We cross into German-held territory at 2100 hours.
Four soldiers this time. Small team. Me, Jakub, and two British soldiers—Davis and a quiet Scotsman named MacLeod. Fletcher said smaller teams move faster, attract less attention.
Fletcher lied.
Smaller teams are easier to eliminate.
The mission briefing was simple: German supply convoy moving through this sector tomorrow morning. Observe route, document cargo, return with intelligence. Standard reconnaissance.
Nothing about this is standard.
"Intelligence is wrong again," Jakub whispers as we move through empty countryside. "No patrols. No sentries. No signs of convoy preparation."
"Fletcher doesn't want us observing Germans," I reply quietly. "He wants us isolated. Vulnerable."
"Then why are we here?"
"Because running means admitting we know. This way, we see what he's planning. Stay ahead of it."
We reach the observation point—a farmhouse on a hill overlooking the road where the convoy supposedly will pass. The building is abandoned, half-collapsed, perfect position for reconnaissance.
Perfect position for an ambush.
"I don't like this," MacLeod mutters, scanning the surroundings with his rifle scope. "Place feels wrong."
He's right. Every instinct I have—every fragment from past lives—screams danger.
"Set up positions anyway," I say. "But stay alert. Watch our backs as much as the road."
We spread out. Davis takes the east window. MacLeod takes west. Jakub and I take north, watching the approach road.
And we wait.
---
The ambush comes at midnight.
Not Germans. British.
Six soldiers in Allied uniforms, moving on our position with military precision. Professional. Coordinated. Not a patrol stumbling onto us by accident.
"Contact!" I shout. "British soldiers approaching with weapons raised!"
"What?" Davis spins toward the window. "British? That doesn't—"
The first shots come through the east window. Davis goes down, chest torn open, dead before he hits the floor.
"AMBUSH!" Jakub returns fire. "They're trying to kill us!"
MacLeod fires from his position. Drops one attacker. The others scatter to cover, laying down suppressing fire.
This isn't reconnaissance gone wrong. This isn't friendly fire confusion.
This is execution.
Fletcher sent us here to die.
---
The firefight is brutal and fast.
Six attackers with coordinated positions versus three of us trapped in a building with limited exits. They have us pinned, and they know it.
I fire at muzzle flashes, conserving ammunition, trying to identify escape routes. MacLeod is hit—shoulder wound, not fatal but limiting his mobility. Jakub is holding the west approach but burning through ammunition.
"We can't hold this position!" I shout over gunfire.
"Where do we go?" Jakub asks.
"Basement. I saw stairs earlier. We fall back, find another way out."
"On your word!"
I throw the last grenade I have toward the eastern approach. The explosion provides cover—seconds, not minutes. "NOW!"
We move. MacLeod first despite his wound, then Jakub, then me providing covering fire. Down the basement stairs into darkness while bullets chase us.
The basement is dark, cramped, smells like mold and rot. But there's a root cellar exit—narrow tunnel leading outside, built for storing vegetables but functional as an escape route.
"Go!" I push MacLeod toward the tunnel. "Jakub, cover him!"
"What about you?"
"I'll slow them down. Buy time. Go!"
"Rio—"
"GO!"
He goes. I hear them crawling through the tunnel, moving toward safety.
Behind me, boots on the basement stairs. Flashlights cutting through darkness.
I fire blind. Hear someone scream. Hear them retreat temporarily.
Then a voice: "Castellanos! We know you're down there!"
English accent. Military professional. Not shouting in anger—calling like this is business.
"We don't want to kill you!" the voice continues. "We just want what you took from Warsaw. The artifact. The documents. Hand them over and walk away."
Fletcher's men. Has to be.
"Who sent you?" I call back.
"Does it matter? You've been marked. You have something that belongs to British intelligence. Surrendering it is your only option."
"And then you let me live? That's the deal?"
"That's the deal."
Lies. They'll kill me the moment I hand it over. Take the medallion, destroy the evidence, report I died heroically in combat with German forces.
"I need to think about it!" I shout, buying time.
"You have thirty seconds. Then we come down shooting."
I check the tunnel exit. Jakub and MacLeod should be clear by now. I could follow. Escape. Survive.
But they'll hunt me. Fletcher won't stop. And next time, they'll target Jakub too. Or anyone else who knows what I know.
No.
Better to end this here.
"Alright!" I shout. "I'm coming up! Don't shoot!"
I climb the stairs slowly, hands visible, rifle slung. My actual rifle. The medallion hangs cold against my chest under my shirt. The documents are buried outside the base—these men won't find them.
At the top of the stairs, five soldiers wait. Weapons trained on me. Professional. Cold. Killers in Allied uniforms.
"Where's the artifact?" their leader asks.
"Safe."
"That wasn't the deal."
"The deal was bullshit." I meet his eyes. "You're going to kill me either way. I'm just deciding how much I take with me."
He smiles slightly. Appreciates honesty, apparently. "Smart. Doesn't change anything, but smart." He nods to his men. "Take him. Fletcher wants him alive if possible. Dead if necessary."
Two soldiers move forward to restrain me.
I wait until they're close.
Then the medallion pulses—hot instead of cold for the first time—and the fragments explode.
---
Everything slows.
I see the soldiers moving frame by frame. See trajectories. Weak points. Patterns.
My body moves without conscious thought.
Muscle memory from a hundred lives taking over.
I'm not Rio Castellanos anymore.
I'm every soldier I've ever been.
---
Knife from boot. Slash throat of first soldier reaching for me. He drops.
Grab his falling rifle. Swing the stock into second soldier's face. Bones break. He goes down.
Third soldier fires. Bullet passes where I was, not where I am. Roll left, come up shooting. Three shots. Center mass. He falls.
Leader and remaining soldier firing now. Bullets everywhere. One grazes my arm. Another hits the wall behind me.
I'm already moving. Zigzag pattern they can't predict. Close distance before they adjust aim.
Leader first. Shoot him in the knee. He drops, screaming. Kick his weapon away.
Last soldier backing up, firing wild. Panicked. I don't blame him. He just watched me kill four men in maybe ten seconds.
I shoot him in the leg. Non-fatal. He goes down.
Silence except for screaming and heavy breathing.
I stand in a room with five British soldiers—four dead or dying, one wounded but alive. Blood everywhere. My blood, their blood, doesn't matter whose.
The medallion burns against my chest, hot enough to hurt now.
The fragments are screaming.
And I'm standing here, covered in Allied blood, finally understanding what I am.
I'm a weapon that can't be controlled.
And Fletcher just made the mistake of trying.
---
The leader is still breathing. Barely.
I kneel beside him, check his wounds. Knee shattered, bleeding heavily, but he'll survive if he gets medical attention soon.
"Who sent you?" I ask. "Say Fletcher and I let you live."
"Fletcher," he gasps. "Orders... from above. You're... liability. Have to be... eliminated."
"What does he know about what I found?"
"Everything. Has... spies everywhere. Knows about... Warsaw facility. Knows you took... artifact." He coughs blood. "Monarch wants it... you're in the way."
"Where is Fletcher now?"
"Base. Waiting... for confirmation... you're dead."
"He's going to be disappointed." I stand. "Tell him I'm coming. Tell him I'm done running. Tell him if he wants the medallion, he can try to take it himself."
"You're... insane..."
"Probably." I check the wounded soldier—unconscious from blood loss but stable. "Get your friend medical attention. Then deliver my message."
I leave them there. Alive. Witnesses.
Let Fletcher know what he's dealing with.
---
I find Jakub and MacLeod a kilometer away, hiding in a drainage ditch.
"Rio!" Jakub rises, sees the blood covering me. "Are you hit?"
"Some of it's mine. Most isn't." I help MacLeod to his feet. "We need to move. Fast. Fletcher will send more."
"What happened back there?"
"I killed four British soldiers and sent a message to Fletcher. We're burned now. Can't go back to base."
"Where do we go?"
"Paris. Find Pierre, Élise's contact. Get to the resistance." I start moving, exhaustion hitting now that adrenaline is fading. "They're the only ones who can hide us until we figure out next steps."
"Rio, you just murdered Allied soldiers—"
"Self-defense. They ambushed us. Killed Davis. Would've killed all of us if I hadn't fought back." I look at him. "Fletcher sent them. Monarch sent them. They want the medallion. They want the documents. They want anyone who knows the truth eliminated."
"So we run?"
"We regroup. Find allies. Build a case. Then we expose them." The medallion pulses against my chest, cooling now but still warm. "But first we survive tonight."
---
We travel through the night, avoiding roads, moving cross-country toward Paris.
MacLeod slows us down—shoulder wound bleeding, needs proper medical attention. We do what we can with field dressings, but he needs a doctor.
Dawn finds us on the outskirts of the city, exhausted and hunted.
"There," Jakub points to a café matching the address Élise gave me. Small, nondescript, tucked between larger buildings. "That's it?"
"Should be."
We enter carefully. A few early morning customers, workers grabbing coffee before shifts. Behind the counter, an older man watches us with sharp eyes that miss nothing.
"We're looking for Pierre," I say in French.
"No one by that name here," he replies.
"Élise sent us."
His expression doesn't change but something shifts in his posture. "Through the kitchen. Downstairs. Knock twice."
We follow his directions. Down basement stairs into a storage room. Knock twice on a reinforced door.
It opens. A man in his fifties, scarred face, hard eyes—Pierre, presumably.
"Who are you?"
"Rio Castellanos. Élise said to find you if I needed help."
"You're the American. The one with the artifact." He studies the three of us—bloody, exhausted, armed. "What happened?"
"British intelligence tried to kill us. Monarch's operation. We need somewhere to hide. Medical attention for my friend. Help getting out of France if possible."
Pierre considers. Then: "Come inside. Quickly."
---
The safe house is larger than it appears.
Multiple rooms, several people already here—resistance fighters, escapees, people hiding from various authorities. Pierre provides medical supplies for MacLeod, food for all of us, information about what's happening outside.
"Fletcher reported you killed in action last night," he says. "German ambush, supposedly. Very tragic. Posthumous commendations pending."
"He's declaring us dead?"
"Easier than explaining why British soldiers attacked British soldiers. Official story is you died heroes. Unofficial story is you're traitors who need to be eliminated quietly."
"Can you get us out of France?"
"Eventually. But not immediately. Germans are preparing offensive operations. Everyone's on alert. Borders are tight." He lights a cigarette. "You'll have to wait. Maybe weeks. Maybe months."
"We don't have months. Fletcher will keep hunting."
"Then you stay hidden. We move you between safe houses. Keep you invisible." Pierre exhales smoke. "Élise mentioned you have evidence about Monarch. Documents. Proof of their operations."
"Copies hidden in three locations. If something happens to me, they survive."
"Smart. We'll add to that. Distribute more copies through the resistance network. Make sure even if Monarch eliminates everyone directly involved, the truth gets out eventually."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You've made very powerful enemies. Monarch has reach beyond military channels. Intelligence services, politicians, industrialists—anyone who benefits from stolen Nazi research." He stubs out his cigarette. "You're not just fighting one conspiracy. You're fighting the entire apparatus that profits from war."
"I know."
"And you still want to fight?"
"I don't have a choice. They won't stop hunting me. The medallion marks me. The knowledge marks me. I can disappear temporarily but not permanently." I touch the medallion through my shirt. "So I fight. I expose them. I make sure everyone knows what's happening in those facilities."
"Noble. Probably suicidal. But noble." Pierre stands. "Get some rest. Tomorrow we plan your next move. Tonight, you sleep knowing Monarch thinks you're dead. That's a small advantage. Use it."
---
I collapse on a cot in a basement room.
Jakub takes the cot beside me. MacLeod is in another room getting proper medical attention.
"You killed four men tonight," Jakub says quietly.
"I know."
"Allied soldiers. Our people."
"Monarch's people. Not mine."
"Where's the line, Rio? When do you become what you're fighting against?"
"When I start experimenting on prisoners. When I start stealing research from death camps. When I start sacrificing soldiers to acquire weapons." I close my eyes. "Killing people who are trying to kill me isn't crossing that line. It's survival."
"And if you're wrong? If Fletcher was acting on orders? If there's a legitimate reason—"
"There's no legitimate reason to ambush your own soldiers and declare them dead. No legitimate reason to hunt someone for carrying evidence of war crimes." I open my eyes, look at him. "Fletcher made his choice. I made mine. If that makes me a monster, fine. At least I'm a monster fighting for something real."
Jakub is quiet for a long moment. Then: "I'm with you. Whatever comes next. But promise me something."
"What?"
"Don't lose yourself in this fight. Don't let the obsession turn you into the weapon they wanted you to be." He pauses. "Stay human, młody. That's the real victory—staying human despite everything trying to strip that away."
"I'll try."
"Try hard. Because I've seen what happens when soldiers forget their humanity. And you're too important to lose that way."
---
I don't sleep.
The medallion burns hot, then cold, then hot again. The fragments are louder than ever—voices overlapping, memories bleeding together, deaths I've died mixing with lives I've lived.
The guardian walks between worlds.
The watcher remembers.
The soldier returns.
The same phrases from the Warsaw bunker vision. The same certainty that this medallion is why I reincarnate. Why I remember fragments. Why death is never final.
But I still don't understand what it wants from me.
Or what I'm supposed to do with infinite lives.
Or why I keep coming back to wars.
Somewhere above, Paris sleeps. Somewhere beyond the city, Fletcher is realizing his ambush failed. Somewhere in occupied Poland, maybe Kasia is alive, maybe she's dead, and I'll never know which.
And here in this basement, I'm a wanted man carrying evidence that could expose a conspiracy reaching the highest levels of Allied command.
The smart move is to destroy the evidence. Give up the medallion. Disappear. Live whatever life I can salvage from this mess.
But I've never been smart about these things.
The fragments won't let me forget.
The medallion won't let me rest.
And Fletcher won't let me live in peace.
So I fight.
One conspiracy at a time.
One war at a time.
One life at a time.
Until either I win or I die trying.
And death, apparently, is never final anyway.
So really, what do I have to lose?