Johann & Anyone but Grell (<3) | 2345 hours | Second Floor Hallway
[Intro. Warning for 'offensive adult concepts' or some BS idek.]
What a headache. He needed to stop training so hard. Some people enjoyed punching a little too much, claiming his enemies weren't going to go easy on him so why not prepare. But he suspected they were punching him for other reasons. Like, imagining he was someone else. He was going to have to work on that image. Legitimate or not he was not his father.
He was more demented. But whatever. He was also successful, and people liked him. Or well, the Reich liked him. Maybe not the people. He tried to ignore their opinions other than pleasing them with occasional interviews in which he proved he was both level-headed and capable. He also gave them that shirtless photo-shoot. What more could they want from him, really? If only they knew the things he really did to ensure their nation's victory.
Damn endless war.
He opened his eyes and took in the site of his room. It was not his room. He quickly bolted into an upright position and turned everything inside-out in inspection. What the Hell. There was a crate of his belongings, but nothing else belonged to him and it was certainly no where he had ever been before. Pushing back panic, he dressed slowly, slipping into a once-worn pair of khakis and white cotton shirt and pulled on a pair of his boots, (God forbid they be leather), which he was relieved to see had been included in the crate with his clothes.
At the door, he closed his eyes, and took in a deep breathe. Inside the crate of his belongings, he had not found his medication. So, he was going to have to deal without. Minorly suspecting he had forgotten to take them and his symptoms were worse than he though, or else that someone had drugged him, or worse that he had been--No. He was dreaming, or having a really bad episode in his head and once he opened this door, it would reveal the hallway outside his room at home, and he would breathe a sigh of relief, find the nearest flock of guards and ask them to play suspend their duties and play a hand of cards with him.
Opening the door and opening his eyes revealed what appeared to be a hotel hallway, though the design and structure was unlike anything he had ever seen before. Very confused now, he went back into his room, failed at willing it to become the one he was familiar with, and contemplated his sanity. Slipping a moss green dress shirt over his tee, he opened the door again to stare blankly down the hall.
Rubbing the back of his mostly-shaved head, he frowned, and managed a faint grunt of disorientation. "Eh...Hallo?"
Still nothing. His entire face seemed to distort into something entirely unattractive and severely irritated. This was not the affect of a drug. He was not insane. He had not been kidnapped. He was not having a psychotic break or side-affects from forgetting medication or anything. Someone was just playing a trick on him.
The audacity. Kicking his door he stormed around his room, collecting his things - belongings in the crate simply being two perfectly folded uniforms, his SS dagger, HJ dagger, and Red Skull mask - the sight of which only furthered his sour mood and increased the pain in his head. As much as he wanted to slip into his Red Skull persona and don the mask, he did not want to parade around in it openly in case whoever placed him here connected his two identities and he blew his cover. Then again, whoever had brought him here and given him his mask, so clearly, he had greater problems.
Finding a small cup of water on his dresser he chugged it in an attempt to make his body feel like he was going through the action of swallowing pills, clutched the HJ dagger (the SS dagger hooked to his belt, for safekeeping in spirit) and ventured out into the hall, very much praying that the first person he ran into could point him in the direction of Heinrich Himmler.
He trusted a handful of the others, but they would most likely think he was insane. Uncle would understand. He would probably be able to help. Even if it was...magic. At the moment, he just needed someone to ground him. Because he had no idea where in the fuck he was.
What a headache. He needed to stop training so hard. Some people enjoyed punching a little too much, claiming his enemies weren't going to go easy on him so why not prepare. But he suspected they were punching him for other reasons. Like, imagining he was someone else. He was going to have to work on that image. Legitimate or not he was not his father.
He was more demented. But whatever. He was also successful, and people liked him. Or well, the Reich liked him. Maybe not the people. He tried to ignore their opinions other than pleasing them with occasional interviews in which he proved he was both level-headed and capable. He also gave them that shirtless photo-shoot. What more could they want from him, really? If only they knew the things he really did to ensure their nation's victory.
Damn endless war.
He opened his eyes and took in the site of his room. It was not his room. He quickly bolted into an upright position and turned everything inside-out in inspection. What the Hell. There was a crate of his belongings, but nothing else belonged to him and it was certainly no where he had ever been before. Pushing back panic, he dressed slowly, slipping into a once-worn pair of khakis and white cotton shirt and pulled on a pair of his boots, (God forbid they be leather), which he was relieved to see had been included in the crate with his clothes.
At the door, he closed his eyes, and took in a deep breathe. Inside the crate of his belongings, he had not found his medication. So, he was going to have to deal without. Minorly suspecting he had forgotten to take them and his symptoms were worse than he though, or else that someone had drugged him, or worse that he had been--No. He was dreaming, or having a really bad episode in his head and once he opened this door, it would reveal the hallway outside his room at home, and he would breathe a sigh of relief, find the nearest flock of guards and ask them to play suspend their duties and play a hand of cards with him.
Opening the door and opening his eyes revealed what appeared to be a hotel hallway, though the design and structure was unlike anything he had ever seen before. Very confused now, he went back into his room, failed at willing it to become the one he was familiar with, and contemplated his sanity. Slipping a moss green dress shirt over his tee, he opened the door again to stare blankly down the hall.
Rubbing the back of his mostly-shaved head, he frowned, and managed a faint grunt of disorientation. "Eh...Hallo?"
Still nothing. His entire face seemed to distort into something entirely unattractive and severely irritated. This was not the affect of a drug. He was not insane. He had not been kidnapped. He was not having a psychotic break or side-affects from forgetting medication or anything. Someone was just playing a trick on him.
The audacity. Kicking his door he stormed around his room, collecting his things - belongings in the crate simply being two perfectly folded uniforms, his SS dagger, HJ dagger, and Red Skull mask - the sight of which only furthered his sour mood and increased the pain in his head. As much as he wanted to slip into his Red Skull persona and don the mask, he did not want to parade around in it openly in case whoever placed him here connected his two identities and he blew his cover. Then again, whoever had brought him here and given him his mask, so clearly, he had greater problems.
Finding a small cup of water on his dresser he chugged it in an attempt to make his body feel like he was going through the action of swallowing pills, clutched the HJ dagger (the SS dagger hooked to his belt, for safekeeping in spirit) and ventured out into the hall, very much praying that the first person he ran into could point him in the direction of Heinrich Himmler.
He trusted a handful of the others, but they would most likely think he was insane. Uncle would understand. He would probably be able to help. Even if it was...magic. At the moment, he just needed someone to ground him. Because he had no idea where in the fuck he was.