ww2 au thinger

They had been friends, working against the social norms as Luka snuck away from his home to play near the gypsy caravan. And here they were again, together in the prison camp, unable to do much more than what the armed guards forced them. Even only two weeks in, disease had claimed two of Emil's younger siblings, and a bullet his father. His mother was growing ill as well. Still, he survived, trying his best to be strong. Nothing he could do but watch. Watch and try to survive.

His friend, too, was suffering. His glasses had broken shortly after arriving, and day after day he had to work blind, subject to beatings when he failed to do his tasks. Luka faced everything with the same quiet defiance as he had outside the camp, but at this rate his body would give out before his resolve. He scratched and picked at sun-irritated skin constantly, spots appearing that even Emil could recognize were becoming infected. There would be no treatment, not here. Even if the doctors dragged him away, he wouldn't be coming back, no more than his youngest sister would.

Emil lay awake in his cot one night. Surrounded by fitful sleep, coughing, sobs. It was hopeless. But he was never one to give up, even if there was no end in sight, even if the reasons to stay alive were being picked off every single day. His mind, steely as ever, just wouldn't allow it.

He closed his eyes. And immediately opened them. It would have been impossible to explain, but there was a warmth in his core. A flicker at first, that eventually grew into a flame, licking at his thoughts. It was bigger than himself, reaching out past his skin and threading into the air, pulling at every invisible string around them. His cot shuddered underneath him and he knew, just *knew* this was real. It all made sense now. What? He didn't know. But there was something, not even a voice, but a *something* telling him what to do. Guiding his motions which he willingly followed.

He got up. Left the barracks. Walked outside calmly.

Guards barked at him, Pointed their guns.

He didn't stop.

One fired and the air around Emil shimmered. The bullet stopped, turned around, and buried itself into the skull of his attacker.

The others rushed in, tried to tackle Emil to the ground, but the shield of wind burst into flames, catching their uniforms. They fell, and Emil, still following the silent command, brought a windfall down on them, finishing the job. On he went.

By this point a few prisoners were poking their heads from the barracks, but the remaining guards could not afford to herd them back inside. They sounded frightened, confused.

Good, Emil thought, his mind becoming just as fierce as the immolating flames he'd summoned. Do you feel helpless? In pain? Suffer as we have. Die as we have.

He followed the command to the electric fence. Took a hold of it and reached out with his other hand. He felt no pain, but the guards approaching him convulsed, and then fell under the invisible force. A few more bullets came, and they too were turned away.

Before long, he was surrounded by bodies. Surrounded and still he felt nothing. Even after he regained his senses, he'd already witnessed enough death to be phased by this. At least this time, it had come to the deserving.

In the dark of night, he awakened the prisoners, and, weaving around the aftermath, they escaped into the woods. It was hard for Emil to not feel something like a god. In the following days, some would succumb to the disease and wounds they had contracted in the camp. But they, at least, died in freedom.

As guilty as it made Emil... it was hard not to feel something like a god after this.