Chapter 5 - The Devil's Due

Berlin burned. From his vantage point, England watched searchlights cut through smoke-filled darkness, each beam searching for RAF bombers that weren't there. His enhanced vision picked out every detail. Guards, patrol patterns, even the steam rising from his own skin despite the December cold.

Four doses left.

The Führerbunker laid ahead, a concrete testament to paranoia. He could feel his pulse quickening, not from fear but from the ETT surging through his system. The heat was building again, turning each breath into a visible cloud. Moving like a shadow, he crossed the distance between buildings. His muscles responded with inhuman precision, each movement calculated. A guard turned too late. England's hand clamped over his mouth then the other hand clamped over the back of the guard's head, the guard's eyes widening as England snapped his neck with cold efficiency.

The bunker entrance was ahead. Two guards. Three seconds. No witnesses.

He struck like lightning, his enhanced strength turning simple movements into lethal force. The first guard's throat was caved in with a single punch before he could shout, only managing gurgles before drowning in his own blood. The second reached for his weapon before England's fist connected with his sternum, the impact driving shards of broken rib into vital organs. Steel groaned as the doors yielded to his strength. Inside, alarm klaxons began to wail.

"EINDRINGLING! EINDRINGLING!"

The first wave of defenders met him in the corridor. His vision shifted, time seeming to slow as the ETT pushed his system into combat overdrive. He saw everything. Trigger fingers tensing, pupils dilating in fear, all microscopic tells of men about to die. Blood sprayed across concrete walls. His body moved with mechanical precision, each strike calculated for maximum efficiency. The heat was unbearable now, his skin practically glowing in the dim light. The final door burst inward, hinges screaming. Hitler's private chamber was filled with scattered maps across the tables, radio equipment humming with frantic German voices, and the architect of Europe's latest nightmare behind an ornate desk.

"Wer bist du?!" Hitler's voice cracked with fear, "Du verstehst das nicht! Ich kann das reparieren! Ich—"

England crossed the room in three steps. The first impact shattered Hitler's jaw, bone giving way to enhanced muscle. Blood sprayed across tactical maps of the Eastern Front. The second strike caved in his cheekbone. The third...

Something was wrong. Time fractured. His vision strobed between crystal clarity and crimson haze. Each punch became less precise, more savage. England watched his own hands rise and fall, rise and fall, and rise and fall as if they belonged to someone else. The wet sounds of impact became a rhythm, a primitive drumbeat echoing through the bunker. Hitler's features had long since ceased to be recognizable yet his fists continued their work. He was burning alive from within, steam rising from every pore, but he felt disconnected from the pain. The fog grew thicker as he observed his own savagery. He could hear himself growling, the sound inhuman.

Impact. Splatter. Rise. Repeat.

His enhanced senses captured every detail in perfect clarity. The way blood droplets hung in the air between strikes, the precise pattern of bone fragments against the wall, the diminishing twitches of what had once been the rabid mutt he was sent to put down. The sound of his own ragged breathing seemed to come from somewhere far away. And yet it still felt like he was watching someone else. Someone who had long since pushed the boundaries of his own humanity. 

Impact. Splatter. Rise. Repeat.

Minutes passed. Or hours. His arms finally slowed not from any conscious effort on his end but from simple physical exhaustion. Even ETT couldn't sustain such fury indefinitely. He stood there, chest heaving, staring at the bloody mess he had made. Steam continued to rise from his body, mixing with the metallic mist of blood in the air. In that moment of stillness, reality began to seep back in. He looked at the trembling, gore-covered instruments that he had spent many nights trying to convince himself were his own hands. The weight of what he'd done, what he'd become, started to descend.

And then he felt a sharp prick in his neck.

Instinctively, he covered his neck with his hand and slowly turned around. Amidst the fog and his increasingly blurred vision, he could recognize the assailant. Even in army fatigues, he could still recognize the pale skin and fanged mouth of Director Moore. A familiar scent that had lingered in the background now making sense. She must have followed him here. Or perhaps she was always there, watching the man he had been watching ever since the Great War. He watched himself stagger towards Moore before the darkness claimed him.