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Bruder gegen Bruder

Markus Wilding

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OOC: This is going to be my civil war RP. There's a few rules though:
1. The only way your nation will know about what's going on is if you have assets in the area either physically or through satellites that are specifically purposed to look at what's going on in my nation. Even then, your response is going to be delayed until things start blowing up. There will be no public news reports of what is going on - it will be censored by Director Wilding. For clarification purposes, this rebellion and whatnot is going to start in South Germany. If you're not a neighbor or don't have spies in the area, you won't know it's starting.
2. This is not to be used as a pretext for an invasion or intervention. Try it and I will guarantee your forces will get hit by a sarin missile.
3. Once, of course, it is known by your nation through nefarious means or otherwise, feel free to comment wherever you want, but again, no interventions or invasions. The true nature of the conflict will be publicly denied and censored through Alvonian news and communications.

EDIT: 4. If you want to RP a character, go ahead and do it after we talk. Standard rules apply, please try to stick to being either a German, Austria, Czech or Pole. All others will need a really damn good reason to be in Alvonia.
Just as had been predicted, the situation in Baden-Württemberg and Bayern had gotten worse. The riot police Vienna had sent down were unable to handle the people, and wanton destruction and looting would soon follow once it was clear authority was starting to dwindle. After that, firearms would be taken from the police. While most firearms were allowed under Alvonian law, police and military firearms were tightly kept under lock and key, the riot police would be forced by radicals to unlock the armories and allow them to be raided. Within the week, militias, gangs, and vigilantes appeared all across Baden-Württemberg and Bayern.
Marcellus Steuben was a member of one such militia. His home in Munich was one of the first to see the riot police come, and the last to see them leave after it was clear control was being lost. He had given up trying to be peaceful in convincing the politicians in Vienna that the Wehrmacht should have continued fighting, and now had joined with the aptly-named Vögel der Freiheit, or Birds of Freedom. The name was never his choice - that was concocted by the militia's leader, Gerhardt Schultze. He said he chose the name to symbolize the struggle of the Alvonian Poles and North Germans, and their logo was deceptively simple. There was only one requirement regarding uniforms, that being any member had to wear the symbol on an armband, covering their right arm. Membership was also easy: Pledge absolute devotion to recovering Alvonian Poland and Mecklenburg-Vorpommern, then work on raising the army to over two million men strong to bring the fight back to the Eastern Bloc to force them to recognize Alvonia's claims as rightful protectors of Poland and over Germany. Apart from that, the only hard and fast rule that would never be broken, lest that man or woman had a death wish, was never to harm innocent civilians. 


These days though, it was hard to discern who was and wasn't an innocent civilian. The Vögel were just one of three militia groups in Munich that had a consistent uniform. The others were a mishmash of random civilian and military attire, with the odd police uniform or two thrown in as well. Infighting among the militias was common, although in time they would probably have to band together. Word was coming out that the Wehrmacht would be coming to the major cities like Munich and Nuremberg to eliminate the militias, and there were also rumors that the Schwarze Korps would be in tow to pay "visits" to the leaders. Marcellus hoped that this last bit wasn't true.

Edited by Markus Wilding
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A week after the rumors of the Wehrmacht coming to town, nothing could be seen. Either the Wehrmacht hadn't come, or they were deliberately avoiding Munich for some reason. Despite that, Marcellus and the the Vögel continued to patrol and keep an eye out for any sign of the military. It seemed that the Wehrmacht had forgotten completely...until one morning. Marcellus was taking a shower in a requisitioned home, and suddenly the water stopped. Downstairs, he heard upset yells from some of the other gunmen. He stepped out of the shower, quickly drying and dressing himself before heading back down. He noticed as he went down that the lights he had turned on were now off. "What's going on?" Marcellus asked as he stepped into the living room. "Goddamn power went out," said a short man with red hair. This Marcellus knew as Reynold, and he stood up now to face Marcellus. "Did you touch anything up there? Fusebox maybe?" "What? No, I was taking a shower." Reynold scoffed and grabbed his hunting rifle, walking to a door that led into a basement. "Well, I'm gonna check down here anyway, see if the circuit breaker tripped or something." Another man, this one with a scar across his angular nose and black hair, laughed. "Why are you taking that rifle? Afraid of the rats or something?" Reynold didn't respond, prompting the scarred man to laugh again. "Idiot," he said as he leaned back on the couch. "Had a damn good game on too. Japan versus Northlands. You watch football?" Marcellus said he didn't, and went to look out the window. There were a lot more people wandering about outside, all seemingly confused about what was going on. He also saw some of his fellow militiamen out there as well, along with Gerhardt, who was walking up to the house they were occupying. "Gerhardt is coming," Marcellus announced, though the scarred man didn't seem to care.


Gerhardt soon opened the door and walked in, his military boots making an authoritative stomp with each step. "Where the hell's Reynold?" he asked. "Right here!" Reynold announced, coming back from the basement. "Circuit breaker's fine. Did someone knock down a line?" "No," Gerhardt replied, "it's the Wehrmacht. They're coming...I can feel it." Gerhardt looked around at the house they were in, then began to walk out. "Come on," he said, "we're moving out."


Marcellus and the rest of the Vögel had now gotten out of the subdivision, and started to head further into the city. This was were Marcellus felt the most unsafe. The city had descended into literal chaos, with militias around every corner, gangs operating in between, and nutjobs that had just been given free reign in God-knows where. In the distance, Marcellus and the others heard a loudspeaker. The words were far away, obscured by the occasional gunshot, but Marcellus definitely heard the message.


People of our great city of Munich, you brave Germans who fought for the liberation of your family in the North, do not despair. We will deliver you and our German nation from darkness...


"The hell is that?" the scarred man asked. "Ultranationalists," Gerhardt said, barely hiding the contempt in his voice. "Don't pay them any mind. We'll deal with them soon enough." Marcellus remembered the ultranationalists well, the last time they had tried to secure a unified German state. He wasn't so sure the Wehrmacht would stop them this time.

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The blanket of night was thrown off by the sound of Luftwaffe jets. Marcellus jumped out of his bed and ran to the window of his room, one of many suites in an abandoned hotel. From his room on the 10th floor, Marcellus could see part of Munich burning, the orange flames piercing the night sky and illuminating the death and destruction it was surely inflicting. He identified the sector of the city set on fire as the same one he had heard ultranationalist propaganda coming from earlier in the day. While he held no love for ultranationalists, he hoped the innocents in the area had time to get out. Also illuminated by the flames was a Luftwaffe A-10A Thunderbolt, the engine bearing an insignia resembling a well-endowed woman holding a bomb. Gerhardt rushed in, and his face quickly lost all color. He knew instantly what had caused the attack.


The next day, Marcellus and his comrades were patrolling the streets of the city, on watch for any opposing militia, or worse, the Wehrmacht. Hunting rifles and shotguns wouldn't do much good against the Wehrmacht's power armor, unless one was a very good shot and managed to hit the soldier dead in the face. Military weapons would have to be seized, Gerhardt said. Police weapons were a little better, but not by much. Marcellus was ripped away from these thoughts as Reynold pointed out a man on the roof. "Who the hell is that?!" he asked, and was answered for his efforts by the man opening fire. Both Reynold and Marcellus spat out a swear as the scarred man returned fire. Within seconds though, the man on the roof had disappeared, nowhere to be found and with no explanation as to how. Later Reynold would swear up and down that the man on the roof wore a mask with a smile stitched into it. Marcellus and Lucas, the man with the scar, paid no mind to his tale. Lucas had shot at him with a scoped hunting rifle - and didn't report seeing a mask.


After returning to the hotel, Gerhardt greeted the three with a bloodstained uniform. "What happened?" Marcellus asked immediately. "Ran into some trouble near the suburbs. Wehrmacht's moving in, and the rumors were right - the Schwarze Korps are in town." This was a problem, and all the soldiers in the militia knew it. The Schwarze Korps had a penchant for using their Gewehr 91/30s in well-hidden positions, often waiting for the third or fourth man in a patrol to kill. Coupled with their extreme accuracy and increased physical endurance, finding and killing a Schwarze Korps sniper was incredibly difficult. One would either have to be really lucky, or another Schwarze Korps sniper, to find and kill one without losing ten or fifteen friends. Marcellus also learned the "trouble" Gerhardt had spoke of was a Wehrmacht patrol, and in the process Gerhardt had to carry a wounded man back to the hotel, thus the blood. Marcellus wondered what would happen to their small unit once the Wehrmacht came in force - the other militiamen that had previous experience in the army said this was akin to a recon party.

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It had been weeks since the first Wehrmacht patrol had been sighted in Munich, and although the Wehrmacht had cut off the city from all outside contact, the militias still held strong. Part of this was due to the ferocity of urban combat and the fact that the militias threw aside their differences and banded together, but there was also a figure known only as The Voice circulating his propaganda throughout the city regardless. None of the militia commanders claimed to know him, and his propaganda didn't match anything that the militias fought for. Regardless of that, both his propaganda and rumored fighting prowess made him a figure to be known and feared on both sides of the conflict. It wasn't long before the Wehrmacht put a bounty on his head - 1 million Reichsmarks for anyone who brought him in to be arrested. Nobody inside the city would do so, not out of principle - being able to find him when he wasn't either shooting at the Wehrmacht or spreading his word was nearly impossible. Lucas thought he was a Schwarze Korps spy sent in to feel out their defenses and get exact numbers, although even he had to admit that there was no proof.


Over this weeks also, Gerhardt had become the defacto leader of the various militias, their commanders having either abandoned them or died long ago. He had decided, this day was the day they would break the siege. They'd break the city out of the Wehrmacht's grasp and fight them to Vienna if they had to. The plan was simple, like many of Gerhardts - gather up as many men as possible, charge them like a wave, and then bombard them with homemade bombs to force the Wehrmacht to withdraw. The Wehrmacht had stopped their napalm attacks just four days ago, the remaining ultranationalists having either gone into hiding or dying, and so an influx of arms that had somehow made it into Munich went into the hands of Marcellus and his comrades. These weren't simply hunting rifles and shotguns that Marcellus had before - no, these were military-grade firearms, by the looks of it Russian-made AKMs.


It was now just hours before Marcellus and the others in his militia were to begin the assault. Marcellus had made many an extra grenade just for the purpose. They had decided to stage the assault in an old warehouse or factory, which Marcellus couldn't really tell. He had just finished loading up the fourth of his AKM magazines when Gerhardt came into the room, his AKM in hand. "Alright," he said, pulling the charging handle back, "in two hours, we're going to hit the front lines. Someone falls, you leave them. We can't lose momentum, you lose momentum, you lose the battle. If you're behind the man that falls, grab his grenades and move on. I don't care what he says, he's dead anyway if we all stop to help him out. Any questions?" "I have one," said a smooth, deep voice from across the room. On instinct, Marcellus and his others aimed their rifles at the voice - it wasn't one of them. "Who the hell's there?!" Gerhardt called out, while simultaneously setting his AKM to fire.




From the darkness emerged a man clad in a hooded jacket with a mask - Reynold audibly gasped. "That's him!" he whispered to Marcellus, "that's the rat bastard that shot at us last month." Marcellus instantly recognized the man as The Voice. This was the first time he had heard him actually speak. "Do you all want to die today?" The Voice asked, looking around the room. "We'll die saving our city, now go take your self-righteous shtick somewhere else!" Gerhardt retorted, not letting loose his AKM. "No, you will die like fools if you carry out this so-called 'plan'." "And how the hell do you know that?" Some of the other militiamen lowered their rifles, unsure of what exactly to do. Gerhardt hadn't led them wrong before, but The Voice held sway with a lot of men. "You plan to charge into an organized military formation with AKMs and homemade grenades and expect them to just withdraw? Again, I ask: do you all want to die today?" Gerhardt told The Voice in no uncertain terms what he could do with himself, although The Voice just laughed. "Their power armor will resist those bullets, you realize that, correct? Of course, if you deliver enough rounds on target, you can defeat it, but..." "But what?" "But the AKM is inaccurate. You will need to be close to do that reliably. I propose a new plan of action: tell them we surrender." Instantly all the militiamen started to protest, although Gerhardt silenced them with a short burst from his AKM fired into the air. "Surrender? Two days ago you preached about destroying them! Surrender and destruction aren't the same thing!" "They can be, if you do it right. We tell them we surrender, they will move into the city to collect us. We fire on them at close range in the city, where their power armor can be defeated by our AKMs. It will work." Marcellus asked how he knew. "It's how I saved Stuttgart. Tell the Wehrmacht we surrender. Now."

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"Wait for it..." The Voice said. Marcellus still couldn't believe Gerhardt had actually agreed to carry out The Voice's strategy, But, here they were, and again the Wehrmacht committed the same mistake they made in Stuttgart. A squad of Wehrmacht soldiers marched down the street, on the prowl for ultranationalists, traitors, and militia gunmen. "NOW!" The Voice shouted, at all at once the clatter of their 22 AKM rifles erupted on the scene. Marcellus watched as the squad of soldiers, their armor unable to cope with the force of several bullets striking it at once, allowed the 7.62mm rounds to penetrate and destroy the bodies of the Wehrmacht. Within seconds, most had emptied their magazines and the squad lay on the street, four dead and the rest wounded, their disgusting moans and cries of pain filling the air. "You see," The Voice said over the sound of a younger man throwing up in the background, "the Wehrmacht is not invincible. We must overcome their numbers with superior tactics. Now quickly, take their weapons and ammo." With that, those still strong-willed enough to head out to collect the mentioned items, despite the screams of the wounded, went out and without a second thought looted the corpses and broken bodies of the Wehrmacht. "Hey!" shouted Lucas as he picked up some kind of launcher, "the hell does this do?" The Voice and Gerhardt joined them on the street, and The Voice greedily snatched the launcher into his hands. "It's a Fliegerfaust 2," he explained, flipping open some kind of optic, "We can use this to shoot down low-flying aircraft." The other gunmen's faces visibly lightened. This was an important capture indeed.


Several other assaults like this proved worthy - although over time the Wehrmacht of course changed their tactics. This mattered little, though, as the rebels now had stolen Wehrmacht K40 rifles, MG3 machine guns, and in a stroke of luck even captured several anti-tank weapons. Once again Marcellus was thrown back from these musings by his own reflection - it had been months since he last shaved, even Lucas was starting to show some stubble. It was hard to get a decent shave in, being on the front lines. Constant attacks by the Wehrmacht made life nearly impossible, with an attack one morning, then a counterattack ordered by The Voice to dislodge them from their positions. It was a constant back-and-forth struggle that nobody seemed able to win. Marcellus' face betrayed his age - he was only 24 to this day, but the lines and wrinkles carved and etched in by relentless combat made him look like a man well into his fifties. Almost blocking it out, Marcellus heard dull thumps in the distance, his first thought being maybe thunder. Wait a minute, it was a cloudless day...


Then the first strikes hit. Marcellus was thrown about by the force of the artillery, but was miraculously unhurt. The other militiamen weren't so lucky, though - many had been hit, and those that survived to see their wounds screamed in an agony Marcellus found inhuman. Almost instantly The Voice appeared, organizing those unhurt or lightly wounded to fight against the inevitable Wehrmacht attack. From there, they formed together to stave off the Wehrmacht, or as much of them as they could. The position was mostly symbolic thankfully, and so The Voice had no issues in abandoning it. As they retreated, Marcellus managed to find an old friend among the wounded from the artillery attack - Reynold. His right arm had been annihilated, leaving only a bloody stump where his upper arm used to be. Marcellus noted Reynold was not moving - probably killed instantly. He soon forgot all that happened in that defense. The image of his friend lying dead in a pool of his own blood had overrode anything he saw in combat that day.

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The Sniper
After the artillery attack, a new problem presented itself to Marcellus and his group - a Schwarze Korps sniper. Already the sniper had killed four of his comrades, and while there were a few marksmen among the militia, none could pinpoint his position. They looked for everything; unusual bits of foliage, disturbed rocks or bricks near buildings, the glint of his scope off the sun, the flash from his Gewehr 91/30. None of these usually telltale marks could be used to locate him, though, for the enemy sniper was a master at his trade. For a while, though, it seemed he had moved on - no shots were reported for a whole day. Marcellus thought he could finally get some rest, at least until the familiar report of the Gewehr shook him awake. In a trance, Marcellus moved with his K40, scanning for a possible location, paying no mind to the fact that another militia member had just been shot. A few rooms away, Marcellus heard one of the marksmen shout out the sniper's location, but another blast from the sniper's rifle silenced him. Mere minutes later, The Voice appeared from the hallway, holding what Marcellus assumed to be the dead marksman's rifle. "Johann?" Marcellus asked out of morbid curiosity. The Voice only nodded as he pulled back the bolt on the stolen G3A3. "Did you see anything?" he then asked Marcellus. He responded that the shots appeared to come from a building across the city square, maybe four or five floors up. Shouldering the G3A3 now, The Voice instructed Marcellus to keep his head down, and only fire back when he said so. Marcellus agreed, and ducked down as told. After a few tense minutes, The Voice pulled the weapon back, switching it to safe. "We must move," The Voice said as he backed away from the window. Later on, he revealed that he had determined the sniper's position, but could only watch as he withdrew, unable to fire a shot.


Hours later, and Marcellus along with The Voice were no closer to tracking down the Schwarze Korps sniper. They had tracked him to a Wehrmacht camp barely outside the city, but were unable to find out which tent he lived in. Combined with the fact that his helmet obscured his face, it was now impossible to determine which was the sniper among the now unhelmeted members of the Schwarze Korps that thought themselves safe in their camp. Marcellus and The Voice both watched the camp for hours, observing the various tendencies and rituals of the special operations soldiers. "That one," The Voice said, pointing to a man with jet-black hair. Marcellus didn't think him to be any older than forty by the looks of his face alone, but as he knew firsthand combat could have a significant aging effect. "How can you be sure?" Marcellus asked. "His actions. Unlike the others, he is looking at places he would expect another sniper. He is thinking, 'If I were him, what would I do?' Now let's move - his gaze will cross our path soon enough."

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[url=http://youtu.be/MkGdbe5-prU]The Long War Shuffle[/url]
After another hour of moving between positions, The Voice and Marcellus finally settled in the basement of the burned-out husk of a home, most of the wood still warm to the touch. Marcellus gripped his K40 tightly as he and The Voice moved through the mess of burnt wood and collapsed framework, trying to find a good sightline. Once one had been found, The Voice handed Marcellus a pair of binoculars and shouldered the G3A3 again, peering into the scope. "Do you see him?" he asked moments later. Marcellus could clearly find the sniper's well-kept hair, cut short as per Wehrmacht standards. It appeared as if he had let his guard down, as he was busy conversing with another Schwarze Korps soldier and smoking a cigarette. Marcellus called out his position, and The Voice moved his scope and adjusted accordingly. Time seemed to slow down as Marcellus and The Voice both looked at the man that they were about to kill. Marcellus could hear The Voice deliberately taking deep breaths and steadying his aim, even hearing him squeeze the trigger. Seconds later, the bullet from the G3A3 hit its mark with deadly efficiency. Their job done and the Schwarze Korps soldiers in the camp in disarray, The Voice and Marcellus withdrew, making sure to keep out of sight of roaming Wehrmacht patrols.
The shot taken by The Voice had a polarizing effect on the Wehrmacht. It showed them that they were not invulnerable or invincible - something Marcellus thought would have been learned before in the war with the Northlands and the second war with the Eastern Bloc - a feeling that surged through the ranks and make them question their ability to carry out their Munich campaign. The patrols died down, almost disappearing completely, which gave The Voice the perfect opportunity to take his message to the streets. A captured Wehrmacht radio was used to broadcast his propaganda nearly all day, and somehow they had even gotten access to a television studio for a few hours before the Wehrmacht came to take it back. By the end of the month, The Voice commanded a rebel force of nearly 250,000 men and women, all ready to lay down their lives for him. It wasn't even just the local Munich Germans that joined - there were Polish expatriates from Alvonian Poland, Austrians, Czechs, even a handful of Italians from South Tirol that had joined in the action. Even their weaponry was as diverse as their membership: Muscovy, Romanian, Polish, and Belorussian Kalashnikov examples, Wehrmacht-issue, civilian, even Swedish weapons could be seen in the hands of the Vögel. It made supply a nightmare, but every soldier knew their weapon and how to use it.
It was no surprise, then, that the withdrawal of the Wehrmacht brought on a new wave of courage and boldness from the Vögel. By the time the 150,000-man strong army had been recruited, the Vögel had pushed the Wehrmacht back to the borders of Austria itself. Only the threat of three Panzer divisions in the rear held the Vögel off from pushing into Austria proper. The Voice had prior set forward three objectives to restore Alvonian pride and honor: Step One was drive to Vienna. Step Two was for him to take over as Director of Alvonia. Step Three...raise an army five million men and women strong and retake the lost lands, unite Germany, and destroy the Eastern Bloc. Step One was almost complete.
Marcellus had never thought much of stop signs. Of course, they weren't normally hurtling towards your face at a hundred miles an hour, either. Through either luck or an act of God, the sign whipped past Marcellus' face and buried itself into a nearby wall. This was the norm in the border towns - small skirmishes that involved heavy artillery and even heavier combat. Then again, "small" was relative. This might have been a normal, full-fledged battle if it were somewhere in the Soviet Union circa 1943. As far as the Vögel were concerned, though, this was nothing. Munich had been much worse, and what little he heard from The Voice about Stuttgart, those veterans were laughing at this. Marcellus peeked out from a corner of brick wall to fire on some Wehrmacht soldiers, then ducked back in once the familiar dull sound of an M3M machine gun opened up. He needed to move, and fast. These bricks wouldn't stand up to the .50 caliber bullets the M3M was flinging towards his little wall. Earlier in the day someone had found a cache of Panzerfaust 3s - where the hell were they now? No matter - maybe the armored units wouldn't attack today. Wishful thinking. He could already hear the sound of a Panzer VII - or was that a Leopard? - rumbling in the distance.
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The victories on the border were short-lived. In one fell swoop, numerous defensive lines fell as the entire strength of the Wehrmacht was brought upon the border of Austria and Bayern. assaulted almost without breaks by infantry, tanks, and of course aircraft. Constant bombardments sapped the rebel's morale and will to fight, forcing The Voice to order a mass withdrawal. Even in the face of this, the Wehrmacht chased the rebels back, not allowing even a moment's rest of refit and rearmament. The Voice, knowing that the open plains would mean death, ordered the remaining rebels to fall back to the forests and woods, hoping the advantage of the natural cover would prevent the Heer's armored vehicles from entering and stop the Luftwaffe bombings.


Marcellus was one of the last few to get into the forest, stumbling over logs as he did so. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gerhardt urging others on, The Voice calmly moving among the confused and panicked crowd of rebels. "Fight to your last breath," The Voice called, "not a single step back!" Marcellus remembered a similar order given by Comrade Stalin in 1942 - how amusing that such things come full circle. Gerhardt, overhearing this, confronted The Voice. "Are you crazy?!" he asked, "We don't have the manpower for that! We're going up against a trained army, there's no way we can-" Gerhardt's words were cut off by the sound of The Voice's .44 Magnum pistol, which had been aimed directly at his head. Holding the weapon in the air, The Voice looked around and asked, "Does anyone else want to counter my order?" Obviously, nobody did. With that, and a distinct feeling that facing the Wehrmacht was a better option than facing The Voice at this time, the rebels began to dig and build whatever they possibly could before the Wehrmacht attacked again.

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It was a full hour before the Wehrmacht assault began. Like others, they opened with artillery bombardments first, followed shortly by an armored assault. Although anti-tank munitions were plenty, none were seemingly able to penetrate the armored beasts as they hulked further into the forest. Some armored personnel carriers that Marcellus had identified as Marder 1A4s, opened up with flamethrowers mounted on the weapon turrets. From the rear, Wehrmacht Pioniers dismounted and launched their own flamethrower attack. Other Schwarze Korps infantry, armed with their own weapons, provided covering and suppressive fire. The rebels did not stand much chance. Although their fighting was fierce, and numbers only slightly outmatched by the Wehrmacht, it was not meant to be.


Marcellus was, as usual, one of the last few to pull back to the final defensive line. He watched as Lucas picked up a K40 off of a dead female, making sure it was loaded. Like a machine, Lucas rushed forward, shooting and killing as many Wehrmacht soldiers as he could find, finally running out of ammo and resorting to mounting a bayonet on the rifle. In slow motion, Marcellus watched as a Wehrmacht machine gunner reloaded his MG3. Lucas saw the man too, and charged at him in madness. Calmly, the Wehrmacht soldier finished reloading, then pulled the trigger. Lucas fell face-first into the dirt, his body shaking as the Wehrmacht machine gunner fired off another several rounds for good measure. These images were the last thing Marcellus could remember before the crack of a 91/30 broke him out of this trance.


As for the rest of the battle, the rebels were slowly and methodically destroyed and captured. Those who were wounded were carried - under guard - to a field hospital and treated. The Voice was eventually cornered by four Wehrmacht Panzergrenadiers, who confiscated his weapon. They noticed that he had hesitated with his weapon, then dropped it. It was later discovered he had exactly four bullets left, enough to kill each of the Wehrmacht soldiers...or use one on himself, if he were so inclined. Those that survived or gave up with him were taken in and transferred to a high-security military prison outside of Innsbruck. The Voice's trial would find him guilty of conspiracy against the state, conspiracy to murder Director Wilding, high treason, illegal weapons ownership, illegal militia membership, murder of military personnel, theft of military property, and massive public property damage. He was sentenced to death - a single 9mm bullet to the head from a Wehrmacht-issue Glock 19. This would be one of the few things left uncensored, broadcast on national television for all to see. The message was clear: try to rebel against the state, and the state will fight back.

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