The morning sunlight struggled through the fog-covered bulletproof windows of the Nazi Reich Embassy in Japanese Pacific States, turning the marble floor a dull gray.
Oberkommandant Felton sat alone at the head of a long oak table, his uniform jacket unbuttoned, a half-burned cigar hanging from his lip as he read the morning dispatches.
Across the front page of Der Beobachter der Ordnung blared the headline:
"Terrorist Attack in Paris Leaves Dozens Dead — Security Control Transferred to the Waffen-SS."
Felton grunted, tapped the ash into a crystal tray, and muttered,
"What a mess. Every time the Wehrmacht tries tighten their grip, something slips through the cracks."
Around him, the embassy's war-room filled with murmurs of interpreters and attachés preparing for the arrival of the Imperial Family of the Empire of Japan — an event that had the entire Japanese Pacific State on alert. At the head of the table, standing in front of a large wall map of San Francisco Bay, was General Takuma Nishimura, Deputy commander of the First Imperial Guards Division. Sharp-eyed and impeccably uniformed, was going over the security charts one by one.
"The Crown Prince and Princess will land at fourteen hundred hours," Nishimura said, tapping a pointer against the map.
"These sectors—here, here, and here—are under the First Guard's direct control. The kempeitai Police have secondary authority. The Reich embassy's own internal detail will be coordinated with the Central Directorate through Felton's office."
Felton nodded absently, puffing another cloud of smoke as SS officers scribbled notes.
"For emergencies," Nishimura continued, "Sector Red-One will be the critical response team. Evacuation route goes through the East Tunnel to the naval base. Communication line Gamma-Three is to remain open at all times."
The meeting went on for hours. Reports. Maps. Evacuation drills. Code phrases.
Until, finally, a clerk hurried in carrying a black telephone on a silver tray.
Nishimura answered, his tone changing instantly.
After a short, tense conversation, he hung up and said flatly:
"The Crown Prince and Princess are airborne. Everyone to your stations."
The Arrival
Outside, San Francisco throbbed with anxious order. The skies were sealed, flights grounded; no vessel was permitted to leave or enter the bay. Military convoys rolled through empty streets, lights flashing. Crowds pressed against barricades in the rain for a glimpse of royalty.
Felton, standing beside the Trade Minister and the Military Governor Admiral Yamato, could already hear the distant hum of engines. A row of Imperial Japans flags lined the runway like blood-red sentinels, while dozens of Imperial Guards in dark blue tunics cut close to the torso, shimmering braiding and brass buttons catching the light; caps of matching dark blue bore a red band and delicate red piping around the brim, the red a thin, defiant thread of color against the seriousness of the cloth, each motionless, rifles upright, their faces unreadable under they're caps.
When the silver Imperial Skyliner descended through the mist and touched the runway, the entire field seemed to hold its breath. Behind it, two modified escort planes, dark, sleek with the rising sun on the sides of both planes. Banked gracefully and landed in formation.
From those aircraft, eight hundred Imperial Guards deployed with mechanical precision, forming two lines on either side of a freshly rolled red carpet. Their boots struck the pavement in rhythm, a living drumbeat of authority.
The cabin door opened. First imperial Guards Division commander Takeshi Mori stepped out, saluted sharply, and turned.
Then appeared the Crown Prince Akihiro and Princess Michika, radiant even beneath the gray light.
Gasps rose from the spectators. Cameras flashed. The imperial couple walked down the steps, Michika's gloved hand resting lightly on her husband's arm. The princess smiled faintly and whispered, "It's colder here than I imagined."
Akihiro smirked. "The Reich may command half the world, but they can't command the weather."
They greeted the assembled dignitaries briefly. Felton bowed, offered formal congratulations, and prepared to exchange a few words — but Nishimura was suddenly beside him again, expression unreadable.
"Apologies, Oberkommandant," he said curtly. "The Crown Prince must proceed to the motorcade."
Felton could only nod as the royals were ushered into a black, sealed limousine.
Before stepping inside, Princess Michika turned and beckoned quietly to the Trade Minister Togo Masuri, an old friend from her early years in the palace.
"Ride with us," she said softly.
He bowed and joined them, the door closing behind him.
The convoy of vehicles then rolled away under the guard of armored escorts, sirens echoing across the runway.
Felton exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as he watched them go.
Behind him, his own aide—Agent Klaus Barbie, a sharp-featured intelligence officer—had been studying another pair of men among the crowd: Vice Admiral Arimoto, and the recently arrived SS-Gruppenführer Otto Ohlendorf, envoy from the Waffen SS' High Command. Their brief, hushed meeting earlier had not escaped Barbie's attention.
"They met again, sir," Barbie whispered.
Felton didn't look away from the horizon. "Keep eyes on them. No moves, not yet. I don't play a game until I see the whole board."
He flicked his cigar into a puddle, got into his car, and left the Embassy.
His thoughts churned: Imel gone, the Waffen SS tightening their grip on Europe, and now whispers that the JPS Deputy governor were plotting his own empire.
The board's getting crowded, he thought. Too many players, not enough rules, let's remove a few.
The Locked Room in Berlin
Half a world away, Berlin's skyline burned with electric light.
Inside a glass penthouse overlooking the Tiergarten, Lena Riefenstahl, the acclaimed filmmaker and cultural liaison to the regime, was unpacking the last of her suitcases. Her reflection in the mirror caught the bandaged cuts across her cheek—souvenirs from the Paris explosion.
She clenched her fist. "All for a gala and glory," she muttered bitterly.
And beneath her anger, another feeling: betrayal. The one she had discarded Lucy—clung to her— Riefenstahl had vanished replaying her last moments with Lucy closing the door in her face while she clung to Riefenstahl for hope as she only slammed the door and left Lucy with only bitter words as Riefenstahl driver drove her away to safety.
A knock broke her thoughts.
She froze. It was nearly midnight.
The SA entrance guards downstairs never allowed visitors without clearance.
She opened the door a crack.
Three men stood in the hallway, their raincoats glistening under the lights.
Two carried the insignia of the Gestapo. The third, taller, removed his hat and looked at her with calm detachment.
"Lena Riefenstahl?" one of the Gestapo agents asked.
"Yes?" she said cautiously. "What is this about?"
The men brushed past her and entered.
"Excuse me! You have no authority in this building," she protested. "I'm registered with the Nazi Regime Directorate under Minister Joseph Goebbels himself. You'll answer for this."
She snatched up the telephone.
Before she could dial, the third man stepped forward, took the receiver gently from her hand, and placed it back.
"That won't be necessary," he said quietly.
His voice was deep, patient — but absolute.
He removed his cap, revealing a scarred face and the silver insignia of the High Security Command.
"I am Nazi Party Security Director SS-Obergruppenführer Ernst Kaltenbrunner," he said. "head of the Reich Security Main Office (RSHA), the Sicherheitsdienst (SD) and. The Gestapo, they all report to me."
Lena's eyes widened. Even the Gestapo agents shifted uneasily.
Kaltenbrunner continued, "But I'm not here in my full official capacity. I come as the Sicherheitsdienst (SD) on behalf of SS-Obergruppenführer Imel, under direct orders of the executives of the Nazi Regime."
Her heartbeat quickened. "Obergruppenführer Imel? He's—he's alive?"
"He is," Kaltenbrunner said. "And his instructions are clear. You are to be placed under protective custody within your residence until further notice."
"Protective custody?" she repeated incredulously. "This is absurd!"
He motioned to the two Gestapo agents. They began unplugging her telephones, sealing off her communication console, checking behind the curtains for transmitters.
"You'll receive meals and supplies," Kaltenbrunner went on, his tone still calm. "Two guards will remain at your door. All visitors must be approved through the Gestapo I'm sure they'll be through."
He put his cap back on, gave a curt nod, and turned toward the exit.
"Please, don't make this harder than it needs to be."
And just like that, he and his men were gone—disappearing into the night rain beyond the glass doors.
Lena stood motionless, leaning against the counter, her hands trembling slightly.
Outside, through her window, she could see the entrance guards below snapping to attention as Kaltenbrunner's car pulled away, its headlights slicing the darkness.
Berlin seemed suddenly silent.
The city that had once worshipped her name now listened only to orders whispered behind locked doors.