LadyTevar wrote:However, if you recall how the German rocket scientists were spirited away to America and Russia. I can see the Juicers also being smuggled out of post-war Germany and 'pardoned' in exchange for their knowledge.
Well, of course. I'm talking about the origins of the field- who's going to be the first to sink something on the order of a billion dollars into programs to inject people with unstable performance-enhancing drugs that kill 80% of their subjects and have self-proclaimed sorcerers wave their hands over them?
If juicing were less dangerous to the test subjects, or less technically difficult, I'd say that the answer could be "anyone;" we'd be as likely to see a small army of Captain Americas coming first as we would to see a small army of Die Ubermenschen. But with the high mortality and the sheer weirdness factored in, Nazi Germany starts to seem like the perfect match for the origins of juicing... as I believe that Imperial Overlord already made explicit in the other thread.
The newsreel was running as Adam entered the theater. Some nonsense involving parades somewhere. The announcer was droning on and on. He found an empty seat near the middle and sat down. He settled in and looked at the screen. Nazis. Of course. No one went in for parades like Nazis did.
"The birthday celebration climaxed with the unveiling of a superman," continued the announcer. "Reporters from all over the world were on hand to witness the unveiling of this paragon of the so-called master race." The film was now showing images of a paragon of German perfection striding onto a stage in front of the crowd. He has stripped to the waist and had blond hair, light eyes, and perfect musculature.
Adam was paying more attention now. "Ten to one he's a poseur," he whispered to himself. The German lifted a huge barbell. Adam sat up straight. Men came on stage and beat him with bats. He didn't flinch. Didn't fall. Didn't bleed. Wood splintered, broke, shattered.
"Unbelievable," the announcer continued. "A real life Superman. SS head Heinrich Himmler claims that he's just one of many. If that's true the balance of power in Europe has certainly shifted in Germany's favor."
Adam got up from his seat and started walking out of the theater. He wasn't in the mood to see a movie anymore.
May 15, 1939
Hans Zimmermann fidgeted nervously in the chair. It was hard and uncomfortable. The interview room was unfurnished except for the table, chairs, lights, and the one way mirror. The two government me wore good suits, but each of them was over six feet tall with muscles as hard as any dock hands. They were not paper pushers. They were polite, but firm.
"I told you," said Zimmermann, "I'm here voluntarily. I want to defect. Leaving Germany was not easy. I just want protection."
"Sure," said the older of the two men. He sat down in front of Hans. "And what is it exactly that you have for us."
"I already told you people this," Hans said with more than a little exasperation in his voice.
"Tell it to us again doc," said the younger one.
"As I said," repeated Zimmermann, "I worked for the SS. I have detailed knowledge of their superhuman creation program. First hand knowledge, including techniques and formulas."
"So this superman they showed to the world, there is more than one?" said the older one.
"They have a score of second stage super humans like him," said Zimmermann, "and more than a hundred first stage. Almost all of them manufactured, at considerable expense. And they're getting better at it."
"So they made him?" said the younger one. "And they have others?"
"Yes, yes," said Zimmermann impatiently. These FBI men were so slow. "And they will have even more of them."
"So why are you turning traitor?" said the older man.
"Because if this is not stopped those who will inherit Germany won't be human or German," said Zimmermann. "They will be monsters with the powers of gods. I have seen what I have seen and done what I have done, God help me."
"But you know what they did, right?" asked the younger one. "You can give us the formula to make our own super soldiers right?"
"I can give you Compound Eight," said Zimmermann. "It is the most advanced of our formulas. There are potentially lethal side effects, but it will create first and second stage super humans."
"And you want a new identity and protection, right?" asked the older man.
"Yes."
"And you'll cooperate completely?"
"Absolutely."
"Why didn't you go to England?" asked the younger one. "Why America?"
"America is further away," said Zimmermann. "England is far too close to Germany."
"The English have the second strongest navy in the world."
"You don't understand how little that will mean," said Zimmermann.
"Why don't you tell us about it?" said the older man.
"My deal?"
"You have it, if you can deliver what you say you can."
"I can. I want it in writing."
"You'll have it," said the older man. "It'll take some time to type up and to get the right people to sign it. Want some coffee?"
"No thank you."
"A sandwich?"
"No. I would like some water."
"Jim, go get us some water and get the paper work started. Doctor Zimmermann, why don't you give us some background on the project while we're waiting."
"My deal?"
"I'm not asking for the science, just the background. While we wait.
"Very well," said Zimmermann. "It started with Der Nekromant."
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
Amusing that Zimmerman's turning traitor because his Ubermensch aren't "German" enough for him.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
A self-aware German who likes being German will know quite well what the admirable qualities of his people are, and it's not hard to see how he would not perceive them in a bunch of chemically enhanced brutes trained by the SS as shock troopers.
Black looked down from the catwalk. The floor was covered in restraint equipped tables and more than half of them had occupants. Experimental subjects were lead into the room one at a time from airlock like waiting room that prevented the herd being held in the processing area from panicking. Burly guards marched each one to a table. A lot of them fought, but resistance was futile. The prisoners were far from well fed and the SS men chosen for that particular duty were big, strong, and well trained. The prisoner ended on a table with a minimum of fuss either way.
Lange was on the floor watching half the room. Black had the other half. Between them every subject was covered. Those who developed abilities would be dealt with either by the men with rifles on the catwalks or the men on the ground with pistols and submachine guns. Black looked at his watch. They were going to fall behind schedule. He started to pace.
Eventually the last subject was brought in and strapped down. "Begin the Compound Five injections," said Black. Doctors and assistants circulated around the tables, injecting their helpless victims with a blue-green fluid.
For several minutes nothing happened. Then a teenager started screaming and writhing against the bonds. He went into convulsions as an old woman started screaming. Then a seven year old boy. The room filled with an unearthly cacophony as the cries of the dying filled the room.
"Not bad," said Black.
"What?" asked Zimmermann, who was standing beside him.
"I said not bad!" Black, repeated, louder. "Only lost half so far!"
The screaming died down. Pulses were checked and the dead were unstrapped and taken from the room. Black pointed towards one man. "Table BF!" he shouted. Heat shimmers were dancing around the blond man strapped to the table. Tiny flames flickered into existence all over the man's body. Three gunshots roared out as the flames roared up, two rifle shots from above and a pistol shop from the laboratory floor. The flames died, leaving a corpse covered in burns with blood and brains leaking from his skull.
"Burns," said Zimmermann. "A terminal reaction."
"Yes, yes," said Black. "But one with power surge." He waved it away. "The autopsy may be more informative." A woman screamed as her skin melted away. The scream became a gurgle as her flesh started sloughing off.
"So many horrors," said Zimmermann.
"There is no shortage of bad ways to die," said Black. "Their bodies are more informative that those who perish of more conventional shock and organ failure."
More gunshots rang out as another victim was killed, this time on Lange's orders. Another two people convulsed and died. "Down to the last handful," said Black. He saw power coursing through and around one of the subjects, a middle aged man with streaks of white in his hair and beard. "Table G!" Black called out.
Shots rang out. Slugs dropped fell to the table and the floor like coins flung to a beggar. A half dozen more rounds were fired and the bullets failed to strike the man. His hair stood at end as did that of the prisoners on the tables around him.
"Someone kill that fucking Jew," said Black. More shots rang out. Electricity arced around the prisoner's limbs. The bolts on the restraints exploded and he slid off the table. Lightning flased from his hand, twisting in mid air and struck the SS man two meters away with a pistol. Charred meat, barely recognizable as human, hit the ground. Gunfire filled the room with thunder and bullets fell around him like rain.
"If you want something done right," muttered Black and extended his hand. A lance of incandescent flame shot from his hand and engulfed the Lightning Man. It persisted for several seconds. When it faded there was nothing left of him but ash and blackened bones. The three prisoners closest to him were covered were burned and screaming.
"Unfortunate," said Black. "That would have been a useful autopsy. It's a good thing we take tissue samples beforehand."
May 15, 1939
"Wait," said the older agent. "Are you telling me this Schwartz can shoot fire?"
"Among other things," said Zimmermann. "The discovery that some subjects can immediately manifest powers that allow them to take on armed guards was greeted with both joy and apprehension. The metal man happened later and-"
"Wait. Metal man?"
"He turned himself into some kind of living metal statue. Completely bullet proof, of course, and he wasn't harmed by Schwartz's flames. Schwartz was able to calm him down and lead him to a place where he could be disposed of. I don't know the details. After that we had twenty millimeter cannons rigged up to cover the whole room. He was the last straw. It was bad enough before hand but seeing Schwartz talk a man into letting himself being killed like a cow in a slaughterhouse instead of kill us all meant that Schwartz could do that to anybody. It didn't matter who was Schwartz's superior because with his powers he could make anyone do what he wanted. Anyone."
The Excellent Prismatic Spray. For when you absolutely, positively must kill a motherfucker. Accept no substitutions. Contact a magician of the later Aeons for details. Some conditions may apply.
I asked ImpO in IMs if the Necromancer was gaining power from the juiced-up Jews.
Turns out he can't because he is using "sorcery" to steal his tricks from other learned people. Juicing alters the body chemistry to give people meta-gifts, so they're not *learning* their powers, or even having full knowledge of what/how the powers work. No learning, nothing to steal.
Nitram, slightly high on cough syrup: Do you know you're beautiful?
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
