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"I know you're not afraid to die, James. But I plan on making you afraid to live."
All men must die. It was an inescapable fact that James Watson knew all too well. He had witnessed much death and devoted his tremendous intellect to preventing, or at least avenging it. It would be a shame for him to meet his end before seeing the Axis of Evil thwarted and his own nation victorious in this long and nasty war. It would be a shame to die in a dank and dismal Nazi bunker. It would be a shame to die by his own friend's hand. But, thankfully, Druitt had no intention of killing him any time soon.
Bound to his chair, his skin had accumulated a sheen of sweat that chilled him whenever he was met with a draft. If he was shaking, it was from the cold.
With what horrors that awaited him, there was but one question that weighed heavily on James's mind:
How many black leather coats did John Druitt own?
Druitt had told him that he only joined the third Reich because he couldn't resist the attire. James wondered how facetious he was even being with that statement.
James had read numerous texts devoted to the analysis of humanity's greatest tyrants. Amongst the most frequent queries is that of how such obviously and objectively nefarious persons are capable of garnering such support. There are as many answers as there are speculators. Is it clever propaganda? Is it secret police? It could be a well-stocked armory, or even hypnotism. No. It's superior fashion sense. James was sure of it now.
The only reason that anyone would ever listen to a sweaty, ranting, extremist is if that sweaty, ranting extremist were a paragon of aesthetic success. Perhaps dressing to kill is half the battle, no matter how impractical that battle armour may be.
It's entirely possible that there has never existed a successful totalitarian state that has failed to grasp the importance of fashionable dress.
The Nazi Colonel, Korba, who stood in the corner of the room, was not the best example.
The hem of Druitt's dark coat nearly dusted the floor as he walked back towards him. After a session of roughing him up, Druitt would pace the room either making inane conversation or demanding information. The coat was particularly striking on his frame. James had always thought him striking, not that he would admit it in a public forum, especially not now.
Druitt's changes had left him a fiend, a murderer. They had also drastically and irreparably altered his fashion sense. He must have wanted to look the part of a villain. He had succeeded, James thought. The way Druitt spoke and the way he carried himself had also changed. There was no longer any pretense of piety or vulnerability. Gone was the cautious upright gait, it had been replaced by this swagger. He had the same even and pleasant voice, but behind the civilised words and gentle tones, something predatory lurked.
Druitt was standing in front of him now. He was speaking. James was listening, of course. He was filing all the words away in his memory, to be analysed later. James had always found him to be a rousing conversationalist. But, now, James was only watching his lips move. After the last disablement of the machine that was keeping him alive, he felt as if he had been knocked out of his own body.
Druitt was looking at him.
Druitt made roughly 20% more eye contact than he did the last time they had met. When their eyes met it was deeper, more intense. Psychologically, James would attribute this to a lack of social inhibition and greater self confidence, and also to a lack of deception. After all, there was nothing left for them to hide from each other, was there?
Druitt was still speaking to him.
James watched as Druitt pulled a short, spear-point blade from some hidden compartment in his coat. He brandished the weapon with great care. James recalled a strange parallel between now and nearly half a century before when they would lunch together. He remembered how Druitt's graceful hand would hold the luncheon knife idly as they chatted about any number of topics.
This black leather-clad figure was a dramatic departure from the man he knew and loved. No, not loved. Men did not use that word for one another these days. It had fallen out of fashion.
Druitt's behaviour was devolving into something so obscenely wretched that it was comical.
Deliriously, James laughed.
He had been silent for so long that the sound of his outburst pulled him from his mind and back into the present moment.
"Does this amuse you?" Druitt asked, knife in hand.
"Yes, it really does." James answered honestly.
"Well, it's nice to see you enjoying yourself, old boy. I long suspected that you might be a masochist." Druitt responded.
"I'm not. Although, I had never thought you a sadist, and yet, here we find ourselves." James said. "This turn to the dark side you've taken, I see you've truly committed yourself. It's excessive, really. Your attire, your speech, it's rather flamboyant. Is this what you have been reduced to, John, a pantomime villain?" James asked him scornfully.
Now, Druitt gave an incredulous chuckle.
"Excessive? Flamboyant? Judge not, lest thee be judged." Druitt said.
"Your implication is what?" James questioned.
"You're equally as deliberate in not changing at all. You wear the exact same clothes, you speak in the exact same manner. You've preserved your body with that machine. Your house looks as if it were a museum. You act as though modernity seares you. I imagine you spend a great deal of energy to maintain this... this cultural homeostasis." Druitt said.
That evaluation could not have been made based upon their hour together, much less so when James had been impersonating a contemporary Frenchman until his capture. Druitt must have been checking up on him. He expected him to keep tabs on Helen. Perhaps Druitt's knowledge of his lifestyle had only been gleaned, inadvertently, from Helen's periphery.
"John," James narrowed his eyes. "You broke into my house?"
It was a condemnation rather than a question. James could deduce that it was September of last year. There had been a slight displacement of dust one morning, and some of the objects on his desk were several centimeters askew. He had dreamt of Druitt that night, nothing untoward, not that time.
"You know very well I don't have to break in." Druitt said. "Still, I apologise for the transgression." He said as if with genuine remorse.
Druitt approached him and continued in a darker tone. "...And I apologise for what I may do if you continue to insist on this obstinate attitude."
Druitt circled him ominously as he spoke, then stopped behind him and put his hand near James's neck.
"Is this it? James asked with complete composure. "Are you going to butcher me like one of your poor ladies of the night? I've ascertained nearly every detail of your crimes. Everything but why you did it. I'd love to gain some insight into your motivations."
"Unfortunately, I doubt even you would understand it if I attempted to explain, not what I wanted to do to them, and not what I want to do to you." He whispered cryptically.
He massaged James's shoulders. Apparently, he had resheathed his knife. At first, James tensed at the contact, but soon began to relax, letting his head loll back slightly with his eyes closed. He knew Druitt was doing this to unnerve him, but it felt good all the same.
Just as he had reached a point of calm, James was overtaken by a queer sensation. Again, he tensed. There was an electric feeling in his core, it flitted up and down, making him lightheaded. This felt too good. He was afraid.
If he wasn't afraid of pain, and he wasn't afraid of death, then what was he afraid of? Druitt's words from earlier echoed through his head:
"I know you're not afraid to die, James. But I plan on making you afraid to live." Druitt had said at the beginning of all this.
Perhaps he was already afraid to live.
Druitt was behind him, leaning over his shoulder. His hand stroked over his bare chest and threatened to again disrupt his life-line. He was toying with him. Without any infliction of pain, Druitt began to withdraw.
James was afraid of the hand that threatened to caress his skin. When the soft touch had been upon him, he feared that the hand would pull away. Most of all, James feared this dichotomy of emotion within himself. It threatened to tear him apart. He had lived his whole life in his head, but now, he felt his mind and his body converge in a wave of unrestrainable fervour.
In a moment of wild inhibition, James turned his head to face Druitt, and kissed him, but only in his mind's eye. Even such imaginings were dangerous. Still, he had imagined it.
For a moment, the entire world paused, even the war which raged outside was quiet. It was as if the gunfire was muted and the planes suspended in mid-air.
Whether realised or repressed, James couldn't deny his feelings. They had been there for a long time.
Druitt had pulled away, likely unaware of the turmoil his captive was enduring.
James swallowed the lump in his throat, perished the thought, and the world went on spinning.
Druitt turned his head to Korba.
"We will know everything soon enough. Colonel Korba, why don't you go and arrange for Dr. Watson's transfer to Berlin." He said.
The Colonel looked skeptical.
"It was not a question, Colonel." Druitt ordered with characteristic menace.
With a click of his heels, Korba obediently marched out of the room.
Now that they were truly alone, James feared what Druitt might do. Several hours before, he would have maintained that Druitt, though a killer, retained some vestige of honour or moral direction. However, if he had allied himself with the Nazis, that likely wasn't true at all.
Druitt quickly strode over to James and knelt in front of him.
He expected another threat or form of torment, but to his surprise, Druitt began unshackling him from the chair.
When James was free, Druitt looked to him and said only "My, apologies."
"Whatever it is you're playing at, I don't want to hear it." James said.
"If you want to destroy the weather device, you need to listen." Druitt implored.
James shook his head.
"Working for the Nazis is depraved, even by your standards." He said.
"It is true, I have no love for England, but I know evil when I see it in its purest form. I’m working alone. In my own way." He explained.
James wanted badly to believe him.
"Then why not simply kill Hitler? You could do that in a heartbeat." James asked.
Druitt smiled grimly.
"And I did...nine months ago, at a lovely performance of Wagner's Tristan und Isolde. In his private viewing box, I slid a blade right through his tunic... I felt his heart stop. Does it look like it's made the slightest difference?" Druitt said.
"They're using body doubles?" James exclaimed.
"This Reich needs to be taken apart piece by piece, one sordid element at a time." Druitt said with conviction.
"You leaked information about the weather machine. Why?" James asked.
"I needed you all here. The Führer spent millions trying to find abnormals to strengthen his army. Your machine is only a small piece of the plan. Something much larger is at play." Druitt emphasised.
James certainly wanted to believe Druitt. He wanted to believe there was still a piece of the gentle, intelligent man that he loved respected. But, James was wary of being fooled again.
"No more games. Get us out of here." James said simply. "We can regroup, contact the forces, and find Helen and the others."
"Of course, It's not as if they'd kill me the moment we rematerialise." Druitt smirked.
"It's a chance that you'll have to take." James said.
Druitt hesitated, as if pained by something.
"You're with her now, aren't you?” He asked suddenly. “I know you, old friend. Your passion, your passion for her, it radiates off of you." Druitt said with dismay.
James felt frustration and anger well up inside of him. Druitt could see his passion plainly but he hadn't a clue who it was really for. James loved Helen, but she wasn't the one on his mind right now. Apparently, Druitt thought of nothing but her, even his capture may be but a product of his unhealthy obsession. If Druitt had been watching them, was he the one who informed the Nazis of their location? Helen, wherever she was, could be captured, wounded, or something worse.
"You leaked intelligence and had us ambushed by the SS just so that you could see her one more time, didn't you? Could you really do something so callous and destructive?" Watson condemned him.
Druitt shook his head.
"I leaked no such information, but it's very telling that you think I would." Druitt said with offense.
"No, John. Do not dig too deeply. You don't know how much you've hurt her." He told him.
Druitt stared at him.
"Hurt her? Or you?" Druitt asked.
James felt that if Druitt looked him in the eyes for only a moment longer, he would see the truth. It was not a truth Druitt deserved to know, not yet, not after these hours, years, decades of grief. For the second time tonight, James felt a profound alignment of body and spirit. This time, he acted.
James struck him in the face.
Druitt took several moments to recover.
"Feel better?" Druitt asked him, sounding remarkably good-natured.
"Much." James said. He really did.
"Shall we?" Druitt asked.
James looked down to see that Druitt was holding out his arm to him. James took his hand, not wanting to remain in the bunker a moment longer.
"God, yes." He responded.