Chapter 1

From his position on the roof, Hans looked down at the bustling streets of the city below, scratching the back of his head in pure confusion. The sounds of fingernails against hair and scalp were the only things that bounced around his head at the moment, as his thoughts were all in a burning pile in the far end of his mind. However, one thought emerged from the flames and made itself known. Where was he? This looked nothing like Berlin; the city was mostly rubble the last time he saw it. It was all so damned strange to him.

A lit cigarette hung from his lips to help deal with the stress and confusion. He let a stream of smoke leave his mouth and float up into the orange sky, following the mesmerizing dance of the fumes with his eyes as they disappeared into the air. It was sunset. Lights shone below him, but none of them were from burning bodies and rubble. They came from streetlamps. Functioning street lamps, the likes of which he hadn't seen in a while. And with the presence of the light, so came the wave of noises that rushed to meet him as he hung his head over the edge of the parapet, which came up to his abdomen. Voices came from the streets, and from how high up he was, he was unsure just what language they were speaking. Russian, German, English, or French? The boy had no clue.

But what he did know was that he would never find answers by standing around and giving himself a headache. He had to keep his mind busy with other things. The answer came to him in the form of the weapons he came with, which lay scattered on the ground after removing them from his person. He wasn't really in the mood for playing quartermaster, but felt like an inventory check was due, as they were the only things familiar to him at that very moment. Content with this line of thinking, the boy spun around on his heels and made his way back to where he awoke, leaving his newly squashed cigarette behind.

His main role during the desperate defense of Berlin was to lug around ammo and guns to places that needed them. However, since he had no clue where he was, he thought it was best to leave this weapons under the supervision of the highest ranking personnel he could find. Himself.

The spot where he woke up was where his things were. Exactly where he left them after he woke up experiencing mild pain. Who knew that sleeping with a miniature arsenal on your person would be uncomfortable? Hans was on his knees, arranging whatever he had in a line before him. Now that he had a good look at what he was carrying, the boy plopped down on his arse and rested his chin in his palm. Before him was a disappointing amount of firepower - an amount that would land him a fat chastising if he showed up to resupply what remained of Germany's armed resistance. In spite of this, he was glad that he no longer needed to lug around his usual mountain of wood and steel, as he was certain that his spine would snap if he lugged around his usual load for longer.

'What would have broken first? My back or Germany?' he thought as a grim frown morphed onto his lips. The boy gave his temple a few light smacks for his defeatism and shook his head before bringing his mind back to the spread of ordnance before him.

Two Karabiner 98ks of questionable quality were huddled together like cold little animals. The German war-machine suffered greatly by the time 1945 rolled around, and the rifles on the ground were a testament to that. Weapons that looked like Karabiners, but lacking the fine wood and polish. They felt rough, and no love went into the creation of these weapons. He felt pity for the brave men who had to die with one of these in his hands.

Alongside these were two different self-loading guns. The first he was familiar with as its distinct shape and colour bore itself into the minds of every German soldier and Germany's enemies; the MP-40. No magazine was present in the deadly device, but the weapon beside it had one inserted. A sickening amalgamation of steel and wood; a weapon with no beauty and no pride; the German Reich's death rattle: the Volkssturmgewehr. Gone were the days of high quality production and in came the result of 12 years of German supremacy. He had the opportunity to use one of these weapons once before, and the only thing more shameful than using one was being the poor bastard who got killed by one.

Hans reached out with sooty fingers and pinched the curved magazine of the weapon, before gently shaking the thing as it lay on the ground as a test of the weapon's overall quality and craftmanship. His brow furrowed as the magazine rattled inside of the magazine well, and recoiled his hand away from the god forsaken weapon as though it was a hot stove-top. Looking at the thing made him sick, so he cast his eyes away to the pair of anti-armour devices near the end of the line-up. Panzerfausts. More specifically, a 30 meter Gross and a 60 meter variant. As unassuming as they looked, the weapons were capable of blowing a hole in the side of allied armor like a fist through wet paper. A warm smile formed on his face as he recalls joking with another boy his age about how they looked like street lamps, or even cruder: a penis.

This smile fell as his head tilted back and stared up at the heavens, where the orange and blue sky slowly peeled back to reveal stars. He shuffled his way back to his feet, keeping his eyes locked onto the coming night sky with a neutral frown. Every train of thought led to the same thing: home. He had trouble wrestling with the idea that he somehow managed to end up in some strange city untouched by war, where only mere moments before waking up, he was.... he was...

His hand shot up to meet his freckled cheek, where the resounding smack would bring him back to reality like a dislocated arm being set back into place. The time for dwelling came later. For now, he had to play quartermaster. The boy nursed his slapped cheek for a moment before sitting up on his heels to resume his self-appointed duties.

Hans sets his small notebook on the ground, and with it the comically short remains of a pencil. His joints in his right hand were sore from having to delicately pinch the nub that was once a proud pencil, let alone actually writing with the bloody thing. He tugs on his aching fingers with his left hand, with each pull resulting in a satisfying, dull popping noise. His fingers felt mildly relieved. The page bore the names of the items in his possession, as well as the numerical amount beside them. Everything was accounted for. In addition to the largest weapons that he had already looked at, the boy had accounted for his PO8 Luger sidearm and the buffet of ammunition for the weapons. He had 3 magazines for the MP-40, and a measly 2 for the Volkssturmgewehr, counting the one in the weapon already. 2 Mags for the Luger minus the one already inside.

A cloth sack, fashioned from one pillow case inside of another was also present. It would rattle and jingle every time he picked it up and moved it around, and when he inspected the inside, he was met with the sight of a loose mess of ammunition, the occasional rifle clip or two, and - surprisingly - a pair of stick grenades. Rifle rounds, pistol rounds, machine-gun ammo; they all blurred together into a mess of brass and copper. Hans had grabbed the "bag" by the open end and spun the bag around as he suspended it in the air, before using the newly twisted neck of the sack to tie it shut. He simply chose to note down that he had quite a bit of ammo, and prayed that he was never bored enough to count them in the future.

Hans undid the buckles of his belt, from which hung two pairs of three heavily worn leather pouches that were just big enough to cram a full clip or two of rifle ammo. He would have no problem transporting adequate ammunition for the pair of Karabiners, but he would certainly have to get creative with how he'd go about carrying the SMG magazines.

"If I'd have to use them." he mumbles to himself as he slid the straps off of himself. In doing so, something felt off. As soon as the belt began to peel itself off of his uniform, he felt an object that was pressed against him feel loose and was about to fall. He turns his head to look at what this object was, and with it was his hand to catch whatever it was as his belt finally distanced itself from him and plopped onto the ground. It was his knife. With the knife in his possession, he flicked his wrist up slightly, letting go of the knife and gripping it repeatedly until the knife eventually rose up and the tip of the leather scabbard was pinched in between his thumb and forefinger.

He stared at the red and white diamond crest that sat boldly in the centre of both sides of the handle, and in the centre of that crest was a sharp, proud swastika. The blade itself was concealed in its leather scabbard. While he was in possession of this knife, he was ashamed to admit that it wasn't his own. His had gotten lost at some point during his time in Berlin, and he had cheekily swiped this one off of one of his peers. Perhaps that was what happened to his own blade? As he thought this, he tucked the knife into his boot, and made sure it was positioned somewhat comfortably before getting some rest.

The boy rolled onto his back from his squatting position, pressing his hands against the back of his head in case he banged his head against the ground. His eyes stared up into the night sky in his newly adopted position. It was getting dark now, and it was almost too dark to do anymore counting on the rooftop. However, what light he had was supplied by the yellow glow of the streets below. The moon had yet to make itself known, and he wondered if the lack of the moon in the sky was that it was merely a new-moon. The soldier then shut his eyes and simply...did nothing.

It had been an hour since he awoke, and at no point was there the sound of a firearm, the sound of enemy aircraft, nor explosions. The calm unsettled him, as he was expecting to hear the crack of a bullet missing his head at any moment, or expecting one of the buildings around him to succumb to allied artillery. He hoped that this was a dream and that he merely fell asleep on watch, but underneath the bravado and his sense of duty, was the hope that it was a dream that he wouldn't wake up from. He unhooked his hands from behind his head to remove the cap off of his head, letting his hair dirty blonde hair breathe the night air, and pressed his hands against his face.

The boy wept for the first time in a while, with trails of tears escaping from under his hands and snaking their way down his cheeks. Was he finally free from the war? Could he rest easy from now on? What was he going to do with all the extra luggage?

These thoughts clouded his mind as he cried into his palms, and in doing so, failed to notice the moon steadily climb up from the horizon, and settling itself in the middle of the night sky.

Author's Note

Yeah, I didn't see myself coming back to this either. But now that I'm of a different mindset than what I was before, I'll see just what I can do with it. I left some parts as I had originally wrote them. You know, for old time's sake. So if it looks awkward and reads kinda "eh", that's prolly why.

Also, nerfed Hans' arsenal

(Old Notes)
Yay! First chapter done.

Despite his abundance of weaponry (which is kinda OP), I plan on balancing that out later on. Most of the chapter is basically an inventory check, for which I apologise for. But hey, the minimum word count is 1000. I had to get there somehow.