Archive of Our Own

The Christoph von Galen National Military Hospital is supposed to be a breath-taking building. Carved into the highest hills, towering over the land car expressways that snake through the capital’s bluffs, it’s the first thing most civilians see when they approach the Imperial City’s heart. It has its own drawbridge, space elevator, and launching pad. The best surgeons in the Empire compete for the right to work in its theaters.

Mittermeyer hates it immediately.

It's the lighting, he thinks as he signs himself in. The lights in these places are always the same power-saving, migraine-inducing strips. Probably the same third-rate contractor, minimizing quality to maximize on profit. The refresh rate is off, just the smallest fraction too slow. He can feel it like a second eyelid twitching. Same as the base mess halls, the laundry facilities.

The prisons.

He pinches at the bridge of his nose, taking a moment to recalibrate his brain. That's not what he's here for, and he's not known for being dramatic. He sees the receptionists in their bright non-combatant's uniforms and focuses on asking for directions.

“Isolation ward,” they tell him. A step up from Intensive Care, he thinks, though how much he couldn't say. He's used to field hospitals with their rows and rows of tanks, mostly meant to warehouse patients. Mittermeyer knows the layout of every destroyer in his fleet, yet he's always hopeless in these sprawling, historic buildings.

A right, a left, another right. A sheepish about-face to backtrack the way he came. He can feel Reuenthal laughing long before he sees him, his lanky shadow the only thing familiar in a world of healing beige.

Reuenthal has positioned himself at the center of a T junction, like he knew Mittermeyer was preparing to take another inappropriate right. Beyond him, to the left, is a MP checkpoint more extensive than the ones outside. Mittermeyer can see the tell-tale bulk of power armor peeking out from under their drab on-planet fatigues.

They appear to be blocking a suspiciously closed fire door. If not for the bars on his uniform, Mittermeyer would bet money the enforcers would be over here telling him this section was off limits, sorry, ‘outbreak containment’ in progress.

"Nice of you to join us," Reuenthal says. The farthest edges of his lips quirk up, model-pretty, even though his smile is teasing. "I thought we might have to send a search party for your search party."

Mittermeyer doesn't bother taking the bait. Space he knows like the twist's in Eva's hair. It's buildings and bureaucracy that foul him up.

"Got delayed by the safecrackers," he says, which is true. Of the thirteen estates to be raided, the Prime Minister's official residence had by far been the most carefully guarded. "Seems our fair weather friend had it in an undocumented personal vault."

Which lends credibility to the accusations, doesn't it? If Lichtenlade had been loyal, would he not have been keeping the Seal of State in his office at the Ministry?

Then again, even a sparrow knows which way the wind is blowing. Maybe Lichtenlade had simply realized that without a common enemy, he might be the next to lose.

Reuenthal’s eyes flick down to Mittermeyer's empty hands.

"You found it though?"

Mittermeyer nods.

"I tried to bring it to the Commander directly, but we couldn’t reach him at his residence.”

Whatever glimmer of amusement he'd imagined on Reuenthal's lips slides away and curdles. He shakes his head.

"He hasn't been there since we hit the atmosphere. He was supposed to leave under doctor's advice, but..."

Reuenthal points a long, elegant finger at the MP most directly guarding the door. Clean-cut man, no beard, barely a day over twenty. Another one for the baby-face brigade. He does have to admire the man’s resolve in the face of Reuenthal’s gaze.

"His Grace declined his escort," the MP says simply.

Reuenthal shrugs.

"He sent the car away empty. Cute, but it won't fool a dedicated assassin."

Mittermeyer leans in.

"You think there's still risk?"

Reuenthal jerks his head toward the fire door.

"He does."

Mittermeyer takes a step toward the unit. The master-at-arms in charge shifts like breathing. One moment he’s off to the side observing. In the next, he’s in lock step right beside the point guard, the pair of them just as impenetrable as the blast doors.

"We're under orders to remain," the man says stodgily.

“I’m aware of that,” Reuenthal says, with a shortness that screams ‘history’. “He’s on the list."

He swivels toward the baby-faced MP. Alsdorf? His name plate is so reflective in the blinding light that it's hard to read.

"He's on the list," Reuenthal says shortly. "Admiral Mittermeyer."

They take both his ID and his retina match, as well as a palm swab for trace explosives.

"Your service weapon, please," the MA asks, holding out a carbon fiber box. He notes they not only inspect his blaster, but remove the charge cart and lock it in a separate compartment altogether.

“And if you could please stand with your feet apart,” the young MP asks. “I just need to perform a scan.”

Mittermeyer draws in a breath.

“I can empty my pockets,” he offers reluctantly. He tries not to let his thoughts show on his face. It’s routine to surrender arms when in private with a superior officer. Vanishingly less common for an admiral to be frisked, like their place in the leadership matters for nothing.

The Prime Minister’s Seal feels like a brand in his pocket, like its small case is gilded with live wire.

“Alsdorf” at least has the manners to look apologetic.

“I’ll still need to check.”

"Understood."

They pat him down and for a heart-stopping moment, he thinks they're going to take the Seal. Alsdorf pulls it out and hands it to his superior, who twists the cover this way and that. Then he opens it and his expression shutters.

He hands it back and says nothing.

“All clear,” Alsdorf pronounces to the rest of the squad, who have been waiting like great, silent ghosts. They open the doors without fanfare or sound, watching Mittermeyer and Reuenthal the whole time.

"Thank you," Mittermeyer says needlessly, not sure what else to do with this energy. None of the MPs say anything, but he can feel their eyes crawling over his skin, his pockets, the pocket.

Beyond the fire doors, the care unit appears unremarkable, at least in its layout and design. A central nurses’ station is ringed by a number of patient rooms, all of them shut with the blinds pulled. One uniformed guard sits with the nurses while another patrols the unit in a circle.

The active duty guards don't bear the epaulets of the military police though, nor any fleet unit he recognizes. Hospital security? Surely then they’d be in groundie gear. These must be private, which means in truth: spooks.

"This has his name all over it, doesn’t it?" Mittermeyer says under his breath. He doesn’t have to put in much vitriol for Reuenthal to get it. Reuenthal shares his distaste for the Chief of Staff, Oberstein.

"Insurance," Reuenthal says, equally softly. He subtly jerks his head back toward the fire door.

Mittermeyer bites his lip and nods. It makes sense, in a terrible way. The military police have jurisdiction over Odin and they also report to Oppenheimer, who was loyal to Littenheim.

Last Mittermeyer had heard, Oppenheimer had suddenly renounced that allegiance. He’d supported the Lippstadt League under duress. It’s clear at least the snake doesn’t trust that as far as he can slither.

Mittermeyer wonders how many others on this ward report to Oberstein, whether Reinhard is even aware.

"This way," Reuenthal says, a little forcibly. The nurses’ heads turn as one to watch them as they pass, with an intensity that borders on the unnerving.

They walk past the door that has “Kircheis, S.” displayed on it and stop instead at an unmarked room. Again, "cute". Mittermeyer understands the intent behind psychological tactics - of course he does - but he also knows at most it can only buy so many seconds. The Lichtenlades could tell stories about that, for all the good it did them.

He'd only had the official residence and yet he can still hear the screams of the concubines in their bunkers, trying their best to barricade with bookshelves and mattresses. Terrified of what else Mittermeyer might be there to take.

Reuenthal raps his knuckles on the door, once, twice, three times. He doesn't seem surprised he receives no response.

"Shall we?" he says, one hand already on the latch.

Mittermeyer doesn't know why his tongue feels so dry in his mouth.

Inside, the room is cool and dark, darker than he was prepared. The ceiling swoops claustrophobically low, one smooth surface, like the whole cell--room was fabricated at once. No windows, only one vent; no escape because the door is already behind them. The overheads don't flicker because the only lights are recessed safety strips running the length of the room.

Night-cycle, his brain supplies crazily, they give you the night cycle because even if you’re on planet the flood lights would ruin your health without windows. That's the hardest punishment in solitary, when they leave on the brights and wait until you have nothing but your screams.

Gods. Get it together.

He digs his nails into his fists and orients himself again, and now he can see more of what he’d expected. The hospital bed and its monitors, on one side of the room. Maybe that was the only part that he'd expected. Admiral Kircheis is nearly unrecognizable without his red hair, pale and washed out beneath the white sheets. The ruin of his throat is hidden under layers of bandages, as though enough gauze might somehow make up for the parts the laser tore through.

Up top, there’s bioware strapped all over his skin, sensors glued in a mesh pattern over his bare scalp. Holographic readouts grow out of his body like stalks, like infection. Like the caterpillars Eva finds in her garden with spores of fungus bursting from them. It's worse when he realizes what's pulled up beside him.

The bed is high enough that it has rails running down the side for safety - except for the very middle, where a segment is missing. There, like an afterthought, slumped between the bed and a chair, is their commander.

Reinhard von Lohengramm's lanky body is sprawled as though he collapsed halfway between sitting and standing up. His lower half is balanced precariously on a hard, pre-fabricated chair. His upper half is bowed against the bed at an uncomfortable, sea-sick angle, one cheek tilted into the mattress. His golden hair is everywhere, tangled up and dull.

One arm is curled protectively around his head. The other is stretched out along the mattress, reaching out for Kircheis’s hand: almost touching, but not quite.

This should be sweet. It should be sweet and yet the only thing he can think is, it doesn't look real. Reinhard’s not even wearing a full uniform, just a button-down and pants, and that’s something so fundamentally wrong that Mittermeyer doesn’t know what to say. Even at Geiersberg, even when he hadn’t left the med bay for days, Reinhard had still looked vaguely put together.

Here, it’s as though he didn't fall asleep, he shattered.

They should probably go. They should leave and let him be, as uncomfortable as it seems, because if he’s exhausted enough to pass out like this he doesn’t need Mittermeyer and Reuenthal and this stupid Seal. He’s the Gale Wolf because he knows how to take direct, decisive action.

Mittermeyer steps forward and taps Reuenthal on the shoulder, trying to get his attention.

Reinhard’s eyes snap open.

Everything happens in snapshots of motion, all of the world narrowed down to frames. Reuenthal, shifting in front of him. A hand on his chest, shoving back. Reinhard, their leader, the most brilliant man he has ever known, face contorted like a beast. Exploding out of his chair, one hand reaching at his thigh.

At his thigh. Where a holster should be.

What the hell.

For an eternity they stand there, a tableau in bas relief - Reuenthal half-shielding Mittermeyer with his own body; Reinhard, looking but somehow not seeing. His eyes are fever-bright, like quasars, bending all the light in the room to him. This isn't a man, this is a reflex.

Then something in Mittermeyer’s face - maybe Reuenthal's face - catches and the set of Reinhard's focus shifts. His eyes flick to Reuenthal, the way his body is angled in front of Mittermeyer, and in the blink of a breath, he eases.

"Mittermeyer," Reinhard acknowledges with the barest tip of his head. His voice is still thick with sleep, almost syrupy. “Reuenthal.”

Habit cuts in where reason has failed him. Mittermeyer snaps into a salute, letting the motion bleed out some of his tension. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Reuenthal mirror him more slowly.

Reinhard returns the formality, but absently. He releases the greeting and pinches at the bridge of his nose, drawing in a long, low breath.

“My apologies,” he says. “I’m afraid you managed to catch me off guard.”

“We knocked,” Reuenthal replies, a little tersely. From this angle his face is mostly unreadable. His hands are linked in parade rest behind his back, the surest sign that he’s still, but not at ease.

Mittermeyer does catch the way Reinhard's eyes slide back to the bed, to the readouts glowing softly around Kircheis’s head.

"How is he?" Mittermeyer asks, as gently as he can.

The side of the bed has a notch where a tank would be attached if cold sleep were needed. Reinhard runs one finger against it.

“About the same,” Reinhard says. “He did respond to a stimulus this morning.”

“Oh?”

"He turned his head when the day cycle kicked in. 06:00."

"That's…great," Mittermeyer says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster. Maybe it’s a good thing he can’t see Reuenthal’s face. He knows they've both been over the statistics. It's not uncommon for men in a coma to smack their lips, or move, sometimes even cry. It doesn’t mean they’re any closer to consciousness. And for every day a person is under, the less likely it is they will ever wake up.

Admiral Kircheis has been unresponsive for nearly two weeks.

Reuenthal clears his throat in a way that probably doesn't have anything to do with stale air.

"We heard you declined your motorcade. Have you had a chance to take a break?"

Reinhard makes a derogatory noise.

"I've used a tank bed,” he says.

Mittermeyer notices there's no mention of “when."

"Dinner?”

There's an edge to Reuenthal’s questions, a tension that Mittermeyer can't quite define. Worry, he might believe. They've all been worried. At Geiersberg, right after, with Kircheis in cryosleep, he’d just stopped doing anything at all. It was like Reinhard had frozen right along with him, uninterested in anything but the life support readouts.

And Mittermeyer had hoped it would get better on-planet, but if anything, Reinhard is paler. Thinner. Eva would take one look at him and sit him down with dumplings, the way she is with Reuenthal when she catches him trying to sneak home without breakfast.

This is consuming him the way the holo displays are eating Kircheis, and none of them know how to make it stop.

"I'm fine," Reinhard insists. There's steel in his voice too, sharp enough to cut. "I need to be here. They say he might respond to a familiar voice."

“Does he have any family?” Mittermeyer asks.

Reinhard shakes his head.

"His parents don’t -- he hasn't seen them for a long time. I've been giving him updates when the nurses come in. If he can hear us, he would want to know what they're doing to him."

Reuenthal doesn't say a word. He's staring at one of the projections, the same one Mittermeyer is trying to avoid. It's a rendering in exquisite 3-D of an outsize brain, just floating there in the dark. Its scale is broad enough to span the width of Kircheis’s shoulders.

The sections around the brainstem pulse with healthy green and yellow light, showing activity. The areas covering the cortex are a dark shell, barely noticeable at all.

“We're making progress on reclaiming the records that the Lichtenlades purged," Reuenthal says after a long moment. "Though some of the cousins are still evading custody.”

"Hm."

Both of them watch as Reinhard shifts, but the only thing he does is lean over the bed. He makes a gesture in the air over one of Kircheis's pulse points, expanding one of the displays.

Is the scale of the Lichtenlade operation truly not for revenge, then? He’s never known Reinhard to be a man who hides his passion. But if there is intel to justify the scope…why hasn’t Reinhard told them?

Bloodline punishment was supposed to die with the old world, and yet, when Oberstein had come to them in that claustrophobic war room on Geiersberg, all of the admirals had seemed resigned. Reuenthal in particular had set his jaw and taken the order like poison. He’d volunteered to lead the round-up of the family roster, with a hardness in his eyes that Mittermeyer never wants to see again.

All Lichtenlade males over the age of ten. No exceptions.

Mittermeyer draws his shoulder blades down his back so it won’t be obvious when he shudders.

In the low light of the holograms, Reinhard’s face looks like a skull.

“Is there anything else you need?” Reinhard asks. “Mittermeyer?”

Gods, so many things. He needs a drink. He needs Eva. He needs to get all this over with and then sleep for the rest of his natural life.

Mittermeyer shoves his hand into his pocket, digging for that thrice-damned seal.

"I -"

Only Mittermeyer can see the way Reuenthal suddenly makes a fist behind his back. He squeezes his fingers tightly together and then flicks them to a flat hand, once, twice. It’s a power armor hand signal. In space, if you're taking a walk and you lose the comms, nonverbals are the only lifeline you have.

Wait. Hold position.

He has no idea what Reuenthal's concern is, but he has always trusted him with his life.

Slowly, he lets the package go.

He waits.

Reinhard gives him a tiny frown but his displeasure doesn't seem focused. He’s looking slightly to the left of Mittermeyer’s location with drooping eyelids.

"Are you sure we can't relieve you?" Reuenthal cuts in. "We can stay here while you use a tank. It would only take an hour."

Long enough to go through at least one REM replacement cycle, at least. Gods, Reuenthal is right. Anyone else he would have relieved from duty ages ago.

It's so easy to buy into the mythos, even when the man himself is collapsing right here.

“It’s not necessary,” Reinhard says.

And he sees him for a moment, under that facade - not Reinhard the genius, not Reinhard the leader, but Reinhard simply as a man. His shoulders sag under the weight of a cape he’s not even wearing. He is fragile, just like anyone.

“It’s only an hour,” Mittermeyer says, as softly as he can. “Please.”

Reinhard blinks, hazy and slow. He takes a deep breath.

Then something changes in the readouts, a percentage or a miniscule trend line, or maybe just the time on the clock. Mittermeyer watches helplessly as the man folds back up, leaving that frozen core in his wake.

“The nurse is coming at 20:45,” Reinhard says dully. “I need to be here in case he responds.”

“We could cover after that,” Reuenthal offers, but it’s too late.

Reinhard’s lips pull back in a rictus.

“If you want to be useful,” he snaps. “Get me a coffee."

Mittemeyer winces. He’s heard their commander use that tone on Bittenfeld, but not Reuenthal. Never Reuenthal.

“Understood.”

Reuenthal’s reply is similarly sub zero. He turns on his heel and breezes out the door.

"We'll be back," Mittermeyer finds himself promising.

Reinhard doesn’t even look up.

He finds himself in the corridor on unsteady legs, marching almost double-time to keep up with Reuenthal's furious pace. The maybe-nurses glower when they approach the desk. It doesn't dissuade Reuenthal in the slightest.

"Where's the nearest coffee machine?" Reuenthal barks.

"Through the east door, look for the archway on the left," one of them replies. They point without ever taking their eyes off Reuenthal.

Mittermeyer waits until they're safely out of sight before he lets loose.

"What the hell was that?" he hisses at Reuenthal. He's not even sure which part he means.

"He's not well," Reuenthal says in short, clipped tones. "Isn’t it obvious? I've been here since four and he's been like this the whole time. I don't think he's slept natural since Geiersberg.”

Mittermeyer sucks in a breath through his teeth.

"You can't tank that long without some kind of damage."

"Exactly. He needs to rest before he collapses."

The coffee machine turns out to be an automated kiosk in a "family waiting nook." Not that Admiral Kircheis has anyone to fill it, apparently. The tiny alcove has three chairs and a small stool for children, but all of them stand empty. No wife, no relatives. Not even an outdated fashion magazine.

If Reuenthal were injured, would anybody be here for him? He's never been able to be in the same room as his father without drinking.

Mittermeyer taps in a coffee order, the first special he sees that looks comforting and sweet. Times like these, he's not going to begrudge himself the sugar in a latte. He needs whole milk and hazelnut to get through this.

"We can try again after the nurse is gone," Mittermeyer suggests.

Reuenthal punches in a macchiato like the machine has insulted him personally.

"He's not going to change his mind." Reuenthal says. "I told you. I've been here."

They both watch the machine light up with soft light as an automatic grinder measures out beans. A holo projected barista smiles at them as she bustles merrily behind the glass. The only color in the room, just out of reach.

"If it were you in there," Mittermeyer says, "I would do the same."

Reuenthal whips his head toward Mittermeyer, brows furrowed. His mouth is hanging open like he can't quite figure what to say.

"Everybody deserves someone, I think."

Reuenthal shakes his head.

"Eva would make you shower at least," he says finally. There's a strange, bitter smile on his lips. “I hope.”

“Well, if it were me, then," Mittermeyer presses.

"If it were you..."

Reuenthal shakes his head.

"It doesn't matter what I would do," he says. "What matters is Lohengramm. Do you really think he would be falling apart if it were you or I in there?"

The coffee machine sends up a holographic burst of fireworks over the top of a beige, nondescript cup. Mittermeyer picks it up and takes a few seconds to pretend at finding a lid. He's not sure how to phrase it.

"Admiral Kircheis has always been...special,” he says. “We're all aware of that. Hell. You defended him against Oberstein."

"I defended him because it was working," Reuenthal retorts. "And because I hate for that hyena to be right."

Mittermeyer grins. "I suppose that's fair."

"Fair," Reuenthal huffs a tiny laugh. "Oberstein's been bleating about 'favoritism' for weeks. You know he's only upset because he's not the favorite."

I could say the same thing about you, Mittermeyer thinks, but doesn't say. Sometimes part of being friends is knowing when not to be honest.

"Except then here we are, proving his point. One man goes down and he takes the entire front with him. We might still be on Geiersberg if Oberstein hadn't stepped in, for gods' sake."

He extracts his own beverage from a sea of sparkles. The miniature chrysanthemums drip through his knuckles like blood.

"The two of them were good as a set, but now…I don’t know,” Reuenthal sighs. “The Commander's not going to leave unless Kircheis does. And Kircheis is a corpse. You know it. I know it.”

Mittermeyer bites down on the rim of his cup, hard. He can feel the fragile paper threaten to tear.

"You're not a doctor."

"You're not this obtuse. We all saw it. He was bleeding out. Even if he does live, it's not going to be the same. What do you think happens if he has brain damage?"
Mittermeyer takes a sip of the velvety foam on his latte. The hint of coffee is familiar ash on his tongue.

"When I was in Central, they had this same coffee," he says slowly. Tasting the shape of the words before he gets them out.

Reuenthal snaps to attention but doesn’t press him. "Central" is one of those things they don’t talk about, even while drinking. Like Reuenthal’s father. Like Reuenthal’s eye.

Mittermeyer takes a long look down at his cup, turning it back and forth in his hands.

“It’s a military prison,” he says. “I mean, they use the same suppliers as everywhere else on base. Only because it’s prison, the budget was less than non-existent. They reused the grounds so they could stretch it longer. It was god awful, but I got used to it. Now I don’t think I could drink it full strength."

He closes his eyes.

"He got me out of there because you promised, we'd be with him."

"I know," Reuenthal says. "Why else do you think I'm here?"

They both turn, backs to the machine, sipping in silence. Sometimes, they're at their best when they can just be together. When they know how each other feels without saying anything at all.

"Do you ever think we've been thinking about this the wrong way?" Reuenthal says finally.

"What?"

"What he needs. What the Empire needs. We've always said it would take new blood. Do you think that it always has to be Lohengramm?"

And like that, he feels his blood turn to ice.

"What's your alternative?" he asks as neutrally as he can, as though he doesn't know what Reuenthal is saying. Not that the tactic is going to work. He knows Reuenthal knows he isn’t dumb.

"The vacuum at the top isn't going to stay vacant forever. Sooner or later, if the Commander doesn’t secure a Prime Minister, someone else will surely, happily angle in. And are we sure we can trust those intentions?"

"Reuenthal!" Mittermeyer warns, but he’s not stopping. If anything, he gets even more animated.

"Why do you think Oberstein wanted to wipe out the Lichtenlades? Because that was him, you know it. You could have told the Commander that tardigrades arranged for Ansbach and he would have gone through with it.”

“We can’t prove-”

Reuenthal seizes his upper arm.

"I was there!” he insists. “I talked to him the night Oberstein brought the order. Everyone knew the timing was suspicious but we weren't going to argue. It was convenient."

His blue eye is stormy, gray enough to sink ships. His brown one is dark as the void.

Between the two of them, Mittermeyer is drowning.

"Did he tell you the charges were fake?" Mittermeyer hisses.

Reuenthal shakes his head.

"Not as such, no. But he told me that I could take the Empire. If I thought I could. He dared me to do it."

"That's -"

It's too many things all piled together. Insanity. Suspicion. Chaos. Ambition.

"Treason." Is what he ends with, though his voice sounds weak.

"Is it though? Think. If it were just the military, we could manage, for a while. The rebels don't have the resources for an incursion, and we’ve absorbed what’s left of the Lippstadt faction. We could keep our fleets on standby until the Commander has his head on again. But if the Lichtenlades aren't in the picture, the home front gets messy. There were other families that stayed out of the fighting. The Mariendorfs.”

“The Count doesn’t seem the type.”

Reuenthal waves a hand.

“Just an example. The point is, we know Kircheis would have been Reinhard’s pick if he were coherent. But he’s not. And His Majesty is seven.”

Reuenthal drains the rest of his coffee in one long pull.

“If the Commander can’t put someone in place, the nobility will. Or Oberstein.”

"And who would you prefer?" Mittermeyer asks, though he's afraid he knows. He can't say it out loud. He won't.

"You have the Seal," Reuenthal says. “You have the ledgers, supply contracts, all of it. Between the two of us, we have everything.”

"I don't have the head for politics!"

He throws his arms out without thinking about it, or the coffee in his hand. Foam splashes onto a painting on the wall, turning Rudolph the Great’s eyes blind.

"Then I can stay here," Reuenthal says. "You could step in for the Commander in space. But we need someone close to the throne. Someone has to command the military. Someone has to complete his vision.”

It's too much. It's too much and he can't think and also, what if Reuenthal is right? They have no idea what Oberstein is thinking, let alone the vultures who are still circling round the Goldenbaum name. If it falls apart now, they'll all end with less than nothing.

All he wants is to be home curled up with Eva, with Reuenthal stretched out in the next room. Having breakfast together in peacetime, where no one has to ship out when the bacon is done.

Decisive action.

"We're getting his coffee, and we're going back," Mittermeyer says.

Reuenthal's face contorts. He looks heartbroken.

Mittermeyer holds up a hand.

"We can ask him at least, can't we? What. Are. His. Plans. We owe him that much.”

Reuenthal crushes his stained, empty cup.

"And does he ever think about what he owes to us?"

“We won’t know unless we ask.”

Reuenthal frowns and opens his mouth, but whatever he was going to say is lost because suddenly his whole body seizes. His fingers dig into Mittermeyer's bicep hard enough to bruise.

"Shit," he swears at something over Mittermeyer’s shoulder.

Mittermeyer whips around just in time to see a familiar streak of white interspersed in limp, oily brown hair, disappearing from the doorway. Oberstein, Oberstein was here and how long had he been listening? Did they catch him, or did he let them see him?

"Do you think he heard?" Mittermeyer asks.

“I don’t think he was there long,” Reuenthal says, but even he looks shaken. “He might have picked up that we’re worried about the Commander.”

Unless the waiting area is bugged. In which case they're almost certainly fucked. But if he only overheard the end of their conversation, the situation should be salvageable - as long as they don't give reason for suspicion.

"We should go," Mittermeyer hears himself say, faintly.

Reuenthal nods like a puppet on a string.

The thirty seconds it takes to brew a simple, plain drip coffee is one of the longest and uncomfortable waits of his life.

Somehow, they make it back to Kircheis's door at the same as Oberstein is coming toward it. Judging from the way his spook pack is hovering, he must have stopped to check in with them at the nurse's station.

"Good evening," Oberstein says in that strange, flat way of his. His glassy, undilating eyes stare straight ahead, barely moving.

He buys those on purpose, Reuenthal had guessed once when they were halfway through a bottle the Chief of the Staff had gifted. There are cybernetics out there that don't look so soulless, but Oberstein stays with the creepy ones because he gets off on being intimidating. And then he'll turn around and send you an expensive wine for Yule just so he can keep you guessing.

Reuenthal shows no sign of being cowed now. He keeps his gaze on Oberstein all through the perfunctory salutes.

“Good evening,” Reuenthal says. “Did he call for you?”

"The Commander did not return to his residence as expected," Oberstein replies.

Reuenthal's lip curls up like a wolf teasing his fangs.

"And you're his keeper?"

“I have been maintaining his schedule.” Oberstein's glacial expression shifts only the slightest. His odd, pinched nostrils flare in, then out, the only hint of emotion he's expressed.

"He had a meeting at 19:30," the Chief of Staff says. "He failed to connect."

Whether that's true, who the hell knows. Reinhard’s known for being a workaholic. They've both received calls at all cycles before, though at least it's rarely without reason.

"He's been here the whole time," Mittermeyer says. "We came to report."

"To the Commander, not you," Reuenthal adds in a tight voice.

Oberstein tilts his head very slightly to one side. It’s less mindful of a puppy than a sharp-eyed crow considering the angles just before it dives.

"I never requested otherwise."

"Well, be warned, he probably won't see you. He sent us out for coffee.”

The bitterness in Reuenthal’s voice isn’t surprising, though how open he’s sharing it with Oberstein is. Mittermeyer wonders sometimes if Reuenthal knows how obvious it is that he craves Reinhard's approval.

“He could make time, if it were important,” Oberstein says, and isn’t that just faintly damning? Either he’s offering to help -- in which case they’d need to disclose -- or he believes what they have doesn’t matter.

Reuenthal's entire upper body seems to inflate, he's drawing in such an angry breath. Mittermeyer cuts him off before he can shoot himself in the foot.

"The Commander indicated that his priority is attending Admiral Kircheis," he says quickly. Oberstein often responds better to data than someone expressing too much of how they feel. "He wasn’t ready to receive our updates.”

Oberstein doesn't narrow his eyes the way another man might. He shows his tension by tightening his entire face.

"And neither of you were allowed to remain?"

"Exactly," Reuenthal says. "We offered to relieve him, and we, ourselves, were relieved."

He does a mocking little twirl with his fingers that has Mittermeyer's heart pounding in his chest. The aristocracy has manners for their manners, but he thinks he remembers this one. It's the gesture a nobleman makes when asking to cut in on the dance floor.

I dare you to do better. An insult.

Oberstein says nothing, responds with nothing. He turns toward the nurse's station and beckons. It's not the uniformed guard that responds, but one of the nurses, a big, broad shouldered man with sideburns like hedges.

"With me," Oberstein says as the 'nurse' approaches. It's unclear if he means them as well, though Reuenthal doesn't wait for confirmation. He shoulders the door open and pushes his way in first, vaguely waving Reinhard's coffee.

Mittermeyer, helpless, chases along after, into whatever hell they're charging into now.

The reaction in the room is immediate and volatile, though at least this time he's expecting it. In the few minutes they'd been away Reinhard had drifted back to his chair but this time, at least, he’s awake enough to hear the door. He's out of his chair instant, eyes roving back and forth over all three of them.

“Mittermeyer,” Reinhard says. "Oberstein?"

Reuenthal shoots him a wounded look at not even being named though he's the one who's setting down the coffee. Mittermeyer doesn't have time for his feelings because Reinhard -- something is wrong, his color's not right. He can see the blood draining right out of his already pallid cheeks, turning his face a waxy, shock white.

Reinhard throws out a hand like he's trying to grab onto the bed rail except he pitches forward, continuing his trajectory without any sign his legs will catch him. He's fainting, or falling, and there is no time to think through the impulse. Disaster training kicks in and Mittermeyer lunges to brace him with his body so he can control the momentum.

Oberstein makes a noise but it's Reuenthal who is with him like a shadow moments later. He gets behind Reinhard and shoves a knee between his legs so they can slide him safely to the
floor. Halfway through, the commander shudders and jerks awake, clawing at Mittermeyer's arms for leverage.

His skin is an inferno.

"He's burning up!" Mittermeyer yelps.

“I know,” Reuenthal growls, scrabbling to get a hand on Reinhard’s hips. “Get him down, I don’t want to drop him!”

Gods. He's sick, not just stressed. That complexion. The way he kept staring. Mittermeyer feels like an absolute idiot, or he will once he has the space to breathe. The commander’s nails bite at him even through his uniform and he looks into those wild, fever-mad eyes.

“It’s okay,” he promises, because that’s the thing you say when everything is on fire.

Reinhard keeps fighting them, now that he's less faint, but the sounds he's making aren't quite becoming words. He elbows back at Reuenthal and uses Mittermeyer as a grip and somehow, awkwardly gets his feet under him enough to stand. All three of them sway together, panting.

Oberstein is saying something to his fake nurse, or maybe it's a real one, because he's ordering the man to get a room ready.

"No!" Reinhard demands. "I'm staying here."

The way he schools all the panic from his face would be impressive, if it weren't so terrifying.

"You're sick," Mittermeyer says incredulously.

"It’s stress,” Reinhard says. As though the only possible concern could be that he’s contagious to Kircheis. “Just need something to knock it on the head.”

He pushes sideways like he's trying to wiggle out between them but Reuenthal's leg is still holding him fast. Mittermeyer ends up catching him about the waist. Fucking hell, his hip bones are like knives.

“You need to eat,” he tells him. “And sleep natural. Or my wife will knock all of us on the head for being useless.”

Oberstein turns to his man and for once, Mittermeyer doesn't entirely pity the person on the other end of that unnerving gaze.

"Has he been refusing treatment?"

"He wouldn't consent to a room-”

"Then bring. A bed. In here," Oberstein says. "That would be acceptable, would it not, sir?"

His last question is directed to Reinhard, though it’s not clear he’s listening. His eyes are half-shuttered again, like it’s taking all his energy just to hold his stance.

Through it all, his one hand keeps reaching for the bed. For Kircheis.

"We can stay while you get checked out," Mittermeyer says past the lump in his throat. "You trust us, don't you?"

It's an eternity before he nods yes.

The next several minutes are another blur. Oberstein's "nurse" leaves and returns with several presumably-real ones and they descend to pull Reinhard to them. They urge Mittermeyer and Reuenthal to the hall, citing something about patient confidentiality, as even more white-coats rush in.

Somehow Oberstein is still standing there, shadowy and unnoticed as one of the fixtures, and something hot and tight like rage ignites in Mittermeyer’s chest.

"Hey," Mittermeyer calls before he can think better of it, "aren't you coming?"

Oberstein's mouth gets a tiny, egg-suck expression, but at last he follows. He doesn’t deign to speak to either one of them. Instead, he takes out his holophone and vanishes, off to do God-knows-what.

Good riddance.

They take point outside the door, feeling stupid. Looking stupid. They don't even have permission to bear arms right now, some fucking guards they are.

Reuenthal lets out a shaky breath.

“I tried to warn you,” he says, though his voice barely carries. “That he wasn’t himself. Though I didn’t expect…”

Mittermeyer nods, only-half paying attention. Physically sick, mentally sick…does it really change anything? If the supreme commander remains incapacitated, who actually do they trust to lead? The Emperor is too young to make decisions without a regent. And they can follow their chain of command but at the heart, does he believe this new fleet’s going to stand?

They blew up every last power structure the dynasty had, and now it’s resting on its grisled bones.

"He could take everything," Reuenthal says, so softly that it's barely audible. “It wouldn’t even be hard.”

The uniformed patrolman sweeps by with hawk-like eyes. They say nothing.

An indeterminable amount of time later, the doctors and nurses start to file out. One of them must have alerted Oberstein, because there he is, turning up like a bad pfennig. He rounds the nurses’ station carrying what looks like a full-scale holo projector.

Mittermeyer looks at Reuenthal.

Reuenthal looks at him.

They slide as one to become a wall and block the door together.

Oberstein’s eyes catch the light at an odd angle and glow, not blue like they appear, but a neon, dangerous red. Mittermeyer refuses to let it bother.

“Can it wait?” he growls.

“I have an urgent message,” Oberstein says. “It will only take a few minutes.”

Reuenthal squeezes his jaw so tight it audibly creaks.

"You can't be serious," he grinds out. “He’s ill.”

"It's time sensitive," Oberstein insists. “And it pertains to Admiral Kircheis’s treatment. He will rest better if he has the news.”

It might be true. It might be true, or it might be an excuse to get the Commander alone, to drip him whatever venom the snake has in his plans.

He could take everything. It wouldn’t even be hard.

Mittermeyer licks his lips.

“I don’t believe you,” he challenges.

The red, dead light sweeps over him with an intensity he’s never seen. Flattened lips, hands in fists. He’s not sure anyone has ever seen Oberstein this angry up close.

“The War Council asked for my assistance when they last met. You should remember. You were there, admirals."

"That was a crisis situation-"

"That situation is still ongoing," Oberstein breathes. "I am meeting that need. Now, unless you want to tell the Commander why Admiral Kircheis’s care is being delayed?"

Next to him, Reuenthal visibly grimaces. Ever-so-slightly, he inclines his head.

“...all right,” Mittermeyer says.

When he opens the door, they follow him in.

There are now two beds side by side in the room, close enough that it almost seems like one expansive mattress. Reinhard lays curled up shallowly on his side, one arm attached to a thin, clear IV. His other hand is picking feebly at the guardrail keeping him on his bed - the rail that is separating him from Kircheis.

And Oberstein, in the middle of this, proceeding like it doesn't affect him at all.

“Commander,” he calls out. “You have a call from Countess Grünewald.”

“My sister!?”

Reinhard rocks his entire body to one side in a desperate attempt to sit up. He can't quite make it. Not just saline in that IV then, unless he’s even more sick than Mittermeyer feared. He winds up tipping onto his back, head lolling along at its own pace.

As he changes position, holo charts spring up from his chest like a cursed suit vest. Blood oxygen percentage, Mittermeyer thinks, and heart rate for certain. The blipping line of the commander’s pulse is jagged and increasing.

"Is she safe?"

His eyes are twin chips of ice, boring directly into Mittermeyer.

“She’s secure,” he confirms. “Admiral Kessler is our liaison with the palace guard. He has a watch on all approaches to Neue Sanssouci.”

Oberstein sets the holoprojector on a table.

"I was able to arrange a make-up audience. We have a short window."

Reuenthal makes a frustrated noise and Mittermeyer can’t help but agree with him. It’s all artificial, he wants to scream, all of it. Isn’t it? The old bastard is dead, does anyone care who his concubines talk to? Unless it’s Lohengramm himself who is too much of a threat.

The hologram whirs to life in sudden, crystal clarity, and it takes his breath away.

He's seen the Countess in official vids before, of course, and gossip rags and memes; occasionally, the deep fake porn he's confiscated from his men. He's learned not to put too much stock in palace footage, because the palace’s digital artists are always there to enhance a courtesan's beauty. Raw, unfiltered, he can finally see the truth.

The real Annerose von Grünewald is an angel, every inch as bewitching as her sibling. She sweeps into the room and the whole room breathes with her, scattering light from her long, golden hair. The official artists make her seem small, but in reality she towers just as tall as Reinhard. His commander, with longer hair and a softer, sweetheart's chest, but otherwise they're a perfect set. The same delicate jawline, supple skin, eyes like a sculptor wept to mold them. The translucent hologram does nothing to take away from her beauty. If anything, it makes them both seem more rare.

Mittermeyer shivers. They should go, this should be private, and yet he can't look away.

"Sister," their commander says, and his voice is so choked with emotion.

"Reinhard," the Countess sighs. "And Sieg. Oh, Sieg."

Her avatar turns in the direction of the bed, reaching as though she can really touch them. Reinhard's chest makes a wet sound, caught between a cough and a sob.

“Admiral Oberstein told me what happened,” the Countess says.

Reinhard shoots the man a deeply betrayed look. Oberstein takes it as calmly as he does everything.

"Admiral Kircheis requires long term care," he says. "With a trusted individual to assist him in coming back to himself. Lady Grünewald has offered to support him at this time."

Reinhard frowns.

“You would be a target,” he says.

He picks at the bandage on the back of his hand, as though it holds the secret to all his mistakes.

“With respect,” Oberstein says, “she is already a target.”

“But-”

The lady shakes her dazzling head. Her arms spread out, beatific: an artist's immaculate vision of a martyr.

"I owe it to him," she says.

There's an urgency there Mittermeyer does not understand, but Reinhard clearly does. He holds his tongue and Oberstein, lying in wait, continues.

“There is a facility in Neue Elster," he says. "State-of-the-art, with living facilities for family. He could be transferred there along with a regiment of the guard."

In the country, nearly two hundred kilometers away. Deceptively close, yet impractical for a regular land car commute. Keeping both of them secure but isolated. Keeping their commander isolated.

Gods, this is how it comes together then, the whole, despicable picture. Oberstein doesn't even have to invent a reason to get rid of Kircheis, the long-hated ‘second in command’. He can do it with kindness.

Beside him, Reuenthal has gone quiet as death.

Hopeless fury sears within his throat, like acid, and Mittermeyer loses it.

"You can't-"

"Can't what?"

Reinhard looks at him like he's only just remembered they are here, and isn't that the worst part of all? How ultimately superfluous they are to this plan. To Reinhard’s life.

Admiral Kircheis, with a trusted caretaker beside him. He’s sworn his life, his soul, to this man, and yet he can’t give him anything better than that.

He has no grounds to object.

“...nothing.”

Reinhard turns back to the visage of his sister, looking up at her like she hung the stars.

"You would accept protection?"

"For Sieg," the lady stresses. There’s a hint of iron under that velvet, maybe a touch of history, but whatever it is, it’s clearly between them, like all the rest of it.

"We should leave you alone to discuss," Oberstein pronounces, though they all already know the outcome. He sweeps toward the door, triumphant.

"Admirals?" he asks.

Mittermeyer bites down on the inside of his cheek, but he doesn’t resist. He knows as sure as anyone when it’s time to retreat.

Outside, the corridor light is unforgiving. Reuenthal and Mittermeyer take their positions as before. Oberstein glides forward, away to the unknown.

He doesn't even look back.

"I told you," Reuenthal says under his breath, but Mittermeyer is very far away.

Oberstein will offer Annerose and Kircheis protection. She'll take it because she feels responsible for him, it seems. And Reinhard, grateful, will go along with it. Whether it leaves him grateful enough to sway personnel decisions, without Kircheis, there’s still that gap. The ocean of stars between Reinhard and where the little people lay.

Mittermeyer leans back against the unyielding door. He closes his hand around the Seal in his pocket, turning it over and over and over.

What's better? The devil you know, or the angel you didn't?

Can one man really make a difference, in the end?

Mitterneyer closes his eyes, and makes his choice.