Berlin – April 15th, 1945

  Conrad Happe stirred a steaming mash in a dented pot, the wooden spoon rasping along the bottom like he was trying to scrape up hope along with the burnt bits. The smell rising from the mess made his nose wrinkle. His stomach, however did not care. It growled anyway, loud enough that he was confident someone might’ve been able to hear it.

  He found himself once again missing his mother’s cooking. The thought drifted in often these days. Her soups, her roasts, even her potatoes she always seemed to burn were better than whatever filth they were boiling here. Conrad himself was not a bad cook, but there was only so much a man could do with scraps that barely counted as food.

  He adjusted his glasses, pushing them up the bridge of his nose with a grease-smudged thumb, and grimaced as he stirred. The mash burped bubbles of steam.

  Inside the pot was everything they had found mixed with their ever-dwindling supply of rations. Heels of stale bread, some spotted with mold he had not noticed until they were already tossed in. A clump of congealed grease from an abandoned cupboard, a handful of oats, water, and a splash of cheap wine that smelled more like vinegar, and a few other items. It was a desperate man’s stew, if he was being generous.

  Conrad sighed, lifting the pot off the weak coals, and set it on a nearby brick to cool giving it one more stir. Another hopeless attempt to convince the ingredients to work together. He rested the spoon across the rim and rubbed his hands together as his eyes drifted to Obergefreiter Harless.

  The man was asleep against a nearby wall, his head against the bricks as his breath wheezing through his throat. The torn scarf at his collar had slipped just enough for Conrad to see the ragged scar that spread across the man's neck. Jagged pink edges and patches of pale white where the skin had struggled to knit itself together.

  Conrad swallowed. His mind pulling him back whether he wanted it to or not.

  He remembered the incident like a fever dream. The ruined truck. The smoke. The screaming of the plane engines. And that man. The man they had been transporting.

  Go back to your momma, boy.

  The voice drifted through him even now. Low. Rough. Something torn and uneven. He remembered the single green eye. Cold, sharp and then the shredded left side of the man’s face, like claws had raked through him. The worst part had been the empty space where his left eye should have been. Just a hollow, black and staring void.

  Conrad had grown up Lutheran. He had imagined demons often enough. The pulpit taught him of spirits clothed in wickedness, voices from the pit. He never thought they would have horns or tails or red skin. No, he pictured men who had lost their humanity, men who appeared twisted in ways you could only feel, not see.

  The prisoner from that night was almost exactly what he had imagined. A man, but profoundly wrong. Something akin to a wolf wearing sheep’s clothing.

  Conrad shivered at the memory and forced it down where it belonged. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and stood, stretching the stiffness from his legs. His gaze drifted back to Harless, remembering how the prisoner had torn out the mans throat with his own teeth.

  He had nearly died that day if not for Conrad pressing part of a shirt to that torn throat and praying through his teeth while the Obergefreiter bled. Somehow, by some miracle or accident, he saved the man's life.

  And Harless had not forgotten.

  When the Obergefreiter recovered enough to walk and talk again, he was ordered to join a detachment moving to Berlin. Conrad expected to be sent elsewhere or shoved into another monotonous duty. Instead, Harless insisted the boy go with him. And somehow, through some stroke of luck or bureaucratic exhaustion, command agreed.

  Conrad still did not know why.

  He only knew that Harless was grateful and in return was likely keeping an eye out for him.

  And that had brought him straight into the dying heart of the Reich.

  He watched Harless sleep for another hesitant moment, chewing the inside of his cheek. The man looked completely spent, slumped against the wall with his helmet beside him and his MP40 within arm’s reach. Sleep had become something rationed more tightly than ammunition. Waking him almost felt like a crime.

  Still, Conrad stepped forward and crouched, nudging the man’s shoulder with two fingers.

  “Obergefreiter Harless… I apologize, but food is ready,” he whispered.

  Harless muttered something incoherent, face twitching beneath his painters mustache. Conrad tried again, a little firmer.

  “Herr Harless… food.”

  This time Harless jerked awake, eyes snapping open with a wild flash of panic. His hand shot to the MP40 beside him, palm gripping the metal before the rest of his mind caught up.

  Conrad immediately lifted both hands, palms out.

  “Food. Nothing is wrong. I am deeply sorry for waking you,” he said quickly.

  Harless blinked hard, his weary mind sorting the shadows from reality. After a moment his shoulders slumped, the tension drained from him like water leaking through a sieve.

  “Very good. Food then?” he rasped, rubbing his temples with thick fingers. His voice sounded scraped raw, still damaged from the old wound.

  Conrad nodded. “Ja. I wish it were a proper meal, but I did the best I could.”

  Before Harless could answer, another soldier from their squad shuffled over, a dish from his mess kit in hand. The man scooped a blob of the mash with Conrad’s wooden spoon. It stretched like melting cheese and fell onto his dish with a wet plop. The soldier grimaced and wandered off, staring at his portion with the dread of a condemned man.

  Harless stared after him, brow lowering. “I do not recall any cheese being in that pot.”

  “Nor do I,” Conrad muttered, stomach churning.

  Harless groaned and stood. He reached into his coat, glancing around the room before turning his body to hide the motion. He uncorked a hip flask and took a quick swallow, wincing as he swallowed down the liquor.

  Harless hesitated, then extended the flask toward him.

  “I am not terribly hungry at the moment,” he said, shaking the flask slightly.

  Conrad froze, unsure. But refusing seemed rude so he accepted it.

  He Took a tentative sip and immediately gagged as the liquor scorched its way down his throat. His eyes watering.

  Harless thumped his back with a rough chuckle and took the flask back, tucking it into his coat.

  “Good man.” He said with a rough chuckle.

  He walked to where he had been sleeping and retrieved his weapon and helmet. Conrad watched him adjust the strap beneath his chin, the man’s mustache twitching as he scratched at the growing scruff along his jaw.

  “I suppose we will be moving soon,” Harless said tiredly.

  He turned and raised his voice to the rest of the men scattered around the room.

  “Be ready. We will likely be called to move within the hour. I will coordinate with Unteroffizer Meyer. In the meantime, hydrate and eat what you can.”

  The squad grumbled but set about doing as told.

  Conrad turned his attention back to the pot, staring down into what he had created. The steam rising from the mash carried a smell that was almost nauseating. How bread, grease, oats, and wine had become this unholy sludge was a mystery best left untouched.

  Still, food was food.

  He scooped a portion into his dish, raised the spoon, and hesitated only a moment before forcing it into his mouth.

  It was worse than it looked. Far worse.

  “Meine Gott,” he gagged, fighting the instinct to spit it out. But hunger won again, barely.

  Before he could try a second bite, Harless’s voice cut through the room.

  “Conrad Happe, come with me.”

  Conrad looked up from his dish. Then he looked at the food. Then back to Harless.

  It was not a difficult choice.

  He set the dish aside, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and settled the helmet he had been given onto his head. It was still much too large, even after every adjustment he could manage. The whole thing sat crooked, even if he pulled the strap tight under his chin. To which he had to add some additional notches. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and hurried after Harless as the Obergefreiter stepped out into the open street.

  The city greeted them with its usual cocktail of misery. Thick grey clouds sagged low over Berlin, smothering the sky. The acrid stink of smoke and burnt gunpowder crawled between the shattered buildings like some invisible fog.

  Harless drew out a cigarette as he walked, cupping the match against the wind while Conrad matched his stride, rifle held tight, boots crunching over broken stone.

  They rounded the corner and both men froze in their tracks.

  A group of Sturmwolfe hybrids marched down the street ahead of them. At least two dozen came into view, moving in a tired but measured discipline. Their heavy steps echoed between the ruined facades. Human officers trudged alongside them, looking nearly as exhausted.

  Several of the hybrids turned their heads as they passed. Golden or pale brown eyes lingered on the two men for a heartbeat, unreadable, before they turned their muzzles forward again and continued on toward the nearby administrative building.

  Conrad’s breath caught in his throat. He had never been this close to them let alone seen this many.

  One hybrid in particular drew his attention. She wore a zeltbahn poncho draped around her shoulders, a scoped rifle slung beside her pack. What fur he could see beneath the grime was strikingly white. She turned slightly, and Conrad felt something drop in his stomach. He had seen her before. In the village just days before the prisoner transport went to hell.

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  The memory of the man she had delivered to them crawled into place uninvited. The ruined face and the haunting empty eye socket.

  Harless cleared his throat and placed a hand on Conrad’s shoulder, snapping him out of it.

  “Let us not stand around any longer. I imagine we look like fools,” Harless rasped.

  Conrad nodded quickly and followed him into the building where the officers were gathered.

  The building was cramped and chaotic. Officers hunched over chipped wooden tables littered with maps, shouting quietly to one another in clipped, tense voices. Others sat along the walls eating rations that looked only slightly more appetizing than the mash Conrad had cooked. Cigarette smoke mingled with the stench of damp wool and old sweat.

  Harless approached a man shaving in front of a cracked vanity mirror. The officer’s cheeks were covered in a thin sheen of lather. He didn’t look away from the mirror as Harless snapped to attention.

  “Unteroffizer Meyer, we will be ready in an hour,” Harless reported.

  Meyer scraped the razor across his cheek and nodded. “Very good.” He rinsed the blade in a bowl of cloudy water and made another pass. “I believe we should discuss matters with the others. It sounds like we are being redirected unfortunately.”

  Harless stiffened. “Redirected?” he asked, followed by a dry cough he tried to hide.

  Meyer nodded again, this time with a touch of unease. “Ja. Follow me to the table.” He paused when his eyes fell on Conrad, who straightened instinctively.

  Before Meyer could speak, Harless jumped in. “I am having this one visit the quartermaster for supplies.”

  Meyer wiped the soap from his jaw with a rag. “Very well. See to it then, Happe,” he said with a casual flick of his hand.

  Conrad inclined his head and hurried toward the rear of the building.

  The quartermaster sat behind a makeshift counter of stacked crates, his uniform stained with oil and dust. He looked Conrad up and down with mild annoyance.

  “Come with me a moment. I need to bring some rations to the Sturmwolfe that just arrived. I could use the extra help,” the man said as he lifted a heavy crate without waiting for Conrad’s reply.

  Conrad swallowed hard. His palms felt suddenly damp.

  “The Sturmwolfe?” he echoed, unable to hide the tightness in his voice.

  The quartermaster set the crate down with a grunt. “Ach, that is what I said, Ja? They need to eat too.” He motioned impatiently. “Take it.”

  Conrad nodded reluctantly and grabbed the underside, lifting the crate with a strained grunt. Before he could adjust his grip, the quartermaster hefted a second crate and stacked it on top of the first.

  Conrad nearly staggered. His boots scraped on the floor as he steadied himself, teeth clenched.

  The quartermaster nodded as if satisfied with Conrad’s struggle, then hefted a third crate with casual strength. He shifted it beneath one arm and started for the exit, weaving around officers hunched over their maps. Conrad hurried after him, doing his best not to drop the stacked weight teetering in his grip.

  They stepped back out onto the street just as a break in the clouds let a thin, cold shaft of sunlight fall across the ruins. Dust motes glittered in the beam like drifting ash. Conrad blinked at the brightness, swallowing hard as he adjusted his grip on the crates digging into his forearms.

  The closer he walked toward the courtyard, the tighter the knot in his stomach became. Seeing the Sturmwolfe had already unsettled him. Getting close to them felt like walking into a storybook about monsters that children were warned never to approach.

  Still, he followed the quartermaster through a break in a toppled wall and into the courtyard and there they were.

  The first thing that struck him was how unnervingly normal the hybrids behaved.

  They lounged against walls, rubbed tired eyes, talked in quiet clusters. Their hands gestured as they spoke. One uncapped a canteen, lifted it to the side of its muzzle, and Conrad watched water pour into the gap between its sharp white teeth. Another adjusted the straps on its pack with a grunt of annoyance.

  He did everything he could not to stare.

  The quartermaster stopped at a table near the center of the yard and set his crate down with a relieved grunt. He turned and wrestled the top crate off Conrad’s stack, setting it beside the first.

  “Set yours here,” the man said motioning to a spot beside the other two.

  Conrad obeyed, setting it down with a relieved grunt.

  Before he had time to straighten up, an officer approached. The man had a narrow, hawkish face and a shock of white hair beneath his cap. His uniform identified him as an Oberleutnant, but unlike most officers Conrad had seen that week, he did not look frazzled or frantic. He seemed strangely calm, almost relaxed.

  The quartermaster immediately straightened to attention. Conrad scrambled to mimic him a beat too late.

  The Oberleutnant waved a hand dismissively. “None of that please. And thank you, would you be so kind as to pass out the rations yourselves?” he asked while pulling a small tin of tobacco from his pouch. “We are about to have the Sturmwolfe take stock of their supplies.”

  The quartermaster nodded sharply. “Jawohl, gladly.” He grabbed one of the crates and shoved it toward Conrad, who accepted it with a strained grunt and nearly lost his footing.

  “Thank you two,” the Oberleutnant said. His eyes drifted to Conrad. “Gott, do they feed you boy? You look as thin as a rail.” His tone was not cruel, but it was blunt enough to make Conrad flush.

  “Uhh, yes. I eat, Oberleutnant…” Conrad stammered, his glasses slipping down his nose.

  The officer cut him off with a raised hand. “Oberleutnant Haller.” He said in an almost amused tone, then motioned to the crates. “See that you grab a ration for yourself. You need more meat on your bones.” He spoke like a grandfather half-scolding a child.

  Conrad glanced toward the quartermaster, uncertain. The man looked at him, rolled his eyes, and then gave a curt nod.

  Oberleutnant Haller grunted in approval. He wiped his brow then opened his tin of tobacco, and wandered toward the main building without another word.

  The quartermaster waited until the officer was gone before giving Conrad a sideways glare. “Go boy. You heard him. Give the wolf men their food before they decide to eat you.”

  Conrad swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to calm his breathing as he turned toward the hybrids.

  A few were already watching him, their golden and brown eyes tracking his movements with quiet interest. Not hostile. Just aware in a way that felt too sharp, too predatory.

  Conrad drew a slow breath and stepped toward a group leaning against the far wall. They were sorting through their packs and muttering among themselves. Their claws clicked faintly on metal buckles as they worked. One of them turned when he approached.

  The hybrid’s brown eyes met his, unblinking and steady.

  Conrad felt his heart thump hard against his ribs.

  And he forced himself to keep walking.

  The hybrid in front of him looked female. Her fatigues were dirty and torn at the sleeves, her grey fur matted from travel. A bare patch on her muzzle caught Conrad’s attention before he could stop himself. The skin there looked raw, and red from irritation. She noticed his stare and scowled, her lip curling just enough to reveal the edge of a fang.

  Conrad snapped his eyes away and cleared his throat. “I have brought food,” he said, the words coming out tighter than he intended.

  The female scratched the bald spot on her muzzle with an irritated huff and stepped forward.

  Conrad stiffened as she approached. The size, the presence, the unnatural familiarity of their posture mixed with the unmistakable reality that these were not humans. His nerves crackled under his skin.

  “Well?” she said sharply. Her arms folded as she eyed the crate. “Do you plan to stand there all day?”

  His heart thudded in his chest. “No, no. Apologies.” He snapped into motion, lowering the crate and prying the lid free.

  “Leave the boy be, Varan,” a tall male hybrid said as he approached. His tone was calm, almost gentle as he held out a hand.

  Conrad hesitated for only a moment before grabbing two rations and passing one to each of them. The male nodded his thanks and turned back toward his gear, already unwrapping the paper as he walked.

  He worked his way through the group, keeping his head down and arms steady. The hybrids accepted the food with murmured thanks or curt nods. None of them looked particularly interested by his presence. Some didn’t look at him at all as they accepted their food.

  Conrad stood, wiping his hands on his coat and stealing a glance across the courtyard. He had hoped to catch sight of the white one. The she-wolf he remembered but she wasn’t among the others. Disappointment mingled with an odd sense of relief.

  His crate now empty he made his way back toward the table where the remaining crate sat. The quartermaster was already there, methodically dumping wrapped rations into his own empty container, paper crackling as they stacked in uneven piles.

  “I believe there’s only a few more left near the edge of the yard,” the man said, not looking up.

  Conrad nodded, set down the crate, and accepted the newly loaded one. The quartermaster picked up the last box with the remaining rations and veered off toward one of the smaller groups. Conrad turned and began the walk toward the far end of the courtyard, boots crunching softly over the broken gravel and grit.

  There were only a few more hybrids near the edge of the rubble, sitting in the shade of a broken wall. Conrad passed them their rations without incident. When he was finished, three wax-wrapped portions remained at the bottom of the crate.

  He eyed them more than once, unable to help himself. They weren’t the thin watery gruel he’d been choking down the last few weeks. These were actual food.

  Stomach growling, he returned to the supply table. The quartermaster was already stacking the two empty crates, his motions quick and practiced. Conrad set down his own and reached inside, pulling out the three remaining ration packs. He offered them over, but the man took only two before pausing.

  “Ach, one more,” the quartermaster muttered, squinting toward the far end of the yard. “I didn’t give anything to that white one. Did you?”

  Conrad turned to follow his gaze. Across the yard, just now stepping into view, was a tall female hybrid. She was unmistakable. Snow-colored fur, a rifle slung across her back, and the slightest limp in her gait.

  “No. I did not,” Conrad said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  The quartermaster handed him another ration and motioned with a quick flick of his hand. “Go. Give her this, and let’s be off.”

  Conrad nodded, tucking his own ration into his coat. The paper feeling almost warm against his chest. He swallowed hard and turned, walking with what he hoped was calm purpose toward the hybrid.

  She turned as he approached.

  Her eyes met his, blue and piercing, like cold fire. He felt a jolt in his spine, some part of him wanting to flee under that gaze. He noticed she had hair. Actual human-like hair that was drawn back into a tight bun.

  “This is for you… rations,” he said, holding it out.

  She nodded and stepped closer, a hint of a smile playing at her lips as she accepted it.

  “Danke,” she said quietly.

  He didn’t move after she accepted it. Just stood there like a fool, his hand hanging midair, heart pounding.

  She tilted her head. “Can I help you?” She asked, one brow raised.

  Conrad cleared his throat. “I believe I’ve seen you before.”

  Her expression froze, the faint smile slipping. Her ears twitched slightly as she stiffened.

  “Over a month ago,” he continued. “In a village… south of Cottbus.”

  The pause stretched.

  Then, slowly, she nodded. “Ja,” she said, folding her arms across her chest, the ration pack tucked neatly beneath one elbow.

  Conrad stepped a little closer, feeling like he was crossing some invisible line. “You brought a man with you.”

  Her tail flicked. Subtle. Tense.

  She didn’t deny it.

  “Ja. That was me.” She hesitated, then forced a faint smile. “Gefreiter Eira,” she said, offering a hand.

  Conrad accepted it, though his fingers trembled.

  “Conrad Happe.”

  She withdrew her hand slowly and studied him. Something about the way she looked at him made him feel like a boy who had wandered someplace he wasn’t supposed to be.

  She opened her mouth, about to speak but the quartermaster’s voice cut across the yard.

  “Please, hurry! There’s much to do!” he barked impatiently.

  Conrad turned to look, guilt prickling at the interruption. He started to take a step back when Eira reached out and grabbed his wrist.

  The grip was firm, sudden. Her eyes were sharp again.

  “The man I brought with me,” she said, voice low. “What happened to him?”

  Her ears flattened slightly. Her claws didn’t dig into his flesh, but he felt the strength behind them.

  Conrad hesitated. His mouth opened. Then closed.

  “There was an attack,” he said finally. “The day we were to transport him. Soviet planes…”

  Her eyes widened. She stepped forward, the ration pressed tighter under her arm.

  “And?” she asked.

  He couldn’t meet her gaze.

  “He… escaped.”

  Her grip tightened. Conrad winced.

  Then she realized what she was doing and let go, her fingers curling back toward her palm.

  “He escaped?” she repeated.

  The other hybrids had gone still. The gray one, Varan, scratched at the bald patch on her snout but didn’t speak. All eyes were on Conrad.

  He nodded. “He killed more than a few of us. The truck…”

  Eira stepped closer, voice dropping.

  “Are you sure?”

  Her ears pinned tight to her skull. Her tail lashed once behind her, betraying her control.

  “I saw it happen,” Conrad said quietly. “I’m sorry. There was nothing we could do.”

  She stood there frozen, shoulders rising and falling with each breath. Her eyes shimmered faintly in the light, unreadable.

  A tall male approached and rested a hand on her shoulder. She let out a slow breath, relaxing beneath his touch.

  Then she turned to Conrad again. Her voice was softer now.

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  She looked down at the ration in her hands. After a moment’s pause, she held it out.

  “Take it. You are skinny.”

  He blinked. “Thank you, but…”

  “Please. I insist. I’m not feeling terribly hungry.”

  She held it there, expectant. No condescension in her tone. Just finality.

  He glanced toward the table. The quartermaster was watching with a puzzled look on his face.

  Conrad looked back to her and slowly reached out. He accepted the ration with both hands.

  She gave a short nod, then turned back to her bags without another word. The others around her resumed what they were doing, though a few cast lingering glances in his direction.

  Conrad stared down at the ration in his hands.

  His fingers gripped it tightly, knuckles pale.

  He turned and began walking back toward the table, the pulse in his neck thudding like a war drum.

  That man’s voice echoed again in his head. The prisoner. The demon. The one who had torn through men like they were nothing.

  Go back to your momma, boy.

  God, how he wished he could.

  He didn’t belong here. Not with them. Not in a world of werewolves and monsters who wore human flesh.

  Pope4007, who also runs an account on AO3 (Archive of Our Own). He has some original stories that are absolutely worth your time. If you dive into his work, tell him I sent you.

  Elevating_stairs, who has been a massive asset in keeping this story historically accurate. Gear, weapons, vehicles, you name it. I thought I knew a lot about the Second World War, but he has put me to shame. I couldn't be more grateful for his help.

  Snud and comes from his original story Echoes of Shelling, where she is known as Field Captain Ikerloy Varan. Snud also posts on AO3, and his work is well worth checking out.

  -SABLE