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Author's note: I had this really weird assignment for one of my literature classes: we were supposed to write the first page of a novel. About just anything we want. Now usually I can't write like that, but this time Hellstrom just took over my head and I wrote ... about him. Now obviously I didn't mention his name or anything, but every Basterds fan will recognise Major Creeper in this. I'd feel tempted to continue this if I had the slightest idea what was going to happen next. If you have any ideas, let me know. So, yes, while this is not fanfiction in the strictest sense, it is in fact about Major Hellstrom, so I thought people might want to read it.
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Thin fingers pushed up the sleeve of his coat, pale blue eyes glanced at his watch for the first time. His contact was two minutes late.
Nothing unusual about that. It could happen, even to the most reliable people. None of his colleagues would even waste a thought on this.
But the Colonel wouldn’t have sent him, his best man, if this were a situation one of his colleagues could deal with. And he had been long enough in this line of work to trust his instincts - something was amiss.
He was still relaxed, though. He felt the comforting weight of his twin guns in the shoulder-holsters, hidden under his coat, but they were not the reason for his calm. Although he was an excellent shot, he had hardly killed anyone in all these years. At least not personally. He had always relied more on his brain than on his admittedly quick hands. It was more efficient. More cultivated, too. Shooting people made such a mess, it was a task better left to soldiers.
He leant back on the bench, breathing in the fresh spring air. Fumbled for his cigarettes, lit one, and flipped the match to the ground. Took a greedy drag on the cigarette as if he hadn’t had one in days, although the last one had been less than an hour ago. The Colonel always said that he smoked too much. The old dog would look almost concerned then, as if he cared about his well-being. A snort. That manipulative bastard didn’t know any more about affection and caring than he himself did; he simply didn’t want to lose his best man.
Five minutes. The cigarette stub was dropped to the ground and crushed beneath a boot heel. Five minutes late. Still within the limits of the acceptable, but bordering on the unusual. People knew better than to be late when dealing with the Colonel.
He sighed. He could be a very patient man, but he hated inaction. The sun had already set before he had arrived, and it was getting cold. Mothers with their children and young couples in summer clothes quickly left the park, laughing, talking, playing. Normal people. A sneer.
He lit another cigarette. He was getting annoyed. Damn it, he wasn’t some messenger boy one could keep waiting in the cold. That contact better had a good excuse when he arrived, or else he would make sure that this scum would meet his less sophisticated colleagues. The ones who thought whips were an appropriate means of communication. His lips curled in disdain. Brutes, but they had their uses.
His eyes darted around, but he didn’t notice anything suspicious. The contact was supposed to find him, not the other way around. The rendezvous point had been unambiguous, there could be no misunderstanding.
Fifteen minutes. The third cigarette. As the stub joined its two brothers on the ground, he got up. He had waited long enough. Nobody was fifteen minutes late on a meeting set up by the Colonel. It meant that things weren’t amiss.
They were really fucked up.
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Thin fingers pushed up the sleeve of his coat, pale blue eyes glanced at his watch for the first time. His contact was two minutes late.
Nothing unusual about that. It could happen, even to the most reliable people. None of his colleagues would even waste a thought on this.
But the Colonel wouldn’t have sent him, his best man, if this were a situation one of his colleagues could deal with. And he had been long enough in this line of work to trust his instincts - something was amiss.
He was still relaxed, though. He felt the comforting weight of his twin guns in the shoulder-holsters, hidden under his coat, but they were not the reason for his calm. Although he was an excellent shot, he had hardly killed anyone in all these years. At least not personally. He had always relied more on his brain than on his admittedly quick hands. It was more efficient. More cultivated, too. Shooting people made such a mess, it was a task better left to soldiers.
He leant back on the bench, breathing in the fresh spring air. Fumbled for his cigarettes, lit one, and flipped the match to the ground. Took a greedy drag on the cigarette as if he hadn’t had one in days, although the last one had been less than an hour ago. The Colonel always said that he smoked too much. The old dog would look almost concerned then, as if he cared about his well-being. A snort. That manipulative bastard didn’t know any more about affection and caring than he himself did; he simply didn’t want to lose his best man.
Five minutes. The cigarette stub was dropped to the ground and crushed beneath a boot heel. Five minutes late. Still within the limits of the acceptable, but bordering on the unusual. People knew better than to be late when dealing with the Colonel.
He sighed. He could be a very patient man, but he hated inaction. The sun had already set before he had arrived, and it was getting cold. Mothers with their children and young couples in summer clothes quickly left the park, laughing, talking, playing. Normal people. A sneer.
He lit another cigarette. He was getting annoyed. Damn it, he wasn’t some messenger boy one could keep waiting in the cold. That contact better had a good excuse when he arrived, or else he would make sure that this scum would meet his less sophisticated colleagues. The ones who thought whips were an appropriate means of communication. His lips curled in disdain. Brutes, but they had their uses.
His eyes darted around, but he didn’t notice anything suspicious. The contact was supposed to find him, not the other way around. The rendezvous point had been unambiguous, there could be no misunderstanding.
Fifteen minutes. The third cigarette. As the stub joined its two brothers on the ground, he got up. He had waited long enough. Nobody was fifteen minutes late on a meeting set up by the Colonel. It meant that things weren’t amiss.
They were really fucked up.
