“Wha…” I muttered, as the blade was removed and hastily stabbed back in, a few inches higher this time. My hands slackened, my sidearm clattering to the floor. I sluggishly turned my head, to find the wild-eyed Nazi officer, bearing a sinister smirk, glaring directly into my eyes. Staring at the gun lain on the floor, I half-heartedly drooped forward reaching out for it. The Nazi was not having any of that; he twisted the knife, making me lurch, then kicked me in the back, my face slamming against the floorboards, my glasses and helmet both knocked off during the impact.

I raised my battered face, coughed up blood and spat out a broken tooth, as the officer kicked me in the side. I reached for the gun again, only a few feet away, but he promptly kicked it away, my last hope clattering down the staircase. He stomped on the wounds on my back, pain shooting up my spine, then I heard a click. Then another, and another.

He shouted angrily, then threw something down on the floor, whatever it was shattering into a dozen pieces. Looked like some kind of pistol, maybe. He kicked me in the side again, this time digging in and flipping me onto my back. He laughed and bent over me, grabbing my left wrist. I winced in pain just from the movement, before the real suffering began. He grasped the knife by its hilt, wiggling it for a few seconds, making me scream out in despair. Then he yanked the whole knife out at once, causing my hand to shake uncontrollably, blood spilling out from both sides.

He knelt down above me, my face clenching up in pain, as he took the knife in both hands, raising it above his head. I clenched my eyes shut, giving in to the inevitable end. An end that never came. I had lost so much blood by then that I couldn’t really make sense of anything, but when I opened my eyes and smiled weakly at what I saw. It was the middle-aged French woman, standing above the Nazi officer, breathing raggedly with her frying pan in hand once again. The Nazi lay on the floor, clutching at his head and groaning, before he turned his bloodshot glare on the woman.

She stepped back nervously as he shot to his feet, enraged. He picked up the knife and stumbled towards her, spittle flying out of his mouth as he yelled something in German. I shakily took to my feet, feeling cold and numb, and inched towards him, trying in vain to stop my maddened foe.

I clutched at my side, my thoughts hazy and my left arm hanging limply. My right hand groped for my only remaining weapon: the hand axe. The axe now in hand, I lunged at the Nazi, slamming the edge into his shoulder even as he sliced the woman’s throat. She cried out weakly before she backed into a wall and slid to the ground, clutching at her neck and gasping. I yanked the axe out and tried to hit him again, but he swivelled his body, waving the knife at me. I recoiled backwards, barely able to stay on my feet, but even then I wasn’t unscathed; the blade sliced across my chest, leaving a shallow cut. More blood began to trickle down my torso, and I was mostly just surprised I had any left to lose.

I rasped for air, both me and the Nazi twitching and waiting for the other to initiate, caught in our own little Mexican standoff. He probably wasn’t thinking clearly; he charged me after we’d stared each other down for about thirty seconds. He held the knife in both hands and thrust, aiming for my gut. I stumbled to the left, swinging the axe again as he passed by. I heard the crack of his ribs breaking as the head was wedged into his side, but I lost my already weakening grip on the handle, the weapon stuck in the man’s body.

After a hurried glance around the hall, I picked up the only weapon left. The frying pan. I held it in my right hand, glaring at the now-wounded Nazi officer as he stumbled towards me, looking weak and angry. My already fuzzy vision was fading, and I had to force my eyes to stay open. He shambled towards me, bent over and clutching at his side, blood beginning to spill out of his mouth. I must have hit his liver! The realization temporarily revitalized me, as he made one last mad rush, and I held the frying pan steadily.

I smacked him across the face with the pan, as hard as I could, as the knife pierced my gut. He dropped to the side, crying out in pain and frustration as the axe was buried completely upon his impact with the ground. I stepped backwards, until my back touched the wall. I slid down, next to the mortally wounded French woman, turned one last glance towards her now-lifeless eyes, and sighed. I shut my eyes then, accepting my fate, and lost consciousness.

---

“...ive … He’s rea…” My mind was swimming in and out of consciousness, but I was barely able to recognize the sound of Shane Maxley’s voice. “What the hell is… … drink it? What do y… “ A warm liquid was slowly poured into my mouth then and I, unconsciously, managed to swallow it. My eyes shot wide open and I screamed bloody murder, my entire body, and especially the injuries on my hand, chest, abdomen and back, feeling like it’d been dumped into an active volcano. I writhed around for several minutes, the heat only rising.

“What the hell! Norton! It’s killing him! What is that stuff?! Quinn?!” I could see Maxley’s face, much clearer than it reasonably should have been. I briefly thought that they must have put my glasses back on for me, but then I shrieked again, tears surging down my face, as the blaze inside my body raged on, gaining in intensity. “Quinn?! I’m right here, you’ll be okay!” Maxley promised, though he didn’t sound remotely confident. The pain stopped abruptly just then, and I passed out again.

---

I awoke again sometime later, to find I was being carried on someone’s back. Someone burly and almost seven feet tall.

“Keith?” I asked, surprised my voice seemed so clear. It sounded normal. “What the hell? It… It doesn’t hurt anymore? What did you do?”

“You drank a potion, dumbass,” he said, monotone. I could picture his smirk, as I glared at the back of his head. “Think you can walk on your own?” He asked, actually sounding concerned.

“Uh… Yeah, I think so. Probably,” I mumbled, still confused. “A potion? Like in a video game?”

“Hell yeah like in a video game. But uh, don’t mention video games around here, you know?” I realized my mistake and nodded after I slid off his back. 1944 was a bit early for video games, after all. “You were damn lucky you were still alive by the time we got to you. I found your gun, by the way. Fell down the stairs,” He finished, handing the pistol back to me.

“I’ve always felt that the lucky people are the ones who don’t get stabbed four times in an hour. Oh, shit,” I came to a realization. “What about Davey? Did you get to him in time too?” I looked around us for the first time at that, to find we were in the middle of a bit of a crowd. The sun was barely starting to rise, so I could make out most of them clearly. All of them clearly.

“No,” Keith shook his head, solemnly. “He went down early. Killed the fucker that got him though. With his own axe, even.”

“Shit… Did we… Did you bury him? Or what?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“No time,” Keith answered, shaking his head. “We grabbed his tag and his gear, then wrapped him in a sheet and left him on a bed upstairs. Burned the Krauts, though. What the hell did you do to the officer, anyway?”

“Uh, I hit an axe into his liver then whacked him with a frying pan. I guess he landed on it when he fell. That was when he stabbed me the third time, and I was kind of out of it by then.”

“With a frying pan? No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Damn. I swept the house while you were healing. Maxley stayed with you the whole time, you know.” I nodded. That seemed consistent with my hazy memory of the healing process. “I found seven of Auclair’s guys, and eleven civilians. A family of five, a family of three, and three orphans. Their mother was dead outside the room they hid in, near your battleground.” I winced at that, remembering the middle aged French woman that had rescued me. “What?” Keith asked, as I stopped.

“She saved my life,” I muttered. “She was the one that brought the frying pan… I promised her I’d protect them. Shit!” I stomped on the ground once, frustrated at my own failure.

“Ah… Damn. That would do it,” Keith mumbled, getting a distant look for a second. “Anyway. We’re almost back. The hill’s just over there, see?” He pointed ahead, our hill visible off in the distance.

“Oh. Right.” I nodded, then, turning my gaze on the rest of our group. Seven resistance fighters, two middle aged men, two women, a baby, four children and two teens. That’s… seventy-six Points. I almost died for seventy-six Points. Davey Wexler was dead. Did we do it for the Points, or to save innocent people’s lives? I could never really figure it out. Bit of both, maybe.

“Hey, you awake now?” Private Maxley asked, closing in on me. I nodded and smiled, glad to see the young redheaded soldier was okay. “You, uh, feeling better?” He glanced at my chest awkwardly, then back to my face with an inquisitive look.

“I think so,” I said, looking down. “Ho-ly shit.” My uniform had been drenched in blood; most of it looked like it was supposed to be red. My face screwed up and I laughed dryly as a thought struck me. “I think a uniform like this would be okay in Sedona. Or Mars.” He looked at me funny and I just shook my head. The uniform was torn in a few places as well, the largest being the gash across my chest. That reminded me that I hadn’t checked to see if any of the injuries had left scars. I was interested in how the potion worked, so I held up my left hand. The wound was scarred over, like it had been healing for months. I touched the scars with my other hand, marvelling at the absurd healing process I had undergone. I froze in my tracks then, as I made another realization.

“Uh, Maxley, where are my glasses?” I waved my hand in front of my face, shocked that it wasn’t blurred.

“The lenses were cracked so I just put them in your bag. How well can you see without them, anyway?” He tilted his head, perhaps underestimating just how bad my vision was. Or how bad it was supposed to be.

“I can see just fine now. Before it was… Holy fuck! The potion? Seriously?” I was flabbergasted. I would have done anything to fix my vision. Turns out all I had to do was storm the beach on D-Day and get stabbed a few times. Brilliant.

My reverie ended as we reached the hill, Miles and Captain Auclair meeting us on the way down.

“Ah, shit,” Keith muttered, as Sergeant Lane shot past them, coming to a stop in front of him.

“Corporal Norton! What the hell were you thinking?!” Lane demanded, in wide-eyed enmity.

“We were thinking that we didn’t want a Resistance squad and a dozen to civilians to die, Sarge,” I spoke up, as Keith seemed flabbergasted.

“And you didn’t think to come get me? Or request reinforcements? Air support? Anything?” Lane asked, tension still building in his voice.

“Time was of the essence, Sarge. If we’d been a minute or two later the Germans would have breached the château. There was just no time,” I continued, glancing at the dozen and a half French we had rescued.

“Quinn…” Lane deflated, sighing as he looked at the crowd we had brought back. “Fine. Just… Bring them to the camp. I’ll talk to Captain Burr. He’ll talk to the Lieutenant-Colonel. We can probably get them to England, or something. You speak French, right? Tell them- tell them that. We’ll get them out of here.” He turned and walked the rest of the way.

I relayed the message to the French, and the civilians seemed relieved. Well, most of them did. The three children of the woman who had died probably wouldn’t be finding relief in anything for a while. I sighed, then talked to Auclair a bit more.

“We will not leave France,” the Captain said, shaking his head. “We will find our comrades and get back to the war. Vive la France!” His men shared the sentiment as well; they followed his statement with a united “Vive la France!”

“Good luck, Capitaine,” I uttered, smiling faintly. Someone tapped my shoulder just after that. I turned and saw Keith standing next to me.

“We’re going back to camp now, Quinn,” He stated simply, the giant of a man trudging off, leading the way down the hill.

“Allons-y!” I shouted back, as we began to move out. The French fell in line quickly, talking among themselves about England and the American soldiers.

“Hey, Lee…” Miles started, marching along next to me. “Davey’s really dead?” He asked, gloomily.

“...Yeah,” I lamented. “He was shot when the others ran into the house. I didn’t see it.”

“Shane told me about that. Said you fought a guy off outside with your bare hands,” Miles stated, incredulously.

“Uh, maybe for a few seconds. I shot him in the end, though…” I rubbed the scar on my hand again as I thought about that struggle the night before.

“Wow. I, uh, don’t think I’ve shot anyone yet. I mean, I’ve shot at them but, y’know, probably didn’t… hit anyone...” He just laughed nervously, rambling on.

“Hey, Miles, relax. Don’t worry about it, okay?” I grabbed his shoulder, trying to settle him down before he got any more anxious.

“Uh, yeah, okay. Okay. It just feels wrong, you know? That I was just hanging out with a French guy and a machine gun while you guys were off fighting… I mean what if… What if I was-”

“No, Miles, don’t do that to yourself. Don’t think about what ifs, man. We needed someone to stay on the hill. Keith picked you. That’s it. Got it?” I asked, concerned.

“I… Yeah, okay. Thanks, Lee.” He walked ahead, his head down.

We made good time back to the Army’s base camp on the beach, and Captain Burr met us as we approached. He seemed agitated, glaring at Keith.

“Norton! This is them? All of them?” Burr asked, glancing back and forth between Keith and the French.

“Yes, Sir,” Keith said, simply.

“Sir,” I spoke up, “This is Captain Auclair. Uh, I can translate if you need to talk to him.” I repeated the sentiment to Auclair and told him Burr’s name. Auclair nodded, stepping forward.

“Good. Quinn, tell him we’re meeting with the Lieutenant Colonel. You’re coming too. He can bring a couple of his guys if he wants.” I confirmed the order and translated it to Auclair, who agreed. “Lane’s coming with us, so it’s up to you to get these people settled in, Norton. Find them a spot to rest and get them some food. You can feed your team after. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” Keith said, unenthusiastically. Maxley and Miles followed him, the former waving at me as he went by.

“Let’s go, Quinn,” Captain Burr finished.

“Yes, Sir!” I saluted, then it was off to see the Lieutenant Colonel.