#mauermann

Don’t start WWIII. I wrote it on my palm in waterproof ink. A reminder not to screw things up—again.

The leap between worlds still feels like falling through static. Jarring, unnatural. But I’ve done it before. The files Lily asked for are neatly tucked into my leather briefcase—some pretentious designer brand Francis forced on me. ‘Have some flair, Allemagne,’ he’d said. Whatever. It holds papers.

I take the familiar streets to her apartment. Walked these streets twice already. First time, I was invited for dinner—her, me, and her father. It went nuclear fast. The second time? Apologies, bitterness and some stupid heroism that led to Lily’s temporary death. So no, I don’t write ‘Don’t start WWIII’ lightly.

This time the plan is simple: I drop off the files, she thanks me, I leave. One foot in, one foot out.

But apparently, I’m not made for simple. As I turn around the corner I see him. That unmistakable silhouette, carrying himself as if the past has never ended. Prussia. Her Prussia.

“You got to be fucking me,” I mutter to myself when he disappears inside the building.

My phone buzzes.

[[ Lily: Sorry! Got caught up. Ask Frau Schäfer for the key. Thank you!! <3 ]]

Right. I’ll just let myself into a home currently occupied by a man I once murdered. What could possibly go wrong?

Exactly. And since I’m a man of reason, I do the only sane thing: I turn around and walk. Fast. All the way back to where I came through—and, of course, there’s nothing there. No gate, no shimmer, no crack between realities. To anyone else, I probably look unhinged—wandering in circles, patting the air, mumbling under my breath. Thankfully, this is Berlin. No one bats an eye. A man miming existential crisis on a street corner is just another Tuesday here.

I give up and stare at my phone again. No response. Lily’s gone dark. And I’m stuck in this world with him two blocks away.

I quietly sigh a very German “Scheiße” as I pinch the bridge of my nose. Then I do what any reasonable man in my position would do: find myself a bar.

Of course, it has to be one of those painfully self-aware hipster cafés—exposed brick, plants hanging from the ceiling, menu written in chalk and irony. But it has two things I need: a direct view of Lily’s building, and beer. Well—alcohol-free Weizen. I’m still technically on duty.

The waiter, some guy with a curled mustache and an indifferent attitude, gives me a once-over. I don’t blame him. I look like a bureaucrat who wandered into a thrift store. Still, I order the beverage and ask for the Wi-Fi password. He tells me it’s ‘latecapitalism420’ and doesn’t even flinch.

“I’m about to jsut say ‘fuck it’ to this whole business and tell them they can put up their own damn streamers.” Gilbert huffed. “Black or white? Why not both? Oh well we used both last time and we can’t use both this time or people will think it’s the same event. I swear to Christ. These people have no idea.” Gilbert was put in charge of decorating for a Prussian Heritage Foundation event, and had asked Alexander for assistance. But he was too irritated by the time the man came over to offer any helpful direction.