worst of all, Lena realized that if she had taken his hand, he would never have been beaten in such a fashion.

The more Lena thought about it all, the more her mind soured, turning gloomier than it had previously been. She would have cried, but then she would get the fire hose. She knew this from experience. Instead, she chided herself for allowing her mind to wander, and set back to the task at hand—focusing on how badly her legs were shaking in the second contemplation position.

____

“Clang clang clang clang clang clang…”

As painful as it was it was, Lena had almost fallen asleep in the second contemplation position when the clanging started again. “God, I hate that so much…” she almost thought. Yet she was too scared to really think it—somehow, in some way, they would know she was thinking it and she would be punished. “God, could they really get inside my mind like that?” she wondered. And even though she knew that wasn’t technically possible, well, it was best to not risk it. These walls had eyes and ears, and those ears were supernaturally maligned against her.

“It is time for your interrogation!” the voice yelled. “Stand up! Face the back wall! Eyes forward! Hands behind head! Interlace fingers! Spread legs! Lean forward at the waist…” the orders droned on for an entire minute, but Lena had stopped paying attention after the word ‘interrogation’. She had heard horrible stories of the things that the Stasi did during the interrogations. Up until this point she had retained a small, futile hope that it was something she would never have to undergo—now here it was. Yes, outside this prison, the Stasi ruled the public with an iron fist; but inside the prison, well, they answered to absolutely no one.

Her world went dark, as a bag was placed over her head and cinched around her neck. The pressure of vertigo hit her immediately as unseen fists flew towards her face. Imaginary batons inched nearer and nearer to her while hands threatened to grasp her anywhere and everywhere, and she ducked down to avoid a surprise ledge or ceiling from hammering her brow. Whatever her eyes couldn’t perceive, her fear and imagination made up for them—Perhaps a more realistic fear was running into a wall, she realized as she began to be half-walked/half-dragged out of her cell. It was more realistic perhaps, but this place bred an amount of paranoia so extreme she could have expected anything.

She tried the best she could to trace her steps. Perhaps if she paid close enough attention, she would be able to get a bearing somehow. At least, she could figure out the length of time it took to get from wherever she had been to wherever it was that she was going. Yet, as she walked straight forward for—what, five minutes?—and then turned around and around—what… three times?—only to head in what she could swear was the exact opposite direction for—two minutes? maybe?—she realized that keeping track of her route was as futile as trying to sleep in the second side-sleep position.

Screams of pain echoed throughout the halls. These were punctuated by raucous laughter and the ever-present clang, clang, clang on cell doors. “The poor bastard is probably getting the fire hose…” Lena thought sorrowfully. She knew what that felt like, and screaming was most certainly warranted.

Finally, after several more twists, turns, spins and back-tracks, she heard what sounded like a wooden door opening in front of her. Stepping (what she assumed was) through, she felt a mild change of pressure and echo as she walked forward. “America can’t you see… its political slavery!” the hit song by The Dead Weights played softly from an unseen radio in an equally unseen corner of the room.

“You can leave her here, Sergeant.” a brusque male voice spoke in a commanding tone. “I’m sure young Lena and I shall be fast friends. Won’t we, Lena?”

Lena didn’t know how to respond, so she decided silence was the best course, overall.

“I can see our newest charge is rather shy,” the voice spoke again. “Perhaps if we just remove that sack from her head, we can start building some trust. No?”

With that, the cord around her neck was loosened and daylight began filling her vision until the sack was fully removed, and the room was exposed to her. She was in a small room, sparsely furnished, with large windows covering the back wall. She could see the rainy cityscape of Berlin bustling away happily as if this horrible place never existed. In one corner of the room was a plain desk stacked high with papers and folders. On the other side of the room was a chair facing a bright white wall. The wall was extremely smooth and freshly painted, so as to glow in the sunlight streaking in through the large windows.

“So, Lena.” the man began. He was tall and heavily set with muscle. His dark gray uniform was absolutely immaculate with sharp creases, and his boots were spit-shined to such a degree that they appeared to be mirrors in the sunlight. He had a strong, almost handsome jaw. Yet his gray eyes were of an intensity that made the man appear cruel and capable of anything.

“It appears we have a problem,” the man continued. “You were arrested… what, fifteen days ago?”

“I don’t know.” Lena answered honestly. She had no idea how long she had been inside this prison, yet somehow the idea of ‘fifteen days’ surprised her. Then again, the fact that it was daytime surprised her as well. The black cells had that effect on you.

“Perhaps a little courtesy is in order, no?” the man spoke with an acrid tone. “I am an adult. You are a child. When children speak to adults, they refer to them as ‘ma’am’ or ‘sir’, do they not?”

Lena was taken aback by the insinuation that she was a child. But she knew this was not the time to pick a fight over something so trivial. If she really had been in that terrible cell for fifteen entire days (to her, it could have been anywhere from a week to a year), she couldn’t stand the thought of another fifteen. And if calling this man ‘Sir’ was what it took, well, it was a trifling pittance to pay.

“I… I apologize S-sir…” Lena stuttered, hoping that she didn’t sound fake, “I’m just a little…”

“I’m sure you are ‘just a little’ many things, you brat!” the man spat at her. “When I want to know what those things are, I shall tell you!”

“Y-yes… Sir…”

“I don’t know what sort of things your parents and your teachers are teaching you these days, but in my Germany, children respect their elders. And that means children speak only when spoken to.”

“Yes… S-sir.”

“And you are a child, aren’t you?” the man glared.

Lena hesitated. She had only known this man for a few minutes and she already hated him. Yet she had to do what was needed to improve this situation—fast. Placating him was still a small amount to pay for the respite of being away from her horrid little cell.

“Y-yes… yes, Sir.” Lena stuttered.

“Lena…” the man menaced, moving closer, invading her space as he towered over her. “Tell me what you are.”

“Sir?”

“You are a child, Lena. Tell me what you are.”

Again, Lena hesitated. Maybe it was the fact that he had moved into her bubble without her permission; maybe it was what she felt to be a profound disrespect; maybe it was the fact that she couldn’t do a single proactive thing about her situation. Either way, she really didn’t want to say it. Whether she meant it or not, she was allowing him a victory that she would hate to relinquish. Then again, was there any real winning for her in such a place?

“I’m… I’m…” the words caught in her throat, “I’m… a ch-child, Sir.”

“That’s right. You are a child.” The man backed away obviously feeling victorious. “Tell me, Lena. How do you feel about our wonderful country?”

“I… I think it’s w-wonderful, Sir,” Lena responded. She wasn’t lying, per se, just stretching the truth on a few minor points.

“Tell me what you love about it, Lena!”

“I l-love… the trees, the… uh, the city… the… uh…”

“Are you sure you love these things about our country?”

“Yes, Sir.”

With this, the man stomped over to his desk and grabbed a folder filled with loose pieces of paper. Shuffling through them, he picked out a paper in the middle and pulled it out.

“Weak and powerless I feel…” he began, reading off of the sheet. Instantly, Lena recognized the lyrics to one of her songs. “The shadow of the modernity replaces where my heart should beat, and I become stone-like.” On the word ‘stone-like’, he raised an eyebrow before reading more. “While my stone self awaits a new rain to wash me away, seasons never change for I am trapped inside a razor wall.”

The man paused, before speaking in an irritated tone, “Tell me, Lena. Do these words sound familiar?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Do these words sound like the words of a child who loves her country?”

“No, Sir.”

“Do these words sound like the words of a child, who should be seen and not heard?”

“No, Sir.”

“Lena, tell me what you are.”

“A child, Sir.” Lena snuffled a bit, as she said this. She could feel the warm red flush of shame spreading across her cheeks.

“And as a child, Lena, what should you be?” the man glowered at her.

“S-seen… and n-not… not heard, S-sir.”

“That is so correct, Lena!” the man yelled, crumpling up her lyrics in a fist and poking Lena roughly in the chest. “You should be seen and not heard! And yet…”

The man marched over to his desk once again and began rifling through a different set of folders. He was no doubt searching for more damning evidence. Finally, after much pomp and circumstance, as if to accentuate how very many strikes Lena had against herself, he found what he was looking for. He then walked back over to Lena, poking the piece of paper sharply with a finger.

“And yet, here you are! Dancing around on stage with your clothes off, wagging your ass for a bunch of known criminals just… like… you.” His face moved mere centimeters away from hers, staring into her soul before continuing, “Are you truly a criminal, Lena?”

“No… n-no, Sir.”

“Are you absolutely sure, Lena?”

“No… I… no Sir.”

“This is the last time I shall ask, Lena. Tell me, are you a criminal?”

Lena thought this through. He obviously wanted her to say she was, but if she did, would she spend the rest of her life in prison? Would he torture her? Would she ever see her friends again? And yet, if she didn’t say she was, then what? Would he do worse to her? Would she spend the rest of her life in prison until she finally admitted to it, regardless of the truth?

“No, Sir, I swear I am no criminal!” she said, hoping to God she somehow convinced him of the truth of it. She saw a brief twitch in his face, like a vein was about to burst. He looked angrier than she had ever seen another human being look. She truly expected him to punch her or worse.

“Tell me, Lena…” he began, flicking flecks of spittle on her cheeks and in her eyes, “Is it legal for you to smoke?”

“No, Sir.” Lena began, and her heart sank.

“Why is it not legal for you to smoke, Lena?”

“Because…” the words stung even though she had already said it, “…because I am a child, Sir.”

He poked her in the chest again, so hard that she stumbled back against the wall. She felt like falling and crumpling up into a ball right then. Yet she endeavored to find a median between standing her ground and not upsetting the man any more than he already was. It appeared, however, that she wouldn’t have the time to choose where that line was, or if it even existed.

The man grabbed Lena’s arm roughly, squeezing the artery right below her armpit. Weakness seized her instantly as pain flared. He half-led, half-dragged her over to where the bright white wall was and stood her next to the chair, before promptly kicking it over.

“This is the wall for liars, Lena,” the man menaced at her, saying her name in a hate-filled tone. “Stare at the lying wall, Lena. Stare at it… do not close your eyes, Lena! Do not even blink, Lena! If you blink, there will be consequences, Lena!”

She thought it was a simple, silly thing he had asked her to do—for the first thirty seconds, that is. But as the seconds ticked on, the white wall began to hurt her eyes. It was so bright—so bright, in fact, that her eyes began to water. She blinked on instinct, both to knock a few of the excess tears lose and to apply the teardrops to where they actually needed to be on the rest of her precious eyeballs.

‘Whack!’

A bright flash of pain spread across the back of Lena’s thighs, right below her buttocks. It was as if someone had cut her with a red-hot knife, piercing through clothing and skin alike. She instantly recoiled, grabbing her poor legs and prancing stupidly in place. Seconds later the welt became a glow, spreading into a five-alarm fire across her lower extremities.

“Stare at the wall!” the man screamed at her. “Do not look away! Do not blink! Do not blink!”

Lena’s eyes began to water once again, but for a completely different reason this time. A headache was beginning to spread from the sides of her temples down to her lower jaw. She squeezed her jaw so tightly that she wondered if she would crush a tooth. As she stared at the bright wall, seconds became minutes. Her eyes blurred and burned, as her tears were replaced by the unbearable dryness of her deprived sockets. “Oh god… how could it possibly get worse than this?!” she screamed inside her aching skull.

A few minutes of silence and a few minutes of staring finally saw the pain in her legs subside to a dull echo. Then, after a few more minutes, Lena heard the familiar sound of a match striking rough paper, accompanied by the faint yet comforting sound of paper burning away. “My, that’s wonderful…” the man spoke behind her as a familiar smell crept into her nose. This symphony of smell married sweetly with a rush of smoke that made her eyes burn all the worse.

“You know, Lena, nothing really satisfies like a cigarette does.” he said, his tone dripping with self-indulgence. “In stressful times like these, when I am trapped inside the walls of this building, with so much work ahead of me, it helps to take a few puffs. It really helps to take the edge off.”

Almost instantly, Lena’s skin began to itch, as the blood inside her veins began to throb a desperate need for the precious nicotine—overwhelming her senses. She hadn’t even thought about cigarettes once since entering this terrible place—but now that she had been reminded of the smell, a cigarette was the only thing she wanted in the whole world. The minutes ticked on, her eyes continued to burn, and the itch in her blood became a tickle. Then the tickle became rough sandpaper scraping against every part of her. God… she felt thirsty for a cigarette. She literally felt thirsty… she hadn’t had a smoke in so long; but now all she could think about was culling the pins and needles in her veins and satisfying this desperate need that was begging for relief.

“Would you like a cigarette?” the man spoke sweetly, after lighting a second one.

This was a trick. She didn’t know much about this terrible man standing behind her, but she knew that much. She knew this was a trick—it had to be. And yet, she wanted one so bad… it had to be worth the risk. After all, he was asking which meant he was offering. So, technically answering for one was the correct course of action. Yes, yes… of course this was the correct thing to do—trying to satiate those awful pins and needles was only a secondary concern. She congratulated herself on making the right choice and decided to agree. “Oh god, I can almost taste it.” she winced.

“Y-yes… yes, Sir.”

“Mind your manners, Lena,” the man spoke, in an almost fatherly tone. “If you want something, you need to ask politely for it.”

“Sir…” Lena began weakly, “May I please have a cigarette, Sir?”

“Of course, Lena! I would love to share a cigarette with you!”

With this, he promptly lit a cigarette, and placed the business end in her mouth. Almost instantly, the rush of sweet forgiveness and mercy from the great gods above overwhelmed her. Her head began to spin, and her heart began to race as she slowly drew on the sweetest, most deliciously satisfying drag of her life. “God, this is sooo good…” she thought to herself, completely ignoring the smoke wafting into her eyes. It hurt—terribly even—but god, it was worth every second.

“Do me a favor, Lena. Raise your arms.” the man spoke in the same fatherly tone. She did, but he quickly corrected her, “No, no… raise them to your sides, right about shoulder-height. Yes… that’s it. Really get a good stretch!”

After Lena stretched her arms out, the man reached around her and yanked the cigarette out of her mouth, promptly replacing it in the fingers of one of her outstretched arms.

“What was I thinking, Lena?” the man said in a tone of mock embarrassment. “You are a child! You are too young for cigarettes! But lucky for me, you are not too young to hold my cigarettes for me.” With this, the man yanked the cigarette out of her fingers, took a long, nearly pornographic drag on it, and then placed it back in her fingers. “Keep your arms up, young Lena! If you lower them, even an inch, I shall have to be cross with you!”

Lena realized then how much worse it could be than it was before. Her eyes burned, her blood was beginning to itch again, and she was angry with herself for trusting the cruel trick he had just played on her. She raged inside at her own stupidity and the sheer insolence of this man making her hold his cigarette—it was almost unbearable.

An hour later she was still staring at the wall, holding her arms out for his cigarettes. The burning in her eyes was altogether dwarfed by the achy, throbby pain in her shoulders and back as she struggled to keep her arms raised. She had made the mistake of letting them lower just a tiny bit, and this infraction was once again met with the scream of slicing pain across the back of her legs.

She was being assaulted on all five senses, along with a few she didn’t know that she had. Her eyes were blinded by the smoke and the wall, and the resulting headache was intolerable. The rest of her body hurt equally from the terrible sting in her legs, to the mounting pressure on her shoulders, and the phantom pain from not knowing what her captor had in store for her as he stood so close behind her. Her nose smelled the smoke, and the longing for just one more drag only intensified. She was consumed with pain, fear and longing; dying from outside in to inside out. “This is hell… I am in hell… this is what it is to burn alive…”

She tried to distract herself with thoughts of something else—anything else—but her brain screamed so many messages of imminent danger she couldn’t fathom even the smallest concern. She thought she might begin hyperventilating soon if she couldn’t figure a way out of here, but she knew she was stuck—she was so very stuck—right here, whether she liked it or not. She was the property of the State—a mere plaything.

“Lena…” the man spoke after what seemed like an hour of silence, with an utterly filthy tone in his voice, “What are you?”

“I’m a… I’m a…” Lena began to cry with tears of shame welling up in her eyes anew, “I’m a-a child, S-sir! I’m just a child! I’m nothing but a child! I’m nothing but a child!”

Großvater

“Clang clang clang clang clang…”

Once again the heavy metal stick beat against the outside of her cell door, and once again the voice yelled at her: “Sleeping time is over! Sit up! Hands behind head! Head forward…” The dizzyingly long series of instructions had become automatic for Lena. She knew them all by heart now—apparently, her captors had caught on to this because they had begun adding slight variations to the instructions. She had mistakenly placed her head at a 45-degree angle up instead of a 90-degree angle forward, which had earned her a round of bildungsbälle—a series of pepper balls fired at her through the food hole in her door. These stung terribly when they hit her; and they hit her everywhere—in her arms, in her stomach, and on her chest. She recoiled and desperately tried to assume the correct position, but once the pepper-gas filled her lungs, the violent, coughing choke became a more pressing issue than the intense stinging of the balls against her skin. As she choked and cried, she vowed to never miss an instruction again.

“Clang clang clang clang clang…”

Now it was the newly-modified contemplation position. Soon, it would be the eating position, then it would be the other modified contemplation position. After that it would be the Körperliche Gesundheit positions where she would do slow pushups, sit-ups, and other painful exercises designed to “promote wellness and good cheer through fitness.” This is what a guard had told her through the cell door, yet the giggling on the other side as she struggled to hold her body weight up told her that it wasn’t entirely for her good cheer.

After that, it was her daily interrogation where she would again stand facing that damn wall, with her arms outstretched, holding her interrogator’s cigarettes. He would ask her benign questions aimed at weakening her resolve and sense of ‘self’ as they listened to the radio. He would critique each song as it came on, berating it for how socially irresponsible it was.

“What are these idiots thinking?!” he would howl as “Love in a Void” by Siouxie and the Banshees would play. “You know their lead singer is a prostitute and heroin addict? They are all on heroin over there! No wonder the GDR defeats Britain in every single sports match… they all have hepatitis! You should see it on TV; it’s disgusting! They look like zombies, every last one!”

“The audacity!” he jeered, as Janis Joplin’s “Mercedes Benz” played. “We sent those ingrates in America our agricultural techniques, and this is how they express their newfound fortunes?! Writing songs about West German cars! This is capitalism, Lena: forgetting who your friends are! You know she drank herself to death in sorrow after writing this song, don’t you?”

“What nonsense is this?!” he ranted as Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall” played. “Hypocrisy! You know the British and French are building walls of their own to keep out the influx of West German refugees? Not like here in the GDR where we let folks into our country freely! It’s not neighborly… its bad governing! The world has no place for their perversions of socialism!”

“Disgusting!” he wailed as Michael Jackson’s “Rock With You” played. “Do you know that America has become swamped with AIDS? The bodies of men and women litter the streets, I’m told! It’s because of songs like this—homosexuality and inbreeding have ruined America! They have lost touch with good values… not like here in the GDR! You would never find the perverted being celebrated so in our country. It just goes to show…”

Lena was really trying to pay attention; she really was. It was just that her eyes hurt so bad, and her arms burned like fire, and her poor heart was deprived of nicotine, and everything… just, everything was so terrible. Under normal circumstances she might have had the wits to see through his propaganda and the thinly veiled attempts to turn her against her own beliefs and ideals; but he was just so angry about it all. In her weakened and confused state, her mind reasoned that at least some of what he said must have been true.

The first few interrogations she had been able to remain true to herself, but this became increasingly difficult with each session, as her identity began to melt away. At first, she had also been able to mark the passage of time; but this too was slipping away. One day—or night; she really didn’t know anymore—she had arrived to find the room in near-complete darkness, lit only by a spotlight aimed at the bright white wall. After that point, Lena gave up completely on figuring out what day or what when. It didn’t matter anymore. Very few things seemed to matter anymore. She had become less a human being and more a piece of furniture, rotting away in a dismal and forgotten place. She realized this when her interrogator had become warm one day. “What an unseasonably hot day it is!” he had said as he hung his heavy overcoat over one of her arms. That was a long day.

Less and less did her thoughts belong to her. The days of her former punk-rock self were so far away, it was as if they had never existed. She had become a walking shell, and survival was simply a series of instructions to follow. She refused to admit it to herself, but she was beginning to feel safe in the minute-by-minute instructions: Every barked command was simple, after all. She need only follow it exactly and she would be safe—if only for a few seconds. The better she listened, and the more careful she reacted to commands, the safer she would be. Her body didn’t belong to her anymore. In the first days she had rested comfortably inside her head, secure in the knowledge that her body was trapped; but her thoughts were her own. She would let her body be controlled by the barking orders while she experienced a little safety and freedom in that little space behind her eyeballs. They could torture her, pummel her flesh, burn her skin, even gas her, but they couldn’t hurt her. They were only hurting her body—her mind was still her own.

This was simply not the case anymore. She had lost herself—trapped in an empty oblivion and living hell. The best times she had now were staring at her cell door. She knew every dent and every chip of paint; knew every rivet, every panel, and every inch of the frame that held her door and its parts in place. She loved that door—for all of its galvanized steel and rusting rivets. It had become her safe space, and it was far better than the hell of staring at that bright white wall with the god-forsaken pain in her arms, and the smoke wafting into her already burned-out eyes, and the blaring of that horrible music.

“Now this right here is a good band!” her interrogator cheered happily as The Dead Weights played their new single, “The New Old Reality”. He absolutely loved the songs of these musicians. “It’s loud,” he hollered as the radio blared, “but these youngsters know what good socialist values are!”

“Why would we seek escape

From this precious hand of fate

Where lands so sovereign led

Keep capitalism at bay?!”

“I think, young Lena,” he continued, “if this band were to ever make their way to the GDR, I would provide them a tour of the country myself. I would pull strings and get them on our State record label. These youngsters are who you should be listening to—good, community-oriented musicians!”

Lena couldn’t take it anymore. The beatings, the bildungsbälle, the horrid wall, punishment loaf, the gas, her arms hurting, the long interrogations… she just couldn’t take it anymore. Synapses snapped, connections frayed, and tarantulas of pain and nerves danced gleefully down her sputtering spinal cord like drops of poisoned sweat as she finally gave up. What started as a tremble ended as a full-fledged tremor, sinking her to her knees uncontrollably.

She fell to the floor and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. “Oh god…” she said softly as she quivered and shook, “Oh fucking god, why…” She rolled herself up into a ball, making herself as small a target as she could for the kicks that were soon to follow. She didn’t care when they came—she hoped they would. Maybe if she were lucky a boot would find her throat, collapsing it instantly. Then she could die, and this horrible nightmare would finally end. Oh, how she just wanted to die. She begged God for it, “Please… just let it end… kill me please…”

Yet the kicks never came. Her interrogator only stood stoically above her, smoking the cigarette that she had been holding. He said nothing. He simply remained there, towering as if a judge, expressionless in his power.

“Young, Lena?” he asked, gently.

“y-y-yes S-s-s-sir…” she stuttered, through a mouth that wasn’t working quite right.

“What are you, young Lena?”

“A-a-a ch-ch-child… I’m a-a ch-ch-child, S-s-sir…”

“That’s not what I want to hear, Lena. Tell me what you are.”

“I’m a-a-a cri-cri-criminal… a cri-cri-criminal a cri-criminal… I’m a criminal.”

____

“Clang clang clang clang clang clang clang…”

Another round of pepper-balls. Another round of positions. Another round of clanging with the baton. Another night of fitful sleep. Another round of positions. Another round of ‘wellness’ exercises. Another round of giggling outside her door. None of it mattered anymore—Lena was completely broken. Half the instructions she didn’t even follow. It wasn’t that she refused to or didn’t care. She was simply too busy falling apart to really pay attention. When the motivational bildungsbälle began again in five-second bursts, she didn’t even try to defend herself. She simply lay there like a whipped dog, taking round after round, coughing up colors and crying silently. The guards on the other side had laughed uproariously at first, taking sadistic pleasure in her misery; but now, upset by her lack of response, they hollered at her—with anger that was quickly turning to rage. She knew the gas was soon to follow. She cared then—oh how Lena cared—yet she couldn’t bring herself to even roll over.

“Achtung!” a voice yelled, and her cell was promptly opened.

Three large men, all in immaculately-pressed uniforms, charged in and grabbed her roughly. One took control of each arm and the remaining grabbed her legs. Then, the three of them began marching down the hallway with her slung between them like a sack of garbage. If Lena were of a mind to, she might have attempted to witness the route they took. She had gotten used to the convoluted nonsense-routes to her interrogation sessions; but here was her chance to finally see where the corridors actually led. In her unfortunate state, however, she couldn’t be bothered to care. She knew she was on her way to be tortured, interrogated, shot, or worse. Here, there were things worse than death. Lena was sure of that.

When they finally entered the interrogation room, the three guards dropped her unceremoniously on the floor like a rotten sack of meal. Her interrogator stood inside, and he looked very upset.

“Leave us!” he screamed at the three guards. Oddly, they scooted out of the room, almost fearfully.

“I… I… I’m…” Lena started, but he cut her off.

“Shut up, you fucking whore!” he menaced over her, spit flying about. “You fucking whore! We know what you were doing! We know about your shows… about your secret meetings! We know you have conspired against the State. Admit it! Admit it now or I swear to God I will make your life a testament to pain!”

Lena believed he would, but she had no idea what he was talking about. “Secret meetings!?” she thought to herself, “What secret meetings?!”

“That’s right!” he screamed again, “We know about your little resistance! Did you think we wouldn’t find out?! You and that boy, Hans Schmidt!”

“Oh my god,” Lena thought to herself. She really didn’t think about Hans anymore, but at the mention of his name, concern filled her. What had happened to him?! What had they done?

“Oh, make no mistake…” he screamed even louder, “We have him—we have all of your traitorous little friends. He’s still alive… for now. But if you don’t start talking right now, I’ll make sure he never sees another day! I’ll kill him right in front of you! I’ll bring him right in front of you and I’ll shoot him right in that precious face you love so much! The last you will ever see of him is a big, gaping hole filled with teeth and gore! Don’t think I won’t do it!”

“Hans is still alive?!” Lena thought to herself. For all the good it would do, her heart filled with relief and a small amount of joy knowing that he wasn’t dead.

“That’s right!” her interrogator menaced in an even more dire tone as he crouched down next to her. He was inches from her unprotected face, and the madness in his expression was plain to see. “He’s still alive, rotting in a black cell. He hasn’t left his cell since he arrived… since we tortured him, at least. He hasn’t seen a human face or heard a human voice… I’ve been told he screamed like a girl for few nights—and then he went silent. The guards slide his food tray in, but it comes out uneaten. To be honest with you, Lena, none of the guards really know if he’s alive. His cell reeks of feces, I’m told! Several of the guards have cast dice on whether or not he finally killed himself, or if he’s simply lost his mind. Personally, I think he’s just lost his mind… poor, mindless little Hans; muttering to himself, quivering like you, and crying for his wretched girlfriend!”

“That will be quite enough, Lieutenant.” an older male voice spoke from the back of the room.

Lena turned to see who the new voice belonged to. She was surprised to see an older man, perhaps in his late fifties to early sixties, rumpled and balding with gray hair. He immediately struck Lena as a man who slept long and soundly at night and awoke as early as he wished with a minimum of fuss. He wasn’t dressed like the other guards. He wore a slightly wrinkled suit with a slightly wrinkled tie. Everything about the man seemed… relaxed.

“She knows, Sir!” her interrogator practically whined.

“I’m sure she does, Lieutenant,” the man said reassuringly, “and we’ll get the information from her eventually. But for now, I think our young charge would do well with a good rest.”

“Yes, Sir.” the Lieutenant responded grudgingly—no doubt he was upset at having his plaything removed from him in such a matter. “So, now what?” he asked insolently. “We just stop interrogating her? She’s a criminal!”

“Of course she’s a criminal, Lieutenant. As I recall, she has already confessed and has showed contrition. No doubt she feels terrible about her crimes against the State. But she is also a child and couldn’t possibly have known the far-reaching extent of her actions.”

“She knew what she was doing, Sir!”

“I disagree, Lieutenant. As you’ve no doubt noticed over the last few weeks, young Lena is only a child. You’ve skillfully established and informed her of this fact, as well as made her come to see that she and her peers are both impressionable and ignorant. How could these youngsters possibly grasp the sheer scope and breadth of their actions?”

“But Sir!”

“No,” the old man said while folding a handkerchief, “she is merely a young person in need of education. Perhaps this is something I can help her with.”

“But Sir…” he protested again.

“No ‘buts’ about it, Lieutenant.” the older man interrupted him, “You’ve done an exemplary job and now you are relieved. Perhaps you can find some other prisoner to interrogate.”

Her previous interrogator thought about this for a few minutes with a look of consternation on his face. After much thought, however, he seemed give in, offering only a disgruntled “Yes, Sir.” followed by a pronounced stomping out of the room. This was followed with an even more pronounced slamming of the door.

“Ah, the joy of the Lieutenant.” the old man began, breaking the ice. Lena didn’t have a response—she simply cowered on the floor, awaiting some sort of beating, kicking, or otherwise.

“You needn’t fear me, young Lena.” the older man began again, “I have no interest in brutalizing you. I’ve often found that the carrot works far better than the stick in most cases. With you, I aim to prove that. Especially since the stick seems to have been liberally applied already.”

“S-sir… pl-pl-lease… please… I, S-sir, I only…” Lena began, “that i-is… S-s-sir… I-I…”

No matter how hard Lena tried to say something, no proper words found their way to the surface. All Lena knew was that she should always say ‘Sir’ no matter what—it seemed the best way to ensure her survival. And yet, something about the man made her want to trust him. He had already stuck up for her against the vile Lieutenant, perhaps he meant what he said.

“There’s no need to worry, young Lena.” he reassured her again, “You will be perfectly safe with me. As long as you tell the truth and be honest with me, there’s no need to fear anything. You have my word.”

“S-sir… th-th-thank y-you… S-sir… I…”

The man considered her for a moment, nodding his head as if coming to an understanding. He smiled wryly for a brief second, then, leaned over and gently helped Lena to her feet, supporting her all the way.

“Lena, I’m going to give you a gift,” the man said with an impish smirk. “Anytime you and I are together in this room, you needn’t call me ‘Sir’. You may instead call me ‘Grandfather’. When I’ve earned your trust, you may feel free to even think of me in such a manner, should you wish.” Then, with a wink he added, “This shall be our little secret!”

“Y-yes… S-sir… I mean, Gra-grandfather… S-sir…”

“Just Grandfather, Lena!” the old man laughed, “I think this shall be appropriate for the both of us.” Before continuing, the older man leaned in closer and whispered in her ear with an expression so impish that it bordered on prankster, “Especially since it will very much upset the Lieutenant!”

____

“Bang bang bang!”

The sound of a fist beating on her new cell’s door was still jarring; but much less so. These new accommodations were significantly larger than the black cell, sitting at around ten by seven feet. It was painted a sort of pinkish white, had an actual cot, contained a blanket that didn’t smell like piss and fear, and even had a window—yes, a window!—that offered her a small view of the city. It was a view she relished. This wonderful window was more entertainment than she had received in who-knows-how-long and was probably a better view than the average hotel (iron bars notwithstanding).

The other half of her entertainment included a few scant books. Most of them were propaganda books about ‘Commonwealth Advocacy’ (whatever that meant), news clippings about the GDR’s latest successes in advising the American space program, and brochures for joining one of the GDR’s world-renowned sports teams. None of these interested Lena in the slightest. However, a few of the provided reading materials were music magazines. Her new interrogator had made a few efforts to get to know her and win her loyalty appropriately. He had even managed to smuggle in a rock rag from West Berlin! It was a conservative magazine, sure, but it was still filled with images of skinny-clad warriors with their long hair and crazy-looking guitars. She treasured this above all the other comforts she had been allowed.

“Are you decent?” a heavy female voice said on the other side of the door.

These were the two best aspects about her fine new accommodations, all things considered—all female guards and the complete lack of punishment positions. Gone were the days of motivational pepper-balls, punishment loaf, choking gas, and that damn fire hose. She didn’t even have to complete ‘cheer fitness’ and these days she was actually allowed to spend a few hours walking around outside. She didn’t ever get to talk to anyone, of course, but at least she was able to breathe fresh air and feel the damp cool of winter on her cheeks.

“Yes, ma’am!” Lena responded loudly, yet politely.

“Please stand up and face the wall.” the voice ordered impatiently.

Lena complied quickly. It was best not to take her serendipitous circumstances for granted—especially since she knew what was coming. Two female guards entered and she was handcuffed and promptly led out of her cell (with no bag over her head!!!). She knew where they were taking her—her daily interrogation. But honestly, they didn’t feel like interrogations anymore. Certainly not in light of her former interrogator and his torments. In her new interrogation sessions, she was able to smoke and listen to music. She was able to talk about her friends, her family, and her old band-mates. She was even able to talk about punk rock and what the scene meant for her. She tried her best not to give away names or crucial details when she could help it. When ‘Grandfather’ felt she was holding back, he merely said, “When you’re ready to trust me, we’ll talk.” and then moved on to a new subject.

The vast majority of the time, he preferred to move on to the subject of music. Lena was suspicious at first, assuming he was simply trying to build rapport with her. Yet as time went on, Lena was surprised at not only how well-versed in music the man was, but how passionate. Truth be told, he knew far more about music than she did by a decidedly wide margin.

“As you know,” Grandfather began one day, “most of the precursors to punk rock stemmed from The Velvet Underground, a pet project of Andy Warhol. He was, of course, one of the—if not the most—influential artists of our age. And when he set about…”

“Sir, uhh… Grandfather sir?” Lena interrupted awkwardly, “Who’s Andy Warhol, and what’s a velvet underground?”

“You… you can’t be serious.” her interrogator had responded in disbelief, “The soup cans? The Marilyn Monroe? Silk-screening?”

“Who’s Marilyn Monroe?”

“You…” he said, pausing as if he had just watched the Hindenburg explode, “you… don’t know who Marilyn Monroe is either?”

“No sir… Grandfather…”

“What in the world are they teaching you in school these days?!”

“How the GDR invented the cure for polio.” Lena answered honestly.

“Balderdash!” he exclaimed, laughing. “In any case, Andy Warhol practically invented the ‘cult of personality’ by definitively inventing ‘pop art’. He was responsible for making the mundane and trivial aspects of artists and actors (and politicians, by extension) just as important as the things they portrayed. Towards this end, Warhol kept a stable of what he called ‘super-stars’ in his Factory—a clique of troubled young people that he used as tastemakers for what would eventually become a social revolution. However, he was also searching for a new sound that he could use to represent the underground S&M, leather and gay scenes of 1960’s New York. This is how he ended up with The Velvet Underground and eventually The New York Dolls, who…”

“Grandfather sir…” Lena interrupted again, “What were the New York Dolls, and what’s S&M?”

The sudden cocktail of sadness and upset wrought on his wizened old face made Lena cringe with embarrassment. Lena was still getting to know his moods and couldn’t possibly know what it took to genuinely upset this man. That said, he honestly looked as if he had just witnessed Lena kicking a puppy down a flight of stairs.

“Lena…” he spoke softly after mopping some unseen sweat from his forehead, “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you were locked up in this horrible place. No one your age should ever be allowed to play punk rock music without knowing all of this. So, sit down, shut up, and listen—I have an entire course to teach you!”

On top of being a punk aficionado, her new interrogator was also a huge Patti Smith fan. She was a poet, loosely connected with Andy Warhol, that had apparently been incredibly influential to the punk scene.

“Patti Smith has everything.” her interrogator gushed as if entrapped within a teenage crush.

“She’s edgy, gorgeous, intelligent… and she has that slightly-wounded, troubled, religious-dropout sort-of aura about her poetry. Listen!” he would yell, as he played ‘Gloria’ for the fifth time in a row. “Just listen to it! Do you hear how her voice builds momentum with the instruments?! It’s the single most glorious thing I’ve ever heard in my life!”

As much as he loved punk rock and its many stories, however, he seemed to like obscure, less mainstream scenes even more. It was as if, as a child, he had snuck into the attic and rummaged through several dusty old boxes only to stumble upon a priceless painting from a long-dead artist. He treasured this information as if it was his secret heirloom, imparting its whereabouts judiciously to the rare person he felt might appreciate the worth.

“Noise rock…” he pontificated one day, “found a lot of peripheral origins in the US with bands like Sonic Youth and the John Cale-era of The Velvet Underground. But where it got its purest start was more-or-less in the UK with the band Throbbing Gristle who was hailed as the first industrial band—really, they basically invented the genre.” Grandfather would pop on a record, and the two would listen to “Hamburger Lady”, “Something Came over Me,” and “Valley of the Shadow of Death.” These songs were filled with so many sounds that Lena had never heard or even considered to have existed, it made her head spin. Some were beautiful, others were decidedly not, but they were all new.

“Do you hear that?!” Grandfather would expound excitedly. “You know they recorded this in an old, rotting factory? Listen Lena… you can actually hear the furnaces and machines from the industrial district.” He would go on to describe the meaning behind the music. “It’s not so unlike your music when you break it down. Whereas punk rock seeks to annoy the royal or ruling class and sensibilities of the petit bourgeoisie by being irresponsibly loud and violent… pushing as many boundaries as possible… noise rock actually seeks to represent that same emotion through sound.”

He went on to describe the manufacturing crisis in 1970’s Britain and how the widespread poverty made the youth feel useless and stuck. “Noise rock”, he continued, “was engineered to sound useless and stuck! Whereas the Sex Pistols would famously state ‘There is no future, and England’s dreaming,’ Throbbing Gristle took it a step further as if to describe to the bourgeoisie how it felt to be young and future-less.” He would additionally go on to talk about the Solidarity Movement in Poland and the Big Beat scene, along with the many other Warsaw countries that were beginning to ‘see the musical light’ along with their Western counterparts.

You see,” he said, “these movements are not so different from your punk and hip-hop scene in the GDR. All of these countercultures around the world follow an accurate sense of deep political unrest. Personally, I feel that social revolution, political dissidence and leftist movements are inextricably (and equally) linked to—and fueled by, and primarily expressed through—art. The state lets the young people down and the young people respond with—occasionally explosive—creative force.”

You agree with our punk scene?!” Lena whispered incredulously.

Well, yes and no,” he responded knowingly, “I agree with the fervor, but not with the dogma… or what you young people think passes for it, at least. I love the passion. What I don’t agree with is the misplaced sense of loyalty. You see, all of the young people in these countries have more than one thing in common. Yes, they are revolting, and yes, they have a right to. But whether they know it or not—and they don’t—they are actually revolting against the lack of a community… against the lacking of purpose. And I know it might not seem like it,” he added with a wink, “but moral degradation is to blame as well.”

Lena had made confused facial expressions when he had said that.

“I know you young people are all crazy horny,” he said with another wink, and Lena giggled. “But you have to understand that there’s an elegance in courtship. There’s a correctness to proper social demeanor. Then again, I don’t expect you to understand that at your age. What I would hope you would make the uncommon effort to realize is this: everything they are revolting for in the other countries are things that we are blessed to have in the GDR—community; a sense of morality; progression; a purpose. Perhaps the youth in other countries don’t realize that yet. But you, young Lena, are a leader. You, above all, I hope would have the good sense to realize that.”

“A leader?” Lena replied sheepishly. Honestly, she had never really considered herself to be a leader. A rabble rouser, sure… maybe even some mascot after a fashion. But a leader? Oh, that was far too much responsibility.

“Don’t you worry.” Grandfather said with a knowing smile. “You’ll get there soon enough. Let’s use our time together wisely. By the time we figure out a solution to this whole messy business, you’ll be all the wiser—certainly wiser than most of your friends. And then you won’t just be a leader… but you will be the leader they need.”

She had thought on this for a moment, not entirely convinced. Perhaps Grandfather realized she felt so, because he shifted focus by turning up the volume on the radio where Public Image Ltd’s The Flowers of Romance was playing. “Now this album,” Grandfather had begun, “is very controversial because…”

Many days passed in this fashion. Grandfather had made her internment the next best thing to pleasant (if anything akin to pleasantness could be found in such a place). She knew he was speaking on behalf of the State—they all did—but no one garnered that much knowledge about music without actually enjoying it. Sure, most of the time there was a moral to the story: some sort of ‘State wisdom’ he seemed to want to impart. But Lena got the distinct impression that he was using her as an excuse to relax and listen to music he otherwise wouldn’t be able to.

He wasn’t even putting much effort into the ‘State’ side of things, truth be told. Sure, he believed in the GDR’s way of doing things, but that was because it was the right thing to do as far as he saw it. Lena honestly believed that if her country had a separate preference for the definition of ‘social unrest’, Grandfather would still stick to his guns in favor of community and purpose. She legitimately couldn’t fault him for that. He believed what he believed because he genuinely believed it—it just so happened that those beliefs aligned with the State that employed him.

His genuine belief and obvious sincerity had a profound effect on her. As the days wore on, she felt several changes taking place inside of herself. She began to feel more comfortable talking openly about her former life, and legitimately regretted some of her mistakes. Why, oh, why had she decided to write those lyrics?! At best, it was stupid and dangerous for her. At worst, it was legitimately stupid and dangerous for her family and friends. They didn’t deserve to be led astray by her and her stupid opinions. She was a child after all. No, not a worthless thing to be seen and not heard, as the Lieutenant had put it… just uninformed and lacking in grand perspective.

____

Lena was led back down the hallway past several cells and rooms for yet another interrogation, a few days later. All of them were reasonably pleasant, given her former circumstances. After a long walk between two female guards who seemed rather impatient with Lena’s shackled shuffle (staircases were the worst), she was led into the room she had grown quite familiar with—the white wall, the big open windows, the small desk and the radio. Something was different this time, however. Instead of just her Grandfather waiting there for her, a tall man also stood in the corner. He was over six feet tall, ruddily handsome with vaguely mixed-German features, and had an immaculately pressed uniform. His uniform was different than the rest of the Stasi. It seemed… well, larger somehow. It was almost as if it was designed twenty-years too early with cheaper cuts and off-putting browns and yellows. It was also covered with an abundance of large medals and honors to his importance for all the world to see. He did have a certain air of importance about him, surely, and he stood in the corner as if bored with the world—a sort of impatience with life itself, and nowhere to relieve that impatience.

“Young Lena,” Grandfather began softly, “why don’t you take a seat. We have much to discuss, and precious little time to do it.”

Awkwardly, Lena started towards her seat in front of the desk and sat down, shuffling her hands. The air in the room felt different. An uncomfortable tension and sense of urgency filled it, although Grandfather didn’t seem of a particular mind to change that just yet. Certainly not with the important-looking man standing in the corner.

“Lena, I’m going to be honest with you.” Grandfather began. “I’ve enjoyed our time together, but I’m getting pressure from The Top, you understand. Until this point, we’ve done things pretty off-the-cuff and informal. Not just to make you more comfortable, but because I’ve needed the break!” He added this last part with a laugh, and Lena nervously laughed as well. The important man standing in the corner simply rolled his eyes.

“It’s time we get down to business, Lena.” Grandfather continued, “I know who you are, and you know who you are. We both know you are a good person who truly means no harm. Unfortunately for the both of us, that’s simply not good enough. In the eyes of the State—who’s rules I am bound to enforce—you are still a criminal.”

Lena’s heart skipped a beat.

“I know, I know…” he consoled her, “it feels like we are past that point. Maybe that’s my fault. I certainly haven’t brought it up. Not directly, at any rate. I had hoped that… well, by now, you would have reached a point where we could simply put all of that behind us.”

Lena stared as he continued with an increasingly somber tone, “But the truth is this: in the eyes of the State you have committed the crimes of sedition, treason, and various other high-level misdeeds. I have tried to explain to the men at The Top that you were merely young and ill-informed, and that our time together has reformed you into a new person.”

“It has!” Lena interrupted as a bright red heat flushed across her face. “Truly it has!”

“I know you think that, Lena,” he replied, “But in my world, with men like the Colonel standing behind me, you haven’t. Not for crimes as serious as yours.”

The important man standing in the corner gave Lena a look—it was bored, yet knowing. Grandfather had many different and conflicting emotions written on his face, however—the most prominent of which almost appeared to be pleading. Without saying it, Lena could see the depth of concern he bore. He cared for her and genuinely wanted to help her escape whatever fate was coming her way. Didn’t he?

“I’m so sorry, Grandfather,” Lena apologized, meaning every word. “What can I do to help?”

“Grandfather?” the colonel noted, again rolling his eyes. Lena instantly felt embarrassed. When he spoke, however, Lena noticed that he had a slightly different accent than Grandfather. She couldn’t quite place it, though.

“It’s a permission given, Colonel,” Lena’s ‘Grandfather’ responded, “not a liberty taken.”

“Suit yourself,” the colonel responded, unamused, before turning to Lena. “Unfortunately, you have taken too long. We only have a certain amount of resources we can allocate per case, and we exceeded yours months ago. We had charged your ‘Grandfather’ here to see if we could find use for you. So far, he has performed less than adequately.

“There will be a trial, of course. You will have a lawyer and will be allowed to plead your case, but after wasting so many resources on you, I’m afraid they aren’t likely to be lenient. The absolute minimum sentence for any one of these infractions is…”

“B-but… but…” Lena stammered, the shock written plainly on her face.

“Unfortunately, there are no ‘buts’ to be had,” he interrupted. “Your crimes are too serious, and you’ve been too expensive. Your ‘Grandfather’ here moved you into a two-person cell; spent State money on better food and reading materials; wasted precious time that should have been spent on interrogations rather than consorting. Perhaps the blame is better placed at his feet for your recalcitrance, but the result must still remain the same.”

“Gra-grandfather!” Lena began, feeling terribly guilty, “I’m so sorry! I was listening the whole time! I am a changed person, I swear it!”

“The time for apologies is past,” the colonel spoke, unmoved. “He will be punished for his failure, and you will be processed into the system.”

“B-but… but… please!” was all that Lena could manage, as the tears began streaming down her face.

“He will be relieved of his duties and placed on house arrest. Lena, you will be remanded to your former cell,” the colonel continued, apathy written across his increasingly dour face. “Since there’s no hope in changing you, I see no reason for interrogations to continue with your former interrogator, but we simply can’t waste a two-person cell and good blankets on a lost case.” Looking up and motioning at the door, he added, “Guards, please see to her processing.” With this, two male guards entered the room and stood by the door—one with the dreaded bag in his hand.

“No! Please don’t! I’ll do anything, sir!” Lena begged, as she fell to her knees in the purest display of contrition she could manage. She didn’t know which could possibly be worse: the black cell or disappointing her precious Grandfather. “Anything, Sir! Anything… I will do anything! I swear it on my life!”

“I’ve seen enough. Guards, please remove her to the black cells.”

“God no!” Lena shouted, as she crawled on her knees to Grandfather. She wrapped her arms around his legs tightly and cried into his knees as she screamed, “No! Please… I’m so sorry! Please forgive me!”

“Lena, I…” he stuttered, “I’m so sorry, but…”

“Please!” Lena howled as the guards reached down to pry her arms off, “Please don’t let them take me! I’ll do anything! Anything!!!”

“Wait just a moment,” Grandfather said with authority, and the room paused.

“Colonel, I realize that this one seems like a lost cause, but perhaps we have use for her yet.”

“I’ve seen quite enough to the contrary,” he responded plainly.

“As have I, but I know this young woman. I know she is a changed woman, and I know she is willing to demonstrate that to us.”

“Anything!” Lena cried, “Oh please just believe me… please…”

“What did you have in mind?” the Colonel asked, with a still-apathetic tone.

“Well,” Grandfather began, “Let’s give her the opportunity.” Placing a hand on the top of her head, he spoke with an exceedingly caring tone, “Lena, I want to help, but I can’t do this on my own. I need you to give me something.”

Lena’s mind was swamped with terror. Her head was spinning, and her pulse was running so quick she thought she would pass out. She didn’t know what these men could possibly want to know, but she vowed to find something. She had to think of something. Her Grandfather was counting on her.

“We play shows in the churches.” Lena said. She listed off the names of her band-mates, of the bands she played with, their band-members, and all the regulars that attended frequently. She told them about her bedroom and about all the illicit paraphernalia she kept hidden inside. She told them about the record, about her zines and what was in them, she told them about the posters she had, and how she was able to gather them. She told them everything that she could think of.

“This we already know,” the Colonel said. “All of it. Useless. Is this the best information you have?”

“I… I…” Lena stuttered.

“Tell him something more important, Lena, please,” Grandfather said. “It’s ok. You can trust us.”

“We meet on the rooftops every night,” Lena started. She told them about the secret radio, and about the pirate radio station and how they built the antenna. She listed off the names of Mrs. Schroeder, Mr. Müller, Lorenzo, Mick and all the others. She felt terrible, even when she told them about annoying little Herr. But she gave them all the names; every single one.

“This is concerning,” the Colonel said.

“It’s not so big a deal,” her Grandfather spoke. “Many people in the GDR do the same thing. Besides, this Mr. Walter Müller is a known informant. He has already told us most of this and it was deemed not worth pursuing.”

“So then what else does this woman have that is worth my time?”

Lena’s shame at revealing the names of her extended family was somewhat abated by the mentioning of Mr. Müller. “He was spying on us?!” Lena screamed at herself, “Why… why didn’t he tell us?!” And then the reality of her situation, and the information she was giving away dawned on her, and she realized that she couldn’t be so mad at him.

“Lena,” Grandfather said in a sweet tone, “tell the colonel about this boy Hans.”

There it was: the bomb. The young man she had been falling for, Hans, with his perfect chin and long black hair. He had been spying on her, sure, but so had her bandmates, apparently. And he had put himself in great danger to try and get out… oh, how could she betray him like this? The images of the beating Hans had received was burned forever into her mind. He could be dead; he could be worse. Was it a trivial thing giving away this information? Or would it worsen his position?

Lena hesitated just for a minute; apparently, the colonel cued in on this. “You see?” he said, “Despite the boy being a spitzel, and despite our benevolence, this woman still holds more loyalty to him than she does to us!”

“Give her a chance, Colonel.” Grandfather said with a sweet, trusting tone, “Lena will do the right thing. I know she will. I believe in her.”

“Hans was spying on me.” Lena began, with much less hesitation than before.

She told them how Hans had started coming to her shows, about the budding romance the two of them had built. She told them about her smoking cigarettes after the show, and how Hans was always there to bring her jacket. She told them about the last show she had done before the Stasi raid, and how Hans had revealed to her that he was a spitzel. She told them how he had attempted to get her out of there before the Stasi came. She sensed a subtle shift in the room as soon as she mentioned the Stasi raid. She noticed Grandfather leaning in closer. And as her story continued further, she even noticed that the Colonel was leaning in. As she continued, sharing as much detail as she could remember, she noticed the demeanor of the Colonel shift from apathy to interest, interest to irritation and finally irritation to barely-contained rage as beads of sweat formed on a pulsing brow and grinding jaw.

“He told you he was a spitzel, did he?” her Grandfather asked her.

“Yes. Well… he never said he w-was a spitzel—but he said he was informing.”

“He said he was informing for the Stasi?”

“Yes… well…” Lena thought about it as hard as she could and decided to be as accurate as possible. “He never said he was spying for the Secret Police. But he implied it.”

“How did he imply it, young Lena?”

“Well, because he knew that all the others were informing, and he knew about the raid like they did.” Somehow, this answer did not seem to satisfy Grandfather.

“Where was he intending to take you, dear girl?” the colonel asked with a composure that was barely holding itself together.

“Well, Sir, we never actually went anywhere…”

“He never said anything about a location? Nothing whatsoever? No mention of a bar… a rooftop… even a direction?”

“No Sir… I didn’t believe him and didn’t want to go…”

The now visibly enraged colonel seemed very unsatisfied with her honesty. He began launching into several questions that didn’t appear to have anything to do with anything of import. These were questions like, “Where was your first kiss?” “Did he ever express frustration with you and go somewhere to cool off?” “What was his best friend’s name?” At first, they all seemed to be completely random, but once Grandfather joined in, asking random questions as well, Lena began to understand: they wanted to know where Hans went when no one was looking. More importantly, they believed he did go somewhere that no one would look for him to meet with someone that Lena should have known about. Perhaps this was why Hans was so desperate to get her out of that church. Perhaps, perhaps…

“S-sir…” Lena stuttered as reality dawned, “How did Hans know who y-your informants w-were?”

“Stupid girl!” the colonel lashed out, picking up and throwing a small wooden chair across the room. Sweating to the point of indignity, he berated no one in particular, “What a stupid girl! Stupid and useless! She knows nothing!”

“Perhaps given time…” Grandfather responded in a placating tone.

“No! There is no reason!” the colonel spat at him. “It was too late the moment we took the little bastard and his friends into custody. It is now almost two months later! Two! This is precisely why we warned against the raid! This! Did we not warn against it?!”

“Yes Colonel, you did,” Grandfather replied calmly.

“But your leadership was too hasty… too hasty! And now what do we have to show for years of work? Almost two years of monitoring the boy… gone! A two-year counter-intelligence operation… utterly blown! Tell me what we have to show for it?!”

“I suppose…” Grandfather responded before being cut off by an increasingly irate colonel (who was now bellowing so loud, Lena thought he would have an aneurysm).

“…a stupid useless girl, that’s what!” he raged, “A stupid useless girl who means less than nothing to the project! Meanwhile, millions of marks—flushed down the toilet like so much shit! How must I explain to my superiors the extent of your superiors’ actions? You tell me, Sir! You tell me!”

“I couldn’t possibly begin to, Colonel,” Grandfather said in a manner that sounded contrite, but felt almost like a carefully concealed giggle.

“Oh, you love this, don’t you?!” the colonel screamed so loud that his voiced cracked up an octave, “It’s an outrage! It’s treason… sabotage! I should have you for mutiny!”

“You are absolutely correct, Colonel,” Grandfather stifled back laughter.

Lena had no idea what was going on. However, there appeared to be some sort of power struggle going on between the two—something much like a prank, but far more insulting. Something had happened, both without her knowing and with her assistance. Almost as instantly as she realized she was a pawn, Lena realized she hated being one. Yet, as the colonel appeared to regain his composure (pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his furrowed brow) she realized that Grandfather appeared to have won. That was marginally safer for her, right?

“Maybe I will have you for mutiny,” the colonel said dismissively, after smoothing out the front of his uniform. “Maybe I’ll have you all for mutiny. Then you and your precious whelp here can laugh off your little jape in a Gulag together.”

“And what should I do with my precious whelp, Colonel?” Grandfather said with poorly feigned contrition.

“Throw her in a cell… release her… beat her, starve her, wrap her up in a package and send her to the Americans for all I bloody care! She’s worthless to us now!” With that, the colonel stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind him, guards in tow. Not that Lena particularly liked being referred to as ‘worthless’, but perhaps ‘worthless’ was a good thing to be to a high-ranking official who had just casually mentioned letting her go. Oh, her heart had skipped a beat on that one.

“Well,” Grandfather began, “now that that little ordeal is over, let’s figure out what we are going to do with you.”

“I… I d-don’t understand…” Lena stuttered, honestly.

“I don’t expect you to understand all the intricacies and nuances of that nonsense,” he responded. “Let’s just say that officers have a game they play with each other.”

“A game?”

“Yes… although it’s a game no one really wants to play. But it’s a game that everyone wants to win, so they play, realizing all the while they are going to lose. It’s because as long as they still have cards in their hand… no matter how poor… they still haven’t technically lost.” Grandfather took a moment to walk slowly behind his desk and plop down in the wooden chair behind it. He rubbed his face, before continuing.

“Lena, a word of advice for your older years.”

“Yes, Grandfather?”

“Just because you’re still playing doesn’t mean losing isn’t inevitable. Learn to recognize when it is… and then give up, no matter how much pride you have to swallow. Continuing to play doesn’t always mean you still have a fighting chance, but it almost certainly means a greater cost. Learn to recognize this, and you will always be ahead of the other losers who don’t. Plus, it leaves more time for finding a game you can win at.”

“Yes, Grandfather.” Lena said, not fully understanding what he said, or even how it correlated.

“Also, Lena?” he said with a slight twinkle in his eye.

“Yes Grandfather?”

“Never miss an opportunity to screw with Russian Intelligence.”

Lena laughed. Still, she didn’t understand the significance of what he had said. She just figured the comment was more for him than it was for her. Yet something was now nagging at her and she had to ask, “Grandfather, what did Hans do?”

“Oh, Lena…” Grandfather spoke, with a grave tone in his voice, “He did something very bad. Yes, something very bad indeed. Maybe one day we can speak about it, but for now—and for the foreseeable future—it is not safe for you to bring him up again. Please understand—and I’m sorry to say this—but you will likely never see the poor boy again. Best to just forget about him.”

Lena should have known this was coming. No, she did know this was coming—she just hadn’t wanted to admit it. Even now, she still just wanted to pretend that it wasn’t true. Hans and those big handsome eyes of his… gone for good? It was a truly terrible thought and thinking about it brought a sniffle to the bridge of her nose that threatened to spread into a pretty embarrassing crying session.

Yet still, her undecided future might well be decided here and now. So, she resolved to say whatever she had to say to finally get out of this terrible place. She would play the changed young person. She would see the wickedness of her former ways and be a good little puppet. She would love the GDR and all that it represented. She would spout the axioms, tout the policies, tow the party line and toot the horn of the Politburo in all its newfound majesty. Hell, she’d even praise the damn Wall if she had to.

“So now we arrive at you, young Lena.” Grandfather spoke as if sensing her disquiet, “What are we to do with you?”

“Grandfather… I… I…”

“Oh don’t even think that I’m sending you back to those wretched black cells,” he spat. “There isn’t even a reason to keep you here. This place is for terrorists and seditionists… maybe criminals, if somehow the jails magically fill up. But only actual criminals. As far as I’m concerned, you should have just been given a good yelling-at and sent on your way without your supper.” Laughing a little to himself in some profound amusement, he added, “Starting a punk band and speaking out against the GDR… what with the Secret Police running around… really, what were you and those morons you play with thinking?”

Lena honestly didn’t know anymore.

“Ah, to be young and stupid! It really is a beautiful thing, if not irritating.” he mused, “I was not so unlike you in my youth—just not so gloriously open about it all. Still, it is rather frustrating the nonsense we have to contend with in these walls. The Secret Police are just incapable of knowing a real asset when they see it. ”

“But Grandfather,” Lena began, “Aren’t you a Secret Policeman?”

“God’s no! You honestly think I’d waste my advanced age on shooting pepper balls at young girls and making them hold my cigarettes? Look at me, Lena. Do I look like I have enough life left in me for that?!”

“You look…” Lena attempted to answer honestly. Then she realized she might be rude to do so.

“I’m old, Lena. I have better things to occupy my time with. Namely, foreign intelligence with the HVA.”

“The HVA?” she asked, surprised.

“Oh, it’s just another mindless acronym to make it all sound more important than it is. Cameras, pencil guns, bureaucracy—that sort of thing—and honestly, after a while it all gets bloody boring. That’s why I love meeting bright young people like you, so that you can do all my work for me, and I can finally get down to the business of being an old man: waking up to my own farts, dying in my sleep and blaming it all on the youth.”

Lena laughed.

“In any case…” he said, giving Lena a serious look, “There really is no reason to keep you here anymore. That is… provided you’ve learned your lesson?” He said this with a raised eyebrow and knowing glower that suggested she say precisely what needed to be said. This was obviously not the time for her to lip off.

“Yes, Grandfather. I promise! Absolutely I’ve changed… cross my heart and…”

“Oh, knock it off,” he said sarcastically. “I know you’re a raving little shit. That’s what I liked about you in the first place! You should know by now, I don’t care what you think; I care what you do. And it’s doing that’s going to get you out of this place. If you are willing to do something for me, that is, then I see no reason you should spend another night here.”

“What is it?” Lena asked.

“Well, normally my colleagues here would relegate you to a minor role… something anyone could do, really. You know, keep an eye out for dissidents; spy on your neighbors; tattle on your friends; all sorts of unsavory activities that I know you wouldn’t like and probably wouldn’t do. Unskilled labor, really. But quite honestly, I think you’re smarter than that. I think you have potential—a rare mind, and keen ability to think on your feet. Personally, I think you have the ability to go far. If not in our organization, then certainly in the GDR. And if our little meetings have proven correct, I think I have something in mind that you are uniquely prepared for.”

Sweet freedom was so very, very close, she could almost taste it. After months of eating the life-equivalent of saw-dust-packed hard-tack, she was now mere sniffing-distance from a ripe young peach bursting with sugar and nectar. She was so ready to gobble up the sweet peach of freedom that she began salivating. She would do absolutely anything he asked, she realized, even inform, if she had to. Yet what he said, she was definitely not uniquely prepared for.

“Young lady,” he said with an ornery gleam in his eye and a mischievous grin, “I want you to start a band.”

Vorgetäuscher Held

“He meets with a tall man every Wednesday,” Lena whispered. “I don’t know his name. He looks to be about thirty, though; and he dresses very smartly—like he belongs in a magazine.”

“And what do they talk about?” the Stasi officer asked.

The cafe was small, but filled with people. It was evening and folks were out relaxing after a long day’s work—a beer here, the odd coffee there—and clouds of cigarette smoke wafted throughout the room, gently carried along by the jazz music and clapping of the patrons. This was the perfect meeting place for Lena and the young officer. It was out in the open to not arouse the suspicions that lone alleyways often did. Yet, despite her worries that nosy passersby would overhear, the officer assured her that no one cared. She wasn’t so sure at first, but she got used to it.

The two of them were a young dating couple out on the town for a coffee. They weren’t, obviously. It was just a cover. Nevertheless, she was dressed like she meant it, with the lowest-cut blouse she could safely filch, and the closest thing to a skirt she owned. He, on the other hand, was dressed plainly in gray and brown—blasé, just like everyone else. Even though the two weren’t actually dating, this miffed her slightly. Despite his indifferent dress and the fact that he wasn’t much older than her, he was quite pretty. Maybe not Hans-pretty, but he had a sort of slender beauty to him, like a dancer or footballer and his smile was quite charming in an obnoxious sort of way.

“I can only make out small parts. He mentions Herr a lot and the albums that he buys. Lately, he’s been talking about Jonathan and Janet, though. He mentioned something about parties that they go to on the weekend.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I do, yes. Although I feel that he’s holding back key elements. It’s not that what he’s saying is untrue—just that it’s not the entire truth.”

“And why do you feel he would do that?”

“Because Mr. Müller does not like the Stasi.” she replied, gesturing with her hands, “but he also retains loyalty to our rooftop gatherings; he feels that we…”

“Don’t move so much,” the officer interrupted her. “Eyes are drawn to cheer and exuberance and you’re attracting too much attention. When we are talking, you must appear uninteresting.”

“Yes, Sir,” Lena replied before continuing, “He feels that we deserve a…”

“Don’t call me ‘sir’,” the young officer interrupted her again. “Remember, we are supposed to be dating and this is a casual place. We must be appropriately casual. Ears cue up on titles.”

“Yes… errr… honey?”

“We are not that far along in our courtship,” the young officer laughed, “You may call me by my name.”

“Alright, Patrick. Well…”

Lena had been informing for the Stasi for nearly three months now. She met with this young officer every Tuesday and Thursday evening, spilling the beans about many aspects of her ‘secret’ life. She told him about her latest band, about the bands she played with, about her continued rooftop gatherings, about… well, most aspects of the lives of others. When needed, she would follow various people and learn everything she could about them.

Currently, she was following Mr. Müller, whom she already knew to be a Stasi informant. Her job, given to her by this young officer, was to follow him at a distance and spy on his meetings with his own Stasi officer. She had no doubt Mr. Müller’s officer knew that she was there, as he gave regular reports on Lena. “She follows too closely,” one report said; “She looks around awkwardly when M turns,” another divulged. Lena took these critiques to heart, and learned from them the very best she could.

“That is enough,” Lena’s officer interrupted her again. “You are doing very well, Lena. M’s officer reports that you are finally learning how to tail correctly.”

“I’ve been working very hard at it,” she replied, feeling good about herself.

“You still have a ways to go, however. Remember what I told you about ‘heat levels.’”

Heat levels was a simple concept and referred to how hot you were on the tail. If the person you were tailing interacted with you in any way (scanning in your direction, slowing to listen for footsteps, looking directly at you, being in one place for too long), you were too hot and received a strike, raising your heat level. Once you reached ten strikes, or ‘heat levels’, you simply walked away. Better to give up and pick up the trail later than to never be able to pick it up without being instantly recognized.

“I remembered.” Lena smiled, proud of herself.

Did you notice anyone on your way to meet with me?” Patrick asked with skepticism in his voice.

Lena thought about it hard. Counter-surveillance training was difficult for her. For one, it never naturally occurred to her that she might be followed. So, she had to constantly remind herself to keep a sharp lookout. Second, it was difficult to naturally look over your own shoulder to scan for anyone without arousing suspicion.

“I noticed someone in a red hat,” she said, awkwardly.

“Wrong. This one was wearing a brown jacket.”

“Everyone wears a brown jacket!” Lena replied, trying to keep from moving too much.

“Yes… that’s the point—to blend in. If he was wearing a red hat, he wouldn’t.”

“But the last one was!”

“That’s because you stink at counter-surveillance,” he replied, matter-of-factly.

Lena was trying. She really was. But this new realm she had found herself in was so foreign and hard for her to navigate. It didn’t really come down to specific clothing like red hats or brown jackets. You were looking at everyone for everything. You had to memorize the outfits of everyone you saw, and keep a rolling list of which outfits you saw more than others. This was impossible. As far as she knew, shadow people were constantly following her everywhere she went, and it really wore on her nerves. More unnerving still was the fact that she never saw any of these shadow people (unless they were wearing an obvious red hat). The old Lena would have taken that to mean that those people weren’t there. Now she understood they were always there; she just didn’t see them.

“I won’t ask if you used the alternate route since you didn’t see your tail this time,” her officer continued, “But did you take the proper first route?”

“I did!” Lena smiled, trying to appear as normal as possible. “Around the corner store, stop outside the bank, left on 9th, three blocks on the right side of the road, right on 6th, two blocks on the left side, and then backtrack a block to the cafe.”

“And with all of that, you still didn’t manage to see him?” her officer replied, annoyed.

“Well…”

“It’s not a big deal,” he reassured her. “We’ve got plenty of time, but if you don’t start improving in a month, I’m going to put an officer on you 24/7 until you learn.”

Secretly, Lena figured she was already being followed 24/7, but she didn’t admit to it.

“I may just do that anyway…” he continued, “I can see that this stresses you out. You need to get used to being followed so that you appear more natural. Have you found our camera yet?”

Dammit, this was the most annoying thing in the entire world. The stupid Stasi and their stupid hidden camera in her stupid apartment. Just the thought of it made her want to jump out of a window. As soon as Lena had been released from prison she had been informed that her apartment was bugged. This wasn’t surprising. Bugging houses was the Stasi’s bread-and-butter for suspected dissidents and informants alike. However, Grandfather had informed her that if she found the hidden camera, it would be removed and she would be rewarded with a bug-free apartment from there on out. She spent hours every day looking for the damn thing. She pulled all of the books off the shelf, looked under all the vases and checked under her bed. She even looked inside the fridge. No matter how hard she tried, though, the thing completely evaded her notice.

“No,” she replied, showing much annoyance.

“Well, let me ask you this,” the young officer said, amused by her temper, “what are you looking for, exactly?”

“A camera.”

“You are looking for a camera that’s hidden?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you looking for a camera that’s hidden?”

“Because… because…” she honestly didn’t understand why he would ask her such a stupid question.

“Let me try this another way. What do you think a camera is going to look like?”

“A camera,” she said, trying not to sound as insolent as she felt. “A small black thing with a lens on the front. How many ways can a camera look?”

“Alright,” he began again, laughing. “So we’ve hidden a camera in your apartment. Right?”

“Right,” she responded, fuming.

“A camera that we don’t want you to find, right?”

“Right,” she responded, exasperated.

“Have you ever thought that maybe the hidden camera wouldn’t look like a camera?”

For a second, Lena considered hitting something. It was really frustrating how dumb he thought she was—asking her what she honestly thought a camera looked like… what a stupid question! Everyone knew what a camera looked like. Yet as she settled in to his last question, her thoughts stopped in their tracks. Now that he had asked her that last question… well, it had never occurred to her before that a camera would look like anything other than a camera, or that a ‘hidden’ camera could actually be concealed in plain sight and that it could literally look like anything. A pencil, perhaps… a book… maybe—it could be anything.

“…no,” she replied, hating the entire world.

“Lena?”

“Yes?”

“Start thinking, ok?”

“Alright.”

After Lena agreed with him, he tapped the top of his wrist as if checking to make sure a non-existent watch was still running. This had become a signal between the two that she had become quite aware of during her training. The signal vaguely meant, ‘This is an important thing you need to focus on’, or more generally, ‘spy stuff is currently afoot’.

“Now, let’s talk about what you’re wearing.”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Lena asked, feeling insulted.

“Again, we’re not here to draw attention. I can see the top of your tits. And if I’ve noticed, everyone else has too. We are out on a date at a cafe, and you look like you want attention. Men will try to listen in to figure out lies to tell you after I have left.”

“Men don’t do things like that.”

“You’re not a man. Your opinion on us doesn’t count.”

“Well, you’re not a woman,” she replied indignantly.

“I’m your training officer. Your opinion on women doesn’t matter either.”

“Do any of my opinions matter?”

“Well…” he thought about this for a moment, before brushing a few fingers through his hair and smiling in an exaggerated fashion, “How do you like my hair?”

“It’s terrible,” Lena said, irritated.

“Well then,” he rolled his eyes, “your opinion doesn’t matter on that either, then. Dress so you won’t draw attention.”

The conversation continued in a more light-hearted fashion. This young Stasi officer wasn’t the meanest person she had ever met by a long shot. He was handsome, funny, and intelligent. Yet he had an air of boredom about him that most of the officers she met had, as if training her in the arcane realm of tailing and spying was more of an annoyance than a purpose-filled project. Honestly though, that’s probably exactly what this all was to them—an annoyance.

Still, the young officer seemed to enjoy their conversations somewhat. He bought her dinner and coffee, and would complement her music or hair. He called her nice things often, and seemed rather amiable about it; and even though they were ‘dating’, he would only kiss her on the cheek for appearances. Other than that, he was more like an annoying older brother that was much smarter than her, and knew it.

“Well, it looks like our time is just about up,” he said, as he fumbled for his keys. “I have another mission for you, and then you will be meeting with your Grandfather.”

Lena’s heart skipped; she had only seen him once after she was released from prison. She had honestly wondered if she was ever to see him again. The world had grown three sizes since she began her training with the Stasi, and it looked to be growing larger by the minute.

“What is it?” she asked eagerly.

“I want you to take this,” he said, handing her a small, nondescript black pen.

She fumbled it around in her fingers for a second before clicking the end of it.

“Don’t do that too much,” he chastised her. “It’s a camera. Each time you click the end, you take a picture through the nib, but first you need to twist the end to expose the lens”

“Alright,” Lena said, impressed.

“Do not… I repeat, do NOT try to write with it,” he spoke with an authoritative tone, “There’s only a small amount of ink inside the nib itself. The CIA and MI6 know about this model now. That’s why we don’t use it anymore. Don’t break it, either! There were only ten of these ever made, as they have to be made by hand, and they are really expensive. Obviously, do not let someone else use it, and for the love of God don’t lose it! That got a KGB agent killed—by the KGB, which happens an awful lot, by the way.” With a wry grin, he added, “Just… be natural.”

“What should I take pictures of?”

“That’s up to you. It takes 150 pictures, but I only want a few. Impress me, Lena! If you get it right and impress me, then I’ll give Grandfather my stamp of approval.”

With that, they both stood up, gathering their coats for the cold walk home. Her ‘date’ put his hands warmly over her arms and kissed her sweetly on the cheek. The kiss felt real, but she could tell that there was no pressure under his hands when he touched her. Strangely, she felt a little disappointment at the fakeness of the embrace.

“Until we meet again, my love,” he said genuinely enough, and clasped her hand warmly in his. It was a sort of romantic handshake, with both of the palms of their right hands touching, and his left hand placed over the back of her right. He looked longingly into her eyes, as if to convey how very much he wanted to meet with her again as soon as possible.

Strangely—perhaps pleasantly strange—he held the look, and began stroking the back of her hand. Suddenly, Lena realized that she was nearly beginning to enjoy this. He was handsome after all, and that stroking of her hand was stimulating in a sort of way. “Is this wrong?” she thought to herself, and she considered it for a moment. Her and a Stasi officer… that would be too much! No, best to avoid letting this evolve into something she would regret. Yet as the moment continued on, perhaps a little too long, his romantic gaze shifted slightly, and the rubbing on the back of her hand became rougher. Almost irritating.

“Take the piece of paper, dammit,” he whispered under his breath. Finally, Lena noticed the piece of paper he was trying to discreetly pass along, and that she wasn’t paying close enough attention to recognize it pressing against her palm.

“Oh!” she muttered under her breath as she took it as sneakily as possible.

“Dumbass,” he muttered under his breath playfully as he turned to walk away.

Trying her hardest to look natural, she gathered herself and walked out of the small café. She walked slowly through the door, and then paced around the corner. Once she was sure she could do so unburdened by the prospect of prying eyes, she glanced down at the piece of paper. It was folded in half, so she unfolded it as casually as she could. On it, the words, “Metropol Interhostel—9pm—tomorrow—Dress fancy!” were written. Suddenly, Lena had a bit of an idea what her new super-secret spy-pen would be used for. Excited and pensive all the same, she walked towards the exit to leave.

____

Lena was already tired as she started out of the cafe. It had been a long day, and she knew tomorrow would be as well. Her life since leaving the prison had become quite active—her Grandfather had seen to that. After being allowed a few blessed nights of sleep back in her own bed, her new job as the lead singer of Nicht Zustimmen had begun. Typically, when starting a new band, a lone musician pools his or her resources and tries to get the word out to all the known musicians for interest. Then auditions start and if it’s a good fit, viola!… you have a band.

However, this new band had already been waiting for her after the three days of rest. She had a guitarist, a keyboardist (a keyboardist! Of all things!), a drummer and… no bassist (Grandfather had stressed that the keyboardist would be enough). All of them looked perfect, and all were perfectly willing to play the parts given to them. And the parts were given to them—by Lena, apparently. By the time Lena met her new band-mates, several songs had already been written, lyrics to boot, with all the parts fleshed out, which made for easy learning. They had been practicing twice a week for a while now, and, in spite of the fact that the practice sessions were mostly spent arguing (as bands do), trading gross and terrible stories, and chain-smoking cigarettes, Lena thought they actually sounded pretty good. The road ahead was also clearly paved with booked gigs, so there was nearly no work involved. At least as far as music was concerned.

The music itself was masterfully written. The inclusion of a keyboard had added a dynamic that wasn’t all too common in punk music—even in East German punk, which was well known for having a plethora of influences. The only band that even remotely compared was perhaps Feeling B, but this was something else entirely. While Feeling B’s music was weird and extremely fast, Lena’s band bordered on simply angry dance music. Her Grandfather felt that this would play well in the West “with all the New Wave, British, hippy nonsense flooding the streets like diarrhea.” Lena had to admit that she was pretty excited to see how audiences would respond.

On top of having a completely new sound (again, thanks to the keyboards) the quality of the sound overall had been vastly improved. Grandfather had seen to that with state-of-the-art amplifiers, guitars, and other equipment that had probably come from the West. These had been provided courtesy of the band’s brand-new label, Little John. Bearing the name derived from the main cohort of the legendary Robin Hood, Little John was one of the first independent labels in Eastern Germany—very, very underground and secretive in its doings and dealings. It dwelt within the back rooms of Nadja’s Sehr Sauber; a nondescript dry-cleaning facility on yet another corner of Berlin that seemed to escape any attention from the Secret Police. As if by sheer serendipity, the label had managed to not only acquire printing and distribution equipment, as well as an entire recording studio that was reasonably modern, but had avoided any and all detection to speak of. It was as if the Stasi had turned a blind eye to it completely.

Lena knew different, of course; Little John was not independent at all. It was a licensed subsidiary of Amiga, the State’s one and only entity for artists, both musical and otherwise. Amiga had gone to great lengths to ensure that Little John maintained the appearance of a haven for miscreant youth. Yet every crack and crevasse inside the building was bugged. None of her band-mates, nor any of the other bands on the label were wise to that, of course.

Surprisingly, there were many benefits to this. Grandfather had informed her that the bugs only existed to garner ‘talking points.’ In other words, spying on the bands to find out what they were interested in, so that they could be more easily controlled by the producers, managers, and agents—all Stasi plants of course. This helped to encourage band members to crash at Little John, on the many comfy couches that seemed to proliferate any time there was a need.

While Lena’s band-mates practically lived in the studios—having their ‘secret’ discussions about things the Stasi and Politburo ‘didn’t’ hear—they were also provided two very important things that even a lot of regular bands didn’t get. Firstly, a license from the State to perform music (previously unheard of in the GDR for punk bands), and secondly, the all-holy provisional Passport which allowed them to play on the other side of the Wall. Her band-mates didn’t ask too many questions about how she had been able to procure such powerful items. It was becoming more common for punk victims of Stasi internment to be granted these things once the black cells helped them to ‘see the light’.

While her fledgling band still had yet to play a big, well-promoted show, she had been assured by Grandfather that, once her training was at a certain point, she would be sent over the Wall.

“You have to understand that it’s very different for you,” he had said to her. “Most punks get locked up for a time, then get sent on their merry way to inform for the Stasi while being rewarded with trips across the Wall to play. You don’t work for the Stasi; you are just being trained by them. Your job isn’t to rat on your friends. It’s to do intelligence work for the State. My reward to you for working for me is the instant success your band will achieve. But you having a band and your trips across the Wall aren’t part of that reward—that’s part of your work. So, you won’t go anywhere until you have your training down.”

For this reason and more, Lena had worked her rear off to become as skilled at surveillance, trailing, eavesdropping, informing and general spying as best as she possibly could. But she also had her band to tend to, and after a few months of practicing without doing one notable show, they were starting to get restless. Sure, they had played a few underground bangers outside the city limits that were attended by twenty or so faithful punkers, but that was about it. This served only to stoke the fire and she knew that she would have to routinely meet with her band to encourage them on the path to righteousness. Thankfully, this was something that the regularly-provided Stasi transcripts of the bugged conversations in Little John helped with immensely.

This is precisely what she was up to tonight after her meeting with Patrick, her young Stasi agent. So, after a few blocks of walking, and a few perfunctory checks to make sure she wasn’t being followed (not like it really mattered), she snuck in to the ramshackle little dry-cleaners and headed towards the back rooms. Excited to switch gears and let her hair down a bit, she clicked her new assassin-pen a few times, then reminded herself to stop doing that.

____

“Look who the hell it is?” Jakob shouted, as Lena walked into the back rooms of the recording studio, “It’s the boss bitch herself! Where the hell you been? We been waiting here for fucking ages!”

Jakob, her guitarist, stood roughly six feet tall. He had shaved his head almost entirely, leaving a singular strip on the top for a hairline-mohawk. He was more often than not shirtless, displaying filthy-sick (and sickly-acquired) tattoos from his collarbones down, and he swore worse than any person Lena had ever met. He even swore worse than the punks from Leipzig—the scene he hailed from. Despite his punk appearance and crusty demeanor, however, once he stepped out into the streets his relatively conservative outerwear and hat disguised him completely.

“Yeah, and we’ve run out of alcohol!” a lovely, young, and darkly-dressed woman complained.

Vivika, the keyboardist, would have otherwise been a sterling beauty if she wasn’t covered in facial piercings (as well as a few others Lena didn’t have to guess about) and thick noir makeup. She chose to wear a hodge-podge of hand-made and hand-spiked leather, head to foot, looking reminiscent of a porn actress in a Western fetish film. She swore almost as bad as Jakob, but once her boyfriend’s massive overcoat went on for her return home—and a few select piercings disappeared—she was the very picture of decency. Her ‘boyfriend’ never seemed to appear, however, as she claimed her girlfriend wouldn’t like that very much.

“No,” a very strange-looking person twirling a drumstick said, “Jakob has run us out of alcohol! Vivika and I didn’t drink any of it.”

Vortecx was the drummer who also hailed from the Leipzig punk scene, and he was a strange one, indeed. A huge fan of British and American noise rock, and an avid student of the SCUM Manifesto smuggled in from the West, Vortecx had taken to adopting a take on… err, gender… that Lena couldn’t quite figure out. He looked more-or-less like the man he was, but dressed and groomed in a fashion that made it quite difficult to tell otherwise—not that it really mattered, as a low hat concealed most of the finer points when Vortecx walked out into the night. He claimed to not care about discovery much, but his actions proved otherwise. He wasn’t stupid; he was just a little queer.

“Well what the fuck was I supposed to do?” Jakob spat at him.

“Sit calmly and try not to annoy everyone with… this,” Vivika pointed her hand at Jakob and made a circular motion, implying the entirety of the shirtless man.

“I know, I know,” Lena began, “We’re all restless. But Jakob, if you just drank a little less, then…”

“The fuck are you talkin’ to? What the hell am I supposed to do, if not drink?!”

“Oh, can it, ass-wipe!” she shouted back, “We’ve been trying to record an album for a month now, and the only reason we’re still doing it is because you can’t get your parts down!”

“Why you pointing your fuckin’ finger at me? You don’t even know your own damn lyrics!” “I’m sorry that I can’t always be here to babysit you, idiot,” Lena retorted, “but if you weren’t so busy trying to get Vivika to sit on your lap, maybe some shit would get done around here!”

“Aw, fuck you!” he replied, avoiding Vivika’s gaze which was even more irritated than normal.

“And put your pants back on, you idiot!” Vivika joined in as Jakob’s pants sagged lower and lower by the minute, exposing his bright pink underwear (what could be called underwear, anyway), “Holy hell, Jakob, you look like an anorexic snowman wearing a banana hammock!”

“Hey now, all the fuckin’ girls want a piece o’ this!” With that, Jakob grabbed his crotch through that godawful pink thong he wore—for no good reason whatsoever—and began shaking his manhood, much to the chagrin of the room. All in all, he really was too proud of it.

“Jakob, I swear…!” Vortecx yelled, swatted him hard in his groin with a rolled-up newspaper, causing Jakob to fall dramatically to the floor while clutching his beloved man-parts.

“Fuck you, you strange fucking shit!” Jakob shrieked. “Fuck your weird hair, fuck your weird clothing, fuck your…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. There’s more where that came from if you don’t pull your pants back up.”

“Alright, alright! Fuck! The hell is your problem, you confused, scary idiot?”

“Hey Jakob,” Lena interrupted, lifting the pack of beer to full visibility, “guess what I brought for after your clothes are back on?”

“Beer!” the three others shouted at the same time.

As the three of them dug into her small cache of bubbly goodness, she had to smile to herself. Oh sure, these goons were insufferable idiots, but they were her insufferable idiots. For all the problems they caused her, they were still her children and she loved them all the same—even Jakob. And yet, as the three of them began fighting again, she had to marvel at how perfect they all were. They were almost too-perfect caricatures of themselves. They were exactly the image that Grandfather felt the West would take to.

Jakob, without seeing or attending a game in his life, was an absolute soccer-hooligan and dressed far more punk rock than even most punks did. He was a tall, tattooed, hyper attention-whore who fought, drank, and in general seemed to take an inane pride in his constant misbehavior. Not that Lena wasn’t a miscreant in her own right… but Jakob had a way of overdoing it. Yet even then, he ‘meant well’, of course, and never seemed to find himself in any actual trouble.

Vivika, in stark contrast, only looked like the vampire she pretended to be. She was otherwise just an apathetic young lady with a surprisingly killer smile that would look great on camera. Sure, she was gay, but she was stage gay—as if her ‘girlfriend’ was a secret that every idle stranger was entrusted to keep, despite the occasional (and maybe accidental?) mention of her ‘boyfriend’. Lena wouldn’t be surprised if either even existed.

And while Vortecx was strange, well, he was strange in all the right ways for the international counterculture community—exceedingly liberal, socially progressive, and artistic to a fault. Oddly enough, there didn’t seem to be any rules with him, and that appeared to be the point as far as Lena could figure—as in, ‘the lack of rules is the point’-point, while still putting a fine point on following all the rules of ‘not following rules’ to a ‘T’. Lena was a malcontent herself, yet she couldn’t quite figure out how she felt about the whole thing. For that matter, it didn’t seem like Vortecx could, either. In the end, it was just easier to accept what Vortecx said, rather than argue or question it.

No matter which way you sliced it, all three of them were the image of everything a perfectly Western-oriented band looked to be—confused, a little troubled, perfect-looking, politically progressive, emotionally abrasive and possessing of meticulous hair. There wasn’t any substance to speak of, if you really knew them, but the public wouldn’t care.

And well that they should be the image: the lyrics of the songs that ‘Lena’ wrote were contrived to a rather unfortunate degree. This was one of the few battles that Grandfather had fought hard on her behalf, and lost roundly. He wanted to write music that both the punks and rockers in the West would take to, but the State would have none of it, citing that “The rest of the world will appreciate good Socialist values when they see them.” Eventually, after a long battle that she wasn’t privy to, Grandfather and the State had finally reached an impasse: write lyrics about being generally sad for ‘the state of the world’. You would be surprised how very ambiguous such concepts could end up being.

It was something the West would likely pick up on, surely. Everyone could agree on the sad state of worldly affairs. And the Politburo could probably be convinced that it was everything except for the Wall and the Socialist/Communist experiments that the world was worried about, while agreeing completely with their lyrics. The problem was that the lyrics didn’t mean anything—not a single damn word of it. It wasn’t just that Lena hadn’t written them herself. They literally said nothing of conviction whatsoever. Sure, the songs would play in the West, but true aficionados would refuse them outright. She knew that, and Grandfather knew that. As much as Lena wanted to call this a ‘punk rock band’, well, it really wasn’t.

The only people that didn’t know that, predictably enough, were her band-mates. They absolutely loved the lyrics, believing them to be a ticket to easy street. And who was Lena to argue this with them? Jakob, Vivika and Vortecx had spent years ducking the Stasi and hiding out just the same as she had. The three of them did deserve a break. Lena did too, if she was being honest about it. Yet they were punk rock. They were supposed to be hardcore. They weren’t supposed to just abstain from giving a shit about what people thought, but to demonstrate this by giving a shit about the image they portrayed. Right?

“So what’s the plan, then?” Vivika asked, after she and Vortecx finished murdering Jakob, who now lay flat on his back playing the victim of a profound and undeserved beating.

“Well,” Lena began, “We’re gonna be playing live soon, of course. I was in touch with the producer today and he says they have a few shows they are trying to book on the other side.”

It wasn’t precisely a lie. Patrick, her handsome Stasi officer, had informed her that Grandfather was working towards this end. “Surely,” she had originally thought, “it couldn’t be easy to reach out across so many complicated channels and find a gig—doing so could take months!” But in reality, nothing could be further from the truth. The West was surprisingly disinterested in traffic crossing from the East, and booking a show required virtually the same meager phone call that anyone could make (long-distance charges notwithstanding, of course). No, Grandfather was biding his time.

Of course, he wasn’t strictly her producer. Little John had its own man, Walter, for that. Walter just answered directly to Amiga, and Amiga ran everything Little John did by the Stasi, who in turn ran everything Lena did by Grandfather. So, by proxy, Grandfather (whom Lena rarely talked to) was in control of the entire thing. She just didn’t know precisely what he had up his sleeve. Thus, she had to tell little fibs now and again. Change was on its way, however. She could smell it.

“Fucking lies!” Jakob shouted. “That’s what you always say!”

“I know,” Lena placated, “But you have to understand how difficult these things are. Walter is…”

“Walter is a worm, Lena,” Vivika spoke. “The guy looks slick and talks slick, but he’s a worm. He can barely get a decent technician in here to record us on time, and he’s almost never here to actually produce. All the other bands on Little John complain about him. He doesn’t have a thing planned for us.”

“Just a little faith and a little more time is all I’m asking,” Lena implored. “These things take time. Let’s just wrap up the album and get everything ready on our end. Walter’s got a tech coming in tomorrow and we can finally get Jakob’s parts solidified. If, after the album is recorded, we still haven’t heard anything, I’ll book us a show myself. We have the passports, anyway.”

“We aren’t going anywhere without the Stasi to babysit us,” Vortecx complained. “Unless you have a main-line to them, we’re gonna have to go through Walter.”

“Trust me…” Lena said in as authoritative a tone as she could manage, “Let’s get everything finished on our end of things. I’ll handle Walter once everything is finalized.” The group didn’t seem very satisfied, but even the drunk and victimized Jakob could see that there wasn’t a way around it. Besides, they had placed a large amount of faith in her ability to make things happen. She was, after all, an infamous punk rock starlet and new mainstream legend.

Oh yeah… that had happened.

“Two facts that every musician is doomed to learn,” Grandfather had told her, “the masses like what they are told to like, and legitimacy is completely engineered.” She didn’t believe him at first—that is, until she gave two reasonably high-profile interviews. One, for a popular underground magazine, and another on an illegal pirate radio program (that was subsequently broadcasted all over Armed Forces Radio in the West). In both of these interviews, she had described (in vivid detail) her capture by the Stasi and subsequent internment. She expounded on her brutal torture and how she had managed to escape their clutches while still sticking to her guns.

Of course, she had realized the error of some of her ways. A few Stasi officers had taken it upon themselves to graciously educate her on the meaning behind the socialist values. Certainly, she couldn’t have been expected to see the bigger picture without some teaching, and the officers had understood this. Lena was glad she had grown, despite the austere conditions.

However, she did stick to her guns on everything else. She openly trash-talked the Politburo and SED. She tore down the fallacy of the Wall brick by brick, and decried everything it stood for. She even threw in a few pot-shots at the Stasi whom she couldn’t possibly be bothered to fear, “Liars and whores, all of them!” she had said in both interviews. She would then go on to detail her work in the underground, and about how well she had been received by the punk movement after being tortured so mercilessly (all the while sticking to her values without ratting anyone out). And despite the fact that she was forced to hide her face for safety, she was becoming a well-known installment at almost every show.

All of it was utter nonsense, of course. Lena hadn’t done a single interview since she left prison. She hadn’t even done one before prison, minus the scant few articles she wrote under her pseudonym. These interviews, much like her music, were all written for her. Hell, Lena (or Madeline Dangerbunny, as she was now better known) had practically started Little John by merely being the impetus behind it, and the underground listenership had been so quick to pick up on it that it was scary. Only a few of her very close (and very secret) friends in Leipzig ever conceived that the Stasi could (and had) released zines and pirate stations of their own.

But now the Mad Bunny (yes, even her nicknames had nicknames now) was starting to break through onto the regular airwaves. It started out with immense disapproval from the stations, of course—disapproval that Grandfather correctly assumed would have the opposite effect on the GDR youth. Once the youth were showing support, well, the radio stations just had to make a few comments to pacify them. There was no condoning, of course; just ‘tactical observations’ that quickly made her into an urban legend. Since the Mad Bunny was in hiding, she of course couldn’t be reached for comment. But in mainstream media, no news is good news and by the time the rumors started that the Mad Bunny had somehow made it over the Wall (just last week, as a matter of fact), she was practically canonized.

Her band knew they were playing with the Mad Bunny, of course, which is why they had agreed to so carefully conceal their actual identities out on the street. Sure, it felt like they weren’t being hardcore; but they had an ace up their sleeve. All they had to do was shut up and toe the line, and their fame would be engineered for them. Best of all, they would get to retain their legitimacy to the scene, so long as the legitimacy (and very possibly the scene) were similarly engineered.

She still had to work at keeping them in line. But she didn’t have to work all that hard at it. Especially since the only one who adamantly refused to see logic was Jakob, whom the two girls and Vortecx could easily keep in line just by being women and otherwise. Thus, they resolved to work for as many hours as they could before the morning. Lena was confident Grandfather would come through. He always did. All she had to do was be an absolute espionage master and complete her mission tomorrow evening.

Interhostel

Danger was everywhere, in all directions and at all speeds. Unseen enemies abounded, wielding wicked weapons of wayward warfare that sliced throats and stole the beat from unwary hearts. She knew a minor slip-up would be the end for her. Thus, Lena was compelled to maintain a calm yet hyper-aware mental state that would alert at the first sign of danger. With death assured at even the slightest bit of complacency, and enemies out for blood as she furtively sidled through the streets like the super-secret agent she was desperately trying to be, only one concern found its way to the forefront of her hyper-vigilant mind; “is my dress ‘fancy’ enough?”

Also, man, it was hard to sneak about in heels.

____

She had spent nearly two hours rummaging through her pile of clothing looking for the nicest item (or combination of items) she had. She had several low-cut things, and a few short things as well. Yet nothing combined into any sort of manageable or particularly pleasant motif. After trying really hard to convince herself that spikes and leather could be fancy, she decided instead to have a nervous breakdown and just give up on the whole thing. That is, until she considered that maybe Vivika might have something.

As luck would have it, not only was Vivika well-equipped for dressing to the nines, she was also a master at doing hair. So, after Vivika shooed her male ‘guest’ (it figured) out of the apartment, with vile threats of hair-curlers and lipstick, the two set to the task of discussing boys while divining the perfect attire for Lena.

They spent a half-hour or so gushing about Lena’s date and why he was taking her to the nicest hotel in the city (Vivika could hardly be trusted with the real reason). Lena was then outfitted with a very swanky black dress that prominently exhibited her shoulders, along with a pair of matching boots to die for that she was sure Vivika had stolen. When Vivika informed her that both items had been stolen, Lena realized just how very much she adored Vivika.

A few more minutes of gushing, a few more minutes of checking her own ass out in the mirror (while poorly striking poses she had seen in the movies, of course), and almost an hour of fussing with her hair, Lena realized she would be late if she didn’t leave immediately. A few awkward girl-hugs and more-awkward girl-kisses and she was off to begin the first leg of her journey.

She had made the mistake of showing up late to training just once. Really, it wasn’t even what she would have defined as ‘late’: just two minutes by her watch, and three minutes by Patrick’s. Yet his wrath (mostly at Lena’s assertion that any other watch but his mattered) forced Lena to conduct almost four hours of extracurricular surveillance training following random losers about the town until her feet felt like exploding.

In Patrick’s realm, if show-time was at nine, that meant at precisely nine you were there standing right in front of him, blood properly caffeinated and nicotined, with everything you needed hanging over your shoulder, ready to walk out the door at a word. By proxy, this meant you were to show up at 8:45, so that you could get all of your complaining out of the way and be reprimanded for all the things you forgot. Timeliness is difficult in theory for a 17-year-old. In practice, it’s even harder. But for a teenager who is also an aspiring super-spy, it takes an almost heroic effort. No one in the world of espionage simply walks directly to where they are supposed to be. No, there are proper routes you have to take, and proper actions to conduct while taking them. And god help you if you crossed paths with ‘the man in the red hat’, or ‘the man with the wart on his face’, or ‘the man in the impossible-to-see brown jacket’. Because then you had to lose him, and then take the alternate route.

By the way, that was precisely what was happening now. Patrick was being an asshole, and had put all three on her—all of them lying in wait right outside Vivika’s apartment.

Wart-face was sitting across the street ‘reading the paper’ and occasionally ‘looking around’ to make sure the color of the sky was still blue. Red-hat was a few apartment buildings down ‘checking on a few flowers’ and definitely not talking to Wart-face through a hidden radio. When Wart-face noticed Lena had stepped out, she noticed Red-hat definitely not cuing up on this by standing up and patiently waiting for a bus that had just passed. And Brown-jacket?… well, Lena still couldn’t see him. She just noticed Wart-face nod in the opposite direction.

Brazenly, Lena began her walk to the Interhostel by trapesing straight past Red-hat, with her very-most-courteous “Hello, Sir!” He smiled at her, as if to say, “I’m telling Patrick.” and Lena sheepishly winced. She had to make the conscious effort to avoid speeding her pace, as she knew Red-hat would wait until she was at least a half-block away before taking up the tail. Wart-face would stay on the opposite side of the street so that he could see further around any corners that Lena took. Brown-jacket would, of course, remain completely unseen, thus earning Lena another week or two of training. God, how she hated Brown-jacket.

She began by ambling about, checking to make sure the sky was still blue, checking to make sure that the neighbors still had windows, and occasionally checking to make sure that the very fabric of reality wasn’t unraveling behind her. You know, as people normally do. She did this at the most normal pace she could possibly manage, avoiding nervous shuffles and weird hand-movements that would give away her knowing about her tail. She really only had one goal for this: identify Brown-jacket. Once she did this, she could initiate her avoidance protocols. Yet nothing had really appeared, yet.

She turned a corner, walked a few meters, then stopped to tie her already tied shoe-laces. This gave her another chance to casually spy on the surveillance team, “Use your peripheral vision!” Patrick would always yell at her, “You don’t need or want to look directly at your tail! If they know you know they are following you, they will just switch teams!” This was nearly impossible, however, as her peripheral vision remained frustratingly untrained, so she allowed herself a few quick peeks behind her.

She knew that Red-hat wouldn’t round the corner until she was a block or so down the street, but he didn’t have to. Wart-face had already walked further down the ‘T’ of the intersection without changing direction, so he could easily see where she was walking without her seeing him. If she decided to cross the street, out of Wart-face’s watchful purview, then Red-hat would be able to easily see her do it. If worse came to worst, Wart-face would simply become her tail and Red-hat would be the one to lag behind. They needed only one set of eyes on her at any given time, and their mission was accomplished.

Frustrated, she began walking again, making sure to take the most measured steps possible. She knew they knew, but if this were the real world, spooking on her tail would alert them that they were, in fact, following her for a reason. She had to be natural, and so she naturally stopped to catch her breath from her dawdling stroll, and naturally wiped nonexistent sweat from her brow to show her tail that she was, in fact, stopping to catch her breath, “Idiot.” she mumbled at herself.

Another few blocks, another few minutes wasted. This was an unavoidable reality and she had to stretch her time out. Another few cracks studied, another set of weeds gazed at for no particular reason. She saw a cat, and decided to call to it for a few minutes. Yes, that should burn up some time. Pause… another few blocks… stare at cracks… pause… another block or two… at one point, she considered ducking behind a building and taking a chance on an escape. But she had tried this before, and the dead-end she had run into earned her another four-hours of nonsense surveillance from Patrick.

Finally, she made it out of the residential area into a commercial zone with shops she could wander into. It felt good to be able to window-shop for clothing or musical instruments, instead of having to feign interest in weeds or the color of the sky. The first chance she could, she wandered over to a clothing-shop and began studying the mannequins with extreme interest. Of course, she could care less about the mannequins—she was looking at the reflection in the window. In it, she saw Red-hat pause as well, and begin window-shopping at the blank wall of a dry-cleaning store. Sure, it didn’t make a lot of sense, but Lena realized how few people would actually put that together. When she first entered this world, she was amazed at how oblivious people truly were in their day-to-day lives. No matter how interesting her conversations in cafes were, no one cued in. No matter how obviously clandestine her actions on the streets were, no one seemed to be any the wiser, or even care for that matter.

“The art of being anything,” Patrick had told her, “Is what you are trained to notice, and your confidence in that ability. A fireman is trained to notice the smell of a fuel leak, or an uncovered electrical outlet; a police officer is trained to notice lumps in a jacket, or a hand shifting into a pocket; a carpenter is trained to notice crooked cupboards and the hinges on doors; a tax-person is trained to notice digits on a piece of paper, and the blocks they are adjoined to.

“Surveillance teams, whether working for an insurance company or intelligence agency, are trained to notice a great many things. But like any other job, all of these things fall under a single category: that which is out of place. Normal people always act predictably. They take familiar paths and knock before entering houses that don’t belong to them. They rarely initiate conversations with strangers on the street, and offer gestures with friends commiserate with the level of intimacy.

“You will learn to pick up on these things.” Patrick had assured her, “You will notice friends who ‘aren’t just friends’ giving long hugs. You will notice people quickly changing direction, or crossing the street suddenly. You will pick up on folks staring at things for no reason, or looking over their shoulder frequently. Just know that you notice these things because you are trained in surveillance… no one else does, and no one else cares.” Then, with a sardonic wink, he had added, “Unless one is as bad at it as you are.” much to the annoyance of Lena, who was trying really hard.

After a few minutes of desperately trying to notice things, she realized that Brown-jacket still wouldn’t appear that easily. So, frustrated, she started down a slightly less busy street, “Remember!” Patrick had yelled at her, “Take busy streets to lose them, and take quieter streets to spot them! You have to include both areas in any pre-planned path!” She walked for a few more minutes, failing to make any real headway. The calmer street helped her see Wart-face and Red-hat, of course, but Brown-jacket was still nowhere to be seen. Eventually, she began to realize that they were absolutely in control of the situation, which was something Patrick had told her specifically not to allow.

“They are following you; not corralling you.” he had told her after a particularly botched training mission, “First and foremost, if you allow them to force your movements, then it tells them you know you are being followed. Normal people who are doing normal-people things don’t think about being followed. Second, it allows them to move you into a position to kidnap you if they so choose. Which,” he added with a dire tone, “if you are acting so neurotic as to allow them to control the movements, they may feel you are so inept at your job so as to be unable to prevent a kidnapping.”

Lena’s heart-rate was thumping profoundly in her chest, and she realized that she was quickly losing control. It was far too easy for them to follow her on the open street like this, and she was wasting precious time that she would need to get to the Metropol. Thus, she hatched a particularly brilliant plan: she would grab a bite.

Walking into a little cafe just a block away, and looking around for a seat that would give her the best view, she settled on one at the back of the establishment where she could easily see anyone who entered. Satisfied at her plan, and looking forward to re-balancing the caffeine level of her blood, she sat down, motioned for the waitress, and ordered coffee.

As she waited, she noticed Wart-face sitting across the street, reading his newspaper and idly checking to make sure the sidewalks outside the cafe were still grey. She also noticed Red-hat taking a slow stroll in no direction in particular. No doubt, he would soon be inspecting meters, or observing a particularly lumpy length of pavement. As dumb as it looked, Lena was quite glad that they were taking it so easy on her by televising what they were looking at. She knew her real goal was Brown-jacket, and apparently, so did they.

Yet by the time her coffee had arrived and been drank (along with a second round that been ordered and drank as well), Lena decided to order food. Once that arrived, she ate it. Eventually, she paid for it. Then, she contemplated buying another cup of coffee at the expense of her waitress’s patience, which by now was beginning to wane. Yet still nothing changed. Wart-face was re-reading the same five pages over and over, flipping back and forth, back and forth. Red-hat was in a store across the street awaiting the word from Wart-face to step out, and Brown-jacket was still nowhere to be seen. Honestly, Lena was beginning to wonder if perhaps Brown-jacket wasn’t actually following her. After all, she had no proof that he was. Yet neither Wart-face nor Red-hat showed even the slightest amount of consternation. Indeed, they seemed perfectly content to just relax, awaiting her inevitable failure.

She didn’t feel the same at all. It was now eight and she had precisely one hour to get 45-minutes away—meaning she had ten minutes to find Brown-jacket, five minutes to lose all of them, and… well, that would have to be enough. Soon, a red-flush of embarrassment began to spread across her face, followed by the tale-tale sweat in her palms that only confirmed the level of stress she was experiencing. She really wanted to pass this test. She really, really did. But she also didn’t want to be late—that would actually be worse. Her brain was racing a million-miles a minute, and she realized that she needed to calm herself down.

Searching desperately for distraction, she began looking around the cafe and studying the patrons. A man with a brown jacket, another man with a brown jacket, another man with a brown jacket… “How easy they have it!” she whined her many woes inside her head, “All they have to do is sit there, drinking their stupid coffee, enjoying their stupid life, and just being… stupid!” Every one of them was a terrible person, completely ignoring how horrible her life was right now. It was all their fault, Lena whined. Even the lone woman sitting at the counter who had been flipping through the menu for the last thirty minutes was personally to blame for all of this.

Lena looked at this lone woman, hating her profusely. She just sat there in her gray pants, with her bulky leather jacket, slowly sipping coffee that had to be cold by now, refusing to order anything, “Who does that?!” Lena shouted inside her head as she stared daggers, “Who comes into a cafe, barely drinks her coffee, and then spends thirty minutes not ordering anything?!?” The woman seemed not the least bit interested in anything, least of all Lena. The only thing she seemed to care about at all was checking her makeup every now and then, and checking to make sure her tight bun was still in place. This was silly, by the way, as both her hair and makeup were fabulous. Lena could tell, because every time the woman raised her makeup mirror to check her face, it reflected back at Lena perfectly.

Then it dawned on her.

Oh, she had never considered this at all. Why, oh why had she never even considered that Brown-jacket was a Woman?! Why, oh why didn’t Lena ever think?!

Oh sure, she didn’t know that the woman was, in fact, the third member of the surveillance crew. You could only tell that for sure if they followed you through a particularly windy path, or one-direction path (Like a pedestrian bridge—Patrick called these ‘choke points’) and kept a reasonably particular distance. But there were always signs—particularly in her dour (and masculine) clothing, tight bun and lack of earrings.

Any good super-spy kept a rolling list of strikes against someone. Many were benign, and only helped to build a case. Still others were major signs. Makeup-lady was alone; Minor check, but a check, nonetheless. She wouldn’t order anything; slightly less minor check, but again, still a check. Wearing that clothing; well, maybe she was just jumping to conclusions, but hey, it didn’t hurt—especially in conjunction with that tight bun she had, and those work shoes Lena had just noticed. Her body facing completely away from Lena’s direction; take one check off. But her makeup mirror; well, that was a major check if you factored in that the woman had just winked at her through the mirror. That was all the proof she needed.

Lena mouthed an almost imperceptible “thank you!” towards the woman who almost imperceptibly winked back, and then quickly tapped her wrist, as if checking a nonexistent watch to see if it was still working—the signal for ‘spy stuff is afoot’.

Lena had to now formulate a plan to lose them all. Every place had an advantage. The streets had many avenues of escape, for instance. Little shops like this were a major choke-point, but almost all restaurants had multiple points of entry and egress. This didn’t help with Red-hat and Wart-face, but most restaurants also had a rear loading/storage area. Sometimes these areas had back entrances themselves, and sometimes you got lucky and they were located near the bathrooms.

Unfortunately, this one looked to be accessible only by the kitchen—a kitchen she could see into, by way of a portal where chefs placed the completed food. Lena was an excellent liar when she wanted to be, but there was no easy way to lie yourself into a kitchen, “Think, think, think!” Lena demanded at herself. This was how this had to happen. She was already going to be a minute or two late, so she had to lose them now, and this was the best plan that she had.

She thought about it for a few moments. She studied the kitchen, and she studied the cook. She noticed that the cook was young, slightly overweight, and had a cigarette tucked into the top of his ear at the ready for his next chance at a smoke break. Then she decided. Yes, she knew the perfect way to make it happen. Standing up, and walking as non-briskly as she could with the excitement she was desperately trying to suppress, she walked directly into the doorway of the kitchen and said, “Excuse me, uh, Sir?”

“Yeah.” he replied grufly. As soon as he looked at her, though, and noticed that Lena was a girl and was dressed the way she was, his eyes popped open (as men’s eyes often do) and his tone became much more interested, “Uh, yes ma’am?”

“Yeah, uh,” she started (noticing the ever-so-slight flexing of his biceps), trying to keep her voice down, “I noticed that you smoke. I was wondering if you wanted some company?”

You’ve never seen a man more interested in having a cigarette right then and there than this poor, rotund specimen was at that very moment. With an exuberant, “Uh, yes ma’am!” he motioned for her to follow and led her right through the kitchen.

“Sorry about it back here,” he said nervously as he pushed a few boxes out of the way, “but this is the quickest way back. We’re not normally supposed to have people back through here, but you don’t look like you’re about to steal something!”

“Oh, you never know.” Lena said, pleasantly, as he led her into the back storage rooms.

“I was almost on my break anyway!” he continued, before blathering off into the distance. “Yeah, today has been a busy day! Started out work by…”

As soon as Lena saw the back exit, the excitement of success overwhelmed her. Quickly, she leaned over to the pudgy man and kissed him on the cheek with a “You’re a lifesaver, handsome!” She left him standing confused, surprised and rather pleased with himself, as she inelegantly bolted out the back door. Checking to make sure that Wart-face, Red-hat and Makeup-lady (aka Brown-jacket) weren’t following her, she ran the next two blocks as quickly as her fancy boots would allow.

____

The Metropol Interhostel stood enormous the way a palace or a cathedral would. It also inspired much the same feelings: awe, wonder, reverence, and the slightest bit of disgust. While the GDR had its share of nice 4-star hotels, the Metropol was Berlin’s only 5-star, and it very much looked the part. It was black as night, ensconced in granite and marble pillars, and dressed in fountains. She had never been inside it, but she knew from reputation and rumor that it had more to offer than anything in West Berlin. Diplomat-level lounges that put most embassies to shame, filled with designer bars serving strong, fruity drinks. Female companions would likely be found for the visiting businessman, along with concierge services that lauded only the best that East Berlin had to show.

It was internationally recognized as the very definition of ‘swank’, and well it should be—not only was it designed for folks visiting from the West, it was the only hotel that folks from the West were allowed to stay at. If you were from the GDR, you didn’t even think about booking a room. Not just because you wouldn’t even be considered for attendance, but because the entire hotel was run by the Stasi.

The rooms were filled with the finest mattresses and the softest silks, just as they were the most sophisticated bugs and phone taps. The mirrors in the bathroom were one-way glass, and the peep-holes in the doors went both ways. The female companions were no doubt Stasi assets that were as skilled at picking pockets as they were picking ties for a night out. And the concierge services were more than happy to book you an entire trip, along with a private town-car and chauffeur—anything to know where you were and what you were doing at all times. This was not only the worst hotel for a traveling consular or dignitary to stay in, but the only one made available to them. Lucky for the Stasi, no one had ever seemed to catch on to the game. The sex and booze had made sure of that.

As she stood admiring this monolith, she thanked the gods for Vivika and her secret stash of stolen chic. Whatever Lena imagined would pass off for ‘fancy’ here, she was clearly incorrect. Despite her fabulous boots, the designer label on her skirt (which fit like a glove by the way) and the fair amount of shoulder on display, she knew her attire just didn’t make the grade here. It was the best she could manage under the circumstances, though. So, with a pensive “ugh”, she tromped herself into the lion’s den.

As much as the outside of this structure impressed her, the interior simply overwhelmed. The best way of describing the effects of the large, ivy-clad pillars and gilded glass panels on her senses was… well, there probably wasn’t a way of really doing it much justice, but her head ached. It was the same feeling she would get standing on the edge of a cliff overlooking a city: vertigo, and the inability to truly gauge the size or complexity with her eyes alone.

While her punk-rock roots tried to tell her she should hate all of this, her flush told both her and any potential onlooker different: she was in awe and she was envious—envious of everyone that got to experience this sort of abject finery regularly. She immediately questioned what she was doing with her life, and then decided to hate herself for the impossibility of attaining the level of prestige required.

She realized that she needed a drink very quickly, so she wandered over to the closest lounge-area she could find. The very second she rested her hands on the richly-lacquered mahogany and the gold dressing, however, she realized she could never afford anything here. Not in a million years. She resigned herself to ordering a water, and hoped the wait staff wouldn’t make a big deal about her actual (and obviously limited) net worth. However, when a gorgeous woman in picture-perfect makeup and an incredibly fancy dress approached from behind the counter, smiling pleasantly, Lena felt a small amount of acceptance.

“What’ll it be, my dear?” the bartender asked.

“I… I… uh…”

“One Diamond Cosmo?” the bartender asked knowingly before whisking off, “Great choice! Coming right up!”

“But… but I…”

“Don’t worry, my dear,” the bartender interrupted with a wink, “we’ll have it out for you in short order.”

“So, this is what it feels like to be important.” Lena mused to herself. It was absolutely incredible. Especially when the bartender poured many richly-colored liquids into a very fancy glass that contained a glittering ring too small for anyone to actually wear, and then set the whole thing on fire, “My god… a girl could get use to this.”

It was 9 o’clock on the dot—Lena had run, after all—and she was realizing why she was supposed to get here when she did. Fancy folks in fancier clothing were beginning to funnel in to the hotel. They all looked to be in the same party, she noticed; both their social decorum and ethnicity seemed to have the same bent. They were thin, yet impressively athletic; feminine yet handsome features for most of the men; fragility bordering on fine porcelain for the women; and absolutely immaculate hair for the lot.

As a larger group walked in, however, the stench walked in as well. Vast clouds of perfume and cologne utterly swamped the place in a manner reminiscent of a WWI mustard gas attack, and Lena suddenly realized that she hated having a sense of smell. Alone, each individual scent may have been exceptionally expensive and tasteful; but together, they smelled as if the four horsemen of the apocalypse’s steeds were all taking a shit simultaneously.

“Ah, the French.” the bartender sighed knowingly, “The only thing that smells more overpowering is their egos. Trust me, you’ll see.”

“What are they all here for?”

“Oh, they’re the entourage of some traveling big-wig from Paris. His name is The Honorable Louis Pelletier.” the bartender responded, accentuating his honorific with thinly-disguised sarcasm, “He’s a politician of some note, and supposedly a man of great dignity and moral fiber. He’s absolutely unimpeachable in the French papers.”

“Supposedly?” Lena asked.

“Oh, don’t you believe a word of the papers, my dear. Every diplomat and politician is as perverse as they are powerful… and he is powerful.”

“I still don’t understand.” Lena responded honestly.

“Well…” the bartender replied, looking around for less-than-casual onlookers before leaning in to Lena and continuing, “I’m hardly one to judge the affairs of others—particularly our patrons. But… and you didn’t hear this from me…”

“Yes?” Lena leaned in.

“He’s a boy-fucker!” she whispered with glee and a conspiring gleam to her eyes.

“He’s… what?!” Lena gasped.

“Will that be all, my dear?” the bartender said plainly, straightening up and wiping a towel across the counter as if she had said nothing just a second before. Lena was nearly about to respond, when she heard a male voice calling from a few yards away.

“Excuse me, miss?… Miss!”

Lena ignored it, figuring that it wasn’t for her. That is, until the voice called out again, and then she prayed it wasn’t for her. She already felt out of sorts in this environment. She didn’t want to end up getting in trouble or kicked out already.

“Miss!” the voice called again, and Lena decided it was best to acknowledge it, at least.

“…uh, yes? I…” she turned around to make an excuse she hadn’t quite formulated yet, when she realized that she recognized him.

“Miss,” Patrick, her young Stasi officer spoke, “You forgot your purse.”

Lena almost said something stupid. After all, she hadn’t brought a purse with her. That, and she recognized him, so why wouldn’t she greet him? Then it dawned on her that she should ignore her first instincts, and fall into the role that he had just now written for her.

“Oh my, what a gentleman!” she gushed, “Thank you! My hero! Why, I hadn’t even noticed! How can I ever thank you, Sir?”

“Perfectly fine, Ma’am.” he responded, shooting a glare her way before hustling off to god-knows-where.

“Don’t be so eager.” the bartender said plainly behind her, “Just thank him for the purse and turn around… draws less attention.”

“B-but… he was shouting across…”

“Of course, he was.” the bartender smiled as she absently cleaned a counter, “If Jack secretly slipped it to you, that would raise more questions, wouldn’t it?”

“You mean Patrick.” Lena corrected her, without thinking.

“Right, Patrick.” the bartender said, before winking, “He’s cute.”

“No he’s not.”

“I understand.” the bartender winked again, “You work with someone for a while, feelings are bound to happen. Happens to everyone… and I do mean everyone.” She added this last part with a sly grin, that imparted a secret best kept between girls. It was good to find company with this lovely bartender, she realized.

“I suppose he’s alright.” Lena allowed.

“Oh, he’s more than alright. Not that it’s any of my business, but I think you two would make a handsome couple. Even if he’s your trainer.”

Lena nodded; she hated to admit it, but she liked the idea.

“So, how long have you two been working together?” the bartender asked casually, as she began straightening up her counter-top.

“Oh, just a few months. He’s been teaching me a lot, though.”

“So what has he taught you so far?”

“Well, he’s…”

Just then, Lena heard the clicking of dress shoes and pumps behind her. Turning to look, she noticed Wart-face, Red-hat and Makeup-lady walking right up behind her. There was no rush to their steps, but they had a certain set in their jaws that Lena understood. All three were dressed to impress, with Makeup-lady now wearing a gorgeous black halter-top gown. The former two, now dressed in immaculate tuxedos, walked casually up to the counter, leaned over, and whispered something at the bartender. Immediately, she turned ghost-white, although her expression remained the same. Her chest began raising and lowering ever-so-slightly faster, and Lena thought she could make out the hint of a shiver. The bartender nodded at the two of them, and began walking around the counter and through a doorway, with Red-hat and Wart-face in tow.

“Ah, British intelligence.” Makeup-lady smiled, avoiding looking at Lena as she slid into a chair right beside.

“Wh-what?!”

“On the one hand, I suppose we should thank you. You would make a good counter-intelligence agent if you weren’t so stupid.” she said in a low cheerful tone through a perfectly practiced smile, “On the other hand, the next time you volunteer information to anyone you don’t know, regardless of how much you stupidly trust them, I will personally put a bullet in the back of your skull. Smile if you understand.”

Lena gulped and smiled, trying to act as natural as she could.

“If that had been an Officer, rather than a poorly-chosen asset…” Makeup-lady continued, casually and without the slightest hint of the rage she meant to express, “and we didn’t have every inch of this place bugged, you would have just blown your cover and the cover of your training officer. Who knows how much damage you could have caused?”

“I understand.” Lena said through her forced smiled, as her insides twisted with the shame of failure.

“You had better”, because tonight is your big night. If you get this right, the ‘Mad Bunny’ goes to West Germany. If you get this wrong, we have to make sure everything you now know doesn’t go anywhere it’s not supposed to. And the black cells are good for several things—keeping loud-mouths safe and secure, and giving me some much-needed entertainment.”

For the first time, Lena saw Makeup-lady’s visage change. Lena knew better than to ever earn that look again.

“So, what will happen to her?” Lena asked, referring to the former bartender.

“Oh, she’ll talk. We’ll make sure that she talks. And then, once she’s done talking, we’ll have some more fun with her.”

Lena shuddered, but managed to maintain her pleasant smile.

“You’ve been inside the prison. Remember what we do to people who merely annoy us, like you. Then think hard about what we do to people like her.”

Lena smiled even harder as genuine fear crawled up her spine.

“Once tonight is over, I might stop by there myself and see if I can get some practice in.” the woman said, with a maniacal and sadistic grin, “They have these little electrical things now that don’t stop your heart like the last ones did. And they can attach anywhere. They have these little needles with the hooks on the end that…”

Lena continued to hold the smile, yet she thought her face would explode. God, how she already loathed this woman.

“…eventually, we’ll send her back to wherever she came from. Dead, of course. But it will take years before I’m done playing with that one. She’s pretty! Personally, I like to keep souvenirs. Maybe I’ll take one tonight.” She said this with a giggle, and Lena’s stomach roiled. “In any case,” she continued, “you’re here to learn. So, here is how this is going to go. I’m going to explain the operation quickly, and then you are going to do all of the work with me watching. Just remember: you aren’t the only one working tonight. We believe in redundancy. A professional agent is going to be doing exactly what you are doing in the important steps just in case you didn’t do it correctly.

“Your actions are going to seem unnecessary at times and I will tell you right now that they are. But you have to walk through these steps, or you don’t get a pass. On the side of things, you will be taking these unnecessary actions during an actual operation—an actual operation that you can’t interfere with. So really, you only have two goals for tonight. First, do not expose the operation. As long as you do that one thing, we can still work everything else out. If you feel like you can’t do something, make a judgment call and we’ll move on. Second, complete each one of the steps issued to you. I don’t care how pretty your pictures are. All I care about is that you took them, and that they are of the correct things. Understood?”

“I do. I mean, I understand,” Lena said, hoping her nervous swallowing wasn’t too obvious.

“You may have noticed Lord Shit-for-brains standing over there?” Makeup-lady motioned back towards the crowd, “Go ahead, look… the fat one.”

She looked back at the crowd of howling French-people. They were all quite drunk and not the least bit upset about that fact. In the middle of them sat the one that Makeup-lady was referring to—a massive man, but in all the wrong ways, looking to be in his high-fifties or low-sixties, and balding. He was dressed in a flagrantly expensive suit which was layered in expensive cocktails and spittle that showed just how much more drunk than the others he was.

“Yes.” Makeup-lady nodded, “That’s him. The fat, worthless sack of pig shit, Lord Piggy. And tonight, you are going to help us make him squeal like one.”

Das Mission

Lena hoped to god that she didn’t look as terrified as she now felt. She tried harder to look natural than she had tried at anything she could remember. She knew that Makeup-lady was watching her like a hawk, and she didn’t want to think of what would happen if she got anything wrong. She truly believed the woman capable of everything she said she was, and the next hour or so might land her in the same predicament as that poor bartender.

Lena shuddered at the thought of it. She knew that the bartender was the enemy, as far as the Stasi was concerned. She also knew that the bartender had been trying to use Lena, which might very well have gotten her in the same trouble. But to earn that?! She hated Red-hat and Wart-face now. They were pure evil as far as Lena was concerned. As for Makeup-lady… well, Lena was just too scared of her to hate her. Somehow, she would find out that Lena hated her, and then…

The mission wasn’t going to be easy. Over the past few months, Lena had learned several new skills to varying levels of expertise (most of them not very expert at all, admittedly), but this was something else entirely. She had been assured that what she was provided worked with a minimum of explanation and that she had received training sufficient for her role tonight. Still, she had done nothing remotely like this.

She looked over at Lord Piggy and she honestly wanted to feel somewhat sorry for him—she knew what was coming his way, and while he probably deserved it, well, she still felt bad. Especially knowing that she was going to be a part of his downfall. Yet her feelings on his behalf began to wane as she watched him drunkenly opening and shutting his fine leather briefcase in front of the hotel staff, loudly slurring, “Oh, I bet you would love to see what I have in here, wouldn’t you, you Stasi pricks! Go ahead… look!” followed by him slamming the briefcase closed and saying, “Oh, too slow! Stupid Stasi pricks!”

This was followed by the ever-polite Interhostel staff trying to reassure him that, “the hotel staff are not Stasi, and any Stasi that might be present are only here for routine national security. The Metropol is hoping to build a fine relationship with the people of France,” and that he, “really should keep his voice controlled, so as not to upset the other esteemed guests of the Hotel.” To this, he simply responded by quickly opening and shutting the briefcase, and shouting,“Stasi pricks!”

It appeared that Lord Piggy’s cohorts were beginning to tire of him as well. Many had skittered off to their rooms, moved on to a separate table, or taken to the Hotel’s various male and female companions for some more stimulating conversation. Lena had her duties, of course, but she did manage to overhear some of the various conversations. Most deviated between apologizing for their boss, commenting on how pleasantly strong the drinks were, or trying to impress the companions with how important they were.

Within a few short minutes, her first task was complete: make a mental note of the combination locks on the briefcase and their respective codes. Since the drunken bastard was too hard off to scramble them every time he closed the case, the numbers ‘0505’ and ‘2001’ were practically visible for all to see. Hell, he practically gave the combos away themselves, “How in the world is a man like this trusted with anything?!” Lena boggled.

Her first mission complete, she needed only wait for her second tasking. While awaiting, she leaned over to spy on a new couple. This couple was comprised of a member of the dignitary’s entourage and a companion who were having a decidedly important conversation.

“…wish to just sail the world.” he gestured, hands flailing in the air.

“Oh, that sounds marvelous!” she gushed.

“Just imagine; the wind in your hair, the spray hitting you in the face, nothing but ocean to explore for days around you!”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful!”

It was as sad a sight as could be seen. The man talked and talked and talked, oblivious to the woman’s put-on body language. One of Lena’s first items of instruction when she got out of prison was to learn how to read body language—something her young Stasi officer had trained her well in.

“You can’t always trust the face.” Patrick had told her during one meeting, “People—especially professional liars, like spies, politicians, salesmen and otherwise—have all memorized and practiced their faces. They know when to look you in the eyes or when to smile. As a matter of fact, the better the smile, and the more comfortable or intense the eye contact, the more likely it is that you have a professional liar on your hands.

“That’s why you have to look elsewhere. Look at the body! People never subconsciously control where their feet are pointed. If they are truly engaged in the conversation with you, they will face you with their body. They will lean in and protect the conversation with their arms, as if wrapping the two of you up in a box of privacy. But if their body is ‘bladed’—that is, facing slightly to the left or right— that could signify a standoffish cockiness, sure; but it mostly signifies disinterest or discomfort.

“Watch the feet most of all. The feet will always point to where they want to be. If the feet point towards a doorway, or towards another group of people, this tells you that they aren’t enjoying the conversation.”

Lena watched the woman and saw that her body language was well-trained. She had her elbows resting on the table, and her forearms splayed slightly outwards, as if to focus the conversation between the two while appearing ‘open’. Occasionally, she would box the two in, by touching her face repeatedly. This also served to accentuate her arms and shoulders, something that oddly made the man slouch more. Lena knew this was a sign of self-consciousness. When people felt out of control or poorly about a situation, they would cross their arms or slouch in order to take up less space.

His companion picked up on this and straightened up, further dominating the situation. She wiggled her shoulders (as if to suggest a brief chill), which also served to elongate her torso. The man responded by awkwardly closing his legs, a subconscious sign of submission to protect his sensitive parts from attack. Lena knew this man was aroused, and for some reason he really didn’t enjoy that fact.

Obviously, his female companion wasn’t enjoying the interaction in the slightest. Her legs were tightly closed under the table, and her feet pointed towards the exit. No doubt this was nothing but work for her. Yet, as the man wrapped an ankle around the leg of a chair, as if to fasten himself to something solid, Lena knew this man was intimidated by the woman. Perhaps she would get all the information she wanted from him without ever having to visit his room.

Another ‘couple’ sat talking in a darkly lit alcove, and boy, did these two make a pair. The man was wide open, with his forearms and legs splayed to either side of the table. He spoke loudly, with words that communicated his inherent import. Yet his voice was in an upper register, instead of a deeper one, suggesting how important the man truly felt. He used wide gestures with his hands and forearms, but locked his upper arms in place (closing himself off), with weak, floppy fingers (that suggested a non-resolute character—sort of like a bad handshake), and hip-fidgeting (which told the real story of how comfortable he was).

The woman, smiling wide and nodding too much at what he was saying, responded by clenching her lower jaw and squeezing her fists.

“Look at the jaw.” Patrick had told her, “If you see the sides of the face and temple flexing, that signifies stress, and/or the desire to either leave the conversation or get a word in edgewise.” He would go on to describe how adults carried most of their stress in their lower jaw. Even when they attempted to relax the jaw, they almost always failed to relax the sides of the upper just behind the cheeks.

“Go ahead. Relax your upper jaw.” Patrick had said, laughing, when she didn’t believe him.

Lena did. A pressure she didn’t know she had was released on her gums and molars. Yet, it brought her awareness to the knotty stiffness behind her cheeks. It didn’t hurt, per se, but no matter how hard she tried to release it, it wouldn’t go away. And the realization of how much stress she was storing immediately made her clench her teeth again the second she stopped thinking about it.

“See?” her young Stasi officer laughed.

Lena had come to hate those lessons. Not that they weren’t interesting—they were actually fascinating—but now, realizing that entire humans (including ones that she had known forever) could be reduced to a few movements and gestures caused her to despise the transparency of it all. Suddenly, she realized that she hated everyone. Patrick, of course, did nothing to dissuade her from this line of thinking.

“Everyone’s a liar.” he had told her, plaintively, “Even if they don’t yet know it. You have to realize that people don’t say what they mean;they say what they want you to hear. When someone asks you how your day is going, what do you say?”

“Fine. How are you?”

“For someone who spent almost a month locked in a black cell, are you really fine?”

“No. But it’s…”

“…precisely what you are supposed to say.” Patrick interrupted her.

“But that’s not lying! It’s just…” she argued.

“…lying, Lena. It is not telling the truth. But who really tells the truth? No one actually wants to hear about your day. They merely want to establish rapport. They want to walk away feeling like they had a good interaction. So, when someone tells you something, consider that perhaps the words that they use aren’t the truth, but are instead devised to illicit emotions or impart subtext.

“If someone simply says, ‘fine’, maybe they aren’t fine. But maybe they also don’t want to talk. That is worth knowing, because everyone is dying to talk to someone. We’re a social species, Lena. If someone is blowing you off with a typical social interaction, it’s either because they don’t want to talk—which is a lie, because everyone wants to talk to someone—or because they don’t want to talk to you.

“Now, if someone does talk about their day, maybe they are desperately lonely. If someone talks about their new boat, they could be trying to impress you. But they might also be picturing themselves sailing away from all of this. The conversation is a lie. They don’t care about you; they don’t even care about the boat. All they care about is what the boat symbolizes: freedom. And if the boat symbolizes freedom, then what—and this is the only question to ask—is so terrible in their lives that they fantasize about escaping it?”

Reflecting on that conversation, she looked back at the man talking to the woman about his stupid boat. Her torso had elongated even further, and now her hands were crossed, blocking him off, symbolizing how little she was enjoying his story. He had reached over to place a hand over hers, and she allowed it, but his stifled body language now told a clear story about both him and his stupid boat—he knew what she was after, and he was going to let her have it. As much as he might want to keep his job or stay in good standings with his country, he wanted more still to escape from his world for a night, and he was hoping she would be the means of travel. No doubt, some rough waters were ahead for him.

A sudden hush came over the room then. Lena turned her attention back to Lord Piggy, who had spilled even more wine on his suit. One of the serving staff, a very pretty young man with fine hair and perfect posture, had leaned over to wipe some of the wine off of Lord Piggy’s tie. Lena studied this interaction closely. The male server had been awkwardly laughing at the drunken jokes that the idiot was telling, but it was a particular type of awkward. It wasn’t the ‘I don’t want to be here’ type; but an almost caring, ‘feeling-genuinely-sorry-for-this’-type of laugh.

When the idiot had spilled his wine, the server had reacted immediately, without thought. A startled, “Oh, your tie!” had prefaced the immediate reaction to wipe it off for him, and the quick pats with a washcloth had briefly turned into long, protracted downward strokes. The server was showing such interest and care in Lord Piggy’s tie, that he had obviously forgotten his place.

The server had made a mistake, of course. It was likely not allowed for a server to invade a guest’s space by touching him. He realized this and pulled away almost immediately, yet the damage was done. The idiot’s entourage had grown silent, awkwardly watching the interaction unfold. Even the great idiot seemed at a loss for words. Silence reigned for awkward moments in the room before the flustered server decided to excuse himself. He promptly sought to exit the room, walking quickly towards a doorway near Lena with an embarrassed haste.

“Boy!” Lord Piggy yelled after him as the room began speaking in a hushed, yet fevered pitch, “Boy! Boy, now see here!”

Yet as the embarrassed server walked past Lena—no doubt to receive a prompt firing from his boss—she was overtaken with a surprise that she dared not show. Although he hazarded a look her way, a sorrowful face choked with repression and dishonor, she caught a sly wink, “Oh my gosh,” Lena realized, as she looked at his primped and perfect face, with just the hint of eye-popping mascara and eyeliner, “Patrick?!?”

____

Lena moved quickly. Makeup-lady had nodded at her just moments after the ‘tie’ incident, and she had precious few moments to get in position.

After the belligerent young ‘server’ had taken it upon himself to invade the personal space of Lord Piggy, the scandal began to echo throughout the lobby and adjoined lounges. All eyes had turned to him. Yet after a round of drunken swearing and awkward attempts to gracefully arise from his chair, the eyes in the room averted back to their former conversations. She could overhear what they said under their breath, however. They made comments that tended to move between awkward laughter at his expense and derogatory comments about the impropriety of the server.

“You would think the Metropol would know better than to hire his ilk!” the idiot shouted to his entourage, “Disgraceful! Immoral! This is what I get for taking my business to East Germany! Attempts at buggery, and assaults on my person! This land has gone to the dogs, it has! To the dogs!”

Several serving staff stood in front of him, arms crossed in front in a display of immense contrition, as a manager stood beside him apologizing profusely.

“I apologize for his behavior, Sir.” the manager said, “He will be swiftly fired. His behavior will not be tolerated.”

“But it was tolerated! It was!”

“Yes, Sir, it was. The Metropol made a grievous error that we hope we can somehow make up for. Your stay and all future stays will be…”

“Future stays?! What future stays? Buggery! To think that I would take such a slight against my esteemed character…”

“Yes, Sir. We understand. We would be most happy to book you a room at one of the other hotels in town, at our expense.”

“One of the other hotels? Ramshackle shanties with cots and haircloth blankets, no doubt! This poor little country doesn’t…”

He droned on and on and on, and as it was time for the next move, Lena was actually glad to be rid of him and this large room, despite its gilded opulence. Besides, what was coming next would be far more interesting than watching the mind games everyone was playing with each other. No doubt, it was the same for the ruling classes no matter what country they were in—mind games, double-talk, scantily-clad women strapped with hidden recorders, intrigue and… oh, whatever other horrors that bureaucratic tastes could be exploited. This she only suspected of course; but she promised herself that, should she ever have the chance to experience it again, she would find a way to be somewhere else.

Up a few staircases, down a few hallways, down a staircase, over through another hallway, and up another staircase, she made sure to take a winding, convoluted path so as to confuse any tails. Not that she suspected any here—this was Stasi turf, and she was on their side tonight—she just knew that Makeup-lady might be following her, and any lack of effort might translate into other assumptions. For good measure, she doubled back a few times, and then became promptly lost. “Dammit!” she yelled at herself.

After setting herself back on the right path (no small task in such a gigantic installation), she finally completed her evasive route just outside room #05: a Diplomatic Suite, and one of the very best in the GDR, “Good god”, she mumbled as she stared at the door, “Even the front door of this place is incredible.” And it truly was. It was black—just black—and yet, the quality of the black was visible even to a boorish philistine like her.

Reaching into her purse, she fumbled around for a key. Finding it, she slipped it into the door and turned the lock—even doing this was a pleasant experience, she realized—good German locks with every edge tight, smooth and silky to the twist. Heck, even the sound it made was lovely.

Yet stepping inside, she was assailed with a sight she was hardly expecting. The entire place was only half-finished. On one side of the room, stacked carelessly, was some of the finest furniture she had ever seen in her life. The chairs were made of expensive wood with expensive lacquer, and contained finely-buttoned cushions that both begged to be sat in, and threatened at the cost of doing so. Immediately, Lena felt incredibly unimportant. These seats were meant to pamper the bottoms of important people… not riff-raff like her.

Yet despite the lavish furnishings casually tossed about, the rest of the room was mostly bare. The kitchen-area looked to have had its countertops removed (or not yet placed), and little plastic cups kept company with sticks of deodorant, bottles of cheap vodka and half-eaten sandwiches. Half the carpet was ripped-up to expose the soiled concrete underneath. Various cheap folding desks were strewn about, or gathered haphazardly against a far wall. She noticed a rough metal folding chair with arms leaning against a wall painted black with glopped-on strokes. A few blocky pink computers and light-blue typewriters sat on a desk in the corner, along with a large, complicated machine with paper and wires coming out of it, “That’s a poly-something!” Lena exclaimed in her head, recognizing it from a movie she saw once.

Despite the deconstructed appearance, the room was so huge that the four occupants only served to make the room seem even lonelier. Two of these occupants were unnervingly beautiful yet trashily-primped women. Their clothing seemed to be falling off of them to reveal underclothing that was far lacier and see-through than anything Lena had seen before. Yet these women sat smoking cigarettes and talking in apathetic tones about “Filing more damn reports” and the “KGB asshole that lost the pen.” At this, Lena checked her purse to make sure that she hadn’t made the same mistake.

The third occupant, however, was none other than the disgraced server, Patrick, who was busying himself with his makeup while looking in a grubby mirror. His eyes were even more gilded now, and his skin had a touchable sheen to it that made him seem younger than she knew him to be. As a matter of fact, Patrick appeared to be… well, scandalously young for how primped up he was.

“Finally, you’re here!” he shouted in her direction with a hurried, inconvenienced tone.

“I got here as soon as…”

Patrick interrupted her by walking briskly over, reaching into his pocket and dropping a small room key into her hand. He then fumed out the door of the suite with an exasperated slam.

“There’s absolutely no time for idle chatting, Lena.” a woman’s voice said. As Lena turned to face the voice, she was rewarded with the perturbed face of Makeup-lady, “You know what you have to do?”

“Yes, I do. I mean, I think so.”

“Know so.” she replied simply, “Remember: you can skip any point, and we can conduct remedial training later. But if you are going to go for it, then do it right. We can’t afford mistakes tonight.”

“I understand. When do I move?”

“Just give it a few moments.”

Just then, Lena heard a drunken commotion outside of the suite—a raucous laughter from just down the hall. Picking up on this, Makeup-lady began speaking to the trashy-looking women in the corner.

“Alright, you two. Time to get to work.”

The two women stood up with the most irritated looks they could possibly manage, swearing under their breath before walking out the front door. Before the door slammed, however, Lena noted their walk and postures changing from ‘everything-must-die’ into ‘first come, first serve’.

“Give it about three minutes.” Makeup-lady said flatly.

“What are they doing?”

“Oh, you know…” Makeup-lady responded with a smirk, “Gathering intelligence.”

After a few minutes, the soundscape outside of the room changed to a much different, err, hue, inside of a nearby broom closet. What had begun as muffled introductions became coy conversation, before finally turning to the throes of adults doing the things that adults did when they were supposed to be doing something else. Lena turned slightly green.

“Just imagine how pleased he’ll be once he finds out.” Makeup-lady smirked.

“Finds out what?” Lena scowled.

“That we bugged the broom closet.”

“Oh.”

“The aide should be taken care of, Lena.” Makeup-lady said, grinning ear-to-ear, “No doubt, he is busy with other… duties. Are you ready?”

“Yes.” she responded, hoping that she truly was.

“Well, get to work, then. Room six, right next door. Be quick about it.”

Immediately, Lena stepped out of the suite. As she turned down the hallway, she tried to ignore the wet, sloppy sounds coming from the nearby broom-closet of a man in the throes of passion, and women in the throes of pretending. Thanking the good Lord that she hadn’t been tasked with that duty, Lena awkwardly placed the key into the doorknob, and gently turned it in the lock.

Once the key snapped the pins into their rightful place, Lena quietly opened the door. Upon entering, she exhaled with surprise at the sheer majesty of it all: the room was just incredible. The same gilded chairs as room five, but now properly placed around desks carved out of rare, fragrant woods. The kitchen area had fine marbled counter-tops, and instead of cheap plastic cups, fine crystal glassware kept company with flower arrangements that just smelled amazing.

This room had windows too; wide portals that framed a big chunk of Berlin in gold and ebony. It even had these pointless frosted glass panels separating the guest ‘rooms’. These rooms contained large, fluffy beds with huge, tasseled, sapphire pillows dressed in gold. Yet where the black wall would have been in room five stood a grand piano; a Boesendorfer, which she recognized by the extra black keys near the far end. That piano cost half a million dollars—she knew this from memory—and it took every ounce of her strength to resist playing a few bars. Everything about this room was just magical.

Taking a final indulgent look around, Lena searched for her prize. After some careful steps, so as not to disturb anything that ought not to be, she finally saw it on a nearby desk: the briefcase that the aid had just brought up. Snatching it quickly (and taking time to remember the codes to the locks), she walked briskly out of the suite, quietly closing the door behind her. Before re-entering room five, however, she took a brief second to listen to the broom closet where she heard gross slurping sounds, along with a few French words being struggled through by a man that really should have known better. Stifling her immense disapproval, she walked back into room five.

“Well, we may make an asset out of you, yet.” Makeup-lady beamed.

“I really…” Lena responded, before being quickly cut off.

“Shut up, dear girl.” she responded, her tone immediately sharp, “Your mission is not nearly complete. Remember, time is of the essence! This is the most crucial part, by far!”

“I’m ready.” Lena responded.

“Well, then… you know where the spot is?”

“I do.”

Lena awaited a reply from Makeup-lady, who was simply staring awkwardly at her… and staring… and staring. She looked to be waiting some unknown reply from Lena, who stood awaiting further instructions. After a few moments, Lena felt profoundly uncomfortable with this, “Oh god, what did I do wrong?” she berated herself, “I did something wrong. I know it!”

“Lena?” Makeup-lady said after several more uncomfortable moments.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“What are you doing?”

“I… uh… I’m…” oh, what a bother this all was.

“Why are you still here, stupid girl?”

“Because… uh…”

“Why are you still here, stupid girl?”

Lena practically ran out of the room, then. A red flash of embarrassment spread across her face. She still didn’t dare bring herself to hate the woman, but she really, really wanted to.

____

Lena awkwardly shuffled out of the Metropol and into the night. As soon as she felt the brisk chill of winter, she released a loud and exasperated sigh. Quickly, she reached into her purse and pulled out a cigarette. This, she lit and proceeded to puff on profusely. She hadn’t realized just how stifling the Metropol had been until now. It was beautiful inside, sure. Every inch of the five-star was palatial in essence, and the very epitome of human design. The alcohol was pure finery, as were the lounges that served them. The people were just unnervingly beautiful, as were the rooms and the furniture that filled them. And yet, all that Lena could think about was how much she missed the banged-up old churches.

She missed her old band. She missed the bare chests and fist fights, the blood and the puke and the raw, filthy smell of it all. It was the grit—the pure honesty of imperfect people doing far more imperfect things. She missed ducking around wherever she went, and she even missed being on the other side of the Stasi. Maybe not the prisons… no, that she would never miss. But she missed the days when the Stasi were nothing but shades in the night and rumors to be pondered, rather than an ever-present reality.

Now that she knew them, she understood them. That made her like them even less. Here, at this overly-elegant testament to self-worship and futility in motion, she had realized the other side of it all. The Stasi had gone from a myth, to her tormentors, to her trainers, and now to a veritable orgy of… well, remembering the broom closet, ‘orgy’ was probably the best word to describe it, truly.

After filling her head with the noxious cloud of her sweet sedative, it was time to get to work. Thus, she began making her way around the building, being careful to hug the shadows. Not an easy thing to do in a black cocktail dress, ever-punctuated with the awkward ‘clomp, clomp, clomp’ of her heeled boots. All in all, Lena didn’t know much about shoes, so she didn’t know what constituted high-heels or otherwise-heeled, she just knew that these weren’t very good for clandestine warfare.

She walked past doorways and drunken patrons, then parked cars and drunker patrons. This was followed by smoking hotel staff and the sound of rock music. Then, she passed a few crummy dumpsters with a few grubby men chucking garbage into them. After that, her destination was in sight and her pace slowed to a near crawl.

She found herself in a darkened alleyway, lit dimly by a far-off set of industrial lights, and a filthy bulb that blinked on and off while being bopped into by flittering moths. Despite the chill, the alleyway was warm with the steam of nearby industrial equipment that worked the innards of the Metropol’s many kitchens. A sticky yuk clung to the much-less elegant walls in a moldy spattering that Lena didn’t dare touch or brush against, lest Vivika’s borrowed finery be irreparably mussed.

The underbelly of alleyways was old hat to her very nature. Yet tonight, it felt strangely unfamiliar as it intermingled with her newfound sense of purpose and the mission at hand. Her senses heightened as the fog of night folded around her. She was almost to the meeting place, and she had to remain unseen.

“…there, boy!” an older man’s barely-audible voice echoed from several meters away.

“…won’t apologize for how I feel!” a younger man’s retort echoed as well.

“…filthy little… aren’t you?… would just love that, wouldn’t you?”

As Lena tiptoed closer, down an alleyway that was sticky with steam from the nearby heating units and exhaust from the kitchens, more of the conversation came into focus.

“I’ve already been fired!” the voice of Patrick wailed in a boyish tone, “What more can I do? You wish to humiliate me?”

“Humiliation won’t cut it!” the voice of Lord Piggy shouted back, “No, that won’t nearly cut it. What in the world possessed you, child?! Thinking to embarrass me like that? What in the world were you thinking?!”

“I’ve already told you how I feel, haven’t I?!” Patrick cried incredulously, through perfectly-formed tears.

“You’re a cheeky little abomination, aren’t you?!”

As Lena moved closer, the scene came fully into view despite the steam-filled air. Patrick was backed against a wall, cowering low, as the idiot domineered over him. Occasionally, he would push Patrick, or smack him on the face. Patrick would recoil with every blow, crying harder and harder. She knew him to be tougher than the swats of this filthy slug; yet she hated the scene all the same. He might have been ‘at work’, but he didn’t deserve such treatment, or such insults.

“Yes. Yes!” Patrick shouted covering his face, “Whatever you say! Please stop hitting me!”

“Why should I?! You’re nothing to me! Nothing! You hear me?!”

“Yes, Sir. If that’s what you want me to be! I’m nothing!”

“I’m a powerful man! You’re a disgrace… a worthless abomination. I should beat you to a pulp right here!”

As the beating continued, Lena became wholly enraged, “Who the hell does this asshole think he is?!” Whether or not Patrick was playing a part was irrelevant—no one deserved to be treated like that. Not anyone. Especially for having feelings, whether they were put on or not. Hell, half of her band had the same urges, and no one had a thing to say about it in the scene. In contrast to the rest of the world, punks almost seemed to relish alternative sexuality, if for no other reason than how much it pissed off the Politburo.

She marveled to herself how the varied miscreants in her scene could be so violent and drawn towards filth—yet they were so accepting of, well, people. Regardless of how you were on the outside, all Lena’s people cared about were how well you moshed, and how many Sex Pistols’ lyrics you knew. Yet this pompous bastard at the upper-echelons of society was not only the picture of intolerance, he was so… so… “ugh!” she thought to herself.

As Patrick apologized more, and cried harder, and the sack of lard laughed louder and louder, Lena resolved to accomplish her next step as perfectly as she could. This would be her revenge against the walking blubber-pile. As she pulled out her pen, and twisted off the top of it to expose the sensitive lens underneath, she prayed that she would get the most damning shots possible, “I’ll teach this sack of shit a lesson!” she vowed.

As the seconds ticked on, however, and the scene went from violent to wrong, and then wrong to… something that couldn’t be described easily with words… she realized the horrid direction that this was headed. It was urgent now: a terrible sin near committing, and a vile, unearthly act that earned its committer to the darkest, hottest cells that Hell could possibly manifest. As realization dawned, her anger changed then… no, it couldn’t be anger. It was sheer rage—unbridled, hateful, rage.

She watched every horrible second with utter disgust, but was determined to capture the very worst of it with her camera. She wanted to see the look in the bastard’s eyes—to watch him crumble when he was finally exposed. And she wanted him to know it was her that did it. As the abuse became more and more pronounced, Lena fantasized about the pictures she was taking, and how they would be received. Her adrenaline screamed through her veins so fast, she heard her own heartbeat in her ears. The urgency of her rage filled her so completely, then. She would watch. She would see every second. And she vowed revenge as Patrick’s pants came off.

“Click, click, click, click, click…” The sound of the tiny camera was impossible for the two in front of it to hear.

“Is this how your kind likes it?!” Lord Piggy bellowed. Patrick had nothing to say in response.

“Click, click, click, click…” A few more minutes passed by as the tears streamed down her cheeks. Her sight blurred as her eyes filled with water, and her hands shook. She bit her lower lip so hard, she tasted blood. And her heart beat so fast and violently, she was afraid she would lose all control and kill the filthy prick herself. Patrick was screaming now.

“That’ll do, young one.” a voice whispered behind Lena, startling her.

“Who…!!!” she turned to defend herself, only to come face-to-face with Wart-face.

“There’s a few things your young eyes shouldn’t see this early in life.” he whispered to her, as he grabbed her arms and squeezed them hard, “You’ve done your job well. Let me take it from here.”

“But… but they’re…” Lena sobbed at him, as Patrick’s screams filled the alleyway.

“I know, young one. I know.” Wart-face whispered gently, “But it’s a game he agreed to play. Now, get back to the room. You’ve got more work to do.”

As Lena half-ran, half-crept out of the alleyway, her path blinded by the tears streaming out of her eyes, she vowed to get revenge. She didn’t know how, or when. She just knew she would. It wasn’t a hope… it was a promise.

Katharsis

As Lena’s walk turned into an awkward run, then back into a breathless walk, she realized she was still stress-clicking away picture after picture; probably of her shoes, or the alleyway, or the dumpsters. She quickly put the pen back into her purse with a shudder, feeling filthy for even having the thing. Replacing the pen with her pack of cigarettes and pulling one out, she lit it. She then continued stumbling on wobbly legs. Soon enough, it became apparent that her legs were simply too rubbery to get her anywhere in an expedient fashion. Thus, she ducked behind a dumpster where she could fill her head with the noxious, calming plume.

Her hands were shaking with adrenaline and revulsion, her face was streaked with tears and mascara, and she realized she was almost out of her precious life-giving smokes, but she didn’t care. She would walk as slow as it took for her to compose herself. And if that meant she had to smoke every single cigarette she had, she would. She meant her vow of revenge—what she had witnessed and the pictures she had taken could never be denied—yet Lena hoped she wouldn’t have to see the contents herself tonight. She knew Makeup-lady, and prayed that she wasn’t that cruel.

With her smoke complete and her hands finally somewhat steadied, she made the attempt to clean up her mascara as best she could before finishing the journey back to the front entrance.

As she re-entered the Embassy-like hotel, she saw it in a completely new light. She looked at the golden trusses, the ivy-clad pillars, the fine mahogany, and the beautiful people—she hated all of it. To her, it meant nothing more than corruption, barely-obscured hedonism and filth. As she looked at the drunken patrons and their companions still engaged in a dance of endless power struggles and deception, she marveled at how unchanged they remained. The man she had first observed was still talking about his stupid boat, and the woman opposite him was still leaning in seductively, pretending to care. As Lena remembered Grandfather, and how he had extolled the virtues of courtship and ‘good social values’, she couldn’t help but feel a sort of irony. If he only realized that his precious GDR was using these tactics to preserve it all…

“Bullshit. All of it.” she thought, and she didn’t care who knew.

Winding up a staircase, down another, through a hallway, and taking as complicated a route as she could be bothered to (not anything like the first time), she arrived outside room five. As she pulled out her key and shakily set to placing it in the doorknob, she noticed a leg hanging out of the broom closet just a few feet away, punctuated by sounds of snoring and the smell of throw-up. She hated him. She hated the women who had been in there with him. She hated everything.

As she walked into the room, she was surprised to see six occupants now, all feverishly working. In the corner on the bulky pink computers, one of the disheveled trashy women sat next to a tired man in an unbuttoned polo. Both wore headsets, and both were typing away furiously. Standing by a desk next to the computers, the other trashy woman had changed into much more conservative fare, and was now assisting Makeup-lady under a large, pitch-black hood. Lena smelled strange fumes coming from under it. “A portable black room…” she realized.

Red-hat stood drinking coffee, and laughing loudly at something that a fancy-dressed man standing opposite him had apparently said just moments before Lena had entered.

“No loyalty, these days!” Red-hat said, “We offered her a cigarette and she confessed everything… everything! She even offered to work for us! Have you ever known anyone to crack that quickly?!”

“If the Brit’s would stop picking from the pretty ones,” Fancy man replied, “they might not have problems like this.”

“Well, just wait until we really put the screws to her. I’m sure we’ll find out even more.”

Lena worked hard to stifle the glare she desperately wanted to give them. After a few moments of idle chatter, Red-hat finally acknowledged her and walked over. He offered her the coffee he had been drinking, which she refused as politely as the bile welling up inside her would allow. She had to be cordial, but she refused to be any more than that. She hated these people. The second she could be rid of them, the better.

“Well, let’s see what you have.” Red-hat said.

Lena pulled out the pen and handed it over, glad to be rid of it. Red-hat studied it for a second, and walked over to the big black hood that Trashy-lady and Makeup-lady were working under. She was muttering to herself underneath, and seemed unable to be bothered with anything else. Finally, after Red-hat cleared his throat a few times, she half-acknowledged him by flailing an arm behind her, motioning for Red-hat to put the camera-pen in her hand. It quickly disappeared under the hood with her as Red-hat stood drinking his coffee.

After several minutes of keyboards being clicked, coffee being sipped, and comments being muttered under the hood, Makeup-lady leaned her head out. With an annoyed tone, she growled, “Sure. That’ll work.” She then handed the camera-pen back to Red-hat and got back to whatever it was that she was doing.

Lena stood there for quite some time. After what seemed like ten entire minutes, she began feeling like a particularly unimpressive bit of carpet. The room varied oddly between the very busy and not so busy at all. Red-hat and the Fancy-man seemed completely unaffected by the rest of the room which was working at a feverish pitch. Indeed, they seemed perfectly content to stand around making horrible observations about the British asset’s ‘numerous features’, with Red-hat laughing loudly.

Finally, Makeup-lady pulled herself out from under the hood and stood, holding a piece of paper in her hands.

“Success!” she cheered.

“Let me see it,” the fancily-dressed man standing with Red-hat said.

Makeup-lady handed it over, obviously pleased with herself, and watched with glee as he pored over it. After a few moments of nodding, he signified his agreement with a gruff, “That’ll work.” before handing it to Red-hat. After he nodded agreement as well, he leaned over and handed it to Lena. She gasped.

What she now held in her hands was the front cover of a French tabloid, dated precisely a week from today. On it, held on by white masking tape, was a picture of the Honorable Louis Pelletier—Lord Piggy—engaged in the most despicable act with Patrick. Oddly enough, the pictures were from a high angle—an angle that Lena couldn’t possibly have taken her pictures from. She felt the urge to vomit welling in her stomach.

“It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” Makeup-lady cheered.

“It shows his face. That’s the important part.” Fancy-man said.

“I think it’s fabulous. Looks like Patrick’s enjoying it too.” Red-hat quipped.

“That’s enough, Lieutenant.” Fancy-man admonished Red-hat, “That’s one of our agents, remember.”

“Not much of one, really.” Red-hat replied, but he shut up after Fancy-man glared at him.

“We were supposed to send the girl.” Makeup-lady said, motioning at Lena as she glared at Fancy-man, “But someone got his sexual preference wrong and we had to improvise.”

Lightning crashed in Lena’s mind as realization dawned. “What?!?” she screamed inwardly. Obviously, she had made some particularly concerning noises because Makeup-lady turned towards her, contempt written all over her face.

“You really think we would have chosen to put an actual agent up to this, over someone like you?” she sneered. “A proven field agent with years of experience, over a common criminal slut with no experience whatsoever? Don’t confuse your place in all of this, dear girl. You are a tool to be used. We’ll use and abuse you how we please.”

She hated Makeup-lady right then. With every ounce of her body, and every inch of her soul, she hated her. Sure, she hated this hotel, and she hated these people; she hated the man in the broom closet, and she almost hated Lord Piggy most of all. But that lofty place of intense loathing was reserved for Makeup-lady alone. She focused all the bile the world had to offer on hoping that she would recognize it. Lena didn’t care if there were consequences. Merely knowing that Makeup-lady knew was enough to make up for whatever punishment would be levied her way in response.

“That was supposed to be me?” Lena didn’t know which could possibly be worse—the fact that it was supposed to be her, or that it ended up being Patrick. She pondered this for a few minutes as the group talked in front of her. Soon enough, though, her rage subsided just enough to let the fear in. If they had intended for it to be her, well… what did that say about her current predicament? What surprises awaited her now?! Was she in a terrible danger that she hadn’t previously understood? How in the world would that have worked out if they were supposed to coach her into willingly doing… that…?

“It could be worse, girl.” Makeup-lady fired in her direction, seemingly sensing her newfound confusion. “We could have actually gone through with it.”

“I suppose it’s well enough,” Red-hat said, “her Case Officer probably wouldn’t have liked that too much.”

“You mean her grandfather, don’t you?” Makeup-lady taunted.

“Heh, I suppose.” Red-hat jested along with her. “Whatever gets her off.”

“Alright, enough.” Fancy-man said with annoyance, “We still have work to do before the night is over. He should be arriving any second now, and we should be prepared to receive him.”

Just then, Lena heard a quiet knocking at the door, and the room went silent. It was slow and uneven, and it was a sound that Lena knew she would remember for the rest of her life. She knew what lay on the other side of that door, and while she wanted to see him, well… she was afraid to. Really, she was. She felt awful about that, but could you really blame her?

“Well,” Fancy-man spoke with authority, “get to it!”

Makeup-lady walked over to a corner of the room and grabbed a box with a big red plus-sign on it. Red-hat moved a chair over and grabbed a blanket. The two trashy women just sat in the corner looking like they wanted the night to be over, and Tired-man just kept typing and typing. Fancy-man himself walked over to the door and opened it. Everyone but Makeup-lady gasped as Patrick stumbled into the room. The man before them was not the same Patrick she previously knew. The Patrick she knew was exuberant, cocky, brotherly and a bit annoying. The man she saw now looked like he had been awake for a thousand years—a battered shell. Bruises and cuts covered his beautiful face, and his lips were split open. His shirt was torn on one shoulder, and covered in dirt. Most of him was covered in dirt and grime, actually, and he had an awful limp as he slowly walked into the room.

The worst part was his eyes, as they didn’t look like eyes at all. Sure, they had pupils, irises, and all the other ‘eyeball’ words that go along with a description of them. But normal eyes focus—they looked at things, and concentrated on specific points; they told stories, and communicated thoughts. But these… his eyes just looked vacant, expressionless and unfocused, as if the entire world was revolving without him.

Oh, it was just awful. Motherly, sisterly, and otherly instincts welled up inside of her. She wanted to run to him and comfort him in any way she knew how, but knew she couldn’t. So, the rage that had taken up residence inside of her at the sight of him was became all-consuming. She wanted to find Lord Piggy and destroy him. She wanted to make him pay in any way humanly possible. She wanted to destroy everyone standing in this room; Red-hat, Fancy-man, Makeup-lady—especially Makeup-lady—they needed to suffer.

“Well then, did you get it?” Makeup-lady demanded.

“Let’s show a little courtesy, here.” Fancy-man said, as he led Patrick over to a chair and helped him sit down. Patrick moaned at this and Lena’s blood began to boil.

“Perhaps you should lay down instead.” Fancy-man continued with an amount of concern. “Whatever we need to do to make you feel at ease, we’ll do. You’ve had a long night.”

Patrick looked around the room with a blank, long stare in his eyes. He seemed confused, lost even… like he was waking up in a room full of strangers. When he looked at Lena, however, he attempted one of his obnoxious smiles. The ends of his mouth didn’t really curl up evenly, but she saw the hint of it. Lena held back the tears that were welling up as best she could. She knew he was trying to be brave for her. And given the circumstances, he was doing smashingly. That is, until he saw Makeup-lady holding the medical kit.

“Not her.” he protested, forcefully.

“She’s our qualified medic.” Red-hat declared, “Who else would look after you?”

“I don’t care. Not her.”

“Oh, what’s wrong with me, pussycat.” Makeup-lady said, feigning insult.

“Everything is wrong with you, you fucking psychopath.” he said matter-of-factly.

“Well, suit yourself.” she said dismissively, tossing the medical kit to Lena, “Let’s see how your girlfriend here does patching you up.”

____

Lena didn’t really catch the medical kit, as much as she fumbled it. “Me?” she thought, “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?!”

Patrick, assisted by Lena, hobbled over to an alcove surrounded with the pointless frosted-glass panels, where a bed blissfully awaited him. He walked over and slowly lay down, with a few pained groans. Lena tried to help him as much as she could. When he finally lay down, she breathed a sigh of relief. At least for the moment, he was as comfortable as he could be. She just prayed that she would find something in the medical kit that could be of assistance.

Unfortunately, as she snapped off the seals and opened the case, she was immediately confounded by the contents as the insides of the case seemed to spill out a thousand-fold, revealing an ungodly amount of bandages, salves, scissors, things, and… well, lots of stuff that looked exactly like other stuff. Yes, ‘stuff’ seemed to be the best word to describe it all. Gingerly, she fumbled through its disheveled contents, hoping that something would steal her attention before she had to admit to her ignorance.

“Don’t worry,” Patrick began roughly, “you’re already doing better than Dragon Lady.”

“Dragon Lady?” Lena laughed.

“Yeah, that’s what we call her back at the office.” he responded weakly, “We have a lot of interesting people we work with—some more interesting than others as you’ve probably noticed. And then there’s her.” He added this last part with a note of disgust. “She’s lucky she’s useful. Unfortunately for us, she’s very useful at a lot of things. She is literally a psychopath. I think that helps her focus, but it also makes her really scary.”

“I think I know what you mean.” Lena agreed, fumbling through the kit.

Once she realized she wasn’t going to find anything particularly useful, she settled on a small bottle of what she hoped was pain pills. Taking a few from Lena, Patrick showed his satisfaction by gulping them down without any water. As Patrick waited for relief to kick in, the two remained silent for a moment. Patrick was the first to speak, after the brief pause.

“You know, you aren’t actually going to get to see my ass. So, don’t ask.”

She giggled awkwardly before responding, “It’s ok. I didn’t want to see your naked ass anyway.”

“Liar.”

“Patrick…” she started, stifling back emotions that were threatening to take over, “Why did they make you do it?”

“That’s how most intelligence work is, really.” he replied weakly. “Find someone with information or access, and determine the price. Everyone has information, access to something, and everyone has a price; but very few people have the information or access you want. The people that do are generally powerful, and powerful people don’t want money, drugs or immunity—they can already buy all of that. So, their price is almost always sex.”

Laughing weakly, he added, “Prostitutes generally do the trick for most diplomats, bodyguards, and aides, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. But I think you will find that powerful people can already buy sex. It’s the kind of sex they can’t readily get that they are truly looking for. And the more powerful they are, the stranger their fantasies end up being. I’ve seen some things that would make your blood curdle…”

“But Patrick, why did they… your coworkers… make you do that?”

“I don’t know, Lena.” he replied, with resignation, “I don’t know.”

“Well then, what…”

Lena was interrupted by the muffled sounds of a man screaming just outside the door of the suite, along with another man shouting, “Shut your mouth!” Just then, the front door slammed open, banging into the wall behind it with force. It was a much older man who was screaming bloody murder as he stumbled inside. Although perhaps ‘shoved’ may have more accurately described the situation. As the scene focused before Lena, she flushed with rage. There he was: Lord Piggy himself. He was escorted by Wart-face, who looked absolutely murderous. Lord Piggy was shove-marched into the room with his pants and underwear hanging around his ankles. With every waddling step, his personal parts wiggled and bounced. Somehow, he appeared even fatter unclothed and the sweat and indignant expression on his red face made the man look almost comical. Lena would have found him comical under other circumstances, but she was all too aware of what was likely in store for this pathetic disgrace of a man.

As she watched, Red-hat and Wart-face shoved Lord Piggy into one of the metal folding-chairs, forcing him down and roughly binding him with coarse rope.

“This is an outrage.” he shouted, “I am a senior diplomatic official of France. I demand to know…”

“You are a traitor to your country.” Dragon Lady said plainly, barely even looking in his direction from across the room. “You are a drunk, a boy-fucker, a conspirator and a rapist. You are no friend of France and you are no friend to the GDR. We have no reason to recognize you as anything more worthwhile.”

“When word gets out…” he threatened.

“When word gets out that you took a trip to East Germany simply to abuse young boys, you mean.” she interrupted, casually.

“I’m quite certain I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lord Piggy stated indignantly.

“Look,” Fancy-man broke in, “I’m just going to cut this short. It’s been a long night for a lot of us. And thanks to you, I have an agent that now needs medical attention. So, I’m going to make this easy.”

“I don’t have to listen to a word of this!” Lord Piggy shouted.

“You do, and you will.”

“You are nothing to me! I am a senior diplomatic official of the sovereign nation of France, and I demand that you release me this very instant! Or I…”

“Just give me two seconds.” Dragon Lady interrupted them both, as she grabbed a few items off a small desk nearby, before walking over to Lord Piggy. They looked like thick, sharp bobby-pins attached to long wires—wires that ran to an ominous looking box on the desk. Holding the wired bobby-pins in front of Lord Piggy’s face, she said mater-of-factly, “I’m going to attach these to your nipples. Then, I’m going to electrocute you for the rest of the night. I’m going to do this because you won’t shut up, and I’m sick of you interrupting.”

With this, she ripped open Lord Piggy’s shirt forcefully, grabbed one of the objects and began moving it towards his chest.

“No! You… you can’t! When the Ambassador hears…” he shouted. His protests were abruptly cut off, however, as Dragon Lady pinched one of his nipples and roughly threaded a bobby pin through. He shrieked in an octave so pathetic, Lena almost felt disgusted. Almost.

“Alright!” he cried out. “A-alright! I’m sorry! I’ll…” Dragon Lady ignored him as she grabbed the other nipple and threaded another bobby pin through. He shrieked again, although this time it seemed curiously higher-pitched.

“I’m going to start on a medium setting, I think.” she said in a sickeningly sweet voice, “We’ll give you fifteen minutes, then see how much we should turn it up.”

“I’m sorry! I apologize! Please… I apologize!” Lord Piggy began to cry.

“Anita,” Dragon Lady addressed one of the trashy ladies, “would you be a dear and flip the switch over there?”

“Please! I’ll do anything… anything, I swear it!”

“Anita, the switch.”

“No, damnit, please! Please.” Lord Piggy sobbed, crying like a baby.

“Are you going to shut up?” Red-hat cut in.

“Yes! Yes, I swear it!”

“Are you sure you swear it?”

“Yes, for God sake, I promise!!!”

“…because I’ve seen her work on someone for days, and I’ll be honest with you, once you leave here, back to that shithole you call home, I still have to work with her. And she’s going to be really upset with me if I take away her plaything.”

“Please don’t let her… please….” Lord Piggy, who had by now been reduced to a mewling sack of blubber, hyperventilated.

“Not one word.” Red-hat menaced. “Not one single damn word. If you interrupt any one of us, we’ll make sure it’s a long week for you. And those bobby pins can attach anywhere.” Red-hat punctuated this by taking a quick look down at Lord Piggy’s piggly offerings, “…anywhere.”

The look on Lord Piggy’s face combined with the wideness of his eyes, telling a story that the sounds he wanted to make couldn’t have done a better job at communicating. Lena was almost disappointed that he had so quickly silenced himself; not a hic, nor a sob… not anything.

Fancy-man took this opportunity to walk over to the desk and grab Dragon Lady’s fake tabloid cover. He then walked back over to Lord Piggy and stuck it in his face.

“This is you.” he said, pointing. “See over there on the bed? That’s the other guy.”

Patrick overheard this, and gave a half-hearted wave while exhaustedly shouting, “Up yours, buddy!”

Lord Piggy didn’t respond vocally. He simply looked at the paper. He examined it for almost an entire minute before closing his eyes. Moment by moment brought more realization to his countenance. Soon, he began nodding his head repeatedly in utter defeat and resignation. He knew he was caught. And he knew if he tried to lie his way out of it, he would suffer for it. So, he simply sat there, eyes closed, nodding his head up and down.

“Look over there.” Fancy-man said, pointing to the corner where the tired man in the unbuttoned polo sat typing away on one of the bulky computers. “We have audio of the entire encounter, and transcripts are being produced right now.” He then pointed to the desk, where Lord Piggy’s briefcase sat. “There, that’s your briefcase. We have the documents that were inside, thanks to your aide who decided to be otherwise occupied.”

Cackling, Dragon Lady began opening and closing an imaginary briefcase and taunting, “Stasi pricks! Stasi pricks!”, and Lord Piggy went a shade redder.

“Now,” Fancy-man continued, “You will agree to a relationship with our organization and become our perfect little French mole—you will go where we want you to go, say what we want you to say, and hold whatever opinion we tell you to have when we have one. You will spy for us, toe the line for us, and be our little whipping boy when we need you to be. Do this, and you will be richly rewarded with our silence. Don’t do this…” Fancy-man began tapping the page again, “And this won’t just get published… we’ll make sure your wife and children see. Do you understand?”

Lord Piggy finally spoke, with a quick, “Yes. Yes, I promise!”

“Good.” Fancy-man said. “And just in case you decide you are going to have a little change of heart, our friend here…” he said, motioning to Dragon Lady, “is going to be following your every move. Understand that she is excellent at tracking down people like you. And this I promise you…” Fancy-man leaned into Lord Piggy’s face, menacing so close that his breath fogged the man’s eyeballs, “She will start with your kids. Then she’ll move on to your wife. This will be a slow process, and you will see every second of it. I promise you, the last thoughts your precious family will have is of how dissapointed they are that you got them murdered, because you wanted to abuse a boy. Then and only then, after she has slowly killed everyone you hold dear, will she finally kill you. Understand?”

“Yes! Yes, good sir! I swear it!”

“Good.” Fancy-man said, as he raised his arm, motioning to the rest of the agents in the room. As everyone started towards the door, he added, “Now, we have an agent that we need to get to the infirmary, and then the rest of us need to get some sleep. Of course, we owe you a token of appreciation for your indiscretion. In order to thank you properly for raping one of my agents, I’m going to leave you with our lovely friend here for the rest of the night.”

Dragon Lady approached with a vile grin on her face. Through the most wide, dead eyes Lena had ever seen, she visibly relished the events that were to come.

“Like he said…” Fancy-man stated plainly, before walking out the front door, “they can attach anywhere.”

The room began clearing out then, beginning with the tired-looking man and one of the trashy women who helped Patrick stumble into the hallway. As Wart-face walked by the table with Lena’s pen on it, however, he turned to look at it.

“You want a souvenir?” he growled, picking it up and motioning it towards Lena. For a few scant seconds, Lena judged whether accepting it back counted as ‘liking them’, or if she could still give the impression of hateful acceptance. Deciding that now was not the time to be obstinate, she grudgingly took it and threw it in her purse. As Lena slowly followed Wart-face out the door, she heard the begging and pleading behind her. Soon, the pleading turned into screams, then louder screams, and finally high-pitched wails. Lena tried to close her eyes as she shut the door behind her, but she did catch a glimpse of Lord Piggy soiling himself.

Das Großartige Spiel

As their touring van rolled through Checkpoint Charlie just a few minutes ago, Lena’s vision had tunneled, punctuating the furious tightening in her chest. She felt like prey to the armed Americans with their machine guns, and the East German soldiers who barked orders loudly back and forth. She clearly saw the razor wire, and the killing zone with the tank-stars, the turrets and the searchlights. And she felt precisely what they were intended to make her feel. “Turn back!” the toxic fortifications screamed, “It’s not safe on the other side! Turn back for your life!” She held her breath in fear, awaiting any number of terrible sequences that would culminate in her life oozing out onto the already-soiled dirt. Gunmetal decay with a lead-flavored grin; another silenced no-one; a squished bedbug on the brown-soiled mattress of internationalism and nihilist game theory.

But now that she was through, West Berlin appeared so bright and colorful it almost hurt her eyes. As the van drove further into the West, Lena couldn’t help but compare the two worlds (and make no mistake, they were worlds apart). Oh sure, neon signs existed on both sides of the blockade, as did, cars, first dates, beer and night-time music. But here in the West, the sheer scope made your head spin. The neon signs were everywhere, along with event centers for everything from pornography (that existed openly?!?) to drugs (drugs?! People did drugs?!) and wild dance clubs (they looked like orgies from outside). It was positively scandalous! Advertisements filled every flat surface, openly suggesting the reward of free sex for purchasing everything from toothpaste to dry-cleaning. That, or they offered everything from a moonlight fetish-show to a coke-fueled art gallery. Night-time music here, in contrast, made her punk band look practically kitsch. From their little tour van, she could hear everything from wailing electric guitars to brawny synths, mashing against tribal drums that were equal parts death knell and mating dance. God, this city had everything.

The second-most readily visible difference were the cars. In the East, there were very few car factories and basically no imports. Thus, there were really only a few cars everyone purchased: a Wartburg or a Trabant. These were homely little tin-cans that were as comfortable as they were zippy— which is to say not very. This was largely owed to the fact that they had been mostly the same models since the late 60’s. After all, why improve on something that worked and likely wouldn’t kill you for most of its stated service life? Besides, it was completely realistic to wait almost ten years for your car to arrive after paying for it, and until that point, it was either mass transit or good old pedal power. When your square-wheeled, Socialist-flavored jalopy finally showed up, well, it was a reason for the whole neighborhood to celebrate.

Here in the West, however, cars were absolutely everywhere, and absolutely everyone had one. Some even had two, Lena had heard! And there were so many kinds—BMW’s, Mercedes, Volkswagens—all with multitudinous colors, custom parts (like fancy hubcaps!!!) and speakers that blared music Lena had never heard before. These cars choked the roads like stampeding metal wilder beasts. It must have been terrifying to cross the street with so many death-machines rolling around everywhere. Yet folks just scampered across the road every which way, completely ignoring the very real reality of instant horrible death that sat honking mere inches away.

Then there was the skyline itself, filled with millions (if not more) of tall, crazy-looking buildings. She had seen them from afar, sure, but looking at them through the gaps in razor-wire was such a pale comparison to the real thing. Half of them looked to be made entirely of glass, and each one looked to be its own separate village, as if designed irrespective of its surroundings. The buildings didn’t have the same stoic concrete-appeal as they did in the GDR. They didn’t look like they would last quite as long, and there was no familiarity to them. Yet they were so vivid. This, combined with bright neon colors and graffiti that clung inelegantly to them, all seemed horribly irresponsible. Lena loved that profusely.

“Just look at it!” Jakob was the first to speak as he pressed his face against the glass of the small touring van, “Just fuckin’ look at it! It’s fuckin’ beautiful!”

“It’s so bright.” Vortecx said in a tone that more or less suggested agreement.

“I feel like I’m home!” Vivika exclaimed, “Oh Lena, just look at all of it! It’s like a masterpiece of… of… grit!”

“I know.” Lena agreed, “It feels like it should be home.”

“I don’t think I could spend an entire month here.” Vortecx said, “It’s great for a visit, though.”

“Suit your fuckin’ selves!” Jakob exclaimed, “I want to run right out into it all, and do everything there is to possibly do! And I don’t want to stop until it kills me!”

“It probably will, if you aren’t careful.” Vivika said plainly, “And I don’t want to spend this entire trip babysitting you. So, for once in your life, be responsible.”

“Aw, screw you!” he responded, while still pressing his face to the glass, “You can take your shit responsibilities and shove ‘em up your arse! I want it all!” Then, turning towards the front of the van, as if acknowledging the driver for the first time, Jakob shouted, “Hey, driver! Driver!”

“What?” Patrick responded, annoyed.

Oh, that had happened, by the way.

As much as the bands in the GDR absolutely fantasized about heading over the wall to sweet freedom, nothing was ever that easy. You never received carte blanche or a blank check where the State was concerned. Sure, you received a little tour van, and sure you received some money, smokes and goodies for the road. But you also received your own personal Stasi officer (or as he preferred, ‘road manager’).

The ‘road manager’ had a few important duties. Firstly, to get the bands to where they needed to go, and make some perfunctory affectations about “Your place on the set list,” or “The sound check you’re going to get.” But his main job was much more personal: ensure you played the music you were supposed to play, and ensure you made it back onto the van and back into the GDR. Lena didn’t know how the Stasi would ensure you didn’t run off in a country where they had absolutely no power whatsoever, but then she figured that’s probably why Grandfather had sent Patrick. After all, he was likely the only person in the world besides Grandfather that had a chance at bringing her back.

Grandfather knew her well, as did Patrick. After the night at the Interhostel, she had planned on bolting into the sweet arms of freedom the first chance she had, band be damned. Both of them had figured as much, yet they were quite amiable about it. It was almost as if her revilement was expected. However, it had taken a combined effort on both of their parts, at separate times, to convince her to hang in for the greater good.

“You just have to trust me,” Grandfather had gently pleaded. “I know it seems bleak and confusing right now. Trust that I know that feeling. But when I was your age, I had an officer who saw me through for my personal good. Now I’m asking you to trust me in the same way. Ok?”

She swore that she would, and she did trust him of course. There were a great many things that Lena trusted in her life. She trusted that gravity would always pull her down, or that a chair would always hold her up. She also trusted the Stasi and HVA to always have her worst interests in mind, and she trusted that Grandfather worked for them. Neither gravity, nor chairs, nor Grandfather, did she trust with her life or her freedom. As far as she was concerned, the only purpose he really served was keeping Dragon Lady at bay. And the mere fact that they worked together was enough to make her hate him completely.

Ok, maybe she didn’t hate-hate him; but she certainly didn’t trust him in the way he wanted her too. Luckily for Grandfather, Patrick absolutely had what it took to earn her trust. By the time they had both piled into this little van, she had thoroughly bonded with him. They had been through some pretty rough times together, after all. And while the ‘Mad Bunny’ trusted her tour manager Patrick—errr, ‘Victor’, as he was now called—with her true story, he had seen fit to trust her with a deep secret as well: he hated the Stasi and the HVA just as much (or even more than) she did.

Few liked what it took to make an informant out of the rich and powerful, least of all full-time agents who felt they had better things to do with their time than find desperate old politicians to seduce. But Patrick, well, that was an aspect of being an agent that he utterly loathed. Once he was able to get Lena away from prying eyes and ears, he had made that—and much more—perfectly clear.

Patrick had only briefly served with the Stasi. He was a product of parents who had fallen under intense State scrutiny. They had been locked up on trumped-up charges and a kangaroo-conviction, after which Patrick had been very nearly sent to Torgau—essentially an extermination camp for orphans. But, since his 18th birthday had been near enough, and he had shown an above-average intellect, he was offered the opportunity to “reclaim his parents’ lost virtue” in direct service to the State.

Halfway through his training, however, his Academy instructors had noticed two important things about Patrick: he was small for his age, and emotional. He also loathed the idea of dragging people in, or spying on his fellow countrymen—definitely not the most useful profile for a Secret Policeman. And yet, he not only showed a much-higher-than-average intellect, he was also charismatic, a quick learner, free-thinking, empathetic, slightly larcenous, and he retained a propensity for particularly elaborate pranks. He seemed to relish the opportunity to get away with things that he otherwise wouldn’t have, based purely off his preternatural ability to bullshit his way out of nearly anything. Patrick would have made a particularly good salesman. Hell, he would have made an incredible actor.

Most of these attributes were serious warning signs to the Secret Police. Luckily, all of the attributes were perfect for the intelligence services. Thus, less than a week after failing the Secret Police Academy, he found his way into the HVA-Academy. He eventually graduated with honors two years later. Everyone felt that he would go quite far. This was especially true for his instructors who highly recommended him to Lena’s Grandfather for seasoning. The two made a particularly apt pair, largely due to their love of pranks.

Unfortunately, the rest of Grandfather’s team found themselves at odds with Patrick more often than otherwise. While Fancy-man and Wart-face were reasonably decent folk when they had to be, preferring a gruff, utilitarian approach, Red-hat and Dragon Lady were just plain awful. And while the latter two were unapologetic sadists, nearly all the HVA-agents were usurious at best and thuggish at their core.

Like many new intelligence agents, Patrick envisioned a world where he would be rappelling into danger and sneaking about, collecting sensitive information, and toppling governments behind the scenes without leaving a trace. Instead, he found himself in the real world of hookers, drug-running, blackmail, extortion, and often worse. Sure, all of this might have sounded fantastic to the casual observer (especially those with no respect for the law to begin with); yet when experienced first-hand, it was just… filthy.

Patrick had made the mistake of second-guessing it all early on, outside of the protective blanket that Grandfather afforded. Red-hat and Dragon Lady (especially her) had been swift to sniff out his weakness. The next thing he knew, he was being carted around and abused like a common asset anytime they could get away with it. It wasn’t that they wanted to expunge him from their ranks—no, he was their entertainment. And while Fancy-man demanded some semblance of order, and Wart-face had a limit to how much ‘playtime’ they could exact, really, Dragon Lady and Red-hat just had a way of giving him the short end of the proverbial (and apparently not-so-proverbial) stick.

Soon enough, Patrick saw things the same way that Lena did: the HVA were a bunch of debauched villains that he should be rid of as soon as possible. Perhaps this was why Grandfather had seen fit to put the two of them together. Maybe Patrick could finally perform what he envisioned to be real intelligence work, and Lena could finally escape the GDR, if only for a few moments. It was Grandfather’s best shot at not only ensuring that they both safely returned, but that they were reasonably happy to do so. As much as could be expected, anyway.

Of course, her band was none the wiser. She wasn’t even sure if they had the capacity to smell a rat even if she laid it out right in front of them. They were positively enamored to just be crossing the Wall, going on a great adventure. Perhaps it wouldn’t have even taken that. Maybe a short trip to any state in the Soviet Bloc would likely have satiated their desires. She didn’t have to exert any real effort in pleasing them. You know, let them out into the yard to pee every morning, keep the bowl full of kibbles, and throw a bone around every now and then to keep them slobbering and happy.

Not that she viewed them as stooges, per se, they just had their simple little views of the world, with their simple little goals: be a band… rock out… blah blah blah. It was the same crap as everyone else she had ever known, “Do these people ever grow up?” she would often think to herself. On occasion, she would even begrudge them their simplicity and resent their small-minded dreams.

“You used to feel the same way.” Patrick had been quick to remind her, “It was only once we showed you how big the world really was that you decided you wanted a bigger piece of it.”

He told the truth, no doubt; yet it was perhaps worse than that. She had to admit it (in her most honest of hours) that as much as she hated the GDR, the Stasi, the HVA and anything having to do with this realm of evil… it had opened her eyes. They hadn’t just shown her the terrible wonders of the underworld; they had been her passport, permission slip and plane ride to the promise of sheer possibility—her one-way ticket to midnight. As much as she despised it all, and as much as she missed the simplicity of the old days when Pandora’s Box still lay closed, she couldn’t dare look back.

As difficult as it was, she vowed to never forget the events at the Metropol, and all the debauchery it contained that she so desperately wanted to forget. It had been much easier to remember the month that followed. And now she was here, with the bright lights, brighter neon, fluorescent advertisements promising that the sounds emanating from the buildings they attached to (along with their shyster origins) were indeed a thing to behold if you dared—and Lena was beginning to dare. She would never forget the horror of her newfound purview, nor could she relinquish the mystery and excitement of it all. As long as she lived, she could never un-know and never un-see. She could never shrink it all back to its original size.

____

“Thish is fucking incredible!” Jakob slurred at no one in particular, as he drank his five-thousandth beer that night.

The touring van had pulled up outside a large, older brick building with a colorful smattering of graffiti. The building only ‘looked’ old though—Lena knew a rock staple when she saw it. This building was designed to carefully maintain its air of preserved history. The yellow windows were reinforced for sound, and the lights outside were bright with modernity, despite their fashionable vintage look. Layers of posters and flyers stapled to even more layers underneath covered every inch of the sides of the front doors. These doors barred passage where hundreds (if not thousands) of Berliners awaited admission.

Jakob had been excited for most of his adult life, and the trip to the West had only seen his eyes widen further with prospects for the future. But when the van pulled up outside of the venue, and saw the marquee which read: “The Dead Weights; featuring GDR ‘Mad Bunny’ mit Nicht Zustimmen”… Jakob looked close to soiling himself with giddiness.

“Jakob, calm yourself.” Vivika spoke with an annoyed tone. Although Lena noticed that she too was becoming slightly giddy.

“Shpeak for your fucking shelf, lady!” Jakob slurred, “Thesh fuckersh’s all here to shee us!”

“I think they’re here to see The Dead Weights.” Vortecx cut in.

“And the Mad Bunny, don’t forget.” Vivika teased.

“I don’t think anyone is here to see me.” Lena responded humbly. But she knew the truth better than they did.

Grandfather’s emissaries at Little John had done their due diligence shaking hands at the venue with overt promotion, bribery and otherwise. Not only had she made it onto the marquee herself, but the crowd titillated with stories of who the ‘Mad Bunny’ really was. Not only had she apparently made it across the wall—to hear the stories, she had practically garroted a guard or two doing it. She wasn’t just punk rock royalty from the East; she was a ghost story for the youth of the West. Not a word of it was believable, yet the fact that it was on the radio made it as real as it could be. Whether she was an assassin/ghost/schizo/rocker or not, it didn’t matter. She was a walking hype machine. There was a damn good reason it was her and Nicht Zustimmen: because ‘just Nicht Zustimmen’ wouldn’t have made it onto the same marquee as the Perverted Prince himself and his band of British hooligans.

“Oh sure, they’r’ll here to shee you!” Jakob spat into his beer, as he continued to press his face against it, “The Mad fucking Bunny, and her band; thas’ what thish all is!”

“Hey, it got us here, didn’t it?” Vivika defended Lena.

“Jakob!” Vortecx interjected, “We’re all a team, here!”

“Yeah, a fuckin’ team!” Jakob spat some more as he downed his beer and reached for another, “A perfect team we are. Jusht look at thish crowd!”

Lena didn’t want to say anything. She couldn’t blame her band for being a bit jealous of her fame—never mind what it had taken for her to acquire it. Yet, she did have to passingly note that Jakob had become more aggressive than usual since making it over the wall. Drinking too much was his normal state, but even with that in mind, he wasn’t handling alcohol nearly as well as he normally did.

The little touring van pulled around the corner of the building into a parking lot, and backed in towards the loading area. As they backed in, she noticed the massive bus in the corner of the parking lot. It was ineffectively gated off with ropes and stanchions to hold back a more-than-fledgling flock of scantily clad women who paid the restriction no mind at all. They were flailing their arms and flitting about the door, as if hoping to charm it open with their amply-displayed bosoms. The bus was modern, and hummed loudly with the air-conditioning that kept the on-board living quarters at the perfect temperature. Yet the exterior looked as if it had been painted by a street-artist who snorted everything placed in front of him without question. It was instantly recognizable, if for no other reason than the words, ‘The Dead Weights’ prominently emblazoned on the side.

“Jusht look’t’ll the fuckin’ ladies!” Jakob spat at no one in particular.

“Calm down, you moron!” Vivika hollered in his ear, “They aren’t here to see you! Just focus, would you please?”

“Yeah, this is our big night!” Vortecx joined in, “We have to make sure everything is perfect. We want to come back soon, you know?”

“Aw, to hell with you!” Jakob growled, “I should go introduce myself!”

“You absolutely should not.” Vortecx demanded before turning to ‘Victor’ and pleading, “Victor! Tell Jakob to knock it off and settle down!”

“I… uh…” Victor stammered, “Jakob… perhaps… uh…”

“Oh what are you gonna do about it?!” Jakob yelled at him.

“…w-well I s-suppose…” Victor replied meekly.

Lena took note of him with surprise. Sure, Patrick was playing a part; but perhaps he could play a part that was just a little bit more assertive. Especially now that Jakob was pounding against the window and sloshing his beer everywhere. This was, far and away, the most intoxicated that they had ever seen him.

“Victor, say something!” Vortecx continued.

“Jakob,” Vivika threatened, “if you don’t settle down, I swear I will…”

“You will what? Tell my mommy on me, will you? Call the fuckin’ Shtasi and have them lock me up?”

“N-no, Jakob…” Vivika backed off, slightly.

“What is your problem?!” Lena finally snapped, “Jakob, you need to settle down. We have to make a good first impression and then we have to load in and sound check everyone. We…”

“We?!” Jakob howled, punching the window, “What do ye mean we?! This ish your show! Why don’t you go do your own shoundcheck!”

“Would you please…”

“No, I won’t ‘please’! Fuck all of you! Thish ish my first time outshide of the wall, and damned if your gonna ruin all my fun!”

“Victor, do something!” Vivika shouted, to no avail.

Jakob, red-faced and sideways, slid open the door to the touring bus and stumbled out. He fell at first, and then fell again as he attempted to stand up. After several attempts at righting himself, he finally managed to calibrate his inner compass and bolt in an all-out sprint. He did so across the parking lot towards the large throbbing mob of women who danced to at least three completely separate beats and genres.

“A real help you were, Victor!” Vivika chastised him.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I… I just…”

“Some tour manager you are.” she responded, crossing her arms and pouting, “Now what are we going to do?! Our guitarist just ran off! We need to bring him back before we can check in!”

“How the hell are we going to do that?!” Vortecx interjected, “Look at him? He’s going crazy!”

Indeed, the wild Jakob did seem to be going crazy. He ran all over the parking lot, losing clothing as quickly as he seemed to be losing his mind, and flailing his arms about. He ran up to stranger after stranger, shouting obscenities and laughing raucously, before rocketing off into the distance. A few moments later and Jakob was nowhere to be seen.

“We have to go after him, Lena!” Vivika shouted, as she began opening a side door to step out.

“We can’t leave yet!” Lena cried, “We still have to check in, load our gear, and then… and then…”

Oh this was insufferable. Their first real show that just happened to be in the West, and also just happened to be the biggest show of their life, and Jakob had already taken major steps to ruining it all. Especially if he wound up arrested, or murdered, or… or… I mean, whatever else could befall a drunken guitar player from a foreign country. And Victor had been so uncharacteristically unhelpful. What in the world was the matter with him?!

“Oh, don’t worry about it, ma’am.” Victor spoke up quietly, as if reading Lena’s mind, “There’s always a way to make things work.”

He spoke with a note of stress in his voice, like a young man far out of his natural habitat. He sounded unsure of himself, as if his last statement was more of a hope than a certainty. And yet, when Lena turned her head to glare profusely at him, she could swear that she saw him wink at her.

____

Oh, this evening was just a disaster. What had only started with Jakob running off continued on into a flurry of misunderstandings and mistakes. As bad as those had been, they had culminated in a fate nearly worse than death: Nicht Zustimmen likely wouldn’t be playing tonight—in no small part due to Victor’s newfound inability to make friends with anyone. Sadly, this newfound ability was even less helpful in making friends with the show’s promoter: someone a new band really wanted to be friends with.

“You know who this is, right?!” Victor howled at the promoter, after finding out that Nicht Zustimmen’s set was getting cut two songs short so that The Dead Weights could play longer.

The cramped hallways and storage rooms between the loading bay and the performance hall were full of movement and conversation. Band members and roadies alike moved through each other like streams of water colliding, equal parts intoxicated, recalcitrant youth, and heavy amplifiers. Perhaps this wasn’t the best place for a shouting match; especially in front of the other opening bands. Yet Victor didn’t seem to be picking up on that one bit. He just hollered away at the promoter, who was a seven-foot, stooping, long-haired skeleton who looked like he used to run marathons before picking up a speedball addiction.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care.” the promoter brushed it off.

“This is the Mad Bunny! That’s right! This woman right here! You know the one you hear about on the radio?!”

“Look pal,” the promoter responded apathetically, “I get hundreds of people like you through here a month. You all think you got some big break after finding out that you’re on a bill with a decent headliner, but in two weeks all your bands break up. Then it’s your new crappy band wanting to play a month later. So just take what you have, and get your act together for sound-check. Alright?”

“But it’s the Mad Bunny!” Victor insisted.

Lena had to admit that it was getting really annoying both hearing her nickname incessantly thrown around, and watching ‘Victor the undercover intelligence agent’ fail at diplomacy with a coke-head.

“Read my lips, pal!” the promoter shouted back, “I don’t care who it is! Some punk twat made it over the wall? Big deal! I get kids in here like that all the time, all with the same fake story. Go find someone else to bother.”

“But… but sir!” Victor yelled after him.

“Three songs!” the promoter yelled back as he lumbered away, “Three songs cut!”

“Damnit, damnit, damnit, damnit!” Victor shouted, as he punched a nearby wall, “The nerve of these people!”

“Victor!” Lena shouted at him, “What in the world has gotten into you?!”

And that’s when the worst thing happened… oh, this was just too much. The hallway, furiously a-bustle with musicians and roadies, came grinding to an awkward halt to stare at the two of them. Lena couldn’t place anyone from her quick, awkward glances about the room, but she instinctively knew that at least someone from The Dead Weights was watching her and Victor make a scene. She simply had to rope this in before they lost what little credibility they still had left. Unfortunately, Victor beat her to it.

“Stop yelling at me!” he gestured pathetically at her, “I’m doing the best I can, ok?! First your guitarist completely bails on you, and now this! I don’t know how to fix this!”

“B-but… but…” Lena stuttered, “You’re our tour manager! It’s your job to know how to fix situations like this!”

“I know but… b-but… I just…”

Oh, it was utterly infuriating seeing Patrick like this. And in front of everyone?! Simply everyone had paused to watch him break down in front of her, and it wasn’t even the ‘amused’ sort of watching—it was the awkward, ‘I-wish-I-hadn’t-seen-this’-sort. It took everything she had to keep using his pretend name. Whatever damage he had already caused, it didn’t bode well to create even more trouble.

“Just what, Victor?! Just what?!”

“I’m s-sorry…” he pleaded and stuttered, crying openly, “I just… I just need a moment…”

With that, Patrick (err, Victor) stumbled out of the hallway, out of the loading dock and into the night, leaving Lena to stare at everyone.

“What in the hell are you all looking at?!” she yelled at them all.

Sensing her feelings on the matter, the room went back to its previous shuffle, allowing the din of conversation to drown out the heat of awkward air that still fogged up the place. Yet she didn’t feel the slightest bit better. The night hadn’t even begun, and far more than it had been ruined. Not only was her show shot to pieces; not only would she have to break the hearts of her remaining band-mates; and not only was her view of Patrick irreparably damaged; but what would Grandfather do now that everything was ruined?!

That’s when she began to cry, which is quite possibly the most useless thing that a punk-rock princess could do for her image. Honestly, she couldn’t have cared less at that particular moment. The entire world had let her down furiously, and she didn’t really care who knew it at this point, “They can all be damned!” she yelled inside her head as she stamped out of the hallway and into the loading dock. She had every intention of finding some hole or alleyway to crawl into for as long as it took for the world to spontaneously right itself.

____

Lena sat against a particularly nondescript section of wall, hoping that the dark of night would obscure her. The darkness would have been overkill, however. There were hundreds of drunken patrons, roadies, and otherwise scrambling about, far too busy with their little lives to cue up on some sobbing young wretch who had probably drank too much. As far as most passersby were concerned, she had likely just broken up with a boyfriend, or perhaps some other story just as uninteresting and female as that.

She smoked, desperately trying to calm her nerves to no avail. But what good would that have done? Eventually, she would have to face the music, and she wasn’t the least bit prepared for that. So, she just sat, wallowing in self-pity for minutes or hours. At this point, the specific amount of time didn’t matter. Her life was absolutely ruined, and she would hide here against this stained bit of wall until that changed.

“Anyone sitting here?” a young man’s strangely-accented voice spoke beside her after some time.

“What a stupid question.” she thought to herself. Of course, someone was sitting here… her. Oh, of course she knew what he meant, but he was an asshole, whoever he was, and he was better served just screwing right the heck off as far as Lena was concerned. She meant it, too. Instead, however, she simply resolved to confuse him by shrugging in an inconsistent manner. It was good being a girl sometimes—you could do those sorts of things.

“Well, don’t mind if I do, then,” the voice said with the slightest whiff of humor, as its owner unceremoniously plunked down beside her and lit a cigarette. He obviously wasn’t from around here she realized; yet he spoke in passable German. His verbiage wasn’t entirely correct, but his tone was well-mannered. He must have been from one of the other bands. Like most folk in East Germany, Lena spoke ‘okay’ English, but it was much nicer when out-of-towners spoke ‘okay’ German.

The awkward pair sat by each other for nearly three minutes, not saying much of anything. The young man smoked, happily ignored, and Lena pondered if lighting another one of her own counted as ‘paying attention’ to him. She had decided, seconds into her silence, that it would be a sign of attention. And so she resolved to wait it out as cantankerously as possible. That is, until her blood began to itch. Surely, there had to be a way to light a cigarette and let him know that she was ignoring him, right?

She reached into her pocket, grabbed a cigarette and grouchily placed the business end between her lips. Doing her best to ignore him completely, she began fumbling around for her matches.

“May I?” the man’s voice spoke, as the body attached to it lit a match and began reaching over. Oh, what a bastard.

“I’m fine.” she said, as he moved the lit match closer to her cigarette, “Seriously, I’m…”

Now, with her cigarette lit by him, she had an even worse decision she was forced to make. Either she puffed on it, which would mean giving in to him. Or she, well… I don’t know, threw it out… or lit it again or… you know, whatever would demonstrate her upset the most. After thinking it through for a second, she resolved to simply not puff it, but instead turn away and ignore him as hard as possible.

“Here,” the voice spoke, “I’ll light you another.”

With that, he reached over and stole the cigarette from her lips, placed it between his, and began dragging on it.

“Oh this asshole right here.” she screamed at herself. Had he any idea what he had just done?! He had stolen her cigarette! Right from her lips! Oh, she was going to have to ignore him even harder now. She put every ounce of strength she had into focusing on ignoring him, by turning away until she couldn’t see him at all.

It was then that she heard that all-too familiar sound: paper being gently dragged out of a cardboard box; the head of a match scraping across sandpaper; the faint sound of burning paper intermingling with that warm, gentle sucking-sound that filled the air with smoke… oh, what a positively tantalizing noise, it was. Oh, how Lena hated this awful stranger.

“Here you go. This one’s fresh.”

Lena didn’t have a choice, really. If you thought about it, the most ‘ignoring’ thing she could possibly do was to take that damn cigarette and smoke it. Right in front of him. She was going to do it, too. Yet, as she reached over and forcefully yanked it from him with her best ‘ignoring’ glare, something about him struck her. He had a way about him. It might have been the long, spicy drag of a Western cigarette (whoa boy… you have no idea), but something about him just seemed… well, casually cocky. Like someone who didn’t take anything seriously, and absolutely knew how awesome that was.

He wore a studded leather jacket and about the skinniest jeans she had ever seen on a man. His hair was hacked to pieces and styled in an outrageous blue color, and his sneakers looked like he had hand-decorated them himself with marker and duct-tape. Patches were absolutely everywhere, and he had sewn a blood-red stripe down the side of his pants just like the Soviets wore on their uniforms. Yet his frame, skinny as it was, held a cocksure posture that belied a solemn sort of attitude, and his positively arrogant eyes sealed the deal. This man knew how to throw down. She felt drawn to the man… in a strange sort of way that she couldn’t explain.

“So, bummer about your guy, in there.” he said, in a positively cheeky tone.

“That asshole.” Lena swore under her breath, “Everything was going perfect up until about thirty minutes ago. Then everything went wrong all at once… and he wasn’t helping.”

“No, it doesn’t seem like he was.”

“I guess… I guess…” she started, trying to think of what she wanted to say, “I just don’t understand it. You’re on your way to an entirely different country…”

“Right.” he replied, while rubbing his chin obnoxiously.

“…where you don’t know anyone.”

“Uh huh.”

“And all of a sudden, your guitarist splits, your road manager just… completely fails you.”

“Right.”

“…and now you have to figure out how to put on a show without a guitarist of all things…”

“Yeah.”

“And it’s just… god!”

“Uh huh.”

“So now what the hell am I gonna do?!” she yelled, exasperated at the entire world.

“Well,” he began, as he lit up another smoke, “I suppose there’s a few things you could do.”

Lena waited… and then she waited some more. Honestly, she probably waited thirty entire seconds staring at this stupid boy with his stupid face, as he just stupidly stared off into the distance not finishing his stupid sentence. It was so… so stupid.

“Well?” she didn’t exactly whisper.

“Well what?”

“You were saying there’s a few things I could do?”

“Oh, yeah. I suppose there are.”

“And what might those be, exactly?”

“Well…” he offered her another smoke (which she yanked out of his hand forcefully), “You could always shoot your manager.”

She stared at him for a second. At first, she thought he was kidding. Yet, he had a look on his face that was… blank. It was sort of a dark, unfeeling stare that communicated all sorts of silent promises. She still didn’t believe that he meant it, but the thought of it made her heart skip in a bad way.

“Are… wait…” she raised an eyebrow, “…you’re not serious, are you?”

“Of course I’m not serious, dumbass! The hell is the matter with you?! Killing your band manager? Jesus.”

Just then, Lena began to laugh. It started out as an awkward laugh, before moving on to relief. But as soon as his grin widened to unearth the most infectious laugh she had ever heard, she found herself genuinely laughing along with him. Suddenly, she felt as if she had known him for months, or perhaps even years.

“But seriously,” she began, after the laughter died down, “what should I do?”

“I suppose you should find a new guitarist for the show, honestly,” he said in a more-or-less serious tone. “I mean, you can’t give this show up. It’s too important.”

“How do you know it’s so important?”

“You’re the ‘Mad Bunny’, aren’t you?” he said casually, in an almost mocking tone.

“Ah, yes… that nonsense.”

“Don’t worry about it. That’s how labels work. They write this whole interesting backstory that’s just barely possible, so that people get sucked into it instead of the music. No, I get it.”

“So, you don’t believe my story, then?” she laughed, feigning insult.

“Oh, I believe you’re a strange one—that’s obvious. But to think you escaped from a Stasi prison all by yourself, and then strangled a few guards before running across the Wall? No, ma’am… that you did not do.”

“Oh?” she feigned even more insult, “How do you know? I might just be a secret street assassin.”

“Then why in God’s name would you front-line a band?” He had a point.

“Ok, so the stories aren’t true. But still, it is an important night and unfortunately, I don’t know anyone that knows our music.” In a testing sort of tone, and hoping beyond hope, she added, “Unless you know a guitarist that might want to plug in?”

“Get me the music and I’ll jam with ya,” he said matter-of-factly.

Lena stared at him blankly for a few idle seconds. Was he being serious? After a few more seconds of making sure she had heard him correctly, she awkwardly responded as graciously as the surprise would allow. As if by the Gods, sweet serendipity had finally arrived when it was actually needed!

“Uh… sure?”

“Sweet.” he said with a boyish look, before standing up and wiping off his dirty behind, “Now, I gotta go get sound check done, smoke with the boys, and then I’ll hook up with you so we can hash out a few notes. Sound cool?”

“Uh, sure… yeah, sure. That’d be great!” she stuttered, “Uh, thank you!”

He began walking back towards the loading port, going through his pockets for whatever odds and ends band folk from the rest of the world stuffed in their pants for no particular reason. Before he was more than two meters away, however, he turned around to offer Lena a handshake while nonchalantly stating, “Pleased to meet you by the way… I’m the lead singer from The Dead Weights, Matt York.”

Der Gesuchte Anführer

It was ten minutes into the second band’s set and twenty minutes until Lena’s, yet Victor was still nowhere to be seen. Under normal circumstances—well, more normal, perhaps—she would have been a basket-case in response. Yet, despite this complication (and the many others it brought along with it), Lena’s band was doing quite well. Once Matt York had met up with his band, he had immediately informed them that all of his free time would be dedicated to learning Nicht Zustimmen’s music. Either he was an exceptionally quick learner, or their music was deplorably easy to play. In either case, he had mastered the majority of it within a few cigarettes, to be immediately followed by a brief ‘safety meeting’ in the green room.

“The humble safety meeting,” Matt rubbed his hands together, “is perhaps the most important meeting a band can have.”

“Oh?” Lena asked him.

The green room was everything you would expect from a rock venue: far too small, barely-painted and horribly furnished. The mirrors were stained with what looked to be the imprints of various body parts, and what was left of the soiled carpet was covered in cigarette burns and vomit stains, or worse. Several penises were painted on the walls and ceiling in what looked like finger-paint, and one wall was absolutely covered in stuck-on beer labels. A pile of de-labeled bottles sat in one corner, next to a white bucket filled with hand-towels for no apparent reason. Lena could swear she heard the wet, slurping noises of a particularly giggly make-out session coming from the tiny closet in the back.

“Oh yes!” he responded with a gleam in his eye, before reaching into a backpack and pulling out some rather wicked looking paraphernalia, “Here are the items of discussion…” he said as he pulled a pipe and a small bag of weed out of his pocket. “And now we wait for the Boss.”

She didn’t have to wonder about who the ‘Boss’ was for very long. Perhaps thirty seconds after Matt had stuffed the pipe full and lit it, the door to the green room swung wide open to reveal the sound engineer who probably should have been doing sound-related things.

“I see you started without me, asshole,” the engineer grumped in passable English.

“Well, if you had gotten here quicker, I wouldn’t have had to, jackass.”

“You Brits are all the same,” the engineer said, stealing the lit pipe from Matt.

“What the hell do you mean by that?!”

“What I mean is…” the engineer took a long drag on the pipe, and then began coughing furiously, “you Brits… cough… always… cough… show up late, and… cough… suck at your sound checks… cough… and then bring the weakest weed I’ve… cough… ever had.”

“Well maybe if you Germans learned to use your inside-voices once in a while and enunciate, we’d get our sound checks done quicker.”

“Stupid… cough… wunkers…”

“It’s wankers, idiot.”

Lena stood aghast as the two continued to spar through a thick cloud of smoke. She was beginning to wonder if the safety meeting would ever begin (or if it had anything to do with safety at all).

“Well, offer… cough… the lady some!” the engineer bawled.

“Are you even allowed to smoke?” Matt quipped. “Won’t they execute you for smoking this or something?”

“I can do whatever the hell I want.” Lena replied acidly.

“Whoa…” the engineer warned sarcastically, “don’t… cough… mess with this one.”

“Bah, what’s she gonna do?” Matt joked, “Call the Stasi on me?”

“Screw the Stasi,” Lena retorted, “and screw you.”

“You hear that, Matt?” Not just ‘fuck you’ but ‘screw you’ too. Little Lady is pulling out the big guns.”

“Oh screw…” Lena started, before figuring out the game, “Fuck you.”

“Be my guest,” Matt replied, “but first, stick this in your face.”

Lena did. She put the glass tube in her lips and sucked as hard as she could, yet nothing happened. She tried a few more times, becoming slightly embarrassed, before deciding that maybe this indeed wasn’t for her.

“No, dummy, you gotta light it.” Matt jeered, as he lit a match and leaned over, “Like this.”

As she put the glass pipe between her lips once again, Matt stuck the match in the other end and motioned to her. Lena inhaled as deeply as she dared. Almost immediately, she felt like she was smoking ten cigarettes at the same time. She wanted to stop, but she also didn’t want to look stupid. So, she drew for as long as she could stand it, and then began sputtering profusely.

“What… cough… the hell… cough… is this?!” she hacked.

“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough,” the Engineer replied as he grabbed the pipe from her.

“It’s marijuana and it’s what’s gonna turn you into a real musician.” Matt responded seriously.

“I… cough… very much… cough… doubt that…” Lena sputtered. They didn’t have drugs of any kind in the uber-conservative little country of the GDR. Heck, they didn’t even have them in the underground movements. What would any of her punker friends give to get their hands on this? And yet, Lena couldn’t figure out what the big deal was. Almost as soon as she had thought the words, however, her head began to dance. It was a faded sort of wooziness, like being drunk, but far more pleasant and far more relaxed. Come to think of it, it wasn’t anything like being drunk at all. It was a sort-of dizzy—but only sort-of—and her skin tingled ever-so-slightly. Suddenly, she felt just amazing. Like no matter what happened, no matter what bad befell her, it was all gonna work out. Suddenly, she felt like laughing at everything.

“See?” Matt laughed with her. “This is the secret to being a musician. Just get as high as you can and love the hell out of everything.”

“It’s… cough… its different…” she motioned for the pipe back, throwing caution to the wind.

“We’ll turn her into a pot-head yet!” the engineer snorted.

“I doubt that,” she replied indignantly, as she took a drag.

“Oh, trust me…” Matt chuckled as he stole the pipe from her, “you’re gonna want to be high for this show. Everyone out there is positively baked off their ass. You might as well be too.”

Suddenly, the door to the green room swung open, as if it had been kicked in. Matt, the Engineer and Lena all turned to face whoever stood on the other side, although no one but her seemed particularly concerned with it. Fear raised in her heart, but it was immediately assuaged as Vivika walked brazenly into view. She was clad head to toe in hand-sewn leather, with patches everywhere. Half her face was painted in a garish black, and the other an even more garish white; and her boots… oh those were much too high.

“Someone forgot to invite me to the safety meeting,” she said, with genuine upset in her voice. With an audacious gait, she walked over to Matt and stole the pipe. Then she expertly lit it before taking an utterly massive drag. Both of the men watched in awe, as entire seconds passed.

“Now that is how you hit the pipe,” the engineer exclaimed.

Vivika released it from her lips, held the smoke inside of her until Lena felt like she would burst herself. Suddenly, Vivika exploded into a coughing fit, bowling over and cough-laughing profusely.

“That… cough… is… cough… terrible… cough… terrible weed,” she exclaimed, with tears rolling down her painted cheeks.

“Shut your damn mouth!” the engineer replied. “Do they even have this stuff on your side of the Wall?”

“You’d be surprised what we have,” she winked at him, handing the pipe over.

“Well,” Matt exclaimed, “it looks like the party has finally started! West-side boys meet East-side girls.”

The room became choked with smoke—so choked, in fact, that the engineer walked over to the door and began fanning the room with it. This seemed to only push the smoke back into the room, which caused the other three to erupt in laughter. Still he stood there fanning the door with one hand, while attempting to smoke with the other. Not having much success, Vivika pranced over to him and helped hold and light the pipe, which caused even more laughter to erupt. After several minutes of fanning, and smoking, and laughing, however, the engineer finally realized that the feedback loops going on outside the green room in the amphitheater were something that he should probably do something about.

“Alright, time to go pay the bills,” he said gruffly.

“Yeah, go do your damn job!” Matt yelled after him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep the pipe safe for you!” Vivika shouted out the door.

After the door had closed and Lena heard the feedback loops begin to die down (much to the applause of the crowd), Matt, Vivika and Lena got back to smoking.

“That,” Matt began, “is a true professional.”

“A man who has found his calling for sure,” Vivika agreed.

Lena didn’t have much to say. She was far too busy sinking back into her chair and feeling wonderful to really care about anything in particular. As the smoke pleasantly filled her senses, another sense came upon her: the sense that she was safe here. Regardless of the reality of that feeling, and regardless of the general austerity of this small closet in this new country, she felt as if she were home.

____

This may have been the first time that Lena had ever experienced stage-fright in her life. By now, she was a veteran of performance. Well before all of this had started, she had been lauded as one of the up-and-coming vocalists in the Berlin punk scene, and even with her underground status, she had still managed to gain an aura of infamy. But even the largest shows she had ever done were… what, thirty people? The shows were in small churches after all, and punk rock still wasn’t nearly as huge as the hip-hop scene was.

But this… oh this was overwhelming. She had made the mistake of looking out at the crowd while performing her sound check, and she became dizzy almost immediately. It may have only been several hundred; but it looked like a throng of thousands. The crowd below the stage was a swelling mob of hooligans, and the balcony (they had a balcony!) was filled to bursting. Perhaps worst of all, the second she looked up and saw them, the crowd seemed to pick up on this with a wild cheer that shook her to her core.

“Mad Bunny!” a voice exclaimed from nowhere in particular, which made the crowd holler even louder—although not nearly as loud as when Lena responded with an awkward wave. It seemed like everything she did made the crowd cheer.

“Alright, Lead Vocals.” The voice of the engineer cut through the monitor speakers in front of Lena as he motioned from the sound booth,“Show me what you got.”

“T-test… t-test one two…”

The room fell silent as she spoke, and she immediately sensed the raw power she now wielded, echoing into the eons like the horn of the Archangel Gabriel.

“Give me a little more.”

“Test… t-test…”

“I need to hear your loudest voice, ok? Gimme the loudest scream you got.”

She swore she had never heard such a sound in her life. What started out as a tiptoe into the waters of sound as she struggled to find her voice, coalesced into an unearthly crescendo of noise that grew louder, more powerful, and bloody more insane by the millisecond. The sound of her own voice in her head found control of the one coming out of the speakers. The crowd’s response was indescribable.

Suddenly, Matt ran over to her, guitar clutched in a death grip, and leaned into her microphone, screaming, “The Mad-fucking-Bunny! Wooo-oo-ooo!!!” The crowd responded so loudly, Lena swore she would pee herself.

As the crowd began chanting, “Zust-immen! Zust-immen! Zust-immen!” she looked beside her to see Vivika blowing kisses at everyone. She looked behind her, to see Vortecx twirling a stick with a wild grin on her face. Matt, of course, was egging the crowd further on by pointing his guitar out from his crotch, like a… well, you know… and pumping it as if… well, you get the idea.

“Zust-immen! Zust-immen! Zust-immen!”

“You folks ready to rock it?” the engineer’s voice cut through the monitors.

“I g-guess…” Lena said, hoping the crowd didn’t pick up on that.

“Well, get to it then. You’re all good to play.”

Lena stood there, holding her microphone awkwardly. Her feet were nailed to the floor—where did she even begin?! She felt wholly unprepared for this experience. Sensing her disquiet, Matt strolled over, full of swagger and confidence, and leaned into her with a smile.

“Just shout, ‘hey assholes’… they’ll love that.” he whispered.

“Hey assholes!!!” she shouted, on autopilot.

The roar of the crowd filled her soul then and she easily fell back into her familiar role. She was now absolutely in charge of the situation, and everyone in the crowd would pay homage to her, or else.

“Das ist mein fickin lied!”

As if a scene from a military movie, Lena the general dropped her arm. It was in no ways less violent than the way an executioner would drop an axe, or a nuclear warhead would drop molten fallout onto the heads of an unsuspecting public. Within milliseconds, the pent-up violence of the crowd surged into a wanton display of pure, unadulterated Armageddon. Hundreds of bodies smashed into each other, with less and less living onlookers by the minute. Matt’s guitar wailed in a cacophony of dissonance as Vortecx slammed his drums with the force of Odin himself. And those keyboards… oh, they were so perfect, it hurt.

With no warning whatsoever, Lena was upside down. Overcome with emotion, and refusing to let the crowd establish a pecking order without her royal permission, she launched herself head over heels into the seething mass. Between five and fifty pairs of hands grabbed her, groping and supporting her frame as she threw ankles and elbows their way. She felt a solid connection with a skull or two, and she noticed a few fists reciprocate. This wasn’t going to be easy… but it was a fight she was fully prepared to win the living shit out of.

The screaming mass slowly rocked her over towards the stage, practically launching her back on. Recovering onto wobbly legs, she nearly threw herself out again. The crowd raised their hands to catch her… and she smiled at her joke. Grabbing her microphone, she began howling into it with all the ingloriousness of a rabid banshee. She threw all the force she had into it, fully intent on shredding the sound system. As if sensing her challenge, the engineer boosted her vocals—he wasn’t the least bit afraid of her… yet. But she noted his response to confirm their newfound rivalry. By the end of the night, he would be licking her sneakers in tribute. Vivika was in the crowd now—she had missed a section, but no one cared. As she flitted over the groping mob, she grinned wildly, immensely pleased with herself. Lena shouted happily at her, but was nearly shocked when Vivika disappeared under the surface, “She can take care of herself.” Lena thought. She was a fighter, that one.

“This is awesome!!!” the voice of Matt screamed into her ear.

She turned to witness him flailing his guitar about as if struggling to kill the thing. Realizing quickly that his instrument wasn’t going to die that easily, he kicked his leg out, and slammed the strings so hard, she feared it would snap in half with sheer force. It didn’t die—he slammed harder. Yet his face told a story that his guitar must have feared, that by the end of the night the poor instrument would lay crushed and broken onstage—along with four others that would likely meet the same fate.

Vivika finally surfaced. The crowd had attempted to spread out so she could safely recover, yet she was having none of this. She made her disapproval clear by pushing, shoving and other general acts of sweaty misbehavior. Luckily, she had seen fit to change her shoes beforehand and was well prepared for her dance in the melee. She was bleeding from somewhere on the side of her head, and she winced as if a rib were broken. Yet she stood in the middle of the frozen mosh pit, beating her chest like a gorilla and screaming at the top of her lungs. It dawned on Lena that she might now have a worthy challenger. By the end of the night, she aimed to disprove that roundly.

As the sonic onslaught charged on, gaining steam by the second, a profound realization dawned on Lena the way the smoke had dawned in the green room less than a half-hour before: This right here… this was exactly where she wanted to be, and precisely what she wanted to be doing. This moment, this feeling… nothing else could possibly compare. Not sex, not drugs, not any interaction that a human was capable of manifesting with people, creatures, nature or otherwise, nor any amount of profundity gleaned from any spiritual practice would taste as savory sweet.

Once Vivika was back onstage, the four musicians fused. Lena looked to her left, to her right, and behind. Four had become one entity, separated only by the individual parts they had to play. But just as a note is never separated from the parts that bolster it, they fought as one, assailing the crowd with small-team tactics worthy of any military unit. They were the elite; they were the powerful.

The guitars preyed upon the unwary few, slicing them to bits for a readily digestible meal. The drums smashed through the many blockades of inhibition set up by years of vile repression. Behold, a brazen he-bitch brandishing battle-drums for the violent and un-appeased. The keyboards were much less a thing of wire and wood, and far more the harp of a fifth-dimensional being who pulled at the strings of its lessers, forcing the flat earth down into the dawning of a new, more three-dimensional age.

She looked out to the crowd now. They knew her, and she knew them. No, she didn’t know their names, but names were meaningless anyway—they were nothing, but decrepit titles designed to denigrate the oneness of bodies colliding in tandem, “There…” she thought as she spied one young man flipping and turning on a pile of elevated hands, “That one has found his place… he is just like me.” Like a puppet attached to musical strings, Lena realized that she had complete control of the man. If the beat thumped harder, so would he; so would everyone. If the tone soared, they would all reciprocate in kind. Here, in a temporary existence forged with every second of the past leading up to it, the only thing worth fearing was the future. For this was the cult of the moment—the religion of the now.

As she sweat and screamed, pouring every ounce of her soul into the performance, she straining her vocal chords and her body to the limit. Yet she relished every bit of the moment. Like the church performances before, and against all odds, she had rejoined her commune, her kin, and her clan. Soaked to the bone with the apparition of fate and wanderlust apparent, the divines had catapulted her into a stark coalescence—one of marked simplicity and subliminal refuge. She was home once again. The prodigal daughter had returned. This… this… was how she wanted to feel for the rest of her life.

As the first song drew to a close, the lights went dark, and the band was now dimly lit by the glow of the amplifier lights behind them. The crowd roared, and Lena was honestly relieved to see a blood-covered Vivika still standing next to her.

“Germany?” Lena howled, and the crowd roared in response.

“GERMANY?!” she howled louder. The crowd stomped and roared louder as well.

At that moment, Lena felt something. It was something different and hard to describe. It felt like violence—the insatiable desire to just absolutely wreck something. Yet it also felt like invincibility, as if she was free to commit any atrocity she wished, in full view of everyone. Perhaps it was the ‘full view of everyone’ part that really fueled her up. Not only was everyone hinging on her every word and every movement, but they were giving their energy to her—using her as a siphon. She was now the avatar of the moment. A unique creature with the responsibility of converting the crowd’s anticipation into a release of orgasmic catharsis.

Words welled up inside of her then like divine poetry, with neither thought, consideration or intent. She wasn’t putting a phrase here, a stanza there, or cobbling together a cogent theme to haphazardly express the general feeling… no. Every utterance was already written for her, as if burned into the lining of her soul, ripe for the taking and begging for the reading.

“Here we all are!” she began, “All one people… one strong and resolute family, all on one side of that little Wall over there: an utterly meaningless symbol of oppression. Utterly meaningless, just like every symbol the world over. They all lay under our feet, trampled, like filthy napkins discarded after a glorious meal well-devoured. ‘They’ have many things to say. Things about ‘falling in line’, or ‘doing for your country’, and threatening us with retribution if we don’t. All empty threats, like ashes falling on a lonely desert road… all empty threats, like empty magazines loaded into toy rifles.”

“Like the Wall… like the bomb… like the cell… like the shackle… they aim to oppress; to silence; to beat down into submission. But we will not submit, and we will not be silenced. The oppressors oppress no longer. For it is here that we shall make our stand… it is here that we shall make our voices heard. It is here that us—the chosen few, the miscreant youth, the resolute unwanted and the utterly incorrigible—it is right here that we make our case.

“To the Stasi, to the Politburo, to the Soviets, to the Americans, and to all forms of oppression the entire world over, hear our words, so that you may understand our thinly-veiled threat: no matter where you are, or how you try to enslave us with your guns, or your bombs, or your riot sticks… we the people have a simple message for you, and our message is simply this: you can fuck right the hell off.”

“Mad Bunny! Mad Bunny!” the crowd answered, “Mad Bunny! Mad Bunny!”

As Lena looked about the crowd, simultaneously filled with the fluids of victory and exhausted at the effort, she chanced to look over at Vivika. Vivika simply stared at her, wide-eyed, as if seeing her for the first time in her life. She didn’t say anything out loud, but Lena recognized the impression that she had just seen the real Lena. Vivika was awe-struck.

____

“Where the fuck am I?” Jakob whispered to himself as he curled up into a ball, holding his head.

The alleyway was dark with night and filled with the stench of rotting garbage from the nearby dumpsters. Fluids and grime of unknown origin clung to walls and asphalt alike, with various microbes finding a new home in his various wounds. Jakob was covered in cuts and bruises. Minor though they might be, they had begun to disturb him. He didn’t remember how he found his way here. Truthfully, he didn’t remember much of anything. He simply clutched his head, trying desperately to massage the searing headache that had formed only minutes before. “The hell… where the hell am I? What the fuck is going on?!”

No matter how hard he tried to find his voice, though, it proved to be as futile as finding his feet. He was stuck here, shivering with cold and weakness alike, as if all the energy had been sapped from him in the previous hours of… whatever had happened.

Incongruent images flashed in his mind’s eye, with large groups of people laughing, a fist fight he thought he had been involved in, loud music coming from absolutely everywhere, and chairs being thrown every which way. He couldn’t figure out which parts were real, but he legitimately began to hope that the more violent, chaotic parts were more a creation of his addled imagination than actual reality.

“The hell… what the hell did I do…”

“Don’t try to move.” a voice answered, surprising Jakob.

“Who the… who the fuck are you?!”

Jakob couldn’t focus correctly, but as he rolled towards the voice to get a better view, he saw a pair of boots standing impatiently in the soggy grime of the alleyway asphalt. He turned his body to look up, and up, and up… and saw particularly unimportant-looking pants, matched with a nondescript looking jacket. Yet when Jakob looked at the young man’s hands, he managed just a little more focus. The man held a small pistol, and it had a long, slim tube on the end of it.

“I’m telling you,” the voice said, “Don’t try to get up. Let’s not make this any more difficult than it already is.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?!” Jakob howled, managing to rally his voice.

“Shhhh… let’s keep our voices down, eh?”

Recognition dawned then. It was Victor, the mild-mannered tour manager. And he looked… well, triumphant in a way.

“The fuck is wrong with me? Why the hell can’t I fuckin’ move?!” Jakob cried.

“Because I laced your beer with PCP.”

“The hell… why the bloody hell would you do a thing like that?!”

“Because you needed to disappear.” Victor responded, “You were right about one thing: your band is The Mad Bunny, and you are as unnecessary to that arrangement as a thing could possibly be. Especially since we had a new guitarist in mind.”

“Oh, what the fuck…” Jakob began to cry, as he clutched his head.

“We had a purpose for your band, and that purpose required you to run off into the night so that we could engineer a meeting. You performed admirably, and for that I should thank you.”

Jakob was sobbing then. He felt betrayed, useless and angry; but more than those emotions, he felt afraid… what was their tour manager doing with that pistol in his hand?!

“I’m not going to pretend I relish this,” Victor knelt down beside Jakob, “This was never my favorite part of the job. I have a female counterpart that would absolutely love this…” then, he added with a laugh, “Of course, she would probably like cannibalism. But no, I try to be decent about these sorts of unseemly things.”

Jakob cried, fearing for his life. Yet, through his horror, he still managed to hear a soggy plop of a hand-sized cardboard box right next to his head. Focusing in on the source of the sound, he saw it—a cigarette box, with one smoke and a box of matches left in it.

“Go ahead. I don’t want there to be any hard feelings between us.”

“The fuck are you talking about? What do you fuckin’ mean ‘hard feelings’?”

“Look,” Victor responded coolly, “Either smoke the cigarette or don’t. I’m just saying, if I were you, I would use this moment wisely. You never know what could happen next.”

Despite his fear, Jakob fumbled for the box, grabbed the cigarette and lit it. He drew in the life-giving smoke, and immediately felt somewhat better about everything.

“There we go. Don’t you feel better?” Victor said, sweetly.

“Y-yes… y-yes I d-do…” Jakob said, honestly.

“Good, I’m genuinely glad.” Wiping his face with a tired fist, Victor continued, “I want you to know that everyone in your band is genuinely looking forward to you rejoining them.”

“R-really?” Jakob cried, “You fuckin’ mean it?”

“Of course I do,” Victor assured him. “I have some connections in the West. I’ll make sure you make it back into the GDR alright. You will get back to band practice, and maybe your next show in the West will go much better.”

“Th-thank you… th-thank you s-so much!”

“I just have one request, Jakob.”

“Wh-what’s that?”

“I need you to slow down on the drinking, alright?” Victor stated plainly. “It’s important that we have you in top form.”

“I fucking promise! I fuckin’ swear it to you!”

“Promise me again, Jakob.”

“I do! I fuckin’…”

Jakob never heard the sound of the bullet exiting the pistol. He never heard the sound of the slide ejecting the spent cartridge before locking another into battery, nor would he hear the sound of the bullet entering his left eyeball to annihilate the complicated matter behind. It takes nearly two seconds for one’s brain to process what the senses are picking up. By that time, any of the previous information would be quite useless to him.

Komplikation

The club smelled worse than it looked, which was hard to fathom. Considering the many denizens of the arena had been fully-charged humans only minutes before, the mere shadows of their former selves were a true testament to energy discharged. To the casual onlooker, it looked like the aftermath of a carpet-bombing. Bloody folks raised bloodier fists in a half-hearted signal of triumph that wasn’t really theirs to display. Truly, as the night waned and the wax of poetic finally melted into a singular pool of gristle on the floor, only one person stood victorious. In reality, only one person could. Only a single champion was allowed in the gladiator pits, and this champion’s reputation was far beyond contest.

It wasn’t Lena, by the way—it was Matt. Oh yeah, and if it hadn’t been mentioned before, the place also smelled terrible. It was like a gym, but with rampant drug and dietary issues. By the time the Mad Bunny’s set was complete and The Dead Weights were setting up, she had already done more than her fair share to further the sacred interests of the pit. Applause met aplomb as she had smashed, brawled and caterwauled her way through the slag-pits of the wayward ones, paying her own humble homage to her foremothers and faith-keepers. Understandably, she had needed a beer and a rest afterwards. Thus, she had made her way to the bar near the end of the venue.

Doing so was no simple task. Sweaty malcontents with the best of intentions met her hand to hand, fist on fist, and mutual to the embrace—doing so with such religious voracity that it took nearly ten minutes to walk one-hundred feet. By the time she had finally received the nearly ten drinks purchased for her, and shot-gunned an entire three (much to the delight of her onlookers), the familiar wooziness intermingled with the delightful remnants of the ‘other’ wooziness from the fateful safety meeting, and the high of bloodlust satiated. Thusly affected, she had resolved to allow herself the coward’s way out and simply watch The Dead Weights from her current vantage point, with Vivika standing nearby in much the same state.

“This man is a god.” she thought to herself as she stood in awe. Matt was perfect. His movements were perfect. His energy was perfect. It was almost aggravating how at-home the bastard truly was onstage, and how clearly comfortable he was in his element. The Mad Bunny had always been lauded as a legendary force even back when she was just an unknown nobody performing in churches. But this was something else entirely.

The man would do backflips, only to land flat on his back… while still playing! He would sing with a cigarette in his mouth. He broke a guitar after half of his songs. He would stand on the drum set and jump headlong into a patron that had smashed his or her way onstage. He started fist-fights and won every single one. The man was a fire-starter—an absolute powder keg of energy—and he looked to be having so much fun while doing it, too. The Mad Bunny herself wore dour, moody faces to express concentration and devoutness in her beliefs, yet Matt beamed cheek to cheek, as if he was content in the chaos. He wasn’t just brawling with competitors and rivals. He was hanging out with old friends, and he legitimately wanted to take a personal interest in their enjoyment. It was just so very genuine that it made her want to be a better performer.

By the time The Dead Weights had concluded their performance, Matt didn’t look any worse than when he had started. He still stood there, grinning from ear to ear, ready to throw down at a moment’s notice. The same could not be said for the crowd, however, which was now beginning to show its age. At first, they had needed a show. Now they needed orange juice and medical attention. Yet there he stood… just… unaffected.

“How in the world does he do it?” Vivika asked admiringly, as she stood drinking next to Lena.

“Drugs? Maybe?” Lena responded dreamily.

“No… that man isn’t high. That man is hiii-ii-iiigh.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No, not ‘high’-high… that man is plugged into something else—some sort of life shit that makes him impervious to… to… whatever.”

“Yeah… drugs,” Lena replied with a laugh.

“Yeah, probably.” Vivika laughed as well, before being interrupted by the voice of Matt over the loudspeaker.

“…like to thank everyone for coming out tonight and showing support for our scene.” What was left alive of the crowd cheered as loudly as they were capable while he continued, “I’d especially like to give a special shout-out to the Mad Bunny and her band of idiots for letting me jam out a song or two. We’re gonna be hearing a lot more from them in the future, I’m sure!” The crowd cheered again at the mention of her and her dipshits, and she had to smile.

“He really likes you,” Vivika teased.

“I think he really likes our band.”

“That’s why he mentioned you and us.”

“I think he just…”

“No, Lena,” Vivika said with a newfound serious note, “he separated us for a reason. It’s plain as day: he’s scoping you.”

“Scoping? What do you mean?”

“Oh come on. You don’t think everything happened a little too perfectly?” Vivika laughed, “Misfortune befalls us. There we are, in an entirely different country, unable to play a show because our idiot guitarist bailed. Suddenly, ‘Mr. Gorgeous’ flies in to save the day… by playing in our band? He’s into you, sure. Hell, he probably wants to sleep with you, too. But he has some ulterior motive that goes even deeper. He’s trying to recruit you. Either way, he wants you.”

“How do you know that?! And what do you mean he wants me?”

Lena knew perfectly well what Vivika meant—she had just spent the last few seconds explaining precisely that—but she was still stuck on the ‘sleep with you’ part.

“Yes, Lena. He wants to screw you. And why wouldn’t he? You’re gorgeous, talented…”

Vivika said many other words that followed “gorgeous” but none of those mattered, “Gorgeous?” she thought to herself, “She thinks that I’m gorgeous?!” It’s not like Lena thought she herself was unappealing, per se… just, it was never really the focal point of her existence, you know? Ok-looking? Sure… maybe even pretty (in an underweight, acne-covered sort of way), but gorgeous?

“And yes, I meant what I said,” Vivika reiterated with a note of jealousy, “You are a gorgeous woman, Lena. You really do have it all. The entire package.”

“Well, so do you!” Lena gushed, but Vivika was having none of it.

“No… no, I don’t. I have the looks, and a little bit of talent, but you have everything in this band—we’ve all known it from the beginning. And while Jakob and Vortecx are too dumb to see what’s going on here, I’m not going to be fooled so easily.”

For a brief second, Lena’s heart skipped. How much did Vivika actually think she knew? She was perceptive, of course. And it’s not like Lena’s life for the past few months had been anything but profoundly serendipitous. It was pretty obvious, honestly, for anyone that was truly keeping track. But it could all be explained away as… I don’t know… maybe exactly what it was designed to look like? She couldn’t possibly know the real reason behind the band, could she? Then again, did Lena even know what the real purpose of the band was?

“Wh-what do you mean?” Lena asked, cautiously.

“Ever since we met you, it’s your way that has been paved—not ours. Oh sure, we’ve got new instruments, our little passports, and everything else… the studio… but let’s be honest, you’re the show. Not us.”

“That’s not true! You…”

“And while the others just ignore it, I’m not going to pretend that we don’t live where we live. The State owns us, just like the State owns everything.”

“That’s just stupid, Vivika! Can’t you…

“I’ve been in the black cells, Lena.”

Oh this changed things. Maybe not extremely so—many punkers had spent time in the black cells—but, I mean, you figure that Lena would have at least known that about her band-mates. She had spent a lot of time with them, after all. You would think significant details like that would have made it into a conversation by now, if not earlier on. And if she hadn’t known a fact like this, well, what else didn’t she know?

“You’ve…” Lena started, but Vivika ran her over.

“Yes. We’ve all been in the cells. Me, Jakob, Vortecx… I’m assuming you… and you know I’ve been spying for the Stasi, right?”

“You…”

“Yes, Lena. I’m a spitzel. A damn, rotten spitzel.”

“B-but…”

“Half of us in the scene are. You should already know that by now.”

“Well, I… I assumed that it, I mean… but…”

“Don’t worry, I haven’t told them anything. Anything true, anyway. I keep everything about you secret. But I have to be honest, it’s so much easier lying about Jakob and Vortecx. They don’t go gallivanting off in the night to the Interhostel for their dates.”

“You… you saw…” Lena stuttered. Oh god, what else had she seen?!

“Of course, I did. They told me to follow you wherever you went. But after you went in, nothing could ever possibly convince me to go into a Stasi hellhole like that.”

“Oh, thank God.” Lena breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn’t have seen anything she wasn’t supposed to see, then. Her secret was safe, but she had to find a way to lie herself out of this—somehow reassure Vivika that they were both on the same team.

“But it begs the question…” she continued, “why were you going into the Interhostel?”

“I t-told you, Vivika. I was on a date!”

“No, Lena, you weren’t. We can lie to each other all we want on that side of the Wall, but here, where we are surrounded by friends; we tell each other the truth, ok?”

“I am telling…”

“Lena,” Vivika was almost pleading, “When we can… when it’s safe to… like right now, we tell each other the truth. Okay? Promise me.”

“Vivika…” Lena tried.

“Promise me, Lena. You have to promise me.”

Lena thought about it, and realized that she had to really consider what precisely a ‘lie’ was. If it was okay for her to lie on that side of the wall… why not on this side? And why should she tell the truth right now? If she lied now, it would only serve to make her future lies more believable, right? She had everything to gain by lying right now. And yet…

Something about the situation unnerved her. She had a rare opportunity to make a friend—a true friend and ally. Vivika could be someone she could trust fully with her secrets. But as she thought more about that, something even direr dawned on her: did Lena even have any real friends? Sure, there was the rooftop gathering. But the rooftop was the only place she ever saw any of them, and she hadn’t seen them in quite some time. There were her band-mates, of course, whom she knew nothing about and lied to constantly. There was Patrick, but, he wasn’t really a friend; he was more of a supervisor that complained about similar things.

Oh sure, she could trust Patrick. That is, when he wasn’t ‘Victor’, or whoever else he had to play. And even Patrick had warned her about trusting too easily. Did that apply now? Yet despite all of this, she felt that if she lied after promising Vivika she wouldn’t, somehow that would make her lies really bad. Like, something truly awful. Besides, everyone needed a friend, and you couldn’t very well have a friend if you lied to them right from the beginning, right? So, against all reason, and against all caution, she resigned to telling Vivika the truth… or at least some of it.

“Yes, I am informing,” Lena said, looking about to make sure no one was listening. “I am informing for a Stasi officer, and I have spied on you all. They have the studio bugged too. The entire label is run by the State.”

“I figured,” Vivika nodded. “Did you tell them anything about us?”

“I told them that you all talk about…”

“No, no no… I mean important things. Like, where we go, or anything about our families.”

“Oh, no, of course not. I would never tell them the truth about that.”

“Did you tell them about the dress I stole?” Vivika replied, with a look of legitimate fear.

“No, of course not!” Lena laughed. Of all the things Vivika had to be worried about, that was her main worry?

“You promise?” Vivika asked.

“Yes, Vivika, of course I promise!”

The two laughed then. It was awkward, but comfortable at the same time. Both now knew each other’s secret. For the most part, anyway. And Lena was quite surprised to feel a weight lift off her shoulders. She hadn’t known until right now just how difficult it had been to keep such a secret hidden for so long. Surely Patrick would understand, right? After all, he probably had folks that he confided in. Why shouldn’t she?

And yet this did raise a number of questions. She couldn’t quite give a voice to all of them yet, but she knew they were there. Now that she and Vivika had this between them, it added an extra dynamic. But was that entirely a good thing? Her world was already so complicated. Could she bear one more complication?

“Lena, promise me one more thing,” Vivika looking out to scan the crowd.

“Alright?”

“No matter what happens… if this world we are in gets too crazy, and you have to run… just let me know where you are going.”

“Ok, but…” Lena stuttered. What was that supposed to mean?

“Look, you and I both know you aren’t telling me the truth. You’ve got bigger things going on and I respect that. Just… if things get too big, I’d just like someone to know.”

Lena loved her then. It was if she had found something precious lost long ago. The love of a sister, perhaps, or a long-lost childhood friend.

“Of course, I will. I promise. I would love a friend to confide in.”

“Oh cut the bullshit.” Vivika still scanning the crowd blankly, “I love you like a sister, Lena, but I know we aren’t really friends. You think you’re better than us. Maybe you’re right, maybe you are better, or maybe you aren’t. But you obviously have more going on than me and our stupid little band.”

“It’s not stupid, Vivika!”

“Yes, Lena, to you it is. This—all of this—it’s only a stepping stone to you. You’re using this as your way out. You’re using us to escape. And you know what? I’m ok with it. But just like you are using me to get to where you are going, I’m using you too. This band is nothing to you… but it’s everything to me. I don’t have some ace-in-the-hole hidden away somewhere, so it’s the best chance I have of escaping. And if the band can’t be my way out, than you have to be instead.”

____

Lena sat outside leaning against a wall and smoking a cigarette. She was attempting to relax and process the events of the night. Everything seemed to have worked out perfect, until the end with Vivika. Well, despite the initial issues with Jakob, that is. It surprised her how little she had thought about him, or about how they were going to find him. She wondered if that proved what Vivika had been saying inside, about them not meaning anything to her.

She had resolved to keep Vivika abreast of what she could… I mean, why not? She owed her that much at least. Vivika had been a friend, and everyone deserved an escape. She didn’t know how to engineer one for Vivika, but if she could find a way, dammit, she would at least try.

“Anyone sitting here?” a familiar male voice spoke from beside her.

Lena turned to address the voice, and immediately beamed ear to ear. It was Matt. Matt York the rock-star, and everyone’s newfound idol. What a brilliant, handsome man he was. This was perhaps the closest she had ever come to being truly star-struck with someone. Yet, she didn’t have the slightest problem admitting it. He really was something.

“No, no one’s sitting here, Matt.” Lena smirked, “But you can’t.”

“Well then,” he pouted, “I suppose I should find somewhere else to sit?”

“I think you should.”

“Fine!” with that, Matt switched over from her right side to the left, and plunked himself down on the ground right next to her.

“So…” he began, faking awkwardness as he tapped his fingers on his knees, “…how’r you?”

“I’m fine.” she responded, trying to act cooler than the awkwardness she felt.

The two sat in a weird silence for a moment. It wasn’t uncomfortable by any means, just… awkward. These were moments that Lena had become quite used to as a performer. They were the moments when she allowed herself to be at peace, sitting outside by herself, ignoring everyone. Her performance was always the permission slip and the explanation. She was an artist. That should be reason enough. Yet these were the moments when someone would inevitably walk by and steal her ability to recombobulate herself, not getting the picture. She was used to it; it was everyone else who wasn’t used to it.

“Why aren’t you cheerful anymore?!” they would always ask, “You were so crazy onstage!!!” They didn’t understand. They never did. That’s half the reason she wanted to be alone. It was easier than trying to explain herself to them.

Yet she felt comfortable with Matt. He wasn’t an introvert like her, but he was a fellow warrior. They had both gone to battle together. They had drawn their swords against common enemies, and felled giants with the ancient tactics of their mutual and complimentary traditions. They had both been bloodied—perhaps in different places under different circumstances—but bloodied still. The commonalities rendered the differences—no matter how numerous—irrelevant.

She was awkward. He knew this. She knew he knew. Somehow, that was more than enough. He obviously knew her kind, and knew precisely how to commiserate. So, he sat… and sat, breathing comfortably beside her. He basked in the warmth of her energy, and she basked in his. After a while of sitting however, it was time for the extrovert to do his due diligence by enacting an essential interaction between the two personalities.

“Is anyone smoking that?” he asked, while pointing at the lit cigarette in her mouth.

“I…”

“Cool, thank you.” he said politely, before stealing it away from her and taking a long drag.

“Hey, what the…” she tried stealing it back, but she was interrupted by him pushing her away. There he was… back in persona. Yet it was a different persona than the one she had seen onstage. Hell, it was different than even the first time she had met him in person. Yes, he had been an obnoxious jerk then. But that was a different sort of jerk: more like a famous person toying with a fan for his own amusement. This didn’t feel like that, though; this felt inexplicably different. It was more warm and more purposeful.

“My god, this tastes so good with you on it!” he said.

“You’re an asshole!” she swatted him.

“No really… I think I can really taste the jerk.”

“The jerk?”

“Yes. The whole ‘you’ part. You really know how to add your jerk-ness to a cigarette.”

“Why the hell am I the jerk?!”

“Because you didn’t invite me out to smoke!”

“I don’t smoke with the likes of you!” she grouched, swatting him some more.

“Oh, and what are the likes of me, exactly?”

“Uhhh…” she stumbled, as she realized she hadn’t really thought that far ahead, “Dumbasses.”

“You want to try that again?” he laughed, “I’ll give you thirty entire seconds to think something clever up.”

“Screw you!”

“Anytime! My bus is right over there!” he said, pointing to the corner of the parking lot where groupies still clambered at the lit tour bus, “But before that, tic-toc, tic-toc.”

“Do you enjoy being an insufferable turd?” she said as fiercely as she could manage.

“Fifteen seconds.”

“Screw you!”

“Once again, the bus is right over there. Ten seconds.”

“I’m not playing your stupid game!” she tried not to giggle.

“But you are playing my stupid game,” he laughed, “and you’ve got five seconds left.”

“Nope.” she shook her head, smiling, “Not playing.”

“Aaa-a-aand zero! Pay up.”

“Excuse me? I wasn’t playing your game. I don’t have to pay you anything.”

“Sure you do. House rules.”

“What house?!” she laughed incredulously. “This isn’t your house. This isn’t anyone’s house! You can’t just impose rules on someone!”

“Sure I can!” he said, pointing back at his bus, “I’m the lead-singer of the head-lining band, and that is my house over there!”

“But we’re not in your house, Matt. Out here, you don’t make the rules.”

“Well…” he said matter-of-factly, “why don’t we go back to my house, so that my rules apply?”

“Oh my god!” she giggled, “Are you seriously asking me to ‘go back to your place’?”

“I believe I am, yes. Strictly so that we can play my little game, of course.”

Lena couldn’t believe that this was happening. Matt York from The Dead Weights was seriously asking her back to his tour bus. Honestly, she didn’t know if that was a good thing. She didn’t know if he was actually coming on to her, or if he just wanted to hang out, or what… but they were flirting, weren’t they? I mean, in a way they were.

“So… what happens if I lose?” she asked.

“Well… that depends.”

“On what?”

“On how you feel about this.”

The kiss came suddenly, uninvited… but probably wanted. She really didn’t know what to think about it, honestly. It had just happened, without giving her any time to decide. She would have refused of course—she was pretty sure, anyway. Wouldn’t she have? Of course, she would’ve, because it was the only decent thing to do. Kisses didn’t happen like this. They happened… in many other ways, of course. Perhaps this wasn’t the worst way, exactly… but… well, maybe this was a way, at least. Just not the preferable one. But it was nice—he was a really good kisser.

Before long, she realized that she had been kissing him the entire time she was debating whether or not she liked it. When that thought dawned on her, well, she became even more confused. Yet, she still held the kiss… which was very much beginning to feel very, very good. She would have to put a stop to this soon. That is, before she allowed more to follow. Ok… maybe just one more millisecond to make sure that was precisely what she wanted.

Finally, she managed to break the embrace. It wasn’t difficult to do. Matt wasn’t being pushy—just surprising is all. Yet as she sat there next to him, her breath sped up ever-so-slightly, she realized that she wished she could have held the kiss just a mere second longer.

“So. What do you say?” he started with a grin, “Do you feel like going back to my place?”

“Do we have to play your stupid game?”

“We always play games, my dear. That’s half the fun!”

“Ok, fine. But this isn’t… you know… I mean, we’re not gonna…”

“I would never!” he exclaimed, jumping up and feigning serious injury. “Why, the thought of taking advantage of such a delicate flower as yourself… it’s quite simply too much to bear!”

“Delicate flower, huh?” she feigned annoyance.

“Yes. A delicate flower. Besides, you’re not my type anyway.”

“Oh no?! And what is your type than?”

“I like simple women,” he said, pulling Lena to her feet, “groupies, for the most part. Dumb, skanky chicks that are in it for the money and nothing else.”

“Wait, you make a lot of money?”

“I sure do! And you can’t have a single red cent of it!”

“Oh,” she acted wounded. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to steal all of your fame, money and glory away from you?”

“Well…” he replied, rubbing his hands together, “why don’t you step into my office and we can see what I can do about it.”

____

As the two walked towards the tour bus, his hand slipped awkwardly into hers. She smiled to herself at this—it wasn’t just the hand-holding that made it feel right—no, it was definitely the hint of nervousness he barely exuded, but had let her in on. Soon enough, she was beaming visibly, and the many, many female onlookers that had turned to take notice couldn’t change that fact. If she were a more awful person, she would have almost enjoyed their glaring contempt as hearts broke right in front of her. Pure jealously, rife with hatred and laced with pain. Each one of those women desperately wanted to be her. Unfortunately, she wasn’t an awful person. Instead, she just felt exposed and wanted to disappear immediately.

Thank God the tour bus was only mere meters away. Then feet. Then finally inches, as Matt knocked on the side of the door. A face appeared, and then disappeared, only to be followed by the door opening.

“She’s with me, Jeff,” Matt said to the man on the other side—an utterly gigantic man with biceps the size of small planets.

“You got it, big man.”

“Jeff is our bouncer., Matt explained to Lena as they both stepped onto the bus. “In title only. He’s actually a huge pussycat—rolls a mean joint, good with the ladies. He’s also been playing Dungeons & Dragons since it first came out. The man is absolutely in love with Gary Gygax and hasn’t shut up about the Second Edition since it came out.”

“He seems nice.” she responded.

As Matt led her through the bus, she felt her own jealousy—this thing was utterly decked. It had bunk beds, a lounging area near the front, a shower, and separators for privacy. She felt famous just being on the thing, and couldn’t even imagine what it must have felt like to live on it for most of the year, “A girl could get used to this…” she mused to herself.

“He’s a pretty good dude,” Matt continued as he led Lena through the corridor. “Most of the guys on the bus are. But… the raddest guy by far on this beast is someone you have to meet.”

“Who’s that?” Lena asked pensively.

“He’s my manager. He is the craziest old guy you will ever know. I’ve been doing business with him forever, and now I feel like a part of his family. I think he’s gonna want to meet you. You two would really hit it off.”

“Oh… okay.” Lena said. She was interested, certainly, business opportunities and all that related nonsense; but if she was being honest with herself (and she most certainly wasn’t… nope, nope, nope!), she was far more interested in spending some ‘quality time’ with Matt and those lips of his. She had earned it, after all. Still, she didn’t want to be impolite.

“…and, right through here,” he said, as he opened up a sliding partition. “Miss Mad Bunny, I’d like for you to meet my manager, Mr. Marcus Collins.”

Sitting at a small table and sipping on a cup of coffee was a very comfortable-looking man. He looked to be between his late forties and early fifties, as evidenced by a noble smattering of wrinkles, and a well-manicured, gray beard. He was dressed in a plain white shirt with a plain black tie, plain gray sweater with a large, plain black overcoat. Yet, despite how very plain it all looked, it fit incredibly well. It was expensive, in a purposeful sort of light. And he emanated a purposeful aura as well. It was trustworthy, friendly, yet driven in an elderly sort of way. His eyes were both gentle and intense as they focused on her, yet they were constantly scanning as his face widened into a warm smile.

“Ah, Madeline Dangerbunny, is it?” the man said in near-perfect German, standing to offer her a hand.

“That’s what they call me, yes.” she replied awkwardly, as she reciprocated the gesture.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you! We’re all big fans here… Matt most of all, of course. He talks about you constantly.”

“Oh, he does, does he?” she blushed.

“Where are my manners though?” he said, as he rubbed his hands together. “Would you prefer coffee, beer or something harder?”

“Coffee, please,” she replied.

“Coming right up, ma’am. Oh, do make yourself comfortable!”

As he moved over into the corner where an empty coffeepot awaited, he set to the task of making it.

“Oh, you don’t…” Lena reacted, but she was cut off by Mr. Collins.

“Oh, it’s no problem at all. You are our honored guest—it’s only proper we welcome you to our humble home here. Do you take sugar or cream?”

“Black… just black,” she replied, awkwardly sitting down in one of the corner seats.

Matt joined her, sitting across from her. Strangely, he seemed to be sitting as far away from her as the position of the chairs would allow. He hunched forward, with his arms crossed across his chest, and placed his forehead against the table. Suddenly, all the energy seemed to leave him. Like a butterfly molting in reverse, Matt’s decomposition culminated into an expression much like Lena’s. Actually, it was freakishly similar.

“Oh… my god…” he moaned, as if finally absolving himself of the day’s events.

“Are you alright?” Lena asked.

“Fine. Just not really a people person, that’s all.”

“You? You aren’t a people person?”

“Does that really surprise you?”

“I suppose it does, yes.”

“I figured people would say the same about you… you’re an amazing performer, Lena. You really know how to throw yourself around a crowd. But you’re a person who likes to be by yourself. Same as me… same as most of us. It’s a part of us, sure, but that’s only a part of us.”

Just then, Lena felt somewhat stupid. She had never even conceived that Matt York was an introvert like her. Perhaps even more so like her. To be able to put on the airs of a performer, and then to just switch it off once the need was no longer there…

“I’m sorry, I would have never guessed.”

“There’s a lot about people like us that others will never know.”

“People like us” she thought… “Like Matt and I… It is true, they will never know.”

A few more minutes passed as Lena and Matt made conversation. It was still awkward, but now it was an even nicer type of awkward—an ‘us-against-them’ variety. Soon, Mr. Collins finished making her some coffee after taking great care in doing so. Placing the steaming mug in front of her, he sat down on Matt’s side of the table, taking care to allow Lena an escape out of the bus if she needed a breather. She felt grateful for the gesture.

“Well, as I said before,” Mr. Collins smiled, “it’s wonderful to finally meet you. Do you prefer Madeline, or…?”

“Most people just call me The Mad Bunny,” Lena sighed.

“Is that what you would prefer?”

“It works, but my name is Lena.”

Mr. Collins smiled at this, before adding, “You and Matt are so very much alike, it’s almost scary.”

“Pick a name, dumbass,” Matt laughed, “or he’ll call you Mad Bunny.’”

“Fine, fine. You can call me Lena.” she laughed awkwardly.

“Alright,” Mr. Collins smiled. “How was your show? I’m sorry that I missed most of it, but I’d love to hear how it went.”

For nearly two hours… two hours!!!… the three of them talked. Lena was nervous at first, but she was surprised how quickly she warmed up to the both of them. Somehow, she managed to bring up topics that they were all well-versed in. They laughed at all of her jokes, and added to her stories. They seemed really interested in everything she had to say, and seemed to know precisely when to tell stories themselves, to give her a breather. Soon, she began to feel like these people were two of her best friends. She didn’t feel awkward in the least anymore.

They had laughed, cried, and bonded profusely over Mr. Collin’s never-ending supply of caffeine and band stories. My god, the man had enjoyed some wacky adventures all over the world. And Lena was not only able to keep up with all of the stories, they left her wanting more. She wanted the life that he had—crawling all over the world to play shows for fantastic cultures, getting to know folks of every hue, and even finding herself in dangerous situations every now and again. She was jealous of them, of course. Yet Mr. Collins had a gift for making it all seem like a possibility for her.

“You never know what the future holds,” he had said. “A bright young lady like you? Meet the right people, shake the right hands, and say the right words… soon enough, you’ll be playing shows with Journey.”

“Where would I even meet those people?” she had exclaimed.

“Well, you’re doing a pretty good job now, by my reckoning.”

The premise of the conversation had eventually changed from simply trading stories to nearly talking business. Of course, she would never think to impose herself on them… far from. These were her new friends. She would never assume or use them, but nothing said that she couldn’t choose relevant topics. Maybe if she said the right things, smiled at the right moments, and kept up with their end of the conversation, they would get the idea that she was more than available for any adventure they could provide. Of course, the premise of spending more time with Matt didn’t hurt either.

After two hours, they had nearly exhausted every conversation topic that she could think of. Yet even after the night she’d had, she didn’t feel the least bit tired. She still wanted more. She retained some small hope that if she said the right things, she might make it back on this side of the Wall to meet with them again. As serendipity would have it, though, the conversation took an exceptionally fortuitous direction. It seemed she had finally said the right things.

“Well, the truth is, Lena,” Mr. Collins said, “you’re a pretty special woman. We’re big fans of your music, and we’re big fans of your stage performance. But more importantly, we’re big fans of your mind. You have an exceptional intelligence, and a gift for conversation.”

“Really?” she blushed, not believing the last part.

“Oh, believe it! You’re an artist, and you come across like an artist. Sure, you don’t like small talk, but I’ll let you in on a little secret.”

“What’s that?” she asked leaning in closer.

“No one likes small talk… it only serves one purpose—convincing strangers that you aren’t an axe-murderer. After that, people could only hope to have the thoughts you have, and the ability to discuss them openly.”

Lena smiled at that; she had never considered things that way.

“Actually,” he continued, “that’s the reason why we want to work with you. You have the mind of an artist—free-thinking—and the ability to think on your feet, and in different directions. That’s something we would very much like to utilize in the future.”

“How would you want to do that?” she asked. At this, Matt, without really looking at her, lifted up his wrist and tapped on it with the other hand, as if testing to make sure his nonexistent watch worked. “Wait…” she thought, “What the hell…”

“Well, let me ask you this…” Mr. Collins started, leaning in, “what do the words ‘counter-intelligence’ mean to you?”

____

Vortecx found it hard to breathe through the bag tied tightly around his head and neck. He didn’t remember how he had gotten here. There was an entire blank space of time leading up to this moment that he couldn’t account for. It wasn’t like it was all a blur; it literally wasn’t there. All he knew for sure was that he was unable to move or see. His wrists and ankles hurt like he was bound tightly. The light pressure around his neck, and the near suffocating lack of air informed him about the bag. This was all that he knew for certain. As he started to come to, however, he intuitively understood that he was in some type of vehicle. The rumble of the motor; the speeding and stopping; the sound of other cars whizzing by in the opposite direction; all of this—combined with the fact that his head hurt very badly—and the signs very clearly pointed to the fact that he was now being kidnapped.

“Hello?” he said, woozily, “Is anyone there?”

It was a dumb question to ask. He was in a moving vehicle. Of course, he knew someone was there. Yet he asked it anyway. It seemed like a good place to start, after all.

“Just relax. We’ll be there shortly.”

“Wh-where are w-we going, Mister?”

“You have a bag over your head, right?”

“Y-yeah…”

“So why the hell would I tell you where we are going?”

Vortecx couldn’t argue with that logic, honestly. But when you find yourself in a situation like this, well, you don’t really have much logic to rely on.

“Let me give you some advice,” the voice said. “I’m a person willing to tie you up, blindfold you and chuck you in the back of a van. If I’m a person willing to do that, nothing you could say or do is going to deter me from whatever it is I’m planning on doing. It’s just going to piss me off. You’re still alive, which means I’m not planning on killing you. So just be quiet and… I don’t know, think happy thoughts or something.”

Vortecx pondered on this for a while. The voice made some very good points after all. After what seemed like a half-hour more of driving, the van pulled to a stop and shut off. Vortecx considered screaming for help, but the voice had given the impression that Vortecx wasn’t about to die. Best to not test his luck.

“You smoke?” the unknown man said.

“S-sometimes…”

“You want one?”

“Y-yes… p-please, S-sir…”

“I’ll make you a deal. I’m gonna lift up your hood, and put a cigarette in your mouth. In return, you are gonna sit there, shut up and listen carefully to everything I’m about to say. Alright?”

“I p-promise, Sir!” Vortecx responded as plainly as possible.

He heard the sound of a small cardboard box peeling open, and light paper sliding out. This was followed by a match scratching roughly against an abrasive surface and the smell of smoke being coaxed out. Seconds later, the hood was lifted up just enough to free his mouth. He felt the business end slide between his lips, which he accepted gratefully.

“Remember your promise?” the voice asked.

“Y-yes sir.”

“I was supposed to kill you… same as Jakob. We had plans for the Mad Bunny that didn’t include any of the rest of you. He’s dead now… I shot him. Right through the head.”

Vortecx shuddered visibly as the hair on the back of his neck stood up, “Oh god.” he thought, “Oh my god, he’s going to kill me.”

“It was easy to do,” he continued. “No one liked that perverted little prick. Him and his stupidity… I don’t normally enjoy killing people, and I didn’t enjoy killing him, but I did enjoy finally having a moment’s peace without listening to his idiotic drivel. It’s different with you, though. You never caused me any trouble whatsoever… neither you nor Vivika. You two were always easy to deal with. You just sat around, playing your instruments like good little children, not asking any obvious questions. For that, I want to thank you.”

Vortecx began to cry. He didn’t say anything… not a damn word. But he wanted to scream his bloody guts out in the hopes that anyone might come to his rescue. Yet something else began to pull at him… some familiarity of some sort, “I know that voice…”

“So, here is what I’m going to do. If you promise me that you will sing my little song, I will let you go. You will have a fancy new life on the west side of the Wall. You can go anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do. You can take those bright, liberal ideas of yours and use your musical gifts to spread them all over the world. I’ll even sweeten the deal and leave you with a few-hundred marks so you can get an apartment… one of those fancy artist squats right next to the Wall, so you can stare at it like everyone else. Maybe write some stupid song about it. Maybe build a career of idolizing the damn thing after hating it for most of your life.

“The only thing you have to do for me is tell everyone that you escaped. Tell everyone that you made it over the wall. Tell everyone that the second the show was over, you made a run for it… and then conveniently forget about me, this van, or anything associated with it. That’s all you have to do, and you have your freedom. Can you agree to that?”

“Y-yes S-sir… I p-promise!” Vortecx swore.

“Hold on a second,” the voice said. Then, he heard a strange sound, like a small length of metal sliding against another before slamming back into place. He assumed it was a knife, or part of the vehicle or something, but when a cold steel rod was pressed against his temple, and he felt the hollowness…

“Oh God it’s a gun.” he screamed at himself, “Oh god… oh god, he’s got a gun.”

“I really want to get my point across here,” the voice said plainly. “Because here’s the thing: if I don’t kill you, I have to spend the rest of my life worrying about you opening your mouth. That could jeopardize my safety.”

“I promise! I’ll keep your secret!! I promise!”

“You don’t think I care even the slightest bit about you, do you?”

“S-sir?”

“Jakob was the first person I’ve killed, believe it or not. Honestly, I didn’t think I would care all that much. Especially since I didn’t like him.” With this, his voice raised up humorously, “But what do you know? Surprise, surprise… I actually don’t like killing! Do you think that’s bad?”

“I… I…”

“Don’t worry about answering that.” he laughed, “So, here’s where the rubber meets the road. I don’t like killing… but I do like being alive. And I care far less about you than I do about how much I dislike killing. So…”

V-ortecx heard a heavy click towards the back of the gun, and he shuddered… “Oh god, here it is. I’m dead.” Yet nothing happened. Nothing at all.

“So, I have your word, then?” the voice menaced. “You will sing my song and disappear and never again be my problem?”

“Yes! Y-yes sir! You have my word! I swear to you!” He swore with every ounce of his being that he would do that and anything else he asked of him. No matter what it was, if it meant one more day of freedom, dammit, he would follow through.

“Good!” the voice said. “I’m going to cut your binds now. Don’t squirm, okay?”

Vortecx felt a rough sawing against his feet. Second by second, millimeter by millimeter until finally his feet moved free. He tested his mobility at first, then remembered to lay still.

“Once I cut your hands free, I want you to count to two-hundred. Then, you are free to leave. Your money will be in the passenger’s seat.”

“Th-thank you s-sir! Th-thank you s-so much!”

“Don’t mention it.”

Vortecx waited for the sawing-feeling to appear on the binds that wrapped around his wrists, “Freedom! Sweet freedom!” he thought to himself with barely stifled excitement. But when he heard what sounded like a loud, quick burst of air blowing through a nozzle right next to his ear, and felt a heavy, head-achy pressure on the back of his head that began to spread like a warm, sticky sensation between his ears…

____

“Ugh.” Patrick thought to himself as he rubbed his face roughly. The stink of gunpower and scent of newly exposed human flesh crept into his nostrils with a wet, sickening sweetness that clung to the back of his throat. “Why do I have to do all of the work around here?”

As he looked down at the lifeless body of this strange little man, with all of his strange little ideas now leaking out all over the interior of the vehicle, it all seemed less surreal than he figured it would be. Jakob really had been the first person he had ever killed—directly, at least. Patrick had figured that he would lose something—a part of his soul, or something of some religiously-similar quality. He figured that somehow he would feel a little lighter. A little darker perhaps. Strangely enough, though, none of it was true. He felt absolutely nothing. No disgust, no fear, no sense of impending doom, no feeling that his name was being scratched off of some deity’s list… nothing. At least, nothing meaningful. And now that he had killed a second person, he felt even less.

“I wonder how many first-time killers become second-time killers so quickly?” he thought to himself. Yet he quickly dismissed the thoughts.

For a few minutes, he tried to soak in the moment. He listened intently to the sounds around him: cars driving by, crickets chirping, the sound of night-time music blaring from blocks away. It was as if his little part of the world didn’t even matter—like the world had continued to spin, none the wiser. The few moments that had simply passed into oblivion had no more gravity than this one, and the man lying in front of him had no less meaning dead than he did alive. It seemed vaguely unfair.

“She told me I would feel something.” he mused, “She said I would never feel more alive… that I would never feel anything comparable. She said everything would change. But the bitch lied. That vampire bitch lied to me.”

He hated her more now than he ever had before. She was the wretched creature that had made him do this. She had meant to demean him, no doubt—to lower him down to her level, and force him to hate himself just as much as he hated her. She had failed though. He already hated himself… but he could never hate himself, or anything, nearly as much as he hated her.

As the minutes passed, however, and the blood began to pool at his feet, he began to feel differently about it all. “I shouldn’t feel nothing. I should feel… something… anything. I should feel some small sensation. It isn’t right and it isn’t fair. I just took everything from these two men. I stole every memory they had ever had and erased them from existence. I took their relationships, their holiday vacations, their broken bones, their first kisses, their grades in school, their plans… I brought it all to a screeching halt, and I feel fucking nothing.”

Suddenly, he began to weep. The tears flowed down his cheeks, and down his neck to find their way under his collar. Yet he didn’t wipe them away. At least this was something that he could feel… something that could anchor him to the moment. This was something that added even the slightest modicum of meaning to the terrible things that he had done just moments before.

“I need to leave.” he menaced to himself, “I need to go make myself right. I need to go feel something meaningful. And I know just how to do it.”

Kunststück

Lena sat with her mouth ever-so-slightly unhinged. She had heard him right… right? He had just said “Counter-intelligence”, right? It was a word that she knew nothing about, and hadn’t heard since she left the prison, but she had heard it before. That couldn’t mean they… that they were… but, well, it kind of had to, didn’t it? What else could it mean?

“Any ideas, Lena?” Mr. Collins asked.

“I… I’m a little confused,” she replied. “That’s when spies… uh, go and… spy on spies?”

“That’s…” Mr. Collins said, looking slightly taken aback.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Matt chuckled. “Finally! An answer that isn’t completely stupid!”

“There’s a first time for everything, I suppose,” Mr. Collins laughed. “So, Lena, why do you think we would be asking you that question?”

“Because…” she stalled, “Because…”

“Don’t slow your roll now, genius,” Matt jested.

“Because you work for the HVA?” Lena spoke, before instantly regretting it.

Immediately, she stood up and put both of her hands over her mouth, realizing her mistake. She had just given away who she worked for. I mean, she hadn’t said it, per se, but that was precisely what saying it meant, right? Oh, Dragon Lady was going to murder her now—Lena was a dead woman.

“Ah, I see.” Mr. Collins said, knowingly, before turning to Matt and speaking in a firm tone, “Matt, why don’t you go hand Jeff a guitar?”

“You got it, Boss,” Matt spoke as he stood up, and began walking out of the room.

“Why don’t you just smoke a cigarette and relax for a minute,” Mr. Collins said to Lena, as he leaned back and relaxed himself. Soon, Lena heard the sound of people drunkenly cheering outside the tour bus to be followed by the faint sound of a guitar towards the front entrance. After a minute or so of this, all of the drunken voices began singing along together.

“We always try to have at least two counter-measures in place,” Mr. Collins said. “The first electrifies the walls of the cab back here, making this place pretty difficult to use electronic stuff for spying. But…” he added with a laugh, “I’ve often found that the best counter-measure is a bunch of drunken groupies singing bad songs together.”

“That’s…” Lena laughed, “That’s brilliant, actually.”

“Oh, it works like a charm. And it’s entertaining, assuming you operate with the same sense of whimsy that Matt and I do… which I assume that you do.”

Just then, Matt walked back into the room. He was clapping his hands and humming tunelessly under his breath, “Cuz I love you… that’s why I punched that ‘gator in the face…”

“What in the hell are you singing?!” Lena laughed.

“Oh, I’m just making it up, same as Jeff. He’s gotten pretty good at this, just making it all up as he goes along. Most music is stupid predictable anyway. Most of the time, the groupies sing along not even knowing it’s fake.”

“I… that…” she stuttered. She didn’t know if that was funny or sad, but the implications were vast.

“I think it’s pretty telling,” Mr. Collins said as Matt sat down, “that folks can be so oblivious to something like that, not even paying attention to what’s going on right in front of them.”

“Yeah,” Matt nodded.

“You know, Lena,” Mr. Collins continued as he turned towards her, “that’s the difference between them and us… the people singing outside the bus, vs. the people in this room. Out there, they don’t have any higher aspirations aside from living in the moment and reveling in the status quo that we engineer for them. They just want to seek pleasure, avoid pain, get married eventually, and basically enjoy life. Honestly, I can’t fault them for that one bit. It’s a good way to live their life, and we’re happy to help them live it. But I’ll tell you what the big difference between you and the two of us is.”

For a second, Lena’s heart skipped a beat. Despite his friendly tone, she felt she was being chastised, dismissed, or worse. It was an assumption on her part, sure, but she still felt the pangs of embarrassment and failure all the same.

“The folks we work for…” Mr. Collins said, pointing at Matt and himself, “…want a world where everyone is free to live their own lives however they choose. Be it a simple groupie singing outside of a tour bus, or a raging lunatic onstage howling at the moon. Even the folks in the GDR should have the same freedom as everyone else. But… we’re also willing to go only so far to bring that freedom.

“You see, Lena, what I imagine the Stasi are probably like, they don’t feel very much the same as I do, and they are willing to brutalize innocent people like you for reasonable expressions of that freedom. Do you know how I know this?”

Lena held her tongue, but she was feeling strange inside. A mixture of understanding, fear… and other emotions that she couldn’t describe.

“Because it’s a story we hear in the company all the time. It’s a tactic that the Stasi use called ‘zersetzung’—divide and conquer. They turn everyone into an informer so that no one trusts each other. Because when no one trusts, people can’t band together. Does this sound familiar?”

Lena nodded.

“I imagine it goes a little deeper for you, though,” he continued, with a caring tone. “I’m not going to ask if you work for the HVA. Heck, Matt and I here are just going to assume that you don’t. That way, if you are…” he said this with a wink, “you don’t have to tell your boss anything that would get you into trouble. Okay?”

Lena nodded, but this time, she actually felt a measure of relief.

“That said, in our company, we are quite familiar with the HVA and how they do things. It’s almost exactly like the Soviets: prostitution, blackmail, extortion, paranoia, threatening…” with every word, Lena’s eyes became more and more unfocused as she correlated his words to her various memories. He seemed to pick up on this, because his words became more pointed… violent, even, “Perhaps you’ve seen beatings… torture even… perhaps even worse.”

“I…” Lena gulped, trying not to remember that.

“Don’t you worry about it, Lena,” Mr. Collins said, as he leaned forward. “If that’s the world for you, you are certainly welcome to it. We will never try to steer you away from it… that is, if that’s a world you happen to find yourself in one day.”

Lena shuddered.

“But…” he said with a knowing glance, “I think I’ve got the measure of you right. You might not like that stuff, but I think you love the adventure. And I think you belong in this room with us, instead of being a groupie outside of our bus. You want to be a part of a world that helps make their world for them. Should you wish to find yourself a part of this room and this world, but one that does things in a more palatable fashion than the HVA, we might have some work for you—some work where you might actually be doing some good for both our country and yours.”

“Well…” she started, “what exactly would that work be?”

“Lena.” Matt broke in, “I need you to know something before we continue. Mr. Collins here is one of the best—truly. If you decide you want in, you will absolutely be in the best of hands. But…” he said this, while placing a hand over hers, “if you feel like it’s too much pressure for you, I want you to know that we will still find a way to work together. You know, as bands.”

“I’d like to hear what the work is, I think.” Lena said, blushing.

“Well, here is where things get complicated,” Mr. Collins responded. “Because this is very much an ‘in or out’-sort of thing. Normally, vetting potential agents takes months or longer. It’s the age-old war between security and efficiency, and normally we have time to sacrifice efficiency; but this is what we call the ‘not soft’ approach. We have an immediate need for someone like you, which means that certain security and evaluation procedures are being thrown to the wayside. Once you are in, the ball immediately starts rolling. This means more fun for you, of course—quicker training, better training, and immediate gratification… not to mention the paychecks which can be substantial. But, it also means that if you try to back out, we have to excise the entire project. So…” he added, with a steely grin as Matt squeezed her hand, “are you in or are you out?”

“It’s worth it,” Matt said. “You’ve never had so much fun in your life.”

For a second, Lena relaxed in the moment. This, right here, was the crux: if she said no, then her life wouldn’t immediately be in serious danger. She could go back to her normal life of utter insanity, living in fear of Dragon Lady and any of the other horrors the HVA and Stasi had in store for her. If she said yes, then… well, she was sure her life would simply be even more dangerous than it had been before. Then again, she could just run away. After all, she was on this side of the Wall. Nothing could technically stop her.

For precious seconds, she reveled in the moment. She knew she was going to say yes. Honestly, who in their right mind wouldn’t?! Yet, until she said yes or no, she was safe in the moment and secure in her indecision. For a brief moment, she reflected on what Grandfather had said back in the Stasi prison about the games that officers liked to play with each other… “As long as they are still playing, they technically haven’t lost yet.”

For a few more seconds, she sat thinking the words she knew she was going to say, trying them on for size. The thought of the possibility that she was in over her head did threaten to dawn, once or twice. Then again, she had lived the last several months in over her head, so what damage could a little more chaos and confusion really do? Besides, Matt and Mr. Collins really did seem to know what they were doing, and they wouldn’t have asked her unless she really was that good, right? Two entire spy agencies wanted her help—she must really be something!

“Alright. I will work with you.”

“That’s why we wanted you, Lena!” Matt said cheerfully.

“You’ve made the right choice,” Mr. Collins said. “Now let us prove it to you.”

He then stood up and walked over to a small cubby in the wall. Reaching in, he pulled out a folder. Sifting through it, he sat down and spread out its contents in front of him: just a few plain folders and a map.

“Through much of the coming weeks,” he started, “you will be acting more-or-less alone. This is a crucial position for you to be in. So, I want to start out with a few definitions:

“Information is anything you don’t already know, however useful or un-useful. All information is useful. It might not be useful to you specifically, or to you right now, but it is useful to someone at some point. Conversely, Intelligence is curated information. That means that its information that is in fact useful to you right now. More specifically, it’s useful to your boss, who might be a diplomat, a CEO, a President, a Prime Minister—someone that doesn’t have the time to sift through 300 pages of poorly aggregated information. Intelligence is information that has been further analyzed and presented formally in a finished, readable package. Intelligence is aggregated and curated by teams of analysts and the discernment of experienced directors.

“Information used in intelligence is gathered by various means. Sometimes—well, the vast majority of the time—it’s gathered by reading the newspapers of other countries. You would truly be surprised what sorts of things your rivals put out into the public forum. They even print things that the government is wanting to keep secret! Failing that, it’s generally gathered by simply asking: calling the editors of those newspapers, for instance, or calling constables, or experts, or people that are in a position to see things that you otherwise wouldn’t.

“Lena, if I wanted to know when a boat loaded with important cargo is docking, who do you think might have that information?”

“Someone who works at the docks?” Lena offered.

“Ok, good!” Mr. Collins said. “But be specific. Who might be in a position to see the cargo unloaded and know what it was?”

“Maybe a crane operator?” Lena offered again.

“Good! Or maybe also someone who checks the manifests, right? Who might that be?”

“Security?”

“Keep going.”

“Customs officials?”

“Give me one more.”

“Um… maybe a dockhand? I don’t know.”

“Good—all good ideas. There’s a lot of ways to handle that problem. Understand though, that people are busy. They don’t always want to take time out of their busy day to remember what those manifests say, or look out for specific ships. Its work—it might not always be hard work, but it’s still something that they don’t have to do. That, and its work that’s valuable to you. So how do you think you get these people to keep a watch out for you?”

“You could pay them?” Lena said.

“Exactly!” Mr. Collins cheered. “They are doing a job for you! You pay them for their time. So, you see, when we are looking for information to turn into intelligence, sometimes it’s gathered by offering someone something in return. It could be money, protection, freedom, adventure, immunity, access, or any number of things that a government is capable of providing.

“Now really quick, I want to shift gears into defining what counterintelligence is, because it’s often a pretty misunderstood concept. Really, the most important thing to remember is that it’s not just us—as in, your own team—that’s trying to get information: it’s everyone else, too. In the game of intelligence, whoever gains more, faster, wins. So, on top of trying to get intelligence, we have to protect what we already have. Generally, this is done with packaging, classification-levels, access-cards, cameras, and etcetera. Sometimes, by simply locking valuable information up in a safe, and then only telling one of your employees the code, works perfectly. Do you know why?”

“Because maybe another country is paying some of your other employees to gather information?”

“Awesome answer!” Matt cheered.

“Very good,” Mr. Collins nodded. “But what could we do if, say, we suspected that the one who had the codes to the safe was a spy?”

“You could just fire him.”

“But then we wouldn’t know who he works for, would we?”

“I suppose not.”

“What if you replaced the real information with fake information, and then waited for that fake information to show up somewhere in another country? Say, ‘American-inspired’-cars with oval-shaped wheels?”

“That seems like an awful lot to go through for something that wouldn’t even work,” Lena said.

“Oh, all Counterintelligence people are pranksters,” Matt said while rubbing his hands together. “One time, we packaged up a live nuclear warhead, and had an American Major charge the Soviets millions of dollars for the pleasure of mailing it back to themselves—without safety measures. It almost went off too, right in downtown Moscow. Boy, that would’ve been fun.”

“That’s insane!” Lena winced.

“One of our better ideas.” Mr. Collins laughed. “What about walls, though? Do you think walls are counterintelligence? Or what about fences?”

“Well, they don’t… I mean, they keep some people from getting in, right?”

“Exactly! It protects information. Say that you could easily hop over fences though… how would we keep you out?”

“You could, I don’t know… put out land-mines? Trip-wire? Towers with guards in them?”

“What if, instead, we went the cheap route and put signs on the fence that said, ‘Warning: deadly force authorized’?”

“I probably wouldn’t hop over them.”

“…what if the signs aren’t true?”

“Well, how the hell would I know that?!”

“You should see the size of the imaginary ‘dogs’ we have in our compound that you should ‘beware of’” Matt grinned. “Counterintelligence is mostly just slight-of-hand and misdirection.”

“But unfortunately,” Mr. Collins broke in, “information isn’t just collected by asking people politely. Oftentimes, when you can’t find someone who will willingly provide the information you need, it’s gathered by surveillance. And that puts you—and us—in a pretty precarious position. Surveillance is the art of surreptitiously watching, listening or otherwise procuring firsthand knowledge on a person, place or thing. This is recorded by means of a camera, audio device, or memory.

“Now, surveillance inside your own host sovereignty only comes with one singular problem: not spooking the target. This is because you are surveilling for the country you are doing it within. Therefore you don’t need to worry about where you sleep at night once you are finished. You have a bed, you have a life, you have normalcy. You can openly surveil someone with a camera because you don’t necessarily care who else sees you doing it, as long as it doesn’t set your target off. The worst that happens is that the cops get called on you, and you have to flash a badge. At which point they leave you alone.

“Now, most folks that work for the Stasi are familiar with surveillance—rote spying on friends and neighbors, then providing information to the Stasi who further curate that information into intelligence. But when we are talking espionage… well, Lena, that’s an entirely different ball-game. Sure, you are still conducting the same type of surveillance and information-gathering tactics, but now you are not doing it with the permission of the sovereignty you are residing within. You are doing it inside of a country that doesn’t want you doing it. This means you have to worry about anyone seeing you, because if anyone spooks, it could mean a lot of trouble.

“Furthermore, you have to use means of concealing your activities. This means concealing absolutely everything: your cameras, your employers, your day-to-day activities, even what your name is, or what your hobbies are. I’m sure you have received some sort of counter-surveillance training… maybe how to tell if you are being followed, or how to lose someone who is following you… ring any sort of bells?”

“Yes,” Lena nodded, remembering Wart-face and the others.

“Well, that’s all legally-sanctioned stuff. You don’t have to worry about getting in trouble if you get caught, because who’s going to catch you? Your employers? Worst case, if your target spooks on you, the Stasi will just send someone else. But in the world of espionage, if you are being followed, that means they know you are worth following. If you try to lose them, you only prove that you are who they think you are. Now, that doesn’t seem very smart, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.” she shook her head.

“Furthermore, attempting to lose a surveillance team only makes their job more difficult. A lot of times, these folks are underpaid and work incredibly long hours out in the elements. If you upset them, they will absolutely bring the wrath upon you. That’s not something you need, is it?”

“No, Sir,” she shook her head honestly.

“Alright. So, your first mission is simple: when you get back to the GDR, you are going to build yourself a routine. This will consist of a series of cafes you eat at, a series of stores you shop at, a series of places you frequent for whatever reason. Do you know what “Three sides of a Square” means?”

“No, Sir.” Lena answered.

“It’s very simple. If you are walking west to east down a road on the right-hand side, picture that you are walking across the bottom line of a square. If you want to find out if you are being followed, you take a left across the street, which forces anyone following you to cross as well. Then, you turn right and keep going in the same direction you were before. Then, you take a right-hand turn and cross the street again… once again, forcing anyone following you to cross again… only to turn left back into the same direction you were first going, on the same path you were on in the first place.

“Now, normally no one would be taking this winding path. It takes too long for people who are on a schedule. Do you know why you do this?”

“Because if someone is taking the same winding path as me, that means they are following me?”

“Correct!” Mr. Collins said happily. “Remember this: Potential, Probable, Actual. If they make the same first turn as you, they are ‘potentially’ following you. It may just be a coincidence, as they may have needed to take that turn anyway. If they follow you on the next turn, however, it’s probable that they are following you. And if they follow you on the third, well, you know they are actually following you.”

“What do I do if that happens?” Lena said, a little scared.

“Just make a note of it,” he answered. “Until that point, however, you are going to build a daily routine, and all of the steps you take on it. Every day you will do more-or-less the same thing, for most of the day. You will be the most boring person in existence. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Buy a puppy,” Matt said. “Puppies like to run around and get into stuff. They shit in places they shouldn’t, and run up to random people. This is a great opportunity to look around normally.”

“That’s actually a good idea,” Lena laughed.

“For now, just be boring,” Mr. Collins laughed. “Get to know all of your neighbors. Recognize their routines as well as yours. Know when they missed a day at the coffeeshop, or when someone isn’t reading the paper like he or she normally is. Notice when two people are talking that normally don’t. Make sure that you use the sidewalks for walking—that’s what they are there for. Cross the street at stop-lights, look at things in windows—not cracks in the wall or the sky—and make sure that you watch for people that are doing these things. Watch for people walking on lawns, or looking at walls, or looking around corners. Just… watch. You will be surprised at the things you see.”

“Yes, Sir,” Lena said. On the one hand, her first mission sounded boring, but she could sense it was just the beginning. It was introductory training like she had done before with Patrick.

“Second” he continued, “always remember this above everything else: your job is to know if you are being followed. And if so, by whom. Your job is not to lose them, confuse them, frustrate them or otherwise. If you are being followed, it’s much easier to recognize if it’s the same people doing it every time. And if you do recognize them out on a stroll, it’s much easier to convince them you aren’t up to no good by choosing to do boring things instead of whatever you had planned.”

“We can always meet some other time,” Matt chimed in. “I’d much rather have a meeting delayed than have a dead agent because that agent really wanted to please us. Even worse is to have other agents exposed as well. So, if you are being followed… just miss the meeting and don’t sweat it. We’ll find out.”

“I understand,” Lena said, honestly.

“Besides,” he said smirking, “once we know you are being followed, we can do something about it. We are counter-intelligence, after all.”

“Ok,” Lena half-smiled.

“Now, let’s get down to the meat-and-potatoes of what we need you specifically for.” Mr. Collins spoke, “Normally, professional intelligence agencies pick their officers from the Special Forces community. This is because on top of needing folks who can talk to people and make friends easily, they also need a whole litany of skills we simply don’t have time to teach them: using a compass, using a gun, basic survival—that sort of thing. It’s a kinetic world, and sometimes we need the right person right now—not after a two-year school spent teaching them things that the military already could’ve.

“Luckily, since this means that most of our officers already have these skills, and because we’re civilians that Geneva Conventions don’t apply to, it’s we who are charged with what’s referred to as ‘Covert Action’. There’s many different forms that Covert Action can take, but most falls under one major umbrella: making things happen in the political realm by pulling the strings of the mass populace. This is something that musicians happen to be uniquely suited for, which is where you and Matt come in.”

“Congratulations!” Matt said, as he sardonically saluted Lena. “We’re all gonna die!”

“Now,” Mr. Collins laughed, “we aren’t going to teach you how to fast-rope or jump out of helicopters. As I just said, we don’t have the time for that level of training, and Matt is already plenty good at that sort of nonsense. Luckily, we don’t need to teach you anything like that, because you have something far more important to us than the skills that our agents already possess: intimate first-hand knowledge of the culture we are trying to initiate covert action within. Sure, Matt here speaks German, but he’s British. He doesn’t speak East-German, or East Berliner. He doesn’t know the slang, the cultural references, the favorite beers, or the reason why you root for one sports team over another.”

“Why would that matter?” Lena asked honestly.

“Well, let me ask you this…” Mr. Collins started as he waved his hand at her, “What’s up?”

“The sky?” Lena responded, feeling somewhat silly.

“Right,” Mr. Collins laughed. “In America, no young person ever says ‘Hello’ as a formal greeting. They say, ‘What’s up?’ as common slang. To a German, that’s an utterly meaningless statement. This is a lesson we learned in WWII when American, British and French agents were found out by the Nazi SS during meals—the Americans held their forks and spoons differently than the Europeans did.”

“Really?” Lena boggled.

“Oh yes. Believe it or not, Americans, Germans, and Japanese, all shake hands differently. You would expect a supposed Japanese native in Japan to greet other Japanese the way his fellow countrymen did, with curtesy and sincere respect for the other person’s space. If, instead, this Japanese native grabbed the other’s hand and pumped it in a display of dominance, well, you might very well have a non-native— and probable American—on your hands.

“Of course, you would then wonder why this individual is posing as a Japanese native if he has very little grasp of their customs. Believe it or not, other cultures eat differently too. This extends not only to local cuisine, but tastes: Germans prefer bitter tasting snacks, whereas Americans eat excessively sweet food. Whole South-east Asian cultures might eat foods considered taboo in Europe, such as eyeballs or placenta, while in Iceland fermented shark is completely normal.

“In America, we bring our heads down to our food, while in the rest of the world they bring the food up. It’s these little idiosyncrasies that we have to account for. With you working for us in the GDR, however, we already know they are accounted for because it’s something you innately know.

“Now, originally, we had a different agent planned out for this covert action. He was a very strong asset, and wonderful to work with. Unfortunately, a Soviet GRU counter-intelligence campaign ended up putting him in a position where we now need to rescue him before we can get the work officially started. I believe you already know a young man by the name of Hans Schmidt?”

____

Vivika was breathing hard as she stumbled down a dark alleyway. Under normal circumstances, this would be comfortable for her. She was of ‘the filth’—the undercurrent of the under-represented and under-noticed—an untouchable, by polite standards. Alleyways meant no less and no more to her than a roaring fire warming a house inside a fireplace, or burning the house down along with its inhabitants. A life poorly-lived in austerity and brief spurts of performance anxiety enabled her to sleep as well as she could, wherever her head lay that evening.

These weren’t normal circumstances, however. These days, nothing could be described as ‘normal’ even by her twisted standards. She was used to ducking the Stasi. Even after spending her time in the black cells, she had gotten used to flying under their radar, avoiding any untoward scrutiny. And yet, it appeared that she had finally rung her own bell. She had been warned. And now that she was in a different country, with different rules and different alleyways, well, it appeared that the devil had finally come to take his pound of flesh. She knew he was coming, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Yet, as the heavy boots tromped quickly after her through the foggy slime of the dark locales, she only wanted to stave it off just a little longer. She knew the wearer of those boots, and she knew what he meant to do to her.

“Vivika!” The whispering voice taunted, harsh in the cold air, “Oh Vivika!”

She feared him. She had feared him from the moment she had laid eyes on him. Victor was supposedly their lowly, mild-mannered tour manager. But she knew the truth. She always knew the truth that lay behind the eyes of men. He was a liar—a very talented liar, and precisely the opposite of the persona he had assumed. And as he called her name behind her in that annoyed-yet-triumphant tone, she knew there would be no more forestalling the inevitable.

“Vivika!” he menaced, “It’s been a long night, and I don’t want to play games. Show yourself.”

She knew it was the right thing to do: to just rip the band-aid off and let the chips fall where they may. There was no sense hiding; he would find her. There was no use fighting; his was the kind that could (and would) beat her to a bloody pulp and leave her for dead without a second thought. Her best chance for survival—now that she had run out of road—was to confront him and give him what he wanted. It would be better this way… even if not much better.

Shuddering, less from the cold and more from intense personal terror, she stopped and turned. Goosebumps spread like a rash on her skin as every second brought fate closer and closer like a knife’s edge slowly splitting the back of her shirt in two.

“That’s right,” he spoke from an ever-decreasing distance, recognizing that she had stopped, “no need to be uncivilized about this.”

“I… I…” she stammered, but no particularly helpful words helped her.

“Oh, don’t try,” he jested, as he came into view. “Talking isn’t your strong-suit, my dear.”

There he was: an otherwise handsome young man with otherwise beautiful eyes that flared wide with power. He smiled, but it wasn’t friendly… no, it was sadistic and triumphant. He smelled of victory and reeked of violence. Whatever he had spent the previous hours doing had emboldened him in no small way. He looked the way a wolf would look, paws wet with raw flesh and breath steaming from the kill. His eyes were wide with gore, and his memories were filled with the scent of the dead.

“Patrick…” she tried to start again. This was a mistake, and he caught onto her immediately.

“Shut your mouth!” he hissed. “You know the rules! On this side of the wall, we are different people, you and I.”

“W-we are in an alleyway… V-victor… what could our real names matter?” she whimpered.

“They matter. So long as you are alive, you will play the game, or else I will have no further use for you. And you know what that means.”

“Yes,” she answered, stemming the flow of fear that welled up in her throat. “Yes… I’m sorry. You are right… I do.”

“Good girl,” he said softly. “Now. We have much to discuss.”

“Wh-where are the others?” she said, attempting to buy herself some time. “I haven’t seen them since the show ended.”

“Oh, they… finally escaped to the West. You know, made a better life for themselves.”

“I’m happy for them,” she said. They were the right words to say, of course, but she knew better. She knew they were dead. She had known this would happen since she first laid eyes on their killer. And now it was her turn to suffer, “Did they… escape… painlessly?”

“Of course. I’m not a monster. I do what I’m told because I have to; not because I want to.”

“But you still…” she said, “uh… let them escape.”

“You know I have no choice. We can’t have folks sleeping in our country who sing the songs that they sing. The wrong song to the wrong set of ears, and it could jeopardize me and my organization.”

“But… you didn’t ki-… I mean, you won’t let me escape.” she caught herself.

“That’s because I like you,” he taunted. “I already told you. I’m never going to let you escape. You mean too much to me.”

She knew he was still speaking in code—but he wasn’t. The words burned like fire. Theirs was an arrangement of secrecy. She knew this, and she wanted to be thankful to him for it, but sometimes it was really, really hard to be. Especially once he moved towards her and started slowly kissing her neck.

“Victor…” she started slowly.

“Yes?” he said, as he nibbled on her.

Oh, how she missed the days when she could pretend she enjoyed this. Those days were now long gone. She couldn’t even convince him she liked it anymore. Yet that didn’t seem to deter him one bit. He may have been some sort of super spymaster, but he was a man all the same and men told themselves what they wanted to hear.

“…in… i-in an alleyway?” she asked, as tears and a familiar urge to vomit began welling up.

“We are far from home,” he said between kisses as he lowered the strap on one of her shoulders. “And this is the real world. No one here cares what’s happening to you.”

Schadenfreude

The van rolled slowly through Checkpoint Charlie, this time going the other way. Again, the American soldiers yelled crazily, and again the Germans yelled back. The word ‘back’ could perhaps be loosely used, as while the soldiers were indeed yelling at each other, it seemed to be more for appearances and personal entertainment than anything else. Indeed, everyone here seemed to be caught up in yelling about nothing in particular, for no apparent reason, as if this were the daily state of things. No particularly convicting reason could be found for all the pandemonium, and none of the van’s occupants seemed all that interested in watching intently. Although, Lena did catch one loud exchange.

“Knocking, knocking!” one American shouted in very bad German.

“What do you want?” a German soldier responded in his native tongue.

“Nothing, in joke!” the American responded, stuttering as if trying to repeat a phrase another soldier was giving him.

“What in the hell is wrong with you?!” the German soldier yelled in good English, “We speak English too, you know!”

“Well… then, knock, knock!”

“What are you knocking on? Are you calling me a name?!” the German soldier responded, obviously upset at whatever insult the American was levying. The response from the American was frustrated laughter and a string of poorly-formed German cuss-words that he had likely just learned.

“Knock, knock?” Lena thought to herself, “What the hell does that mean?” It must have been some sort of military thing.

When it was the tour van’s turn to be yelled at, Victor held up passports to a particularly bored looking guard and was quickly waved through. This was the entire extent of their attentions. The massive steel swingarm blocking their forward movement was raised, and they were allowed to pass through. As the van began moving forward, Lena could swear she heard more soldiers shouting at each other, in voices that would otherwise have sounded positively murderous.

“Humpty dumpty sat on a wall, you German asshole!”

“Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, you Capitalist moron!” This exchange continued on in voices that sounded like the scene from an impromptu battlefield execution. Yet as the van pulled out of hearing range, Lena was certain she heard the other guards snickering.

“How is ‘German’ an insult?” she pondered. She very well understood why ‘Capitalist’ was, of course, but ‘German’? It must have been an American thing.

It always rained this time of year. Despite the bland regularity of the gray and grayer, and the fact that the weather was the same on either side of the god-damned Wall, in the GDR the bleak felt more like an omen than anything else. It was as if Mother Nature herself knew that no one particularly wanted to be back on that side of the Wall and decided to enhance the experience, adding to the already gloomy air that permeated the van.

“Yay. We’re back,” Vivika said in a tone even blander than the weather.

“Yup,” Victor said.

Lena had nothing to add herself.

“So…” Vivika began again, after some time, “uh, what now?”

The resulting silence indicated that Vivika was likely directing the question to Lena. This was unfortunate, as now Lena had to offer something in return which she very much didn’t want to do. “How the hell should I know?” she gruffed in a tone suggesting that very little could be expected of her.

“I wasn’t asking you; I was asking our fearless manager here.”

“How the hell should I know?!” he snapped.

“Well, you’re our road manager. You’re supposed to know these things.”

“Look,” he answered tersely, “it wasn’t my fault your band-mates all decided to run off. This stuff happens sometimes, for whatever reason. Maybe you will get lucky. Maybe both of them will get arrested and sent back here. Then you can be a band again.”

“But we currently aren’t a band,” Vivika said accusingly, “and that’s your fault.”

“How is it my fault?! It’s not my job to make sure you all don’t run off and do something stupid.”

“Yes,” Vivika crossed her arms. “Yes, as a matter of fact, that’s exactly what your job is. I think that’s your only job—to corral us. So, having failed that job, what are you going to do for us now?”

“What the hell do you want me to do, Vivika?! I can’t magically make your old band-mates re-appear. I can’t magically find you new band-mates. I can’t play guitar, and even if I could, I’m not so sure I want to go through all that nonsense again. So… I’m sorry, but…”

“What nonsense did you go through? What did you do that entire time? You didn’t help with one single aspect. To hear Lena tell it, you actually made it harder for us.”

“Me?” Lena said, perking up at her mention. “No… guys, I’m staying out of this.”

“No, you should get involved,” Vivika said angrily. “This is as much your project as mine and we both got thrown to the wolves by this asshole. So now you need to help me convince him to fix this.”

“I… I…” Lena stuttered. She looked at the two of them. Victor was half trying to focus on driving, and half hiding the rash of red spreading across his face and neck. Vivika, however, was red-faced for an entirely different reason that Lena couldn’t figure out. The girl was becoming hysterical with anger, perhaps unduly so.

“Look, you guys…” Lena attempted. “I’m not gonna point fingers. We all probably had our part in what happened…”

“Oh, that’s how this is gonna be?” Vivika shouted, “Placating us? Placating him? I suppose that’s easy for you. You were the only person who won in all of this! While I was dealing with the venue, watching all of our gear, and trying to figure out what to do, and while Victor was trying to hide from any real responsibility like a chicken-shit, you were sleeping with Matt.”

Yeah. Lena had admitted to that. Now she was reaping the benefits of her indiscretion.

“Well, that’s…” Lena stammered.

“For four entire hours.”

“I mean… well…”

“Who the hell screws for four hours on a tour bus?!?”

“Some people are just gifted,” Lena said, trying to hide a smile.

“There’s no way he’s that gifted.”

“He’s pretty gifted.”

“What, does he have a nine-inch…”

“Ladies!” Victor shouted, with the flash of red growing brighter by the second.

Of course, Lena couldn’t have told them the truth of what had transpired on that tour bus. So, she had worked hard to give them a separate impression. A little bit of disheveled hair, mussed makeup, a mis-placed shoulder-strap and the ‘walk-of-shame’ had revealed to the both of them everything they needed to know, true or not. Vivika had attempted a begrudging-sort of congratulations, although she had seemed upset about it. She had remained upset for the duration of the trip, which Lena had chalked up to simple jealousy.

Victor, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care in the least. Despite how un-Patrick-like he appeared to be in his indecisive Victor-ness, he did seem to have a nearly imperceptible spring in his step.

“Whatever,” she thought. “She’s just jealous.” Of course, if Vivika could even conceive of what had really transpired on the tour bus, she might very well be even more jealous. Goodness, how adventure seemed to pile itself into Lena’s life. On top of being the lead-singer of a (now defunct) punk band, she was also the ultimate super-spy-slash-double-agent for two opposing clandestine organizations, and seemed to be the invisible crux of an entire underground wave, “My life is like a movie!” she congratulated herself.

It was strange, she realized. After the Interhostel she was practically ready to bolt into West Germany the very first chance she had, wanting nothing to do with this realm whatsoever. But now, having received a new sales-pitch, she almost relished the opportunity to go back to the hotel. The sheer danger of it all… the convoluted messiness… the complication… no one else’s life could possibly compare. And Vivika, well, she just wouldn’t understand—especially if she knew what Lena’s true mission was.

She had two jobs. The first, simply put, was to start dating Matt York. Yes, that’s right. She was supposed to officially start dating the preeminent Punker (also a secret agent) himself.

According to Mr. Collins, the whole ‘Dead Weights’-thing was nothing more than a covert operation which was maddeningly simple. The GDR wanted one singular thing above all other attainable goals: gain international recognition as its own sovereign entity. So far, it had made some headway, in that it was formally recognized by the UN’s Defense Council. But that was largely because the Soviets were on the damn council and controlled the Soviet Union’s perverse version of NATO… of which the GDR belonged to.

Recognition by the Soviets wasn’t enough, though. The GDR needed recognition by America and NATO. Once that happened, the GDR was free to escape the mad clutches of the Soviet dogs and its damn Warsaw Pact, and was one step closer to never having to kowtow to the Americans again.

With that in mind, anything—anything—that legitimized the GDR to the international community would receive top priority. Thus, Mr. Collins had concocted a particularly brilliant scheme: use The Dead Weights’ unapologetic pro-GDR punk music to put a bug in the Stasi’s ear. They had quickly found a point-man in Matt York (an asset on loan from British intelligence), who, much like Lena, had a seriously tweaked view of what counted as ‘fun’. All that was necessary was to crank out a few mindless tunes (written by some bored analyst, of course) and find a few disposable patsies as band-mates. Then, they need only broadcast it far and wide—via Armed Forces Radio and the many other pirate radio stations—to the GDR’s various ‘rooftop radios’ like the one Lena had.

Unlike the punks in Leipzig, Mr. Collins not only knew that the Stasi closely monitored the pirate radio stations, but counted on it. He knew that the Stasi would like the favorable opinion that citizens of the GDR would give to the anti-capitalist Dead Weights and their hatred of American interference.

Now Mr. Collins only needed to put a few more strategic bricks in the operational wall, and his organization would be well set. Firstly, to finagle Matt (and his manager, of course) a guided tour of the GDR; second, to establish a plausible reason Matt would actually want to stay in the GDR; and third, perhaps… just perhaps… he could be swayed by the same methods that ensnared Dean Reed just a few years before: a burgeoning (and scandalously perfect) relationship between King Punk himself and the up-and-coming counterculture goddess Madeline Dangerbunny. Of course, what happened after that was not something Lena was privy to just yet.

Hooking up with Matt York was the easy part. The second was far more difficult for many different reasons. First, because it required her to snoop around ‘her people’ in the HVA—you know, ask some potentially telling questions of people who were good at detecting ‘potentially telling questions’; second, because she would likely have to ask these questions of Grandfather, whom she hadn’t seen in such a long time; and third, because they were questions pertaining to Hans.

Apparently, Hans had never been a spitzel, as Lena had assumed. Well, not as she knew it anyway. Hans had been working for Mr. Collins and his company for a number of months. To his company, though, that wasn’t the important part; the important part was that Hans was in a small network of hard-cultivated assets that had been working in Eastern Germany for several years now. The fact that Hans had been caught could potentially lead to the destruction of that network, as well as the people within it. Mr. Collins had said that it was very likely that Hans had already talked. Yet since the network still existed, one of two things was true: either Hans had kept his tongue, or the Soviet’s and HVA’s concurrent counter-intelligence investigations were still ongoing.

According to Mr. Collins, the only thing working in their favor was the fact that “the HVA doesn’t like the damn Soviets poking around in their business”, and their premature raid had spooked the network into a defensive holding pattern, effectively placing them on standby. This made their survival more likely, but it also made them ‘mission ineffective’. Now, the members of the network would have to be “liberated or re-prioritized,” as Mr. Collins had put it.

This all sounded utterly fantastic—really it did. The only problem was that she seemed to be the linchpin for all of this nonsense. Everyone expected poor Lena to be an expert in all things clandestine at this point. It was as if they expected her to sky-hook off of a space-ship in low orbit, destabilize a few governments, and maybe drive one of those cool Western sportscars with the heat-seeking rocket-launchers, all while understanding all of this damnable intrigue without even being told anything. Damn it, she was only one person! Besides, she had something far more pressing to deal with: getting Vivika and Victor to calm the hell down.

“…the hell is your problem?” Victor was still shouting.

“I’m not going crazy here!” Vivika shouted back, “Lena, you know what I’m talking about, right?”

“Totally,” Lena said, absent-mindedly, realizing she hadn’t been listening.

“Thank you. See, Victor, this is why this is all your fault.”

“Okay, fine,” Victor fumed. “If accepting all of the blame is what it takes to get you to shut up, then I accept it. All of it. I’m the reason everything in the world is wrong, and I’m sorry. Are we done now?”

“Oh, how typical,” Vivika seethed. “Placate the woman. Look at me, I’m just a poor little woman! Of course, I’m being out of sorts. Heaven forbid a weak little woman calls a big strong man out on how he was the one that utterly failed!”

“It’s not because you’re a woman; it’s because you’re stupid! I know plenty of women that would see the situation for what it is, instead of trying to…”

“Oh why don’t you two just get a room.” Lena cut in.

Silence reigned for a few precious and awkward seconds. Vivika looked at Victor, and he looked back at her. Both seemed at a loss for words, and there seemed to be a tension that Lena couldn’t quite understand.

“I mean, seriously,” Lena flailed her arms above her head, “you two argue like a damned married couple. Victor…” she said, turning to him, “You’re an idiot. You obviously work for the Stasi. Any punk band that goes across the wall gets one of ‘your people’ to babysit them. Instead of doing that, you took us to a strange country and left us to fend for ourselves because you were too weak to do your job. Shame on you.”

Turning to Vivika, she continued, “And you… you…” Lena realized that she didn’t have anything negative to say about her; but she was irritated so she just made a few things up, “You won’t shut up about the whole thing. We’re here. This is what’s happening now. We can’t go back there. And look, I’m sorry that I found Matt, but maybe if you weren’t so bitchy…”

“Lena, stop,” Vivika said plainly.

“No, I’m serious. You’re a wonderful friend, but you have this chip on your shoulder for some reason, and I think it’s because you’re jealous.”

“Lena… stop.”

“It’s not a big deal! Really, it isn’t! But taking out your frustrations on Victor isn’t going to help.”

Vivika suddenly began crying for no apparent reason. She just stared into Lena’s eyes with such a desperate and utterly defeated look. Lena had no idea what was going on, but she all of a sudden felt terrible about it.

“Women,” Victor sighed, “once a month, they all go fucking crazy.”

“You…” Vivika seethed tearfully at Victor, and then to Lena, “You… both of you…” She never continued her sentence. Instead, she swung open the door to the van which was still moving, and demanded, “Stop the fucking van, Victor!”

“You crazy bitch!” Victor yelled as he slammed on the brakes, “What the hell are you doing?!”

“I’ll make my own way!”

“Vivika, what’s wrong?!” Lena shouted, but to no avail. Vivika simply stepped out and walked off into the distance, not looking back even once.

“What was that all about?” Lena raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, she’ll be fine,” Victor shook his head, “She’s just had a hard few days. But hey, at least you and I can speak openly for a moment.”

“Okay, fine, but just so you know, I’m mad at you right now.”

“What’s another woman who’s mad at me? Between Vivika and Dragon Lady, I’m surprised I haven’t been stabbed in the kidneys by now. Between both of those psychos, I practically have to sleep at a safe house.”

“Vivika is nothing like that! She’s emotional, sure. Angry, yes. But she’s a good friend. She honestly cares about me, and I care about her.”

“Just be careful with that one,” he responded after a small pause. “I like her too. Hell, if I knew her a little better, we’d probably be friends. Maybe I’ll try to bridge that gap a little bit in the future… if there’s a future to be had. But I’ve been doing this a while. I know the look of someone who has a plan. And whatever plans she has, they don’t involve either of us.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just be careful around her. She’s not psychotic or sadistic like Dragon Lady…, but she’s just as calculating. She has a secret agenda, that one, and she’ll say or do anything to get what she wants.”

____

When Lena entered Little John records, she found Vivika huddling on a couch in the corner of one of the small studios. Since Little John had essentially become a safe haven for the punks on the label, beds, couches and other makeshift sleeping accommodations had been placed everywhere from the studios to the sound booth. Like Jakob and Vortecx (wherever they were), Vivika slept here more than she slept anywhere else. She wasn’t sleeping now, however. She was curled up in a fetal position and balling her eyes out.

“Vivika?” Lena asked softly.

“Go away.”

“Vivika, what did I say?” Lena asked, as she walked over and sat close to Vivika. In response, Vivika shouldered her away roughly. Lena was undeterred, however. She simply sat there, trying to be as close as Vivika would allow her. She was so sad, just sitting there sobbing her poor heart out all over the couch. Lena was familiar with the emotions of musicians, and the general malaise they exuded for no particular reason. But this was something else—and whatever it was, it was something worth crying about.

“Don’t worry about the band, Vivika. We’ll figure it out.”

“Oh, fuck the stupid band!” she sniffled angrily, “I don’t care about the band!”

“Well… then what…” Lena attempted. Truth be told, she didn’t precisely know what was wrong, so she didn’t know where to start.

“Look, you remember what I said back at the show?”

“About?”

“About not leaving me behind?”

“Of course, Vivika. I would never leave you behind!”

“That’s a lie, and you know it. I… I just really need you to convince me that it isn’t a lie. Just for a little while, I need to believe that I’m safe. Because I really don’t feel safe right now.”

“Of course you’re safe, Vivika! I promise you’re safe!”

“That’s not a very good lie… and you know that, too!”

“Why don’t you feel safe? What’s going on?”

“Look around you!” she shouted, “you know as well as I do that we’re surrounded by hidden cameras, in a fake label that’s run by assholes like Victor. You know they follow us everywhere. They have us follow each other too. We just had two of our band members disappear… poof!… without a trace. And… and…”

“But we’re safe right now! It’s just you and me, right here!”

“That doesn’t make me feel safe at all. Not in the least!”

Lena draped herself awkwardly over the crying Vivika then, wrapping an arm around her tightly, and began stroking her hair. Embraces like these weren’t her forte, but Vivika at least deserved the attempt. She lay there, stroking and hugging for quite some time until sobs became sniffles, and sniffles turned to quiet breathing.

“Vivika, why don’t you feel safe?” she asked calmly, after some time.

“Because…” she started, seeming to weigh her words more than she needed to, “Lena, what if they aren’t coming back?”

“Honestly, I doubt they are. Would you?”

“Yes, Lena. Yes, I absolutely would. I may hate this country, but it’s my home. It has all my friends, my family, my routine, my job, my apartment… it has my stuff. It has the beer I like, the shows I watch on a television I purchased, the clothes I stole, and a phone I can use to call for help… help that will arrive. Out there, I’d be nothing but an orphan. Worse, I’d be some illegal orphan that doesn’t speak the same language, has nothing in common with anyone and can’t call anyone for help. I’d just be dodging another country’s Stasi. Sure, our Stasi would happily throw me in a black cell; but the police in other countries would rape and murder me. Or worse, send me back here, where the Stasi would torture me for being a traitor.”

“But that’s just fear talking, Vivika! You’re a resourceful person! You would be able to make it!”

“No, Lena, I wouldn’t.” she began sobbing anew, “Maybe you would. You seem to have the world just throwing opportunities at you. You have help. I don’t know where from, but someone is looking out for you. But I live in the real world, where the rest of us women are worthless… where the rest of us women are nothing but property. Someone somewhere finds you useful, and I’m glad they do. But I’m nothing but a marginally pretty girl that plays keyboard decently. If someone can’t find an immediate use for either of those, they’d just as soon throw me away like trash.”

“There’s nothing marginal about you, Vivika! You’re beautiful!”

“Oh Lena…” Vivika said, turning her head to look her in the eyes, “If you only knew how much it hurt to hear you to say that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Being beautiful is a terrible thing, sometimes. You know, maybe I don’t want to be ‘the beautiful one’… maybe I would rather be just ‘a great keyboard player.’ Maybe I would rather be, I don’t know, a good writer, or a good chemist, or a good… you know, whatever. But being beautiful in a place like this only gets you treated worse than the rest.”

“Vivika, what happened? Where is all of this coming from?!”

Vivika trembled slightly, as she wiped her eyes roughly with her wrist. For the life of her, Lena could not figure out what the problem was. All she knew was this was the moment that she needed to earn Vivika’s trust. Sure, Patrick may have been speaking the truth about her… but she would deal with those implications later, once Vivika was stabilized.

“You… you wouldn’t understand.”

“What do you mean I wouldn’t understand?”

“You wouldn’t… understand,” Vivika said, enunciating her words carefully.

“Well, maybe if you tried to explain…”

“Listen Lena,” Vivika said in a slightly dire tone as she pointed her finger around the room, “You wouldn’t understand.”

Awareness dawned on Lena. It wasn’t safe to speak openly here on the best of days; yet for some reason that Lena wasn’t privy to, it was inordinately dangerous to speak openly, now. Something definitely had changed, and whatever it was had spooked Vivika to the point of hysterics. Attempting to be as natural as possible, Lena ended the conversation. The best course of action was simply to stop talking and hold the poor girl as tightly as she could.

“Lena?” Vivika asked after some time.

“Yes?”

“I… I know this is a little strange to ask. But…”

“Anything, Vivika! Ask and it’s yours.”

“Can I stay at your place for a while? I can sleep on the floor if I have to. I just… I just don’t want to stay at home. It would make me feel a lot safer.”

“Well…” Of course, the answer would be yes, but what about all her… you know, other stuff that she had going on? She couldn’t very well let Vivika in on any amount of it without compromising something. And that warning that Patrick… err, Victor… whoever he was right now… had given her; Lena had tried trusting before. First with Hans, then with Grandfather, then with Patrick, then with… then with…

Sure, Hans hadn’t technically been a spitzel; Grandfather hadn’t lied about anything per se; and Patrick was just doing his job (and he had been open with her once they had gotten to know each other). Sure, her band had been spying on her; but that was just the way things were. Vivika had even come clean about it. Sure, Matt wasn’t the person he had initially led her to believe; but he and Mr. Collins had been honest with her as soon as they were in private. And Mr. Müller… well, Lena had been spying on him too, so she couldn’t really begrudge him that.

But how much did she actually know about the things she thought she did? Heck, even the peripheral people that Lena had met were deceitful: all of the bands that Leibensmude had played with; likely half (if not more) of their fans; the pretty bartender from the Interhostel—It seemed that the only person Lena knew that had ever been completely honest was the pot-head sound engineer from the venue in West Germany. Everyone else—literally everyone else Lena knew—was holding back or massaging some aspect of their doings and dealings. Even Lena—perhaps even especially Lena—was doing the same thing on so many fronts, it made her head spin.

“God, is everyone a liar or a spy?!” she thought to herself. Yet she had to trust someone, or else she would go insane. She felt she could probably trust Matt and Mr. Collins, and she could probably trust Grandfather (with some things, of course), and it seemed that she could trust Vivika. But she knew she could trust Patrick, because he had trusted her with his most personal secrets. And he had explicitly warned Lena about trusting Vivika. “Oh, bother it all!” Lena shouted inside of her head. Suddenly, she realized how hard being a master of espionage could be.

“Look, I know you’ve got to keep some things hidden from me.” Vivika volunteered. “I don’t know what those things are, and I don’t particularly care.”

“Vivika…”

“Honestly, I mean that.” she interrupted. “I don’t want to know. I really, really, really don’t want to know. Everyone I know is a better liar than I am, and they got that way by practicing on me. I’m sick of being lied to… but if that’s what it will take to feel safe, then lie to me. Lie your ass off, I don’t care. I’ll keep my secrets from you, and you can keep yours from me. That’s just how we’ll live from now on, because that’s just the way relationships are now.”

She looked at Lena then, with a fearful, wide-eyed stare that bordered on hysterics as she added, “Just please, for the love of god, don’t leave me alone.”

____

As Patrick walked through Dragon Lady’s front door and into her small apartment, he tried to stifle the feeling of nervousness. He hated coming here; and not just because of its lone occupant. Besides the mattress on her bedroom floor and a desk in her living room, the apartment was completely devoid of furniture. She was finicky about cleanliness to an unhealthy degree, and preferred to have as few things to clean as possible. The first time he had been over, he had shivered from the cold (she kept her apartment precisely at 14-degrees Celsius to stem the circulation of airborne toxins) while she spent almost thirty minutes readjusting her desk. She swore that it was not precisely 90-degrees perpendicular to the nearest wall, and wasn’t equidistant from all walls that it should have been equidistant to.

Her walls in turn were covered in chalkboards and pictures of her informants, as well as their friends, lovers and habitual locations. All of these items were precisely positioned. Patrick knew from experience that her closet had tarps she would place underneath the pictures when she cleaned or wrote on them to catch every spare speck of chalk or any other matter that may fall on to her floor. She also kept several medical masks nearby so that she wouldn’t breathe in any of the chalk fragments.

In and on her desk, she had various wires, connectors, soldering irons and other items (all precisely positioned from front to back). He knew these to be her singular hobby besides torture: making explosives. She was extremely knowledgeable about bombs—to a degree that would exhaust most men in the Army—and she was known to launch into protracted exposés about RDX versus PETN, and why Semtex was the explosive of choice for the IRA in Ireland. Patrick found all of it quite boring, excluding the general fear he had over such a terrible person having weapons even more destructive than anything she already had at her disposal.

“Well, hello pussycat.” her voice taunted from the other room.

“I hate it when you call me that.” Patrick said, swallowing the lump that caught in his throat.

“Well, stop being one, then.” she replied, walking fully into view.

As always, she was completely naked. And as always, Patrick shivered—as much from the cold as from being alone with her. It wasn’t that she was ugly; the reality was quite the opposite as a matter-of-fact. She had the wiry frame of an athlete, and sharp features that accentuated her tight muscles. Her skin was very white, and eerily un-marred by any moles, freckles or other defining imperfections. A pair of perfectly-formed and sterile-looking breasts bounced lightly with her step, and Patrick couldn’t help but notice that she was shaved everywhere, arms, legs and… well, you get the idea. Dragon Lady hated body hair. She felt that any body hair immediately attracted microscopic organisms, and she would go to great lengths to avoid them.

Yes, Dragon Lady was otherwise beautiful by the standards of most men. To him, however, she looked like a vampire—a degenerate creature addicted to blood and pain, and perfectly prepared to extract blood in the most painful way possible. To most men, she looked fully predisposed to nights of wild and heart-pounding sex. To Patrick, she looked fully prepared to slit a man’s throat and bathe in the remains. He trembled at the thought of either fate. The thought of having this albino freak slide her skin against his was almost worse than the thought of being exsanguinated by her.

“Oh, poor, poor pussycat,” she teased, grabbing herself in a few areas that Patrick preferred not to think about. “Does he need some milk?”

“Would you please stop that?” he asked, less sternly than he had hoped. “I don’t like it when you talk like that.”

“Well, I like it. Mostly because you don’t. Now, let’s get down to business.”

“Would you at least put some clothes on first?”

“No. I want you to look,” she smirked. “Now, I called you here because I wanted you to know that I know your secret.”

Patrick swallowed yet another lump in his throat. Not just because he had one secret to keep… but because he had many, many secrets, and all of them he wanted kept from her specifically. He knew very well the sadistic power she wielded when she knew things people didn’t want her to know—that was the reason he had been compelled to keep coming to her for the past year, after all—but now that she knew something else (and he didn’t doubt for a second that she did), he could only guess as to what that was. He wanted her to know as little about him as he could manage. And there were certain things she must not know under any costs.

“And what the hell is that?” Patrick asked, still trying not to notice that she was completely shaved.

“Oh, don’t act like that,” she laughed. “You try to talk smart, but you don’t succeed. And you won’t stop looking at my pussy when you do.”

“I’m not looking at your… at you,” he stuttered, “I’m avoiding your eyes. There’s a difference.”

“You know, most men avoid the eyes when they are lying. You do it when you’re intimidated.”

“I’m not intimidated.” Patrick swallowed.

“You know what it means to avoid the eyes when one is intimidated, don’t you?”

“I told you, I’m not intimidated.”

“It means that I’m in control.”

“You’re not in control.”

“You’re not in control,” she mimicked in a patronizing voice. “I am in control, little pussycat. I’m in control, because you are weak. That’s why you keep coming back here. Because I control you.”

She looked at him then. That gaze… that horrible, horrible gaze she had when she knew she had won a victory. Whatever species this wretched creature was, she didn’t revel in the emotions that humans did—success, love, happiness, triumph—no, Dragon Lady only reveled in two things: discomfort and pain. Her facial expressions weren’t merely a betrayal of her success in forcefully extracting those two things. They were an integral part of their extraction. Worse, it was working… and worst of all, she now knew it.

“Fine, I’m intimidated. Does that make you happy?”

“Only two things in this world make me happy, Patrick. Demeaning you, and watching you squirm. Now, would you like to know what I know?”

“I don’t know, honestly,” Patrick said, dreading the answer.

“I know you’ve been cheating on your boyfriend, Freidrich.”

The hammer cracked the anvil, and the hammer followed suit. Perhaps it wasn’t the very-most damaging thing she could have possibly learned about him, but it was very likely the thing that hurt the worst. And that disgusting look of triumph spreading across her face told him that she intended to savor every bit of that hurt.

Patrick had… issues, you see; certain immoral proclivities that he wasn’t able to satiate like normal people. Sure, these proclivities weren’t unique to him, of course. Lots of men in the GDR were just as interested in men as they were women. Patrick knew this because most of his informants were gay or bisexual, which was precisely the main card he held against them. He would call them abominations… and they were, make no mistake. He would threaten to expose them to their families and lock them up in the black cells… they deserved it. They weren’t just sick—they were filthy, abominable sinners for which there was no salvation. Patrick knew this because he was one.

Patrick hated himself for his unnatural desires… for his terrible sickness of the mind. He had tried to stop thinking the things he thought for so long. He had even gone to lengths normal men likely wouldn’t, by attempting to fix himself with some of his female assets. Yet nothing worked the way it was supposed to unless he thought about men. He hated all men that felt this way, including himself. That is, with the exception of his secret: the one person that he refused to think such terrible, damning things about. Freidrich, the beautiful, tortured soul, hated himself nearly as much as Patrick did, and Patrick would do anything to help him feel differently, including lie to him.

Freidrich wasn’t important. He wasn’t anything. He was less than nothing, really. A minor player with a minor job and minor aspirations. Perhaps that’s why he wasn’t minor to Patrick. He was the one secret that Patrick was allowed to keep from everyone—even God. He didn’t deserve God’s judgement, and he certainly didn’t deserve the Stasi’s. Thus, he was excused from the HVA and Stasi’s scrutiny— Patrick had made damn sure of that. But now that Dragon Lady knew… this was disastrous.

“Do I detect some emotion?” Dragon Lady teased, and Patrick hated her for it.

“You…” he began with as much acid in his voice as he could manage, “…how… how dare you.”

“That’s what you want to ask?” she smiled. “How dare I? Not how did I find out?”

“How dare you,” he repeated, as the horror of her knowing this secret sank in. “How fucking dare you. How fucking dare you, you vile bitch!”

“Oh, I haven’t dared to do anything yet, pussycat,” she laughed. “But once dear little Freidrich finds out about your little indiscretions, you will do the damage for me.”

“How dare you!” Patrick repeated again and again, “How dare you!”

“Could you even imagine! Imagine how it will break his poor heart… especially once the Stasi kick in his door and arrest him!”

“You wouldn’t… y-you…”

“Maybe I’ll even have you interrogate him. Oh, wouldn’t that just be a treat? To have you accusing your own secret boyfriend of homosexuality as your coworkers look on? Oh, how he would cry! Such a betrayal!”

The tears flowed freely then, although Patrick did wipe them away roughly with a sleeve. Oh, how terrible and unfair it all was. No one deserved to be tormented in such a way; especially by creatures like her!

“Oh, don’t you worry, pussycat,” she interrupted his tears. “I won’t hurt him. I won’t even tell him… I’m going to just let you dig your own grave and screw it up for yourself. I’ll even be a perfectly magnanimous ‘evil bitch’ and keep your secret from the rest of the team.”

“Why?!” Patrick sniffed, “Why would you? What do you want?”

“I want a great many things. Most importantly, I want to make you wriggle around like the worm you are… but I think the Honorable Lord Piggy already did that for me.”

“I knew it was you!” Patrick screamed, “I knew you were behind that!”

“Of course, I was. You’re a sick little boy—you deserve to be punished.”

“I know I’m sick!” he wailed at her from inside his own head, cursing her existence. Patrick had suffered for his urges since the first day he started having them. He hated himself… worse than hated himself.I’ve wished my own death thousands of times. But I can’t stop, and you know god-damned well that there’s nowhere for me to turn!”

“But misunderstand me, this isn’t about you sleeping with men.” Dragon Lady sneered. “Why would I care who or what you sleep with? I fuck women, and do you see me whining about it?”

“You… you…”

“You’re into what you’re into, pussycat. It’s not that big of a deal. So, you’re into men. I’m into women and…” she paused for effect before continuing, “…I’m into watching you squirm.”

“Why do you hate me so much?!” Patrick bawled.

“Because I hate everything, pussycat. I hate this country, I hate the HVA, I hate the Wall, I hate the Soviets, and I hate you. I’m also bored. I’m bored with everything, just the same as I hate it. Nothing behind our Wall stimulates me. It’s all simple things for simple minds, and the pointless little people living their pointless little lives. I can’t abide it… but whether or not I can, I still have to. Like you, I have no choice in the matter. We’re all stuck here in this prison of concrete and concertina-wire, abiding the stupidity of our beloved ‘countrymen’, in our ‘Grand Socialist Experiment!”

She spoke the last sentence sarcastically in a loud, deep voice, waving her hands about her as if presenting the concept to a great throng of lookers-on. Then, she changed to an acid-laden snarl, with a razor-sharp stare that bored right through to the back of Patrick’s skull.

“One thing I refuse to abide, however, is weakness and insecurity. And you, Patrick, are the very essence of weakness and insecurity. I could handle the fact that you are boring and simple, but your pathetic secrets, and your weak attempts at intrigue, and your trying to scrape together a hidden little world like a cocoon of shit… that’s why I hate you so much.”

With that, Dragon Lady stepped forward with a lazy, hip-rolling stroll that would have enticed any other man. Patrick felt the heat of her body closing in on him. He attempted to step backward, but soon her arms were around him. Gazing (well, glaring really) into his eyes, she began stroking the back of his head, moving as close as his clothing would allow the two.

Her body felt warm, and soft—the way any other woman’s did—but he was revolted by her touch. By instinct, he became aware of how much of her skin was rubbing off onto his. He imagined a layer of individual skin cells as if they were living sacs, gleefully burrowing into him like tics. Skin, moist like lotion, moistened his own in a chemical swapping of ownership. It was as if her body was permeating right through his clothing, soaking her essence into his in a way that even scrubbing with lye wouldn’t fix. He could smell her—an overpowering scent far too sweet and foreign for his liking. She was becoming a part of him now. Soon, his clothes would be off and she would be sweating with effort. At that point, a shower would be useless to ward off anything she did to him. Her skin would be against his, rubbing and pressing her liquids into him, forcing her woman essence onto his own body. He was losing control.

“Please… d-don’t,” he started, trying to resist the urgency building between their bodies.

“I’m going to,” she said, as her lips brushed his across his jaw and neck, “and you aren’t going to stop me.”

“P-please…” he said breathlessly, “I don’t…”

“How many of your female informants have you tried to cure yourself with?” she asked in a low voice as her tongue traveled along the sensitive skin of his ear, “How many have you had success with? Do you ever finish?”

“F-fuck you…” he stuttered, closing his eyes to try and make her go away. He could feel more and more of her on him every second, and it made him want to retch.

“You’ll finish with me, pussycat. I’m going to make damn sure you do, and we’re going to be here all night until you do. Because from now on, every time you try to cure yourself and be ‘normal’, I want you to remember my flesh against yours, and I want you to remember that it was me you finished inside of.”

“W-why can’t you j-just leave me alone?!” Patrick cried openly now as his body betrayed him.

“Cry for me, little pussycat,” she said triumphantly. “Or don’t. This is the real world. No one here cares what’s happening to you.”

Wilderness of Mirrors

Lena turned on the light in her apartment. She took a moment to take it all in: the kitchen, the living room, the couches, and the scent of it all. It had only been a few days since last she was here; yet it felt less and less like home every time she returned. Sure, she slept here. But it was more a place to rest her head than the home it used to be. She rarely spent any time here past sleeping, and more often than not, she was out doing other things during the days and nights. It may have been working for Patrick, or hanging out at Little John, sure; but really, she just didn’t want to be here.

“I like it,” Vivika said honestly. “It’s a great place.”

“It’s nothing special,” Lena rolled her eyes.

“No really, I mean it. It looks like a family lives here… my place just looks empty.”

It was true, after all. Vivika lived alone, if not occasionally with her current man-friend. Her apartment was filled with piles of clothing, random instruments, a few sparsely-populated bookshelves and nothing else. And yet, Lena actually would have preferred it that way. Vivika’s apartment was hers and hers alone. Here, in Lena’s apartment, everything seemed like it was waiting for someone else… guests, perhaps. Lena didn’t like guests before her life had been turned upside down. Now the thought of guests actually scared her—excluding Vivika, of course. Yet, despite the fact that Vivika was more-or-less now welcome here, there were still aspects of the apartment that Lena wasn’t all that jazzed about her discovering.

“Young Lena?!” a weak voice called from the other room, “Young Lena, is that you?”

“Yes Mother, it’s me!”

“Oh, I’m so happy you are home! Come here and tell me about your trip!”

This was one change that Lena found hard to believe. When Lena had been in the Stasi prison, she had worried about her mother, wondering if she was well and if someone was taking care of her. Goodness, what her poor mother must have thought when the Stasi came charging in to bug the place… Lena tried not to think about it. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that her mother had merely dropped dead of a heart attack, assuming that the Stasi officers were Soviet soldiers charging in to accost her.

The reality was quite the opposite, however. Lena had arrived to find that her mother seemed altogether cured of her many mental afflictions, as if nothing had ever been wrong. No more night terrors, no more delusions, no more mistaking Lena for Soviet rapists, and no more taking swings at her. She seemed cheerful now. In actuality, she seemed extremely cheerful. She was still weak, and required care, yet she could walk about the house unaided now, could make her own food from time to time, could use the bathroom herself, and seemed to get on just fine with regular check-ins and grocery deliveries. Perhaps best of all, she no longer wet the bed.

Lena had arrived home after prison to find everything quite in order. Neighbors checked in on her regularly, delivered her food, and helped with the laundry. Occasionally, they would dust the place, or help clean the dishes. But for the most part, Lena’s mother was left to her own devices, “Oh, I’m just fine, dear!” she would say with a slightly manic smile, “Don’t you worry about me!!! I’m doing just fine here!! How was prison?!”

It was this that worried Lena most about Vivika meeting her. Before, she need only explain her mother off as a habitual invalid—a liberal conglomerate of every affliction she could possibly coax out of the moment. But now, she was cheerful. Very, very cheerful. Sickeningly cheerful, in fact. The kind of cheerful that a hostage held at hidden gunpoint manifests when he or she really wants you to leave, or else. There wasn’t an ‘or else’, of course; yet something had clearly rattled Lena’s mother beyond belief.

Lena had nightmares about Red-hat or Dragon Lady rifling through her mother’s things as she wet herself in fear. Maybe they were making fun of her, or simply egging her on as she soiled herself in a wordless plea for mercy. Dragon Lady was certainly capable of it… hell, Lena wouldn’t have put it past either of them to dress like Soviet soldiers just to see if they could truly terrify her. As much of an inconvenience as Lena was to them, her mother was a grave inconvenience to everyone. The implications of this spelled out various possibilities, of which none were good, to say the least. Still (and this thought was something Lena felt very bad about thinking), whatever they had done had worked—her Mother was more manageable now.

“Fair warning…” Lena muttered quietly at Vivika, “My mother is crazy.”

Oh, I’m sure she’s just a dear!” Vivika gushed back with that look all young people give each other when discussing parents. Lena knew what that meant, and there was nothing she could expect otherwise.

The two walked into her mother’s bedroom to find her sitting up in bed, nervously knitting a small kerchief. Her fingers were wrapped in bandages from numerous pokes and prods, and the yarn was kinked and coiled from numerous windings and un-windings. Lena had asked her mother once before if she would like some more yarn from the store, but she would have nothing of it as she sat knitting and un-knitting the same kerchief over and over and over.

Oh, you brought a friend!” Lena’s mother exclaimed happily. “Oh that’s wonderful! Just… wonderful!”

“Mother, this is Vivika.”

“Oh, Vivika is it? Oh, how wonderful… what a beautiful name! Just a wonderful name!”

“It’s an… um, pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Schindler,” Vivika smiled, awkwardly.

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, of course!” she exclaimed, with wide eyes and a wider smile. “Just a pleasure! A wonderful pleasure! Have you two eaten? Why don’t you let me fix you some food? Or… or I could straighten up the apartment for you. Everything should be clean for our guests!”

She attempted to struggle her way out of the bed, still holding the knitting needles and kerchief in her hands. Awkwardly, Lena attempted to bar her path while assuaging her with various protests of, “No Mom,” and “We’re fine, Mom,”. The frail woman continued unabated, however.

“Oh, it’s no trouble! No trouble at all… I was just about to fix myself some food anyway! Really, I would love to!”

“Mother… Mother!” Lena exclaimed as gently as her annoyance would allow. “It’s fine… Vivika and I just ate. Really, we’re fine!”

“Oh, nonsense! You two look like you could use another meal! I’ll whip something up right now! It’ll be perfect, don’t you worry!”

The poor woman struggled so hard to lift herself while still holding on to her knitting needles, Lena was afraid she would break something. Instead, in her haste to get up and fix the two another dinner, Lena’s mother managed to stab herself in one of her hands with a needle and began howling. Well, this simply wouldn’t do.

“Oh, Mother! You’ve cut yourself!” Lena cried out in alarm as blood began to flow freely from the hole in her mother’s hand.

“No, it’s fine! I’m just fine… really!” she exclaimed as she roughly tried to wrap a bedsheet around her injured hand. “It’s so great to see you two! I’m just… I’m going to sit here and knit! Really… you two… it’s so nice to see you!”

“Ma’am,” Vivika interjected. “Let us wrap that in a bandage.”

“No, don’t you worry!!” she exclaimed, wide-eyed. “It’s just fine! Really! So wonderful to meet you!”

“Ma’am…” Vivika attempted again.

“NO!” Lena’s mother screamed, “I’m fine. Really. Wonderful. Perfect, even. You two… so wonderful! Just leave me to my knitting. Please! Just leave me!”

“Mother…”

“No. Go!” she insisted, wide-eyed, “Go, go, go, go. Just go. You’ve been wonderful. Go!”

As the two stepped out of the room and shut the door, both managed a side-long glance at each other. This was that other look that young people give each other after meeting parents. Yet Vivika seemed just a tad more impressed than she might have been with someone else’s mother, perhaps. She remained silent of course; yet the thoughts were written all over her face in the colors of embarrassment and the tightness of concern. As they walked away, Lena could hear the muffled sounds of her mother shouting, “I didn’t say anything! Like I promised! I… I don’t know anything!”

____

As the two walked into Lena’s bedroom, both seemed to breathe a sigh of relief from the awkwardness. The room was just as Lena always remembered—bed, dresser, piles of mismatched clothing, and a smattering of punkish fare across every wall and flat surface. Oddly, the Stasi hadn’t seen fit to remove one square inch of it, and she had no idea why. Either they really wanted her to think they hadn’t bugged her room (which was ludicrous), or they left her items intact because she now worked for them. More probable was that they had decided to leave everything as dirt to use against her at the first sign of betrayal. She figured it was likely the latter reason.

Towards this end, she had figured that burning the lot of it would be the best course of action. But as she prepared to unceremoniously stuff her Sex Pistols album in a trash bag… well, she figured the Stasi would have taken pictures of her room anyway, so she might as well just count on that fact and keep her room the way it was. Perhaps this album and the ideas it represented were something worth taking the risk for.

“Oh my God, I love it!” Vivika gushed, “Your room is so… you!”

“Thank you.” Lena laughed awkwardly. “I like it.”

“No really, I mean it. This is exactly how I figured your room would look.”

Lena gave her the grand tour, starting at one wall and ending at the other. At first, she felt that the time would be wasted explaining bands that Vivika already knew, and telling stories that she was probably already familiar with. But not only did Vivika drink up most of the information, she seemed rather delighted with the lot of it. It also appeared that while Vivika had a lot to learn about certain subjects, she had a lot to teach Lena about others. Each rapid-fire lesson seemed to come with an adjoined story of lecherous and hedonistic atrocities so spiked and leather-clad, they could only be described as ‘band related’.

“He did what?!” Vivika squealed.

“Yeah! While crowd-surfing… it smelled sooooo bad!”

“In a Church, too?!”

Vivika especially gushed over her copy of Nevermind the Bullocks, paying it the exact same homage that Lena did. She rightfully recognized the importance of this album. Like many in the punk scene, the song ‘Holidays in the Sun’ had been a major turning point for her development as a youth. It seemed so strange that in a world of telephones, fax machines, and televisions that connected everything, the world seemed to fit in a box. And yet the Wall—only a physical barrier in reality—had still managed to separate them so completely from the outside world. Yet the fact that artists the world over not only had the same thoughts about the same things, but communicated in much the same languages—passing on styles, ideas and directions across closed borders to bloom like flowers, or incubate and fester like viruses—it brought such deep meaning and purpose to an otherwise bland and colorless existence inside the GDR.

“You mean everyone hates the Wall??” Vivika gasped.

“Everyone!” Lena laughed.

“In West Germany or just West Berlin?”

“Not even close,” Lena laughed harder. “The entire world. Trust me, everyone knows about it. It’s one of the most talked about things in existence.”

“How many artists care?”

“Literally all of them. To most artists—painters, musicians, you name it—not just the Wall, but the Stasi, the Spitzel, the Soviets, and the entire damn USSR are seen by pretty much every artist in the world as the most perfect metaphor for struggle.”

“That’s… that’s amazing.”

Vivika knew most of the musical zines, as most in the punk scene did. However, Lena’s copies of Shönheit (the feminist rag from the West) seemed to strike a major chord with her. Like many women, Vivika longed to be her own sovereign person. She wanted to go where she pleased, and do what she wanted to do. She felt a responsibility to her loved ones, sure; yet she didn’t want to be forcefully beholden to anyone or anything—least of all to a culture she didn’t even attest to. There were so many things that already stripped her of forward momentum—like poverty, the Eastern diet, the State, the Stasi, the Wall—that the last thing she needed was to have even more momentum stripped away simply because she had a vagina.

Oh sure, she could forcefully accomplish something through sheer will if she really felt like beating her head up against the concrete slab of reality. But she didn’t feel like that was anything realistic. Perhaps it was something that other women in some other country got to experience—one of the really rich countries, perhaps—but here in the GDR, it just wasn’t anything possible. Maybe that’s why women like her and Lena loved the punk scene so much. In punk, all suffered stripes for their studs. Not just the women. Yet here was the proof! Not only were there strong, empowered women doing strong empowered things outside of the Wall, heck, it appeared that some moving and shaking was taking place inside of it!

“You really think this is possible?” Vivika asked, pointing at a picture of a woman swinging a sledgehammer at a pile of shattering bricks, “That women can be that strong?”

“Oh, those are just pictures,” Lena replied matter-of-factly. “You have to look past that stuff. It’s just there to make you feel good. You have no idea the stuff that women have actually done.”

“Like what?”

“Here,” Lena said, fumbling through a stack of Shönheit episodes, before grabbing a specific one. It had a bare-chested woman on the cover, breasts proudly displayed, and holding a machine-gun. “You should read this one… it has an article on Margaret Hamilton and Sojourner Truth. Margaret programmed the computers for the American moon missions. By the time she was done, the stacks of books were as tall as her. As crazy as it might sound, all the software she wrote for them was knitted together in long ropes by a bunch of grandmas!”

“No way. You’re a liar!” Vivika exclaimed in disbelief.

“No, it’s completely true, I swear! And that’s not even as cool as Sojourner Truth. She was a slave in America who broke free of her slavers and practically started a war. She had a gun and everything, and started a thing called an “underground railroad” where she rescued people. She was a lot like Harriet Tubman.”

“Who?” Vivika asked.

“Oh my god, you have so much to learn,” Lena said excitedly. “You don’t even know how much. There are some terrible things that have happened all over the world. Unspeakable things. Things even worse than we’ve gone through. But there are people that have simply stood up and said, ‘No… absolutely not. I’ve had enough.’ And then they followed through no matter what.”

“No…” Vivika tried the words on for size, “Absolutely not.”

“I’ve had enough,” Lena mouthed as well, smiling. “It feels good to say it, doesn’t it?”

“It feels really good. One of these days I think I’d like to actually say it.”

“You just did!”

“No, I mean it. I really want to say it… for real.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Because that’s not how life works,” she shook her head, “It’s a great thing to think about, Lena. It really is. But thoughts like that belong in your dreams. If you actually said something like that to those people, they would kill you.”

“But Vivika, they actually said that to those people. They stood up and said the words, and didn’t have the slightest fear of saying it.”

“But…”

“And then they went on to start wars and win them.”

“Yeah, but they weren’t… that’s different.”

“How?”

“It’s just different.”

“You know what?” Lena put her hand over her heart, “Maybe you should. Maybe we should, you know, stand up. Maybe we should do something about it, and about them.”

“You don’t understand. These women—Sojourner, Harriet, whoever else—these women had armies. They had friends. They had money. We don’t have any of those things.”

“No, Vivika, they didn’t have those things either. They didn’t have any help at first, but that didn’t stop them.”

“Well they at least had guns!”

“We can get guns!”

“And then what?!” Vivika laughed.

“We’ll… we’ll shoot them!” Lena laughed back.

“We’ll just shoot them all?!”

“All of them! Just shoot everyone with our guns! The Stasi, the police, the Soviets, the… everyone! All by ourselves!”

Soon, both girls collapsed on each other laughing hysterically. Perhaps one of these days, they would indeed find a bunch of guns and shoot the nefarious ‘they’… whoever ‘they’ were. But, for now at least, it seemed safer to simply fantasize about doing something. The two stayed like this, simply lying next to each other, enjoying a brief moment of peace. The past several weeks had been fast-paced and all over the place. It was wonderful to simply relax with a good, comfortable friend.

“Vivika?” Lena said, after some time.

“Yeah?”

“Whoever you are thinking of… the person you want to say all of that to… you know, about standing up to him and saying you’ve had enough?”

“What about him?”

“He can go fuck himself.”

“Yeah.” Vivika said quietly.

Lena could tell that she was bothered and she wanted to ask, but thought better of it. It wasn’t a subject she felt welcome to bring up. Whatever it was… whomever he was… it wasn’t normal. It was something complicated, and she had every single right to feel the way she did. Still, Lena wanted to be a friend, and help in some way. She owed Vivika that much for not running away like the other two had.

“You know what?” Lena said, after thinking it through, “I’ve got something to show you.”

____

“She take you down easy, going down to her knees… going down to the devil at ninety degrees…”

The sounds of AC/DC’s ‘Givin’ the Dog a Bone’ screamed out as Lena and Vivika climbed onto the rooftop. Almost immediately, Lena’s heart surged with happiness. She hadn’t been to a rooftop gathering in, what, months? Since then, almost everything had changed. She knew things now: things about these people; things about the music they listened to and who all was listening to it; things about how safe the listeners truly were. But now that she was here, she felt as if a ton of bricks had been removed from her back. All the past wrongs felt righted, and she felt a year younger. It was as if she was back to being a regular know-nothing, surrounded by the blissful ignorance of light-hearted rebelliousness. There they all sat: Mr. Müller tapping on his thighs and humming tunelessly along; Herr and Mick picking on each other and trying to take swigs of liquor when Mrs. Schroeder wasn’t watching; Janet and Jonathan arguing over nothing in particular; no one liked Lorenzo; and Mrs. Schroeder sat, seeming more than slightly aggravated at the music.

“What in the devil are we listening to?!” she shrieked. “…’till his ammunition is dry’?”

“Aw don’t worry about it.” Mick chimed, “He’s talking about guns!”

“I know damn well he’s not talking about guns!” she howled back.

“Mrs. Schroeder said a swear!” Herr cut in.

“Shut up, you turd!” Mick yelled, punching Herr in the arm.

“Shame on you!” Mrs. Schroeder yelled. “Shame on all of you! And you two are too young to know what he’s talking about!”

“He’s just talking about a blowj-…” Herr began teasing, before Janet swiped him on the back of the head.

“Shame on us?” Jonathan said, “AC/DC wrote it!”

“Well, then shame on AC/DC too!”

“I like it.” Mr. Müller said, “It’s a good sound. It reminds me of Led Zeppelin.”

“Everything reminds you of Led Zeppelin.” Jonathan joked.

“How in the world does this sound anything like Led Zeppelin?!” Janet asked, “I don’t even listen to them and I know that. They have those nasty guitars and that stupid song about the lemon, and they are always singing about “my sweet Satan” or whatever, and demons eating people. This guy just seems really horny.”

“What song about the lemon?” Mrs. Schroeder asked.

“She means the one where he says for the girl to squeeze his lemon so that…” Herr began with an obnoxiously wide grin, before half the group cut him off.

“Herr, I swear I will punch you so hard,” Jonathan threatened.

“Are they always like this?” Vivika asked Lena.

“Worse, generally,” she replied honestly.

“I like them!” Vivika smiled.

As the two walked closer to the group, Mick was the first to notice. He began to throw a few immature and poorly-formed insults Lena’s way, before noticing that she wasn’t alone.

“…Who’s your lady-friend?” he asked way-too-politely.

“Who are you talking too, dumbass?” Herr asked before realizing as well that Lena had a no-doubt extremely available and eligible woman with her, “Oh, uh… hey, uh, Lena…”

“Lena!” Mrs. Schroeder cried out with delight. “Oh, we’ve missed you terribly! Come, come! Sit here and introduce your friend!”

“Here, she can have my seat, Lena.” Herr said in a deeper voice, as he stood and tried to look like he wasn’t flexing.

“She doesn’t want your seat, idiot,” Mick fired at him. “She wants mine!”

“Shut up, butt-munch! You’re too young!”

“No, you’re too young, ass-butt!”

“Ass-butt? What the hell is an ‘ass-butt’, jackass?!”

“Maybe she can find her own seat, gentlemen,” Janet scoffed at the two of them. “Thank you both for having the purest of intentions. But maybe our new guest would prefer to get to know the adults before the children.”

“I’m not a child.” Mick said, wounded.

“Yes, you are, turd!” Herr fired at him.

Smiling, Vivika took a cushion right next to Janet and Jonathan. She immediately appeared at ease with the group as if she had instantly found the same sense of contentedness that Lena had found so very long ago. Heck, she even seemed to find some modicum of enjoyment with the two drooling boys. They were undoubtedly incubating in frenetic synapses-goo, invisibly spraying their gross little boy cooties into the air in a display of sheer wanting. “Men” Lena sighed to herself.

“You know what?” Vivika smiled as she looked at little Mick, “I think I’ll sit by you, good sir.”

“Uh… uh…” he stuttered. “Well, alright. Uh…”

Herr scowled at the vile betrayal, which only made Lena smile in amusement. Sure, she knew that it must have hurt the bigger boy’s inflated sense of virility, but she just didn’t care all that much. Herr was the type of boy who always had it coming, no matter which form ‘it’ took. And Mick, well… he had it coming too, but in a slightly smaller amount—and he deserved a little attention from the girls, every now and again.

The group sat and made their introductory statements. The boys slipped in as many big-boy words as they could get away with; Janet and Jonathan argued about married-people things; Mr. Müller berated the boys; and Mrs. Schroeder was absolutely beside herself with Brian Johnson’s lyrics as the song changed to yet another AC/DC song, ‘Back in Black’.

It seemed that the DJ for the night was on an AC/DC kick. This happened sometimes; it was just how it was with the pirate-radio stations in the GDR. Unless you were able to tune into John Peel on Armed Forces Radio, or a set he penciled in for Radio Brandenburg, the pirate DJ’s were notoriously scatterbrained in their preferences and playlists. One night, almost a year back, a DJ had played an entire ZZ Top album front to back. With all of that in mind, an AC/DC night wasn’t surprising in the least. It didn’t matter, however, since everyone on the rooftop seemed to liked them. Even if every single song they did was exactly the same as the last.

The group talked for some time. Everyone was surprisingly receptive to Vivika and seemed open to talk, despite not knowing all that much about her. If she was with Lena, she must have been alright, even if Lena hadn’t been around all that much, lately. Vivika seemed extremely grateful for the acceptance. She opened up completely to the group, holding back no laughter. She took Mick’s side and teased Herr, much to his chagrin. She girl-talked with Janet and Mrs. Schroeder, flirted playfully with both Jonathan and Mr. Müller, while still managing to poke light fun at them both. Kraut, the dumb beast of a mutt received belly-tickles as Vivika cooed and teased. And Lorenzo… well, she didn’t much care for him. But then again, no one liked Lorenzo.

“Yes, I have a boyfriend, you little mutant!” Vivika snapped at Herr for likely the fifteenth time.

“Is it Lena?” Herr fired back, trying to sound smart.

“I’m not a lesbian, asshole!” Lena screamed.

“No… Lena, it’s ok. I think we should tell them,” Vivika said in a serious tone, shifting gears.

“What… you really think so?” Lena asked, nervously.

“Yes. We can’t keep on living in this lie. We have to come out at some point.”

“Well, I suppose. It’s the only right thing to do.”

The two leaned towards each other, a bit awkwardly at first, but as seconds turned into moments, and moments stretched longer, neither could commit to the joke strongly enough to follow through with the gesture. Instead, both girls began laughing uproariously. Then, they laughed even harder at the sight of Mick and Herr who had just about peed themselves in anticipatory confusion. Neither was old enough to really understand precisely why they were so confused, and that made it better.

“I think you two make a fine couple,” Mrs. Schroeder said. “It’s good to see young love.”

“Wait… Mrs. Schroeder…” Lena tried to cut in, but she would have none of it.

“I’m serious! I think it’s a special thing when two people love each other the way you two do. I can’t say I approve of… well, that… but who am I to judge?”

For entire moments that stretched off into the oblivions of shock and disbelief, Lena and Vivika stared at each other, then back at Mrs. Schroeder, then back at each other. It appeared that the entire group felt much the same way. Surely Mrs. Schroeder hadn’t just… err, blessed off on a homosexual relationship the two had faked just to get Mick and Herr’s goats, had she? I mean, it was a sweet gesture to be sure… but…

“Oh goodness.” Mrs. Schroeder grinned, “I’m just fucking with you two.”

The group burst into raucous laughter at the expense of Lena and Vivika, who both blushed profusely. This particularly devout and old little woman had just taken them for a ride, and it smarted in all the best ways. And, the fact that she swore only made the situation that much more comical.

“You suck at swearing,” Mick quipped. This caused the group to laugh even harder, as AC/DC’s ‘Hells Bells’ began to play.

“You suck at keeping your mouth shut!” Mrs. Schroeder retaliated, and again the group laughed.

For nearly two hours, the group ribbed and joshed each other mercilessly. At one point, Mr. Müller and Lena had given each other a look—a knowing sort of look—but besides that, there wasn’t the slightest hint of tension in the group. It wasn’t appropriate to hold any grudges or counts against each other. All were equally transgressing here, regardless of who knew what, or what who’s handlers thought about whom.

As the radio played on and the conversation waned, the temperature fell a few more degrees. It was hardly intolerable, if only in comparison to the rest of the season which was morbidly cold at the best of times. Yet as the winds seemed to shift, the group fell silent with the moment. At first, it felt comfortable with a solemn sort of mutual cheer, but after a few telling coughs and sneezes, it was perhaps time for the first of the group to appeal to the nature of bedtime.

“Well, I suppose it’s time that I finally turn these old bones in for the night.” Mrs. Schroeder said. “I’ve a lot of nothing to catch up on in the morning.”

She turned to Lena then, and said, “Would you do me a kindness, dear, and help carry Kraut back to my apartment? I’m getting a little too old, and he’s getting a little too heavy.”

“I can help as well!” Vivika offered cheerfully.

“Oh nonsense,” Mrs. Schroeder replied sarcastically, “I wouldn’t want you and Lena to take romantic liberties in my home. Lena will do just fine.”

The group laughed again at Lena and Vivika’s expense before disbanding. A few idle goodbyes, maybe a hug or two, a few more arm punches later, and the majority sidled down the fire escapes into the darkness.

“I’ll see you in the apartment, then?” Vivika said.

“Sure thing,” Lena smiled, as she scooped up the dumb lump of puppy, “I’ll see you soon.” She didn’t want to admit it, but she was excited to have company for the night. Thus, with a skip in her step, she started carefully down the fire escape with the blubbery-mass of sleepy-Kraut none the wiser about his present mobility.

____

“How much longer am I going to have to do this?” Patrick asked Grandfather pointedly.

Patrick had taken a while to compose himself after the night’s… festivities… and then headed directly to Grandfather’s house. Patrick knew very well that it wasn’t his real house—Grandfather was a cautious man for a reason, and his caution had to be absolute. Yet his Grandfather had been generous enough to schedule a meeting with relatively little forewarning, and the homey little domicile was calming enough. It had bookshelves filled with books no one had (or would) ever read, chairs no one would likely ever sit in, and windows that would never let in light past the thick curtain. It looked lived-in enough, despite its strict security and singular purpose.

Patrick tried as hard as he could to keep the raw edge of emotion out of his voice. This was his own problem, after all, and Grandfather was a busy man—not to be bothered with such trivialities unless absolutely necessary. Still, Patrick was understandably frustrated. Grandfather must never know the full extent as to why, but it was important that he understood there was good reason for his frustrations. Maybe the slight limp would help provide some modicum of context.

“Well, that depends,” he answered honestly. “It’s you and Lena’s job to facilitate the British band’s wooing by the GDR. Once he is safely in our clutches, then our debts are settled, you and I. You can leave right after that. Nothing is forcing you to stay employed by me or the HVA.”

“I can leave? Truly?” Patrick growled with a note of aggression and distrust.

“As I said, once our debts are settled, you are free to go where you please.”

“And you can guarantee my safety if I step away?”

“Now you know I can’t promise that.” Grandfather answered plainly, but with a note of concern. “So long as you are my agent, and you are doing what you need to be doing, you are bulletproof. But once you are out of my sphere of influence, I can’t protect you. You might fare just fine, since the State has benefited from your nearly spotless record. But you know as well as I do that you know far too much. The State may wish to move you laterally; but it will never let you leave entirely. Certainly not over the Wall.”

“I’m not scared of the State!” Patrick spat.

“Then you are an idiot. As intolerable as some of the thugs you work with can be, they are intelligent, and they do have your back when it counts. So long as you say the right things and do the same things they are doing, at least. And not all of them are as despicable as the others. I’ve made sure to keep a variety of personalities in place to balance out the rougher edges. But the State isn’t intelligent, and it doesn’t have your back. It knows nothing of you—of your desires, of your abilities, of your opinions on the matter—it only cares about your usefulness, and about how much of a liability you are. It’s a huge unthinking system and there are hundreds of men in this system whose only job is to balance your current usefulness against your future liability. The second you lose a point in the wrong column, or gain one in the other, you will have a heart attack. Or you will be ran over by a train… or worse.”

“Perhaps that’s better than this.” Patrick said, ruefully.

“You aren’t thinking.” Grandfather chastised him. “You are having a hard time. I understand that, and I care, but kindly remember that I’m the only one who cares. Don’t abuse that privilege with weak statements like that. Luckily for you, I care enough to completely ignore your momentary lapse, and tell you this: You will have the life you desire, or one very close to it. I will put you in that position, and I will do it as soon as I can, because I understand and care about you. But you aren’t the only one I care about, and I have to take care of the others too. If you resist me, it will only make my job harder. And so help me god, if you make it harder for me to help the others because you want to whine… there will be consequences.”

“B-but…” Patrick began to argue, before thinking better of it.

“You, Patrick, are not currently ready. You have growing to do. I have to trust you to not only do the job, but to do it the way I need it done.” With this, Grandfather gave Patrick a knowing glare. “Until you can do that, you will have to learn and to grow.”

“I dealt with them.” Patrick seethed. “I made the problems disappear.”

“Problems don’t disappear if they make the news, Patrick!” Grandfather snapped. “Two musicians of an up-and-coming band from East Germany found dead… shot in the head. Both in separate alleyway dumpsters. What in the world were you thinking?!”

“What was I supposed to do?! Let them run off?!”

“Yes! That’s what you were told to make happen!”

“They were liabilities!”

“They were my assets, not yours!” Grandfather was yelling now, red-faced, and Patrick recoiled against it. Grandfather never yelled, which made it all the more a fearsome thing when witnessed. “They may have been bastards, but they were my bastards! I entrusted my charges to you, and you killed them, you little ingrate!”

“I… I…”

“Yes they were liabilities; but they were my liabilities to accept!” Grandfather barely controlled his temper. “I had my reasons, and those reasons do not require your approval! Especially when you have such a small view of the big picture! So, don’t you presume to educate me. Especially when you can’t follow simple instructions, because now your incompetence has made more work for me.”

“Then show me the big picture. Help me understand!”

“It’s not your job to understand these things, you brat! It’s my job to see the big picture, not yours. Your job is to do what I tell you to do. One day, when you are my age, you will have your own big picture to paint. And you will be painting it with kids like you who can’t follow directions. Then you will get mad at them, like I am at you, and realize that you don’t have time to explain it all to them. Because then you would have to justify it in the same manner as you imparted it, and you won’t be able to do that, because each individual plot point in that picture is based off of thousands of hours of personal experience you have garnered on the subject.

“Simply put, Patrick, I’m not going to share any part of the big picture with you because I don’t want to. And I don’t want to because I’m old. This isn’t the only thing in my life. I have a marriage to enjoy, grandchildren to watch, a yard to weed, and old-people sex to attempt, along with all the other rewards and hernias that come from a life spent learning to not explain things to you punks. So just trust me and do as your told.”

“But… but…”

“Patrick,” Grandfather said plainly, “Say you are sorry for failing me.”

“…I’m sorry for failing you.”

“Thank you. Now, we move on.”

Grandfather walked over to a desk where a flagon of spirits sat, and poured each of them a drink. Patrick was still quite upset, but he knew better than to show it. If Grandfather was willing to let such a mistake go, well, Patrick would do well to take him up on it. Still, he wasn’t satisfied. He had asked for the meeting with every intention of walking out on the project. The only thing keeping him honest right now was the fact that he had so wronged his beloved Case Officer. How could he go about pushing the issue, without risking his ire once more?

“It was Dragon Lady’s idea,” Patrick attempted.

“I know it. That doesn’t excuse you.” he responded as he handed over a glass.

“She’s a cancer… she’s a liability to the unit.”

I know who and what she is.” Grandfather said, calmly. “She is many things that I like even less than you do, but she isn’t a liability. I can trust her to do exactly as I say. She only suggests bad ideas to you because she knows you will follow through on them—so she doesn’t have to.”

“But… isn’t that…” Patrick stuttered. He knew it was true. Still, there was more to it. “I just… I really don’t want to work with her anymore.”

Grandfather sipped his drink idly, staring off into the distance. He was considering something complicated. Something that had many implications on varying levels. It was something Patrick respected about the man—he took everything into account, no matter how small. He was the one who had orchestrated the operation against the fat French dignitary. He was the one who had figured the top-secret documents Lord Piggy possessed as counter-intelligence forgeries, figuring that even the French refused to trust him. He was the one who had noticed The Dead Weights and their potential to the GDR, and he was the one who devised the plan to use Lena to bring him over the Wall, both physically and politically. And he was the one who had factored in Dragon Lady’s part to play in the near future.

“Let me give you some advice,” he finally began. “And I say this knowing that you aren’t going to take this advice until long after its usefulness has past. When an apple falls from a tree unpicked, most of the time, it will just sit there on the ground rotting. There, it becomes food for rodents, maggots and perhaps worse. It’s a disgusting, unhealthy thing that spreads disease and ill health—not at all something you would think to profit from. Yet that rotten apple contains seeds that might very well go on to create an entire tree.

“Remember though: it’s not the fact that the tree sprouts from the rot that matters; it’s where the seed sits when it takes roots. If your tree has room to blossom, it will bear fruit, no matter how rotten its origins. But if it grows in the same space as its parent tree, it will grow stunted and malnourished, stealing nutrients from the tree it spawned from and destroying both.” Looking Patrick square in the eyes with a knowing look, he finished, “Don’t be dismayed by how disgusting the rotten apple is. You don’t need to eat it… you just need to make the best use of it.”

“I don’t think you understand,” Patrick started.

“Oh, I very much do,” Grandfather interrupted him. “You have your rotten apples, Patrick, but I own the orchard. Trust me, and give me the time I need to nurture it, and you will watch that rotten apple create a fruit-bearing tree.”

Patrick began to fume. Grandfather just didn’t understand. He didn’t grasp the suffering that Patrick experienced at the hands of that vile creature and her despicable desires. But his internal rage was interrupted by Grandfather, who now wore a particularly evil look.

“And never forget…” Grandfather smiled with a dire note of foreboding, “Sometimes you grow trees for their fruit. And sometimes you grow them for their firewood.”

Übertragungen

“Hrmmph”

It seemed to be the only sound that decrepit little Kraut was capable of making. It was a mix of snoring, grunting, and wet snuffles, and it was a sound he made loudly and often during their journey. At first, Lena had watched him intently. Yet, as she began to realize her efforts were better spent helping the elderly Mrs. Schroeder down the steep steps, Lena simply set Kraut here or there, and the rotund, furry old dog would sit without complaint or opinion. She helped Mrs. Schroeder climb down the fire escape, and then helped her through the window, each time setting Kraut on the ground somewhere. And every time she returned to scoop him up, he seemed oblivious to the world.

She wasn’t entirely sure the dog had registered the direction of gravity, let alone the passage of time. Perhaps he didn’t even register basic senses like hunger. Their certainly weren’t any reasonable signs of life that required meaningful nourishment… perhaps he only required enough energy to make those ridiculous snoring noises. Lena was quite sure that she could place this poor little beast in the middle of the woods, and come back a year later to find him stuck in the very same spot, contentedly oblivious. Only, he would likely be covered in ivy and grass, with the topsoil having found its way into his many rolls and lumps to sprout shoots and leaves.

“I sure do thank you for your help,” Mrs. Schroeder said, as the two made it to her front door, “Kraut does tend to get away.”

“Oh, yes,” Lena agreed sarcastically. “Take your eye off of him for one moment, and he’ll practically escape over the Wall himself.”

“You would be surprised! Introduce a vacuum cleaner into his life, and he’ll move.”

“What does that look like?” Lena boggled.

“It’s not pretty. I don’t think he quite realizes that his hind legs are attached to him anymore.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes… he’ll take off walking straight enough, I suppose, but once those back legs start moving, the best he can manage is flouncing sideways.”

“My god.” Lena laughed. “Well, it was wonderful seeing you all tonight, but I best be getting back to my home.”

“Oh nonsense! Come in for just a moment. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. It’d do my heart some good to hear how you are actually doing, free from the ramblings of those idiots.”

It wasn’t that Lena didn’t want to… well, perhaps that’s exactly what it was. Nevertheless, she didn’t have a particularly good reason to refuse. Vivika was likely enjoying the brief solitude, and Mrs. Schroeder could certainly use a little winding down. Thus, Mrs. Schroeder unlocked the door, and the two entered.

Her house was almost exactly what Lena figured an old person’s apartment would look like. It had couches that didn’t match precisely, but were tasteful enough. Old wooden chairs sat collecting an amount of dust that suggested a cleaning habit not well maintained. A disgustingly multicolored rug sat in the middle of the floor with fraying edges, clashing with the carpeting which seemed… hairier? Pictures were absolutely everywhere, and the room was littered with strange knick-knacks and trinkets, large jewelry beads, gaudy bracelets, and pincushions filled with many-colored bobbins and whatnot. And everything had a brownish tinge.

“Ah, the scent of old people,” Mrs. Schroeder volunteered with a laugh, and indeed, the place did have a certain… bouquet.

“It’s lovely,” Lena grimaced.

“Oh, shut your mouth.” she laughed. “Kraut and I don’t need all that much. But we can’t very well move or maintain any of this on our own, now can we? Besides, I like being surrounded by pictures of family and things we collected over the years. And what need do I have for redecorating? Kraut and I absolutely hate people.”

“You what? You hate people?”

“When you get to be my age, dear, you hate almost everything. I love the Lord, and the Lord tells me to love people. But I’ve found that pretending to love them suffices, where he’s concerned. Jesus only made it to 35 before he was put to death. I’ve made it to 65—that makes me older than God, so I’m allowed certain luxuries.”

“I suppose I don’t have much to say on the subject,” Lena laughed.

“On God or aging?”

“Either, I guess.”

“Take it from me.” Mrs. Schroeder said as she walked over and fumbled around on a nearby desk. “It’ll all make more sense when you’re older. Young people are dumb and impetuous by design. So, until it dawns on you, just try not to be too much of a twit.”

“And if it never does?” Lena raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, it will,” she said, as she grabbed at a piece of paper and looked it over. “Don’t assume it won’t, and don’t try to anticipate it until it does. Maybe your God will look different than mine; maybe ‘he’ will be a ‘she’; maybe she won’t care so much about this rule or that; maybe he’ll have a strict purpose for you; or maybe she’ll just want you to be happy. Whatever ‘dawning’ occurs—if it truly feels like a dawning—just embrace it. Because no matter which form enlightenment takes, if it’s based off of love it’ll lead to the right place… because all love comes from the same place.”

“Jesus?”

“Or Buddha, or Allah or whatever.” Mrs. Schroeder dismissed her nonchalantly. “Just as long as it isn’t tapping into something of this world, that’s what matters. I found Jesus because that’s the face of God that wanted me, so that’s who I follow. But Jesus was Jewish because his parents were. The God part of Jesus was bigger than one man, it was bigger than the Jews, and it is bigger than one single book. That means God isn’t a Christian… which means I don’t think too much about it. He’s all the same God, regardless of the book or the face. Maybe you will get one of the spikey-haired lesbian faces that wants you to write more music about stabbing children.”

“I’m not a lesbian, damn it!” Lena yelled, giggling.

“Sure you aren’t.” Mrs. Schroeder teased. “Now, before you head home, Jesus has a message for you.”

With this, Mrs. Schroeder took a final look at the piece of paper she had fumbled for, and then placed it in front of Lena. As she read it, it said, “SUNSHINE—Currywurst—Gustavo’s—Tues - 9am”.

“I…” Lena stuttered, “I don’t understand.”

“I think I got it all…” she said, “sometimes they play an ABBA song where they are supposed to play a Beatles song, and then it all gets jumbled up. I keep telling them that the New Testament book of James only has five chapters in it. So every ‘James’ or ‘Philemon’ month, things get twisted up because of that damn DJ. He’ll end up playing AC/DC song after AC/DC song and… well, I’m so sick of hearing ‘Dirty Deeds’ I could kill Brian Johnson myself. But never mind. Gustavo’s is relatively busy at nine in the morning anyway.

“So, here’s the part that won’t come through in the messages. We have crypto keys that are switched out every few months, and they are only known by the radio operators. When you get to Gustavo’s, you have to ask for the specials. Ignore those and order the currywurst. When he brings you the wrong food—it doesn’t matter what it is—inform him that he forgot the salmon.”

“You… you…” Lena stuttered some more.

“You have to remember the salmon, alright?”

“I’m confused.”

“I figure The Boss likely didn’t explain it all to you,” Mrs. Schindler laughed. “He had to make sure that you wouldn’t squawk to your HVA handler before you received sensitive information. That’s why you’ve been followed since you got back across the Wall. But now that we are sure you aren’t going to run off and tattle the first chance you get, here’s what you need to know.”

Lena shivered at the thought that she had been followed once again. “Dammit! Why can’t I see these stupid people!” From that point on, she promised to never trust someone wearing a brown jacket again.

“I’m the radio operator, and it’s my job to receive drop locations for agents.” Mrs. Schroeder continued, “When I get them, I pass them on to the agent—you’re agent Sunshine, if you hadn’t figured that out—then that agent goes to the designated place and waits around for the information. It’s the best way we have to ensure multiple degrees of separation, just in case.”

“But…” Lena stammered “…why you? Why the… and why ‘Sunshine’, of all things?”

“It seemed the best thing to name you, apparently,” Mrs. Schroeder laughed. “The Boss has a sense of humor about his agents.”

“That’s bullshit! What a stupid code-name.”

“And that is precisely why he chose ‘Sunshine.” Mrs. Schroeder teased, “He probably figured you would hate that. In any case, I know it all seems inefficient. But after they captured Grips, it became necessary to crack down on security.”

“Grips?”

“Oh you know precisely who Grips is. That’s one of two reasons you and I are talking. That and bringing over your little punk rocker friend so he can do whatever he’s supposed to do here.”

“Okay, wait. I’ve got a few questions about all of this.”

“And please understand that I have few answers, dear. That’s not my job. I just help coordinate between folks who have answers for each other. Anything else I know is strictly for my own personal benefit. We’re family, Lena. I love you like a granddaughter, so please understand that I will never knowingly put you in any danger. But there’s a lot of other people I love just the same, and I have to make sure I don’t put them in danger either. The more information you have, the more you grow attuned to seeing and hearing things you aren’t yet supposed to… that means you might make assumptions. Assumptions get you captured. If you get captured, that means I get captured. Which in turn means that others get captured.”

“But what about Ha… err, Grips? He was captured.”

“Grips is a remarkably strong boy,” Mrs. Schroeder admitted. “But I very much doubt he hasn’t talked. More likely, he spilled everything that he knew eventually, and now the agents he mentioned are under surveillance 24/7. But those agents won’t be arrested until the entire network can be brought down simultaneously. We’ve been able to isolate all the agents that Grips encountered—they are being fed a constant stream of our very best counter-intelligence to ensure the Stasi are all on the correct snipe-hunt together. But it still presents a huge danger. And we worry that the Soviets may eventually grow restless and pull the trigger on the known assets. After that point, all of our efforts are sunk.”

“What sort of counter-intelligence?” Lena asked honestly. “I’ve been hearing that term over and over, and to be honest, I still don’t understand it one bit.”

“Spying is the oldest game in the book next to prostitution, dear.” Mrs. Schroeder laughed, “It’s also the most hated profession in the book, next to prostitution—that’s probably why the two go hand in hand. And like prostitution, as long as spying has existed, there have existed methods of deterring it. Sometimes the best way of getting rid of a spy is to kill him or her. But most of the time, the best way is to use them without them knowing it, by feeding them secret information that’s outdated or altogether false. Spies aren’t going to know the difference. And if the information is good enough, not even the analysts will know. That is, until the top-secret files that state ‘Russia’s anti-aircraft capabilities can’t shoot down anything over 50,000-feet’ get an American U-2 spy-plane shot down at 80,000.

“Every now and again, CI-agents get the chance to flip an enemy asset—threaten and reward him or her to work for their side, that sort of thing—but the best counter-intelligence comes from consistency and coordination. If you create a parallel reality where an entire network of NATO agencies are intentionally collecting and disseminating false information and working towards a fake goal together, then the Soviets will be following the trail of that goal for years… putting together very fake dots on a very real map.”

“That sounds really complicated.”

“The more complicated the better,” Mrs. Schroeder laughed. “That makes it more believable. Spies are naturally suspicious people who are trained to see ghosts… but CI-agents exist to create those ghosts. They get caught up in a world of such intense suspicion and paranoia that they have to have a sense of whimsy about them. Otherwise, they will go absolutely insane.”

“But what’s the point of it all?” Lena asked, even more exasperated than before. “It all seems needlessly complicated.”

“That’s why you and I are just assets. We like the adventure of it all, without really caring all that much about the result. And why should we? The results rarely affect us personally. But these people—meaning the people who cultivate us and pay our bills—these people’s main purpose is to know why. You may think it’s stupid wasting millions of dollars and putting hundreds of lives at risk trying to bring some British punk rocker into the GDR. Especially since that person could likely come here of his own accord on the subway and receive a hero’s welcome. But if that punk rocker’s Bosses’ goal wasn’t all that honorable where the GDR is concerned, well, that’s a different story. Certainly, changing the economic and political structure of the GDR in its entirety is worth millions of dollars.”

“But what in the world could he do?” Lena asked. “He’s just one person.”

“Oh, you would be surprised what one person can do.” she gestured solemnly, “A pawn seems like a pointless piece in the game of chess—and if you are a layman playing against another layman, it is. But if you are a master playing against another master, the pawn is no less important than the bishop or queen. Every move a pawn makes, however small, is valuable and necessary.

“The pawn makes small moves; but it makes small moves that the bishop and knight can’t make, and it makes moves that the queen or castle can’t be bogged down with. And thank the Lord about that. If the chessboard had only knights, bishops, queens and castles, it would be a very different game indeed. It would look very much more like open trench warfare than the elegant asymmetry of spy games, and millions more people would die.

“It’d be faster.” Lena grumped.

“Oh, of course it would be! And so would launching the nukes at each other. So would starting another World War to fight over whatever is left, but that’s not an outcome anyone wants. Make no mistake: you and I may be pawns, with our small purviews, making our small moves on a huge board filled with big important pieces; but that British punk rocker is a knight jumping over all of the laws and customs of the State, and moving strangely around the board to do things that you didn’t consider initially. We are here to make sure that wherever he lands, the bishops of counter-intelligence don’t have an opening to mow him over.”

“But wouldn’t that mean we get mowed over instead?”

“Maybe,” Mrs. Schroeder answered honestly, “but probably not. Would you take a pawn, if all you gained was taking a pawn? Especially if it might mean losing your bishop in the process?”

“It might, if I knew how important that pawn was.”

“And that, my dear, is the purpose of our counter-intelligence: to make sure they don’t see the value in that strategy.”

“By moving the Pawns around.” Lena said, drearily.

“See, this is why our boss gets paid more than us. They find this stuff a lot more interesting and profitable than you and I do.”

“How the hell do you deal with this?!” Lena threw her hands up in exasperation. “It’s all so… twisted and tangled up. You never know who knows what, or what anyone really wants or has planned for you. You can’t trust anyone. Doesn’t that scare you??”

“My dear, that’s why I choose to trust. It isn’t always easy, but it gets easier the more it proves itself out. Sometimes it isn’t about trusting someone entirely; but rather finding those precious things about them that you can trust. I trust you, even if I don’t know entirely what you are up to when you aren’t working for us. I trust you because you and I have a history together, and that has to mean something. I trust that friend of yours, Vivika, because you have made a choice to trust her… and she hasn’t given me a reason not to. I won’t tell her what you and I are up to, but I’ll certainly trust her with Kraut. And in my book, that’s pretty close to trusting her with my life.

“I trust Walter Müller, even if he is spying for the Stasi. With Walter, it’s not that I don’t trust him with information that he could use against me; it’s that I save the poor man from having to keep more secrets from them. I trust him because I have more of a history with him than I do even with you, and I know he watches out for Mick and Herr—little idiots though they may be—just the same as I trust Jonathan and Janet to be good parents, even if I don’t trust their marriage to each other.

“I trust our boss. Not just because he’s proven to be trustworthy, but because if I don’t, that puts me and everyone else’s lives at stake. I trust him to know far more than me about the great game, and I trust the training he has been given to train me on what I need to do. Moreover, I trust my network to do their individual parts without me double-checking their work, because that makes us function better.

“I trust Grips to hold out for as long as possible, because he trusts that we are coming for him. And I trust that if he finally cracked, that our counter-intelligence folks had long planned for that exact eventuality. Moreover, I trust that they are the type of people that are still coming for Grips, knowing full well that his actions spell out betrayal to the letter of the law… because of all the things I do trust, I don’t number the letter of the law amongst them.

“If all else fails, I trust God in whatever form he or she takes, because when times get tough and the road ahead gets confusing, and no matter how bleak it truly does look, I trust that he or she has a good use for these old bones. Failing that, I trust that a horrible death in a black cell ends with an eternity spent with my dead husband and this sweet little dog that everyone seems to hate.”

As if on cue, the relentlessly lazy Kraut made more snoring/wheezing sounds as he rolled onto his back, displaying his tummy to the world.

“And Kraut…” Mrs. Schroeder laughed, “…trusts that the house will not collapse as he sleeps, and that he is safe and free to display his belly to the world with his tongue hanging out for all to see. It’s a simple trust from a simple mind, but it’s a trust based off of nearly two decades of me ensuring that for him.”

Lena laughed. It felt good to have spent this time with Mrs. Schroeder. Even though she had kept this secret from the group, and from Lena until now. And even though she was likely withholding more information. She was a trustworthy person, and Lena made a silent pact with herself to rely on her wisdom, no matter how dangerous doing so felt.

“One person I don’t trust, however…” Mrs. Schroeder said with a dire tone, “is Patrick.”

“You…” Lena said, startled. “You know about him?… How?”

“Don’t trust that one, Lena.” she continued, ignoring the question. “Don’t trust him. Follow his orders, and say the things you have to say; but for the love of God, do not trust him.”

____

Lena sat outside a small cafe, smoking a cigarette on a Monday. It was roughly five in the afternoon and the city was still busy about her, passing the baton of business from reports and labor to conversation and cocktails. As normal, few cars passed through the street, while hundreds of bicycle-born pedestrians choked the city on their way to meet friends and lovers. The general chill in the air seemed to provoke the denizens into a more urgent stride, yet it did nothing to daunt the general mirth. For all intents and purposes, this was a happy day—for everyone else, that is.

Lena was at the appointed spot, awaiting instructions. Awaiting being the operative word, since she knew nothing about what waited for her in the coming hours… or days, or weeks. Since arriving back in the GDR, she had received a blissful few days of normalcy, and she and Vivika had made good use of this time to relax, shop and generally amble about with very few cares in the world. Yet Lena was beginning to realize that anything more than a day of peace and quiet made her itch with anticipation. Not an ‘excitement-for-more’-sort of itch, but rather the ‘something-bad-is-going-to-happen’-type. A few days of hearing nothing and Lena was on edge.

Thankfully, she had received her instructions to sit outside of this cafe and wait. But that was the extent of it and she was hopeful she wasn’t waiting for a bullet to the brain or a black-bagging of some kind. Those things did happen, after all.

She scanned the city in front of her, smiling at the people as they walked past. They all seemed so happy to be free of work. While Lena couldn’t necessarily relate, it still lifted her spirits. She noticed, what appeared to be a young couple walked briskly hand-in-hand. The man was wearing a polo shirt, and slacks of the evening variety. His company was wearing his overcoat to stave off the chill, yet it was unbuttoned, so as to display a very nice purple dress underneath, “They must be on a date!” she thought. “How very sweet!”

She watched another couple. This one was elderly, and they moved at a snail’s pace. He was hunched over from a life spent working hard for her, and she was hunched over from a life spent helping him make it through. Although both needed support, both defied gravity in a mutual embrace that made every step all the easier. Lena loved them instantly, and hoped one day she could love someone who loved her that much. They also wore their pants really high, and this made Lena laugh.

Perhaps a half block away, a taller man wearing a slightly ratty suit and black fedora ambled down the street. He looked to be tunelessly humming to himself and smoking a cigarette, no doubt trying to calm himself after a long day’s work. By the way he shuffled about, he struck Lena as a professor of some sort. Looking at him, she felt the urge to smoke another cigarette herself. So, she pulled out a stick, put it in her mouth, and lit a match. Sadly, this was one of two matches she had left, and the first snuffed out.

“Oh, bother.” she thought; she hated it when this happened. She continued looking around. On the other side of the street, was a young woman walking her dog. They were, perhaps, the cutest couple she had yet seen. The woman had a stately aura to her, wearing a conservative business outfit and a tightly manicured bun only partially obscured by a tasteful headscarf. She looked to be a somewhat humorless individual, with limited grasp for social interaction. And yet the dog she walked—some maniacal creature barely larger than a handbag—twisted, turned, and unleashed a minuscule yet spirited assault on the leash.

This dog seemed to switch moods as often as it switched directions. It first bit at the leash, then rolling onto it’s back to scratch some newly discovered itch. After this, it attempted to climb up the woman’s leg, only to attempt a backflip right before forgetting the leash and all-out sprinting towards… well, whatever. Oddly, the well-mannered woman seemed to be perfectly at peace with the furry bundle of electricity, smiling at him and cooing in a voice that Lena couldn’t quite make out. They were the perfect pair, these two.

Again, Lena tried to light her cigarette with her last remaining match… and again, it fizzled out uselessly, “Ah well.” she thought peacefully to herself, “These things do happen.”

The tall man in the slightly ratty suit walked by then. He stopped just a few feet away, pulled a match out of his matchbook, and lit his cigarette. After being satisfied with its lighting, he casually tossed the matchbook on the ground and walked away.

“Oh, well, that worked out well,” she thought to herself. Looking around a few times, she reached over and grabbed the matchbook. She opened it up, and took a second to read the words ‘’Dritte– 6th’ before casually ripping out a match and pocketing the rest. It didn’t really matter if she threw out the matchbook or not, as she always kept a fresh book in her pocket, and it’s not like folks didn’t occasionally write on matchbooks. Yet it was the principle of the thing, and she knew Red-hat (now Black-fedora) would be mad if she didn’t take every precaution.

Standing up and stretching casually, she looked around to make sure she had gathered all of her things. She hadn’t brought all that much, really. She just needed to waste a few moments to give Red-hat three blocks or so of headway before following him. Counter-surveillance was very difficult to do on your own (at least it was for her), but it was much easier to do in pairs. For one thing, anyone she was paired up with would obviously be better at this than her (so she wouldn’t have to try so hard). Plus, they almost never put someone on her when she was running doubles. She still had to keep a lookout, however, just in case.

Once Red-hat was about three blocks away, he paused briefly for a rest, and to take in the sights. Lena used this opportunity to lazily amble in his direction, taking frequent stops to look in shop windows or smile at children and dogs. This was the first half of her duties—to show Red-hat that she had no tail on her. She did this simply by walking. Red-hat would be able to immediately spot someone who stopped when she did. The three-block distance would give him an easy two blocks to see anyone.

One block passed, then the second, and Red-hat stood in the same place, tunelessly humming to himself and smoking a cigarette happily. Once Lena had reached the second block without any sign from Red-hat, she kept walking. This block, however, Red-hat began walking slowly towards her. Lena lit a cigarette while walking. This was perfectly normal behavior and didn’t symbolize anything in particular. It did give her a chance to briefly pause to look around for any tail he might have, though.

Seeing no sign of a tail, Lena decided to relax on this unimportant corner for a moment. She watched Red-hat walk down the street, stopping to greet a young lady, then again stopping to pet a dog. After a moment, he moved forward again, only to stop and look in a local store. Seeing something he liked, apparently, he walked in, and Lena lost sight of him, “Dammit.” she thought, they always took forever in these stores.

She leaned against a wall, smoking her cigarette. It wouldn’t have been that big of an issue, truly; she had smokes and she was tightly bundled against the occasional chill, but she had been cooling her heels out in the open air for, what, almost an hour and a half now? She wanted to get moving and get this meeting over with. In an effort try and stave off the chill and boredom alike, she resolved to people-watch some more. It was an easy conclusion to come to, since it was what she was supposed to be doing, anyways.

She watched another old couple, a younger man reading a newspaper across the street, a few girls skipping rope a block away, and a young woman taking artsy photos with an old camera down an alleyway. Nothing out-of-the ordinary. A few more minutes passed, and then a few more. The old couple had finally moved on, as had the girls skipping rope and most others who were out for the day. The man reading the newspaper still sat there… but why wouldn’t he? He was reading. The young woman was still taking her artsy photos of the cracks in the wall, “Artists,” Lena smirked to herself, ignoring the fact that she did similar things as well.

Red-hat finally exited the store with a brown bag of goods under his arm, and began walking back down the street. He had a gift for fading into the crowd, and Lena admired his ability to do so. She allowed him roughly a block-and-a-half of headway before she began slowly traipsing after him. But as she did, she took one glance at where the man reading the newspaper was slowly folding his newspaper and standing. “Gotcha,” Lena thought.

She did the best she could to curb her excitement as she switched gears. She wasn’t 100% sure that this man was following Red-hat, but he was by far the most solid lead. She only needed a few more signs, and she had her man. After a few blocks of Red-hat ambling down the street, and Lena moseying slowly after while watching Newspaper-guy do the same, Red-hat finally stopped for a breather. “Come on…” she thought. “Come on… give me another sign.” Just a moment later and Newspaper-man stopped as well, to look at a particularly interesting crack in a nearby wall.

“Yes!” Lena thought, that was all the proof she needed. Granted, she was supposed to wait for three signs, but knowing herself, she had likely missed one. Suddenly, she realized that her shoe was magically in need of re-tightening (these things happen, after all). Bending over to take a few moments, she noticed Red-hat, just a few blocks ahead, take off his black-fedora and inspect it for cleanliness, “That’s the signal.” Lena cheered at herself; she would no doubt get kudos for her progression. As if sensing her pride, Newspaper-man happily pumped a fist in the air, cheering for her benefit, before disappearing inside of a nearby store. “It’s going to be a good day,” Lena congratulated herself.

____

Lena slid into a booth at Dritte, on 6th Street. She picked one near the back and away from the windows to provide her and the one meeting her some measure of control of the room. It was just easier to see anyone entering and where everyone was choosing to sit just in case it surreptitiously correlated with them. She knew it was highly unlikely at this juncture, but the future could hold a very different set of circumstances, so she may as well get used to it. Unfortunately, an older woman with a headscarf was sitting in the furthest-back booth, reading a book, so Lena couldn’t get the absolute best option. It wasn’t really all that important, just so long as security was assured.

Soon enough, Red-hat and Patrick entered and slid into the booth across from her. In his typical sardonic tone, Patrick congratulated her on her success.

“I guess you don’t suck as much as you used to,” he smirked. “Keep it up and we’ll make a master out of you yet.”

“What, I’m not already?”

“Oh yes,” Patrick laughed. “Basically. I mean, between that time you exercised one of the three skills you have correctly, and the fifty times you didn’t, you’re basically me with tits.”

“Mean.” Lena pouted.

The three made idle conversation for about fifteen minutes. In truth, Patrick and Lena talked, while Red-hat stared out the window, and occasionally laughed under his breath. She couldn’t tell if he was being snide or just not amused in general. After a few more moments, Patrick decided to get down to brass tax.

“So, here’s how this is going to go,” he said, switching to a more serious tone. “Grandfather wants to meet with you in a few days.”

“Awesome!” Lena exclaimed. “I’m so…”

“I’ve kept him apprised of your performance and progression,” Patrick interrupted, “and he is sufficiently impressed. He’s recommending that I spin you up on some more intermediate-level training. That means we will be working more together.”

“Intermediate level?” she asked, “After the Interhostel, I couldn’t possibly fathom what that might look like.”

“That was pretty much a one-off.” Red-hat said, “Far less about training than other things.”

“Like what other things?”

“Like giving you a picture of how big and complicated the world is, and how bad the world can get for someone that steps outside of the lines.”

“I… um…” Lena stuttered. She didn’t know precisely how to respond to that.

“You have to understand a few realities. We have to be able to trust that our agents and assets will do what they say they are going to do. Most of our agents go through years of training after years of vetting. Those agents are highly trusted; yet they are still routinely followed and monitored, regardless. When an asset comes to us from a position of convenience, rather than a position of trust and respect, we have to go to certain lengths to ensure they stay on point when they are out of our control. This is because, simply put, we have no reason to trust them. At best, these assets are working for us because of the money or the adventure. But the best case isn’t generally the norm: most work for us out of fear. And we know from experience that while neither money, adventure, nor fear can buy loyalty or respect—fear comes pretty damn close to the next best thing.”

“I suppose,” Lena stated honestly. She couldn’t disagree with his logic, but she hated it all the same. “So what sort of training will I be getting?” she tried shifted topics.

“Well, that is going to depend on a few things.” Patrick said, “Because there’s a few realities that are concerning us, and some potentialities the three of us need to get hashed out before that question can be answered.”

“Like what?” Lena asked, as a prickle raised on the back of her neck.

“It comes down to loyalty.” he continued with a knowing look. “You either have it or you don’t… and you know what I’m talking about.”

“Remember this, Lena,” Red-hat said using her name—which he never did. “Your answers to the following questions are going to change the direction our relationship is headed. Be open and honest with us, and our relationship will improve. Hold back, and things will become more complicated. And if you lie to us, your relationship with Grandfather will also change.”

“Okay.” Lena said, but her unease was quickly rising.

“Don’t take any of this personally,” Patrick placated. “Just tell us the truth, and we can start fresh.”

“What are you talking about?” Lena asked softly, with a rash of red spreading across her face.

“We need to know…” Red-hat began, “what you, Matt York and his manager discussed.”

The flash of red across Lena’s face may have very well proven to her that God was real, and that God loved Lena ferociously, because the flash of red was the only thing keeping blood in her face as fear washed over her. Her hands trembled and began to sweat profusely as a prickly sensation crawled its way down her throat and into the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, her life was flashing before her eyes, “How?!” she asked. “How do they know?!” There wasn’t any way they could have heard anything. They could have assumed, sure, but no way could they have known. Right?

She ran through every memory of the event—every walk, every talk, every person she had encountered or told—but besides Vivika and Mrs. Schroeder, the only person that could have had any knowledge of the event even happening was Patrick, and nothing incriminating had been said outside of the bus. Mrs. Schroeder she would just have to trust, as there wasn’t any way they could have gone after her. But she could trust Mr. Collins’ countermeasures, right? There wasn’t any particularly nifty spy-stuff she knew of that could cut through the noise of a bunch of drunken groupies singing bad love songs as loudly as they were singing them.

“God damnit,” Red-hat said, as he smacked the table and looked out the window. “I told you, Patrick. I told you about her.”

“Give her time,” Patrick said.

“Look at her eyes!” he whisper-yelled at him. “Her pupils are dilating. She’s trying to lie.”

“She hasn’t even said anything yet!” Patrick argued. “She’ll do the right thing.”

Every second brought her closer and closer to the point of no return. She had to figure out what to say, or buy some time right now. “It has to be Vivika,” she thought to herself, “Mrs. Schroeder wouldn’t have, and Patrick couldn’t have… no one else knew!”

“I… I don’t…” Lena stuttered.

“Look,” Red-hat whispered, leaning forward, “the only reason I’m not throwing you across this room right now is because we’re in public. You either talk, and talk true, right now, or I’m gonna drag you out of here in front of everyone, throw you down behind the building and beat you within an inch of your life.”

“P-Patrick?!” Lena looked over, hoping for some help, but he simply stared at her with a disappointed look. Whatever had happened, she was in a world of trouble now. Only the truth could save her. It had to have been Vivika—she was the only one who had been in a place to tattle about anything. Yet, even as she began to mouth the damning words, the words Mrs. Schroeder had said last night were speaking louder, “Trust, Lena… just trust.”

“I… I can’t,” Lena trembled.

“Why the hell not?!” Patrick said with exasperation under his breath.

“B-because… it’s gross,” Lena said. “It’s gross and embarrassing.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Red-hat demanded. “This isn’t a damn game, little girl!”

“Look, if I tell you what happened, no one will ever talk to me again. Not you, and certainly not Grandfather.”

“Trust us,” Patrick said, “Please!”

“Vivika told you, didn’t she?” Lena’s eyes flared with betrayal, “God, I knew she was spying on me. If she told you, I swear I’ll never forgive her!”

“We’ll keep your secret. Trust us,” Patrick pleaded.

“Well…” Lena quivered, “…Matt…”

“Yes?” Red-hat said, annoyed, “Matt…”

“Matt and I smoked drugs!” Lena exclaimed, just a little too loud.

“Wh-what?” Red-hat stuttered, and for once he looked mortified.

“Yeah, what?” Patrick said, his face equal parts surprise and amusement.

“I know, I know,” she began to cry, eyes watering as she gained steam. “Matt was just so helpful, you know? And I was so grateful because I was excited about our show, and then he invites me back to his bus, and then this little glass thing came out and… and… well, I didn’t really know what it was…” With every element of the story, her lips quivered more and the tears ran wetter. “…and next thing you know, I was so, like, drunk on drugs, and…”

“High, Lena.” Patrick said, trying to hide a grin.

“Wh-what?”

“You don’t get ‘drunk’ on drugs. You get ‘high’.”

“Oh, okay. So, I was getting high… and drunk… and high… and I didn’t think I was going to like smoking drugs, but then I did! And I didn’t want to tell you because I figured I would be in trouble…”

“Okay, you can stop,” Red-hat said as Patrick struggled to hold back laughter.

“Well, then his manager pulls out this thing called… I think it’s called a steam-something?”

“Did it look like this?” Patrick asked, cupping his hands in a familiar shape and holding it up to his mouth.

“Exactly like that!” Lena exclaimed, as more of the café began paying attention.

“Yep,” he sighed “those things will getcha if you aren’t careful.”

“Stop egging her on, will you?” Red-hat whispered, aggravated at the attention in the café that she was now attracting.

“Well, and then he tells me to smoke it! I told him I wasn’t supposed to, but then his manager is lighting up another j… err, another jaw… I don’t know what he called it…”

“A joint?” Patrick offered.

“That’s it!” Lena exclaimed, while the entire café was listening in.

“Ooooh, yeah. Gotta be careful with those.”

“Patrick!” Red-hat seethed at him.

“What?! It’s true!”

“And so he’s smoking one thing,” Lena continued, “and I’m smoking another, and now I’m crying because I know if anyone ever finds out then I’m going to get into soooo-oo-oooo much trouble, and…”

“Would you please shut up?!!” Red-hat yelled loud enough for the entire room to hear. Now that Red-hat had yelled at her, though, the waterworks really came on.

“Please don’t hate me, Sir,” Lena said as innocently as she could manage, wiping fat tears from her eyes. “It really was my first time smoking drugs, and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.”

“What the hell is the matter with her?!” Red-hat shouted at Patrick. “This? This is what these musicians are all about?”

“I guess,” Patrick said, openly laughing. “A joint and a steamroller?”

“It was terrible!” Lena said piteously, “It’s good that drugs are illegal!”

“Alright, alright, let’s put an end to this,” Red-hat said, trying to compose himself. “You have had your fun, Patrick. Let’s continue.”

“So, you aren’t mad that I was smoking drugs?” Lena asked, hopefully.

“I couldn’t care less,” Red-hat said apathetically. “Really. I couldn’t possibly.”

“I’m glad we got that sorted out,” Patrick said, “Let’s move past this and get on to the purpose of our meeting.”

Lena wiped her eyes clean, and composed herself on the outside. But on the inside, she was a wreck—both cheering roundly, as well as shaking with fear. She had somehow managed to dodge the bullet by obscuring her true position with pure nonsense. Thanking the gods, she recalled an axiom Patrick had told her during her training: “If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit.” In a parallel universe where letting him know she had succeeded wouldn’t get her savagely murdered, he might have been proud of her.

She certainly never wanted to have to attempt that again. Yet, seeing how Red-hat had carried on the way he had did make her feel awfully good about herself. She would never, ever, ever admit it to anyone, but the look of rage and embarrassment written across his face had been more than worth the effort.

“As I told you during the first days of your training,” Patrick began, “There isn’t always a standard or method for arranging secret meetings. They are all situational, and have to be creatively orchestrated per-meeting, taking everything into account. This meeting will be even more difficult, since it involves not only your case officer, but a safe house.”

“I want you to understand that the security of a safe house is a delicate thing,” Red-hat said, “Quite frankly, Patrick here is the only one that trusts you enough with that information. If it were up to anyone else on this team, we’d put a black bag over your head, so you wouldn’t be able to retrace your steps back to it. Alas, that would arouse suspicion, so we will have to make do with the hand we are dealt.”

“Again, don’t take this personally,” Patrick interjected. “It’s just a matter of security.”

“I’m going to slip you a piece of paper,” Red-hat said, casually reaching into his pocket. “This paper will contain an address for this Thursday. Like today, you will go there and await further instructions. And Lena, this isn’t training—this is the real deal. So really keep a lookout for anyone you might know.”

“Whichever one of us approaches you,” Patrick explained, “you will call him Adam if you feel the coast is clear. If you feel you are being watched, or if it’s not a good time to meet, you will call him Aldrik. If you call him by that name, we will enjoy a cup of coffee, and wait for you to use the name, Mr. Weber. Once you use that name, we will begin our route. If you don’t use the name by the end of our cup of coffee, or you use the name Mr. Schmidt, we will assume that the meeting is not safe to conduct, and we will break contact. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do,” Lena responded, trying to remember all of the code-words. They changed every single time they needed to be used, and Lena was sure that they used them only to mess with her.

“What is the name for breaking contact?” Patrick asked.

“It’s Ald… no, no… it’s…” Lena stuttered.

“What is the word for continuing the route after discovery?”

“Mr. Weber.”

“Good,” Patrick said sternly. “Don’t mess this up. Grandfather is a very important and busy man. He’s making sacrifices to meet with you, and there’s a lot riding on your meeting. So, remember what you are told to remember.”

____

Vivika watched the reflection in the set of sunglasses. She had placed them on the table at such an angle so that she could see the room quite clearly, while also preventing the occupants in the booth behind her from seeing her face. She knew Lena was meeting with them, and she knew that they (like all agents) always sat in the rear-most seats they could find in meeting places. So, she had resolved to beat them to the punch.

She noticed immediately as Patrick and the other man left. First the other man left, stepping outside to smoke a cigarette. She knew he was scanning the crowd to make sure that no one was acting suspicious. Then Patrick left. He walked outside and began walking down the street. The other man watched intently to make sure no one was following Patrick, before starting off down the street in the opposite direction.

Vivika was dressed like an older woman. She wore a darker foundation, a graying wig she had cultured herself, and a headscarf just in case. She also hunched over in contrast to her regular posture. Patrick had taught her well… it wasn’t always about looking like the character you wanted to portray—more like obscuring trademark aspects about yourself.

She always felt just a hair silly whenever she played dress-up. Yet this meeting not only re-affirmed the importance of it, but made her take notice of the corners she had cut. If Lena knew that Vivika was spying on her, the friendship would be over; but if the two men knew, Vivika would likely die a screaming death somewhere. She had to be ever so careful—especially now that she was so close to her goal.

Räder in Den Rädern

Lena arrived at Gustavo’s at about 8:45 am on Tuesday. It was a restaurant on the other side of Berlin that Lena rarely frequented. Mrs. Schroeder was right—this place was relatively busy this early in the morning. With its faux-fancy wooden decorations, embroidered steins and pseudo-traditional dressings, the restaurant felt strangely out of place in the dour realm of Eastern Germany. Honestly, it felt more like a Western-designed, Bavarian-themed tourist-trap for folks from the West than anything else. She didn’t like it, and didn’t think any of her fellow townspeople would either. Yet here everyone was, disagreeing with her.

“Ah well,” she thought to herself, as she picked a booth near the rear, “Might as well enjoy it like everyone else.”

As she sat, she watched the hustle and bustle of people eating, drinking, and conversing with their mouths full of food. Thick spittle flew everywhere as people laughed and joked obnoxiously with each other. And the children… the children were a sonic force to be reckoned with. They emitted an ear-piercing onslaught of such cacophonous force and eruptive pitch, Lena honestly wondered if taking up toddler-murdering would be a more profitable vocation than super-sleuthing,

“Why in the hell do people make these stupid things?!?” Lena raged silently. “It’s like taking all of the hate and misery in the world and personifying it into a tiny, brooding monster that poops and screams.” Just like that, Lena realized that motherhood wasn’t for her. She also realized why she hated restaurants.

“May I help you today, dear?” a middle-aged woman with a certain stately beauty said as she approached Lena’s table. Lena marveled at how well this woman had aged. She had the most piercing blue eyes and youthful skin that she had yet seen on anyone over thirty-five, “Some people get all the luck,” she muttered to herself.

“Um, yes,” she replied, “What are your specials for the day?”

“Well ma’am, we have a…” The woman rattled off several dishes that Lena didn’t know, and could hardly be bothered to remember. Phrases like, “Glazed with a…” and “drizzled in a fine…” were utterly lost on her.

“Do you have currywurst?” Lena interrupted.

“You don’t like restaurants very much do you?” the lady asked, grinning slightly.

“I, uh…” Lena stuttered, not wanting to be insulting.

“Don’t you worry, dear. We’ll have your food out to you soon enough.” The lady winked at her, and then sauntered into the maelstrom of children puking on themselves, off to parts unknown.

“What a wonderful life,” Lena thought sarcastically, “Getting to be surrounded by these little mutants every day? Count me out.” She felt bad about thinking it, though. The woman seemed so graceful in the midst of what must have been a certain and insurmountable misery. Lena decided to do what she could to give a chance to the large group of obnoxious strangers and their extremely audible chewing.

Over at one table sat a morbidly fat couple, stuffing their faces with prodigious quantities of meat while soaking it down with gallons of beer apiece. At another table sat another morbidly fat couple, this time with disturbingly loud children. Even the rotund little brats were cramming their faces full of wurst, letting the juices drip onto their puke-soaked pants. Of course, they made time to squeal at random, mid-munch. They did so in an octave that Lena thought for sure signified subsequent defecation, and a volume that threatened to lobotomize. At another table sat a lone woman with graying hair, hunched over and wearing a headscarf that looked to be just as upset about everything as Lena was. Lena noticed that the woman winced every time a child screeched for no reason, and glowered at them in return. “Finally, someone that gets it,” she laughed to herself.

After a few more minutes, the lovely serving lady walked out and brought her a plate of Stollen: a big, steaming pile of German fruitcake, “Yum” Lena ruefully thought to herself. She glared near-audibly at the internationally reviled log of candied… erm, age-loaf… and really hoped that this wasn’t what she was supposed to actually eat once her little spy-ritual was over.

“How does it look, dear?” the woman asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lena said, “you forgot the salmon.”

“Oh, gracious me,” the woman said, “I’m so sorry. I’ll bring that right out!” With that, she turned and headed back towards the kitchens, leaving Lena alone and afraid with her only company this worthless stump of candied horse puck. Somehow, despite its radioactively-fluorescent coloring, it still managed to look pock-marked and diseased—like a leper in food form. As if sensing her hatred, it glared back at her, daring her to be hungry enough to try it. The joke was on the fruitcake, however, as no one could possibly be that starving.

As Lena waited, her senses were assailed by more chewing, more spitting, and more wailing from a crowd hell-bent in the sport of public eating. By the time the woman brought out her food, Lena had decided that being the poster-child for domestic espionage wasn’t nearly worth this.

“Heeeere you go,” the woman said, as she plopped down a huge plate of delicious-looking wurst, “I think you will really like the recipe. Let me know if you need a to-go box.”

“Oh this looks amazing, but I don’t think I can eat it all,” Lena replied, salivating.

“Well, most folks your size ask for to-go boxes,” the lady said, winking.

“I’ll… I’ll, uh…” Lena stammered, before thinking better of it and saying, “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to leave. Wouldn’t want to miss out on the experience.”

“It’s good to enjoy the ambiance,” the woman smiled. “Do you want me to leave the fruitcake or murder it behind the dumpsters?”

“You can take it. I don’t like the way it’s staring at me,” Lena said honestly. The woman understood. Yet somehow, Lena suspected that another one of Mrs. Schroeder’s spy network had played a tiny practical joke on her. “First they name me ‘Sunshine’, and now this?! Ugh!!”

For nearly a half hour, Lena wasted time attempting to appear normal. She instinctively knew that leaving too quickly would be unnatural. Then again, her being here would be unnatural as well, which is why Lena had honored Mr. Collin’s instructions and made a point to regularly visit Gustavo’s every day or so since leaving Mrs. Schroeder’s apartment. She knew she had made the right choice. Yet as she looked about at the truly disgusting display of gluttony around her, well… this really was the hardest part of the job.

“Why can’t they pick locations with real people?” Lena boggled. Silently, she resigned to picking at her food as she returned to people-watching. Here, a tourist-looking couple; there a tourist-looking couple; everywhere she looked, there they were, with rear-ends proudly escaping from pants and underwear alike, all ablaze with swampy sweat. Perhaps Lena would resolve to eat less of her wurst than she had originally planned. That, or maybe she would become a vegetarian.

She scanned the crowd some more, taking note of the very few regulars she had seen in previous visits. All of them looked about the same as everyone else. However, as Lena scanned, she looked over at a table in a corner. A man and a woman sat, drinking coffee and talking quietly. There was nothing about them that really stuck out in the least. As a matter of fact, the more Lena looked at them, the more she took notice of how perfectly ordinary they looked, and the more it niggled at her.

Sure, there were people of all shapes and sizes at Gustavo’s—most of them just inclined towards a more… family-sized… physique. This pair, on the other hand, seemed reasonably fit. No worries there. The bland-looking clothing, perhaps no worries there. It just looked, well, grayer than normal. The haircuts seemed… well, actually, most everything about them seemed very hygienic and well-manicured.

She decided to apply some of Patrick’s training: the point-scale designed to detect law-enforcement agents. They were both well-manicured and hygienic; just one point, but a point, nonetheless. Bland clothing; perhaps two or three points. Still not a lot, but worth mentioning. But now that she thought about it, the haircuts seemed just a tad specific; so maybe that was two points. The fact that they were in a restaurant and hadn’t ordered food; two points. The fact that they didn’t gesture or emote all that much, and kept to themselves; maybe a half a point. But the occasional looks around the room? While that was just one minor point, it brought the lack of gesturing or emotion up to a solid two points. This wasn’t even accounting for the set of the man’s jaw. He wore a tense, determined stare, and the muscle on the side of his jaw was constantly flexing; three points for sure.

Now this couple officially had her interest, so she watched them more intently. She noticed that both of them—despite their reasonably business-casual attire—wore comfortable sports-shoes; four points. However, they were really black, clashing slightly with the general neatness of the slacks. “Maybe five points,” Lena thought. The black leather belt the man wore; just one point. But the fact that the woman wasn’t dressed like a woman; well that was another three points. “Actually, make that four points for the belt,” Lena thought, as she realized that the belt had a girth to it—possibly designed to hold both a concealed firearm and extra magazines.

Lena had been taught to get antsy around ten points, but she was always one to exaggerate at the best of times, so, maybe fifteen would be better. However, many points they were up to now, though, it was far past that.

All was confirmed, however, when the man leaned forward to grab his drink and Lena made out a hard crease in the back of his shirt, signifying that he was indeed wearing a concealed firearm, “That’s almost five points right there,” Lena gasped. And the small watch the woman wore, with the face on the inside of her wrist; ten points immediately… and not just because women never wore watches (and the rare times that they did, it certainly wasn’t a black nylon band): she wore it on the inside to avoid glare in darkness. Lena didn’t even have to take into account how perfect their teeth were (signifying expensive, government-provided dental care), which would have tacked on another two points.

These people weren’t mere informants or assets, they were Stasi surveillance officers. Lena was sure of it. Suddenly, she felt very afraid. She had gotten so used to the idea of working for the HVA that she had grown slightly lackadaisical in her approach. Oh, she needed to bail immediately. But how to get out of this naturally?

“How is the food, dear?” the lovely server lady asked as she walked over.

“On second thought,” Lena said, trying to hide her nervousness, “I think the Stollen was more appetizing.”

“Are you sure?” the woman asked after a second’s consideration, “Our chefs were working very hard on this wurst.”

“I’m sure they did,” Lena said, apologetically, “but I think the Stollen would be better for my health… I’m on a diet, you see.”

“I can appreciate that,” the woman replied with a wink. “Just so you understand, the wurst really won’t keep all that long, now that it’s prepared. It will have to be thrown out if you don’t want it.”

“I think some other customers would be happy to eat it,” Lena said, glancing over at the couple and tapping her wrist in the international ‘spy shit’-gesture.

“I’m sure they…” the woman said, casually glancing over at the couple, “Ah I see… would you wait here a few more minutes and let me talk to the chefs? We might be able to whip something up for you.”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Lena said, relieved. It felt good to know she wasn’t alone in this.

The woman left to go to the kitchens, and Lena sat picking at her wurst, trying hard to not fidget with anticipation. She hated herself then. Most of the time, she fantasized about situations like this, coming up with hare-brained solutions to them. Most of those imagined solutions involved an equally imagined and ridiculous martial arts routine that she could use to disable at least five people in rapid succession, with improvised weaponry fashioned out of a spork and pickle.

Now that she was in one of these situations for real, however, she could feel her stomach twisting itself into knots. Her brain was screaming at her, “Go now. Go now… you have to get out of here right now.” Her feet began to itch, and her palms began to sweat as a phantom pain spread throughout her body—silent promises of every terrible fate the State could bring to bear against her, “If you don’t leave right now, you will die!”

As Lena looked around the room nervously, she noticed the older woman in the headscarf gathering her things and standing up to leave. She hadn’t paid for her meal, Lena realized, “Now that bitch is punk rock.” she smiled at herself. The woman simply stood up nonchalantly, and began walking towards the kitchens. Lena watched as the woman called into a doorway, and began speaking to a chef who appeared. He looked gruff at first. Yet after a large smile spread across his face, Lena noticed him reaching into a pocket and grabbing two cigarettes. After handing one to her, he motioned for her to follow him into the back rooms.

“What a slut,” Lena giggled to herself, “First stealing food, then sweet-talking herself into a free cigarette—couldn’t have done it better myself.”

Yet as Lena giggled to herself, she noticed the well-manicured ‘couple’ stand up quickly, muttering to each other. The woman began walking towards the kitchens, before being greeted by another serving woman. The man walked quickly out of the restaurant and stood just outside the front door, looking both directions frantically. He seemed frustrated about something, and Lena felt fairly certain she knew exactly what he was frustrated about.

Just then, cheering erupted at a table in the middle of the room. The serving staff and a few chefs had gathered around a table with a young couple and their two fat children, clutching cheap guitars and noisemakers.

“Happy birthday, from Gustavo’s… we wish you merry cheer! And…” the staff sang in tandem, clapping along and creating a deafening ruckus as everyone in the restaurant began clapping along and singing off key. The room had become a thing of such terribly cheesy noise, Lena considered whether or not ‘people-in-general’-murdering would be a better profession than simply axing toddlers.

“Here is your to-go box,” the lovely serving lady said cheerfully, as she dropped some change down in front of Lena and began scooping the remainder of the wurst into a small Styrofoam box, “…and here is your change and receipt!”

“But I haven’t paid yet,” Lena said honestly, as she grabbed the small slip of paper. Oddly, the piece of paper listed off several items that she hadn’t paid for—a large soft drink, a coffee, a plate of Rouladen and a salad. Curiously, she had been charged ‘0.02 marks’ for her water. Also, the coffee seemed to cost a few more marks than you would think it would. That, and the soft-drink she hadn’t ordered was nearly free.

“Have a wonderful day, my dear. Make sure you put that money to good use,” the woman winked, before walking over to the group of singing serving staff, and began singing wildly.

As silently and naturally as possible, Lena slipped out of her chair, gathered her things, and began heading towards the exit. She couldn’t help but notice tiny daggers of alarm shrieking their way down her spine, turning her ten-foot walk into a ten-mile crawl in slow motion, “Almost there…” she said to herself, “Almost there…” As the sweet air of freedom filled her lungs with the swinging open of the door, Lena thanked the gods above for the lovely woman and her awful (and awfully clever) distraction.

“May your day be filled with beer, and your stein be full of cheer. Gustavo’s, Gustavo’s, we’re glad to see you here!”

____

Gertrude Schroeder and Walter Müller sat together in the tiny chapel’s pews. The chapel was old as dirt, decrepit with neglect and plainly furnished. All of the pews showed signs of wear, several of the kneelers were broken, and the stained-glass was covered in a sooty-film. The few priests that kept the place going were all old men, bent double with brittle bones, and not in any shape to make the church more presentable than its current state. Yet Gertrude wouldn’t have it any other way. The building was filled to the brim with memories and held together with prayer. She knew in her heart that the dust was blessed, and the general muss was precisely the way the Savior wanted it to be.

It was still early in the evening, yet only the priest kept company with the two, bustling about some arcane religious duties back in the cramped offices. His services were rarely needed at the busiest of times, and only his dedication to his calling kept him from doing what any sensible man would do—taking a long nap behind the altar. Nevertheless, he kept the doors unlocked for the wayward disciple, and the heavy scent of incense filled the air with a holy warmth, “Sure, they are Catholics…” Gertrude would often joke to herself, “but Jesus loves them too.”

“Why do we come here?” Walter asked, “You know I’m not a Catholic.”

“Neither am I, Walter.”

“Well, then why do you come here?”

“Because it reminds me of my husband, God rest his dear soul. And it’s good for you.”

“How is it good for me?”

“Because you’re getting crankier by the month, you angry old prune.” she poked. “If Jesus is what it takes to make you smile every now and again, then so be it.”

“I know something else that would make me smile.” He grinned devilishly.

“You couldn’t possibly satisfy a real woman like me.” she jested. Walter was a good man, with a good heart; never mind his silliness. When one reached her age, few things bothered her nearly as much as her poor feet. If anything, Walter was young in heart and she loved him for it.

“With the right pills I could,” he teased, before placing a hand on her knee.

“Walter!” she laughed, swatting his hand away. “Not in the Lord’s house!”

“Awww, God probably likes it. This place probably hasn’t seen a good lovemaking session since it was built. Besides, can’t an old man get a little happiness before he dies?”

“Not in the Lord’s house,” she replied saucily.

“Now don’t get my heart beating that fast for nothing. If I have to have a third heart attack, I want to know it was for something.”

Yes, Walter was a rare treasure in these dark times. He was cantankerous, but it was a pleasant sort of cantankerous. He had such an ornery streak, what with his occasional off-color jokes, various pranks, and love for that godawful rock music. Yet he loved Mick and Herr so dutifully—boxing their ears the one moment, and then cussing and smoking with them the next (when she wasn’t looking, of course). He truly had a youthful heart, and Gertrude enjoyed his company.

Of course, she couldn’t tell him the real reason she dragged him off to the churches. Walter was a spy for the Stasi, and Gertrude was a radio operator for the Americans. She knew that he gave regular reports on her doings and dealings (even though she knew he hated doing so). Thus, she knew the best cover story she could possibly have would be to keep him around nearly all the time, filling his reports on her. She knew he knew—at least partially. She also knew he was grateful not only for the company, but for the lies. She made his job much easier to do and saved him from the pain of betraying her to his Stasi handlers. He would, in turn, further serve to obscure her little missions. And it was very important he do so tonight: these were important messages.

Sunshine had breathlessly swung by her apartment earlier to deliver a to-go order of currywurst, some loose change and the adjoined receipts. For nearly an hour, she had carefully opened up one of the small coins with a razor to reveal the millimeter-wide dot of microfilm. Then, for nearly two hours, she carefully developed the pictures. She could generally tell the difference between Analog’s and Open-Wide’s work, but the gut-wrenching nature of the sordid photos was something she couldn’t quite pinpoint—it looked perhaps like a hidden static camera. She didn’t really stare at it long enough to figure it out, however. She knew the way the world worked and she wasn’t stupid. Still, certain things no one needed to see.

Then, she spent the next few hours working on the receipt. She had a great love for cryptography, and had discovered she had a knack for unlocking encoding messages. But her true love was for the art of steganography—the act of obscuring encoded messages. She knew these tactics well, hiding damnable information out in the open. From there, she need only place the developed information in an envelope—with a few marks for the Lord, of course—and head out to the church.

The Boss always tried to use the elderly whenever he could, as he felt it gave them some much-needed excitement and purpose. It was also difficult to peg someone of her advanced age as a secret agent. And he had been right: the work had given her some excitement and purpose. The Boss was a master at using the bent and broken. In his mind, they made the most loyal and trustworthy workers, unlike like the Stasi and HVA who ruled with fear and paranoia.

He also had a gift for using their unique personalities. He wasn’t a believer himself, of course. Few in his position were, as they had just seen too much of the world. But the Boss knew Gertrude Schroeder, and he knew that the Bible was a very large book. This made it handy for designing crypto keys. Her love for the Bible had actually benefited The Boss, as on her word, he had been able to make use of this chapel’s priest—codename: Black-Sail.

She wasn’t entirely too familiar with how the Americans functioned outside of the GDR. But within the network inside of the GDR, she had become the de-facto hub. Grips (before he was taken), Spanish, Open-Wide and a few others would busy themselves with the main operations of obtaining HUMINT (Human Intelligence… however they went about garnering that), and finding GDR-specific ways of transmitting that information back to her. Gertrude’s job was simple: receive instructions from the outside world and disseminate them where needed.

From there, a few messenger assets—including Sunshine—would make a run to ‘The Drugstore’ where Too-Shy would have messages further sent to Gertrude for decryption. There was only one other radio operator in the GDR, but Gertrude wasn’t allowed to know who that was for safety. After all was said and done, Gertrude would deliver the non-encrypted (and mostly un-secure) messages to ‘The Isle of Tortuga’, where Black-Sail would see the messages off to The Boss.

Things had always been secretive, of course, and complicated by nature. To properly deliver messages, it had to be done cautiously and securely. This rarely meant that it could be done quickly, or even in a timely manner. It was common to show up for meetings two-hours late, or for information to be an entire week behind its needed delivery date, or for the information to be poorly-formed and incomplete. Of course, deciphering the information was the job for analysts back in safer waters.

However, things had reached a fevered pace since Grips had been taken. Since that incident, an entire section of the network had been taken down, and the only other radio operator was now entirely running counter-intelligence to protect the assets and agents under that crypto’s umbrella. This had somehow resulted in the surprise inclusion of Sunshine, whom Gertrude worried about terribly. Sunshine was a bright young person, but her training had been uneven. The HVA had been training her to provide tell-tail signs that she was being followed, which meant that they knew she had (or soon would) be propositioned by Gertrude’s people, which further meant that they might suspect Matt York. Sunshine hadn’t had nearly enough training time with The Boss to counteract that, nor had Gertrude been given permission to pick up the slack.

And Analog… this was someone that Gertrude worried about terribly. Analog had been a smart asset, but had been dealt an extremely complicated hand. Analog was being watched as well as could be, given the circumstances of the Wall. But should that asset go under, it could cause untold damage. If Gertrude—the only remaining radio operator running actual operations—went down… well, she simply couldn’t consider the implications of that.

“Can Christians even have sex?” Walter interrupted her musings.

“Walter!” she exclaimed, whacking him on the arm.

“Well, it’s an honest question!”

“Of course, they can. It’s the Catholics that can’t.”

“You would be surprised,” an elderly voice called from across the room.

“Ah, Black-Sail,” Gertrude mused. She had never known a religious figure that spoke with such candor and whimsy as this man. In part, that was why The Boss had seen to bestow upon him such a mischievous codename. But that had largely came down to a joke the priest had told him about a passing seagull pooping in the eye of a pirate with a newly-acquired hook.

“Oh, don’t you encourage him, Father.” Gertrude chastised the man.

“Don’t call me Father, woman. It makes me feel old,” he fired back, as he walked closer.

“Oh, but your religious stature!”

“Not shrinking like I suspect my physical stature is.”

“Oh, you will always be tall and handsome to me.”

“If only we could convince those young punks running around what real beauty looked like, eh?” he quipped.

“They don’t know what they’re missing.”

“I know what I’m missing,” Walter said sadly, to the ensuing laughter of the other two.

With the pleasantries over, Mrs. Schroeder handed the envelope over to the priest. He had been through this many times before. Pulling out the money (while leaving everything else inside), he made a show of ‘emptying’ its contents in full sight.

“Bless you, my child.” he said happily, while crossing her in a Catholic gesture.

“Oh, you do know how to make a woman feel young again.” she simpered, much to the chagrin of Walter.

____

“Ah, West Germany,” Patrick thought to himself, as he stood outside of a West German barn, looking out into the dark, foggy night.

The differences between East and West Berlin were quite stark indeed. Even the lighting was different. The West reaped the myriad benefits of its rich and powerful benefactors. Its power grid had consistently been upgraded with the latest and greatest technologies. While East Berlin’s streetlights remained the dim, grubby yellow of the post-war 50’s (excluding the few Soviet ‘upgrades’ that could barely be considered so), West Berlin’s streets were brightly lit a powerful white. These windfalls weren’t just a nod to common trade diplomacy, but a not-so-silent series of raspberries to blow in faces of the residents of East Berlin. Indeed, anyone who merely gazed across the Wall was constantly reminded of how piss-poor life in the GDR truly was. Patrick hated it profusely, and was filled with jealousy anytime he crossed over.

West Germany, however, reminded Patrick that nature didn’t care about politics in the slightest. Out here in the rural areas, surrounded by hills, trees, streams and lakes, it looked exactly the same as its Eastern counterpart. Even the farms that dotted the landscape were virtually the same. They even had much the same lighting. Patrick took a sick pleasure in this. NATO didn’t give a single bloody fuck about this country. They only doted on West Berlin so that it stuck in the craw of the GDR. Here—where the folks in the GDR couldn’t readily look—the windfalls were few, if any.

“One day,” Patrick promised himself, “One day this will all burn. One day, when those worthless Americans don’t have any use for this country, it’ll burn, and fade into obscurity. Then they’ll see. But I’ll be far, far away by then.”

Feeling a chill, Patrick moved inside. It wasn’t much warmer in here, but it did cut the breeze down. He rubbed his hands together, and buried his face into his scarf for warmth. If they didn’t show soon, he would have to do jumping jacks, or stamp in place, or something to get his body temperature up to where it needed to be. “Why here?” he wondered, angrily. “Why must they always choose cold places?” It was yet another cruel joke the West played on the East: treating foreign agents with such disrespect. It was maddening. Patrick was here to benefit the damn Americans. They should be treating him like god-damned royalty, and paying him far more than they were. That, or at least pick someplace warm.

He waited… then he waited. After what seemed like an hour, he waited some more. It was always this way. They wanted to humble him. They wanted to remind him where he was in the pecking order. They wanted him to know his place and be subservient, “One day…” he swore to himself, “They’ll pay too.” Soon enough, however, he heard a shuffle of feet outside of the barn.

“Is my donkey ready?” a young male voice called out clearly.

“Clothed with the finest silk,” Patrick said through gritted teeth.

“Can it fly?” the voice asked.

“Only if you feed it right.”

Satisfied that the two were alone, and that the meeting wouldn’t be in vain, the owner of the voice stepped into the barn. The young man, dressed in a greatcoat and fedora, also wore a brazen look. And he stood with an impetuous posture as if displaying a sort of wretched dominance.

“Matt fucking York,” Patrick said. “The one and the only.”

“Oh, get over it, Patrick. You made your bed. Now lay in it.”

“Three months! Three fucking months I’ve been your little errand boy! I’ve jumped through your hoops, sang your songs, and done every inane thing you’ve asked of me.”

“Yes you have,” Matt admitted, without the slightest bit of concern in his voice.

“Maybe I deserve a little respect?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Are you cold? Well, I apologize for that, but as I recall, you were the one who asked for these security measures.”

“I didn’t ask to be left to wait for so long!”

“Ah, yes. I understand,” Matt switched to an apologetic tone, “Yes… those are our security measures.”

“What? Don’t trust the traitorous little double-agent?” Patrick sneered right back.

“As a matter of fact, no,” Matt laughed. “No, none of us do, and I’ll tell you why. You came to us, not the other way around. You know very-well the HVA’s policy on walk-ins, so you can probably figure out ours. The only reason we took you on is because you work for the HVA, and had access to information.”

“Information I have readily provided!”

“Yes. Very readily,” Matt sneered, “Without even the slightest hint of sorrow. Our higher-ups think it’s because you have some beef with your own country, but my Boss and I think it’s because this is a job for you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, don’t play that game with me. You are in the same world of Counter-intelligence that I am. We feed you useless nonsense, and you feed us useless nonsense. What better way to mess with the Americans than to pose an agent as an angry, unloved child who wants to get back at daddy for not buying him a pony when he was a child?”

“I’m not…” Patrick puffed, “I didn’t… I’m not a god-damn child.”

“Feeding us useless information is one thing. But trying to put my people in a position to be forcibly turned… now, that is something that will never happen. And if ensuring that requires that we whip you like a dog until we trust you, that’s precisely what we’ll do.”

“I’m not a dog!” Patrick yelled, becoming increasingly more irate by the moment.

“You’re right, you aren’t. Dogs are obedient. Dogs are simple, trustworthy, noble beasts that know what’s good for them. You are an intelligence agent who knows damn well why we don’t yet trust you. And until we do, we’ll continue to meet like this. Now, if you wish to be treated like a man, then start acting like a man and stop complaining about how cold it is.”

Patrick hated him… oh how he hated him. He hated his organization, and he hated Matt’s cover story—getting to be the lead singer of a popular band, screwing new girls every night and smoking his weight in marijuana every day—it was maddening. Patrick deserved all of that. For all that he had suffered and put up with, he deserved it. But mostly, he hated being talked down to. Patrick was a member of a prestigious intelligence organization. That meant that he deserved to be treated as such. Still, he knew he wouldn’t get what he wanted if he didn’t play ball.

“So, then,” Patrick said placidly, “I have your documents.”

“Well, let’s see them.” Matt said respectfully, noting the change in Patrick’s tone.

Reaching into a small attaché, Patrick pulled out a few folders and handed them over quickly. He was glad to be rid of the incriminating evidence.

“Richtlinie 1/79?” Matt asked.

“It’s the Stasi’s policy for zersetzung: how to seek out community organizations that could be considered dissentious or potentially harmful to the State. It gives the guidelines for the spreading of counter-propaganda and sowing the seeds of discontent.”

“Interesting,” Matt replied.

“May I ask why you wanted this document in specific?”

“Various reasons,” Matt responded, with a telling smirk. “Do you have the other document?”

“Here,” Patrick said, reaching into his attaché for another folder and handing it over, “The dossier on Hans Schmidt.”

“Again, give me the short version,” Matt said, looking it over.

“He’s talked, alright,” Patrick said with a knowing glare. “We’ve been able to work through most of his confessions. Make no mistake… we know bullshit when we hear it.”

“We figured.”

“Luckily for him, my case officer also believes that it’s your bullshit and not his. Mr. Schmidt believes that what he is telling us is the truth. Mr. Schmidt is very, very fortunate. My case officer has a soft-spot for the youth, and has much pull with the Stasi. He is also not one for forceful methods of interrogation. But, since he doesn’t know anything useful, at this point Mr. Schmidt is alive only because your agency believes he is still of use to us, and we believe he is a bargaining chip for you. Whatever you are planning to do, you had better do it quickly. Because once we’ve figured out who your radio operator is, they will all lose their heads.”

“I suppose you would like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t care in the slightest. I hate my country and I hate yours. I just want out. That’s why we’re talking.”

“But you realize that if we secure your defection, you will effectively be an American.”

“It’s much easier to leave America than it is to leave the GDR.”

“…especially if you are a rich American.”

“Like I said, I’m doing this for me.”

“Lucky for us.”

“Again, you had better work quickly,” Patrick said, his tone becoming more serious. “Lena has started lying to us on your behalf. Whatever you, your case officer, and she have arranged, you had best do it and get her out of the country as quickly as possible.”

It was a lie, of course. Patrick didn’t know if Lena was working for them or not. There was strong suspicion, of course—Lena had met with Matt, and Matt was the enemy. But Patrick also knew that Grandfather had a soft-spot for young people and wouldn’t tolerate imprisoning her with no proof. Besides, she was just dumb enough to make an excellent and unwitting courier for the HVA. If she was also an unwitting courier for the Americans, well, that just meant they could abscond with whatever she was carrying without her knowing. It just made things easier that way.

Fortunately, Matt had fallen for his ruse. For the first time since Patrick had met Matt York, his demeanor changed from the previous braggadocio to one resembling actual concern. Matt hadn’t expected this one, “What a fool,” Patrick thought to himself. “He honestly thought his plan would work out without a hitch.”

“Don’t make the mistake I think you’re making.” Matt said ominously.

“Oh, what mistake is that?” Patrick toyed.

“The girl has a guilty conscience. She has a guilty conscience because of you and the way the HVA trains the assets it doesn’t care for.”

“So you propositioned her, then.”

Matt didn’t respond.

“I take that as a yes.” Patrick said.

“Well… in one way or another.”

“Oh, dear lord,” Patrick thought, “That bastard.”

“She’s not my type, but I made it work.” Matt grinned wolfishly.

“Oh, so you two actually… honestly, I thought the bitch was lying about that.”

“Wait, what did you think I meant?” Matt asked in an irritated voice.

“Well, naturally I assumed that…”

“Wait, you think that woman is worth the trouble of us employing?! My God, man… with how bad your organization runs itself, I figured you would give us more credit than that.”

“It’s surprising, is all. I just thought that many of your interests… align.”

“Only one thing between her and I aligned, I assure you,” Matt gestured crudely. “I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t spying and running intel for us—but I’d also be lying if I said she had any clue that she was. That girl has such a big mouth, she practically… well, you get the idea.”

Patrick hated Matt. He had all the luck with the women and he knew how to rub it in. Getting to mix business and pleasure the way he always seemed to… well, of course Patrick had some ‘pleasure’ of his own, but that was beside the point.

“Either way, I know she’s lying to me,” Patrick said, dismissively. “And again, I don’t care. But I’m not putting my head on the chopping block if my team-mates get the wrong impression. So, whatever you are planning on doing with her, do it quickly.”

“And what of the other?”

“What other?”

“You know who I’m talking about.”

“Oh, Vivika?” Patrick said casually. “She was recently arrested as a spy herself.”

“She…” Matt broke his composure slightly. “She what? What did she do? Where is she?”

“Oh, you know how these things go,” Patrick replied with a grin. “She’s probably still alive, if I had to guess. What’s left of her, anyway. But you were saying something about Lena…”

“I want to know more about Vivika,” Matt said, flushing with rage. “Tell me where they have her.”

Oh, this was too good, Patrick realized. The poor fool had broken the cardinal rule of espionage: don’t get involved. It felt so good to have this over him. Not only did Patrick have another major bargaining chip, he had it against this conceited British moron, “Now, maybe I’ll finally get a little respect.”

“If they’ve…” Matt seethed, “If they’ve hurt her… I swear to God I will…”

“Well, hurting is a matter of perspective,” Patrick taunted. “They generally don’t start with anything too debilitating. But electrocution… I sure hope she doesn’t have a weak heart. Sometimes they stick the pins in the wrong places.”

“Tell me where she is, or I swear to God…”

“You will what? Ruin relations with your only remaining double-agent in the HVA? Oh, I’m sure daddy will absolutely love that.”

“It’s worth it,” Matt threatened, drawing himself up to his full height. “My Boss gives everyone a freebie.”

“Oh, calm yourself,” Patrick jeered. “They haven’t captured her at all. No one suspects a thing. Truthfully, she isn’t even doing anything worth arresting her for. She’s a failed asset that the HVA doesn’t want anymore, and barely a worthwhile informant for the Stasi. She’s utterly worthless to everyone.”

“She’s not worthless.”

“She is to me. But I can make her worth so much more, if you really want her to stay alive. She does have the perkiest tits I’ve ever seen, and I’m sure it’s nice and warm down…”

“If you touch her… If any of your people touch her…”

“Then what?” Patrick laughed. “What do you have? What could you possibly do?”

“Oh, I have something,” Matt’s countenance changed then, to something vaguely resembling cheekish. Given the circumstances, ‘cheekish’ probably dealt a greater measure of foreboding than any amount of anger he let onto in the past few minutes. “Would you like to see?”

“You have nothing,” Patrick laughed louder. “Absolutely nothing.”

With this, Matt reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and pulled out a letter. He looked at the letter for a moment, considering it with a smile. He then kissed the letter sardonically and handed it over.

Patrick opened the letter, to reveal a set of folded pictures. He unfolded the bundle, and immediately went white. The top picture revealed himself ruthlessly penetrated by the fat French dignitary in an alleyway. The picture wasn’t expertly taken—indeed, it had captured far more of the wall than it had the characters in it—but what it did prominently display was Patrick’s face twisting in pain. Suddenly, he realized the error of his supposed comrades. “What were they thinking?!” he screamed inside himself, “Why did they give that pen back to her?! Why?”

“While Lena and I were… well, you know… she didn’t seem to notice us absconding with her purse. Too busy being throttled, perhaps.”

“You…” Patrick hissed, trying to regain his composure.

“And honestly,” Matt continued, “we were quite surprised by a lot of things. If it wasn’t for the Soviet GRU agent who had lost that exact same model of pen, we wouldn’t have even noticed. You’re getting slow, Patrick.”

“Well, big deal!” Patrick howled. “So what? Put it in the tabloids! Put it all over the news that I, some no-name Eastern German, likes getting buggered by old men! What do you have to gain?!”

“Oh, keep looking,” Matt smiled. “You’ve only seen the top photos.”

Patrick quickly rifled through the photos; each one bringing him to a paler and paler shade of white, “This can’t be real,” Patrick thought to himself. “This… there’s no way. How…?” There, in the damning shade of monochromatic, was a picture of Patrick, red-faced and crying with… her… on top of him.

“How…?” Patrick whispered as his vision blurred. “How did… who?”

Matt simply stared at him. It wasn’t a triumphant look. It wasn’t even a remotely pleased look. It was the blank, emotionless stare of a man who felt nothing. Patrick had become an object—neither worthy of praise nor contempt. He was a stone in the road; a chipped edge on a bench. He may have been useful as an asset to Matt, but as a person… he was absolutely nothing.

“How… how did you…”

“So, I take it we have your loyalty, then.” Matt asked plainly.

“Who… I h-have to… know… wh-who t-took…”

“Oh, be a man, will you?!” Matt shouted. “Be something remotely resembling a man! I know it must be hard for you, being such a deviant little whore like you are! I’ve half a mind to use these photos regardless! How disgusting you are! Just look at you!”

“I’m n-not…”

“You are disgusting. A filthy, disgusting little pervert. Look! Look at those fucking pictures and tell me what you are!”

“I’m not d-disgusting!” Patrick openly cried now.

“Yes. Yes, you are! You are a filthy, disgusting freak! Who could ever love such a freak?! Getting raped by a damn woman! How very, very weak you must truly be.”

“I’m not… I’m not… I’m not…” Patrick repeated over and over, as he dropped to his knees, “I’m not disgusting… I’m not…”

The scene paused momentarily as Matt stood victorious before Patrick, who cowered on his knees, sobbing into his hands. He had been beaten, and so very terribly wronged by the world. It wasn’t fair… none of it was fair. Why was the world this cruel? Why was it this cruel to him?

“Does Vivika have your protection?” Matt said plainly, after some time.

“Yes.”

“And Lena too?”

“Yes sir.”

“And you will do what needs to be done for Mr. Schmidt when the time finally comes?”

“Y-yes sir.”

“Then we’re done here.”

Matt spit on the ground in front of Patrick, before walking out of the barn, leaving him to cry silently. The night’s fog crept into the barn, adding to the stifling claustrophobia of the space. Alone in his misery, the night seemed to become that much colder, and the barn seemed to become even more desolate than it had been before.

Die Wahrheit Wird Dich Befreien

“Hello, dear Lena!” Dragon Lady gushed, as she stood up from the cafe’s small wooden table to give Lena a deep hug.

“Oh, it’s been so long!” Lena gushed back. “How have you been?!”

Fake pleasantries accomplished, the two slipped into chairs at opposite sides of the table. Lena resisted the urge to glower at her, while Dragon Lady made no similar attempts. The cafe was busy with the evening rush of young couples and lonely hearts out on the town. Their table was at the far end of the room, and no one was paying the slightest bit of attention to them. Dragon Lady used this opportunity to shoot poisoned eyeball-darts in her direction.

“So,” Dragon Lady began. “I suppose you are excited, then? You finally get to see your Grandfather again.”

“I am. It’s been too long. How has he been?”

“Oh, he’s been busy. Very busy indeed.”

The two sat in awkward silence for a few moments, neither really wanting to talk to the other. Lena took a loud sip of her coffee, Dragon Lady took an even louder sip of hers, and it seemed that both were enjoying the precious few seconds that they didn’t have to make conversation. Dragon Lady was the first to speak again, however, and Lena couldn’t help but feel that she had won some minor battle.

“So… how have you been?” she asked, almost seeming genuine. “Any new music? Any… new men?”

“New men?” Lena responded awkwardly. “You mean… dating, or?”

“Or women,” Dragon Lady offered, and she didn’t seem to be teasing her at all.

“God, why does everyone think I’m a lesbian?” Lena thought acidly, “And what business is it of this monster if I was?!” For a second, she considered actually saying it, before simply replying, “No. No new men. I’ve been rather busy.”

“Well, that’s good.”

The two sat once more in silence, taking long sips of their coffee. Lena hazarded a few glances about the room, just to make sure that everyone was having more fun than she was. Indeed, it appeared that they were. Of course, everyone else was here because they wanted to be. They laughed, joked, hugged, kissed and did all the things that true friends did—whereas she and Dragon Lady could not possibly be more eager to be rid of each other.

“How about you?” Lena asked, half awkwardly and half brazenly. “Any new women?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Oh.”

“…and new men, of course.”

“I see.”

Lena cleared her throat, and Dragon Lady did the same before changing the subject, “So, let’s get this over with, then. I am going to be transporting you to a location. I want you to know that this is a temporary place. We were originally planning on sending you to an actual safe house, but some new developments have occurred, and we will be unable to expose you to any place that is sensitive.”

“What new developments?”

“Well…” Dragon Lady said in a tone vaguely resembling concern, “It would appear that some people aren’t very good at following instructions and get a little bit nosy.”

“Nosy? Who’s getting nosy?”

Dragon Lady stared at her. It was as if she expected Lena to somehow know who or what she was talking about.

“Who’s getting nosy?” Lena repeated, “Did I do something?”

The only response from Dragon Lady was the lifting of an eyebrow. Lena squirmed, desperately trying to read Dragon Lady’s expression or understand what she was implying. Whatever was going on— whatever had happened—she felt that anything she said or did in this moment might implicate her in something she knew nothing about.

“No, dear,” Dragon Lady responded after some time. “You haven’t done anything. Shall we head out?”

____

Dragon Lady drove the car for nearly two hours. Lena wasn’t complaining, though. This was one of perhaps three times she had even been in a car in her life, excluding the touring van to West Germany. Oh sure, she had ridden on busses before, but those were slow lumbering things and only drove certain directions. In this car, she felt so free! She imagined what it would be like to simply drive away in a car to start a whole new life anywhere she pleased. As it was, Dragon Lady drove past places Lena had walked a million times before, yet they seemed almost foreign to her now that she was whizzing by at a break-neck speed. After the first thirty minutes of driving, Lena knew she had to have her own car someday.

Dragon Lady had taken a winding route through the city before emerging out into the country. Driving slowly down a lonely country road, she pulled over to the side, shut the engine off and waited. Perhaps five minutes passed, before she turned around and drove back into the city. Another fifteen minutes later, she pulled up to a hostel and parked on the street beside it.

“Here we are!” Dragon Lady said proudly. “Are you excited?”

Lena nodded in response.

The two entered the main door into a lobby. It was a shabby place, and the attendant at the front seemed quite nonplussed by their presence there. He didn’t even look up to notice them, and Lena distinctly heard the sound of a television crackling somewhere from behind the desk. She recognized the sounds of one of the GDR’s terrible soaps. “Is there a room here, perhaps? Am I meeting him in one of the rooms?”

The excitement continued to build as they walked down a hall, passing door after door. She was so excited to talk to her Grandfather and talk about the car, and the show, and what East Berlin was like, she could practically contain herself. Yet as they approached the further end of the hall, Lena became confused. “Maybe he’s one of the last doors?”, she thought to herself. Yet at the pace they were walking, Dragon Lady didn’t seem to be walking anywhere but towards the end. She wasn’t even counting the numbers on the doors. As they finally reached the end, and walked out of the exit to the outside world, Lena had finally recognized the anti-surveillance tactics, “It’s a dummy location.” she realized, “She’s worried that we’re being followed.”

The two walked down a dark alleyway for a minute or two, before strolling past a parked car. Lena looked at the car and noticed that someone was sitting in the driver’s seat. Suddenly, everything went dark as she felt a bag being firmly placed over her head, “What the… what is going on?!” she screamed inside herself, as she began to struggle.

“Stop squirming.” Dragon Lady instructed. “It’s a necessary countermeasure. We know you are being followed, and we know by whom. Until we can figure out why, and determine if you’ve known about it, you don’t get to see where we are taking you. So, sit back and enjoy the ride.”

____

The car drove for nearly thirty minutes by Lena’s measure. She wasn’t uncomfortable, per se, but her bag was hot and sticky from her own breathing. At first, she had hyperventilated with the fear of certain immediate death. But reason took hold and she knew it wouldn’t bode well for her to have a full-fledged anxiety attack. If they had really intended on killing her, they probably would have done so. But they could still hurt her—if that was the case, only a calm head would get her out of it. So, she set about the business of stilling her breath and calming the pounding heart in her chest. Dragon Lady seemed to sense this.

“Someone’s in deep trouble,” she teased, but Lena didn’t respond. “Have you ever been thrown into a rock quarry before? I don’t imagine you have. But just know that it’s a long way down. Lots of corners too. Lots of sharp, pointy rocks to break your bones and rip chunks out of you on the way down.”

Lena shuddered. She knew that Dragon Lady was just trying to get her goat, but it was working.

“Believe it or not, some people survive the fall,” she continued. “Those are my favorite. They just crawl around aimlessly, screaming for help.” Lena shuddered visibly as she continued, “One actually made it eight hours—god, he was bleeding from so many places! It actually took both of his legs right out of the sockets… they were just hanging on by the skin. He pissed himself three times! Three entire times!”

Lena shuddered again.

“I know it’s all about the nuances and finer details.” Dragon Lady continued, “The way the dirt and rock bits packed into his wounds. That must have felt terrible… although in hindsight, that’s probably why he survived so long. My god, the man screamed! It wasn’t nearly as bad as when the maggots got to him though. You wouldn’t think eight hours is enough for them to breed, but it was! Oh, he really didn’t like the maggots.”

“Would you shut up, woman?!” a loud male voice cut in from the driver’s seat.

“Oh, come now. I’m just having a little…”

“Stop being a bitch and shut the fuck up!” the voice said again, and Lena recognized it as Wart-face.

“Fine,” Dragon Lady replied, sullenly.

“Thank you.” Lena silently thanked him. “Thank you for that.”

____

Lena was led out of the car. She gasped in the fresh night air as the bag finally came off of her head. As she looked around, she noticed that she was outside of a quaint little summer cottage, like many in the GDR. It wasn’t particularly interesting, all things considered. But as she looked around, she noticed that it was surrounded by woodland. Under other circumstances, she could have gotten used to a place like this. Despite her generally terror-filled mood, as she followed Wart-face and Dragon Lady in through the front door, she brightened immediately.

“Jackieisapunk, Judyisarunt… bumpindowntaBerlin, joinaice-capade-a…”

The sardonic and barely discernable voice of Joey Ramone filled the cottage’s living room as Lena looked about. Books and loose pieces of paper were everywhere, along with the odd-guitar or two. The windows were blacked out with thick curtains, but on the walls hung pictures of David Bowie and a few other musicians that Lena knew, along with large, full-colored maps. The faint scent of freshly-murdered fish and cigar smoke filled the air, and Lena felt right at home.

“My beloved granddaughter!” a familiar voice called from behind her, before she was immediately swept up into a big bear hug.

“Grandfather!” Lena gushed genuinely as she hugged him back. He looked every inch the erudite old codger he was, clean as a whistle and filled with wisdom. Yet the chef’s apron he wore was covered in stains of this sauce or that, and perhaps a small spatter of fish guts. She hadn’t known until now how very much she missed this dear old soul.

“So, tell me everything!” he said hurriedly, as he motioned her over to a set of large leather chairs, “You must tell me how your show went! Did you happen to pick up any albums while you were over there? Have you heard any new music?”

“I…” Lena stuttered, looking at Wart-face and Dragon Lady.

As if recognizing her concern, Grandfather looked at them and said, “Thank you, you two. You have delivered my granddaughter to me safe and sound, but she will be staying the night here. I’ll drive her back in the morning.” The two nodded and left, but not before Dragon Lady fired some more poisoned eye-darts at her.

“They aren’t so bad, once you get used to them,” Grandfather said after a few moments.

“I’m sure they are both wonderful.”

“Oh shut up you brat!” he laughed. “She’s a cunt. Everyone knows it.”

“A cu… a what?!!” Lena giggled in shock. “I didn’t know you even knew those kinds of words!”

“I’m four-hundred years old. I know every word in existence. And I can use them too. But if you use them, I’ll be cross with you—you aren’t old enough.”

“Cunt.” Lena said, smiling mischievously.

“Well,” Grandfather sighed as he stood, “I was preparing some fish for us. Freshly caught! But I suppose I can enjoy it all by myself.”

“Okay, okay, okay!” Lena said quickly, “I’m sorry! I take it back! I’m sorry!”

“Oh, my goodness!” Grandfather said, as he walked towards the kitchen, “Do you smell that?! I’m going to just love eating this right in front of you.”

“No, please! Please! It smells so good!”

“Well… I suppose…” he called from the kitchen. “If you truly are sorry!” before emerging with a plate covered in steaming, delicious fish.

The two dug into their meal, attempting to devour it while talking at the same time. Despite the aged wisdom of her beloved grandfather, he still talked with his mouth full. She laughed at this. Here was a man who couldn’t be bothered to give the slightest of cares when he didn’t have to. She began to gather the distinct impression that this man was using her as an excuse to slack off.

“Don’t think we’re meeting for you,” he laughed, as if sensing her thoughts. “My wife always has her damn sister-in-law over. Chew with your mouth closed!” he said in a high-pitched, unflattering mimicry, “Don’t make my Sister think I made a mistake in marrying you!”

“What?!” Lena howled. “Really?!”

“Oh, she’s so mean to me,” he confessed. “Making me wear clean clothing… making me clean off my desk… my desk! That’s my desk! Mine! And she makes me clean it!”

“That’s an atrocity!”

“She’s lucky she’s pretty,” Grandfather laughed. “And smarter than me, as well. Believe it or not, she’s the brains of the operation. As all good marriages are, I would reckon.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. One of these days, when you find some lucky young man to marry, you will quickly realize that you are smarter than him. All women are smarter than men—it’s the way we are meant to be.”

“Well, then why even have them around?”

“Because men are better at breaking things than women. It’s men’s job to do things; it’s women’s job to tell them what to do.”

“Some of us women are pretty good at breaking things.”

“Oh, sure you are,” he conceded. “And no doubt those of you will find those rare men who are capable of thinking. But in general, men are dumb beasts that need a woman’s touch. I’d wager that if our governments were run by women, a few things would get done around here.”

The conversation shifted and the two talked about utter nonsense for a while. Every now and then, Grandfather would walk over to the record player and put on a new album. Lena recognized a few—The Ramones, obviously, and a few tunes from some of the others—yet many of them were completely new to her. After a few switches, he put on a record that had a scratched-up label on it. When it started playing, she recognized the voice of Johnny Rotten, even though she vaguely recognized the song. It was distorted and crackly, with far too much noise going on in the background.

“This…” he said, walking back over, “is one of the coolest performances ever given in modern history. In Britain, they have this yearly celebration called the Queen’s Jubilee where they hold a procession on the river Thames… the river that flows right in front of Parliament and most of the important government buildings. her Majesty and her royal entourage board several boats—you know, caviar, wine, jewelry and so much more ridiculousness—and float merrily down the river, too much aplomb from the crowd.

“Well, anyway, you have to understand that in almost any other era, the Sex Pistols would have been swiftly arrested for sedition, just by merely existing. Especially after all of their artwork which was directly inflammatory towards the ruling class. Yet, in the golden era of the 70’s—and I use the term ‘golden’ loosely) all they really received for their antics was being banned from the radio. Well, now we introduce the Sex Pistols’ manager, Malcolm McLaren, who came up with perhaps the dumbest, most irresponsible idea ever had: the Sex Pistols would join the flotilla—without permission of course—and follow her Majesty around on their own boat, playing ‘God Save the Queen’.”

“Wait, they what?!” Lena gasped.

“Of course, you don’t know this. There’s no way a story like this would ever make it into the GDR! But yes, they certainly did do exactly that. When the boat docked, McLaren and several of his fellow punks were swiftly beaten up by the police and thrown into the back of a police van. Nevertheless, that singular stunt got the Pistols on the airwaves, and solidified the entire Punk movement in Britain.”

“That’s unbelievable! We would get killed for that here.”

“Yes, you probably would. But that’s why I’m here: to help you know where that line is.” Then, with a wink, he added, “And to occasionally help you skirt that line for the amusement of your dear, elderly grandfather.”

“Why, though?” Lena raised a concerned eyebrow. “Why in the world would you want to do something like that?”

“Like I said, it’s amusing! I have my duties, and I accomplish them. Beyond that, I’m a lover of novelty just like anyone else. It warms my heart to come up with moronic ideas, and then see a bunch of actual morons pull them off for me.”

“I’m insulted, Grandfather.” Lena pouted.

“Oh, don’t be.” he added, with a wink. “But you are a moron. Anyone under the age of 35 is—it doesn’t matter how smart you are. This leads me to our next subject of conversation, however.”

With this, he stood up and walked over to one of his desks, rifled through a stack of papers, and emerged with a few newspaper clippings. He walked back over and handed them to her, before stating, “Read them out loud.”

“Uhm…” she said, as she perused the clippings, “Social Activists the world over are mourning the loss of Nicht Zustimmen’s drummer, Vortecx, a gay man, who was brutally murdered in a West German alleyway last Friday.”

Lena paused to look up at Grandfather, “Murdered? Vortecx was murdered?”

“Just keep reading,” Grandfather said, solemnly.

Lena stifled back emotion as she continued reading, “The University of Michigan is holding a candlelit vigil, while across the Atlantic, the University of Oxford is holding a silent protest. Feminist Spokeswoman Jenni Germane was quoted, saying, ‘If you needed any further proof of the kind of malevolence that alternative sexual expression is receiving, look no further: Vortecx was gunned down in a country that is supposed to be our ally—two steps forward, three steps back!’

“Norwegian student leader and valedictorian at Lillehammer University, Lisbeth Ostlind, was additionally quoted, saying, ‘I don’t know much about this. In truth, I don’t know much about alternative expressions at all. And before this, I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Now I see what all the fuss is about: in a world where people are murdered for private aspects of their own personal life, everyone must take pause—even those of us who aren’t of those private aspects. The laws that Norway has passed this year alone should be an example to the rest of the world.’

“Berkeley University in America is holding a silent vigil as well, playing Anti-Gay propaganda videos produced by the American government for 48-hours to raise awareness.”

“This…” Lena said, as tears began welling up. “I don’t know what to say…”

“I know it’s absolutely atrocious,” Grandfather consoled her. “It’s an act of supreme and unwarranted violence, but I wanted you to know that he didn’t die in vain. I’m sure he would have preferred to stay alive; but I’m sure he would have been proud to see the shockwaves his death caused. Scandinavia, Lena! This Lisbeth Ostlind woman is someone to watch, mark my words. And I’ve heard they are even having small protests in Canada! The entire world has taken notice!”

“I don’t like my friends being used as propaganda.” Lena said plainly.

“Oh, it’s not Propaganda, Lena. The protests are real, and the people are experiencing real solidarity.”

“You know, I never understood… uh, him.” Lena said honestly. “I never got him and his ‘thing’. He wasn’t a man, according to him, and he wasn’t a woman. But he was a man. Wasn’t he?”

“I don’t understand it myself,” Grandfather sighed. “This movement is a strange one indeed. But it’s new, so I cut it slack. Besides, I don’t think it’s meant to be strictly understood in one way. I think it’s a matter of the contention itself—that a bunch of artists are doing what they are supposed to do and arguing with convention. They are questioning things, and that’s important for young people to do. And it’s working. It’s making people who wouldn’t normally ask questions ask them. I don’t agree with his point of view, personally, but I can appreciate that it meant something to him, because he meant something to me.”

“I don’t understand,” Lena said. “Why would you of all people, doing what you do, care?”

“Because I’m an individual, Lena. When I’m at work, I’m at work; but when I’m not, I’m not. I’m not gay, and I don’t approve of gay behavior. For that matter, I don’t approve of most young-peoples’ behavior, or young people in general. I think almost everything you all do is utterly foolish. But I can still love gay folks and young people, and I can still rally to their defense when someone is picking on them. That’s what being in a community means, Lena: putting aside individual personality quirks and preferences to ‘love thy neighbor’. Vortecx, for all his individual weirdness, was still my neighbor. Just like everyone else is.”

“I like that,” Lena said with a sniff.

“Except for you, of course,” he added with a wink. “You’re my granddaughter. I don’t have to approve of or support your nonsense.”

Lena smiled. He had such a good heart, and it inspired her. But she was extremely bothered by the news of Vortecx’s murder. He and Lena hadn’t really been all that close… but this…

“Grandfather? Who murdered him?”

“Oh dear,” Grandfather said slowly, “It’s… it’s complicated.”

“I’d like to hear it.” she replied resolutely. “If you know then I’d like to know. He was my friend, after all.”

“Lena, I need you to know firsthand that this is partially my fault. And I need to ask your forgiveness for that before I begin.”

“Your fault? But why?”

“My intention with all of this was to get you and Matt York into the same band. I knew that the youth in the GDR would accept his views, especially since they accepted yours as ‘The Mad Bunny’. I wanted to get him on this side of the wall so that we could create a punk scene that the youth would rally behind. One that would be more in line with the good socialist values that help our community grow strong.

“In order to do that, I needed to facilitate interest. For that to happen, I needed a few of your band-mates to disappear. So, I gave them some resources. I lined their pockets with a few marks, and put them in a position to safely defect to the West where they could live out their lives doing what they wanted to do, instead of tooting our horn. They get their freedom and we get a rock-star. It should have worked. It would have worked, but…”

“But what, Grandfather?”

“Oh, Lena. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what, Grandfather?” Lena asked, leaning over and putting a hand on his forearm to comfort him.

“The Americans murdered them, Lena.”

“The… the what?” Lena asked, startled.

Oh, this changed everything. This was absolutely crazy. Mr. Collins and Matt wouldn’t have… they couldn’t have! They were with her the entire time. And Mrs. Schroeder would have told her. Surely, she wouldn’t have supported an organization that would… suddenly, Lena felt like throwing up.

“I should have warned you, Lena. You work for the HVA. The HVA and the Americans obviously have separate interests. They must have known what I was up to and decided to cut my efforts off at the head. Thank God they didn’t get you, or else I would have never been able to forgive myself.”

“Wait…” Lena stuttered. “I… I don’t understand. The… the Americans? They killed Vortecx?”

“They did indeed, I’m afraid. And now I’m left in an uncomfortable position… and it’s a position for which I have to ask your forgiveness for once again.”

“W-what?” Lena asked, taken aback.

“Lena, I need you to trust me.”

“I do trust you… b-but…”

“Lena,” he repeated, “I need you to trust me.”

“I do!”

“…because I’m going to ask you a question that you don’t want to answer, and I need you to trust that it’s for your own good… and trust that I can protect you.”

“Ok?” Lena half-agreed, although she was so very confused now.

“I need you to tell me who you are also working for.” he said plainly.

The cold sweats came on faster than she was prepared for. A shiver ran up her spine so quick, and her vision tunneled so rapidly, she legitimately thought that she would faint on the spot. She had been caught. Or if she hadn’t, she soon would be. She only had two choices, and both of them were terrible: lie, and be found out eventually; or come clean and face the wrath immediately. Once she admitted what she had agreed to with Mr. Collins and Matt, that was it.

The only way out of this was to lie, and lie quickly. She imagined what it would feel like being unceremoniously chucked into a rock quarry, roughly colliding with rock and cliff as she screamed towards a maggot-filled death—all to the cackling amusement of Dragon Lady. No, she had to lie immediately. But was she prepared to lie to her beloved Grandfather? Especially on behalf of the ones that had murdered her band-mate?!

“Grandfather, I d-don’t…” she started. She realized that she had stuttered. That, in turn, made her swallow. Once she swallowed, she knew she was caught.

“Lena, you need to trust me. If you don’t trust me, I can’t help you.”

“B-but…” she stuttered again, as she began to cry, “I’m…”

“Lena, take a leap of faith.” he said in a comforting tone. “Trust me. Trust that I care for you, and will protect you. Take that leap of faith.”

“I… it’s so… I can’t…” she began crying even harder. This was it. She would die knowing she had failed the only one she knew had truly looked out for her. And she would be dying for those two traitorous bastards that had… oh why her?!

“Take a leap, Lena. Just trust me.”

“I am working for the Americans!” she blubbered. “I’m so sorry, Grandfather! They told me so many things! They promised me things, and I believed them! I’m so sorry!”

Grandfather pulled her over into his lap and wrapped her up in a big hug. He held her close with such warmth, “Oh Granddaughter…” he said. “Don’t you worry, I forgive you. We’ll set things right. You couldn’t have done anything too serious at this point. We can make it work.”

The two sat for several minutes, Lena making a nice waterfall of tears on his shoulder, and him holding her close. If Lena was to die shortly after this, well, at least she had come clean about the whole thing. But she would die knowing she had betrayed her Grandfather to this level, “Oh, how wretched this is!” she thought to herself, “This is how I repay him!”

“You know I have to ask more questions, Lena,” he said after a while. “I can make all of this go away. But in order to do that, I need you to be honest with me again.”

“Okay,” Lena sniffed. She was fully prepared to betray the Americans if she had to. They had put her in this position, after all.

“I’m not going to ask you what you’ve done. You’ve only been back a short time, so you’ve not done any lasting damage. To be honest with you, whoever you’ve met on this side of the Wall is worth more to me alive than otherwise, and I won’t ask you to betray your friends and neighbors. But I do need to know who you were propositioned by.”

“Matt York,” she replied without hesitation. Oddly, Grandfather didn’t appear to be the least bit surprised by this.

“I figured,” he laughed. “Like I said, the Americans and the HVA have very separate interests. But the clandestine services and their little operations are pretty easy to sniff out once you’ve done counter-intelligence for as long as I have. That, and intelligence apparatuses can be a lot less original than you might think. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if they were trying to get Matt York over into the GDR just like me.”

“H-how did you know?” Lena sniffed with surprise.

“Oh, call it a hunch.” he laughed again, “He’s just a little too perfect. That, and the fact that most of you are using your super-secret rooftop radios to listen to Radio Brandenburg?! Why in the hell would they be playing that anti-American nonsense unless they were trying to butter us up? Matt also speaks weird German. If you watch his interviews, he speaks it nearly flawlessly, but he uses phrases he would only know if he grew up on this side of the Wall instead of being handled by a case officer on that side, and he uses the phrases out of context. He’s being handled by someone that didn’t quite account for that. That’s pretty typical of intelligence organizations these days.”

“That makes a lot of sense. But how did you know that we were…”

“Well you’ve already told me about the roof-top radios.” he chuckled. “And, come on. You think my block doesn’t have its own? The only reason I don’t personally have one is because I have carte blanche from the State to do whatever the hell I damn well please. But I have my community too.”

“That’s so awesome!” Lena giggled. “You are so punk rock.”

“More than you will ever know,” Grandfather winked. “What, pray tell, were those idiot Americans wanting you to singlehandedly mastermind?”

“Well…” Lena thought. She knew she had to tell him, but she knew that doing so might risk his ire, or worse, get Hans in a worse position than he was already in, “It’s… complicated.”

“Oh, come on, tell me!” Grandfather rolled his eyes. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s particularly grandiose and movie-worthy. I would expect nothing less of you and your hijinks.”

“…it’s… it’s about Hans.”

“Oh my,” Grandfather’s voice took on a serious tone. “Oh my, yes. I was wondering when that little issue would come to call.”

“You aren’t mad at me, are you?”

“Oh, gods no! I’ve been waiting months for this to come up. And let me tell you this: I’m honestly surprised that the Americans have been this loyal to some random asset. Normally they just debrief the network and let the poor bastard rot, which is more or less what we would do. But I’ll assuage your fears, since you are being so honest with me: Hans is alive and well.

“He’s scared, of course, and could do with some fresh air. But I’m not of the business of torturing people—especially children. Remember, I’ve actually had teenagers. I know what the little shits are capable of. Unless the Americans are wanting to cultivate agents who have the particularly rare skill of liking girls or having acne, I know that they didn’t trust him with anything more than I would. Gods… what better way to get some girl to date you, than to tell them you are a super-secret spy? No, Hans is perfectly safe. Just between you and me, I’m only keeping him locked up because I know it pisses off the Americans. If it were up to me, I’d have one of my own agents spank him, and then pack him across the Wall.”

“But what about the network?” Lena asked, before thinking better of it.

“Oh, I know who most of them are,” Grandfather said, with a wink. “I even know who the radio operator is.”

“You know Mrs. Schroeder?!” Lena gasped, before thinking better of it.

“Of course, I do!” Grandfather scoffed. “But that doesn’t do me any good—it’s their crypto keys I’m after. If I go after Janet Schroeder, they’ll just switch the keys and then I’m back to square one.”

“Gertrude.” Lena corrected, trying to be helpful, “Her name is Gertrude Schroeder.”

“Oh, goodness me,” Grandfather sighed. “Age takes the memory first. In any case, I have no intention of brutalizing Hans or her. I only want their information. Once I can find out their crypto keys, I’ll just listen in. That way I get better information, and I don’t have to harm anyone. Much more neighborly, don’t you think?”

“That’s wonderful,” Lena sighed, relieved.

“But back to the important parts. You and I both know that you aren’t working for Matt. Matt is just an agent; I need to know who his boss is.”

For a second, Lena hesitated. She felt betrayed by Matt and Mr. Collins for putting her in this position. Yet something about Mr. Collins was just so… trustworthy. He was the sort of man that everyone wanted to be around. He was a genuine person that knew how to let unimportant things slide. She admired him, and didn’t want to disappoint him. Yet he was also on that side of the Wall—no one could touch him over there. What harm could telling Grandfather actually do?

“You won’t hurt him, will you?” Lena asked sheepishly.

“Who? Matt or his boss?”

“Either, I guess.”

“Oh, Matt can be controlled.” Grandfather laughed. “Worse comes to worst, we’ll just deport his British arse and be done with it. But his boss is a case officer. By and large, those people are untouchable from a political standpoint, and he wouldn’t ever be on this side of the Wall if he knows what is good for him.”

“His name is Marcus Collins, I think,” Lena said plainly.

Suddenly, Grandfather shoved her out of his lap onto the floor, and stood up with a start. For the first time since Lena had met him, he seemed unnerved… angry, almost. He was fidgeting in place, tightening and re-tightening his hands as if they had gone numb, “What in the hell?” Lena boggled to herself, “What’s the big deal??”

“You…” he started anxiously, “You… you have to be absolutely certain.”

“Certain of what?” Lena asked honestly.

“Don’t toy with me right now!” Grandfather yelled. “Answer my damn question! It’s a great sin to lie to an elderly person. Are you absolutely certain you have that name right?!”

“Y-yes…” Lena responded, suddenly afraid, “Marcus Collins.”

“Oh no, no, no, no, no,” Grandfather said as he began to pace. “Oh this… this is… oh why? Why did… but he… there’s no way… when did I… it’s unbelievable! It’s preposterous!”

“Grandfather, what’s…” she started, before being interrupted by an increasingly manic Grandfather.

“Shut up, you brat, and don’t interrupt old people when they are trying to remember things! What with senility kicking in, it’s too hard as it is!”

“I’m sorry,” Lena said, on the verge of tears. He had never treated her like this before.

“This… but… oh, Lena… you have no idea… if…”

For some time, Grandfather paced and sweat, tightening and re-tightening his fists, rambling like a gibbering idiot. Lena didn’t know what to expect next, but it wouldn’t have surprised her if he suddenly punched a wall, or set something on fire, or began hysterically laughing or crying or… suddenly, she realized that a nervous Grandfather was far more unsettling than anything Dragon Lady had ever done.

“Alright,” he said, after some time. “Alright. This… no. No, that won’t work. But… no, no, that certainly won’t do, either.”

“What won’t work, Grandfather?” Lena asked, trying to be helpful and not annoying at the same time.

“Lena, please don’t take offense to this, but you will have to find a way of entertaining yourself for the rest of the night. I have to think. This is very important, and I can’t be bothered to be particularly Grandfatherly tonight. One thing is very certain, though: you will be going back to West Berlin, and you will be playing a show with Matt fucking York!”

Das Verdickungsdiagramm

The night was cold, and filled with a mist that threated rain at any moment. The ground was wet, with little puddles and streams meandering through the cobbled ground. Vivika, who seemed to be the only one out at this time of night, walked into the phone booth wearing thick black sunglasses. The glasses made it hard to see; but it was better this way. Occasionally, she would reach a finger up behind them to nurse her poor eyeball. It had swollen terribly, and she could barely see through it. Carefully, she checked to make sure the door was closed behind her. Then she checked to make sure that no one was about that could see her, before pulling out her key-chain.

Fumbling through the few keys on it, she handled a particularly nondescript one that was heavily tarnished. Considering it for a second, she placed a finger roughly half-over the gripping end, and the small hole drilled through. Then, she quickly dialed a few digits on the phone box’s keypad, listening to make sure the tones were correct, before blowing into the hollow tooth-side of the small key to phreak out the final tone of the number.

“Zero, zero, five, seven, two, nine…” the automated voice on the other line began. She knew that this was a random series of meaningless numbers that would go on forever, just in case the Stasi became wise to the secret line. No doubt if they did figure out how to listen in, they would spend months meticulously annotating gibberish, before sending it to the highest-ranking members of the Soviets so that they too could puzzle over it.

“I’m sorry, wrong number.” she said into the receiver.

“Five, three, zero, two, two…”

“I’m sorry, wrong number.” she said again.

“Zero, nine, three, nine, zero…”

“I’m sorry, wrong number.” she said one final time, before hanging up. She sighed with relief, glad to have that business over with.

Looking around to make sure that she was still alone, she left small phone booth. She took one final irritated swipe at her assailed eyeball, before slowly shuffling down the street. The night’s fog clung to the asphalt and buildings alike, making them glisten with the dampened streetlights. It definitely smelled like a long rain forthcoming—just like her mood. She resigned to walk off the funk, hoping that the exercise would somehow improve her outlook. It wouldn’t, though. Just like her black eye, she knew this from experience. Still, she might as well give it a try.

She walked past a series of meaningless structures, and a scant few meaningless cars parked right next to them. Occasionally, a meaningless statue or gilding would barely catch her attention, before she decided it wasn’t worth the effort to look. Every single windowsill, cobblestone and lamp-post was unoriginal and devoid of life; a relentless onslaught of copying and half-hearted attempts to meet the demand of the GDR’s slowly-expanding population. As she walked, she realized—for perhaps the thousandth time that week—her lone super-power: her ability to see the future. Repeating the same routine day and day out does that for you.

“Every day is exactly the same.” she sighed to herself drearily.

Another streetlight; another set of cobblestones; maybe a few more idle doorways with the same type of people behind them, sleeping and ignorant, happy in their lack of variety. Vivika felt both sorry for them and jealous at the same time. “They have no idea how complicated things can get.” she despaired, “Thank god they never have to.”

A lone figure walked her way from off in the distance, wearing typical evening attire of a long coat and dark fedora. Nothing about him was remotely interesting, and that was precisely what he had in common with everyone else—complete lack of originality. Like everyone else she encountered, however, there was a chance that this one would serve some small purpose in her life. Why not? Why not ask? As the man approached, tunelessly humming some inane nonsense to himself, Vivika called out to see if he had what she needed.

“Excuse me, Sir,” she asked, as the man kept on walking right past her. “Excuse me, Sir!”

“Yes?” the man stopped to face her. “What do you need?”

“Do you have a cigarette? I’m all out.” It was a lie of course. Vivika was never out of cigarettes—she simply refused to pay for them. Why pay for cigarettes when she could procure them from nearly anyone in the GDR? By now, she had a litany of random strangers she could corner on nearly every local block for one. Sure, she was probably annoying; but she more or less enjoyed that fact. It was the small price she made them pay for their blissful lack of variety.

“Yes, yes, sure,” the man said, annoyed, as he reached into his pocket and pulled one out, before promptly speeding off.

“Thanks.” she absently called after him. She didn’t really mean it, but why not say it anyway? It probably increased her chances of getting one from him next time around.

Happily, she put the cigarette in her mouth, lit a match and then lit the tip of her smoke. While the flame cast a bright light on the cigarette, she noted the small message written on it, committing it to memory. Once her cigarette was finished, the message would be gone forever. Satisfied with her small part, she continued her stroll down the street. She only had one more errand to run before the night was through, and then she could deliver her message to Codename: Rahab. Yet this was by far the worst of her errands. They included him, which meant they included her once again being little more than a piece of meat.

It was a type of physical behavior that she had yet to fully figure out. She knew it was wrong—it wasn’t wanted, after all—but it wasn’t really rape… was it? It was ugly, but it wasn’t forced on her. Not in the strictest sense of the word, really. She had agreed to it for her safety, after all. Then again, she had never really tried to deny him. Maybe if she did, then he would force her… it was just something she really didn’t want to think about. Words like ‘rape’ had a certain power to them. The second she allowed herself to identify with that word, well… better to just agree to it and get it over with. That way, she got what she wanted in the long run, and she got to maintain a modicum of control in the meantime.

She walked down a dark alleyway. It was another bland and uninteresting alleyway, just like all the others, but this one wasn’t meaningless—no, it held a sad, unfortunate meaning for her, if for no one else. Since last meeting him in West Berlin in another alleyway, he had taken a liking to clandestine sex. Now it was happening far more frequently, and she could barely stand it anymore. Still, she needed something from him now. In order to get it, she would have to give herself to him. It made her want to throw up.

She saw him standing in the alley entrance. He was just a faceless silhouette, like a villain in a movie, with the street light cascading around his shadow. As he began to walk towards her, she felt a chill as if the night was becoming colder with his presence. Goosebumps spread on her skin, and she swallowed in anticipation.

“Well, well.” he called to her. “Looks like someone got themselves into trouble the other day.”

“What are you talking about, Patrick?” she replied, irritated.

“Oh, you know exactly what I’m talking about,” he menaced as he drew closer and closer. “You were following Lena. I warned you about doing that.”

“The Stasi told me to. I’m a god-damned spitzel, remember? I have to follow her everywhere and report on where she goes.”

“I told you not to do that,” he hissed, as he walked up to her, his face inches from hers. “I told you that she wasn’t your problem anymore. I told you to stay away from her.”

“She’s my friend, Patrick. Why would I avoid her?”

“Maybe they should have given you two black eyes.” he reached up and prodded around her eye. “Maybe then you would learn.”

For a second, Vivika stared at him insolently, trying not to recoil from his touch. She hated him so much, and she wanted him to know it. She wanted him to know it down to the core of his being. But she knew it was futile—Patrick didn’t care in the slightest.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“The hell you are! But you are about to be. You aren’t just messing with overworked and apathetic Stasi officers anymore. You have raised the suspicions of HVA agents who can smell bullshit a mile away. You’re lies don’t work on me, and they certainly won’t work on them. Once they figure out what you are up to, you are out from under my umbrella of protection… that is something you don’t want.”

“I… I know I don’t. You are right,” Vivika responded in a small voice. She knew what the ‘that’ was, and it was far worse than anything Patrick was doing to her. She didn’t know all of Patrick’s coworkers, but she had met the Dragon Lady—the psychotic bitch with the dead, evil eyes. Vivika had only seen her one time, and that was more than enough. The way she had looked at Vivika, eyeing her up and down, made her skin crawl.

“I’m sorry,” she continued. “You are right. I’ve made a horrible mistake.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Patrick said, as he moved behind her and began… grabbing her. “I’ve fixed it. I covered you. I told them you were a stupid, bored, little girl who does stupid, bored, little girl things. For now, you are safe.”

“Th-thank… thank you,” she responded, trying to sound genuine as his hands found their way under her coat.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said roughly. “But we’ve got a few other things we need to talk about, my dear.”

“What’s… what’s that?” she asked, not caring all that much. He was kissing her neck now, and it was once again confusing her. Her body was responding to it even though she really didn’t want it to. It was creepy and wrong-feeling, but her body didn’t seem to care what she thought about it.

“There is a complication now,” he said, as he lowered her jacket off of her shoulder, exposing her skin to the cold night air. “A few new developments have come to my attention, and you and I need to figure out a way to rectify it.”

“Patrick…” she moaned, as the goosebumps formed. It wasn’t a good moan, but she knew he wouldn’t know the difference, or even care if he did.

“I love your goosebumps,” he said, as his hands moved lower and lower. “They’re fantastic.”

“I’m… what is the complication?” she tried to distract him. Anything to hold it off for just a few more moments.

“You have made some unfortunate friends in some even more unfortunate places.” he said, as his hands finally found an area she really didn’t want him to. “I know you’ve been working with the Americans.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she shuddered, more from the touch than from the accusation. Hopefully he would understand that.

“Go ahead…” Patrick said as he nibbled on her shoulder. “Keep lying. I enjoy it… it’s like foreplay to me.”

“Patrick… please.” she said, as a very unfortunate wetness began to gather somewhere she really didn’t want it to. Oh, this felt so sick and wrong.

“I know you’ve been working with the Americans, and I know who of them you are with.” he taunted, as he rubbed her harder. “More importantly, I know who you have been fucking.”

“I don’t fuck anyone.” she said half-impudently as bile welled up, “I don’t want to.”

“Oh that’s a lie, my dear,” he said, as the rubbing intensified, becoming forceful and rough. It was beginning to hurt.

“That hurts, Patrick. Please…” she said as gently as possible. Yet he ignored her as he always did. Soon, she began to entertain thoughts no woman should ever have to. Maybe if she tried to give him what he wanted willingly, he wouldn’t hurt her the way he was beginning to. It wasn’t right, but it was better than it hurting. Wasn’t it?

“I know about Matt,” Patrick seethed as he bit her shoulder hard. “I know how much he likes you, too.”

“He knows about Matt?!” the hairs stood up on the back of her neck, “No… this… that can’t happen. He can’t know about him.” She knew the full extent of the situation now, and how very complicated things had become. The very last thing that Vivika needed was to get caught up between the worlds of the man who loved her and the man who didn’t love her at all. Not ever, certainly… but especially not now. She knew Patrick well enough to know that he would use this. He would use it to make things complicated for Matt, and then he would use it to make things even more complicated for her.

“Matt sends his regards, of course,” Patrick laughed as he roughly pushed against her. “He made me promise to take care of you. So, I’m going to honor him and take care of you.”

“Patrick… Patrick wait!” she gasped, trying to stall what she was beginning to see as inevitable. As the front of her pants came unbuttoned and the zipper ripped open forcefully, she knew it was coming soon. Yet her heart raced in refusal of it.

“No.”

His fingers grabbed the front of her panties, and for a moment she stopped to consider it. But when she felt his fingers brush against her skin, lower than she expected, a surge of adrenaline kicked in. Her body was finally on her side and demanded that she fight her way out of this dire situation no matter the cost. With her nerves screaming at her with anticipation of what failure would feel like, she began to slap at him. She tried to slap at his face and wriggle free at first. Then, when she realized this wasn’t working, she tried to take a mental breath and reason through her response.

“Kick him between the legs, you idiot!” she yelled inside her head. “Elbow him in the face! Kick him right in the side of the kneecap and run as fast as you can! You’ve done it in your mind a thousand times—now is the time to use it! Kick his ass!” But as his iron grip tightened around her body, fingers digging into some very sensitive places, she began flailing wildly. Then, she flailed wilder still—she was losing all control of her faculties and she knew it. His grip only tightened, and his laughter only became more triumphant. He was enjoying this, and he wanted her to know it.

“He’s stronger than me.” she thought as the tears began to flow. “He can do whatever he wants to me, and there isn’t a fucking thing I can do about that.”

The blow to the side of her face came so suddenly that it didn’t even hurt. A flash of red and a popping sound that was hard to describe was the only real way she knew that it had happened. It felt like she was upside-down under water, still trying to reason why air wouldn’t enter her lungs the way that it normally did. Yet, she still paused to contemplate this strange sensation, attempting to reason through what the proper response was. She was still fighting of course… but only somewhat.

Then, after a few moments of confusing numbness, it began to hurt. As she started to wince at the sudden headache and equally sudden reality, another blow caught her in the eye. This time, the flash of red only went away in half of her vision, and the headache became intolerable. Finally, she stopped fighting and sank down to her knees.

“I’m going to take care of you, Vivika.” she heard his voice say through the dizziness as she felt her legs open, “I’m going to take such good care of you.”

____

‘Click, click, click, click, click’…

The camera shutter opened and shut repeatedly. It made a barely audible sound as the scene with Vivika and Patrick unfolded before the wart-covered face of Open-Wide. Truth be told, he couldn’t see precisely what the camera was taking pictures of. Mirrors in cameras made an awful amount of noise when they went up and down and he was reduced to looking through a bland pinhole, much like sights on a gun. Of course, he didn’t need to know exactly what the camera saw. The camera only had monochromatic capabilities, which gave it an especially good resolution—a useful thing at night—and the development of the photos could account for a wide variety of exposure issues.

But at this point, the photos were merely ‘window dressing’, as his word would be more than sufficient. Open-Wide’s case officer already suspected that this dimwit had been less than altruistic in his asset handling. His case officer really only needed the word of a trusted agent to confirm his suspicions. Then, hopefully Patrick would be removed from the team and Open-Wide would be one step closer to accomplishing his goal: being rid of all the damn drama.

Needed or not, however, the pictures would certainly embarrass Patrick. That alone made the effort worth it.

Patrick really should have known better. Sure, he was young, and impetuous, and stupid, and all sorts of other negative words that Open-Wide could think up if he really felt lent to it; but he should’ve really understood the difference between business and pleasure by now. Open-Wide understood, especially with the long weeks he spent away from his wife and children. But regardless of the ease with which a scared asset’s nether regions presented themselves, sex never ended well for anyone in this profession—especially for twerps like Patrick. No, he had a knack for being where he ought not to be, and for making the dumbest possible decision while there.

Their Case officer hadn’t really put him to this task, truth be told. It was more of an unofficial suggestion… perhaps more accurately, Open-Wide took certain duties to heart, and his case officer was responsible enough to see the worth in them. This was counter-intelligence after all.

Open-Wide had made his mistakes, same as everyone. Hell, maybe even his case officer before him might have made a mistake or two. But that would have been years upon years ago, and he would have never done something as stupid as this. Perhaps this would finally be the nail in Patrick’s coffin. Their case officer had a soft spot for youth, and wasn’t much for brutality. He always thought too much about his ‘grand-kids’ whenever he had to do something disgusting, and had long since lost the taste for things that had to be done.

But this… indiscretion… of Patrick’s wasn’t something that had to be done… and this Patrick’s case officer would have to deal with. Their case officer may have been the only one in the unit with a distaste for blackmail and the occasional torture; but even Open-Wide had a distaste for rape. And this—the scene imprinting itself onto the minute length of photo-film as clearly as it would Open-Wide’s mind—was rape of the highest (or lowest) order. This asshole was about to get what was coming to him. Then Open-Wide need only ruin the Dragon Lady and he would finally have his beloved HVA back in working order.

____

Vivika rocked back and forth, back and forth. She was too shaken to stand up right this moment, let alone walk away. Her entire skin felt the way a limb does when it’s been asleep for a long time. If she moved any more than she did with the rocking, the pins and needles became too much to bear. The achy, burning feeling of something torn seemed to agree with that assessment as well. She was soaked through with the adrenal misery that only an eviscerated nervous-system could excrete, and her shattered nerves screamed warnings over and over, as if she was still in the throes of the last few minutes. She couldn’t sit still, certainly, but she also couldn’t stand. Thus, she allowed herself a compromise: she would just rock in place, furiously rubbing her arms and screaming inside of her head.

Logically, she knew that it was over. Yet no matter how many times she tried to remind herself of that, it didn’t feel the same. No—before she had simply been penetrated by a person. It was a single-minded act, with a very simple conclusion at her expense. After he finished, it was finished. Over—poof!

Yet now, something else began to penetrate her. Now something nearly as bad began: the complete and utter confusion of who, what, and where she was now.

“Everything is different!” her brain screamed at her, “You didn’t fight hard enough and now everything is different! Everything you were… everything you knew… all the ways you went about living your simple little life… it’s all different. Welcome to the new reality of a world you never knew before—that you now know even less about!”

Was it her fault it had happened? Surely it was… somehow, in some way, she could have fought harder. Did she really even fight at all? No, she had simply lost her cool, flailing about without a single tactical thought in her head. She had simply given in to his madness like a fool and a weakling.

If only she had just listened to him, she wouldn’t be here! Hell, if only she had just never raised the attentions of him in the first place! If only, if only… the tantalizing premise of long-gone possibilities stung just as bad as the thought of the future. She could have done any number of things differently, but she hadn’t. Somehow, against all odds, she had made every possible bad decision that she had needed to in order to end up where she was right now. Now, no matter how fair or unfair, deserved or undeserved, wanted or unwanted, the reality was ironclad: she was now a girl in a dingy alleyway kneeling in equal parts dirt and blood, staring at a dumpster—a dumpster that may as well have been filled with her hopes and dreams.

Awareness began to dawn like radioactive fallout. With that newfound awareness, the world began spinning—slowly at first, then faster and faster. Questions mounted like a dizzying sick, both in the pit of her stomach and a stomach-sized pit in her throat. Her heart pounded erratically and sweat began dripping out of her pores to signify that the contents of her stomach were no longer content where they were. She fought it at first, before realizing that the time for fighting had long since passed. Leave it to her own body to amplify her misery.

“Get it over with.” she consoled herself as best she could, “Just throw up all over the place. Fuck it.”

As the rivulets of hot, soggy curds spewed out, coming to rest on the ground in front of her, she realized that it actually felt better to just let it all happen. It wasn’t like things were going to get much worse, and it felt good to just give in to however her body felt like dealing with things. After a few minutes of unearthing the contents of her guts, however, she rested her forehead against the soggy ground, spitting out tainted saliva and sweating profusely.

“How…?”, she whimpered to herself, “How in the hell did I get here?… How?!”

She had tried so hard to make it all work. For months upon months upon months, she had done the very best she could with the hand she was dealt. Now here she was, broken in so many ways, in so very many places both inside and out—a product of her own damnable ambitions. But really… what had she done to warrant such abuse? She wanted adventure, sure. She wanted intrigue, of course, and a little novelty, now and again. Who the hell didn’t? But mostly, all she really wanted was to be left alone to create her own novelties. She wasn’t the smartest person in the world, as far as she knew; but she was smart. She knew how to entertain herself. Was it really so much to ask that she set her own course? She wasn’t hurting anybody.

Oh no, that wouldn’t do, of course. She had the intense misfortune of not only being a woman—a human woman with male counterparts that had their contemptible and insatiable desires—but being a relatively attractive one as well. For some reason she couldn’t really understand, this made her property in the minds of men. She was a thing… a thing to be protected and pursued all the same. In the minds of men, she couldn’t stick up for herself, of course, and couldn’t be trusted to be intelligent enough to think things through. No… she needed a man to do all of that for her. It had been that way with every man. It had even been that way with Matt York.

That had only been a one-time thing; something that had happened back when the Americans had first come calling with an offer she couldn’t possibly refuse: the promise of adventure and novelty. Matt had been so protective of her, and such a good teacher. Eventually, however, he had become far too protective and jealous, the same way that all men did. After a while of that, well, then the overtures started—the pledges of romantic fealty and all that sugary nonsense that men thought up when both of their heads thought in tandem. She was reticent to turn him down, of course. He was so very, very easy to fall for, what with his boyish charms and all. And the confidence that he had, even now it was practically irresistible.

But Matt was a man of novelty, just like everyone in this realm of secrets was. He had gotten too close… he had broken the first rule of tradecraft: ‘don’t shit where you eat.’ Vivika knew the direction this was headed, and had expressed it to him, and Matt… well, Matt was a man. Vivika, being an attractive woman, of course couldn’t be trusted to make her own choices for herself in his eyes. So, Matt had to make his own assessments about things and become very jealous and bitter. When his Boss had found out that Matt had compromised her, the only safe thing to do was to separate the two. It was one agent or the other, after all.

So now here she was, caught on this side of the damned Wall, with whatever protection she had left all the way on the other side. He may as well have been an ocean away for all the good he could do her. Even when she had been on that side, he had all but ignored her for fear of raising the ire of his case officer. That was then, though. Now, things were different. She had suffered the evil advances of Patrick for far too long already, before this. And, for all the lying, evil bastard that Patrick was, Vivika believed him when he said that Matt was involved, and that some score somewhere was being settled.

“No.” she thought to herself. “No, this will not do. This is all Matt’s fault that this happened. He’s going to know… I’m going to make him know what happened to me. He’s going to hear. He’s going to hear me, and Patrick, and every single fucking thing Patrick did to me. So will his case officer. So will all of the Americans—they’ll care. I’ll make them care.”

Weakly, she reached into her purse and turned off the audio recorder. She had to make it back to the phone-booth immediately and phreak the hotline one more time. It wasn’t protocol, but she didn’t care. This changed everything. It was Matt’s job to fix this. He had fucked up everything for her, and now he was going to fix it.

Quagmire

It was early morning when Lena finally walked through her apartment door, stretching and yawning. She was young, and should have been far more accustomed to all-nighters than she was. Than again, she was also a young woman who loved the feeling of thick blankets wrapping her in a safe cocoon, and the feel of soft sheets filling in any crack and crevasse just in case. Sleep was something she treasured almost as much as she did late-night forays—and certainly, more so than she treasured… ugh… mornings.

It didn’t matter if she was just going to bed in the morning or waking up. Mornings were mornings, and they were by far God’s worst invention ever. Instinctively, she knew that if there was a God, he wasn’t a morning person and wouldn’t save people before 8 am. So, if you died at 7:45, you went straight to hell—at least until Jesus or whoever had some coffee. Hell, even Lena’s mother hated mornings with a burning passion and refused to arise before 11, unless she had good reason to. For this reason, Lena thanked all the pantheons, real or imaginary, that her mother was still fast asleep. Lena was soooo-oo-oooo tired, and really didn’t want to play caregiver right at this very moment.

Step by silent step, she stole through the apartment, thanking Patrick for all of her lessons. As much as she had hated the extra anti-surveillance training, every silent step she was able to masterfully pull off today was a precious blessing from the HVA itself. It ensured that her mother would remain snoring obnoxiously and fretfully murmuring in her sleep about Soviet soldiers, while bringing Lena closer and closer to her bedroom.

As her hand touched her bedroom door, she reached down and silently turned the doorknob, breathing a sigh of relief at how uncommonly silent the thing was being. “Almost there!” Oh, she could already feel those warm blankets wrapping her up with hopefully not too much teenaged-brain fuss. “Almost there!… so close!”

When she opened up her door, however, everything changed.

Vivika was there. This, in and of itself, wasn’t anything new—since their arrival back on this side of the Wall, she had spent almost every single night sharing Lena’s bed, blissfully adding cuddles and warmth to the chilly nights. But this… this was neither cuddly, nor warm, nor even human. This was… something new; and whatever it was, it was wrong. Though Lena was struggling to understand this new reality, Vivika’s black eyes told a story that wasn’t all that hard to figure out.

She looked terrible. Both of her eyes were bloodily swollen, with one completely closed off. Yet it was difficult to determine where her eyes ended, and her face began. It was all a puffy purple mess, with cuts thrown in just to make it worse. Purple and red marks ran around the top of her neck as if she had been recently strangled, and her clothing was torn and covered with the gray of dirt and red of blood. She was scraped up and battered, with both her skin and the remnants of her clothing looked to have been torn by friction with pavement. She sat, with one hand across her mouth as if permanently immured in shock, while her other hand covered… “Oh God.”

Adrenaline often works in degrees. Sometimes it’s fueled by a nice morning jog, or a kiss on the cheek from a crush. Every now and then, it’s stoked by the shock of someone appearing where unexpected, or an uncontrolled bicycle careening towards you. Rarer still, it can be a response to a threat of violence, or a full-on slap from someone that genuinely intends to hurt you—the resulting burst of adrenaline changes you into a creature capable of ripping off doors or punching through walls.

Then there’s the burst of adrenaline that accompanies hopeless scenes like this, where you realize that something must be done, regardless of what modicum of logic still exists on the subject. The feeling of vengeance… an evil feeling. It’s a terrible, heart-pounding surge of such unbridled rage, that one’s own moral code falls completely by the wayside. As sweat gathers, fists clench, and vision goes pinpoint, your heart pumps battery acid and you realize that you are fully capable of genocide. It’s that once-in-a-lifetime surge of fluids that makes you capable of finding someone, wherever he’s hiding, and do things to him that shouldn’t ever be put into print.

As anger roiled like an ocean inside of Lena, she began to see red… red, red, red. And whatever had happened, death was too quick a punishment for it.

Yet as she stood there, looking at her very dear friend, the other less gratifying side of adrenaline eclipsed the other: reality. Slowly, as the futility of logic came closer into the picture, Lena realized that there wasn’t a thing she could do about Vivika’s situation. There was no one in the immediate vicinity to fend off; no one to torture slowly; no one to rip the balls off of and kill with fire; no solution that would make all of it go away. Whoever he was, and whatever he had done, he had gotten away with it. And nothing Lena said or did would change that.

“V-vivika?” Lena said, walking slowly over to her.

“I’m… I’m really sorry,” Vivika bawled, “I’m so sorry.”

“What happened?!” Lena walked quickly over to her, but was pushed back.

“Please don’t touch me, okay?” she cried. “I j-just can’t… I can’t let anyone touch me.”

“Who did this to you?” Lena asked, shaking with anger, “Who hurt you?!”

“It’s no one, okay?”

“Obviously it’s not just anyone. Tell me Vivika!”

“Really, it’s not anyone. I just… can I stay here a bit longer? I know I’m filthy, but… I don’t want to be alone at my place. Okay?”

“Of course, you can stay, but… but… we have to get you to a hospital, Vivika!”

“No!” Vivika cried. “That… you can’t take me there.”

“But…”

“You can’t take me to a hospital. Promise me, Lena!”

“Vivika, you’re…”

“Promise me. Please!”

Lena didn’t know what to say or how to help her friend. She needed Vivika to tell her who had done this to her, and to tell her what had happened. Vivika clearly needed serious medical attention, and she needed to call the police for what little good that would do. Yet Lena couldn’t force her to say anything—especially not something like this. She had been brutally traumatized and was obviously scared out of her mind. Whatever she needed, Lena was prepared to provide it. But she did need medical attention. And… oh, this was so complicated.

After thinking it through for several moments, staring at her bruised and beaten friend shivering on the floor, Lena resolved to simply say and do nothing. Vivika needed to feel in control, and she needed to have someone there. If that was the sum total of what Lena had to offer, well, she was happy to do it. So, she walked over to her bed and pulled off the blanket, before walking back over and draping it over her dear friend. Then, she plunked down right next to her and sat in silence. If her friend needed to talk, she would listen. Otherwise, she would be there regardless.

It must have been a half hour at least. Vivika just sat there, bundled up tight, avoiding everything. Lena sat patiently, waiting for any opportunity to be more helpful. After a while, however, Vivika leaned over and put her head in Lena’s lap.

“It’s… it’s so complicated…” Vivika sniffed softly.

“I know it’s complicated,” Lena said, just as softly.

“You don’t know,” she sniffed angrily. “No one knows. No one has any idea. I’m in a world of shit, and I’m going to drown in it. And I can’t do a damn thing about it. No one can.”

Lena was still coming to grips with the situation. One thing had become very clear to her, however: Vivika was going to have to deal with this. Lena was nothing more than a resource for her—a very available resource. Whatever she wanted, she would get. That meant if Vivika just wanted to cry, or be mad, or swear, or… well, anything… that was exactly what Lena would support. No judgement, no responsible adult decision-making, no words of wisdom—just support.

“You know I will help you anyway I can.”

Vivika paused, thinking this through, before she plainly said, “I know.”

Another half hour passed with Vivika curled up on the floor, her head in Lena’s lap, saying nothing at all. Her breathing was ragged and terribly fast, just like her heart which pounded so hard, Lena could feel it on her thigh. As the minutes ticked longer, however, her breath finally slowed. Eventually, her heart rate followed. Soon, Lena thought that Vivika was sleeping, so, she hazarded a touch, to pet Vivika’s head softly. Vivika jerked at the touch, but then stilled.

“He’s such a monster, Lena.”

“Will you ever tell me who he is?” Lena responded, stroking her hair.

“No.”

“Ok.” Lena replied, and that was that. For a few minutes, at least.

“I’m so sorry I’ve made everything complicated.” she sniffed.

“It’s alright.” Lena replied. “I don’t know what happened. But whatever it is, it’s going to be okay.”

“No, it’s not. Really, it isn’t. I’ve ruined everything.”

“Can you tell me what is ruined?” Lena asked, in the least judgmental voice she possibly could. Another several minutes passed. Not quite a half hour, but long enough. It seemed that Vivika was giving herself permission to talk about something she knew she was going to have to talk about—working up the nerves, perhaps. Lena needed to just accept whatever it was that she wanted to say and let that be that. Thankfully, her patience was rewarded. Yet after it was, ‘thankfully’ and ‘rewarded’ were the exact opposite words she would have used to describe the dawning apocalypse of reality.

“Patrick.” Vivika said plainly.

“What about him?” Lena said quickly, before thinking better of it. “How does she know… she knew Victor. She had no idea who Patrick was.”

“Patrick did this.”

“You don’t…” Lena stuttered, “you mean ‘Victor’?”

“No.” Vivika said angrily, “Not Victor. I mean Patrick. Fuck him and all his stupid spy shit. I’m sick of all the mind games, a-and… and all the intrigue, and… and all the everything. I’ve known Patrick forever, and it was always bad. Now it’s just worse, and…”

Oh, this was bad. This was very, very bad. Lena tried to fathom all of the terrible implications. Patrick couldn’t have… but he… he had done… but that wasn’t possible! Lena was the only one who knew the true identity of… but… and if it was true—which it obviously had to be—what did that mean? Everything had already changed after she had met with Grandfather. Everything had changed infinitely more now that she had arrived home to see Vivika. But now that the new reality of Patrick had dawned, it made it all dangerous, and scary, and sick, and confusing.

“I’m sick of lying to you, Lena.” Vivika sniffed, “I was sick of it long before we had even met. At first, it was fun. But then it wasn’t… and then we became friends… and now…”

“What are you talking about?” Lena said, startled. “What are you sick of? I’m confused.”

“It’s so complicated! Everything is so complicated!”

“Trust me, Vivika, I know how complicated things can get.”

“No, you don’t!” Vivika started crying once again. “You have no idea! You have no idea what it’s like having to keep so many secrets from so many people… having to lie to this person, and then lie to that person, only to find out that they already know. To have everyone holding everything over your head, and spying on you… to know that the world is so big, and so scary, and so awful in such horrible ways that no one can ever possibly understand…”

“Yes, I do,” Lena stated slowly, trying carefully to allude to things without saying them. “Trust me. I know what you are talking about.”

“How could you?!” Vivika said angrily, as she sat up, throwing the blanket off of herself. “Look at me, Lena! Look at my face! They will kill me if I talk.”

“They will kill me if I talk too, Vivika!” Lena said just as angrily.

“Who will kill you?!”

“I can’t tell you!”

“Why the hell not?!!”

“Well, why can’t you tell me?!!” Lena said, incredulously.

“Because I can’t!”

For minutes, the two stared at each other. This was absolutely ludicrous. Whatever the other had going on, well… it seemed to be awfully similar in complexity, regardless of whether or not it was similar in essence. Both had worked themselves into a corner, and neither could find the way out. But one thing was very clear: the second someone had done what he had done to Vivika, they had both been absolved of the requirement of silence. Still, they just stared at each other angrily, neither willing to make the first move.

“Do you remember back in West Berlin?” Lena finally started.

“What the hell of it?”

“You told me that when we were finally safe, and when we were able to be honest with each other… we would be.”

“Yes, of course I remember.”

“Well, it doesn’t look like that’s ever going to happen, now is it? I could be dead tonight. And from the looks of it, it doesn’t look like you are that much better off. So, we might as well come clean with each other, because we have to figure something out.”

“I…” Vivika started carefully, “I don’t know if I can trust you. I don’t think I can trust anyone anymore.”

“I can’t trust you either!” Lena laughed through the tears that were now openly streamed down her cheeks. “I know for a fact that I can’t trust you or anyone else. And I’m just about done giving a shit. If I can’t trust anyone in this world, than I might as well just trust you anyway and let the chips fall where they may. Because life isn’t worth living without trust, and if I have to pick one person to trust, it would be you… because you’re the only one I know who’s worse off than me.”

“Gee, thanks,” Vivika sniffed sarcastically, but she laughed all the same. “I guess I agree.”

“Vivika,” Lena started with far less hesitation than she expected, “I work for the HVA and the CIA.”

“Yeah, me too.”

____

“You did what?!” Grandfather howled at Patrick.

“I… I’m…” Patrick stuttered as he dodged a book flying at his head.

“Don’t dodge, you little ingrate!” he screamed as he picked up another one, “Don’t you ever dodge things I throw at you!”

The safe house was unnaturally disheveled as Patrick and Dragon Lady stood in front of the angry old man. Patrick’s Grandfather was well-known to be disorganized, preferring to keep any necessary information within stumbling reach. This, however, was just purely messy. He had obviously been up all night ransacking the place. He only did that when things were truly out of sorts—and the fact that he was now throwing things, well, Patrick had only seen this two other times. He knew it was just a foreshadowing of things to come, and it was all her fault—that grinning, psychopathic bitch who, for once, seemed somewhat afraid.

“Look, it’s…” Patrick attempted to appease the old man, before a travel guide hit him full in the face.

He dropped to the floor, covering the pain that began to gather right under his left eye. It hurt, but not nearly as bad as it was going to hurt in a few moments, and not nearly as bad as his life was about to hurt. As much as he hated his little HVA squad, he still hated disappointing Grandfather. And this wasn’t just disappointment, this was betrayal. This was a crime of the highest order with the wizened old man, just as it was with his beloved organization. And he didn’t know what the outcome of such a thing would be. He just knew it was going to be bad.

“You know why I throw things at you, don’t you?” Grandfather asked, desolately.

“Because I…” Patrick attempted to answer, before another travel guide hit him in the chest.

“Shut your mouth when I ask you rhetorical questions!”

“That didn’t sound very rhetorical.” Dragon Lady admitted.

“That is entirely beside the point, you evil bitch!” Grandfather yelled at her, “Why are you still here?”

“Because I’m the one who saw him.” she responded proudly, completely ignoring the fact that her case officer didn’t want her there.

“…and?!” Grandfather asked, annoyed.

“Well, I figured that you would want me here to confirm or deny anything he said.”

“Did you tell me everything?” Grandfather asked.

“Of course, I did.”

“Then if I already know everything you know, why would I need you here to help me make an assessment?”

“Well… because…” she said, and for once, Patrick thought he detected uncertainty in her voice.

“I’m fully capable of coming to my own conclusions.” he said, acidly. “Now you’ve already earned my ire by spying on our own agents. So, consider us even. Now… off with you!”

“But… I only spied on him because I suspected…”

“Now!” Grandfather bellowed, “Or I’ll throw a book at you too!”

Quickly, she launched herself out the front door and disappeared into the morning light. Grandfather had been up all night long talking with Lena. Having procured her a ride home, he was still up. Grandfather was not a man for staying up late and could be notoriously cranky when forced to be. But now, having to deal with even more problems—problems his own agents had caused—cranky didn’t really describe it. He only threw books when he was really mad.

For several minutes, Patrick sat on the floor clutching his wounded face, watching Grandfather pace about the room. He seemed… unnerved. Patrick had thought up many brilliant things to say to get himself out of this situation, but he thought better of them every time he felt his face begin to ache anew. After a few minutes, however, his Grandfather began speaking in a measured tone.

“What did you say to him?”

“I gave him a copy of some out-of-date Stasi manuals.” Patrick answered honestly. “The manuals didn’t contain any classified information of any import, and they were only given to earn his trust.” Now was not the time for lies. It wasn’t the time for full-truths, of course, but that was beside the point. Unfortunately, Grandfather smelled the half-truth easily.

“That’s not what I asked,” Grandfather said plainly. “Deceive me again, and I’ll pick a legal book.”

“I…” Patrick stuttered, and for once, he didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t really planned on having to have this discussion.

“Look,” Grandfather said as he walked over to a bookshelf and began rifling through a few legal books on a bookshelf. Patrick gulped at this. Those were always the thickest, heaviest books. “You know as well as I do that the Americans don’t take walk-ins. The HVA doesn’t even do that. If Matt York agreed to talk with you, there’s a reason. You had some information that he genuinely wanted. I want to know what that is, and if you don’t tell me, we’ll start with Commonlaw Marriage and work our way up to Military Law.”

“Grandfather, please!” Patrick wailed, “I’m…”

The book hit him in the chest so hard, he thought a rib cracked. It amazed him how hard the old man could throw. He couldn’t figure out which hurt worse: the book or his Grandfather’s ire. And he was about to find out for sure if he didn’t think of something quick.

“Fine, you old bastard! It was Hans!” Patrick held his hands in front of his face, “They wanted to make a deal for him! I was only trying to help you! I figured…”

“Wait.” Grandfather held up his hand, “Wait just a second… this is about that stupid boy, again?!”

“Again?!” Patrick responded.

“My goodness,” he murmured as if to himself, “I am never going to be rid of this stupid boy and the problems he’s causing, will I?!”

“I don’t understand.”

“It doesn’t matter if you understand or not, Patrick. I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe what?!”

“I don’t believe for one single second that you were trying to facilitate anything on my behalf. Because there’s nothing you could possibly facilitate on your own that I would approve of. Especially without my consent. You were talking to that dimwit across the Wall, and you were talking to him because you wanted something. What was it, Patrick? What was it that was so valuable that you would risk your unit and your neck over?”

“I didn’t… it’s not that…”

“Patrick, tell me what you did wrong.”

“It’s…”

“Patrick. Tell me what you did wrong, and we can move on.”

“You just don’t…”

“Patrick. We either move on, or we have to take this in a different direction. Tell me what you did wrong, so that we can just move on.”

This was it: the moment he hadn’t known was coming. He hadn’t prepared for this. He had never allowed for the possibility that he would be found out. He had simply chosen to accept the horrible consequences of failure and decided to not fail. But now here he was, staring down the barrel of that poor decision, about to be shot full of lead consequences. He was very quickly realizing he really wasn’t prepared to accept those consequences. Now he wanted nothing but to escape.

“Grandson?” Grandfather said sternly.

“Yes?”

“This is the time for you to come clean.”

“I went to Matt York because I felt he would be able to get me out of here quicker, and give me a new life. I believed that the Americans could make it all happen quickly.”

“And why didn’t that work?” Grandfather asked, knowingly.

“Because the Americans are just as backstabbing and double-talking as we are.”

“Maybe not quite, but certainly almost.” Grandfather said. “So, you thought that letting me, a man you trust, spin you around blindfolded with an assured positive ending was somehow less attractive than letting the god-damned Americans spin you around blindfolded, with absolutely nothing certain at the end of it but dust and sand?”

“That’s not…”

“You know damn well they wouldn’t take a defecting HVA agent at your level and give him work! You have skills, but you don’t have the access! They knew that the very moment you started giving them copies of out-of-date Stasi manuals that I had given to them years ago! They already have skilled agents with your exact same skills, and assets inside the GDR with more access than you have! Why would they need you when you also bring a complete lack of loyalty?!”

Patrick really had nothing to say to this. He simply hadn’t thought of himself and his possible value to the Americans in this light. Grandfather stood across the room, looking at him angrily. His face was covered in a mix of emotions. Patrick knew he had done the right thing by coming clean, and now he felt horrible about everything. It was something about the sadness in the old man’s eyes, though. However, his gaze was filled with far more annoyance than anything else as he finally measured out his words and spoke.

“Patrick? Hit yourself.”

“Excuse me?”

“When I was your age, the case officer who trained me always told me, ‘never abuse your agents. Never insult them, and never put a hand on them.’ So, I’m honoring him, and making you hit yourself.”

“Are you… serious?”

“Yes, Patrick. I’m serious.”

“B-but… you threw books at me.”

“The books hit you, not me. And I think both of us can agree that books and fists don’t mean the same thing.”

“Well, but…”

“Patrick, hit yourself. And it had better be good, because if it isn’t, I’ll make you do it again.”

Surprisingly, Patrick’s first thought was about how in the world his Grandfather wielded such power to make people do such stupid things. As he began swinging at his own face, Patrick thought, “Why am I doing this, exactly?” to be immediately followed by, “God-damnit that fucking hurt!” Indeed, by the time he had fully recovered from the initial shock of the blow his vision still had yet to recombobulate.

“Are we good?” Grandfather asked.

“We’re good, Grandfather.”

“Good. Now tell me: what did you two discuss?”

“I already told you. It was about Hans, and I gave them some outdated documents.”

“That’s it?” Grandfather said with an eyebrow raised.

“That’s it.” Patrick said, although it was a lie, and he swallowed before he could think not to. Grandfather picked up on that.

“Patrick, let me tell you why I like you.” Grandfather sighed, before rubbing his face with fatigue and irritation, “I love you like a grandson, but I also like you as a person. The reason I like you is because you think the way I do. You never go into any situation without a backup plan, and you never offer your opponent anything that isn’t barbed, booby-trapped, or otherwise. You never give up a pawn unless you are prepared to take a bishop.

“The problem is, you aren’t as good as I am—not yet anyway. Now normally, I would sit back and let you make your own mistakes, but the stakes are simply too high this time. You can’t possibly imagine how you might have harmed us… or inadvertently benefited us. But either way, you have moved pieces around and I need to know where they are. You would never have gone to the enemy with an offer unless that offer had assurances that you yourself could control. And you would never have dangled a freebie in front of Matt unless that dangle was somehow poisoned with insurance. I know this because I know you, and I know that you know that the Americans don’t care in the slightest about you or your plans. Only Matt seems to care, and there’s absolutely no reason that I can think of as to why he should.

“It might be a girl perhaps; maybe some sort of blackmail you managed to harvest from his past; it might have even been money. Now, you might think that these are mere trifling things that only matter between you and him. You might think that it’s something that might appear unrelated to the game that I am playing. But I’m telling you right now, man to man, it’s all related and it all matters. Your telling me gives both of us the advantage; not telling me gives it to them. So, come clean, and tell me everything.”

Patrick considered these words, he really did, and as he considered them, he recounted another bit of sage wisdom that Grandfather had imparted years ago. “Don’t keep playing a game you know you are losing, just because you haven’t technically lost yet. Just save yourself the time, money and manpower and quit playing so that you can find a game you can win at.” Patrick resolved to ignore this completely.

“Grandfather… I did tell you everything.” Patrick said, swallowing again.

“Patrick, tell me!” Grandfather bellowed, losing all composure, “I can make anything work. When have you ever known me to not be able to make use of any situation you and your fellow morons throw at me?! Trust me, Patrick. For the first time since whenever you decided that you couldn’t, trust me to make this work out! Trust me to forgive you, and trust me to get you back on the right path!”

“I don’t want to!” Patrick finally exploded. It was the first time he had ever yelled at Grandfather. Hell, it was the first time anyone had probably ever done it—likely because anyone that had tried received the same response: a completely unimpressed stare.

“That’s… that’s right!” Patrick tried again, “I don’t want this to work out for the unit! I don’t want to help them, the HVA, you, the fucking GDR, or any of your plans! I don’t trust you, and I don’t want to! You took too long, old man! You let things go too long, and I had to make my own plans. I don’t want to do this anymore, don’t you understand?! I don’t want to do any of this! I just want out. I want to get as far away from it all as I can, and the Americans made me a deal!”

“But they didn’t make you a deal!” Grandfather seethed, “You went to them, Patrick! They didn’t come to you. So, you made Matt a deal! What was that deal?!”

“Stop it!” Patrick stood up and shouted at the man, “I don’t want to play this anymore! I’m done!”

“No you aren’t, Patrick! You are messing with forces you cannot possibly fathom!”

“I can fathom you, old man!” Patrick said, without thinking. “I can fathom what the end-game is, and I can fathom my part in it! I can fathom how long it’s going to take for that eventuality… and most of all, I can fathom how little you truly care about me!”

“Oh, you… now… now you just hold on one singular second.” Grandfather said slowly, barely containing his rage. “You think I’m talking about me… that I’m the force you can’t fathom. I’m most certainly not the force you need to understand. Patrick, you are caught in the middle of a hurricane right now. Things are happening around the entire world that millions of innocent and oblivious people are being affected by. Millions of lives, caught in the balance. And the only people keeping them alive are the select few like you who are privy to a small part of it, being led by men like me.

“I’m a man of near infinite patience, Patrick, but it’s not infinite. And the one thing—the one singular thing—that wears away at my patience is taking three steps forward, only to take two steps back because my own agents want to whine. I’ll take that whining from a common asset because they don’t know any better, but I refuse to take it from my own agents who stand to gain so much!”

“Fuck your plans, old man!” Patrick screamed, with flecks of saliva flying wildly out of his mouth, “Why should I care about your plans?! And why should I care about everyone else?!”

“Because it’s your job, you little ingrate!” Grandfather shouted. “It’s your job to safeguard those millions! That’s what you are handsomely payed to do, and that’s where you draw your immense privilege and autonomy from! You do not manifest destiny, Patrick, and you are not here to think of yourself! But if you are so shortsighted, and simply that selfish, at least have the courtesy to get out of my way, rather than risking the lives of millions. And don’t you dare presume to think that your suffering outweighs theirs. Because it just plain doesn’t.”

“What do you know of my suffering?” Patrick said, with tears beginning to well in his eyes, “You know nothing! You have no idea… the horror I’ve had… that I’ve had to suffer… right under your nose!”

“How have you suffered?” Grandfather pleaded, “Tell me these things! I don’t intend to not know such things, Patrick! When have I ever actively ignored you?! I’m not all-knowing! That’s why we have agents like you… to uncover the things I can’t! You know something I don’t, so tell me!”

“You don’t understand!” Patrick cried.

“Try me, Grandson! Try me!”

“She…” Patrick shivered, “…the Dragon Lady… she…”

Patrick wept onto the floor, as he recounted in graphic detail the many abuses he had suffered at her hand. He recounted the rapes, the beatings, the horrors, and all the glee she took in it. He wept about his unit, and about how they had simply stood by, taking pleasure in his ‘weakness’. He had never felt like he was part of a team. He felt like a whipping boy to be pushed and shoved around, only to find himself in bed with that thing.

He wept about the hospital visits… the ones where he could never explain why he had such injuries, and about how the doctors would scoff behind his back.

Then, he talked about approaching Matt so desperately needing to get out, but Matt had been quick to sniff out his weakness. Matt knew the only way he could control Patrick was to dominate and belittle him. And it had worked. It had worked so well, that Patrick was now practically working for free out of fear. So, he needed insurance and when he found out that his little Stasi spitzel, Vivika, had a few secrets about Matt herself… well, Patrick jumped at the chance to hold that little golden ticket above Matt’s stupid head.

He would see to it that Vivika was safe, just so long as Matt kept his word about bringing Patrick over once Hans was rescued, and the American network was annihilated. But then Matt had come by those awful pictures. That had made things even more complicated. Of course, he could never tell his Grandfather about how he had treated Vivika. That wasn’t a detail he didn’t need to know.

Yet as he finished his story and looked up at his Grandfather’s eyes, he noticed the old man’s eyes were glistening as well.

“How dare you,” Grandfather said, acidly. “How dare you!”

“How dare I what?!”

“How dare you not tell me these things! How dare you allow yourself to be treated in such a fashion! How dare you not allow me to destroy that worthless bitch in your honor! How dare you not allow me to keep my promises to you!”

“I didn’t…”

“No! No, Patrick!” Grandfather cried. “How dare you! Stupid, stupid boy! You may not be my flesh and blood, but you are my Agent—one of my chosen few! And I would gladly kill for you without a second thought! Why didn’t you tell me?! Why?!”

“Because it’s disgusting!” Patrick yelled, “Because I’m disgusting! Because I disgust everyone else… the one fucking person I didn’t want to disgust was you!”

“You…” Grandfather stood, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I’m a million-years-old, Patrick! You don’t think I’ve heard, seen, and been through similar things?!”

“Been through…?”

“It’s a dark world, boy!” Grandfather admonished. “It’s a dark, evil, rotten, horrible, and downright godless world! Things happen! Terrible things! But we are the few that are in a position to change that! We can fix problems so bad and so hidden, that most folks can’t even conceive of them! We are capable of knowing unspeakable things, and we exist to fight the unspeakable. But we have to stick together. Or else what are we?! What are we, Patrick?!”

“But we don’t do anything!” Patrick snapped. “All we do is play our little mind games—with the Americans, with the folks of the GDR, with the Soviets—pissing into the wind for what?! For what?!”

“Again, you don’t see what I see! Those mind games aren’t what we do! They aren’t the three steps forward; they are the two steps back! The enemy does counter-intelligence the same as we do—sowing the seeds of discord, same as we do. I’m sorry that the confusion breeds so much contempt, but that’s the Americans doing their job. So, we have to do our job even better and trust. If we don’t trust each other and work together, they win.”

Suddenly, the front door opened. There, standing in the doorway, was old Wart-face in all of his dour glory. Patrick hated the man. Perhaps less than the others, sure; but he hated him still. He was always so… standoffish. It was as if he was better than everyone else, and didn’t want to be caught up in the filth of the rest of the team. He never laughed at anyone’s jokes, or chimed in during anyone’s stories. He simply sat, all by his lonesome, plugging away at reports or working timelines. Oh sure, he was a hard worker, and a team player when he had to be; but he didn’t like being on a team. Or at least not Patrick’s team.

“Sir, a moment of your time?” old warty-face said, “Alone?”

“…we’re busy, Sergeant.” Grandfather responded. “How important is it?”

“It’s…” warty-face said, while throwing a disgusted sneer at Patrick, “…it’s important.”

“Patrick,” Grandfather began, “I need you to go prepare a car for me. Don’t you worry. I will consider your proposals and pass it up for consideration.”

Patrick scooped himself up, with a bit of trepidation, but also note of gratitude. In truth, he was glad to be rid of this room and he desperately needed some fresh air. Especially since just a half hour ago, he was sure he would never taste fresh air again. So, he opened the door to the outside realm and stepped out into the crisp sunshine. He couldn’t help but take note of old warty-face’s smirk, however. “What is that ugly bastard up to?”

____

“So, what now?” Lena asked honestly.

“I don’t know,” Vivika responded. “I was kinda hoping that you would know.”

The two had sat for nearly an hour talking, and they held absolutely nothing back. At first, Lena had been extremely pensive about talking so openly, knowing full-well that her room was bugged. That is, until Vivika produced a decently-sized camera recorder with several wires hanging out of the back.

“I found it behind your wall socket. They put it back there so that it has a constant power source, and they can run wires outside of the building to retrieve the information easily.”

“Behind the wall socket?! Are you kidding me?!”

“Those are the easy ones. They also stick them in the doorknobs. But every now and then… they stick them in your shower-head, because people like to imagine things out loud while showering or pooping.”

Lena preferred to just ignore the connotations of that. The two talked openly about the black cells, including the bildungsbälle, the fire-hosings, the interrogation techniques… all of it. They discussed Mr. Collins and Grandfather… they left nothing out. Despite how nervous the two felt about naming them, it felt good to open up. They also realized simultaneously that Lena didn’t actually knew what Grandfather’s name was, and that conversations like these were likely precisely why. They discussed the various agents that they had worked with, Wart-face, Fancy-man and the others.

“You know that Wart-face works for the Americans, right?” Vivika said, knowingly.

“Wait, what?” Lena asked.

“Yeah. I don’t know precisely if he knows, honestly. He just has a way of feeding information to Mr. Collins. Like the camera that he put in your purse.”

“What camera?”

“The camera pen that you told me about earlier. The one that Mr. Collins took out of your purse while he was making your coffee.”

“He what?!?” Lena shouted.

“Yeah.” Vivika sighed, “You should really look inside your purse every now and again. You would be surprised how much information we’ve transferred back and forth using it. Did you even notice the pen was missing?”

“No.” Lena replied sheepishly. Yet the mention of the other agents hit a nerve with Vivika the way that the pen had with Lena—especially the mention of Red-hat, whom Vivika had a special relationship with.

“So that’s the bastard that keeps following me!” Vivika shouted.

“Oh, he’s following you?” Lena offered, “As in, like, training you?”

“No. As in he’s following-following me. Which is a really difficult thing to manage, because he can legally follow me anywhere and arrest me anytime he wants. So, I have to be really careful and make sure I don’t piss him off, or let him know that I know he’s following me.”

“That’s what Mr. Collins told me to do, too!” Lena gasped.

“Yeah, this stuff works.” Vivika said with authority. “It’s like this, Lena… if the State wants to arrest you, it will. If the State hasn’t, it’s trying to find a reason to—which it really doesn’t need, because the State can just make up a reason. So, if you are being followed, you have to do what you can do to lose the heat, so to speak. Bore them, and make them less interested in following you.

“The State will never be less-interested in following you, of course, but it isn’t ‘The State’ that’s following you—it’s their little crony dipshits doing it. And they would much rather be doing anything else. If those cronies know that they aren’t going to get a reward for ‘catching you in the act’, and you haven’t pissed them off enough for them to lie, they will just chock it up to ‘making easy money following some dumbass around.’ Most people would much rather do nothing for a living; but at the end of the day, if you have to work, it’s much better to do very little than to do a lot. That’s how most of these people feel. The easier the money you are for them, the more they will sympathize with you—so to speak.

“You can also throw them a bone or two, by dropping a piece of paper at, say, a money-machine or something. They will have to walk over and take that piece of paper. If you put something on that paper that is worth reporting, but won’t dime you out in any way—like, a love note to a fake secret lover—they will have accomplished something that day and might leave you alone. It’s also a way to confirm who’s following you and control future interactions. Hell, I’ve even heard that leaving personal information (like ‘Dear Diary’ letters) or bribes (accidentally forgetting money) can humanize you further to them.”

“But what if you do have to lose them?” Lena asked.

“That’s called ‘Breaking the Box’. The easiest way is to get on a bus, and then get right off, or just ride the bus for a few hours. They’ll eventually have to get off. That’s a choke point: where you force them to take a one-way direction. Sort of like standing at a cross-walk and not hitting the button, walking across a bicycle bridge, or sitting at a bus stop and not taking the bus. They have to hit the button, or go a separate direction. They have to continue across the bridge, or go a separate direction. The have to get on the bus, or go somewhere else. Otherwise they’ll be found out.

“If you need to lose them faster than that, you can use a force- past. That’s where you walk inside of a building, and wait on the other side of the door. Once they enter, they have to continue on, and you just walk right out… you forced them to pass you.”

“Yeah, but I mean, what if they are chasing you?” Lena asked fearfully. “Like, they are fully intent on arresting you?”

“Well, if you can, you have to figure out if they are willing to take you in broad daylight, or if they are wanting to take you in private. If it’s in private, then you just have to lose them in public and get to a safe house. That’s pretty easy… you just lose them in a crowd of people. Reversing direction is the golden ticket.

“But if they are willing to take you in public, you have to lose them immediately. It’s hard to do, but the best way is to just stop running altogether. People who run leave trails in their wake—splits in the crowd where they ran through, onlookers gawking in the direction you ran—the best thing to do is to stop running, change your hat or jacket, and blend into the crowd. If you do it right, no one will suspect a thing. If you do change your outfit, though, try and change your backpack and shoes—those are the hardest things to change, so no one ever does.

“You can also just hide. Just hide anywhere in public, really—behind a staircase, in a garbage can or whatnot. Police don’t have the time to search every nook and cranny when they think you are running.”

“That works?” Lena asked.

“So far it has,” Vivika said dourly. “Then again, they haven’t come for me yet, so I don’t know for sure.”

“Are you afraid that they might?”

“Honestly,” Vivika sighed, “I’m worried about the both of us now. You and I both know too much at this point… there’s no way we’re getting across the wall unless your grandfather wants us to. And if he wants us dead, there’s nothing saving us.”

“He wouldn’t do that!” Lena said. “Grandfather is a good man! Trust me: he’s looking out for us.”

“That’s what he wants you to think.” Vivika said knowingly. “But you know how these people are. They have no loyalty to either one of us. The second we stop being useful, we’ll die screaming in a black cell.”

“No, you don’t understand!” Lena said excitedly. “Yes, all of the others are like that. But Grandfather… he’s different. He does his job, but he does it in, you know, a certain way. He has had plenty of reasons and opportunities to not look out for me, but he always has. He cares for me, and I know he cares for you too.”

“Why would he? Why would he care for me? He’s just an HVA case officer. He has no reason to look out for me.”

“I beg to differ. He has every reason.”

“Name one?” Vivika said, with a distrustful tone.

“Let me tell you something. Grandfather knows how to do his job and not hurt people in the process. He looks out for young people, and he especially looks out for women. I know him. He believes in socialism, but only because he believes in community. He works for the HVA because he feels that it’s the best way for him to strengthen that community—next to directly protecting its members, that is. He may not know you personally, but you are a ‘young person’. To him, that’s enough of a reason to look out for you.

“I also know this because Grandfather likes punk rock more than you and I ever will. He knows the music and he knows the stories. But more importantly, he ‘gets’ the message. Grandfather stands for something, and that something includes you and I—if for no other reason than we’re punks just like him.”

“You really think we’re going to make it out of this alive?” Vivika asked.

“I don’t know.” Lena answered honestly. “But I know this for sure: if we die, it won’t be because of our Grandfather. And if we do die, at least we’ll die together, not having any secrets between us.”

____

“I am so sorry, Mister Collins,” Matt York said. “I am so sorry I’ve put you in this position.”

The audio recording blared out of the small handheld speaker and the sounds it was making were reprehensible. The snarling voice of Patrick cut through with terrible insults aimed at a female voice begging for mercy. “You’re hurting me!” The voice screamed so piteously, “Please Patrick, stop!!!” Matt wanted to hunt him down. He wanted to hunt down the repulsive wretch and slit his throat wide open.

Mr. Collins didn’t respond. He simply sat in the booth listening and staring out of the side of the bus. He was furious, and he had a right to be. Things weren’t going as planned, and it was all Matt’s fault. Worse, he knew the onus of fixing it would have to be on his case officer. This wasn’t something that Matt was capable of working out or even helping with. He was too close, and had acted too rashly, keeping his continued involvement with her a secret. Patrick had something over him now; something that he would have never known about if Matt had just left well enough alone.

“I told you to stay away from her.” Mr. Collins said, matter-of-factly. “You realize now why I told you to?”

“Yes, Mister Collins. I realize that.”

“I don’t think you do, Matt. This is the reason I split you two up… and the reason why we have the policies we do.”

“Yes, Mister Collins.”

“Good god, Matt! This is why banks have these rules! This is why corporations, hospitals, schools, even gas stations and movie theaters have them. I expect better of one of my agents, and I expected better of you.”

“Yes, Mister Collins.” Matt said, sadly. “I understand how poor my behavior was, and you are right to not trust me any further with this.”

“Well, that’s the unfortunate problem, Matt. I have to, because I don’t have any rapport with either Analog or Patrick… which is only slightly better than the terrible rapport you have. You know I don’t trust him enough to meet with him, and you know we can’t protect her from over here.”

“Then why not bring her over here, and use her as leverage?” Matt said honestly.

“How can you honestly suggest that?” Mr. Collins replied, evenly. He was irritated, but he kept his tone. “How can you honestly suggest that we risk Grips by bringing her over? And for what? What does it gain us?”

“Because then Patrick won’t be able to control the board.”

“He doesn’t control anything, Matt! He’s nothing but a liability to his own agency. If anything, he’s the greatest thing to ever happen to this project! The boy is such a loose cannon, we may as well pay him to stay in the HVA. But the fact remains, Matt, Analog isn’t worth anything to us on this side of the Wall. That, and I don’t care about leveraging anything against some idiotic rival agent. He doesn’t have the access. He isn’t worth a damn thing, and I’d just as soon be rid of him as soon as it’s useful to do so.”

“And her?” Matt asked. He knew it wasn’t his place to barter for her. To be honest, it probably lowered him even further in Mr. Collin’s eyes. But still he asked it. He cared for her; really, he did. And she was worth something to the project, even if it was just as a measly bartering chip. Not only was Matt willing to put himself in the line of fire for her, he was willing to sacrifice his position if need be.

“Maaa-aa-aaaatt!” Mr. Collins flailed his hands above his head and made an irritated sound that almost reeked of whining, “Why are you so stuck on this? I know you like her. She’s a bright girl, and pretty. If the stakes weren’t so high, sure, I’d entertain it. But we are caught up in a much bigger world here. It’s a world where millions of people hang in the balance—millions of people who have irritating little crushes on other people just like you. She’s worth more to us where she is. Here, she’s just another mouth to feed. Why should I put your personal desires over the needs of millions?”

“Because…” Matt thought, “…because I feel I owe her.”

“Well, you do. So what?”

“I…” Matt thought about it for a second. He knew that his romantic feelings didn’t amount to much, but dammit, they had to amount to something, didn’t they?… didn’t they?

“Look, Matt.” Mr. Collins must have felt sorry for him because he changed his tone slightly, “I’m not going to beat you over the head with this. You acted. It was stupid, but you acted. So now here we are, and this is the game we are playing now. So, let’s figure out a way to make this happen.”

“Alright, what do we do?” Matt said, grateful to still be included in the process.

“Let me tell you a story. You know I went to West Point, right?”

“I did, yes.”

“Did I ever tell you what I studied?”

“No, honestly… I don’t think I’ve ever heard.”

“Military science was my degree, but what I really went there to study was Game Theory. Even to this day, it’s my third greatest passion, right behind chess and handling punk-asses like you.”

“You were a Grandmaster, weren’t you?”

“Close. Too much publicity… I would have never been able to do this if I did that. But I certainly could have been, if my interests didn’t lie elsewhere. In any case, have you ever studied the Prisoner’s Dilemma?”

“That’s the one where the one convict decides to dime out his partner for a lesser sentence in the hopes that his partner-in-crime hasn’t dimed him out as well, right?”

“Yes, and it’s the basic problem in the field, Matt. Game Theory is there to prescribe mathematical value to people’s actions and motivations. You can’t always mathematically account for everything, of course… people do random and illogical things for any number of reasons. But populations and demographics, Matt, they always follow predictable patterns. It’s not necessarily because the individuals inside of them are inherently predictable, but because the amassed aggregate is made predictable by the ‘80-20 principle’.

“However, I’ve personally found that it’s also largely because any demographics’ leader—or leaders—are all mathematicians in a manner-of-speaking. Anyone who is in a position of leadership knows what’s good for him or her. And they got that way by being pragmatic about the realities of cost, benefit and attrition. Since most leaders have foresight into the greater good, they—and by extension, their companies and constituents—can be mathematically predictable.”

“Alright?” Matt said, scratching his head.

“Alright.” Mr. Collins said smiling, “What is our policy against the Russians in Afghanistan?”

“To kick them out.”

“And if we can’t accomplish that, what is our goal?”

“To make it as expensive as possible for them to continue.”

“Which would, and probably will, eventually culminate in…?”

“The Russians leaving Afghanistan anyway?”

“Right. In contrast, what is the main Soviet strategy?”

“…errr, to win?”

“Try again.”

“To… spread Communism far and yon?”

“Is that a short or long-term goal?”

“Long, but I’m not following.”

“Actually, it’s a short-term goal because it doesn’t result in a permanent state.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“In any case,” Mr. Collins laughed, “Both the US and the Soviets have short-term goals, but only the US has a clearly defined long-term goal—a finite state of affairs wherein everything cancels out with a clear, concise victory for one or the other. Based on that knowledge alone—and not taking into account sustainment of resources or military capability—who is more likely to win? The one who plans for where we are currently at—what the board currently looks like—or the one who plans for the long-term future, even if that future requires accepting losses along the way?”

“Obviously the long-term.”

“And why is that, Matt?”

“Because…”

“Let’s make it even more complicated,” Mr. Collins said, smiling wider.

“Please don’t.” Matt laughed.

“Sometimes, predictability is a good thing. It makes you more familiar… more understandable. It’s a great asset for building trust with our nation’s allies. But believe it or not, randomization is incredibly beneficial to both allies and opponents alike. If you run a grocery store, and every first of the month you run a sale, when do you think your opponent’s will try to run their sale?”

“The week before?”

“So, when will you in turn need to run your sale the next month?”

“The week before that.”

“But if I choose my sales at random consistently, that forces you to do the same thing, since you can’t predict me. This will sometimes work out for me, and sometimes against me. Either way, it creates a more sustainable economy between us, which benefits us both, right?”

“I really don’t understand where you are going with this,” Matt sighed.

“Alright, look at it this way. We’ll make it easy. Every general has their favorite strategy, right?”

“I suppose so.”

“What if you didn’t know who a general was because his identity was classified, but you could more-or-less predict his identity based on the strategies he has historically employed? Even if you never fully confirmed who he was, if you dangled the right lure and he consistently took the bait, then you could make an educated guess as to how the rest of the game would go, provided your opponent continued to be who he was suspected to be.”

“So knowing your enemies’ motivations?” Matt asked.

“Exactly. Now, once again, the individual’s motivations can seem quite random—at least day-to-day with seemingly mundane activities. If a boy sees a pretty girl, he may or may not ask her out based on how intimidated he is by her. Or if a girl is trying out a new diet, she may decide to stick with it, or be tempted by the thing she is being deprived of, right?

“But we aren’t just talking about disparate individuals. We are talking about tactically-inclined and regimented demographics; specifically, the demographic of HVA agents who tend to over-rely on certain tactics—blackmail, for instance. They rely on these tactics because they have a very specific worldview that lends to a certain paranoia and distrust, even towards themselves. So, if you have an unknown case officer that tends to lead these HVA agents down certain paths—even if individuals in this agent-pool act against his wishes—if you know for certain that these agents are, in fact, acting against his wishes in order to act more like HVA agents… well, what do you think we could do with that knowledge?”

“Are you saying you think you know who Patrick’s case officer is?” Matt asked, perking up.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Mr. Collins smiled mischievously.

“Well, you could have just said that!”

“But then you wouldn’t know how I know why.”

“Truth be told, I still don’t.” Matt replied glumly. “So, what does that mean, then? I mean, it’s certainly useful. But…”

“Okay, okay. Part two.” Mr. Collins said, bouncing in his seat. He was obviously gaining excitement as he was speaking, and this made Matt slightly nervous. “Let’s say you had something to gain by a series of actions. You would take those actions, right?”

“Of course.”

“In Game Theory, we have two types of games. The first is Zero-sum: that is, non-cooperative games where my opponent has to lose in order for me to gain. Think warfare over geography, or finite resources. But the second type is cooperative games, where the goal is to average out our potential gains so that even though I personally make less, we as the collegiate whole can produce more with the implied sum of our efforts, rather than the rote sum of our parts. On the international playing field, we accomplish this in three ways: dominance, reciprocity and culturalism.

“Dominance is explained by Russia and the GDR in the context of the Soviet bloc. The GDR is less powerful than Russia, thus, they have to take what Russia gives them whether they like it or not. To balk is to risk military action, and thus risk destabilizing equilibrium.

“In reciprocity, or ‘tit for tat’—generally between two reasonably equal powers—we all agree to compromises. This is where the US and Russia are, even though it doesn’t appear to be so, since we are still currently working out those geographical and economical compromises. The benefit is that everyone gets room to breathe. The detractor is that you have to give up space here, or resources there, and no one ever wants to do that.

“Enter in culturalism, where people factor in the identity of their country, and their individual moral values. What would their ‘God’ tell them to do, in order to remain an example of their religious institution, and thus sway others to their line of thinking? What manufacturing practices would we be willing to give up, in order to take the effects of global warming into account? What about maintaining the existence of a small native tribe of people who don’t contribute economically but do contribute culturally, especially in a historic context?

“In other words, if I can convince you, my opponent, that we can both identify as a cultural union… say, members of the now-defunct League of Nations, or the UN Defense council… maybe that inclusionary identity is worth more than merely identifying as a dominant nuclear superpower.”

“Alright… I’m following.” Matt said, scratching his head.

“You lie!” Mr. Collins teased. “Now, what would I have to do to harness culturalism, to get you to take an action that benefited all parties involved, even if it put you in a slightly worse-off position?”

“Explain the worth of it to me, I suppose.” Matt said. “But how would that be possible here? We have two ideologically opposed entities. US and the HVA hate each other—mostly because America and the GDR are politically opposed to each other.”

“First off…” Mr. Collins winked, “I don’t think we and the HVA hate each other that much. We may be on opposing teams, but we’re still in the intelligence community together. That makes us part of a single culture, even if we have opposing goals and methods. I know this because you were able to quickly facilitate a working relationship with both Patrick and Open-Wide.

“Second, you didn’t account for the HVA case officer, whom I strongly believe has a different cultural standpoint than that of his agents. He may work for the HVA, but he only utilizes its methods when he has to. He knows, based off of experience, that their tactics work well for the short-term game; whereas his tactics are far more sustainable, even when he receives resistance.”

“How do you know that?” Matt asked.

“Because Sunshine, Analog, Patrick, Grips, Open-Wide and the rest of our network are still alive.”

“Fair enough.”

“He also appears to support the GDR, but only appears to. His actions, if I’ve read them right, say that he probably believes in the community of socialism, rather than the GDR the community resides within. He probably believes that, if left to its own devices—and free of both the HVA and the Stasi— the socialist community would choose to thrive, and his GDR would be its own country, which as we both know is their main goal.

“He likely feels that the real opponent to the GDR is actually Soviet Russia, because the Soviet Bloc actually works against the GDR becoming its own country. He correctly sees that capitalism has its benefits, and that the various incarnations of socialism do too. But while he himself extols socialism for its benefits to the community, he reviles communism, seeing it part-and-parcel as intellectual and economic genocide. He views the Soviets as an equal threat to both America and the GDR. Thus, he’s willing to work on our behalf, so long as it works against his real enemy: the Soviets.

“I know this, once again, because Sunshine and all the others haven’t been summarily murdered, which would have cut nearly all of these games short. Instead, we took his bait—Sunshine—and his threat—Analog—and threw them right back across the wall as an obvious dangle. He has seemed to oblige us by not only keeping them alive, but— and would you believe this—scheduling another show with your band and hers.”

“Seriously?!” Matt yelled, slamming the table. “He really did?! You can’t be serious?!”

“Oh yes, Matt. He did. Like walking ransom notes. In truth, he likely feels that our network can actually benefit the socialist community of his country by working against the GDR’s Soviet taskmasters—provided he can control their information flow. Which is precisely what I would do, if I were in his position.” Then Mr. Collins assumed a sly grin as he continued, “That is, if I had received the same nonsense counter-intelligence that I’ve been sending him.”

“What do you mean?” Matt asked.

“Let’s just say that the only true information in the ‘Top Secret’ files that Lord Piggy had in his briefcase were a few fly-fishing techniques.”

“Are you serious?”

“They were pretty blatant too. Well, to anyone that fly-fishes, at least.”

“So what now?”

“We’re going to accept his riposte to our parry, and throw it back in his face.”

“How?”

“You, my young charge, are going to play a show with Lena and Vivika.”

“So you are going to bring her over?” Matt asked, surprised.

“I’m going to try, Matt. But remember our priorities: first comes Grips, and with him assurances about the safety of the network. After that, the most important thing is Sunshine. Once those points are dealt with, everything else is fair game.”

“Thank you, Mister Collins.” Matt said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Thank you for honoring my stupidity.”

“Oh, don’t you even think I hadn’t planned for this weeks ago.” Mr. Collins said dryly. “A good case officer always takes into account that his agents aren’t eunuchs.” With this, Mr. Collins glared at him with a very stern look, before adding, “Yet.”

“There won’t be any need for that, Mr. Collins,” Matt gulped. “But what then? What happens after we bring them over?”

“Well, then I take their case officer off the board, Matt. Check and mate.”

In Schadlicher Weise

It was past sundown as the small tour bus rolled through Checkpoint Charlie. Unlike before, they weren’t held up with very much fuss at all. The GDR Soldiers yelled, and the American’s yelled back, but they once again seemed to be fueled more by personal entertainment and appearances than any real effort. If she were of a mind to look hard enough, she might have seen two soldiers on opposite sides of the fence laughing as they bellowed at each other.

She wasn’t paying that close of attention, however, as she was far too lost in her thoughts. Here she was, the great Madeline Dangerbunny, alone in a van being driven by ‘Victor’ to places completely unknown to her. She was also quite preoccupied with not stabbing him in the back of the neck to consider much else—so much so, that she had only recently realized that she had no musical equipment—or a band—and no set list for the night. All she knew was that she was supposed to be doing an impromptu show with The Dead Weights… and that Vivika wasn’t part of that arrangement.

When Lena’s thoughts drifted to Vivika she really didn’t know what to think. Their relationship had taken on a whole new meaning so quickly that she hadn’t had time to process it. Before they could really set about formulating a plan, Patrick had acted. The two had been separated by ‘Victor’ who had picked her up at Little John with very little information. Once Lena had found out on rather short notice that she was headed west of the Wall—without the only remaining member of her band—she was sure that this was more his doing than Grandfather’s. Grandfather was a much better planner than this. The deck was stacked against her, and she didn’t like that one bit.

“So, are you excited?” Victor asked cheerfully.

Lean only responded with a curt “Yup.”

“…Gonna get to play with your buddy Matt…” he said awkwardly, trying to break the tension, “You get to play another show! Two in less than a month? Not too bad, eh?”

“Uh huh.”

“I think it’s pretty cool.” he said. After a few more moments of silence, though, he sighed awkwardly.

It was almost like a bad date—one of those horrible first dates where it becomes obvious within the first five minutes that you absolutely hate each other. Hands are wrung, looks are cast elsewhere for help, things are said purely because silence is death, and every word brings the mood closer and closer to extreme discomfort and utter failure. Then sadness. Suddenly, suicide seemed an attractive alternative to the next five moments of seat-shifting and staring daggers.

“Yup.” Lena finally said.

“Yeah… pretty cool.” he said again.

The two rode in silence as the night-time lights of the city skyline cast colors across the insides of the van. Lena knew she should really just keep her mouth shut. Absolutely nothing she could possibly say would improve the situation in any way. But ‘Victor’ was just so stupid. He had to know. He had to know that this was a scheme of such diabolically poor planning that it was doomed to failure. He had to know that it was his fault, and he had to know that she knew that. Even as the moments ticked on, Lena desperately tried to remind herself that in 24-hours, it would all be over regardless of how it played out. But minute after laden minute, she lost a measurable amount of ability to hold it all in. Finally, she hazarded a question.

“So what am I supposed to be doing, again?”

Victor winced when she asked it. Clearly, for some god-forsaken reason, he had figured he wouldn’t have to answer any of the hard questions. “You’re gonna play a show with your boyfriend.” he tried to tease. Lena just stared at the back of his neck, hating him until she saw the red flush of embarrassment start to spread—he knew his joke wasn’t very funny.

“No, seriously.” Lena said acidly, “What the hell am I supposed to be doing? What is the plan?”

“I don’t know… you know… musician stuff. Like, maybe you two could play an acoustic show or something?”

“Musician stuff? We’re punk rockers. What sort of acoustic music do you think we are going to be playing?”

“Well, I dunno…” he said, shifting in his seat. “You know, maybe… I mean, maybe he’s got a few things figured out.”

Oh, this was intolerable. This plan had been so poorly formulated, he hadn’t even bothered to work out the details of her cover, let alone the reason for reuniting with Matt York in the first place. It was so ridiculous, she almost hated him more for this than any of his other previous sins.

“You have no idea what we’re doing, do you?” Lena finally asked. “Like, you genuinely hadn’t thought any of this through.”

“Of course I don’t know what you’re doing!” he exclaimed, “This is all last minute, and you know that. Let’s just get through this and do what we have to do, okay?”

“And what do we have to do, Patrick?”

“Victor.” he corrected, but Lena wasn’t in the mood to play stupid secret-agent games right now.

“Patrick.” she said aggressively, “I’m being serious! What am I supposed to be doing? Am I supposed to tell Matt something? Am I supposed to hand something off to him for you or someone else? What do I say when he asks me questions you know he’s going to ask me? This is your job to figure all of this out, not mine. You are supposed to coach me. So coach me!”

“Look…” he replied, “I’ve got a lot to work out here, so just…”

“Oh, you have a lot to work out?!”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Lena, you have no idea what…”

“Oh I think I have plenty of ideas.”

“What?!” he yelled. “What ideas do you have? You have no idea how hard all of this is to manage! Sometimes we just have to take the hand that we are given and run with it, okay? So just… I don’t know, go do whatever you ‘band people’ do. I’ll do what I have to do, and…”

“Oh, so that’s what this is!” Lena yelled. “This is you having to do stuff. So why the hell am I here, Patrick? Why are you having me along for your stupid games?!”

She had finally got to him. He had been backed into a corner, and simply trying to dance his way out of it wasn’t going to work. Unless he was prepared to earn more of her wrath than he already had, he would have to pony up an actual response.

“Because I need a hostage, you idiot.” he finally said, in a completely different tone than before. “You’ve messed things up for me and your precious Grandfather. And now, once again, I have to fix everything while holding your hand through all of it. Well, I’m not going to, this time. For once, you are going to carry your own weight and figure something out while I go out and fix the rest of it.”

“Oh, fuck you!” she yelled. She didn’t have any follow-up to that, but she said it anyway.

“Sure, sure.” he said, blowing her off, “Whatever you say, Lena. I don’t want to be here anymore than you do, but I’m here. So, let’s just follow our orders, okay? You go schmooze with your boyfriend, do drugs, and I’ll do all of the work. Then, you can return to our country with everything just peachy as if nothing even happened.”

“I know about Vivika.”

Oh, she really shouldn’t have said that. She really shouldn’t have. But she had wanted to for the entire ride… desperately she had wanted to feel the poison-soaked utterance escape from her mouth to hit him square in the face. Miraculously, the words not only felt just as amazing to say as she had hoped, but they seemed to even have the desired effect. He looked stunned… whipped, even.

“…oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’.” Lena menaced.

“That… she shouldn’t have…” he verbally flailed, “She… that… Lena, it’s…”

“I’m telling Matt.” Lena said. “The second I see him, I’m telling him. I’m going to tell him everything about it, in every single detail. And then we’ll see what happens.”

“Y-you shouldn’t… you shouldn’t do that.”

“Why? Why shouldn’t I? How did you think that this was going to work out? That she somehow wouldn’t tell me, and that I wouldn’t do everything I could possibly do to make you suffer for it? What could you possibly have as a backup plan? You raped my friend, you lowlife piece of shit. And now I’m going to do whatever I can to make sure you suffer for it.”

“I seriously wouldn’t do that,” Patrick said in a positively freaky tone. “Just you remember, you wretched little bitch, Vivika is on that side of the Wall, and you are on this one. I have both of you as leverage, and that means I can make one of you disappear quicker than you could possibly imagine. The only reason you are alive is the same reason we are headed into the West: to broker a meeting. If you tell Matt anything, I’ll kill you. If our negotiations don’t go well, they’ll kill her. And if you don’t play my game exactly how I want it to be played, I’ll make sure I see her long before you do.”

“You know what I think?” Lena responded, blankly. “I think Matt already knows. Which means that Mr. Collins already knows.”

“What of it?” Patrick responded, swallowing.

“…and you know what else?” Lena continued, ignoring him, “I think Grandfather knows to.”

“…well, that doesn’t…”

“And I know Grandfather. I know how he feels about rape, and I know how Matt and Mr. Collins do, as well. I think you are backed against a corner and you think I’m going to be your trump card against all of that. But you know what? I know you too, Patrick.”

“Oh what the hell do you know about me?!”

“I know that you aren’t as smart as you think you are. But more importantly, I know you are just smart enough to realize who’s really in control. I know that whatever Grandfather has in store for you, it’s nowhere near as bad as it would be if you laid even a single finger on me. I know that the second we get to the venue, Matt and Mr. Collins will protect me and you will be powerless. I know you are meeting with Matt, and I know that he knows what you did to the woman he loves. And you know what? I’m looking forward to seeing who beats the shit out of you first… and who picks up whatever is left of your stinking carcass and finishes it off.”

“You’re god-damned right I raped her!” Patrick screamed. “She had it coming! And you know what? I don’t care who knows! Because you aren’t the only one on this side of the Wall now. Now I’m over here too—the HVA can’t touch me. If things go sour, I can hold out as long as I need to, and I’m far better equipped to do that than you are. What’s better, I have a hostage: you.

“If you think for one second that I’m letting you out of my sight, or out of my control, you’ve got something else coming. And if you think that was the last time I’m prepared to make an example of some worthless little bitch, you haven’t realized who you are locked in a van with, in a strange and foreign country where little girls like you and Vivika disappear every single day. This is the West, you pretty little idiot… no one here cares what’s happening to you. And once this is all over, I’ll show you, so that you never forget.”

* * *

Vivika and the Dragon Lady stared at each other, as the two sat across from one another in the small cafe. Vivika was trying to decipher Dragon Lady’s expression. It was an odd facial contortion; yet it seemed to be her natural expression. It was like her mouth struggled for congruence with those eerily wide and freakishly dead eyes. Whatever the expression was, natural or otherwise, it clearly said any number of terrible things.

“Well, now.” Dragon Lady began, “Here we are.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?” Vivika responded impudently.

“I suppose it doesn’t mean anything convicting, no.” she responded without the slightest inflection.

“Why exactly are we here, then?”

“Reasons.”

All things considered, it was pretty obvious why they were here. After Lena and Vivika had opened up to each other, they had both walked to Little John where Patrick and Dragon Lady had been waiting. Patrick wordlessly picked Lena up and drove off as quickly as he could, leaving Dragon Lady to babysit Vivika. Perhaps ‘babysit’ wasn’t the correct word, however. After the events that had transpired over the past few weeks had approached the crux of today, well, it was clear that both Lena and Vivika were bargaining chips.

Thus far, Dragon Lady seemed to be an amiable person, at least in regards to Lena’s description of her. Vivika had half expected to be removed to some torture cell where Dragon Lady would, I don’t know, perform vivisection without anesthesia or something similarly terrible on her—she certainly seemed like she was someone who would. Yet, thus far, Dragon Lady didn’t seem to care all that much about her. It wasn’t like Vivika was even an annoyance to her. It seemed… well actually, it wasn’t all that clear how it seemed. Dragon Lady was exceptionally hard to read.

“Can we…” Vivika began, “That is…”

“Can we what, dear?”

“I don’t know. I’m just trying to make conversation.”

“Probably not the easiest thing to do, I’m assuming?”

“No. It’s really not.”

“Had a strange few days, I take it?”

“I think that’s fairly obvious.”

“I’m not just talking about the bruises, dear.” Dragon Lady said, motioning towards Vivika’s face. “I’m talking about all of it. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really, no.”

“I understand.” she responded with a tone that seemed caring enough if you used your imagination. “Emotions are difficult. Believe me, I know. I’ve never really had them. And having never had them, I never really saw the need. But everyone else seems very confused by them.”

“What’s it like?” Vivika asked. “What’s it like not liking anything?”

“Oh, I like plenty of things, dear.” Dragon Lady laughed strangely. “Granted, I may not like the things that you—or your friends, or even my coworkers—like, but I do get enjoyment out of my hobbies.”

“And what are your hobbies?” Vivika asked, before wishing she hadn’t.

“Oh, probably nothing that you would be interested in.”

“Oh.” Vivika said, secretly thankful that she had been spared an actual answer. It was probably something like pulling the legs off of insects, or people.

“I suppose my greatest hobby is people. I like figuring out what makes them tick.”

“I don’t want to know how you find that out.” Vivika said with a note of disgust.

“Oh, I’m sure Lena has told you all about that.” Dragon Lady half-laughed again. “But that’s only part of it—that’s only how I get the truth out of people when we really need to know every ounce of it. In truth, everyone is constantly lying. They might not know they are lying when they do it, but they are.”

“How do you mean?”

“Every time someone says anything to someone, they are saying three things. The first is what they are supposed to be saying: ‘How are you?’ for instance, or ‘I’m doing fine’; the sorts of things people are socially obliged to say. The second thing they say is what their body language communicates: whether or not they actually want to have that conversation, or whether or not they are wanting to have it with the person they are having it with.

“But the third thing they say is said through how they lace the rest of the conversation… subtle word-choices or changes in direction that give away what is really on their mind. For instance, you are trying to make conversation—that’s the lie. You don’t want to make conversation. Or more specifically, you don’t want to make it with me. Yet you persist in trying to. You are persisting in trying to because it’s socially required, and you know that I understand that—that’s the lie. The truth is, you are only trying to talk to me because I terrify you, and you are hoping that befriending me in any capacity will make me not want to hurt you. You are only using the social requirement of conversation as the excuse to do so.”

“I suppose that’s honest enough.” Vivika admitted, before asking, “Are you going to hurt me?”

“There’s the lie.” Dragon Lady responded. “You aren’t asking if I’m going to hurt you, because you don’t want to know. In truth, you have already decided that I won’t, because that’s the only outcome that your nervous-system will allow you to consider. The other lie is that sheepish tone you take. You don’t feel sheepish; you feel weak, powerless and unsure about the future. The truth is that you are trying to sound small and inconsequential, so that I won’t feel some sense of triumph if I do decide to hurt you… but will instead choose to enslave you, trading your capitulation for the promise of minimal harm.”

“So, you aren’t going to, then?”

“Again, another lie—you aren’t asking, you are confirming. You are trying to steer the conversation in a direction that confirms I won’t hurt you. The problem is, even if I say I won’t, that doesn’t mean I won’t. But that’s another lie you are trying to tell yourself, because that is—once again—the only outcome that your brain will allow you to consider. You logically know that I could change my mind… but you are lying to yourself in the hopes of finding temporary solace in the ludicrous proposition that I will be a woman of my word.

“For all you know, I might lull you into a false sense of security and then do terrible things to you later. You don’t know, and you never will know. The truth is that, until you are completely out of my clutches, you will forever wonder when I’m finally going to hurt you. The truth is that you will always live in fear of that, and the truth is that I enjoy that.”

“Why do you enjoy that?”

“There’s the lie—the question as to why I enjoy that.” Dragon Lady said. “You already know why I do, and you don’t care why I do. The real reason you ask me that is because you realize that it’s socially unacceptable for me to enjoy the things that I do, and you are hoping that by asking in the tone you used, I will somehow spontaneously come to grips with an understanding of how wrong it is.”

“So, everything I say is a lie?” Vivika responded, annoyed.

“That’s another lie—you don’t believe that everything you say is a lie at all. What you are actually saying is that you don’t like the direction the conversation is going, and you want me to know that.”

“You are incredibly difficult to talk to.” Vivika said, sitting back in her seat with her arms crossed.

“And that, my dear, is the first honest thing you have said to me this entire conversation.”

“Well, it’s true.”

“And that’s another lie!” Dragon Lady laughed. “You didn’t say that to confirm anything—you are saying that because you are hoping I will realize that it’s a bad thing. But it doesn’t negate anything else you have said. If I were you, I would recognize and appreciate that you are finally having a conversation with an honest person—someone that has no reason whatsoever to lie to you. I would use the rest of this conversation wisely, and try to get information that might actually be useful to you. Because you and I won’t be sitting in this booth for very long, and the next place that we go might be any number of places… some of them terrible.”

“Are you going to hurt me?” Vivika asked again, staring the Dragon Lady in the face.

“Yes,” she responded blankly. “I’m going to hurt you so very badly.”

____

The touring van pulled up outside of the venue and parked. It was a building much like the last, with a beat-up, brick-laid facade. Crumbling pillars were plastered with band flyers and beer labels, and the walls were covered in layers upon layers of graffiti. The windows were cracked with millions of pock-marks from god-knows-what smashing into them on particularly youthful weekends, and the ground was littered with cigarette-butts and the stomach contents of parties long since concluded. It all smelled atrocious, like teen spirit mixed with morning shame; yet Lena loved it. Oh, and the billboard that brightly displayed, “Tonight only! Madeline Dangerbunny and The Dead Weights!” certainly didn’t hurt. Although it did raise almost as many questions as it answered.

“I guess I’m somewhat at a loss.” Lena said as they both stepped out. “Did I just join a band?”

“Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t.” Patrick responded, apathetically. “Just do whatever the hell you people do, and stick around. I have business to attend to.”

“What sort of business is that?” she asked.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I would.” she replied impudently.

“As it so happens, I’m meeting with Matt. We are going to put some cards on the table and see who has the better hand.”

“What cards could you possibly have?” Lena scoffed.

“Oh, more cards than you might think—the least of which being Vivika.”

Lena stifled a response. There wasn’t a chance in hell he knew anything about the secrets she and Vivika shared, but it still irritated her all the same. She knew Patrick was just trying to get under her skin and, she knew that he was lying. Something about the way he said the things that he said belied his false confidence in the situation and his plans. She could see right through his false bravado now, and this made her want to press the issue even more.

“So what about her?” Lena said. “Vivika is the only card you have right now. If anything happens to her, plenty will happen to you.”

“I doubt that Dragon Lady feels the same.” Patrick laughed, knowingly.

“Do tell,” Lena said, unaffected.

“Let’s just say that when she gets a new plaything, she doesn’t let them go easily.”

Normally, what he just said would have bowled her over. But at this point, she not only doubted the validity of his confidence, but his supposed narrative in-and-of itself. Too much had happened at this point… she had too much experience to be cowed this easily with a threat that contained that little of substance.

“I’m sure that she doesn’t.” Lena said, “But I know you both work for Grandfather. So, it doesn’t matter what she wants, really.”

“You seem to put a lot of faith in the honorable nature of psychopaths.”

“I know a thing or two about them.” Lena sneered. “I’ve worked with you for this long.”

“Oh, I’m hardly of her ilk, but I understand you might think that. The truth is that I care very much what happens to you and Vivika—you are both my ticket out of here, if I play my cards right. Dragon Lady is my insurance against Vivika.”

“You seem to put a lot of faith in the honorable nature of psychopaths.”

“Fair enough.” Patrick conceded, before moving into a threat, “But remember, I don’t need either one of you alive. All that I need is to get the hell out of the GDR. I’m out of the GDR now.”

“Then why the hell are you meeting with Matt?” Lena growled, sensing another lie.

“Because I have a score to settle.”

“Then why the hell am I alive?”

“Because you are part of that score.”

Something about the situation just didn’t add up. Patrick wouldn’t have been here unless he had been told to be. Vivika only mattered to Lena and Matt—and for very different reasons. She wouldn’t have been that much of a bargaining chip against anyone else. Yet if Grandfather truly was the man Lena knew he was, well, then Vivika wasn’t all that important at all. Maybe she truly was some sort of insurance… but a bargaining chip?

“You know what I think?” Lena said, “I think that you are trying to play both sides. I think that you are here, doing exactly what Grandfather is telling you to do. I think that you think you are smarter than you are, and you are trying to make it look like you are playing a separate game all of your own. But I think the only people you are really playing against right now is Matt and me.”

“Playing against you?!” Patrick scoffed.

“I don’t think I matter in the least to any of these plans, and I don’t know anything that Grandfather doesn’t already know. I think instead of being your bargaining chip, I’m Grandfather’s act of good faith.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“And you know what else?” Lena ignoring him, “I think that you are trying to play a different game that you haven’t really thought through… and I think it’s a really stupid idea.”

“And why is that?”

“Because things don’t really seem to work out for you when you do that.”

“Oh, really? And why…”

“Because you’ve been trying for some time, and it hasn’t worked out thus far.”

“How do you…”

“I think that you raping my friend was less about you settling a score with her or Matt, and more about you and your fucking ego. You didn’t gain anything by raping her; all you did was take someone that probably already hated you and made them hate you more. But now I’d wager that a lot more people than you counted on hate you because of that. No, you didn’t do that for any reason other than something made you feel like less of a man, and you had to prove how big and bad you were by taking it out on the only person that you were able to.”

“Oh, she’s not the only one.” Patrick menaced.

“Stop it!” Lena spat. “Quit while you are behind, you moron!”

“Who the hell do you…”

“Stop it, Patrick! Just stop!” She was shouting louder as a few distant heads began to turn, “You kept trying to play a game you were never going to win. Instead of finding a game you could win, you tried to force things into place. Well, now you’ve gone too far. So far that admitting it won’t do a damn thing. Once Grandfather finds out what you did—if he doesn’t know already—you’re a dead man!”

“Fuck you!” Patrick screamed.

There it was: all the proof she needed. Lena didn’t know precisely how she knew it, but the fact that Patrick hadn’t offered anything in response other than a tired insult told her everything she needed to know about how correct her assumptions were. Patrick was already in deep trouble, and there was nothing he could do to get out of it. Moreover, she wagered that the only thing he could do to ensure a worse outcome for himself was to hurt her. It was time to take a page out of everyone else’s’ book and hammer it home.

“Right. ‘Fuck me’” Lena taunted, “I knew I was right. I knew you were weak and powerless. Look at you… weak, powerless little Patrick, with your weak little problems… raping a girl? What a piece of worthless shit you are.”

“I-I’m not worthless,” Patrick protested with his eyes beginning to glisten, “I’m not!”

“You are worthless, you idiot.” Lena stood tall, squaring her shoulders, “You aren’t going to do shit to Vivika ever again, and you aren’t going to do shit to me! I’m Grandfather’s asset… not yours. You are absolutely powerless.”

A bright flash of red and a sharp piercing whine filled what was left of Lena’s vision, and for a brief second, she forgot her name. She didn’t feel anything, aside from the sense that she was completely trapped inside of a head—a head that wobbled around freely on top of a body that was somewhat disconnected. Seconds later, her vision switched back on to inform her that she was still standing, punctuated with a bright pink pain on her left cheek that echoed throughout her jaw.

Instead of recoiling, however, she simply looked at that spot right between his legs and buried her foot in it, as if she was trying to split the earth in half with the sheer force of her hatred. She felt something shift out of the way before hitting what felt like a soft, thinly-packed seat cushion. Immediately, he hit the floor and curled up in the fetal position, clutching something Lena genuinely hoped was broken beyond repair.

“Fuck you, Patrick,” she said, before breaking out in a dead sprint towards the venue.

____

“Why are you going to hurt me?” Vivika asked the Dragon Lady.

It seemed a plain enough question—a perfectly reasonable response to a rather unreasonable statement. Vivika didn’t know the Dragon Lady by anything other than reputation, yet that reputation was more than enough to know she was fully capable of hurting anyone she wished. Yet Vivika attempted a rather dispassionate approach. Regardless of how this situation was going to turn out, at the very least, Vivika was resolved to deny her as much satisfaction as possible.

“Because I don’t like you,” the Dragon Lady responded plainly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Why don’t you like me?”

“Mostly because Patrick likes you, and I don’t like Patrick. Also, because Matt likes you, and I don’t like who Matt works for. I also don’t like you because I don’t like anyone, but I mostly don’t like you because I utterly hate Lena. I think the both of you are bad assets that can’t be trusted, and I think that the both of you have done enough damage to the HVA to simply let you die comfortably.”

“So, you are going to kill me, then?” Vivika asked, as plainly as she could manage.

“Isn’t that fairly obvious?”

“Well…” Vivika weighed her words, “I guess there are a few things I don’t understand.”

“Such as?”

“Well… uh…”

Vivika took a tally of the situation. She wasn’t in a black cell or torture room, or even the confines of… well, anything confining. She was simply sitting in the booth of a cafe, sitting across from what, by all appearances, appeared to be her babysitter for the evening. Vivika was quite familiar with the investigation techniques of these types of people: they always sought to build rapport… whether that was a ‘good rapport’, like making you feel at home and equal, or ‘bad rapport’ by outright dominating you. These people were masters at sensing your weakness—finding a wound and sticking a hot poker inside of it to see what made you squeal. But all things considered, the Dragon Lady was doing a horrible job. She was intimidating, that was for sure; but the situation didn’t add up, and the confines of the café didn’t lend to her threats.

“I guess I just don’t understand why you would want to.” Vivika tested.

“I just explained that to you.” Dragon Lady scowled, “I think you are stalling.”

“But… why would you want to hurt me? Do you enjoy it?”

“You already know I do, dear.”

“What is it about pain that you enjoy so much?!” Vivika whined, trying to keep her voice down.

“Oh, I don’t enjoy pain at all.” Dragon Lady smiled. “On the contrary… I do whatever I can to avoid pain. It’s a terrible, terrible feeling. That’s why I enjoy making others feel pain: because I know how horrible it is, and I know how horrible it is for them. It’s not just that I enjoy what they are feeling—how they move, or how they squeal. I enjoy watching them try to rationalize what’s happening to them. ‘Why is this happening to me?!’, ‘Maybe if I twist this way, it will hurt less!’, ‘Maybe if I cry, she’ll stop slicing.’ All of the little lies people tell themselves to convince themselves that there’s a way out of it. If they just try this, or if they just try that, it’ll eventually be over. Whatever logic they use, it eventually culminates in the realization that it’s never going to stop. That’s when I become their god. And that’s what I’m going to do to you, dear.”

“I think that’s vile.” Vivika scowled, as bile welled up.

“I think that it’s more your problem than mine.”

“I think you are sick.”

“Why would I care what you think?” She laughed coldly, “You should hear the things people scream when I’m working on them. They beg, they plead, they offer, and they tell me everything, down to what their wife looks like naked, and what their children’s deepest fears are. They lose all loyalty to everything and everyone. Except for me, little girl.”

By all measures, the things that Dragon Lady was saying should have made Vivika cower where she sat. Yet something rang strangely. Dragon Lady was enjoying this immensely, talking about her favorite hobby. Yet she had stopped calling her ‘dear’, and was now calling her ‘little girl’. Vivika couldn’t quite put her finger on it… but it was as if the Dragon Lady felt she had found a wound with which to salt… a position of power she could exploit.

“I’m not a little girl,” Vivika said, testing the waters.

“Of course, you are.” Dragon Lady grinned maliciously, “You are a tiny thing… all skin and bones, shivering with fear. You’ve been playing your little spy games and now you’ve been caught, like you always knew you would be. You knew it was going to happen, and now here you are, staring down the barrel of your reckoning.”

Dragon Lady was clearly trying to make her feel small; yet once again, something wasn’t clicking. Dragon Lady was becoming more volatile by the second, acting more and more triumphant. Yet she hadn’t accomplished anything except for scaring Vivika more. Oh sure, that was certainly a triumph; but that wasn’t the triumph that the evil bitch was aiming for. She was becoming more volatile in the hopes that Vivika would… what? What was it that the Dragon Lady wanted?

Carefully, Vivika played back the conversation in her head. Dragon Lady had, thus far, not asked her any questions. That might mean that Dragon Lady already knew everything… or it might mean that she hadn’t yet found something to probe.

“I… I…” Vivika stalled. She tried to cower just a bit. It was easy to do, since she was afraid. But it seemed to make the Dragon Lady feel even more triumphant. There had to be a way to use that to her advantage.

“I… I…” Dragon Lady mocked.

“What do you want from me?!” Vivika whined.

“I have already told you what I want, you imbecile!”

“Actually, no you haven’t.” Vivika straightened up a bit at ‘imbecile.’ “You’ve told me that you want to hurt me, and you’ve more-or-less told me why; but your reasons don’t add up.”

“Oh, you weak, little girl.” Dragon Lady leaned forward, “You stupid, insignificant little girl.”

The ploy had worked. Vivika had sensed the first time that Dragon Lady had said ‘little girl’, and detected that she had wanted to demean her. But when the Dragon Lady had switched to ‘imbecile’ and Vivika had appeared to react to that, Dragon Lady had switched back to ‘little girl’. Vivika was now quite sure that Dragon Lady was investigating her. Thus, Vivika decided to give her what she wanted and begin cowering again. Surely this would give her some time to figure out what was going on.

“I’m not weak.” Vivika said, feigning offense, “And I’m not a little girl!”

“Sure, you are!” Dragon Lady smiled, “You are playing a game you know nothing about. Running around, playing your little spy games with Matt and MI6… did you really think that you could play those games against professionals like me? Oh, you stupid, worthless little bitch.”

“MI6?” Vivika thought to herself. “What the hell is MI6?”

Suddenly, Vivika recalled the conversations that she and Lena had discussed in Lena’s bedroom. She remembered the story that Lena had told about the British asset at the Interhostel—about how the British apparently always chose pretty women as assets (something all the agencies seemed to do, apparently). Naturally, Vivika had assumed that Patrick and everyone else in the HVA was already in on everything that she and Lena had been doing. Vivika just assumed that Dragon Lady did too, but now, she wasn’t so sure.

“Wait…” Vivika shook her head, “What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, little girl.”

“No, I really don’t. I have no idea who MI6 is!”

“Lie to me again.” Dragon Lady seethed, “Go ahead… see how that plays out for you.”

“So, this is an investigation!” Vivika said to herself. “But they wouldn’t be doing that unless… unless they didn’t know everything about Matt and Lena and me. But what do they already know?! What could they possibly know for sure about me?!”

“It’s a good thing for you that we are in public.” Dragon Lady smiled, sweetly. “Because otherwise, I would reach across the table and rip those pretty tits of yours off. But don’t you forget that the night is still young. Everything you say past this point will determine what happens when we get back to the black cells—and I have so many things planned for you, sweet girl.

“I’m going to become your life. I am going to become your only reality. You are going to have a long, exhausting life ahead of you, sweet girl. You will rise to the sound of your own screaming, and fall asleep to it at night. Pain will become your best friend. You will eat misery, drink agony, and live only to bring me pleasure in your suffering. And if you lie to me again, that life will get an early start.”

Überfrau

Lena had run a time or two in her young life. But even at the best of times, she had hated the experience and sincerely questioned whether or not a short, unhealthy life was preferable to a long one spent gasping and wheezing for breath. This time, however, the answer was quite clear: she wanted as long a life as she could possibly manage, and she would all-out sprint for the remainder of it, if need be.

You would have never guessed that a smoker could move this fast. Yet, fueled by the phantom pain of promised bullets screaming into her backside, she may as well have been an Olympic sprinter. She had no idea if Patrick was behind her, if he was laying on the ground, or if he was catching up. All she knew was that she was wasting precious seconds even considering it.

The crowd outside the venue was lazily shuffling about, waiting for the front gates to open. Some smoked, some drank, and some were making out silently behind a pillar. A larger percentage by the second, however, were beginning to take notice of the girl running headlong into them.

“Hey… look who it is!”

“No, no no no no no…” Lena screamed at herself, “Don’t recognize me! Please don’t recognize me!”

“It’s the Mad Bunny!”

Suddenly, the crowd perked up with curious energy. As Lena approached, one set of eyes became two, then four, then ten—suddenly, everyone standing outside of the venue was now looking at her and cheering wildly.

“Oh this is not good! There’s no way I can lose Patrick like this!”

“Hey, will you sign…” someone asked, as Lena shoved her way through the crowd.

“Sorry… sorry… sorry…” Lena apologized, as she ducked behind the crowd, trying to find her way towards the front door of the venue. “One stinky punker coming through!” she said, motioning the crowd out of her way. Contrary to her wishes, the crowd began to gather around her, blocking her passage.

“Where did you get your…!!”

“Are you single?!”

“Will you sing us a song?!”

“Are you single?!!”

Hands reached around her, offering what would have normally been a protective shield of friends and extended family. Now, they were a net that placed her in imminent danger.

“I’m so sorry!” Lena hazarded, as cheerfully as possible, “I have to get in for sound check!” Carefully, she looked behind her. Oh… she really shouldn’t have done that. Through the fog of hands, shoulders and multicolored hair, she spied the malevolent figure of Patrick, off in the distance, gathering himself off of the ground. Something about the way that he held himself seemed a silent promise to Lena… that once he found his way to her, whatever the original plan for her safekeeping was, it was now off. If Patrick found her, he was going to beat her within an inch of her life.

Lena moved slowly through the crowd, immured by human bodies as if trying to wade through grasping quicksand. As fate moved closer and closer, time slowed. The wobble of fear began to slow her steps as she finally made it to the front door of the venue where a bored bouncer stood, smoking a cigarette.

“I’m here!” Lena said cheerfully.

“Good for you.” the bouncer replied, not even looking at her.

“No, I’m… I’m here to perform!”

“Again, good for you.” the bouncer replied, just as unimpressed as before.

“No, I’m…” Lena stuttered, “Look, I’m the Mad Bunny! I’m the lead singer!”

“That’s great, sweetie.” the bouncer replied, casually looking at her before going back to his smoke.

“W-what the fuck is your problem?” Lena yelled, “Let me in!”

“Can we please not do this?” the bouncer said, apathetically. “Every show, there’s a million of you who try to weasel your way in. It’s not going to happen, ok? Get to the back of the line.”

“You just don’t understand!” Lena cried.

“Back of the line, sweet-tits.” the bouncer said, before putting a grubby hand up in front of her.

Lena looked back to see Patrick had reached the back of the ever-gathering line of people. He was walking quickly and looking about frantically, looking over every person and every face, searching for Lena. Tiny spiders of mounting fear and panic were creepy-crawling up her spine. She could feel his hands wrapping around her throat, choking the life out of her as flecks of spit smacked her in the face. Whatever Lena was going to do, she had to do it now.

“Would you four come with me?” Lena motioned at a few random fans. “I need some help loading gear.”

“Wait… really?” a young man with bright blue hair and the craziest red fedora that Lena had ever seen said. His friends, two women with hair so colorful it bordered on ultraviolet, seemed even more cheerful than he was.

“We’re not that strong!” one of the girls whined. “Aren’t musician things heavy?!”

“Trust me,” Lena smiled breathlessly, “you’re perfect!”

Lena hazarded another searching look for Patrick. She’d lost track of him! With panic boiling over, she tried to maintain control while casually ushering her volunteer stage hands along.

“This way!” Lena said, walking slowly back down the line. “Come on, I’ll get you all backstage.”

Silently, she scanned the crowd for Patrick—he was bound to see her the very second she walked past. Unless…

“I like your hat!” Lena said to the young male walking in her makeshift posse. “Can I try it on?”

“Hell yeah you can!” he said enthusiastically, offering her his hat.

“Here, you can try on my jacket.” Lena quipped, disrobing and offering it to him.

“I think it’s a little small for me, but I’ll try!”

“Logan, don’t fuck up her jacket!” one of the girls swore.

“It looks terrible on you already!” the other girl laughed, as the boy, Logan, struggled to fit inside the diminutive confines of her jacket.

As nonchalantly as she could manage, Lena led the group down the line. She knew full well that she would pass Patrick at some point—indeed, it was the only chance of survival that she had. Stifling the urge to walk briskly (and draw his attention, wherever he was), she adopted a casual shuffle, making sure to keep the brim of her hat low.

Suddenly, she saw him—there he was, weaving in and out of the crowd, frantically searching for any sign of her. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…” Lena screamed at herself. She switched places with one of the girls quickly, and fell back behind Logan, putting his body between herself and the view of Patrick. As she walked closer and closer, she sped up slightly to keep Logan perfectly between them.

Ten paces… seven paces… five paces… three…

Now she was directly perpendicular to him…

Three paces… five paces… seven…

“Hey, don’t walk so fast!” Logan complained, as the group struggled to keep up.

“Sorry…” Lena apologized, realizing that she was now walking rather quickly.

She slowed to a normal pace, attempting to follow a conversation she could barely hear above her raging fear. As soon as she dared, she looked behind her to see if Patrick was following. Thankfully, he appeared to still be searching the crowd.

“Whew. If I can just make it inside and onstage, I’ll be safe. For now, at least.” Silently, she thanked Vivika for the serendipitous lesson in losing surveillance agents.

“So, what’s it like being a big rock star?” one of Lena’s female companions asked.

“It’s gotta be so sweet!” the other girl said.

“Oh, it’s wild.” Lena admitted, “It’s a lot crazier than you might imagine.”

____

Dragon Lady stared imposingly at Vivika. Her face was a mixture of triumph, hatred, and an inquisitive energy that bordered on lustful. It was a particularly alien form of emotion that she had a hard time placing. Truthfully, however, Vivika didn’t really feel the inclination to try. This was a vile, subhuman excuse for a person, and Vivika wanted no part in anything she represented. With that understanding firmly in place, a picture was beginning to paint itself in Vivika’s mind—the picture of a new paradigm. What if… what if… oh, the picture just wasn’t complete yet, and Vivika wasn’t able to articulate it fully. She had to test the waters first—and she would have to placate this monster to do so.

“Please… please don’t hurt me,” Vivika winced.

“Oh, we are far past that, little girl.”

“Wh-what do I have to do?! What do I have to do? I’ll do anything!”

“There’s nothing you can do!” Dragon Lady practically salivated, “I already know that you work for MI6. I already know that Lena does as well, and I know who Matt works for. There’s nothing you have that I want.”

Vivika cowered, but it was all an act. The Dragon Lady had her facts wrong—and it made Vivika wonder what else she didn’t know. Perhaps Vivika could take a page from this horrible woman’s book, and play into her fantasy a little bit. Perhaps if she could completely switch the Dragon Lady into a different line of thinking, she could talk her into revealing her hand.

“I’m so sorry!” Vivika said, as tears began to well up, “I didn’t know what to do… I didn’t want to, but he was so forceful about it!”

“That doesn’t excuse you!” Dragon Lady responded acidly, “You could have told someone, but you didn’t! You kept it secret. Now look at the damage you have caused!”

“I know, I know! I’ve been terrible!” Vivika looked her in the eyes, “He offered me money… he offered me free passage into the West! I didn’t really believe him, but… oh, I shouldn’t have!”

“Of course you shouldn’t have. How in the world could he have gotten you across the Wall?”

“It was ridiculous to even consider! I’m so sorry I’ve caused so much trouble!”

“Not as sorry as you are going to be once we leave here.” Dragon Lady smiled.

“Why would I even think that Patrick had that much power?!”

The Dragon Lady kept her composure, as if she knew who Vivika had been talking about all along. Yet there it was… the slightest hesitation. For a second, she seemed to stumble, as if wondering if Vivika had misspoke.

“The stupid Soviets and their stupid mind games!” Vivika wailed quietly, “All they do is threaten, and threaten, and threaten! ‘We’ll kill you if you don’t do this… we’ll torture all your friends if you don’t do that… We’ll kill your parents… We’ll gouge out your eyes… After you get threatened, and beaten, and raped and… and… then Patrick was doing it too, so…” Vivika was crying openly now, which drew glances from a few casual onlookers. Yet inside, she was cheering roundly. “The evil bitch is buying it! Yes!”

“Wait just one second,” Dragon Lady started, but Vivika was having none of it.

“And then Lena… oh, that was just too much.”

“What happened with Lena?” Dragon Lady asked, confused.

“Wait, you don’t know?”

“Well… of… of course, but…” Oh, the sight of Dragon Lady stuttering might have been the most satisfying thing that Vivika had ever seen. Vivika had her in her sights, and was about to pull the trigger. Oh, and how good it was going to feel… oh how good, indeed.

“You didn’t know about Lena?”

“Of course, I knew about Lena.”

“Really?” Vivika asked, feigning confusion.

“What, do you think I’m stupid?”

“Then you knew about her Grandfather?”

“How did you know about her Grandfather?!”

“Because Patrick told me!”

“What did Patrick tell you about her Grandfather?!”

“H-hold on a second.” Vivika stuttered, “That’s what I thought this was all about.”

“What are you talking about, dear girl?” Dragon Lady said in a tone that dangerously bordered on ‘polite’, and Vivika realized that the next words she said would have far-reaching implications. Perhaps even better, the words would likely be taken at face value… at least for the moment. Slowly, Vivika cocked the hammer back, and fired a lie straight into Dragon Lady’s face.

“About Patrick trying to get me to spy on Lena and her Grandfather for the Americans?” And there it was, dawning the way a tsunami dawns on a small fishing town in the middle of the Pacific ocean: the look of complete and utter paradigm apocalypse.

“Excuse m-me?”

“What?” Vivika asked, innocent-as-could-be.

“Y-you… y-you must… you must be absolutely sure about what you just said.”

“W-what did I say?”

“You know what you said!” Dragon Lady yelled, slamming her hands down on the table, which drew the attention of nearly everyone in the small cafe.

“What? About Patrick working for the Americans? Wait, you didn’t know that?!”

“I knew it!” Dragon Lady howled. “I knew that little prick was up to something!”

“Well, that’s why the Soviets were forcing me to spy on Lena and Patrick! Or, at least I assumed so, anyways.”

“Alright, kid, you’ve had your fun,” a voice said, as a man slid into the seat beside Vivika.

This new person was the one that Lena called ‘Red Hat’. Vivika had guessed at least one HVA agent was around somewhere, but she hadn’t figured out where. Now that it was this agent, however, Vivika swallowed her heart. This one was almost as cruel as the Dragon Lady, and probably smarter.

“You heard that, right?” Dragon Lady asked.

“Yes, yes, I heard all of it.”

“Do you think it’s true?!”

“Honestly, no I don’t.” he replied. “I think our little friend here is lying through her teeth.”

____

“Check… check…” Lena said calmly through the microphone as the crowd cheered.

As soon as Lena had snuck into the venue, she had made her way to the most populated area she could find, which happened to be backstage. The place was frenetic with pre-concert activity. At first, she couldn’t think of anything besides Patrick. He had to be somewhere—especially since he knew precisely where she was going to be in less than an hour. She genuinely considered running as far West as she could possibly get and… well, she didn’t really have much of a plan after that. Of course, once the Dead Weights showed up, well, she almost forgot her troubles.

Strangely enough, Matt was nowhere to be seen; yet the Dead Weights seemed to be rather nonplussed about the whole arrangement. Honestly, Lena couldn’t tell if they were in on the whole situation, or if they were just going with some artistic flow that she herself wasn’t privy to. It may have been a few good, solid hits off of the backstage peace pipe—but as long as they had a lead singer, it seemed, they didn’t particularly care who it was. A few cuss-laced introductions, a few hits of teen spirit, a few shots of liquid courage later, and the troubles were absolutely forgotten for the moment. The plan was simple: just make it up as they went along. At first, Lena reacted to this plan with a note of horror. Yet, as the hits off of the peace pipe became more frequent, and the familiar wooziness it imparted settled pleasantly at the base of her neck, well… I mean, you know… whatever, man.

Soon, the crowd began rifling into the auditorium, and the heat emanating from the thick crush of bodies signified the row that was soon to follow. This brought them to this precise moment, where Lena was having a full-on argument with the sound-engineer through the speaker system that only she could hear.

“Give me just a little more.” he laughed.

“Check! Check!” Lena said louder.

“Alright, look,” the sound engineer said through the monitors, “you are about to make history here. But I’m not letting you sing until you sack up and scream your guts out.”

“Sack up?” Lena said loudly through the microphone, much to the aplomb of the crowd who didn’t hear the other half of the conversation.

“Sack up! Sack up! Sack up!” the crowd began chanting loudly.

“Oh, you people on that side of the Wall probably don’t know what that means.” the sound engineer responded, “Well, now look at what you started.”

“I’m sorry?” Lena ask-apologized, meaning to ask him to repeat himself. Instead, it was the crowd who must have assumed she was taunting them. Thus, they repeated themselves louder.

“Sack up! Sack up! Sack up!”

“I can see why you’re famous, you epic little monster. Now just sing some shit and I’ll figure it out.”

Lena looked to this side and that, checking to make sure that the band was still backing her up. Quite the contrary: one was ham-fisting his bass guitar while drinking a fifth of vodka, the guitarist was flirting with a cute girl at the front of the stage, and the drummer… well, it looked like he was sniffing a white powder off of his snare drum.

“What a weird thing to do.” Lena thought to herself before motioning at the guitarist.

“What the hell do you want?!” he yelled at her.

“Play something, you asshole!” Lena screamed louder.

“Don’t you tell me what to do, shit-head!”

“See what happens if you don’t!” she threatened.

“Oh, I can’t wait to find out!”

“See if you like what…”

Just then, the bassist and drummer exploded into a sonic onslaught so terrible, it threatened to confuse even the gods of the avant-garde, who no-doubt looked on with a sense of pride. Lena, not having the slightest clue what key this was supposed to be in, resigned to simply scream as loud as she could through her microphone.

“Aaaaaaaaahhhhhh!” she wailed in the key of bullshit. The crowd attempted to meet her halfway, by finishing the sentence she didn’t know she had begun, as the guitarist began flailing away on his wooden scepter. As if compelled by some unholy demon, the crowd became a roiling thing, coalescing into a dangerous, three-dimensional pogo of fists and feet alike. As the band recognized the crowd’s dire straits as a thing to encourage wholeheartedly, the battle-clad star-dogs championed for a tilt in the lists, with no expense spared.

Safety went from suggestion to afterthought as blood began to boil. And with that, multiple members of the throng sought momentary refuge onstage, only to launch themselves ass-first back into a sea of hands that promised to catch them—or, at least, attempt to. Those that made it were thrown rearward, whereas the ones that didn’t… well, they were somewhere, and that seemed good enough for the moment. As the swelter increased and sweat poured out of the hearts of her adoring public, Lena raised her fists in formidable salute to the challenge ahead. Yet as her vision closed in, and color after color faded into monochrome, Lena finally realized that she was still eliciting her first scream of the night. “Ah well.” she thought to herself, “I haven’t tried passing out at the beginning of a show yet.”

She awoke to a mystery. Hands were utterly everywhere, covering a sea of darkened faces that screamed at her with such religious fervor, she damn near thought herself some sort of Messiah. Yet as she came to realize that she was upside down, she subsequently realized that she was crowd-surfing. Somehow, in her haste to pass out from lack of oxygen, she had neglected to die onstage. Now, here she was being passed around the room like some holy effigy, her own battle standard and badge of royalty. The sound of it all was overwhelming, and her nose filled with the scent of blood, sweat, and glorious halitosis… maybe a tooth or two flying across her field of vision, if those had scents.

And then like that, she was on the ground. Despite the violence, the crowd paid the respect due her high social status as their rightful Monarch, and set her down gently. This was an offense that would not go unpunished, so long as she was in charge.

As the music wailed behind her, the crowd stopped. They knew they had erred against her royal countenance by not killing her where she stood. Loyal subjects down to the man, they bowed their heads in preparation of her decree for retribution. She raised her hands above her head, and lowered them slowly, until they were outstretched the way Moses would part the red sea… and so it did part, with half the crowd in front, and half the crowd behind.

“Come on you ingrates!” she howled, “You know that’s not good enough!”

The crowd in front of her contracted into the closest wall, nuts to butts, until oxygen itself couldn’t squeeze in between the cracks. The crowd behind her contracted into their wall in such a fashion as to become a neutron star of such potential energy, it threatened to rip the planet apart. Anticipation grew, tempers flared, nostrils snorted and eyes met their opposition in preparation for the massacre. In time, the history books of the future would no doubt claim this as the genocide that topped them all: the war between that wall and the other one over there. But it became readily apparent that this description wasn’t nearly good enough as Lena lowered her hands to her sides and blared, “Kill each other!”

Lena, caught in the middle, was hardly spared the brunt of the occasion as the two walls of death connected. She felt things inside of her shift out of place, and things crack that shouldn’t have. Yet, despite how very bad this idea was in the first place, immured within a roiling pit of human disaster, she decided to improvise. Like that, her fists met faces, and her steel-toed bludgeons connected with far-softer shins, until she was sure that the blood covering her wasn’t merely her own. She owed it to them, after all… a good leader knows her place. She knew that the only right way of placing her slaves into harm’s way was for her to accept the greatest portion of danger for herself.

The crowd recognized this, and thanked her with uppercuts aimed to end her life. She met every attempt with headbutts and flying knees, round-housing her way back onto the stage. It was far less an attempt to save what little life she had left, and more of a red-carpet walk back to her throne. They would not topple her this day, and they knew it.

As quickly as it began, the moment ended with the band stopping as one. Magically, Lena was onstage at the precise moment this happened. There was no cheering. There was no breathing. There was neither sneeze, nor cough, nor meaningful signs of life as The Mad Bunny and the Dead Weights looked out into the conquered kingdom.

And then it happened again—the overwhelming feeling of… well, whatever it was. It was a crazed, intoxicated, adrenaline-soaked feeling of impulse welling up in her chest like a fountain of inspiration; the dope-soaked culmination of the moment in its entirety, and all the energy that the crowd produced funneling into her, to be transfigured into a catharsis of painted words. She alone knew what must be said; she alone knew how to say it. Thus, with reckless abandon and forethought to the wind, she opened up and channeled.

“Germany!” she howled, and they howled back.

“I said Germany!!!” she howled louder.

____

“You had one job.” Matt said, as the crowd roared, “You had one fucking job, and you couldn’t even do that.”

“I delivered her, Matt.” Patrick said, motioning towards the stage, “There she is!”

The crowd was packed into the large auditorium like a bunch of moshing sardines. Yet a few feet of space was graciously imparted to the few non-participants that stood at the rear walls, holding drinks, making out or trying to have fruitless discussions. Patrick and Matt used this as an opportunity to not only keep an eye on their mutual charge, but have their clandestine meeting.

“No, no, no, no.” Matt shook his head with contempt. “You didn’t deliver her… she showed up. Tell me, if she hadn’t decided to come here, but had instead run West, then what?”

“Well, she wouldn’t have…”

“Then what?”

“I mean, it wasn’t…”

“Then what, you idiot?” Matt repeated. “The question isn’t going to go away because you want it to. You fucked up and you got lucky that she didn’t bolt! Be some semblance of a man, drink your grog, and own up to it.”

Patrick paused for a second. He knew that Matt was once again dominating him, and he was once again allowing it. Oh, how he hated this man. “I don’t know,” he snapped. “Why is she so important to you, anyways?”

“I’m just about done explaining things to you.” Matt said, viciously. “So far, it’s been a pretty clear narrative of you not following instructions, and then subsequently messing things up. Now, because you’ve messed things up yet again, here we stand with me having to fix everything, as usual. Tell me this… why should we keep our word and bring you over?”

“Oh, like you were going to anyway,” Patrick said acidly.

“Excuse me?” Matt said, surprised.

“You can’t expect me to believe you were going to make good on your word. Not now… not after how complicated things have gotten.”

“Then why are you here, Patrick?”

“I’m here because…”

“Patrick. Why are you here?”

“Because…” Patrick attempted to restart, before being cut off again.

“I’ll tell you why you are here, you idiot.” Matt said with a tone that was becoming angrier by the moment. “Lena is here on good faith… a gesture on the part of your case officer, while he holds Vivika as collateral for the deal that is currently transpiring.”

“What deal is…” Patrick began to ask, before being run over by Matt who was now openly yelling.

“You, unlike her, are here solely to make amends. You are here because you did something that is beyond forgiveness… and there are certain ways that reparations are to be made.”

“What in the blazing fuck are you talking about?!” Patrick said, before he heard the voice of Lena screaming through the speakers, as the crowd silenced to hear her.

““Germany!” she began, and the crowd roared so loud that Patrick’s heart skipped.

“I said Germany!!!” she yelled again, and again the crowd roared with such ferocity, Patrick nearly pissed himself.

“Here we stand… brother with brother, sister with sister… hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder… and yet, do we really stand together? I say no!”

Silence swept over the crowd then, as confusion over the turn of events caught them abruptly. ‘What is she saying?’ they all seemed to ask, ‘what is she getting at?’ Ignoring their confusion, she continued her onslaught.

“I say ‘no’ to this preposterous claim that we, as one whole, stand together. For if we truly did, we would not merely be gathered as a group of common interests, as if to congratulate ourselves on holding equally dear a set of nuances and trivialities. We would not be exclusionary, as if to keep any challenging opinions at a comfortable arm’s length, while judging the acceptability of our neighbor by his performance of the secret handshake! No!

“If we truly stood together, we would rally under the banner of a meaningful cause! A cause that is just; a cause that is universal in its declaration; a cause that sings into the hearts of all men; a cause that transcends color, creed, religion, culture, lifestyle, and even language! It would be a cause to echo throughout the ages! A cause that would make the great, the powerful, and the evil alike tremble in fear at the very mention of our name!

“Such a cause would require no secret handshake! It would need no explanation, nor slogan, nor logo, nor creed. It would be such that even the very mention of it would manifest arms everywhere a word of it was uttered! It would be righteous through and through, so as to cause the farmer to lay down his hoe, and the miner to lay down his pick. The wife, the husband, the old and the young—all would forsake their individual identities to take up arms against the known enemy! Our justice would be swift; our judgment merciless! Our swords would be sharp, and our cuts true, to set the heads of our enemies upon the highest spikes of the burning battlements!”

The crowd roared in defiance, resonating with her words. It was as if a grand general was standing between them and an opposing army, giving strength to their limbs for an ensuing slaughter. Victory was upon them, and everyone longed for the taste of blood. Yet Lena was not about to let them taste it, as she continued to cuckold the masses.

“And yet here we stand—this motley few—clothing our skin in common colors, the way we wrap our hearts in common opinions. What good does it do us?! We dance a fool’s dance, singing songs that others have written! We give lip service to a theme we dare not expand upon, lest we suffer the indignities of rebuke! Oh this, I tell you: if our cause were truly just, so that all our ilk stood together as one, no one would dare stand against us!”

The crowd responded to the verbal haranguing with the mass hanging of heads, and silent murmuring. It wasn’t common for a speech to be uttered at such shows, and it was even rarer for the speech to be directed at wounding the crowd so deeply. This was the Mad Bunny, however; if she was bent on chastising them, well, they must have deserved it. Yet their heads began to raise as she began building them back up.

“I ask this of you, then, Germany! Would you know a cause if you saw it?!”

The crowd responded with a roar.

“If I were to give you a cause… a purpose… a common interest to give strength to your blows and an edge to your blades… would you be prepared to swing at the enemy?”

The crowd roared ever louder.

“Germany, are you prepared to follow me, if even into the depths of Hell itself?!”

The people roared with such conviction that Patrick shook nervously. Chests filled to bursting with ever-expanding hearts, and shoulders squared with the newfound posture of worthiness. Jaws set, fists balled, and millions of mouths opened, to erupt with agreement as one.

“If that is your choice…” Lena began, “then look to the back of the room! Because that guy back there is the Stasi asshole that raped my friend, and you need to fuck him up!”

____

“What are you talking about?!” Dragon Lady demanded.

“I think our little charge here has pulled one over on you.” Red Hat laughed, “She would have no idea who Patrick is working for—she never had a chance to see him. No one here is working for the Soviets; and to even insinuate that they would get involved in this is absolutely ludicrous. And while I can’t say for a certainty that our little charge here works for the West, I know there’s no reason for her to go into a phone booth in the middle of the night.”

Vivika swallowed her heart again. “How did he see me?!” she yelled at herself, “I was so careful!” She had been after all—she had walked the route she walked nearly every night, making sure to take three sides of a square any time someone was behind her, and force anyone past her by taking a smoke break.

“We’ve been monitoring that phone booth, you little twit.” Red Hat sneered, as if sensing her disquiet. “We have cameras absolutely everywhere—especially anywhere that you could contact the outside world.”

“You’re bluffing.” Vivika said.

“Let me see your key ring.” Red Hat said, holding out his hand.

“I don’t have it.” Vivika said, thanking the Gods that she had decided to leave that at home.

“No matter—we’ll be raiding your apartment soon enough.”

“Trying to play night games, were we?” Dragon Lady said as she stared daggers at Vivika.

“I get around.”

“Oh, we know you do.” Red Hat laughed. “After seeing you in the photo-booth, I decided to take a little stroll… and you will never guess what I saw!”

“You saw nothing.”

“Oh, you know that’s a lie.”

“No… you saw nothing.”

“What did you see?” Dragon Lady asked with a note of glee, sensing Vivika’s discomfort.

“I saw our little friend here…” Red Hat started, before being cut off by an increasingly emotional Vivika, who stared at him as if he was giving away her most precious secrets.

“You. Saw. Nothing.”

“…getting around with Patrick!” Red Hat laughed, “Oh, that must have been an experience!”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“You know, I’ve always wondered. How is that little prick hung?” He continued, while grabbing his crotch, “Is he a real man like me?”

Vivika stared at him. It was so terribly hurtful, the things he was saying; but what could she do about it? Anything she said would likely just increase his enjoyment, and remaining silent would likely do the same thing. Worse, the Dragon Lady seemed to be enjoying it as well.

“Well I hope you enjoyed it.” Dragon Lady laughed, “Because that’s probably the last cock you are ever going to get. At least until I’m done working on you… I suppose some of the other officers might want to have a go at you.”

“That’s not all I saw, though.” Red Hat said. “You will never guess who was also there.”

“You can’t be serious!” Dragon Lady giggled shrilly.

“Oh, I am—old Warty Face himself was out on one of his famous photoshoots!”

“Oh? What did he take pictures of?”

“Well… let’s just say that we don’t have to ask our little charge here how much of a man Patrick really is.

Vivika felt so god-forsaken exposed, just then. She imagined Wart Face leering at her as Patrick raped her. She imagined Red Hat doing the same. She imagined how they would all gather around the pictures of Patrick spitting on her, and hitting her, and doing those terrible things… and she imagined them all laughing at her pain, the way that everyone always did.

Everyone knew everything about her darkest secrets—things they had no right to. Was nothing sacred anymore? What was the meaning of life, if she had nothing to herself? Her privacy was a complete fabrication—a toy for others to play with. She was property, and a mere plaything to be abused and discarded at will. As Dragon Lady spit coffee out of her nose with laughter, and Red Hat slapped Vivika’s knee as if some mutual jape was being enjoyed, and Vivika cried, and no one in the cafe seemed to care all that much… Vivika finally stopped caring.

“You know what I think?” Vivika started.

“No one really cares that much, dear.” Dragon Lady said.

“You know what?” Vivika started again.

“No, none of us know.” Red Hat laughed.

Vivika thought back to Lena’s bedroom, and all the illegal things she had hanging on the walls. She remembered the Never Mind the Bullocks album, and everything that the Sex Pistols stood for. She remembered the ‘zines, and everything stuffed between their DIY covers. The alternative love, the rebellion, the activism, the fists pumping in the air, the chest-beating, and the images of women flexing their biceps or holding automatic rifles.

She remembered the pictures of masked men cocking back an arm to launch a Molotov cocktail into the lines of oppressors. She remembered the articles of women violently proclaiming their liberation from situations precisely like this. She remembered all of the homosexuals that were tortured in prisons, only to escape to the West… only to return to the East in print, to give strength to the struggles of those still in hiding. She remembered the stories that Lena had told her about the great things that women had done, and the crazy things that youth were capable of. She imagined what it must be like to be a bare-chested and thoroughly rocked-out bitch smashing a pile of bricks with a sledgehammer… and what that might be like if the pile of bricks were a few Stasi officers.

But more importantly, she remembered the stories of Harriet Tubman and Sojourner Truth—wild women who couldn’t be bothered to care about the lopsided nature of the struggle. These were people who didn’t see odds. They only saw the path forward, however barred, and decided to push their way through. Armed with sheer conviction, the bad bitches saw the world around them and decided to ignore the reasons why, in favor of what might be, if one simply gave enough of a shit to try.

“No,” Vivika said plainly.

“Excuse me?” Dragon Lady laughed.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Shut the hell up, you twit.” Red Hat dismissed her.

“No. Absolutely not. I’ve had enough!”

Suddenly, every eye in the small cafe was on her and her table—and for once, Dragon Lady and Red Hat looked genuinely surprised. By contrast, Vivika felt amazing. A feeling was coming over her, drenching her through-and-through with an adrenaline-soaked intoxication that threatened to explode out of her pounding chest, if not unearthed immediately. Words and phrases smashed into the sides of her skull, begging to be unleashed into the air about her. She had seen this once before… she had seen Lena do it. And Gods be damned, Vivika was about to do it herself.

“I’ve had enough!” Vivika screamed, “I’ve had enough of you people! I’ve had enough of your mind games, your hands around my throat, your eyes in my private life, and your insults! You know nothing about me except the things you see through a camera lens, or the things you read on a transcript! You know all sorts of ‘facts’ that you’ve viewed through the lens of conspiracy and fear… but you know nothing about me! You don’t know who I am, what I’ve been through, what a struggle it’s been, what I’ve had to overcome… and you might not think that it matters, but it does. It matters because it means you don’t fucking own me.”

“Shut that pretty little face of yours, or I’ll shut it for you!” Dragon Lady said in hushed, seething tones—yet the damage had already been done. Vivika heard the sounds of angered agreement from booths nearby, and the sound of a few chairs sliding away from tables.

“You don’t own me…” she continued, gaining steam with the sounds of agreement, “…you can’t own me, because I’m not a thing that can be owned! I’m not just meat. I’m not just a brain attached to legs and arms—things that you can bend and break, hurt or demean. I’m my thoughts and I’m my own loyalties. I’m my memories, my ideas, my experiences, my knowledge, and I’ve come to my own conclusions. Moreover, I am the conclusion that I’ve come to—including the realization that you are worthless fucks, and that you are now irrelevant to me! I’ve concluded that I will never stop thinking what I want to think. I will never stop hating you. I will never stop resisting you. And even if I’m just one person, that’s enough… because I will never stop inspiring more people just like me.”

“Will you please keep your voice…” Dragon Lady seethed nervously, as Red Hat’s face went white. Suddenly, what had begun as a murmur, evolved into angry shouts of agreement as the inhabitants of the café rallied to Vivika’s impassioned outburst. Several of the men in the further booths stood and began walking over, angrily cracking their knuckles.

“Make no mistake,” Vivika continued with excitement and conviction in her voice, “If ever I have the chance, I will absolutely slit your fucking throats like the pigs you are. But if I never get the chance, there will always be someone who will try. And if no one succeeds, you will forever live in fear of the possibility. Because as long as even one of me exists… it is a possibility. And as you pace in your houses, waiting for that possibility to come crashing in to kneecap you, I hope you realize the cruel irony… that we are a possibility, which means that we own the future. One of these days, in your lifetime, we will win, and we will murder you. That means that we own the future! Not the other way around!”

“What’s the problem here, miss?” one of the closer men asked Vivika, towering over the Dragon Lady.

“Back off!” Dragon Lady hissed as she attempted to stand, “I am an Officer of the Secret Police of the German Democratic Republic! You are in violation…”

“You’re a what?” the man asked her.

“I’m an Officer of the…”

“You got a badge?”

“Yes of course…” Dragon Lady said angrily, as she quickly fumbled through her purse for her badge, before producing it. With this, the man yanked it out of her hands and casually tossed it behind the cafe’s bar.

“Doesn’t look like you have a badge to me. Anyone else here at the table got a badge?”

“Sir, I will see you…” Red Hat began, before another man’s fist slammed into his jaw so hard, flecks of blood and saliva smacked into Vivika’s face.

As a large crowd began to gather around Vivika’s table, hands began roughly grabbing the Dragon Lady and the now-unconscious Red Hat, pulling them back into the crowd. Voices reached a furious tumult as the threat of violence in Vivika’s honor loomed.

“Tell me young lady,” one of the bigger men with a large wart on his face said, “are these two causing you problems?”

“Yes sir,” Vivika said acidly, without an ounce of pity. “One stood by as his friend raped me, and the other is threatening to kill me.”

“Well, that doesn’t seem very decent to me.” the man said, cracking his knuckles and slamming his fists together as the sound of Dragon Lady’s voice began shrieking from the angry crowd. “Let’s see what we can do about that.”

Pantheon

They moved silently. Despite the thick, dry underbrush, their combat boots made not a sound as they crept through the dense, night-time forest. No animal was this stealthy; no predator this lethal. Not even panthers, genetically predisposed to this sort of night-time fare, could hope to be this disciplined. For panthers sit at the top of the food chain, wanting for nothing and fearing even less. The panther grows sedate on his perch, assured of his success and true to his violence. These men had no such weaknesses.

Their training—rigorous. Their discipline—unmatched. Their mission—classified. Silent as the grave and far, far deadlier, they stalked through the blooming fauna the way a hot knife slices through butter… and the same way it does through flesh and bone if used correctly. Every man of the Green Beret team was prepared for that possibility. They were blooded, branded, and bonded together into a band of brothers so perfect in planning and execution, they couldn’t help but know exactly where they stood. It was their birthright… their calling.

These weren’t the men to accept their place. They trusted only their Brotherhood of high-carbon steel and armor-piercing lead. Their gear was tried and trusted—yet they carried backups. The night vision worked—but so did eyeballs when allowed the adjusting. Their commo was the best and most encrypted that money could buy—yet remained unused in favor of hand and arm signals unique to them alone. The night was dark; but nothing could be dark enough to forego charcoal paint on what few spots of skin lay exposed to the elements. No stone lay unturned, and no detail went unchecked. With hardened soldiers like these, trust wasn’t earned; it was briefed before chutes deployed. Everything else was to be shot on sight.

They walked mere meters from each other. They had cover, of course. The snipers had been in place hours ago to cover their grim procession into the night. Their mission was simple: wait, watch, and if need be, react without pause or mercy. They were here because He was here: the Man… the String-Puller. As grim as their duties were, His were far more important, with unprecedented and far-reaching consequences. He would make it to His meeting, and He would make it out—there wasn’t a cost the Green Berets wouldn’t pay to ensure that eventuality. It wasn’t just their lot in life. It was their honor, and they would happily die knowing their fate ensured the sound sleeping of millions who never knew how close things might have come without these grim sentinels.

____

Hours passed, yet time was irrelevant to them, with attention to detail pinpoint despite the chill. Still the hours passed, until finally the objective lay in sight. There, one-hundred meters ahead, lay an old barn rotting with time and long-since forgotten. This would be the only possible place for His meeting—dignity be damned, it was the damnable face of politics that determined it. He was The Man, yet he was here to meet Another: the other String-Puller. This was the only thing both parties would be expected to agree on: the location. Thus, the Green Berets, and their East German counterparts, who were no doubt posting in similar fashion, proceeded.

One-hundred meters became fifty, fifty became twenty, and soon the small team was stacked up outside of the barn door, prepared for an entry that must be perfectly executed. Military diplomacy—threats without determinate outcomes. They must be earnest, but they must be sure of their target. Any less would risk it all.

“Five coming in!” one soldier shouted.

“Five coming in!” a strong voice responded in broken English from the other side.

“Archangel entering.” the soldier breathed into his comms. The snipers would never respond unless bullets needed to fly. To respond would be to give up their position to the GDR-snipers that lay in wait a few hundred meters the opposite way.

Quickly, the soldiers rushed into the building, taking up position, with one on each side of the large barn, and two near the door in case a quick egress was required. The space was musty, and only dimly lit, which combined to set an eerie stage for the dealings of the evening. In the middle of the barn sat a chessboard on a table, with two chairs on either side, as specified. On the opposite end of the barn stood an equally elite unit of the GDR’s finest, along with a shadowy figure clad in a long black overcoat and fedora, much like Archangel was.

“Metatron present.” the soldier breathed into his comms once again to signify the presence of the other String-puller. The soldier knew that the snipers wouldn’t relax. The presence of the String-puller meant nothing to them. Bullets went through String-pullers just as well as everyone else, should the need arise.

“Sir?” the soldier spoke to Archangel. He knew the room was exactly how it needed to be.

“Good job, captain, we’ll take it from here.”

“Yes, Sir.” the soldier responded, before fading back into the shadows.

“Well?” Archangel stated plainly, as he approached the chessboard. He noted the shadowy figure on the other side approached as well.

“Well what?” the aging voice of Metatron responded, as the two finally met in the middle.

“Where the hell are our tunes?” Archangel responded indignantly.

“Oh, goodness me,” the wizened old Metatron responded, motioning at one of his guards. “Captain, would you please?” The soldier responded quickly by walking over to a set of speakers and pushing a button.

“So, you’ve been to school for a year or two, and you know you’ve seen it all…”

“Dead Kennedys?” Archangel asked.

“Oh, I learned my lesson. I’m not letting you force me to listen to the Ramones again. I’m so sick of that happy-go-lucky crap, I could shit myself.”

“Happy-go-lucky… are you…” Archangel yelled, “You can’t possibly be serious!”

“Yes! Happy-go-lucky crap!” the response came, “I’ll concede that they came before; but they didn’t come first, so I don’t have to like them!”

“That makes no sense! Who doesn’t like the Ramones?!”

“Me, that’s who! The Clash; the Buzzcocks; the Subhumans; those are punk bands! As for the Ramones…”

“Don’t you say it!” Archangel interrupted as he seethed with rage, “Don’t you dare say it! Or I swear I’ll…”

“I wasn’t going to say they aren’t punk, you jackanapes. They just don’t represent anything!”

“That’s the fucking point!” Archangel flailed his arms angrily, “Oh, what, now you are going to say that the British movement represented something?!”

“Yes!”

“What?”

“Nothing!”

“Oh, I get it. They represent the venerable institution of nothing.” Archangel spat, “How very virtuous!”

“Oh, and I suppose The Ramones stood for a version of nothing that was somehow more meaningful?” Metatron argued, red-faced, “Face it! Malcolm McLaren perfected something that the Ramones couldn’t have possibly hoped to grasp! And he defined it!”

“Of all the uneducated, bigoted hate-speech I’ve heard over the years…” Archangel swore, “Look, you don’t have to like good music if you don’t want to. But don’t you dare speak ill of them!”

“Okay, okay. I’m not…” Metatron placated, “I wouldn’t speak ill. I just…”

“You called them ‘happy-go-lucky crap’! Wars have been fought for far less!”

“Okay, I can see that I might have…”

“Just wars, old man! Entirely justified wars!”

“All that I’m saying is that they lacked vision!”

“Oh, here you are, all high and mighty, talking about how the Brits had the vision to represent ‘nothing’! But when I say that the Ramones stood for the exact same futureless-ness without needing a clothing store to help them do it, you…”

“Oh, come now! What did the Ramones really do? Protest hippy music by wearing leather jackets and shooting heroin?!

“Well, seeing as how McLaren basically took those two things and decided to make a band entirely out of them…”

“Perfect a band out of them, you mean!” Metatron corrected. “Complete with actual lyrics!”

“That the band didn’t even write!”

“At least they were conscientious!”

“Oh, fine! If your British punk scene was so much purer than the scene it all started from, then how do you explain the New Wave movement? That was…”

“Well, where was it all supposed to go?! They had reached critical mass; it wasn’t something that could last forever!”

“They didn’t have to welcome it’s death!”

“’Welcoming death’ is the point!” the older Metatron seethed, “You either kill your scene yourself, so that it lives forever in the state that it died in, or you let the Establishment march right in with a bunch of mindless, pretty ‘scene followers’ and let them delude it into a mindless cash grab!… which is precisely what the synthesizer did, by my reckoning!… of all the godless horrors: punk rock dance music!”

“It sounds like your trying to lump my punks in with all of that! We would have never allowed that. Not the Ramones, not Iggy, not Richard Hell, no one.”

“Nonsense! Your entire scene came from Andy Worhol! The man built a career off of the artistic equivalent of someone else’s stamp collection! I’m surprised he didn’t shoot an eight-hour video of a drag queen holding a single button on a synthesizer, while main-lining for eight hours straight, all while a few of your leather-clad, junkie malcontents throw a rock concert in their girlfriends’ clothing… in front of their boyfriends’ boyfriends!”

“Oh, now you’ve crossed the line!” Archangel shouted, slamming his hands down on the table. “Don’t confuse your poor understanding of art with our anthology of musical excellence!”

“And don’t confuse what you started with what I’ll finish!” Metatron slammed back.

“The hell are you going to do about it?”

“Murder you where you stand!”

“I’ll bury you, old man!” Archangel yelled.

“You and what army?!”

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“I’m fettered by good taste, that’s what’s wrong with me!” Metatron screamed back.

For a second, the two paused and composed themselves, smoothing out their clothing and clenching their hands in an irritated fashion. Neither wanted to be the first to treat with the other; especially after such dire insults had been levied. But the night must progress on, and so Archangel was the first to proverbially doff his hat.

“I’m not calling you Grandfather, so don’t ask.”

“You had better not. I’m already too old. I’m not letting you make me any older than I already am.”

“You’re only a full fifteen years older than me.” Archangel said plainly.

“Ah yes, such a young man.” Metatron sneered. “How long does it take for you to pee?”

“Unfortunately, far too long.” he replied, sadly, before he turned to the team of GDR Special Forces men and shouted, “Enjoy your youth, Soldiers. Once you hit fifty, getting it up will be the least of your worries.”

The room erupted in laughter then, with soldiers on both sides of the barn leaning over in great guffaws. In seconds, the tension dissipated from the room like so much steam. The soldiers certainly weren’t friends and perhaps never would be. Yet for the time being, they all bathed in the mutual comradery of loud music and dick jokes.

“William.” Archangel spoke, offering his hand.

“Marcus.” Metatron replied, shaking Marcus Collins’ hand.

“I have a gift for you,” Marcus said, as the two moved over and sat down in opposite chairs. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag filled with two hand-rolled cigarettes, before saying, “My old room-mate from West Point told me that this will give you a ‘super head-high’. I’m hardly a connoisseur, but he never steered me wrong when mid-terms came up.”

“Oh my!” William exclaimed excitedly as he grabbed one. “You shouldn’t have! You know, we do try and smuggle in a few every now and then, but those Stasi asses I work with make terrible drug dealers. They have no conception of what constitutes ‘good weed’.”

“Well, a fringe benefit of being American,” Marcus replied jovially, as he lit his joint, “we have weed that you couldn’t possibly fathom.”

William lit his cigarette and the conversation paused momentarily, before exploding into a coughing fit. “…my god, Marcus…” William exclaimed through coughs, “This… this is the best you have ever brought.”

“Even better than the deep purple?” Marcus choked out through coughs of his own.

“Oh, far better. This… oh, this is… you have got to get me some more of this.”

“I certainly will if you can get me a channel. My old room-mate is a Brigadier in DC now. I think he has his son growing it for him.”

“Oh, is that what they’re doing in your capitol, these days?” William laughed.

“Honestly, it’s better when they’re stoned.” Marcus sighed, as he took another drag. “Honestly.”

“Politicians, eh? Can’t live with them; can’t shoot them. In your country, at least.”

“Maybe I should join the HVA.” Marcus laughed, as he reached over to the pieces on the chess table, and began picking them up, placing them on the board. “So, where were we, when last we played?”

“Oh, bother. I’ve forgotten… It’s been too long since we picked this game up.”

“Oh, cut the shit, Will.” Marcus said idly, as he placed a Bishop, “You’ve been studying this game every single day since.”

“Me?!” William exclaimed. “Why, that would be cheating!”

“So you are denying it then?”

“Marcus Collins, I am a man of the highest caliber of honor. To even insinuate that I would…”

“Oh, just shut up and put your pieces down.” Marcus laughed.

The two took a few minutes to place their pieces on the board. This game had been going on for nearly as long as the two had been opposing case officers. Even still, as old as the board was, few pieces had been taken by the other. It was a match between masters—men who truly understood the worth of each individual piece and its unique part to play, no matter how humble it might appear. Not a piece would die in vain if either had a thing to say about it.

“You know,” William began, “I often wonder if this is the longest game of chess ever played in the history of the game.”

“And the irony is no one will ever know.”

“We could dial the Guinness people up. We could blow our covers together; come clean about the whole thing; expose our agents and all of our assets and then we could be famous.”

“You joke…” Marcus said seriously, “But after some of the shit you’ve put me through this time around, it almost sounds like a tempting offer.”

“Oh, you enjoy it. You’re too good at this to not enjoy it.”

“Oh, I’ll never admit that.” Marcus smiled as he placed the final piece, a Knight, on the board, “You can infer whatever you wish, but you will never get a solid admission out of me.”

“You know, that really is your one fatal flaw,” William said seriously. “You are far too good at this.”

“And your flaw is that you work for the HVA.” Marcus said, staring at the board. “If you worked for an agency that deserved you, you could conquer the world. They honestly hold you back, Will. You’ve managed to keep up with my entire operation almost single-handedly.”

“I’m not joining your stupid agency. We’ve been over this a thousand times.”

“Oh no, the CIA wouldn’t take you.” Marcus smiled. “We’re an intelligence agency—not an after-school sports program for underprivileged teenagers.”

“Oh like you are one to talk! This go-round, you have been just as much a bleeding heart as me! That’s the other way I know it’s you—you copy my style.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Will.”

“Oh, it’s a brilliant plan.” William taunted him, “Always ask yourself, ‘what would William do?’ and you can never go wrong.”

“Well it works, doesn’t it?” Marcus laughed.

“It does.” William conceded. “And I’ve copied you on occasion, as well. Your style isn’t as fun as mine, but it’s efficient… and deceptively convoluted. Anytime my agents start acting like raving idiots, or the Soviets get riled up over some bunk-sounding intelligence that they’ve been following forever, I know it’s you.”

“Oh really.” Marcus said in a bored tone.

“Fly-fishing techniques, Marcus? Fly-fishing?!”

“I figured you would like that.”

“You didn’t even know it was me—and the stink-bug idea worked like charm, by the way, thank you—you could have caused serious damage to your own damn agency if I hadn’t been the one to catch it!”

“Oh, we have to have our fun, Will. Besides, you are the only person alive who could have saw the operation for what it actually was.”

“You know, Marcus, that’s how I beat you half the time.” William smiled. “I just look for an operation that’s too well-formulated, and assume it’s you. That, or I look for a perfectly-formulated plan with obvious miscalculations you couldn’t possibly make, and assume your country’s bureaucracy intended to leave me breadcrumbs. Lo and behold, it is. Take for instance, this latest nonsense with Matt York.”

“Oh, come now!” Marcus replied, shaking his head in disgust. “My hands were tied on that one.”

“Let me guess! You said, ‘He has to have a drug addiction, or else the GDR will never believe its punk!’, and they said, ‘But how will he pass a urinalysis’?!”

“No, that’s not…”

“I knew it. I knew it! With rivals like the Americans, it’s a wonder we even bother with counter-intelligence!”

“Look, Will, it’s not that…”

“And the best part is… he’s fucking British! He’s not even your agency’s agent and they still wanted to drug test him!”

“Oh, like your Stasi goons didn’t fall for it, anyway!” Marcus argued. “They are too inept to look that deep into it. And your HVA agents probably figured that…”

“Yes, yes, yes,” William interrupted, “that he had ‘spontaneously realized that drug addictions are incompatible with good, homegrown socialist values!’ I had to listen to our deputy director give that speech for nearly two hours trying to convince me. You don’t need to remind me.”

“It’s interesting that they would take that standpoint on drugs, seeing as how your butt-buddies in the Soviet Union seemed to like them so much at the Olympics.”

“First off,” William laughed, “look me in the eyes and tell me that America hasn’t used drugs on its athletes.”

“William.” Marcus smiled as he stared directly into his eyes, “We never used drugs on our athletes.”

“Second off!” William spat, shooing his assertions away, “The Soviets are far more your people than mine—you benefit more from being at war with those morons than we ever did being subservient to them. You get carte blanche to build as many bombs as you want, and get to swell your chests with fake national pride. In the meantime, we constantly have to explain to everyone that we hate Communism just as much as you… while being subservient to the Communists! Our only saving grace is our border with you. Do you know how much that stings for the director to admit?”

“He admitted it?”

“Of course, he didn’t.” William laughed.

“Well, at least we garnered you some recognition from the UN.” Marcus laughed in return.

“If you think the Soviets wouldn’t send their tanks rolling through our streets simply to prove a point, you aren’t paying attention to Czechoslovakia. And you haven’t fully grasped the concept of the Brezhnev Doctrine. Take my advice…” William stated with a menacing grin, “…fully grasp it.”

“You know, I love what you said about fake national pride, because…” Marcus started with a grin.

“Oh, here we go!” William said, rolling his eyes and throwing his hands in the air. “I know sending punks across the Wall wearing those god-damned ‘freedom medals’ was a bad idea. I told the director, but…”

“No, no, no, listen!” Marcus interrupted, flailing his hands as well.

“He wouldn’t listen!” William said, ignoring him. “But regardless of how stupid the Politburo is, we have a country to be proud of, Marcus! We have a good country, with good people! That should be allowed to flourish! For God sakes, we have a beer, an airline, and a football team!”

“Frank Zappa did say that this makes you a country.” Marcus admitted.

“Your god-damned right it does!”

Both men stared fondly at each other for a few seconds. This meeting had been far too long in coming. They had both done their jobs well, and had both played their hands masterfully. Yet despite the fact that they would never admit it to the other, they had both made a few concessions and mistakes for the other’s benefit simply to end up in this dilapidated barn, in the middle of Germany-nowhere, to continue their game of chess. Now here they finally were: two of the greatest minds the world would never even know existed.

“It’s good to see you, Will.”

“It’s good to see you too, Marcus.” William responded fondly. “My wife enjoys your wife’s letters. Goodness, your son married well.”

“She’s playing Carnegie Hall next month.” Marcus said, swelling with pride. “And Jim just performed his first triple-bypass.”

“What a smart kid. You’ve done well, Marcus.”

“And how is Susan?”

“Susan and Roger just climbed Mount McKinley!” William exclaimed.

“I had expected they would at some point. She had always expressed a connection to Alaska, of all places. I’m glad Roger is keeping pace.”

“Well, she had better hurry up and make Roger marry her, or I’ll have to make him disappear.”

“Ah, young people, eh?” Marcus sighed.

“No matter how old they get, they’ll always be younger than us.”

The music blared in the background. This time it had moved on to a strangely juxtaposed montage of MC5 and Black Flag’s Damaged album. While the two stretched in preparation for the diplomacy they knew they had to accomplish, the captain from the GDR’s elite soldier unit made sure to keep the tunes cranking. The soldiers on both sides of the barn kept their discipline, just in case. However, if one were to look hard enough, they might notice a few of the Green Berets’ fingers tapping on their rifles to the beat.

“So, let’s get to this Hans Schmidt business.” Marcus began.

“Oh, god, don’t make me do work!” William complained piteously. “This is supposed to be my time to relax!”

“This is relaxing for us.” Marcus laughed, before relighting his joint and coughing furiously.

“Fine, fine,” William conceded. “with a little luck, we’ll be done with it quickly.”

“I don’t believe in luck. I believe in excellence and stupidity. If my excellence is greater or my stupidity is less, I win. It’s that simple.”

“Are you so sure of your excellence?”

“Will,” Marcus said with an honest look of concern, “how is Mr. Schmidt?”

“Oh goodness, the brat is fine of course. I’ve kept him well fed and entertained with the best propaganda novels the GDR can produce. But, I’d like to propose an alternate solution.”

“What’s that?”

“We send our agents to bed without their supper, and then fire them all in the morning.”

“Ah, but which of my agents will you be sending?”

“And which of mine will you be sending? By last count, you had recruited far more of mine than I had of yours.”

“Hardly quality.” Marcus said plainly, as he moved one of his pawns into position to take a knight. “I mean really, Lena? You send me Lena? That’s a triumph of hope over experience if ever I’ve seen one.”

“The girl is brilliant, actually.”

“Brilliant? Brilliant, Will?”

“Yes. Brilliant.”

“She’s an awkward, boy-crazed girl who’s ruled by emotion, desperate for approval, has almost no attention to detail or situational awareness, and is barely comfortable in her own skin!”

“So, in other words, a teenager?”

“Exactly!”

“I know you don’t quite see the potential yet,” William said seriously, as he moved a Bishop into position, ignoring the threat of Marcus’s Pawn. “but she’s only been at this a few months and she’s already more competent than Mr. York… certainly more trustworthy. Look past her age and you might see a bright future in intelligence for her. And she’s going to be a far better performer than Matt will ever be. You’ve seen her perform, and you’ve seen her channel. You’ve seen her speak with The High Voice. You know what an artist with that ability is capable of. You’ve seen the way it gets crowds fired up.”

“Yes, yes. I’ve seen all that. It’s impressive, but…”

“Don’t make the mistake of trivializing that ability, my old friend. In the right situation—provided an older and wiser mind has given her the necessary context—that ability could light a dangerous fire. It’s an ability that Dr. King had, it’s an ability that Kennedy had, and it’s the single greatest asset that every great revolutionist possesses: the ability to convict.”

“But those men had substance backing it!”

“…which is the product of education and passion. She’s already halfway there—she just needs a good teacher, now.”

“But she doesn’t even know who The Velvet Underground are!”

“She also doesn’t know that Sid Viscous is dead. What’s your point?”

“She… are you… are you serious?” Marcus whined, teetering equally on the edge of either laughing or crying. “How can she call herself a serious punk and… it’s outrageous!!”

“For the same reason that she can be a serious punk and still like the mediocre junk they play on the radio: she’s behind the Berlin fucking Wall! What the hell is she supposed to know? To her, anything on that side is raging against the Establishment, purely by virtue of not being on this side. She has no sense of scale! She’s never heard of the Empire State Building, never been in a car more than three or four times in her life, has never read an issue of any fashion magazine, and has never seen a can of Campbell’s soup. Are you going to criticize her for not understanding the finer points of Warhol?”

“You don’t even understand that, old man!” Marcus laughed. “And all of that is well and good. But the fact that she is sheltered, naive, and completely without context or purview isn’t a benefit to me. As a matter of fact, those personality traits pose serious risks to any organization. I think that’s fairly obvious.”

“Just take me at my word on this one, Marcus. The girl will do nicely.”

“So, a Bishop, eh?” Marcus said, considering the implications.

“I choose my agents well, Marcus. You should know that by now.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Marcus replied as he knocked the knight off of the table with his pawn. “But Will, the girl volunteered to us that she worked for the HVA!”

“Oh, I very much doubt she intended to do that.” William replied, as he motioned to a rook that was now in a position to take Marcus’s knight, which drew a raised eyebrow from Marcus. “But I had expected her to, nonetheless. She accomplished her mission, and confirmed what you and Matt were up to.”

“Were up to?” Marcus asked, honestly, as he left his knight in place, placing his fingers over a bishop and fondling it in place.

“Oh, don’t give me that shit, Marcus.” William complained. “You knew what I was up to the moment you saw her. Two of her band-members disappear within moments of their biggest show, on either end, and Matt just happens to be within earshot of Patrick practically announcing it?”

“Fine, fine.”

“Give me your bishop, Marcus. You knew what the consequences were of trying to jump that knight over my Wall.”

“Not so fast, Will.” Marcus said, as he continued to fondle the bishop in place. “You sent Vivika over as well. Why did you do that?”

“I wanted to see what Matt would do.” William smiled slyly.

Marcus paused for a second, considering the implications of that. He continued to fondle the bishop in place. He didn’t want to let it go, but he knew what the rook would do if he didn’t. His agent had been caught outright. Matt had gotten involved, and the consequences couldn’t be ignored. Still, it was unnaturally mean-spirited for the old man.

“Fine.” Marcus replied, as he moved his bishop. Seconds later, the bishop was knocked off the board by a pawn, much to his chagrin. Thus, he exclaimed, “The pawn, Will? Oh, come now.”

“It was a stupid thing to do, Marcus. Putting the poor girl back across the Wall knowing full well that the capture of Hans might very well get her killed.”

“But a pawn? It’s insulting.”

“Don’t you dare speak of insulting, Marcus. Your agent outed himself, and that’s your fault. Yes, I’ll admit that I was being cheeky with her, but you would do the same thing in my position.”

“You know what I think?” Marcus said, as he reached for a rook. “I think it was altruism. I think you were hoping that whichever case officer was on this side of the Wall, he would liberate the poor girl before all that nonsense happened.”

“It’s not altruism; it’s pragmatism. And you take your hand off of that rook right now. You and I both know you aren’t that stupid.”

“Fine.” Marcus said, removing his hand. “You do know I had no idea until a few days ago that… that… was going on, right?”

“I didn’t know it was you until a few days ago, Marcus. But I will admit, when I finally found out, I had hoped that you weren’t allowing such a thing. That’s beneath your constituents, let alone you.”

“Of course I wouldn’t, Will. You know me better than that.”

“Look me in the eyes, Marcus. Look me in the eyes and tell me that you knew nothing about Vivika and Patrick when you sent her back over.”

Marcus leaned over the table, and gave William a sad, nearly pleading look. They both knew the rules. They could play the game and deceive each other all they wanted to outside of the barn. But when treating in sacred places like this, where foes were allowed to be friends once again, lies would not do.

“William,” Marcus began, “I give you my word. On my honor, I give you my word. I don’t know what I would have done had I known sooner… but I can tell you that she is one of the main reasons we are meeting tonight.”

William stared back at Marcus. He believed him, but he was still very angry. Certain things all men must find distasteful—even men hard at work doing things that might be considered more distasteful on the international scale. The implications must be well understood for the friendship to continue. These were men of great import, but they must be men of moral fiber as well. To be any less was to sway influence in the other’s favor.

“You can move your rook now.” William said, plainly.

“Thank you.” Marcus replied contritely, as he moved his rook to the far end, taking William’s queen out of the game. “You are the bigger man in this.”

“Don’t be too quick to think that. I may have a soft spot for the youth, but I’m still out for blood. I know who your radio operator is now.” With that, he grabbed the bishop he had previously moved into position, and moved it two steps over. “Check.”

“Oh you discovered Bethany, did you?”

“Don’t try that game with me.” William said seriously. “That’s how you get common assets to talk—not how you befuddle men like us.”

Marcus leaned back in his chair then. He knew what this meant: he would have to relinquish his queen to William in order to get out of check. That was a painful loss that he wasn’t prepared to suffer.

“What were you thinking, Marcus?!” William exclaimed, “Taking the bait with Lena was obviously the right thing to do, and it was a masterful stroke recruiting her. But to actually put her in touch with actual agents? This is beneath you.”

“You have to understand… I…” Marcus thought it through for a second. He had gambled on her—he had gambled and lost. It was beneath him, and it was something he should have foreseen. Any lesser case officer would have made the mistake too, out of sheer desperation; but Marcus wasn’t supposed to be susceptible to such flights. After much consideration, he changed his tactic, and plainly said, “Admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“Admit that you put Vivika and Lena together for that purpose.”

“Completely accidental.”

“Don’t lie to me on this one. I’ll drink my grog if I honestly made a mistake, but it would go down much better if I knew you had suspected something.”

“Fine, fine.” William grudgingly admitted. “I didn’t know it was you, of course… not that far back. But I suspected her loyalties all the same.”

“Very well. Thank you.” Marcus said, moving his queen into position. That was an important piece to his strategy and he didn’t know how to recover.

“Oh, take your blasted queen back, Marcus.” William chided, as he grabbed Marcus’s queen and slid it back to where it had been. “I’m not going to hurt Gertrude.”

“Promise me.” Marcus said. “You have a job to do, and I understand that—but she’s a wonderful woman and beautiful soul.”

“She’s also my ex-girlfriend!” William exclaimed. “We dated in high-school. I figured that’s why you chose her.”

“Are you serious?!” Marcus exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “What was she like back then?!”

“Those are tales for men who aren’t as dedicated to their wives as we are.” William slyly winked. “But memories may remain my friend… and they will remain.”

“It’s hard to imagine.” Marcus laughed.

“Well then, don’t. But nevertheless, your network is in check and you need to do something about that. So, I will ask you point blank… what will you give me?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Well, let me help you. I know you were trying to get Matt into the GDR to sow the seeds of rebellion among the youth. Which is not necessary—I assure you, my own youth are quite good at that without your help.”

“And I know you were trying to do the exact same thing.” Marcus said. “That makes precisely zero sense. Why would you sabotage your own interests just to get one over on me?”

“Because getting one over on you is the sweetest victory I’ve ever tasted. It’s almost worth letting you destroy my country. And besides… how do you know what my interests are with that dunce? Between you, me, and these dangerous men in here who are sworn to silence, I’ve a mind to let you do it and bring him over just to see him fail. But… why? Why should I let an MI6 agent who’s working for the Americans into my beloved GDR?”

“Because you want my network.”

“I already have your network, Marcus.”

“No, you have the ability to take it down. What you don’t have is the ability to tap into it. I can help you with that.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Because I know the Wall will come down in a few years. After that, everything on this board gets dumped onto the floor and our brilliant strategies become irrelevant. It’s survival for your little after-school sports program for underprivileged youth… but for you, it’s something more.”

“And what assurances do I have that you aren’t going to shut the network down at the first opportunity, or feed me counter-intelligence?”

“First off, I don’t think it particularly matters. Once the Wall comes down, that will be the final nail in the coffin for the USSR. East will reintegrate with West—not the other way around—and no one is going to care what your intel looked like. But you know as well as I do that the Stasi will have their own Nuremburg, and you are too smart a man to get caught up in that sordid business. So, you are more than welcome to use my network to anticipate my country’s efforts so that you can negatively affect them—which will get the network taken down—or, you can use it, benefit from it in the long term, and pick and choose when to see my side of things.”

“This sounds less like an offer for me, and more one for yourself.”

“Certainly, for anyone that can’t see the worth of it.” Marcus said genuinely. “Your alternative is to take it down, which you certainly can. But by doing so, you will be permanently blinded to our intentions. Besides, I think you have something else going on.”

“How do you mean?”

“I think you chose to play all of these games for a reason. I think this all has to do with your ‘rogue pawn’ strategy.”

“Oh…” William said slowly, in a low-voice filled with intrigue, “…do you now?”

Marcus looked at William with surprise, taking his tone into account “That’s it!” he thought to himself. He finally knew what the old man was up to. He finally knew what the old man had gotten Lena and Vivika involved in. What’s better, he had finally found a way to make it work. “Oh, this…” Marcus thought to himself, “It’s finally time. He’s finally decided.”

Marcus looked at the middle of the board, at a lone pawn that had sat there for nearly a decade: the ‘rogue pawn’. this one had rankled him for nearly as long. It was a disparate and unimpressive strategy… as if William had forgotten what game he was playing entirely, and moved a piece into the line of fire for no apparent reason; and it was a strategy that Marcus had never been able to figure out. But now, Marcus thought he finally knew.

Marcus reached into the middle of the board, and grabbed William’s pawn. Slowly, he placed it on his own side of the board. Then, he grabbed William’s queen, and replaced the pawn with it.

“But, in order to do that, I would have to…”

“…move your knight.” William nodded.

“And then…”

“Yes, yes, yes. I realize that.”

“Which would place me at a significant disadvantage.”

“You weren’t going to use the knight anyway, Marcus. It was a feign—nothing more.”

“It doesn’t matter. What will you give me for my knight and your queen?”

“Nothing, Marcus. Neither of us gain nor lose. The queen doesn’t add to my strategy or yours. You already know the direction this game is going, and she isn’t included in our affairs. Just let me send you my pawn, queen her, and we’ll be done with it.” He then replaced the pawn back to its original position.

“I have to know.” Marcus said, “I have to know why it’s her.”

“…and, if you pair her up with Vivika,” William interrupted, “I think they will more than balance each other out.”

“So what is her role, then? Vivika has the makings of a good asset, and Lena has the makings of a great punk rocker. So what? I barely need the one—what am I going to do with the other?”

“Lena is a natural leader, Marcus; she’s an even better leader with Vivika advising her. She may not be the best agent, but you don’t need another agent with Vivika running that angle for you. You will have an agent maker in Lena, and the perfect agent for her to run. And you know what the future holds for The Project. You will need someone who can rally the masses.”

“So, you want me to make another case officer, is what you are saying?”

“That’s precisely what I’m saying,” William said seriously. “I’ve played my part… I’ve chosen the candidate. Now you play yours and train the girl.”

“Are you absolutely sure that The Project should go forward?”

“I’ve never been more convinced of anything in my life.”

“After this, everything changes. Nothing can or will ever be the same.”

“Everyone dies, old friend. Let’s make our mark on the world before that happens.”

“Hmmm,” Marcus said, folding his fingers in front of his face. “So, then… assuming we are following your path of logic here… I give you access to tap into the network, so that when the Wall falls, you and yours come out on the right side of history. I also give you Matt. He sings your socialist songs, or helps hasten the Wall’s destruction—either way, it helps you stick it to the Soviets. I will also accept Lena and Vivika for training and seasoning. You, in turn, will protect my network, and give me Hans safe and sound for debrief.”

“And Patrick.” William said, “You are taking Patrick on as well.”

“Not going to happen.” Marcus replied. “I’ll kill the boy if I see him.”

“You may do whatever you want with him once he’s under your care, but he will cross the Wall, with Vivika, or we have no deal.”

“Why?” Marcus asked. “Why would you put Lena and Vivika through that? Haven’t they suffered enough?”

“I have all the faith that you can make it work.”

“…you know this isn’t my style, right?” Marcus raised an eyebrow.

“In this situation, it has to be.” William said with a note of finality.

“Very well. You better be thinking this one through.”

“I am.” William smiled.

“So, what is left, then? What terms have we to discuss?”

“I think we’ve covered everything.” William said as he reached over, grabbed the irritating pawn that had so rankled Marcus for years and replaced it back on Marcus’s side. “Let me play my part… then you may have the board.”

“Are you certain?” Marcus asked seriously. “One last time, are you certain?”

“This is the best chance we have, my dear friend.” William smiled with admiration. “We’ve finally found the pawn—two, actually. Now is the time to queen them.”

“If that is your decision,” Marcus replied as he replaced William’s pawn with his taken queen, “I’ll see it through.”

“See that you do.” William replied, standing up and offering his hand.

The two stood there, hand clasped in hand, shaking in a genuine substitute for embrace. Neither would admit to it, but they truly hoped one day to forego appearances, to replace the handshake with a hug. “One day,” Marcus thought to himself, “One day.” Then the two turned around and walked back to their respective soldiers to make their way into the night.

“Archangel on the move.” one of the soldiers whispered into his wrist, and the protective formation wrapped around him.

“Oh, one more thing!” Marcus called from across the room. “What were you going to be doing with your remaining knight?”

“Move it into check, of course.” William called back, grinning.

“Well, then…” Marcus called back as his soldiers led him through the door and into the outside world, “rook takes pawn—checkmate!”

“I… you…” William thought about it for a second, before punching the side of the barn as hard as he could, and shouting at the top of his lungs, “God damnit, you little prick! I hope it takes you three hours to pee tonight!”

Epilog

The morning air was damp with mist and the floor wet with dew as the sun inched higher off the horizon. Long tree-shaped shadows, cast across barely rustling grass, grew shorter by the second as the blues of the distant mountains grew brighter with light. Birds sang, keeping company with the steps of the delegation, as they walked through pass-ways and over paths. Two women and two men marched together, all clad in bland city garb so as not to attract detection. They had one mission. Once complete, many wrongs would be righted. And they would successfully part ways, washing their hands of the future they might have earlier earned.

The one woman, tall and statuesque, with eyes like a dragon, but covered with cuts, bruises, and walking with a slight limp, seemed the dominant force of the delegation as she led them towards the meeting place. The younger woman, with bruises on her face and injuries unseen walked as far left of the group as her situation would allow. One younger man, also covered with cuts and bruises, walked with a limp far more pronounced than even the tall woman. He was visibly avoiding the younger woman’s glances, as he was far from her friend. This man seemed equally inclined even further from the tall woman than the other—his vile tormentor who hazarded a sadistic grin in his direction.

The only other companion, a young man with wan, prison-tinted skin and hollow eyes, seemed oblivious to the unspoken exchange of hatred that filled the air about him. He knew nothing of his future—only that it wasn’t his past. Had his past been a more amiable thing, he might have viewed the future with more excitement than trepidation; what with the promise of freedom filling his chest the way a good meal might soon fill his belly. Yet after months on end of hearing the tortured screams of his fellow prisoners, he had learned the hard way: nothing was ever as it seemed, and trust was a fool’s game. Best to plan for the worst and stave off the feelings of pleasant surprise if, in the place of the stick, a nice fat carrot sat begging to be eaten. Such rewards were soaked in poison, and fat only with agenda.

As the old barn came into view, so too did the opposing delegation, clad equally in bland city attire. An older man with a demeanor of leadership, a younger man equal parts cheek and focus, and a younger woman who looked like she would be far better served in a studded-leather jacket than the drab trench coat she wore. City attire didn’t suit this one and her unpredictability. Yet, so few things seemed suitable or predictable anymore. This was the new way and the new reality—the only path forward that didn’t lead to a mass casualty of personhood.

Hans Schmidt?” the older man shouted.

Yes sir!” the pale boy called back in a strong, yet ragged voice.

Vivika?” he called out again, and the young woman responded in kind.

Seeming somewhat left out of the exchange, the other young man in the German delegation felt his new benefactors remiss in their attendance. They were to spend much of the following years together, after all; they may as well let bygones be bygones. It had been arranged by powerful forces. He was protected. He had been assured of it. Grandfather had promised that all rights would be wronged, and the past forgotten—if not entirely forgiven.

“Ahem,” Patrick said, as he drew within handshake-distance of the American delegation.

“I don’t talk to dead men.” Mr. Collins said, ignoring the reaction as he faced the statuesque woman. “Are you the Dragon Lady?”

“That’s what they call me. But you may call me…”

“Dragon Lady is just fine. I have no need of your life story. Your reputation precedes you.”

“And what reputation is that?” she demanded, snidely.

“Vivika and Hans,” Mr. Collins addressed, ignoring her, “Have you two been treated fairly on the journey?”

“Yes, Mr. Collins.” Vivika replied awkwardly. She had… but she hadn’t, of course.

“Yes, Sir.” Hans replied. “I’m sorry I failed you.”

“There’s time enough to figure all of that nasty business out.” he replied. “For now, let’s consider our accounts settled, you and I. We’ll get you a nice meal with some beer and a good night’s sleep. Then we can discuss your bright future with us.”

Despite his dismal countenance, the boy brightened measurably.

“Matt,” Mr. Collins continued, turning to his younger companion, “I trust that you know your own way into the bowels of the GDR, and whom you are to be introduced to?”

“Yes, Sir. I do.” he responded. “Shall I make my way there?”

“I am to escort him…” Dragon Lady attempted, before being cut off by Mr. Collins.

“I think my agent is more than capable of seeing this through.”

Casually, so as not to provoke a hurried response, Matt and Mr. Collins reached into their waistbands, before drawing two suppressed pistols. Matt levied his pistol towards the surprised face of Patrick, while Mr. Collins pointed his at Dragon Lady. She made a face that almost seemed to border on surprise.

“Matt,” Mr. Collins said, “Please inform the dead man that justice will be done on his behalf.”

“Patrick,” Matt began, “You’re…”

“I fucking heard him!” Patrick seethed. He knew very well where this was going.

A loud pop, like the sound of an air compressor off-valving, echoed off of the walls of the nearby barn as Dragon Lady’s head snapped back forcefully. She hit the ground like a sack of dry meat, and not a word was spoken in her defense. Yet Mr. Collins did not appear satisfied, yet.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

Round after round was squeezed into her twitching corpse until his magazine was emptied. This magazine was dropped, only to be instantaneously replaced by another quickly emptying one.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

The rounds fired faster this time, causing her to dance near-comically before the horrified spectators—all but Patrick, who stared with wretched approval. Blood poured out onto the ground below her punctured body, with her face twisted in the only appropriate emotion anyone had ever seen on it. It looked like she had just received a new car for her birthday; but anyone that knew her knew it was as close to the feeling of betrayal that her kind would ever feel.

“Is your account settled?” Mr. Collins asked, turning to Patrick.

“Yes… yes, Sir. Yes Sir, it is.” Patrick said acidly, with his eyes glistening. “But before you…”

Pop!

The same sound of an air-compressor off-valving echoed off of the wall of the barn again, as Matt pulled the trigger. Patrick’s head snapped-back sickeningly quick as his face struggled to grasp the violence of hydrostatic shock. By the time his body hit the ground, the bullet had bounced around in his skull a thousand times, but he likely didn’t even comprehend the first. Fully satisfied, Matt holstered his pistol as Mr. Collins turned to Vivika.

“Is your account settled?” he asked her.

“Almost.” she said, staring hatefully at the corpse. The look of gratification was plainly displayed on her face as she stared—not even the slightest hint of forgiveness was anywhere to be seen. She savored a few extra seconds, with no one in the vicinity making a sound. After the moment seemed complete, however, she turned slowly, sighing to herself. Methodically, she walked over to Matt York who began shifting uncomfortably. Step after step brought her closer, with the newfound, reddish hues on his face darkening, until the two stood mere inches from each other. For awkward seconds, the two stared at each other. Hundreds, if not thousands of emotions passed between them, with very few possessing a positive bouquet. Yet the emotions were complicated enough—a casual passerby might chance to see the look of forgiveness, if not forgetting wrought on the face of the woman.

“Matt?”

“Yes Vivika?” Matt responding, swallowing.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I know I am.”

With that, the young woman stood up on her tippy-toes and kissed him lightly on his cheek. Not sparing even the slightest second more on him or whatever emotions he may have felt in response, she turned on her heels and walked back to the corpse of Patrick. The young woman hovered over him, staring right down at his face. She sucked air in violently, welling up as much saliva as possible in the back of her throat. Then, with a complete lack of pomp and circumstance, she spat a very unladylike loogie directly into his eye.

“Now.” she said firmly, standing to look at Mr. Collins, “Now my account is settled.”

“Good.” he responded as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired. “Now that that’s all settled, let’s get to it. We’ve a long walk ahead of us.”

With that, they parted ways, with Matt going one direction, and the remainder of the group walking in the opposite. The sun continued to rise inches off the horizon, with the shadows shorter for the onset of late-morning. The crispness remained, and the dew still clung to blades of grass as if daring the sun to penetrate the chill more than it already had. Yet one could taste the varied amounts of warmth on the wind, as the currents meandered about in tufts and breezes that felt pleasant on the faces of the travelers. These faces all bore smiles at the promise of adventure to come, yet not a word slipped through. No words need be said, after all, nor any more observations described.

Except for noting, perhaps, a pair of binoculars gripped in the wizened mitts of an elderly case officer far off in the distance, nodding at the appropriate end to the story. He didn’t smile, but he approved all the same.

Author’s Note

Dear Reader

I wish to extend a heartfelt thank you for giving my writing a shot. This has been a hell of a process! This book has taken hundreds of hours of studying and interviewing, and the following books (one of which is currently being written!) have already required far more. I strive to put everything I have into doing something fresh and new by breathing real life and genuine complexity into the final products. It’s how I ensure that I’m earning your money.

I don’t accept donations or offer subscription services, and I never will. I don’t look down on my fellow artists that do; rather, I cheer their successes and wish them the best. But in order for me to know that my art is truly worth it in your eyes, I want every penny you spend on me to have gone towards a product you can put on a shelf.

So with that said, if you genuinely enjoyed my humble offering, would you do me a huge favor and rate my book on Amazon?

For those who wish to know, there are some folks out there in the authoring business that market books by giving self-published authors like myself bad ratings in order to game the system. By you giving me a fair rating, it will go a long way to combating these sorts of nefarious tactics.

Thank you, and much love!

—Fox J. Wilde

www.foxjwilde.com

Copyright

Copyright © 2019 by Fox J. Wilde

www.foxjwilde.com

Edited by E A Hatcher

Cover design by Andrej Semnic (aka semnitz)

Interior design by TeaBerryCreative.com

The TL:DR version of the legal nonsense: share it to your heart’s content. Burn the book if you don’t like it. Quote me if you like (but please do quote me), and no I don’t care about online piracy. Not in the least. Sweat your own blood, and don’t plagiarize.

The right of Fox J. Wilde to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Don’t hate the player; hate the game.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in a separate document or publication, digital, physical or otherwise, that bears the name of anyone other than Fox J. Wilde, without the expressed permission of Fox J. Wilde. If you think it’s illegal, it probably is.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. Blah blah blah, you get the idea.

ISBN (paperback): 978-1-7336362-1-6

ISBN (e-book): 978-1-7336362-0-9

ISBN (a-book): 978-1-7336362-2-3

!!! TRIGGER WARNING !!!

This book contains scenes that might be upsetting or traumatic to individuals sensitive to the topics of sexual assault or rape. It is not the author’s intent to glorify this behavior, but to expose an unfortunate reality that many of our friends, family, neighbors, and even enemies have to live with. These scenes appear in the following chapters:

Das Mission

Kunststück

Das Verdickungsdiagramm

Content

Fox J. Wilde

Acknowledgments

Lebensmüdigkeit!

Familienkreis

Verräter

Kältewelle

Großvater

Vorgetäuscher Held

Interhostel

Das Mission

Katharsis

Das Großartige Spiel

Der Gesuchte Anführer

Komplikation

Kunststück

Schadenfreude

Wilderness of Mirrors

Übertragungen

Räder in Den Rädern

Die Wahrheit Wird Dich Befreien

Das Verdickungsdiagramm

Quagmire

In Schadlicher Weise

Überfrau

Pantheon

Epilog

Author’s Note

Copyright