Kingdom Hearts III: 1939

Chapter I
A Day at the Beach

Sand crunched between his fingers as Charlie pushed himself from the ground. His knees felt scuffed and there was sand in his shoes.
"Aww, come on Charlie! Don't let Tom push you around."
Charlie grimaced and turned to Catherine. "It's okay, I'm alright."
He'd felt it again. As Tom was shoving him to the ground he'd felt the tingle in his fingertips, and the sensation of something solid materializing in his hand. As before, it had gone away almost as soon as he'd felt it.
But he'd dreamt about it. In his dreams the sensation had heralded the arrival of a weapon-- a Keyblade-- that he could summon at will. He knew it had to be his imagination, but it had felt so real just then, as he'd fallen into the sand.
"Get up, Charlie! Oliver's got ice cream!" Cath interrupted Charlie's thoughts before he could remember who'd been with him in his dream. There'd been so much fire...
Charlie finally pushed himself from the ground, brushing off his palms, still lost in his imagination as he followed his friends. He'd been having the dreams a lot lately. It was always the same; he was fighting these creatures-- white, living cloaks that moved strangely-- found himself using the Keyblade, and invariably ended up in the company of some black-coated stranger and surrounded by fire. Whenever he woke, it felt like something important had just happened, but he couldn't figure out why.
Oliver was holding Cath's hand when Charlie reached them. The two brunettes were already happily digging into their popsicles. Tom stood a short distance away, still peeling the wrapper from his. He seemed a million miles away.
"Hey, Tom," Charlie called. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Tom replied absentmindedly. "Why?"
"Oh, you just looked ... distant."
"It's nothing."
Charlie knew something was the matter. He'd become rather skilled at reading Tom's ordinarily unreadable face. But there was no getting anything out of the white-haired young man if he wasn't in a talking mood.
The surf roared beside them, sea-spray making their lips taste of salt. The growling, tossing English Channel stretched along the horizon; white, frothy waves topping leaden water as far as the eye could see. The wind blasted cold against the four friends, while Gulls wheeled overhead, shrieking and calling.
As Charlie, Oliver, Catherine, and Tom began to move down the beach, away from the more populated area their conversation turned to the usual fare. The neighbourhood goings-on, the kids at school, their parents. Charlie only paid half a mind to what was said until Tom spoke up.
"I joined the Army," he said, without warning.
The silence that fell was absolute.
Charlie hadn't thought about the war. It was all so far away, and it'd only just started. It hadn't occurred to him that Thomas was old enough to join up.
"Why?" Cath asked. "I mean ... Oh God, Tom, what if you..."
"You didn't have to!" Oliver seconded. "There's no dra--"
"I wanted to!" Tom snapped. "If we waited for Chamberlain to call a draft there'd be Nazis running through our streets first!"
Cath bit her lip and swallowed. Oliver's gaze fell to his feet.
Charlie didn't know what to say. What did one say to a friend who'd just signed what could be his death warrant? He knew that Tom was doing the right thing, considering the circumstances, but it was something that Charlie wasn't quite sure he knew what to think of.
For lack of anything more thoughtful to say, he nodded, and said: "Good luck, Tom."
Amidst the awful, awkward silence that followed, Charlie heard a strange sound, like air howling through a small tunnel. A second later he got the distinct impression they were no longer alone. A smell like roses drifted on the wind.
"Good luck indeed ... Tom, is it?"
The four friends spun on their heels at the unfamiliar voice. Standing not ten feet away in the wet sand was a cloaked figure all in black. Charlie couldn't see the person's face beneath his deep hood, but there was something familiar about him. Some distant part of him shivered. This was not the cloaked man he'd fought beside in his dream. Something wasn't right.
"Who are you?" Tom asked as Oliver and Cath took a few steps back.
"Ah. So you don't remember," the figure said, sounding somewhat relieved.
"You didn't answer my question," Tom replied commandingly. "I am an officer in the British Army, and I demand to know--"
"You are so much more than that, Riku," the figure replied. "I am someone you all know. You wouldn't need to ask if you remembered." He took a step toward them. "Now come with me."
"No." Tom glared at the figure. "A man who sneaks up on a group of children dressed so not a soul could identify him, and then demands that they follow him doesn't strike me as trustworthy. Wouldn't you agree, sir?"
The man huffed. "This would have been so much easier had you cooperated."
With a flick of his wrist a massive pink and silver scythe appeared in his hands-- pure light coalescing above his palm in the shape of the weapon before dropping the very real metal instrument in the figure's grip. Rose petals fell to the sand. "I don't need to hurt you, Riku."
"Charlie, take Oliver and Catherine home. Don't let them out of your sight until they're in their front doors!" Tom roared. The man swung the scythe, missing Tom by centimeters. Tom dropped, rolled, and came up onto his feet, and Charlie watched in amazement as an elaborate, glowing weapon formed in his hand, just as the man's scythe had. Tom glanced at it in confusion, dodging at the last second as the cloaked figure swung again.
Oliver and Cath were already halfway down the beach, but Charlie was frozen, watching Tom fight with his new-found weapon. A Keyblade.
"For God's sake, Charlie, run!"
The figure turned on Charlie, and without a second thought, the blonde boy ran. He was barely even conscious of himself as his legs pumped, propelling him down the beach and toward the pier.
He'd just climbed-- huffing and puffing-- onto the concrete platform when out of nowhere, the cloaked man appeared in front of him.
"Roxas ... what a prize!"
Charlie dove back, barely dodging the man's hand. Nothing impeded his progress-- in fact, he felt like he was falling. In horror, he remembered that there was no railing. It'd been knocked off by a repair crew last week. He was falling.
The freezing cold English Channel roared below him; a twenty foot drop. As he plummeted he saw pink hair fly free from the hood; heard a nigh-whispered "Damn."
With a bone-wrenching impact he hit the waves. Icy water engulfed him as his vision swam and darkened. Water filled his lungs. He felt heavy. Then there was nothing.

The streets of Berlin were a flurry of activity. News of the near-complete victory in France had reached the capital, and the Berliners were ecstatic. Shouts of "Heil Hitler" and "Seig heil" could be heard on every corner and square. The radio blared forth Dr. Goebbels' victory announcement. The press minister's voice echoed through alleys, windows, and shops.
Most of the school children walking home danced and skipped, cheering the whole way. One of the few who refrained was Hilda.
She kept her blonde head down, and her blue eyes lowered. Her books were gripped to her chest; her sketchpad atop them all. She'd had enough attention today to last her a lifetime.
In anticipation of the momentous victory over France, Hilda's parents had insisted she wear her best white dress. She'd been the only girl at school who'd been dressed up like she was at a party, and of course, the others had taken the opportunity to tease her more than usual.
Now all she wanted to do was go home and be alone with her sketchbook.
She let herself through the front door, which, mercifully, was unlocked, and started up the stairs to her room without even saying hello to her parents.
"Hilda, darling, could you come here?" her mother called from the living room. She sounded worried.
Hilda swallowed and crept into the sitting room, dropping her books by the stairs on her way. When she entered the room where her parents sat, side by side, on the couch she jumped. There, on the opposite chair, was a fully uniformed SS Officer. Allgemeine SS.
"Hilda," her father intoned. "This is Obersturmfuhrer Heidelburg."
"It is nice to meet you, Officer."
The man gave Hilda shivers down her spine. His shoulder-length, nearly white hair hung loosely around his face, but it failed to hide the icy, predatory eyes that glowed a bright blue. Her gaze fell to the Oriental sword that hung a his waist in an ornate scabbard. He wasn't very tall, but he made up for it in sheer bearing.
"Call me Kadaj, Fraulein." The man extended a gloved hand. When Hilda took his hand and shook it, a creeping cold settled in her stomach, and she suppressed the urge to pull away.
"May I speak with your daughter alone, Herr Bergen?"
Hilda's father looked from the officer to his wife. "Of course, Obersturmfuhrer."
As her parents rose and exited the room, Hilda felt her mother squeeze her shoulder. She gulped, and smiled bravely. When the door to the room closed, Hilda shivered.
"Do you dream, Fraulein?" Kadaj asked.
"Who doesn't?" Hilda replied, shyly.
"I saw your sketchbook when you came in. Mind if I have a look?"
Hilda nodded, and retrieved her book without a word. She could barely breathe and her heart was hammering with fear. She knew that the SS could take away anyone they wanted to; what if she'd somehow done something? She hadn't said anything anti-government; hadn't done anything that was against the rules. She hadn't even associated with any questionable individuals. What could Heidelburg possibly want with her?
She carefully handed over her book, and retook her place on the couch. The officer flipped through the sketchpad page by page, studying each drawing intently. His eyes flicked over the images like some sort of machine searching for something. He stopped on the page that showed a blonde boy and a red-haired man fighting a horde of strange creatures.
"What is this?" he asked. "Something from your dreams?"
"I saw this once, when I was drifting off. The creatures, they're called Dusks ... I think." Hilda didn't know why she was telling the man, but it seemed appropriate.
"How much do you remember?"
"About the dream?"
"If you want to phrase it that way."
Hilda frowned in confusion, but continued anyway. "The two men there. They are important ... to each other. There's someone after them ... and they sent the Dusks to capture them. But the red-head, he gives his life to save the other."
"Do you know anything about who you are?"
"What?"
Kadaj smiled. "I'll take that as a no."
"What is this about?" Then, remembering what he was, Hilda added, "With respect, Obersturmfuhrer."
"If you agree to come with me, I will tell you." The officer flipped to the last page; a white room, white table, white chairs, and a white vase with a bouquet of roses. On the table was a sketchbook. "I see you remember this."
"Are you going to take me to one of the camps?"
"No, Hilda. You are not an enemy of the state. In fact," the officer said, "you may be this Reich's most precious weapon."
"What about my parents?"
"They will be very proud of you."
Hilda looked down at her hands where they lay clasped in her lap. She was afraid, but her heart burned with curiosity. She wanted to know why this SS officer had come to see her. She wanted to know what he meant by 'most precious weapon'. And anyway, could she really say no?
"Where are we going?"

"Vexen, once again you intrude unannounced. What is it this time?"
Xemnas glared at the tall, blonde man who stood in the doorway. A draft of icy air wafted past him, ice crystals forming on the marble floor where Vexen's feet touched it.
The officials and advisors around Xemnas backed away from the newcomer. They knew his uniform signified that he was an SS doctor, and that, more than any elemental power, was what made them shiver.
"I have the Fuhrer on the line, Vexen. I hope this interruption is important."
"I thought you would be interested to know what I discovered amongst the test subjects I was given." Vexen tossed forward a small dark-haired figure; unwashed and dressed in rags. It was barefoot, and shuddering.
"A little Jewish mongrel. What about it?" Xemnas asked.
Vexen knelt next to the small, black-haired girl, and gently put his hand under her chin, raising her face so that Xemnas could see her. "She is someone familiar."
Xemnas smiled. "So she is. Welcome back, Xion." He returned his gaze to Vexen. "Take her to a holding cell."
A weak yelp escaped the girl's mouth as Vexen hauled her to her feet and dragged her from the room. Her feet slid in the frost, and had it not been for Vexen's grip on her, she would have fallen.
"I'm sorry, Xion, but this is for the better. Believe me."
Xion looked up at the narrow face of the German, framed by his long blonde hair. "You lock me up, experiment on my family, kill my friends ... and you say that is for the best!? What is the worst?"
Vexen said nothing, but the little girl saw him swallow, and saw his jaw stiffen. Whether from disgust or shame, she didn't know.
Xemnas, meanwhile, returned to the phone, smiling. "Mein Fuhrer. You will be pleased to know we are making progress."

A town ... friends ... an old haunted castle ... "We have come for you, my liege" ... a white room ... thrones ... "See ya, partner" ... the Keyblade ... thirteen cloaked figures ... almost time ... "Hello Roxas. Come to the old mansion" ... "Do you remember your true name?" ... "I've finally found you, Roxas" ... "That picture is of you and Axel; because you are best friends" ... "Got it memorized?" ... "It's still summer vacation today!" ... "This whole town is fake!" ... a dark city ... neon lights ... "Are you gonna turn against the Organization?" ... the masked man ... "Kairi's in the castle dungeon!" ... a name and a black coat ... "I'll miss you" ... blood, and green eyes ... "You will disappear" ... "looks like my summer vacation is over" ... "awake from this dream"
"Awake from this dream!"

Charlie coughed, rolling into the sand. He was soaked, and cold. His ears were stuffy, ringing, and he could barely hear. Muffled thumps and cracks seemed to come from far off. There were rumbles and shouts. He could smell smoke.
He opened his eyes, blinking against the bright sunlight. He was still disoriented, still seeing flashes of things he'd dreamt of. Around him he saw sand, and water, and ... bodies. There was no pier, no houses. This wasn't the beach he'd been on with Tom, Oliver, and Cath.
Where was he?
On every side soldiers were streaming down the beach, clamouring into boats of all sizes, which wheeled away and out to sea-- where several massive military ships floated serenely on the waves. All he knew was that the men running away around him were British and French. What was going on?
Charlie scrambled to his feet, stumbling through the sand toward a small hill. He felt the earth shake beneath his shoes and vaguely heard an explosion, though his ears were still muffled. Maybe if he could get some elevation he could see what was going on, and who the attackers were.
And maybe he could find out where he was.

"What do you mean you lost them?"
Marluxia watched the black-coated SS officer pace. It was obvious he was angry. His white hair bristled and his gold eyes flashed with rage. His heavy boots thumped on the marble floor; the only sound in the otherwise silent room. Three SS attendants stood by the door in parade rest, their hands clasped behind their backs.
"Riku summoned the Keyblade," Marluxia replied.
"He remembers?"
"No. But the Keyblade came to him regardless."
"And the others?"
Marluxia gulped. "Sora and Kairi ran. Roxas fell into the ocean."
Xemnas rounded on him in fury. "He's dead!?"
"I can't know for sure." Marluxia stood stock still, keenly feeling the eyes of the others burning into his back. Kadaj and Saix smugly straightened their backs, secure in their victories.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, in which Marluxia was sure he was about to die, Saix stepped forward. "Superior. It is but a minor setback. We can try again. After all, thanks to Kadaj's efforts we have Namine."
"The Fuhrer does not tolerate setbacks," Xemnas hissed. "I just delivered the good news of the girl's capture this morning, now you expect me to tell him we have lost one of the most important pieces in the plan?!"
No one said anything, and Marluxia flinched.
"Eleven, Seven, find Roxas, bring him and his friends to me. No mistakes this time."
"Of course, Superior," Saix replied.
"Perhaps I should accompany them," Kadaj said, his voice low and predatory. "Make sure Marluxia doesn't trip over his skirt."
"Very well," Xemnas conceded, as Marluxia seethed. "Now get out of my sight, and do not return until you have something!"
Marluxia, Saix, and Kadaj snapped to a salute. "Ja wohl, Superior."

The hill was a tad steeper than it had looked, and when Charlie reached the top he was panting. For all the work it had taken to get up there, it didn't afford a very generous view of the battle below. At least now he could see that the attackers-- holed up in the fields bordering the beach-- were German soldiers.
At the top of the hill there was a crest of long, greyish-green grass. On the south slope a raging inferno burned, mysteriously without any visible fuel. Behind Charlie was the ocean.
Damn, he thought, now I'm going to have to get all the way back down to ... Oh my God. I'm in France!
The revelation hit Charlie like a stone. He must have floated across the English Channel. How had he not died? And of all places to wash up on shore, why did it have to be the one beach where there was a fight going on? Not exactly the best position he could be in.
"Schnell, schnell," a voice near him shouted. Boots trudged through sand, and rifles clacked and snapped. Charlie remained still as one soldier after another darted past him toward the beach. All of them were blonde, and all wore German uniforms. He waited until they were out of earshot before shifting, and cautiously poking his head up over the crest of the grassy hilltop. He was greeted by the muzzle of a rifle.
"Raus!" the gun's bearer roared. When Charlie remained still it shouted again. "Raus!"
Charlie raised his hands in the air, feeling his whole body trembling in fear. Creeping around the hill he came face to face with the man. He was barely older than Charlie himself; blonde and blue-eyed, and studying Charlie shrewdly. The large black rifle remained trained on him.
"Wo bist du?" he shouted.
"I don't understand," Charlie replied. "I'm here by accident--"
The German raised his rifle, his finger starting to press the trigger. Charlie barely had time to even turn away. Just as the thought that he was about to die crossed his mind he heard a whooshing sound, like something solid flying through the air.
With a wet crunch, a sizable metal wheel struck the German in the head, sticking into his skull and shoulder. Blood sprayed, and the force of the impact threw the soldier to the ground. Charlie stood there, shaking and staring at the body of the man who had, only moments before, been alive. He too an unsteady breath.
"Hey kid! You alright?" a voice called as the wall of fire on the south slope of the hill dissolved. Standing in a crater of glassed sand and smoking ashes, and yet completely untouched, was a red-haired man. The air around him wavered, and the sand he stood on boiled. The last place the fire died was his eyes, which were green a moment later.
He wore a dark blue-grey wool coat that fell to mid-calf. Beneath was a uniform that Charlie didn't recognize; but it wasn't German.
"I ... I don't know," Charlie replied.
The miraculously unburnt man trudged up the hill, not even flinching as gunfire cracked nearby. "How did you get here? You're not French," he asked, retrieving the spiked wheel from the young German's body. Something about having the soldier near him made Charlie feel suddenly safe.
"I was attacked. I fell into the Channel."
"You floated here from England?!" the guy exclaimed. "Jeez, kid! You Brits are tough!"
"Charlie eyed the bloody weapons in the soldier's hands. "What are those?"
"Chakrams," the man replied. "I'm Alex, by the way. Captain Alex Mitchell." He offered his hand.
Charlie shook it. "Charlie Harrington."
"Pleased to meet you, Charlie." Alex glanced over at the beach, where the crashing waves were filled with retreating men. "Let's get you home, shall we?" Alex flicked his wrists and the Chakrams vanished in a his of steam. Charlie took a step back.
"What?"
"The man who attacked me could do that."
Alex frowned. "Hmm. Thought I was the only one. He have Chakrams too?"
"No. A Scythe."
"Oh. Nice guy."
Alex guided Charlie back down the sandy hillside, stopping occasionally to unsling his rifle and shoot a few enemy gunners. Charlie stopped flinching after the first three.
They were back on level ground when a German tank growled toward them from behind a dune. The steel monster dug deep tracks in the sand, belching black smoke behind it. It's huge barrel was pointed directly at them.
Charlie started to dive for cover, reflexively trying to get away from the death-machine. Alex, however, simply threw out his long, lean arm, hurling fire toward the giant vehicle. Charlie heard a few screams before the tank exploded, sending a roaring fireball skyward.
Charlie stared. "How...?!"
"Been able to since I was a kid," Alex replied nonchalantly as the tank smoldered. He pulled Charlie up onto his feet. "My mom's maid used to call me the Fire Dancer."
"That's ... I didn't think things like that were possible." Charlie didn't take his eyes off Alex's face. "Do you, you know, do it with your mind?"
Alex grinned, a smile that spread to his emerald eyes in a way that made something within Charlie melt. "Yup. It's just like moving a limb. Nothin' to it." He chuckled. "My friends' parents thought I was the spawn of the devil."
"You're not English, are you?" Charlie asked. He tried not to look into Alex's bright eyes, afraid of the effect that gaze would have.
"Noticed the accent, huh?" Alex drawled. "Born in Tennessee."
"What are you doing here?"
"I was here on leave. I wasn't just gonna stand by and let the Nazis walk all over the place." He paused. "Well, here's our ride."
Alex gestured toward a small rowboat. Charlie hadn't even realized-- talking with Alex-- that they'd crossed most of the beach. Despite the gunfire, mortars, and tanks, they'd made it unscathed. And he hadn't even noticed. Oh well, he thought, no harm done. He returned his attention to the boat, and to the dirty-blonde Englishman crashing through the surf toward them. Charlie couldn't help but be reminded of a rather overeager dog.
"Hey, Alex!" he called. "We're running out of time! We have to-- Who the hell's the kid?!"
"Stranded British kid. Found him up on the hill," Alex replied, yelling over a fresh racket in the air around them. "David, I'm gonna need you to--"
He was cut off by the scream of a shell, and the three men barely had time to dive out of the way before it detonated. Shrapnel, water, and a bang like nothing Charlie had ever heard blasted around him. The boat shattered, sending splinters of wood this way and that. Something hit him, knocked the air out of his lungs, an threw him to the ground.
Everything after that was something of a blur. He remembered feeling like he was back underwater, and not being able to breathe. He remembered a roaring sound, like waves, but louder. Then there were arms around him, pulling him from the water, and a voice like warm honey came as if from a great distance. "Come on kid, come on, stay with me."

"You really don't remember, do you? It's me, you know, Axel."

A cold wind was blowing, and it was dark when Charlie came to. The moon hung in the starry sky overhead, and its milky light glinted off the tossing waters. The calls and chirps of nocturnal creatures echoed from the vegetation around him, and a few stray fireflies buzzed past.
He was under a warm, military-issue blanket, leaning against a large, smooth rock. His clothes and hair were still somewhat damp, and his ears were ringing. Every muscle in his body ached when he tried to move, and he settled for shifting enough to see what was going on around him.
Not far from his feet a fire crackled, casting a warm glow on the surrounding rocks. The logs spat and popped, spewing sparks into the air every now and then, and thin smoke rose into the sky. Next to Charlie, leaning on the same rock, was Alex. His red, spiky hair seemed to have been unaffected by the blast that Charlie now barely remembered. In this light, Charlie finally noticed that the man had what seemed to be make-up or tattoos on his cheeks, just under his eyes; tiny, elongated, black diamonds. His rifle was propped up against another damp rock, within arm's reach of Alex.
A moment later Alex looked over, smiling again when he saw Charlie.
"Awake I see," he said. "For a moment there I thought I'd lost you."
"Where are we?" Charlie asked.
"Unfortunately we're still in France," Alex replied. He turned to face Charlie, his eyes glowing in the firelight. "Our little boat didn't survive the shelling, and by the time I'd hauled you from the water and stopped your bleeding, everyone had left."
"Bleeding? I don't remember..."
"You were barely conscious when I treated you. I didn't think you'd remember much." Alex poked at the logs in the fire with a large wet stick. "You took some shrapnel to the side. You were bleeding pretty bad when I got you back onto the beach."
"So what are we going to do?" Charlie asked. "I mean, we're stuck in Nazi territory now."
"Well, if you speak German you'll fit in well enough," Alex chuckled.
"I'm not good with languages."
"In that case, we'll need to keep a low profile." Alex dropped the stick in the sand. "I can speak a bit of French, so if we need to stay anywhere, I can do the talking."
Charlie watched the flames dance and flicker in the night breeze, shifting wearily under the blanket. A twinge in his side let him know where his wound was, and he ran a hand over the carefully wrapped bandages.
"You should sleep," Alex said, his voice warmer than the fire. "I'll keep watch."

"He didn't come home with you?"
Oliver shook his head, watching the warring emotions of fear, anger, and frustration cross Tom's face. Catherine stood, shivering beside him, her brown, shoulder-length hair blowing in the wind.
"The last time I saw him we were still on the beach," Oliver replied. "I got Cath home, and then I came here. I thought Charlie was with you!"
Thunder clapped overhead, rain pelting Cath and Tom and occasionally catching Oliver where he stood in the doorway. The storm had blown in not long after the sun set, and the air was now icy cold.
"Damn it!" Tom shouted. "What am I supposed to tell his mother?!"
"Do you think that man got him?" Cath asked. Oliver watched Tom's eyes darken.
"Don't even suggest it." He slammed his fist down on the porch railing. "I have to find him."
"I'll help," Oliver said.
"Me too," Cath seconded.
"No. Both of you. Stay home where its safe," Tom sighed. "I'll do this."