Interlude Steve

Steve found himself standing at the altar, his body unnaturally stiff. He chalked it up to nerves; after all, who wouldn't be nervous on their wedding day? The room was filled with familiar faces, all smiling and cheering, but something felt off. He couldn't quite place it.

The bride stood beside him, radiant in a traditional white wedding dress. Her face was obscured by a delicate veil, and despite straining his memory, Steve couldn't recall her name or features. The officiant, an older man in a dark, formal uniform, spoke in a language that seemed both familiar and foreign. Steve tried to focus on the words, but they slipped through his consciousness like water through his fingers.

Large, conical speakers mounted on the walls echoed with a voice that sounded both authoritative and distant, speaking in a stern, German accent. The decorations were a mix of elegant flowers and dark banners emblazoned with swastikas and eagles, the stark black and red contrasting with the otherwise festive setting.

He felt a tightness around his wrists and ankles. It must be the stress, he thought. The tightness intensified, but he forced a smile, glancing at his bride, who remained silent and still. Her presence was calming, even if he couldn't see her face.

The room was decorated in an old-fashioned style, with rows of pews filled with guests who seemed to blend into the background. Among them, he noticed a few faces that stood out – his father, giving a nod of approval, and a stern-looking man in a military uniform, whose eyes seemed to bore into his soul.

Steve looked down and realized he was wearing a Nazi uniform, complete with armbands and medals. He tried to process this, but the ceremony continued, unperturbed. The officiant handed Steve a small, ornate scepter with a microphone attached, and he realized it was his turn to speak. He raised the scepter to his lips, but no words came out. Instead, he felt an electric jolt surge through him, and his vision blurred. He tried to move, but his body remained rigid, bound by invisible restraints.

A wave of panic washed over him, but he quickly suppressed it. This was just wedding jitters, he told himself. Everything was fine. He took a deep breath and tried to speak again, but the words wouldn't come. The officiant continued, unperturbed, his voice blending with the echoes from the speakers.

The man in the military uniform stepped forward, taking the microphone. It was Wolfgang Kortzfleisch, the Moon Führer. He began to speak, his voice resonating with authority. "Today, we celebrate not only the union of two pure Aryan souls but also the continuation of our great race. It is your duty, your honor, to ensure the purity and strength of our people. This sacred bond is a testament to our unwavering commitment to the ideals of the Fourth Reich."

Something pricked at Steve's arm. A bug bite, perhaps. But he could not scratch now. He could not even grimace, or people would take it wrong.

"And you may kiss the bride," the Führer continued. Steve was confused. Was there supposed to be more? Did he miss it because he was distracted?

The veiled face of the bride was right in front of him. When did she move? Or was it Steve who moved?

She removed the veil, revealing the sharp, old face of Dr. Jane Smith. "Are you lucid now?"

"I am not kissing you!" Steve exclaimed. Did he get married to a woman much older than him? Wait. He was not in the wedding hall. He was back in that small room. The reason he could not move was because he was strapped to that same table.

"That is not what I asked, but I suppose it is an answer," she said more to herself than to Steve. She was not dressed in a bridal dress but in what looked like a female Nazi uniform. "Should I increase the dose? It would be risky, but I am short on time."

Steve's mind raced as he tried to process what was happening. The disorientation from the surreal wedding vision lingered, making it hard to distinguish reality from hallucination. He could feel the restraints digging into his wrists and ankles, the cold metal of the table beneath him.

"What... what did you do to me?" Steve managed to stammer, his voice shaky.

Dr. Smith tilted her head, observing him with a clinical detachment. "So, you are lucid. Good. We don't have much time."

She pulled out a sharp scalpel. Steve looked uneasy as metal glinted in dim light. Then with a swift, practised movement, she slashed.

Steve tensed, expecting pain, but there was none. Instinctively, he moved his arm. His arm was free. She had cut his bonds.

"You freed me? Then they did not turn you Nazi?" Steve asked as she continued to free him, one limb at a time.

"Once was more than enough," Smith murmured to herself, then addressed Steve. "I stole the uniform to blend in better. Unfortunately, it was less than efficient. There seems to be a lack of older women in this facility."

Steve rubbed his wrists where the restraints had dug into his skin. "So, what's the plan?"

"We need to get out of here before they realise you're missing," Smith replied, her voice urgent but steady. "Can you walk?"

Steve swung his legs off the table and stood up, graceful like a jungle cat. The unreal memories of the wedding were already fading like dreams. His thoughts were clear and sharp, as were his senses. "I feel great. Like I could do anything. What's next?"

"You need to dress first, something that will blend in," she said, pulling out a male version of the Nazi uniform.

Steve quickly donned the uniform, feeling a strange mix of revulsion and determination as he adjusted the armband and straightened the collar. The uniform was impeccably tailored, made of heavy, high-quality wool. The jacket was a sharp, military cut, complete with silver buttons and epaulettes. An iron cross medal and various insignias were sewn onto the breast, gleaming under the dim lights. The armband, emblazoned with a stark black swastika on a red background, felt particularly grotesque.

He couldn't deny that the uniform looked neat, almost pristine, and there was a twisted part of him that appreciated its meticulous design. But the symbolism and the history it represented made his skin crawl. Each time he adjusted the collar or buttoned the jacket, it was a struggle to suppress the wave of disgust rising within him. The polished black boots completed the ensemble, giving him an imposing and authoritarian appearance.

Smith watched him, her face a mask of urgency. "And you should be careful. You're not invincible, just on stimulants. I needed you functional, but withdrawal is going to be unpleasant. That's another reason we must hurry."

He nodded, the weight of the uniform pressing down on him as he adjusted the peaked cap, its stiff brim casting a shadow over his eyes. "Alright, I'm ready. Let's get out of here."

She nodded and went into the observation room. Steve followed right behind her. Immediately he saw a man in a similar uniform, huddling and whimpering in a corner. His eyes were wide open, but unseeing. The young Nazi was shivering, and his face was a mask of terror.

"He is harmless now," she said emotionlessly, startling Steve. "It will take hours for it to wear off."

"What happened to him?" Steve asked uneasily.

"Me," she simply replied.

"Doc, I admit that you are scary," Steve said, "but you're not that scary."

"When we were about to be captured, I prepared a little gift for our would-be hosts. Something that looked important, but was actually a trap. Once tampered with, the device would disperse gas. This mixture is a potent blend of psychoactive substances, designed to induce extreme fear and panic. The gas combines LSD and 2C-B to create vivid, terrifying hallucinations, while scopolamine and PCP induce confusion and paranoia. There are some special ingredients to help with dispersal and separation, but those are proprietary. The result is a state of overwhelming terror and helplessness, making the subject highly susceptible to suggestion."

"Wait, did you mean that you MacGyvered a fear gas trap in minutes?" Steve said, startled. "Are you sure you're not a comic book supervillain?"

"Do I look like someone who dresses up as Scarecrow?" she replied with a deadpan expression.

"You got that reference!" Steve exclaimed. "You can't fool me now. I know that you read comics."

"I do not enjoy them, but they are rather popular among my colleagues, especially the younger American ones," she calmly said. "I got tired of trying to guess what they meant."

"So I was right. Scientists are just grown-up Dustins," Steve said, "I didn't mean to say that out loud."

"It's a possible side effect of the cocktail I used to make you functional. Do not worry, I won't take personally whatever you say," she said, moving to the door.

"About that fear gas, do we need gas masks or something?" Steve asked, following her into the narrow metal corridor.

"It's too late for that. You're already exposed, but I've taken care of that already."

Steve glanced around, trying to shake off the lingering discomfort. "Taken care of it how?"

"I administered a counteragent while you were unconscious. It neutralises the psychoactive effects and blocks further absorption. You're safe."

"Thanks, Doc," Steve said, then thought back to the hallucinations he had. "I am not afraid of weddings! I'm the one who always pushed for more commitment with Nancy. I mean, I tried to propose, we got into a fight and I left before I said something I regretted. Then once I calmed down I came to patch things up and found her and Jonathan having sex in our bed. Oh god. Did that give me a phobia about weddings? Is that a real thing? Does wedding phobia have a name?"

Smith looked at him, then clinically said, "It's called gamophobia—fear of commitment or marriage. But I wouldn't put much value on a drug-induced vision. The mixture you were exposed to isn't like the comic version of fear gas. It causes fear and hallucinations, but it doesn't reveal your deepest fears."

As they talked, they advanced through the corridor. They hadn't encountered anyone yet, but since Smith looked like she knew where she was going and Steve did not, he simply followed.

"Good. That's good," Steve said. He knew he should stop talking but couldn't; words simply poured from him like water from a leaky pipe. "Wait, haven't you written romance novels? Successful ones. They're even making them into movies."

"Please don't remind me," Smith said as she took a sharp right turn.

"No, I mean I could use some advice. The one I got from that cultist wasn't exactly helpful," Steve said, following her.

"If everyone acted sensibly in romance novels, they wouldn't be novels but pamphlets. Most of the length comes from the protagonists acting like complete idiots." She paused for a moment, glancing around, then marched confidently in a new direction. Steve himself was quite lost. "Have you thought about talking to them both?"

"That is terrible advice. I would rather get myself castrated."

"It is a simple medical procedure, and quite painless. But I don't think it would be any actual help in your situation."

"So I should just forgive them both?"

"I did not say that…" she began to speak. Then suddenly stopped. Steve was about to speak, when she raised her hand, motioning for silence.

It was soon obvious why. They could hear a voice muttering, "So brilliant… But I can't make sense of it. I can't see it. If only I had more eyes. Eyes. Yes. More eyes." Then a disturbing giggle.

A man in a bloody leather lab coat came around the corner. It wasn't the same Nazi scientist who had interrogated Steve when he first woke. This man was much younger, with short blonde hair, twisted and messy, stained with dried blood. His eyes were blue, but the irises were barely visible due to how dilated his pupils were.

"Eyes. You have such pretty eyes. I need them. Give them to me," the man ranted. Steve could smell the iron scent of blood.

The scientist lurched towards Steve, his hands grasping like claws. Steve didn't flinch, his training kicking in as he sidestepped the initial lunge. The scientist's nails scraped the air where Steve's face had been a moment earlier.

Steve grabbed the scientist's wrist and twisted it into a painful joint lock. The scientist howled in rage, his face contorting in pain, but Steve held firm, his grip unyielding. The man's strength was surprising, driven by manic energy. He struggled violently, trying to break free, his other hand clawing at Steve's face.

"You have such pretty eyes," the scientist drooled, his breath hot and rank. "I'll take them, and then I'll be the one who sees everything."

Steve tightened his grip, feeling the bones in the scientist's wrist grinding together. The man's howls turned into guttural growls, and he thrashed even harder, forcing Steve to use all his strength to keep him under control. The scientist's eyes were wild, darting around as if searching for an escape.

Smith quickly moved to Steve's side, her movements swift and precise. She pulled out a small syringe from her coat, uncapped it with her teeth, and deftly injected it into the scientist's neck. The man's struggles intensified for a brief moment before his muscles began to slacken. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

Steve let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His heart was pounding, adrenaline surging through his veins. He shook out his hands, trying to dispel the tension from the fight.

"What was that?" Steve asked, surprised by how calm he sounded. It was as if he were asking about a lawn ornament, not a madman.

Smith wiped the syringe and stowed it back in her coat. "A sedative. One of the benefits of being a medical doctor," Smith replied, her voice calm. "We need to keep moving. There will be more of them."

Steve nodded, still trying to catch his breath. "Your fear gas is really something else."

"This is not my doing," she replied, trying to sound as calm as ever, but for the first time, there was a tremor in her voice. "I have seen this before. They have breached the Vault."

"Vault?" Steve asked because he could hear the capital letter in her tone, and capitalizing things like "Vault" never spelt anything good.

"Usually it would be beyond your clearance, but in this case, you need to know. There is a secure Vault on the Moon where Aleph-level objects are stored."

"Aleph-level?"

"Those that the Director deemed too hazardous to study, like, for example, blueprints that drive anyone who tries to understand them insane."

That sounded bad. Like a horror movie kind of bad. But Steve felt no fear, only pure unshakable confidence. Which was a bit strange. "And now those things are loose?"

"Loose is not quite the right word. It's a vault, not a prison. Unless someone interacts with them, the objects shouldn't be dangerous. Or so I think," Smith replied, more composed now. Her pale blue eyes were like chips of ice. "In truth, I'm not in possession of the catalogue. Only the Director has that level of clearance. But I know we need to get as far away from any fool who went poking around in there. I just hope Earth is far enough."

Steve, assured and with his most charming smile, said, "No worries, Doc. I'll get us out safe. Just need a plan. Do you have one?"

With a sigh, she replied, "I see the drugs are working just fine. It's better than panic. But yes, I do have a plan."

"So, what's the plan? How do we get out of here?"

"The same way we came in. The soldiers rendered you unconscious, but they didn't bother to do the same to me. After all, what harm could an old woman do? We are on a base on the far side of the Moon. We came in a spaceship, and we can steal one to get back."

"Do you know the way?" Steve asked.

"More or less. They didn't render me unconscious like you, but being dragged through these corridors was no guided tour. And there's another matter." She paused. "It's a bit selfish for me to ask your help in this, but I hardly have a choice. Will you help save my niece?"

"Niece? I didn't know you had a niece. Is she a scientist too? Did they take her when they attacked Moon Base?"

"No, she was born here. I didn't know about her either, but my brother informed me of her existence between rants about how I betrayed my country, my gender, and my race by being a doctor instead of a broodmare," she explained calmly, with just a trace of bitterness in her tone. Like an Indian tonic water. "It was a surprise to see my brother here. I thought him dead. More than forty years since I last talked to him, I could have done with forty more."

Steve tried to process what she was saying. It was a bit confusing. Too much new information.

"Wait. Your brother is a Nazi? Since when?"

"Since '35. I still remember the celebration our parents had for him gaining party membership. They were so proud," she added dryly. "Yes. I was born in Germany before the Second World War. Any more questions?"

Steve had many questions: had she been a Nazi, had she taken part in World War II, and more. But now was not the time for them. "Just one. Do you have any idea how to find your niece?"

"Perhaps I could help you with that," a male voice sensually purred, almost in Steve's ear. It was soft, like velvet.

Steve jumped back, turning around, taking a loose combat stance. He saw a tall man in a similar uniform, cut perfectly to his well-toned body. The unknown man was taller than Steve, with blue eyes and blond hair—the perfect Aryan dream. His face was chiseled, like a marble bust, unreal in its perfection. Steve's heart beat hard, but not from fear.

"And why would a Nazi help us?" Steve asked, his mouth dry. Was this some sort of Nazi superman? Steve couldn't believe he found the man hot, but the tightness in his pants left no doubt. This was no time to have a gay awakening. Especially not with a Nazi, no matter how hot.

"I am no Nazi. Do you think these fools could craft something perfect like me? Like you, I am just in disguise. Agent K," he introduced himself with a warm smile, and Steve gulped, "The Director sent me."