Nipplin Building — San Francisco, Japanese Pacific States Capital
Rain drizzled over the rooftops of San Francisco as a convoy of black state vehicles rolled through the central district. The towering Nipplin Building, the crown jewel of Japanese Pacific governance on the western seaboard, loomed against the gray sky like a colossus of empire. Normally guarded by ceremonial soldiers and the occasional Kempeitai patrol, today it looked like a military staging ground.
Tanks lined the courtyard, turrets scanning methodically. Armored vehicles with mounted machine guns sat idling near reinforced barricades. Kempeitai soldiers in black uniforms formed rigid perimeter lines as more and more Japanese governors from all across the Pacific States arrived in armored sedans, escorted by motorcycle units and local military security. These were the top civilian officials of the Pacific State's fragmented regional government, each loyal to Tokyo and deeply cautious of the growing Nazi influence.
Vice Admiral Takeshi Arimoto stood calmly under the building's archway, his cap tilted just slightly forward, hands behind his back. His presence was quiet but unmistakable. The guards bowed as he glanced at his watch.
Next came Trade Minister Togo Masuri, briefcase clutched in one hand, sweat on his brow despite the cool air.
Then the Nazi motorcade rolled in like a dark tide.
A black Mercedes bearing the eagle and swastika insignia stopped at the curb. Obersturmbannführer Felton, the newly appointed Nazi ambassador to the Japanese Pacific States, stepped out first, polished leather boots striking wet pavement. Behind him came three German SS officers in gray greatcoats, their caps gleaming with silver eagles.
Felton adjusted his gloves and scanned the area like he already owned it.
Last to arrive — alone, as always — was Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto.
Inside the Imperial Ballroom, the tension was cut the moment Yamamoto entered. The crowd fell silent. The Japanese bowed. The Nazis offered crisp, regimented salutes. Yamamoto didn't smile. He walked directly to the front and began the meeting without preamble.
"This gathering marks the initiation of the planning phase for the upcoming Imperial Family tour of the Japanese Pacific States. The Crown Prince and Princess will arrive under full ceremonial and military protection. Security will be shared across Kempeitai divisions, Naval Intelligence, and the Reich's diplomatic attachés. Key personnel will receive preliminary assignments within forty-eight hours."
His words were exact, practiced — like a naval maneuver.
Once done, Yamamoto nodded once to Arimoto and walked out with zero formality. His shadow disappeared behind the marble columns.
The ballroom relaxed. Servers moved again. Music returned softly. The smell of warm sake began to fill the space as governors, Kempeitai brass, and Nazi envoys began mingling.
Vice Admiral Arimoto approached Chief Inspector Hajime Sugiyama as he was preparing to depart.
"Comrade," Arimoto said, clapping a firm hand on his shoulder.
Sugiyama turned. "Vice Admiral."
"A favor. For the old days," Arimoto said.
Sugiyama raised an eyebrow, but accepted the folded note.
"Two names. I want everything. Background. Associations. Connections."
"I'll handle it personally," Sugiyama said.
Back at Kempeitai Headquarters, Sugiyama entered his office, unfolded the paper and read:
Sarah Lin. Jack Hutto.
He rang a bell.
A young Kempeitai lieutenant entered immediately.
Sugiyama handed him the paper.
"You know what to do."
Without another word, the officer nodded and left. The investigation had begun.
Tempelhof Airport — Berlin, Greater Germanic Reich
The wheels screeched against the tarmac as the gray skies of Berlin welcomed the arriving Luftwaffe aircraft. Lucy Highmen sat pressed to the window, wide-eyed. As the plane taxied, the Leibstandarte SS honor guard formed into perfect lines just outside.
Swastika flags flurried violently in the wind. Children in Hitler Youth uniforms waved little paper banners under the watchful eye of Wehrmacht soldiers.
As Lucy and Imel exited the aircraft, SS guards flanking a black vehicle clicked their boots and saluted. Imel returned the salute in silence. They climbed into the car.
As it rolled off, Lucy couldn't help but press her face to the window like a child in a candy shop. Berlin seemed both alive and haunted. Soldiers on every corner. Posters on every wall. Uniformity in every shadow.
When they pulled up to the Reich Chancellery, Joseph Goebbels was waiting at the steps.
Brown Nazi Party jacket. No decorations. Just the plain, red armband with the black swastika — stark and chilling in its simplicity.
"Goebbels…" Lucy whispered. "The Propaganda Minister."
Imel responded without looking. "He only shows up when Hitler is in the building. He's the Führer's shadow."
Imel exited. Salutes exchanged. Goebbels said nothing at first, then gestured for them to walk. Together, the two men entered the marble corridors of the Chancellery, flanked by SS guards.
They reached the inner hallway. Two guards raised their arms and stopped Lucy.
"Wait here," Imel told her, keeping his tone even. "Official business."
As Imel and Goebbels walked deeper inside, the Propaganda Minister finally broke the silence.
"His health is deteriorating fast," Goebbels murmured. "I found him talking to paintings again. Muttering battle plans — not against the Americans or Soviets — against his own generals."
Imel paused briefly.
Goebbels continued: "He wouldn't leave the Wolf's Lair for months. He became obsessed with devising a counterattack no one else could see. The only reason he came back to Berlin was because he heard Himmler's health was failing. And yet… he's not much better himself."
They reached Himmler's personal chamber.
"He won't speak to anyone but Himmler. Not even me," Goebbels added. "You're the only exception. That means you carry weight. And responsibility. Let me know what he says. We'll act accordingly."
The Leibstandarte SS opened the chamber doors.
Himmler's Quarters — Reich Chancellery
The air in the room was stale. Hitler sat in a chair, speaking softly to himself. Himmler, pale and sunken-eyed, laid near the fireplace, arms crossed.
Imel saluted both men and waited.
Hitler finally turned his head, voice raspy. "Himmler believes in you. He sees you as the son he never had. All daughters… but no heir."
Himmler nodded silently, confirming it.
Hitler's eyes locked on Imel's. "If I die, the Reich cannot collapse. Himmler cannot carry it alone. Can you shoulder that weight, child?"
Imel stood up straight.
"Yes, mein Führer."
A long silence followed. Hitler drifted, mumbling about treason in Vienna, shadows in Paris, ghosts in Rome. Then suddenly he snapped back.
"Go home. See your family. It's been too long. Himmler sent you away for far too long."
Imel saluted again, then turned to leave.
Goebbels waited outside.
"What did he say?" he asked.
"Himmler was asleep," Imel replied calmly. "Hitler spoke to me directly. You were right. His condition is worse than he lets on. Keep it quiet. Keep the Führer hidden."
Imel's Residence — Berlin Outskirts
The car pulled up to a quiet villa nestled outside Berlin, modest by high-ranking SS standards.
Imel stared at it for a long moment before stepping out.
Lucy followed behind him as two children ran from the house — Gisela, his daughter, no more than eight, and Josef, a few years older. They clung to their father's legs. Then came Bertha, his wife — elegant, tired-eyed, but undeniably beautiful.
They kissed. Her eyes shifted to Lucy immediately.
"This is Lucy," Imel said. "My aide. She'll be staying with us for a few days."
Bertha smiled, thin and polite. "I'll prepare a place."
Dinner was quiet at first — roasted goose, cabbage, and boiled potatoes. As the wine flowed, Imel began recounting stories of the Pacific States: firefights in Arizona, the heat of Nevada, and hidden rebel tunnels in the Rockies.
The children listened with awe.
After dinner, as Imel tucked the kids into bed, Bertha poured a second glass of whiskey and turned to Lucy.
"Would you like to see Berlin's nightlife?"
Lucy looked unsure. Bertha raised an eyebrow.
"I promise I won't get you killed."
Imel reentered the room. "Take her. Keep your pistols close."
The Raven Club — Berlin
The club was smoky, pulsing with jazz music and candlelight. Only SS officers were allowed inside — no civilians, no exceptions. Lucy and Bertha sat at a dark corner table, sipping amber whiskey as a trumpet player wailed over a slow rhythm.
SS men lounged with mistresses. Some were already watching Lucy.
Bertha leaned over, glass in hand.
"You see these men? You could have any of them. Every one of them would crawl to your feet for a night."
Lucy didn't look at her. She looked at the dance floor, the shadowy corners of the club.
"But you chose my husband."
Lucy smiled faintly.
"I didn't choose your husband. He chose me."
She took a slow sip.
"Now let's watch the show."