Inglorious Chapter 1
Story Title: Inglorious
Author: bandearg_rois
Warnings: blood, gore, bad language... Nazi-bashing (is that a real warning?)
Summary: Jim Kirk is an SS assassin tapped for an American guerilla group in WWII. Bones is the leader of the group as well as the medic.
Disclaimer: I don't own ST:XI or Inglorious Basterds... both belong to their various and sundry owners, which are not me since I would nake this stuff canon if I did.
A/N: Beginning plot shamelessly stolen from Inglorious Basterds, hence their mention in my disclaimer. The rest is my own work, though.
Jim Kirk had only been in Germany for 3 generations, but his family had proven itself loyal to the Germans in numerous wars, one of which took his father. The First World War had cemented the Kirk loyalty, with the glorious sacrifice of Gregor Kirk, his father. Gregor had stayed behind to make sure that the army posted in Russia could get out before the Cossacks, led by a man named only Nero, could utterly destroy them. In the small town of Kelvin, history was made.
Now Jim had the untenable position of an assassin in the German ranks, taking orders and killing enemies of the Third Reich. Unfortunately for the Third Reich, he was also influenced by his Austrian mother, Winona, who had Jewish in her ancestry, well hidden. When Gestapo agents began turning up dead, marked with his signature, it was decided that he would not immediately be put before the gun, but that he would be transported to Berlin, as an example to those who would go against the Fuhrer and his doctrine.
The night before his execution, he was sitting in his cell, awaiting his death. His mother had already been killed in a raid months before, so he had nothing left to live for. Until the Americans appeared. All of his guards went down in silence, and he spared only a glance to these men who were as efficient killers as he. Then the leader began to speak, and he cocked an ear, curious as to why he wasn’t already dead.
“Well, now, you’d be Jim Kirk, am I right?” The smooth sound of an American Southern accent reached his ears, and he turned so that he was almost facing the speaker, his cigarette burning slowly. He was intrigued, really. This American was either very smart, or very fucking stupid. “Y’see, I hear you’re very good at killin’ Nazis.” In his accent the word came out more as Natzis, and Jim cocked an eyebrow. “And we’re in the business of killin’ Nazis. How’d you like to go from amateur to professional?” He turned fully, still not speaking.
The cell door was opened and he stood, looking the leader up and down, categorizing him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and lean, very lean. He also had hands not meant for killing, not that they weren’t good at it. They were surgeon’s hands, or pianists; long fingers that looked like they were meant for something other than taking lives.
“You are a doctor,” he said, slightly surprised, when his perusal of the man noted the small red cross on his uniform. “A non-combatant.”
“Where I’m from, we’re all combatants, friend. You ready to go?” He did the only thing he could. He followed the group out of the prison, stopping to get his effects on the way. This group just might be fun.
Author: bandearg_rois
Warnings: blood, gore, bad language... Nazi-bashing (is that a real warning?)
Summary: Jim Kirk is an SS assassin tapped for an American guerilla group in WWII. Bones is the leader of the group as well as the medic.
Disclaimer: I don't own ST:XI or Inglorious Basterds... both belong to their various and sundry owners, which are not me since I would nake this stuff canon if I did.
A/N: Beginning plot shamelessly stolen from Inglorious Basterds, hence their mention in my disclaimer. The rest is my own work, though.
Jim Kirk had only been in Germany for 3 generations, but his family had proven itself loyal to the Germans in numerous wars, one of which took his father. The First World War had cemented the Kirk loyalty, with the glorious sacrifice of Gregor Kirk, his father. Gregor had stayed behind to make sure that the army posted in Russia could get out before the Cossacks, led by a man named only Nero, could utterly destroy them. In the small town of Kelvin, history was made.
Now Jim had the untenable position of an assassin in the German ranks, taking orders and killing enemies of the Third Reich. Unfortunately for the Third Reich, he was also influenced by his Austrian mother, Winona, who had Jewish in her ancestry, well hidden. When Gestapo agents began turning up dead, marked with his signature, it was decided that he would not immediately be put before the gun, but that he would be transported to Berlin, as an example to those who would go against the Fuhrer and his doctrine.
The night before his execution, he was sitting in his cell, awaiting his death. His mother had already been killed in a raid months before, so he had nothing left to live for. Until the Americans appeared. All of his guards went down in silence, and he spared only a glance to these men who were as efficient killers as he. Then the leader began to speak, and he cocked an ear, curious as to why he wasn’t already dead.
“Well, now, you’d be Jim Kirk, am I right?” The smooth sound of an American Southern accent reached his ears, and he turned so that he was almost facing the speaker, his cigarette burning slowly. He was intrigued, really. This American was either very smart, or very fucking stupid. “Y’see, I hear you’re very good at killin’ Nazis.” In his accent the word came out more as Natzis, and Jim cocked an eyebrow. “And we’re in the business of killin’ Nazis. How’d you like to go from amateur to professional?” He turned fully, still not speaking.
The cell door was opened and he stood, looking the leader up and down, categorizing him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and lean, very lean. He also had hands not meant for killing, not that they weren’t good at it. They were surgeon’s hands, or pianists; long fingers that looked like they were meant for something other than taking lives.
“You are a doctor,” he said, slightly surprised, when his perusal of the man noted the small red cross on his uniform. “A non-combatant.”
“Where I’m from, we’re all combatants, friend. You ready to go?” He did the only thing he could. He followed the group out of the prison, stopping to get his effects on the way. This group just might be fun.