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[Fiction] Jager - Der Vollkommene Mann (AU)

Anna 'Quanta' Alameda

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"Der vollkommene Mann, we have cornered the fugitive in the bunker."

The perfect man looked at his second-in-command with glacial blue eyes before tilting his angular chin down once in a curt nod. "Wunderbar," was all he said as he strode towards the concrete mound that sheltered one of the most sought-after beings of the entire war. Outfitted in black leather that clung to every muscle of his flawless form, he was everything that the Fuhrer's troops aspired to be, the specimen that epitomised the Aryan ideal.

He was Jager, der vollkommene Mann - the Perfect Man.

One fist shattered the bunker's roof as if it were made of matchsticks, powdered concrete coating the man who sat peacefully inside. Jager's other hand grabbed a handful of shirt and physically hauled the man out, who improbably kept his lotus position despite the sudden motion. Even as he was thrown into the ruins of a nearby brick building, the man maintained his faint smile and lotus position, landing heavily on his back. He merely rearranged himself with his hands and watched the Perfect Man with unblinking dark eyes.

Jager sneered down at the scar-faced man before grabbing his shock of brown hair and lifting him from the ground. But not a wince crossed the leathery features of the man, even when Jager shook him like a rag and flung him halfway across the street into another building. He merely righted himself and continued to smile and watch.

"Are you Franklin Alden?" the Perfect Man snarled in accented English.

"Some call me that," the man admitted, his drawling Virginian accent still evident in his calm speech. "But who are you?"

"Der vollkommene Mann," Jager answered with pride.

Franklin Alden laughed. "Ain't that a lil' arrogant there?"

Blood flew in a trail from his nose as Jager punched him. "How dare you mock me, spy!"

"Mock you? It's the plum truth," Franklin answered, wiping his nose. "Y'all Germans are a pretty arrogant bunch, and losing two wars ain't taught you much humility."

Jager punched him again, cracking a cheekbone. "Ve have von ze var."

"Tell that to y'all friends runnin' home from France."

The Perfect Man was getting ready to strike the insolent American again when his second-in-command caught his fist. "We must bring him in for interrogation," the stocky man reminded his superior. Jager snarled but nodded in agreement, grabbing Franklin Alden by the hair to drag him to a convoy.

But no matter how hard he tried, he could not lift him.

Franklin smiled up at Jager. "You plannin' on goin' somewhere, boy?"

Being called 'boy' by an American was the final straw for the Perfect Man. If he could not have Franklin Alden interrogated in a secure location, then he would leave his corpse for the advancing Allied forces. He lost count of how many times he punched him in the head and face until his arm got tired, but when he was finished, he looked down and swore.

Franklin Alden's face was already healing of its cuts and bruises, his nose settling into a lump of twisted bone and his teeth chipped but shown by a broad grin. "Y'all done now?" he taunted. "This kinda tickles."

Jager drew his pistol and fired multiple shots into the man's head, but all it did was leave swiftly healing scars that added to those on Franklin's face. What manner of man was he?

Screaming with fury, the Perfect Man started to twist Alden's neck, intending to break it. But it would not bend no matter how he tried. Like the rock which withstood the flood, Alden handled any type of violence Jager unleashed on him.

It took six lesser men to drag away the Perfect Man as orders came in to retreat back to Berlin. All the while, Franklin Alden watched, and smiled, and remained in the lotus position.



"Aaaaand, you did this, why?"

Two old soldiers sat together in the shadowed corner of Clark's, sharing a bottle of vintage whiskey. It was the age of secret warfare and remote killing, and both felt a little out of place, even if they had been enemies once...

Well, one had been the enemy. The other had felt rather sorry for him.

"You weren't no perfect man, 'cause there ain't no such thing," Alden answered as he took a pull from the bottle and handed it to Jager. "Plus..."

"Plus what?"

"It was worth seeing the look on y'all faces when I didn't go down!"

Jager laughed sheepishly. "I did take myself seriously, ja?"

"I was like that inna Great War. You grow outta it sooner or later."

"Like we grow out of most things," Jager finally said, looking at the television screen. Mr. Majestic was dispersing some skinhead rally in Berlin. "Won't they ever learn...?"

"At least that flyin' SOB's earnin' his keep for a change 'stead'a just flyin' around and annoyin' honest superhumans," Alden pointed out. "I mean, y'all remember that boy with the... ah...."

"'Anti-clothing ray'?" Jager finished with a smirk. "Mein freund, I envied you your blindness that day!"

Both men laughed and returned to drinking, watching another perfect man make an idiot of himself on the television.


NB: Yes, I got in the Wildstorm homage. wink Jager is a Nazi's wet dream, Singularity was just too cool to pass up, and how could I not base it in the Second World War?

Enjoy peeps!

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