Lay Down Your Cross

[Markus Wilding]

Idiots. That's the word Finn kept returning to as he watched the other ministers scuttle about, unsure what exactly to do with Director Wilding in Iceland. Do we approve the Wehrmacht's request for explosive bullets? Wait for Director Wilding to return. Do we respond publicly to the Norse King's claims on Iceland? Wait for Director Wilding to return. How do we handle the Italians in Trentino? Wait for Director Wilding to return. Do we change the printer ink? Wait for Director Wilding to return. Alright, so maybe it wasn't quite that bad, but %*#&, half of these people probably wouldn't tie their own shoes unless Wilding told them to. And here he was again, these idiots who were running the country while Director Wilding was away. Does he ever know what goes on here? Or does "Frau Dressler", as Finn ever-so-mockingly called her, censor what goes on here like she does in the media?

 

Ah, Karoline Dressler. She barely hid her contempt for him these days, and why should she? Finn made it clear to her on day one he didn't like her, and she had reciprocated. They frequently disagreed on issues and argued almost daily on matters of foreign affairs. It didn't help that Finn regarded her as a prude - as far as Finn knew, she had never even so much as kissed a man, never smoke or drank, so naturally when Finn did any of those (especially the last two) it brought her ire upon him. Thinking of this made Finn take a drink of whiskey. Not too long ago he had laughed out that dumbass of a British foreign minister, secretary, whatever the %*#& he was. Heh. He couldn't help but smile to himself. His shining moment, watching that Brit slink out of his office like a dog, two Schwarze Korps soldiers following him all the way to the airport. Almost as good as he told the Romanian queen to *$&# off.

 

Five o' clock. Time for Finn to get out and prop up a bar somewhere. As he left the building, Finn finished off his tenth or eleventh cigarette of the day, having lost track. He could hear Frau Dressler admonish him in the background, but tuned it out as he usually did. Who gave a @&$% what she said? Maybe if he was lucky, Finn could find one of the local Polish girls to take home. Of the many people that lived in Vienna, Finn enjoyed the company of the Polish women most. Maybe he'd even find that redhead he saw last Friday. Yeah, that'd be nice, Finn thought as he snuffed out the cigarette and lit another one.

[Markus Wilding]

The night had come and gone without much fanfare. The bar had kicked him out around 2 AM, and nobody was drunk or desperate enough to go home with him. He collapsed on his couch after the two Schwarze Korps guards with him helped him home, while also placing a bucket nearby for when he woke up in the morning. This wasn't uncommon, and the two guards (Finn eventually remembered their names were Martin and Jacek) were used to carrying Finn home and handing him a rag every so often so he could wipe vomit or blood off his face. Finn became very violent, almost perpetually in a rage, whenever he drank, which was more or less constantly. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on how you looked at it, there was no amount of Catholic schooling or 12-step programs that could keep Finn sober for more than a few hours at most. Finn often said that he remembered the last time he was sober, and that it sucked for everyone involved.

 

It was against this backdrop of recollection and reflection that Finn remembered Karoline Dressler was in his office again, %*#&@ing about something he did or didn't do. "Did you zone out again? I swear to God, Finn, you don't care about anyone in this office! I doubt you care about anyone in this nation, even!" Oh, that. Yeah, he kind of expected this to come up sometime. Dressler in particular was infuriated because he didn't drape himself in the Alvonian flag every night as he went to sleep. And why should he? He was born and raised in Ireland, not Austria. I thought Dressler was smart, doesn't she see that I'm not a diehard nationalist like the rest of these morons? "Well, sorry," he replied as she stared at him, "I'm just fresh out of %*&#s to give. Try again when I have one to spare." Disgusted, Dressler left Finn's office in a huff, to which Finn couldn't help but grin at. The taller of the two guards, Martin, said as he closed the door, "Was that really necessary, Herr. Powers?" Finn hated it whenever people referred to him as "Herr Powers." Formality was never first on his mind, if anything he felt it cumbersome and restrictive, almost like he was in a European court circa 1781. "Yes, it was, Martin. Either of you remember where I put that document on that Hungarian diplomat?" Jacek moved over and opened a drawer full of folders and documents of all kinds, pulling out a nice crisp manila one and placing it on Finn's desk. Finn thanked him and opened the folder, reading through its contents with vodka in hand. He had read this before. "Can you two give me a few minutes alone? Thanks." Without another word or asking why, the two soldiers quietly exited, closing the door behind them.

 

Finn lit a cigarette, closing the folder and sliding it over afterwards. He exhaled, letting the smoke fill the room. "Dumb %&$*@," Finn said, "thinking I don't care." Another drag of the cigarette, more smoke clouding his vision of the room. "Why don't you try asking my friends if they cared?" Finn looked at a picture on his desk - one of the few he kept - and then looked away just as quickly. The smoke kept him from being able to clearly see which one he was looking at. Smoke had a funny way of doing that.

[Markus Wilding]

The day passed, with Finn alternating between drunken stupors and outright laziness, without much event. Finn eventually allowed Martin and Jacek back into his smoke-filled office, which they jokingly commented on but other than that left him to his own devices. Once again, it was quitting time, and Finn walked out of Schönbrunn Palace into an oppressive heat, even though it was now nearly 6 o' clock. He tried to pay no mind to it, smoking his 19th cigarette of the day as he walked to the car that would invariably take him home.

 

"Driver," Finn called out as he sat down, "take me to the corner of Landgutgasse and Humboldtgasse." "Mein Herr?" the driver asked, obviously confused. Usually Finn asked to be driven to a local bar or nightclub, not two alleys several kilometers outside of Vienna proper. "You heard me. Take me to the corner of Landgutgasse and Humboldtgasse." Still confused, but now able to make sure he hadn't gone insane, the driver began to move the vehicle towards the outskirts of Vienna. The drive only took about an hour and a half.

 

Here it was - an old, run-down apartment building, probably built in the 1800s. Martin and Jacek stood next to the car, waiting to see if Finn would order them to accompany him. "Stay here," he told them, and both nodded. Finn headed inside, looking for a room - there it was, 114. He was about to knock, then hesitated - what if the fellow on the other side didn't want to see him right now? Eh, who the hell cared. With a quick motion, three raps on the door, followed shortly by Finn announcing, "Knock knock, mother%*&@er." He heard someone stir on the other side of the door, cursing up a blue streak. The door swung open, with a usual "who the %&(@ are you" from the other fellow, except this was stopped once he realized who it was. "Finn," he said, barely hiding the sarcasm, "welcome back."

[Markus Wilding]

The man gave Finn a scowl as he turned himself around and moved away, grabbing a beer as he went past a short end table. "What do you want, Finn? You never come around here unless you need something." His Irish accent had barely faded, a result of him preferring to speak English rather than German. "Listen Dorian," Finn said, "I'm not here for anything." "Bull%*$&. You said the same thing last time, and look where it got me." Finn couldn't help but look down at the wheelchair the man was bound to, a result of being wounded fighting against a Communist Irish militia shortly after the Great Collapse. According to the medics, Dorian had been hit in the spine with shrapnel, paralyzing the lower half of his body. "I'm %*#&ing serious, you piece of Cork garbage. Is it seriously so hard to believe that I actually care about my friends?" Dorian couldn't help but laugh, nearly spitting out the swig of beer he had taken in the process. "It is! I remember you in Ireland, Finn. After I got hit, you didn't come back. You kept pushing on, kept wanting to get to the next fight. You didn't care who got hit or who went down. Do you even remember who died that day?" %*#&. Dorian was right. It had been so long, Finn had forgotten their names. "I remember how they died. Nobody forgets those, Dorian." Another laugh from the broken man. "Of course not. We were soldiers, Finn. People expect us to remember the horrors we've seen. I'm asking if you remember their names." "I remember their goddamn faces. Are you gonna keep bringing up the past or can we talk about other things now?" Dorian grinned and nodded, knowing he had "won" by successfully pissing Finn off. "You doing all right?" "Yeah, about as all right as a guy with half a working body can be. I hear you got yourself a job as foreign minister. Who the hell made that dumb choice?" Finn chuckled, cracking open a beer of his own. "That'd be good ol' Director Wilding. I guess he likes my style or something." Dorian laughed again, "You have all the style and diplomatic skill of a porcupine, and as cuddly too." "Yeah, you saw how well that goes sometimes. It's almost like people think I'm a jerk or something."