BJ Blazkowicz was the first person to shoot in a first person shooter. As protagonist of the groundbreaking and seminal Wolfenstein series, he fought his way through endless legions of Nazi soldiers and helped establish and popularize the now ubiquitous FPS genre. Any game that casts the player as a faceless but heroic everyman living behind the barrel of a gun owes a debt to BJ’s exploits.

This story sees Blazkowicz sent back to Castle Wolfenstein to once again assassinate Hitler and destroy the Third Reich, and reap the rewards thereof. 

I.

When he rounded the corner there was a familiar-looking portrait of Hitler hanging on the wall in front of him. He was walking in circles. He was lost. 

‘Dammit,’ muttered the soldier, ‘Everything here looks the same.’

A metal door clanged open and blue-clad SS man entered, rifle slung over his shoulder. The soldier snapped to attention.

‘Schutzstaffel,’ said the SS man, nodding curtly.

‘Sir,’ the soldier replied. ‘Could you please tell me where the exit is? I’m new here and I can’t seem to find my way around. I’m supposed to report to Floor 9 for duty.’

He pulled a key of dull blue metal from his pocket and showed it to the SS. The SS smiled, and the soldier relaxed; the SS man was no doubt used to giving directions to new recruits. 

‘Hinten,’ said the SS, pointing to a door set deep in the wall beside yet another portrait of the Führer. 

‘Danke,’ he replied, and turned to leave. The SS unslung his rifle and shot him between the shoulder blades. The soldier fell spread-eagled to the floor, twitched and was still.

‘Nein,’ said the SS man, ‘thank-you.’

II.

William Joseph Blazkowicz plucked the key from the man’s hand and pocketed it. The uniform HQ had devised for him was a perfect replica; the soldier had never suspected Blazkowicz was anything but a card carrying member of the SS. The fact the soldier had been carrying a key was stroke of luck; the time Blazkowicz would save searching for it would be invaluable.

Now all I have to do, he thought wryly, is kill Hitler again.  

Blazkowicz dragged the soldier’s corpse into a nearby room, shut the door with a clang, and set off down the hallway.

Little about Castle Wolfenstein had changed in the nearly two decades since he had been here. The same labyrinthine hallways wound with maddening randomness throughout the castle’s interior, decorated with the same oil and stained-glass portraits of the Führer. The same metal doorways opened and closed with the same mechanic sounds, presenting the same unimaginable horrors laying in a silence punctuated by the same MIDI Muzak.  And behind it all, the same cancerous, crazed, calculating Nazi scheming.

HQ claimed the Nazis were planning something big, known only as Operation Zungedreher, and had sent him to stop it. Blazkowicz had accepted the mission with gusto. He knew his way around the Castle better than any man, and it would be a pleasure to let the Reich know they weren’t the only ones capable of making comeback.    

‘Heil, Heil,’ he muttered, working the action of his rifle, ‘the gang’s all here.’ Grinning, he set off down the corridor.

III.

The Castle had seemingly been built by two artistically different but identically insane people. One had been fond of long, open hallways with lots of doors, the other of short, winding corridors with lots of doors. It was the latter Blazkowicz presently found himself in, a directionless rat’s warren that could only be negotiated by trial and error.

Sighing, he began opening doors, making mental notes of the layouts and contents of the rooms he visited. Twice he encountered guards, but did not fire. His disguise was holding up, and he had little desire to attract any attention. In one room he found a pile of gold coins and pocketed them. In another he found an untouched meal sitting on a table, still warm. His stomach grumbled at the aroma, and he sat down to eat.     

He was halfway through the sauerbraten when the door opened, and huge man pushed himself with some difficulty into the room.

‘Greetings, Herr Blazkowicz,’ said the man, his voice a low, penetrating rumble, ‘how very good to see you again.’

Blazkowicz looked up into the cold, blue eyes of Hans Grosse.

‘I see you have once again found your way to the heart of the Reich’s operations. How sneaky of you to wear that costume. How very Jew-like.’ He pronounced the word like Chew and spat it forth like a lump of gristle.  ‘Unfortunately, you have not fooled me. The sig rune on your collar is backwards. I noticed it as I observed you from an alcove, and decided to follow you. Imagine my delight when I learned you were none other than my arch nemesis.’  

Grosse was even bigger than Blazkowicz remembered him, although much of his muscle had now run to fat, and a rubbery double chin rounded out his flat, square head. His face was riddled with scars and pocks. Gun wounds.

‘Funny,’ said Blazkowicz, ‘I could’ve sworn I filled you with bullets. From the looks of your stomach, though, you’ve been eating more than lead.’

Grosse smiled coldly.

‘I survived,’ he said, ‘and, yes, I have put on a few pounds. But we’re all getting older, Blazkowicz.’ 

Blazkowicz chomped thoughtfully on a blood sausage, and reached for the salt.

‘Don’t try for your rifle.’

BJ smiled and slowly withdrew his hand. 

‘I can’t help but notice,’ Blazkowicz said, ‘that your built-in kettenkannone are gone. Did a bigger Nazi push you down and take your toys? Those stumps aren’t nearly as scary.’

The guns that had once made Grosse a walking arsenal were gone, and his arms ended just below the elbow.

‘My guns were destroyed during our battle,’ said Grosse, ‘and my failure to kill you resulted in a dishonorable discharge. But I still can still deliver much pain to you, Blazkowicz. Much pain indeed.’

‘With what? Harsh language?’

‘Precisely.’

From within the folds of his uniform, and with the speed and dexterity his two handless arms permitted, Hans Grosse removed a book entitled 1001 German Insults. Grinning, he opened it at random, cleared his throat and read.

‘Your father,’ he boomed, ‘was known for being frequently unpunctual. What do you think of that blistering verbal assault, Blazkowicz?’

Blazkowicz blinked. The Nazi clumsily flipped to another page.

‘Your mother,’ he intoned, ‘was not adept at preparing food, often neglecting to use precise measurements, which resulted in less-than-palatable fare.’

‘And such small portions,’ muttered Blazkowicz. 

‘The Jewish predilection for self-deprecation will not save you from my barbs!’ Grosse roared, and flipped to another page. ‘Your sister, although she waited until the night of her wedding to fornicate for the first time, was merely satisfactory in the carnal act. Don’t beg for mercy, Blazkowicz, for I have none to give!’ ’

Blazkowicz wiped his mouth and rose from the table.

‘Grosse,’ he said, ‘this reunion has been fun, but I have a date with Hitler. You wouldn’t know, by the way, what Operation Zungedreher is?’

‘Your personal mode of dress is several years out of date! Your wife is unattractive! The automobile you drive has sub-standard gas mileage!’

‘Guess not. See you around.’

Blazkowicz stepped around the Nazi and out into the hallway. Grosse started after him, but his massive shoulders wedged him in the doorframe. His round face went bright pink, but whether from panic, rage or embarrassment, Blazkowicz couldn’t tell.

‘Sheisse,’ he muttered, ‘I am become stuck. Help me, Blazkowicz. Find a pry bar and get me out of here!’

‘Sorry dicke, gotta run.’

Grosse’s furious baritone followed Blazkowicz through the halls for a short time, grew soft, faint, and then was lost.

IV.

He found himself in a long hallway with doors set into the walls at regular intervals, interspersed with stained-glass portraits of Hitler in profile. He began opening the doors one by one.

Behind the first door was a small pile of ammunition, which he fed into his rifle. Behind the second door was a German officer with a Luger leveled square at Blazkowicz’s chest.

‘Spion!’ the officer cried, ‘drop the rifle and put your hands on your head!’

Grimly, Blazkowicz let the rifle clatter to the floor.

‘Your disguise doesn’t fool me, spy. Nor will it save you from being executed in the name of the Reich.’

‘You don’t look like much of a Nazi to me,’ muttered Blazkowicz.

The officer wore the flowing black robes of a rabbi and sported the long grey beard and side curls concurrent with Jewish shaving protocol. On his head was perched a great furred kalpak, upon which had been laid a yarmulke, and strapped to his forehead was a black leather tefillin. Around his neck was what Blazkowicz took to be a tailor’s tape, and over his robes was a vest open to expose a thick gold watch fob. The vest was studded with a bizarre assortment of pins and buttons from organizations of every variety: he saw a Mason’s compass, a sword of the Knights Templar, a New York Times press card, a Hebrew National Beef Franks logo, a grinning Mickey Mouse head, and dozens more.

‘I am a member in good standing of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, I assure you. This farcical costume is worn at the behest of Dr. Schabbs.’

‘Dr. Schabbs is alive?’

‘To my chagrin, yes.’

Blazkowicz frowned. The last time he’d seen the head of Wolfenstein’s nefarious medical experimentation project, the not-so-good doctor had been flinging syringes at him. Blazkowicz had gunned him down and left him for dead. Apparently, he had left too soon.

‘Dammit,’ Blazkowicz muttered, ‘I should have shot him in the head.’

The officer peered uncertainly at Blazkowicz, then pushed a pair of thick wire-framed glasses up his nose. Then, realizing the glasses were as much a part of the costume as the yarmulke he wore, he pushed them back down again. A smile broke through his beard, and the hand gripping the Luger fell slowly to his side. 

‘Gott in Himmel,’ he whispered, ‘the great BJ Blazkowicz treads the flags of the Castle yet again. I am Oberstleutnan Erich Wessel. It is an honour to meet you, sir.’

Blazkowicz instinctively lifted one hand from his head and reached out to shake with the officer. The Luger snapped up.

‘Not that much of an honour. Re-assume the captive stance, if you will.’

Blazkowicz complied.

‘What a bittersweet happenstance,’ the officer mused, ‘that I should capture and be forced to execute a personal hero of mine. Life is strange indeed.’

‘I didn’t think I had too many fans over here,’ said Blazkowicz.

‘What else would I call the man who crippled my most hated foe, Dr. Schabbs? Watching the doctor struggle through life under the yoke of the constant pain you laid upon him is one of the few things that makes me smile, Blazkowicz. It makes the ridicule he subjects me to nearly bearable.’

‘Schabbs always had a knack for ‘subjecting’ people to one thing or another,’ said Blazkowicz.  

‘Unfortunately, yes,’ mumbled Wessel, ‘although funding for his experiments has been discontinued since your encounter with him. He now lectures soldiers on the proper identification of Jewry, and conscripted me to assist him. Hence, my garb. I stand on an apple crate while he prods and insults me to the edification of a lecture theatre of young Gestapo. ‘Notice the pronounced stoop of the Hebrew back and shoulders, evolved from years of hunching over their hoards of gold at the counting table.’ ‘Beware, my friends, of daggers and small explosives secreted in their beards.’ Schabbs speaks empty words to empty-headed youngsters who fill their notebooks with it, and returns home feeling confident he has helped turn the gears of national socialism for the day.’ 

Wessel spat on the floor. 

‘Wouldn’t it be easier to get a real Jew?’ said Blazkowicz.

‘They don’t want to see a real Jew,’ replied Wessel, ‘they want a pantomime, a Semitic minstrel show: “I’m vanting to lure your childrrren into zee woods and have shex wit dem.”’

‘You sound like a cross between a vampire and a candy store owner I knew back in Brooklyn.’ 

‘You should see it with the fake nose.’ Wessel sighed. ‘It’s sad, really. Nazis today believe the Jewish threat consists of a nothing more than a thrifty, hook-nosed pederast with a tail. The true Jewish menace is men like you, Blazkowicz; intelligent, strong, proficient with weaponry and willing to use it.’

‘I don’t consider myself part of the Jewish menace,’ grinned Blazkowicz, ‘just a menace who happens to be Jewish.’

‘Semitic semantics. A hundred Jews cut from your cloth could topple the Reich within a week.’

‘Sounds like your heart’s not in this whole ‘Nazi’ thing.’  

Wessel peered cautiously up and down the corridor.

‘Under the current leadership,’ he said with his voice lowered, ‘the Party’s foundations are eroding, and we will have less and less success in convincing people to fight and kill in its name.’

‘Hitler hasn’t had any problem convincing soldiers to execute Jews.’

‘A political movement should run on ideas, not executions. If a soldier doesn’t know the reason for doing something, he’s nothing but a machine, a piece of meat. And in the end, all he can hope for is to get broken or butchered. Now Eichmann: there’s a Nazi for you. Do you know he studies the Torah, and that he speaks and writes in fluent Hebrew? I once heard him deliver an anti-Semetic tirade in Hebrew! Hilarious, yes, but also an important reminder about knowing one’s enemy. If it were up to me, he’d be running the show.’

‘Dare to dream. Tell me, what do you know about Operation Zungedreher?’

Wessel frowned.

‘Doesn’t ring a bell,’ he replied, ‘although, there’s so many cursed ‘Operations’ going on around here, I doubt I’d remember hearing about it. We can’t just say, ‘Let’s attack England,’ can we? No, that’s far too simple. It has to be ‘Operation X’. Operation Y, Operation Z. D’you know they have a code name for nights when Hitler and Eva are intimate? I swear, there must be a room full of Nazis working around the clock inventing codenames. Brainstorming, writing, re-writing, discussing the delicate differences between Operation Firestorm and Operation Flamestrike. Waste of time. In any event, it doesn’t matter, as I am now going to execute you. Turn around, please.’

Blazkowicz turned to face to wall.

‘Pity,’ he muttered, ‘now I won’t be able to kill Hitler.’

He heard Wessel snort derisively.

‘Oh ho! So you were planning to assassinate the Führer, were you? Just going to waltz through his myriad bodyguards and shoot him? You’ve got balls, Blazkowicz, I won’t begrudge you that.’

‘A waltz has more than one person standing when it’s over,’ said Blazkowicz, ‘this’ll be more like a…wie sagt man…merciless bloodbath.’

‘Hitler stays on Floor 9 at all times,’ said Wessel, ‘and you need a special key to get there. Not exactly easy to find.’

He heard Wessel’s Luger click.

‘I have a key, Wessel.’

‘A lie, of course.’

‘It’s in my right front pocket. Go ahead and check.’

There was a long silence before Wessel’s hand carefully fished the key from his pocket.

‘I’ll make you a deal, Wessel. You let me live, and I’ll kill Hitler. Then you can install a new Führer. One more representative of the Party’s ideals. Eichmann, maybe.’

‘How do I know you won’t return here to kill him?’

‘You don’t. But when I do, I acknowledge I’m fair game for you. You can shoot me if and when you see me at the Castle again. But first let me have a crack at Adolf.’

 There was an even longer silence, and then the corridor rang with the Nazi’s laughter.

‘BJ Blazkowicz,’ he said, ‘you are perhaps the most magnificent Jew to walk the earth since Christ Himself. Alright, then, I will help you. You will either rid the Reich of its worst enemy or die trying. Either way, I will be happy. You may turn around.’

Wessel took the clip from Blazkowicz’s rifle, then handed him the weapon.

‘I will leave your ammunition one hundred paces down the hallway,’ he said, not without a trace of apology, ’I can’t trust you entirely.’

‘Fair enough,’ said BJ.

‘The elevator to Floor 9 is just around that far corner, although I can’t vouch for what you’ll find once you get there. The Führer’s personal guard must be considerable. I wish you good luck on your errand, however ill-conceived it may be.’

‘Thanks.’

Wessel studied Blazkowicz for a moment, still smiling.

‘Before we part company,’ said Wessel, ‘there is one thing more I would like you to do for me. You will please sign an autograph.’

Blazkowicz chuckled.

‘You want my autograph?’

‘It’s not for me,’ replied Wessel, producing a fountain pen from within his robes, ’it’s for the esteemed Dr. Schabbs. Just to let him know you were here.’

He handed the pen to Blazkowicz.

‘You’ll need some paper, I guess. Use one of the scrolls from my phylactery.’

‘If you really want to mess with Schabbs, I’ve got a better idea,’ said Blazkowicz, ‘eject two rounds from that clip and give them to me.’

Wessel complied, watching him carefully. BJ sat cross-legged on the floor, and with the bullets held firmly on his knee, and with much squinting, he carefully printed on them, then rose and handed them back to Wessel. The Nazi held them in the open palm of his hand like the delicate eggs of a small bird. They read:

DR SCHABBS:

TAKE TWO OF THESE

AND CALL ME IN THE MORNING

BJB

‘Shalom, Blazkowicz.’

‘Auf Wiedersehen, Wessel.’

The officer turned smartly and walked down the long hallway. Exactly one hundred paces from where Blazkowicz stood, he knelt and put the rifle ammunition on the floor. Then he rounded a corner, and was gone.

BJ picked up his ammo, then got on the elevator to Floor 9.

V.

The doors opened, and he was faced with a legion of German soldiers. He raised the rifle and squeezed the trigger. They crumpled, punched through with holes, careened backwards clutching at themselves and shrieking, or stood, already silent and dead but not yet fallen, bloodied but still on their feet, their tumbling to the ground seeming like an afterthought. Afterwards, he stood calmly amid the hot reek of gunpowder and blood and reloaded his weapon with rounds from theirs, then stepped gingerly over their bodies to the single door at the end of the hall. He inserted the key and entered.

A cathedral lay before him, cavernous and lit by the flickering, uncertain light of countless candles. Stone columns rose into darkness above row after row of long wooden pews, each with a copy of Mein Kampf in the pocket where a Bible was usually found. The windows were stained glass with elaborate portraits of the Führer in re-imagined scenes from history: Hitler presiding over Christ and Barabbas, Hitler inventing the telescope and discovering Jupiter’s moons, Hitler climbing from the cockpit of The Spirit Of Munich after the first trans-Atlantic flight. Chandeliers hung on lengths of immense chain illuminated a carpeted central aisle embroidered with the eagle of the Reich. Blazkowicz raised his rifle and started cautiously towards the front of the cathedral.

He walked for a quarter of an hour, row after row of ornate wooden pews trailing by with the hypnotizing regularity of telephone poles on a stretch of desert highway. It was not until he heard a voice in the darkness ahead that he realized he had let his rifle swing to the floor out of sheer boredom. He cursed himself, and snapped to attention. The voice was high and tinny; a radio. He slowed his pace. A shape faded up from the gloom and he saw a gigantic statute of Hitler cast in bronze. He was standing astride the globe with one boot on the face of a sickle-wielding Bolshevik and the other sunk to the calf in the shattered skull of a star-spangled doughboy. One hand was clamped around the throat of a British soldier, the other around the neck of a squirming rabbi while a third hand (yes, Blazkowicz could see now that Hitler was four-armed, and that they were arrayed in the twisted pattern of the Swastika) squeezed the life from a likeness of Blazkowicz himself. The Führer’s eyes were cast in pupil-less ivory and looked at once at nothing and everything. As he got closer he saw the statue was set on a dais which also had an elegantly carved throne on it. Newspapers in all languages were strewn about, some fresh but many bearing the brittle yellow of months gone by. A small wireless radio sat beside the throne. The clipped, precise English of a BBC war correspondent spoke of advances made by Axis troops in Belgium, gave the precise time and then introduced a piece of chamber music. There was no sign of Adolf Hitler.

No matter. Blazkowicz would sit in wait, and when Hitler got back, would interrogate and kill him.

‘Eva?’

Blazkowicz’s heart jumped. The voice was that of the Führer, but Blazkowicz couldn’t see where it had come from.

‘Is that you, Eva?’

He peered through the dim light at the throne. Perhaps Hitler was crouched behind it. Cautiously, and with his finger set lightly on the trigger, he edged forward.

‘Have you come for Operation Muschelwurst? I take it you brought the Churchill costume, my love. I have been a naughty Chancellor, and deserve harsh British naval justice.’

Blazkowicz crept to within six feet of the throne, and gasped.

He had not expected Hitler to be in one piece after their last encounter, and presumed the Führer would be confined to a wheelchair, perhaps kept alive artificially with the aid of machines. There was even speculation and rumour of Hitler’s head and brain ‘living’ in a jar. Such technology was not beyond the deranged ambitions of Nazi scientists. But the scene before Blazkowicz was much, much worse; the twisted efforts of an experiment that outstripped even Mengele’s in its vileness. Despite all he had witnessed in his battle against the Nazis, Blazkowicz was forced to shut his eyes against the abomination before him. For there, on the throne, was all that remained of Reich Chancellor Adolf Hitler.

His moustache.

‘Shall we commence with a recreation of the invasion of Poland, my love?’ said the moustache excitedly. Blazkowicz had no idea how it spoke, only that it tremored slightly as it did, like a landed butterfly in a soft breeze. ‘I’ll be Warsaw, and you can be the first Panzer division…’

Blazkowicz cocked his rifle and strode into the light.

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he said. ‘You be Hitler, and I’ll be me.’

‘He has returned,’ said the Hitler-stache, fluttering, ‘like a fool, he has returned, leaping into death’s gaping maw. Tell me, Captain, what has brought you back to Castle Wolfenstein?’

The rifle shuddered slightly in Blazkowicz’s hand, and he fought to steady it. The voice coming from Hitler’s moustache was level and calm, so unlike the guttural bellowing he was used to seeing in newsreels, and somehow more frightening for it.

‘I’ve come to learn about Operation Zungedreher, Chancellor. Having done that, I will kill you.’

‘Ah.’

The music from the radio stopped, seemingly of its own accord.

‘I am only too happy to oblige you on the first matter, Captain. Operation Zungdreher will be public knowledge soon enough, so there is little harm in giving you a ‘sneaky-peak’, as the Yanks say. But on the second matter, I must inform you that it is you who will die here today.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

‘Yes,’ snapped the Hitler-stache, ‘we will.’

Blazkowicz inadvertently took a step back. Even in his diminished form, Hitler’s very presence was insolubly unnerving.

‘Operation Zungedreher,’ said the Hitler-stache, ‘simply put, is the final shovelful of earth on the Allied grave. It is the culmination of years of research and experimentation. All other avenues we’ve pursued during the course of the war – the chemical weapons programs, the rocketry development, the dabblings in the black magic of the Thule Society – have been ruses employed to hide our true end.’

The Hitler-stache paused as a small platform rose from the floor with a glass of water on it. A metallic straw maneuvered itself to the Hitler-stache, and there was a bizarre sucking sound as it drank.

‘It is warm in here, Captain, is it not?’

Blazkowicz watched as the water ebbed slowly to the bottom of the glass. The Hitler-stache made a satisfied smacking noise, and the platform retreated into the floor.

‘You know,’ it continued, ‘of the tendency of the German language to compound words. Kindergarten, for example. Literally, ‘children’s garden’. A very precise and efficient form of speech. It does, however, make our language somewhat cumbersome for those to whom the tongue is not native. The English-speaking world, in particular, stumbles through words like donaudampfschif with comic incompetence.’

Blazkowicz scowled, but said nothing. 

‘Imagine, then, if we were to extrapolate this premise to its extreme, compounding word after word until they formed a German überwort. A word that embodies all the supremacy, dominance and permanence of the Germanic kingdom and the Reich. A word so long and complicated and difficult to pronounce that it gives people a headache and makes them want to cry, and maybe a little nauseous, even.’

‘You mean – ‘ gasped Blazkowicz.

‘A längenwurtvîlkenschwiëkauzenschabetäubsmittülvërschreîdnunreimakerkleinpüken!’ said the Hitler-stache. 

Blazkowicz rubbed at his temple and wiped a tear from his eye. His stomach rolled.

‘Once this word is introduced into your everyday conversation, your non-Aryan tongues will wind themselves into knots attempting to speak it. Your backs will break beneath the weight of the massive newspapers needed to print it. Your crossword puzzle enthusiasts will be driven to madness by it! Your children will start speaking it in grade school and be feeble elders by the time they finish. Your president will say it on the radio and sound like a fool!’

The Hitler-stache shook with ominous laughter, looking nothing unlike a caterpillar in its death-throes.

‘That’s unfathomably evil!’ cried Blascowicz.

‘What do you expect?’ replied the Hitler-stache, ‘I’m Hitler, for crying out loud.’

It rose from the seat of the throne, hovering before him, rippling in mid-air like a flag.

‘And now,’ cried the Hitler-stache, its voice rising to the vitrolous pitch the entire world knew to belong to Adolf Hitler, ‘the time for talking is done, Captain! Vorbereitung für den kampf!’

The Hitler-stache flew at him. Blazkowicz raised his rifle and fired, but it swung sidewise in the air with the speed and fluidity of a hummingbird. He ducked, and felt it slice across his cheek, followed by the sudden hot flow of his own blood. He spun, crouched, only to watch it vanish into the surrounding darkness of the cathedral.

‘Har!’ he heard it shout, ‘I had expected the saviour of the Allied War effort to be a better marksman!’

A sudden hissing, like a thrown knife, and the Hitler-stache swooped down and raked itself across his chest. A swatch of his improvised SS uniform fell away, revealing a deep gouge in the body armour beneath. He fired after it, the flash frozen like an orange flower at the end of the rifle barrel, but the Hitler-stache retreated into the darkness yet again. He could hear it flitting like a tiny bat somewhere above him. Blazkowicz threw himself behind a nearby pew, scanning the darkness.

‘Silly of you to hide, Blazkowicz.’

The Hitler-stache’s flapping noises grew gradually fainter, then ceased. Blazkowicz peered out cautiously, finger on the trigger. 

‘After all,’ he heard it say from far back in the black depths of the cathedral, ‘strength lies not in defense, but in attack!’

It shot out of the darkness with the speed of a Messerschmitt, but did not swoop at him. Instead, he heard the chit chit of machine gun fire and howled in pain as a series of fine, sharp hairs buried themselves in the back of his hand. The rifle swung wild, sending an arc of fire into the air. Cursing, he pulled the hairs from his hand with his teeth, the flesh red and swollen where they had hit. A second series of hairs sank into the hard wood of the pew beside him. There was a brown blur in his periphery and he saw the Hitler-stache rounding on him again. He wormed his way under the pew and lay there, panting.

‘Hide, Blazkowicz! Cower! I will find you!’

He heard a whistle as it sped over him, then stopped. It was hovering directly above him.

He put the muzzle of his rifle to the underside of the pew, shut his eyes, muttered a short prayer, and fired. There was a deafening crunch as the wood exploded, followed by a choked cry of anguish.

He leapt to his feet, rifle ready. The Hitler-stache lay panting in the dull yellow pool of light beneath a chandelier.

‘Ach!’ it spat, ‘whoreson! I am wounded!’

Blazkowicz trained the rifle square on the Hitler-stache and slowly approached it.

‘Lout! A lucky shot! Curse you!’

Blazkowicz placed the Hitler stache square in the rifle’s sights and pulled the trigger.

But the rifle was empty.

VI.

Tableau-like, he stood with the rifle pointed groundward, waiting. But there was nothing. He pulled the trigger again, and the same loud click echoed back from the cathedral’s stone walls.  

The Hitler-stache lifted itself upright and, very slowly, rose into the air.

‘Alas,’ it said with mock-sadness, ‘the wheel of fate is fickle, Captain. This brief intermission has given me ample time to recover from my injuries. Now, die.’

It flew at him.

And for the first time in his career as a soldier, he ran.

He ran down the cathedral’s centre aisle toward the throne, ducking as the Hitler-stache lunged at him from behind. A gash in his head opened. It swooped around the throne and started back towards him. He unslung the rifle and threw it at the approaching follicular projectile, and watched in horror as the Hitler-stache cut through it in a shower of sparks, sending it clattering to the floor in two pieces, the ends glowing dull red.

I am, he thought sadly, officially out of tricks.

With blood running down his face and his lungs straining, he took off between the pews into the darkness of the cathedral. He eventually reached the wall, and watched from a distance as the Hitler-stache circled in the light of the chandeliers like a frantic moth, searching for him. Grimly, he realized it was only a matter of time before it found him.

He poked gingerly at his back tooth with his tongue. It was the only option left; not an altogether glorious one, but at least it would be on his terms. A quick, hard bite down, the bitter taste of almonds in his mouth, and then merciful oblivion.  

He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. The stone was faintly cool. He clenched his teeth.

There was a shudder and the gritty sound of stone moving against stone. He stumbled and righted himself, then turned to see a panel in the wall behind him receding. A secret passage. The Castle, he recalled, was riddled with them. They held emergency stores of food, caches of purloined gold and treasure, and sometimes, weapons and ammunition.

Excitedly, he started down the narrow passage. Even if there were a pistol, he could take another shot at the Hitler-stache and go down fighting.

The passage opened into a small room, empty except for a strange-looking gun hanging on the wall. It was squat and square, made of a whitish-grey metal with a barrel the size of a manhole. Stenciled on the side was:

BlutFleckenGewehr 

With some effort, he lifted it off the bracket it rested on and heard a liquid sloshing from within its guts. Gasoline? He sniffed, but there was no odour. The weapon’s weight and bulk surely meant it was made to be fired from the hip, and even then, with extreme certainty; he had to lift no fewer than three separate trigger guards  before he could find the switch that he presumed fired it. There was also a plate of smoked glass as thick and dark as a welder’s visor that swung into place between him and the barrel. He laid his finger gently against the trigger, and a small yellow light blinked to life.

It’s armed, he realized. The next time he touched the trigger, it would fire. Then what?

‘Das leben ist wie eine schachtel pralinen,’ shrieked the Hitler-stache, ‘man weiß nie, was man kriegt!!!!’

Blazkowicz turned to see it hovering in the doorway of the passage. Scarce had it spoken when it flung itself at him. He fired.

At first, there was nothing, and Blazkowicz laughed aloud at the notion that Fate had placed yet another empty gun in hands so thoroughly trained and yearning to kill. Then the gun shuddered, and a green-white nova sprung from the barrel, and even behind the smoked glass shield Blazkowicz clamped his eyes shut and turned his head against the light and heat. There was a roar like a great rush of water, and then a deafening bang (a sonic boom?) and the brief, acrid stench of burnt hair. 

Blazkowicz opened one eye, then the other. The walls of the passage were scorched black and radiated heat. There was a moustache-shaped smear on the floor. He watched as the round he fired continued across the huge dome of the cathedral, an incandescent green sphere that sailed for what seemed like half a minute and dwindled to a pinprick before it struck the far wall. For a moment the entire mighty vault of the cathedral lit up glowing white, the shadows pared back to nothing, the flash exposing intricately carved cyclopean columns and stonework. Then the light died, but not before he saw the far wall buckle from the impact of the shot, and saw the first fragments of the ceiling tumble down.     

For the second time during his career as a soldier, he ran. 

VII.

United States Office Of Secret Actions Chairman General Raymond Grant had a countenance and bearing one would expect from a man in such a position. His grey eyes ran with minute precision over the onionskin document on his desk, face slack and impassive. When he was finished he placed the paper in the top right corner of his blotter, squared it, folded his hands and looked across the desk at BJ Blazkowicz.

‘You’ve sworn a deposition to the effect that everything in your report is true, have you not, Captain?’

‘Yes sir, I have,’ replied Blazkowicz, and swallowed a grin. The boys at HQ were still sorting through the wreckage, literal and metaphorical, of Castel Wolfenstein, but it seemed only a matter of time before they were forced to agree that he and he alone had killed Hitler and toppled the Third Reich.

What kind of medal, he thought, will they give me? The Medal Of Honour would be a good start, but it didn’t seem quite enough. They’d probably have to invent a new one: ‘The Blazkowicz’. They would probably want to erect statues, too. And hang his portrait in the White House. Would there be room in the Oval Office? They’d have to move some flags around, but it could be done. And it would, of course, be only fitting to put his face on the dollar bill. Washington, after all, had been a fine soldier during his time, but his achievements were, in light of recent events, rather meager in comparison.

‘Captain Blazkowicz,’ said General Grant, ‘if even one of the events documented here is true – ‘

‘Yes sir,’ said Blazkowicz excitedly. Would he get the medal now, or later, at a special ceremony?

‘ – then I’m afraid you’re in very big trouble.’

Blazkowicz blinked.

‘Sir?’

General Grant glared at him and flipped to a pink sheet that had been attached to the back of Blazkowicz’s report. 

‘You’ve been accused of several grave breaches of the Geneva Convention, Captain.’

‘What?!’ cried Blazkowicz, rising. A glare from the general saw him re-seated quickly. 

‘Breach of Article 7:,’ said Grant, ‘The causing of undue suffering to, and failure to provide aid to, a civilian….’

‘That’s not true!’ cried Blazkowicz.

‘Isn’t it? Mr. Grosse was no longer a ranking member of the German army, and was, quite literally, unarmed. You left him wedged in a doorway to die.’

‘He threatened me!’ 

‘Breach of Article 9:’ Grant continued, ‘conspiring with a known enemy.’

‘I did no such thing!’

‘You wrote that you and Commander Wessel together formulated a plan to, and I quote, ‘mess with’, end quote, Wessel’s commanding officer.’

‘His commanding officer was a Nazi scientist!’

‘Nevertheless. Breach of Article 21: theft of property and artifacts.’

Blazkowicz looked puzzled.

‘The gold coins you took,’ Grant explained.  

‘I’ll give them back!’ Blazkowicz cried. He pulled them from his pocket and tossed them onto Grant’s desk. Grant swept them neatly aside and continued reading.

‘And finally, Captain, Breach of Article 27: Willful procurement and aggressive usage of a weapon of mass destruction.’

‘That’s crazy! I –‘

‘ – fired a weapon that set off Geiger counters for five hundred miles around the Castle, Captain. Entire villages had to be evacuated. Switzerland threatened retaliatory action, for crying out loud.’

‘I only shot it once,’ Blazkowicz murmured.

‘One time too many. The president made us turn it over to the USMC so they could study it.’ He brought his palm down angrily on the desk.’ The godammed Marines, Blazkowicz. Do you know how bad that makes us look?’

The general took a deep breath and smoothed his crew cut. Blazkowicz cleared his throat to speak, but Grant’s grey eyes silenced him.

‘The very nature of your crimes,’ said Grant after a time,  ‘made them difficult to defend. Impossible, in fact.’ He thumbed the intercom on his desk. ‘Send in Mr. Von Shrakenberg, please.’

The door opened and a short, fat man in a dark blue suit entered.

‘This is Leif Von Shrakenberg, Chief Prosecuting Officer for The Hague’s Central Committee To Investigate War Crimes.’

Blazkowicz stuck out his hand, but the fat man remained motionless.

‘Please stand, Captain,’ he said in Dutch-accented English. Blazkowicz did so. Von Shrakenberg took a folded document from his pocket, broke a wax seal, put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and read.

‘Captain William Joseph Blazkowicz: In the course of your proscribed military duties you have subsequently been found guilty of crimes against humanity and are sentenced to death, effective immediately. Statement read on this, the first of May, nineteen hundred and forty-five.’

‘Witnessed,’ said General Grant softly.

Two MPs entered and slid manacles onto Blazkowicz his wrists, then led him out. Von Shrakenberg followed. A minute passed. Through the open window Grant heard sounds from the parade ground; the hollow wooden thunk of a trapdoor falling open, then the dry squeak of rope stretching. He shut the window with a weary sigh and opened a copy of Stars And Stripes to the crossword page.

32 Across: A 76-letter word for ‘something bad’. That was a tough one.

Metal Gear was launched in 1987, and helped introduce the stealth game genre, which it would repeatedly perfect over the next 20 years. Its hero was Solid Snake, a seasoned soldier dispatched to foil enemy schemes by way of stealth. Snake was at his best when he was sneaky; hiding from enemies in boxes, donning disguises and generally  remaining unseen were the calling cards of a successful Metal Gear player. Brashness and bravado attracted the attention of enemy soldiers, and attention attracted enemy gunfire.

In this story, however, we learn that there are worse ways for Snake to die to than a bullet to the head. There are committees.   

Hello, everyone. Thanks again for coming. I know you’re all busy in the wake of the merger. Help yourself to a muffin. They’re organic and gluten-free. Looks like we need a couple more chairs in here. Trev, can you scoot across the hall and grab a couple more chairs for us? Thanks, pal. Is that sun in your eyes, general? Let me draw the blinds. There we go.

Shall we get started?

You’re probably wondering who the heck I am and why I’m here. My name, gentlemen, is Brad Parnel and I’m a FamilyCorp^TM Imagination Engineer. My job description says I ‘utilize creative thinking in the pursuit of paradigm shifts and the realignment of business platforms’, but that won’t fit on my card. In fact, I’m not even sure what that means, ha ha. Really, I’m just a problem solver hired by FamilyCorp^TM to make things better.     

As you know, FOXHOUND was purchased outright by FamilyCorp^TM last month. Strange bedfellows, I know – a super secret paramilitary organization and a trusted manufacturer of household cleaners and family-friendly sundries since 1923 – but that’s the way it is. I can assure everyone in this room that FamilyCorp^TM has no intention of changing the way FOXHOUND conducts business. War is your specialty, gentlemen, and Familycorp knows and respects that. But FamilyCorp^TM thinks there’s room for improvement. There always is. And that’s what we’re here to talk about. This isn’t a lecture, and no one’s getting fired. We’re going to have an open and honest dialogue about the direction FOXHOUND is headed in now that it’s part of the FamilyCorp^TM family. 

But first, let me introduce the rest of my team.

This little lady is Julie Hannigan, strategic planner. What you gentlemen do in war, she does in business; she assesses the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses and forms a plan of attack. Judy helped tieclasps.com drive tieclasps.edu out of business. Don’t let her sweet smile fool you – she’s a terror. Just be glad she’s on our side.

And this lanky lad is Trevor Shelswell. We excuse his long hair and perpetual razor misplacement because he’s a creative type.  Trev’s a very talented young man with some very good ideas. Are you all familiar with Hugsy, the FamilyCorp^TM bear? Trev came up with Hugsy. Wrote the FamilyCorp^TM jingle, too. You’ll be seeing a lot of Trev in the next little while.    

Now that we’re all friends, let’s get started, shall we?

Solid Snake, gentlemen. Solid Snake.

Gentlemen, you have done an exceptional job training and managing the man known as Solid Snake. Really, you have. He is FOXHOUND’s best known, most important asset. In fact, he’s outgrown his status as a simple soldier and become something much bigger. He’s become a brand, hasn’t he? Just like Coca-Cola has outgrown its status as a fizzy brown soft drink. FamilyCorp^TM wants to maximize the Solid Snake brand, gentlemen, in order to take Snake and FOXHOUND to the next level. But to do this, we’re going to make a few changes to how Snake looks and the way he operates. Small changes. Tweaks, we’ll call them. In the end, this is going to make Snake that much better.

Let’s start with the way he looks. Trev, bring up that slide, will you?

These, gentlemen are Snake’s current uniforms. Grey. Green. Dark grey. Khaki. Black. And some light grey. Great camoflague, but boring. I’d like to show you what Snake could look like. Trev, do you have those illustrations? Thanks, bud.

Keep in mind, gentlemen, these are just initial concepts.

I see plum. I see crimson. I see canary. I see aqua blue. I see pink. Yes, pink, gentlemen. It can be very masculine. I see marigold. I see violet. I see magenta. Eye-catching, isn’t it? Look how these uniforms ‘pop’ compared to those drab ones. And they make the viewer feel better, too. Bright colours make people happy. And I’m sure Snake wouldn’t mind wearing something with a little more pizzazz. 

What’s that, Corporal? Why, yes, you can see these from a hundred feet away. And that’s exactly what we want. The first step in getting people to love your brand is getting their attention. Good point, Corporal. You recognize a good idea when you see it, and I like that. 

Speaking of being recognized, let’s talk logos.

I’d be the first to agree that Snake’s a pretty cool guy. He’s in the jungle, he’s sneakin’ around, he’s blowing things up. Awesome. But lemmie ask you something: how do we know Snake works for FOXHOUND? I mean, the colourful uniform will get people’s attention, but once we have it, how do we maximize FOXHOUND’s association with him? Let people know he works exclusively for us and not, say, the army? Or the marines? The answer is our logo. Trev, do you have those sketches? Thanks, pal.

Bear in mind these are just rough.

Boom! Big FOXHOUND logo on the back of the uniform. Boom! Big FOXHOUND logo in the front. Boom! Boom! Big FOXHOUND logo on either shoulder.

Every time Snake slits a throat or plants some C4, he’s essentially saying ‘This throat slitting brought to you by FOXHOUND, makers and trainers of elite super soldiers.’

That’s branding, gentlemen, plain and simple. We’ve even included FOXHOUND’s website and phone number in case people want to learn more. Notice, too, there’s lots of room left for corporate partnership logos. I’ve talked to Ron Temple over at C Plus – you know Ron -  and they’re very interested in doing business with us. They’d pay plenty for a C Plus logo on Snake’s headband. Maybe have him carry a 2 litre bottle of C Plus around. Then, when someone spots him on a surveillance camera, they say ‘Hey, there’s a highly-trained killing machine trying to infiltrate our base. And he’s drinking a C Plus. I think I’ll have a C Plus.’

I beg your pardon, Sergeant? Why, yes, he would look like a NASCAR driver. You’re right. Judy, do you know offhand how much NASCAR made last year? Two hundred million? Wow. Looks like NASCAR is the game to beat, eh? Good point, Sergeant. Your comments have been heard. 

Speaking of hearing, let’s talk about this ‘Codec’ thing. 

Codec is a beautiful piece of proprietary technology. Lets Snake talk to home base. Nice. But could it be nicer? We think so. What if – and this is just a thought – what if it wasn’t just Snake who could hear the Codec? What if we made those frequencies available to anyone who wanted to hear them? Let people listen to Snake anytime they like? Sort of like Big Brother on the radio. Show everyone that Snake’s a regular guy with problems like everyone else. He doesn’t always get along with his coworkers, he hates his job, that sort of thing. Maybe he starts a little Codec romance Meredith. If we make all Codec communications available on iTunes at ninety-nine cents a pop, we’ll be rich. We can do real-time broadcasts, too: ‘Live from under a seemingly empty cardboard box, Snake arguing with Otacon!’ And say we broadcast some music on there. Frequency 141.5: Easy listening. 143.2: Classic rock. 148.93: Country. And with Twitter, the enemy can literally follow Snake’s every move.

What’s that, Lieutenant? Yes, we would be allowing the enemy to listen in on every conversation we had with Snake. And once they do that, they’ll start talking about him. And then we’ve literally got people talking about our brand. Word of mouth is very important. Good point. You’re a man with a strong opinion, and I salute you for it. 

Speaking of strong opinions, let’s talk research.

Our research indicates that Snake’s weakest demographic is Enemy Soldiers, ages 18 -59. Look at these numbers. Of Enemy Soldiers polled, 23.15% found Snake ‘very unlikable’, 21.76% said they ‘hated’ him, and a whopping 55.09% had no idea who he was at all! Those are Carrot Top numbers, gentlemen, and they have to change.

To achieve that, Snake needs to stop hiding all the time. From now on, he doesn’t hide, and he doesn’t carry weapons. Instead, he marches – no, walks -  right up to the enemy and introduces himself. Nothing fancy, just ‘Hi, I’m Snake. Nice to meet you. I’m on a top secret mission, mind if I look around?’ Then he gives them a FamilyCorp^TM coupon book worth over $30, drinks a C Plus and goes about his business. A brief but friendly interaction that introduces Snake as the ambassador of the FamilyCorp^TM/FOXHOUND brand with a value-added consumer purchase incentive. Simple as that.

What’s that, Captain? Why, yes, Snake does visit some of the most war torn places in the world. And diplomacy and coupons will win our enemies over much quicker than bombs and bullets. Great thought, captain. You clearly have the sort of wisdom that can only come with age.

Speaking of not having much time left, let me get quickly to my final point. Merchandising.

Destroying the walking nuclear arsenal known as ‘Metal Gear’ has been Snake’s raison de etre for some time now. And God bless him. Those Metal Gears are terrible machines. Wait, did I say ‘terrible’? Because I meant ‘Awesome’.  I meant ‘Cool’ I meant ‘Something every kid ages 5 – 11 with guardians earning between 30K and 79K will want for Christmas’.

Trev, do you have those prototypes? Thanks. 

Gentlemen, behold, the FamilyCorp^TM Metal Gear Action Playset. Complete with Metal Gear Attack Pod, Revolver Ocelot Handgun, kids-sized FOXHOUND MREs and, of course, Solid Snake Action Figure with Deathgrip death grip. Retails for $159.99.

Listen: It goes hoola-hoop, Tickle Me Elmo, FamilyCorp^TM Metal Gear Action Playset. Every kid who doesn’t get this toy is going to cry and every parent who doesn’t buy one is going to feel guilty.

Pardon, Major? Yes, it is somewhat hard to imagine this kind of thing happening. That’s why we made this commercial. 

Judy, get the lights. Trev, roll it.

FamilyCorp^TM Metal Gear Action Playset Commercial – :30 seconds

EXTERIOR – SUBURBAN HOME

We see a young BOY playing with a toy car. He looks very bored.

Suddenly, SNAKE drops from a tree.

BOY

Wow! Solid Snake!

SNAKE

It’s time to get serious about playtime!

We see a CU of the BOY’s toy car as SNAKE crushes it under his boot.

He gives the BOY the FamilyCorp^TM Metal Gear Action Playset.

BOY

Wow! The FamilyCorp^TM Metal Gear Action Playset!

We see the BOY playing with the FamilyCorp^TM Metal Gear Action Playset.

MUSIC: HEAVY METAL, UP AND UNDER

SINGERS

                                  FamilyCorp^TM Metal Gear Action Playset!

FamilyCorp^TM Metal Gear Action Playset!

FamilyCorp^TM Metal Gear Action Playset!

FamilyCorp^TM Metal Gear Action Playset!

The music stops abruptly as DAD comes out of the house.

DAD

Stop playing with your FamilyCorp^TM Metal Gear Action Playset and clean your room!

SNAKE creeps up behind DAD and snaps his neck.

DAD crumples to the ground. Timmy kicks the corpse.

BOY

Fuck you, old man!

We cut to a product shot of the FamilyCorp^TM Metal Gear Action Playset.

ANNCR

FamilyCorp^TM Metal Gear Action Playset comes with everything you see here. You put it together. From FamilyCorpTM, a Family Corporation.

We’re still playing with the levels, but when this thing hits the air we are going to own the toy aisle, gentlemen. We –

Beg your pardon, General? Why, yes, you should be outraged. Outraged it’s taken this long to realize Snake’s potential as a revenue-generating category leader. Fantastic point. But I see a lot of skeptical faces in the room, so before you draw our side arms, let’s look at one final slide.

Judy, do you – please, gentlemen, remain seated – do you have that slide? Thanks.

This, gentlemen, is the revenue we expect Snake to generate in the twelve months following the changes we’ve talked about.

Wow! That quieted the room down, didn’t it? Ha ha. That’s a lot of zeros, gentlemen, just for making a few small changes in the way we operate. And that’s all they are, gentlemen, is small changes. Call me an incurable optimist, but I think Snake will actually embrace this new way of thinking. After all, it’s going to make him a household name.

Speaking of names, we should change his code name to ‘Solid Koala’, or something cute. People hate snakes.

RIP, Questor the Elf

Gauntlet was a quarter-munching co-op smash when it hit the arcades in 1985, offering players the chance to brave perilous dungeons as one of four different characters. When a player’s last HP was spent, he  collapsed into a pile of bones; these bones, in turn, produced ghosts that attacked remaining players. When it came to ways of dying, Gauntlet ran the gamut.

In this story, Gauntlet’s token elf, Questor, meets an all-too familiar ghost from an all-too-familiar pile of bones, and learns that there are some old feuds not even death can kill. 

     When Questor entered the dungeon, he found his father, lain eight years behind the Shroud, standing before him.

     “Mine sight is betrick’d,” said Questor to himself, “the weariness of my journey lies heavy on me.”

     He reached up to rub fatigue’s shroud from his eyes, but when he lowered his hand, his father still stood.      

     “Sorcery, then,” he said. “A make-shape raised by some foul-brained wizard. No matter. There’s yet to be an enchantment cast that couldn’t be dis-spelled by Questor’s quick shaft.”

     In one swift motion he nocked and arrow loosed it at the spectre. It vanished, only to appear anew.

     “Strong magik,” Questor whispered, making the sign of Oolong across his breast. “Let like meet like, then.”

     He removed a potion from his rucksack.

     “I’ve not a wizard’s will for conjuring, true, but this brew may take some of the steel from your stance, daemon.”

     He raised the bottle above his head, preparing to shatter it on the dungeon’s floor.

     “I’m not a daemon,” said the daemon, “I’m your father, moron.”

     Questor curled his lip in contempt.

     “Alas, my father has been in the Cold a long while, daemon. You take his shape to hoist some manner of deceit upon me, but you have failed. Tell the spell-wright who commands you that Questor’s honed eye and keen brain are not so easily tricked.”

     “Your full name,” sighed the daemon, “is Questor Iergund Julfnaar, after your mother’s brother, the farmer in Tull. You were born in Keech but moved to Finglong when you were three because I got a job in the king’s armoury. You played the ypsiler in the school band and you were terrible. Sounded like a dying fnapp. You got caught cheating on an alchemy quiz when you were thirteen and Hierophant Nestorious wanted you thrown out of school, but I offered to amour his clerics for half price and he let it drop. You took Thyra the Valkyrie to the Solstice dance when you were sixteen and came home angry because she danced with Broog the cleric the whole time. And you’re allergic to zech nuts. Now, please, put that potion down before you drop it and get magic all over me.”

     “Father!” Questor cried. He made motion to embrace the man, but could not lay hands on him. The elder’s form parted like morning mist before the prow of a ship.

     “Ghost of, actually,” his father said,  “but close enough. I died in this dungeon, and this is where my remains remain.”

     The ghost motioned to a pile of grey bones and a moss-furred skull grinning into the shadows amid tatters of doublet and jerkin. Questor made Darjeeling’s Sign Of Eternal Rest over them.        

     “Mother never spoke of your death,” said Questor. “She claimed you broke covenant with her and left us to live in black lust with a tavern maiden.”

     “I did,” grinned the ghost, “the death came later. I was delivering some swords to a paladin on the other side of the Blue Hills. I took a shortcut through this dungeon, and an ogre got me. “

     “A horrible fate!” gasped Questor.

     “I’ll say. That ogre hadn’t brushed his teeth since Rubicae was king. Plus, I get stuck with a quarter gross of swords. I should’ve had that paladin pay in advance.”

     Questor bent knee and retrieved a blade green-grayed with eight years age from a pile on the dungeon floor. It was stamped with his father’s seal. He hefted it. It was bird-light.

     “That’s angel steel,” said his father’s ghost. “You can pound it thin as a Gimbrian whore’s dressing gown and it’ll still slice a gnat’s nutsack in half.”

     Questor did not reply, merely turning the blade over in his hand.

     “’Tis well wrought,” he muttered at length. 

     The ghost chortled.

     “’Well wrought’ he says. Pah! What would an archer know about swords?”

     Questor glared coldly at his father’s ghost.

     “Father,” he said softly, forcing a smile to tamp the ire that rushed to his tongue,  “let us not allow that well-worn feud to darken our meeting. It leads where the stag leads the wolf; round and round the tree to exhaustion. Let it lie as bygones and dust.”

     “Bygones and dust?” cried the ghost, waving to the bones in the cave’s corner. “I’m bygones and dust!” And with no apprentice to take up my craft. I’m apprentice-less. That should’ve been you, son.”

     “I know well enough how to hoist an ale mug,” said Questor, “and such is the craft I witnessed you ply most diligently whilst I grew. Is there more you would have imparted, given the chance?”

     “Everything I knew about weapons was yours to learn, son,” sighed the spirit, “but you wouldn’t have it. Even as a ghost robbed of all emotion by the icy grip of my own mortality, it saddens me.”

     “To the contrary, father,” said Questor, tapping the bow slung across his back, “I am no stranger to death-tools. I raise this one when need makes its demand.”

     “I mean a sword, son. A real weapon.”

     Questor spat, then nocked an arrow and glared down its grained shaft at his father’s wavering spectre.

     “Is’t real enough from where you see it, father? Tis possessed of a point quite of this world, I assure you. As real as that on any sword.”

     “Save your arrows, killer. I’m already dead, remember? You can shoot my ghost all you want; my bones’ll spit out another one just like it. ”

     The ghost seated itself with a sigh on a large stone.

     “The greatest thing a man can do in life,” it said, “is leave a legacy; I see that more than ever now that I’m dead. Sure, I drank and caroused a little in life – “

     “And whored, father,” Questor grunted, “don’t forget the whoring.”

     “ – but you drove me to it, in a way. All I wanted was son who’d take up my craft, but you were always too busy.”   

     “Aye,” Questor answered, “busy seeking a life outside a blacksmith’s dim hovel.”

     “That ‘dim hovel’ turned a pretty profit in its day! The king’s own gold filled my pockets for the work I did!”

     “And filled the tavern keeper’s again just as quickly!” Questor snapped. “Speak not to me of the pride of your craft, old man. You may have been a cunning worker of metals, but the patience of your art you left at the bellows at the end of each day, and the joy it gave you you soaked in Qashien green wine before you staggered home to greet mother and I. By the time your drooped frame clouded the doorway, there was little of either remaining. Such is why I shied from taking up your hammer, sir; I could see all too well what it had forged of you. A life adventuring seemed all the more enticing because if it.”

     “Adventuring,” the ghost snorted, waving a derisive hand “always the adventuring, with you. Adventuring for gold, adventuring for treasure.”

     “For to witness the riches the world has to show us!” cried Questor. “For the wealth of knowledge that comes with treading foot in foreign dirt, for falling into sleep with the dust of strange cities on one’s jerkin!”

     “Your jerkin’s lookin’ a little rough, son. It’s ripped and dirty. And you’re skinny. What’s the matter; can’t buy a bowl of soup with your wealth of knowledge? Can’t pay for a decent set of clothes with the dust of strange cities? I’m just the simple ghost of a blacksmith, but I’d swear you weren’t exactly rolling in it.” 

     Questor stared with cold eyes at his father’s wraith; there was bitter truth in those words. He had spent the fnapp’s share of his own wealth in preparedness for his foray into gold-seeking, outfitting himself with weapons, amour, supplies and the like. The paltry remainder was dwindling with unnerving rapidity as he paid for passage to dungeon after dungeon, only to find them devoid of gold as a Tieguanyin ascetic temple. Perhaps swifter treasure-seekers had come before him. Or perhaps the tales of gold lost within these walls were nothing more than ale-house fable. Whatever the lay of the truth, Questor’s rucksack, like his belly, was far too empty for comfort.

     “If you had bothered to learn a little something from my trade,” continued the ghost, “you’d be rich by now. You’d a have a business and own a cottage. Maybe a wife. Things you could be proud of.”

     “Much has changed,” said Questor, “in the eight years you’ve been in the Cold, father. Weapons are no longer forged by lone blacksmiths, but by a multitude of heat-powered engines which labour without pause twenty-seven hours a day. All that is needed are children to feed the fires and a skilled warlock to ensure the spirits imprisoned within the engines remain appeased and at toil.”

     He held the mouldered sword up in front of the ghost’s face.

     “These are forged by the hundreds, father, without the slow beat of an armourer’s hammer or the haughty taint of his pride. And ‘tis reckoned those blades are every bit as good as one hand-smithed.”

     The ghost looked perplexed.

     “Engines?” it said, “Doing the work of elves?”

     “Aye, father.”

     “But who puts his seal on the amour to ensure its quality? How does the apprentice know where to strike with the sledge? Who empties the slake tub at the end of the day?”

     “Merry notions of an age slipping into twilight, sir. I count myself lucky that I never made the time to learn a craft so soon to be laid to rest.”

     Questor thrust the sword to the soft sand of the dungeon floor. His father’s ghost was silent a long while. It was with sour delight that Questor saw a mixture of quandary and hurt on the spirit’s face.

     “This revenant ill will has filched too much of my time,” said Questor. “I go. If you wish your bones to be set in hallowed ground, speak now, and I will send a hierophant to retrieve them. Other-wise, let us part in silence, with the hope that it is final.”

     A long, low growl echoed through the cave.

     “Your ire seems you have deprived you of speech,” said Questor, hoisting his rucksack to his shoulder. “As you please. Remain here and grunt like an ogre for eternity.”

     “That wasn’t me,” said his father’s ghost, gesturing to the rear of the cave, “that was an ogre.” 

     Questor turned, and his heart jumped.

     Two eyes glowed like balefires in the darkness of the cave, eyes set deep in the hollows of a huge and hideous visage as knobbed and gnarled as the roots of an ancient tree. A maw like a well fell slowly open, revealing four rows of yellowed teeth as sharp as lancets, and the miasmal stench of decayed flesh wafted through the damp cave air, bringing up the sick in Questor’s throat. Three heavily muscled arms hung from a giant body, which was wrapped in the pale, untreated pelt of some strange subterrain beast. One hand held a massive stone-tree, those odd pillars which sprout from the floor and ceilings of places beneath the earth, broken off at one end as if it were a quail bone. The ogre let out a wet, guttural roar that returned deafeningly from the cave walls.

     “That’s a big one,” mused his father’s ghost, “bigger than the one who got me.”

     Though the stone-tree would not have been lifted by ten grown elves, the ogre hefted it like a reed and brought it whistling down at Questor. He leapt deftly aside and nocked his bow, steadied his aim among the trembling of the cave floor, and sent a shaft speeding to its target. His aim was true; the arrow plunged to the fletching into the thing’s eye.

     The ogre stopped, plucked the arrow forth and examined it with low, animal curiosity. The ruined eye spouted forth like pulped fruit and ran down the thing’s face, but it took no notice. When its interest in the shaft had been spent it tossed it aside, once again raising its rude club.

     With a trembling arm Questor sent a second arrow speeding at the ogre’s other eye, hoping perhaps to blind it, but the shaft when wide and clattered into the darkness. The ogre moved closer, and Questor could once again smell its rank breath on the wind. A third arrow grazed the thing’s arm, raising a gash, but failed to stick. When he reached into his quiver for to re-nock his bow, he found the quiver empty.

     The ogre lifted the massive bludgeon high above its head to strike.

     I am about to die, thought Questor the elf.

     “The sword, son.”

     His father’s ghost gestured to where the sword stood in the dungeon floor.

     “The sword,” said the ghost once again, and Questor seized it.

     The blade glowed with an eldritch blue light, and seemed to shake in his fist like a rattling-snake. He lifted it. Though it was more than an arm’s length, it was uncommonly light. There was something in that blade the likes of which he could not match word or thought to. Not sorcery; nay, but that opposed to it. The earthy craft of elves. The skill of hand that took fire from a hot forge and laid it in cold steel so the metal bit with the same ferocity. The certainty of touch which knew when a blade’s edge had been keened to deadliness. And the temperament which tempered dense metal so that it would lift light in the hand of the wielder, and land with woeful weight upon foe. The simple disciplines needed, nay, demanded during the creation of something greater and more powerful than the creator.

     Questor looked at his father’s ghost. It was smiling warmly at him. Questor smiled back.

     With a power in his hand he had never felt stringing a bow or nocking an arrow, Questor put all his strength behind his father’s sword, and thrust at the ogre where he imagined the beast’s black, ichorouus heart to be.

     The sword shattered.

     The ogre brought the club down on Questor’s head, and all gave way to blackness.

****************

     When Questor awoke, he saw his own corpse being dragged by the ogre into the cave’s dim corner. The skull had been pushed in by a mighty blow, and the corpse’s eyes were wide with shock.

     “Welcome to the Cold, son,” said his father. 

     Questor stood. He had become luminous as a will-of-the-wisp, and realized a certain lightness to his being, as if beneath water. There was no pain. 

      “But,” he stuttered, “the sword….”

     His father chuckled, and picked the jagged hilt from the cave floor.  

     “The first rule of swordsmithing,” said his father, “is to keep overhead low. Common tinker’s tin, for example, appears identical to angel steel when rubbed with red sand and burnished. It’s not nearly as strong, of course.”

     His father tossed the hilt to the ground, where it fell among the glittering shards of the blade.

     “Any blacksmith worth his bellows can tell true steel from false by touch. But the average shmuck will never know the difference. Until it’s too late.”

     Questor cringed as the ogre tore the corpse’s arm from its socket and began gorging itself on the steaming flesh.

     “You’d foist such repulsive deceit on your own blood?” he whispered.

     “Would and did,” said his father. “It’s a good lesson to learn, son, that things are rarely what they appear to be. It’s one you won’t soon forget, I think. But enough of that. While the ogre was bashing your head in, I had an idea.”

     Questor strove to speak, but discovered himself quite wordless.

     “With all this modern, engine-made weaponry you say is flooding the market, there may be an opportunity to prosper. Imagine, son, a shop that sells only hand-forged swords, each painstakingly made by a single blacksmith in the traditional style. Old-fashioned swords. Correction: ‘olde’-fashioned swords. We’ll add an ‘e’. It’s more antiquated that way.”

     The ogre belched.

     “We’ll make a few at a time and spread word in the markets that they’re in short supply,” continued his father, eyes wide with excitement, “And we won’t sell them at just any stall. We’ll make people come here to get them.”

     “Here?” said Questor, bepuzzled.

     “This dungeon’ll make a perfect smithy. There’s plenty of room for the forge, and when your friend is finished, um, dining, we can put the bellows in that corner. Lots of  rich idiots will trek out here to watch a couple ghosts forge the blades of yesteryear. Hey; ‘The Blades Of Yesteryear.’ I like that. I can see it on a shingle.”

     “I know nothing of blacksmithing, father,” Questor croaked.

     “You have nothing but time to learn, son,” grinned his father. “Until Pu-erh plays the ypsiler on the Morning of Adjudication, you have time. You may find death has rendered you a little more acceptable to new ideas.”

     His father waved to Questor’s corpse. The ogre was scooping its mashed brains out like meat from a shellfish and devouring them.

     “After all, there’s nothing like a fight with an ogre to open your mind.”

     Laughing, he put an arm around Questor’s shoulder and led him, luminous and speechless, forever into the dark heart of the dungeon.

Another One Bytes The Dust

Stick-in-the-mud critics often condemn video games on the grounds they make death far too palatable and inconsequential. As a lifelong gamer, I agree with the sticks. 

Gamers do not think about death very often. We kill, or are killed, and move on. Any pause for thought given as to what lies beyond the electronic veil is quickly un-paused as fresh lives are offered up to be treated as carefully or recklessly as we see fit.

I believe we need to give video game death the attention it deserves. 

This blog will re-examine and re-imagine the deaths of our most beloved game characters; the heroes, villains, bosses and mini-bosses who met their ends at our hands and fingers. 

We will attempt to lend dimension to existences limited by such earthly constraints as pixels, RAM and memory.

And, above all, we will use their final moments to explore who they were, what they might have been, and how those left behind felt when they were gone.

After all, their health bars may have been empty, but that doesn’t mean they had no life.