Snipes smiled. He was surrounded by the peaceful night of 1941 Germany. Stars clouded the night sky, shedding their light across the green below him, turning it to a musty gray. Snipes could not help but enjoy the scenery the sped past from his position standing upon the broken fourth wall, continuity fairy at the helm of his great party pad. Tanus The Warhammer was lounging on a bar stool behind the mad Pirate King, introspective or at least as quiet as he ever was; the great warhammer, his namesake, strapped to his back, ready to unleash hell on the evil denizens of this world. Snipes could not help but enjoy himself.

The locals bombers clouded around him, as he passed over a mountain, the whine of their primitive engines destroying the Abney Park blaring from the juke box. Snipes grimaced. Those sonsofbitches, here I am, trying to take a nice vacation in the distant future and motherfuckers have to drown out my stereo.

Then the night air flared up, fire and shrapnel tore the darkness to shreds, Snipes was forced to dodge several larger bits of metal as they flew towards him, in the back he could hear Tanus’ glass shatter. Even Snipes tensed as the tell-tale creaking of thick leather heralded the mans movements. Snipes knew now his vacation in delirium was destroyed. He cursed the bastard writing this in every language his intoxicated and delusional mind could remember.

“You’re pissed, aren’t you?” Snipes sighed.

“Yep.”

“Aw fuck.” Snipes gripped his temples as one of the flak blasts came far too near, making the fourth wall shake.

After that the bursts came quicker and closer, until the bar was blown away, the juke box and fuckin’ serving droid. Snipes did not pity the men on the ground as his collection of bricks plummeted towards it. He wasn’t happy anymore and he had a whole collection of anime derived weapons with which to kill the inhabitants of this primitive ‘Earth’. Fuck Earth. Was about to become his new curse.

The pile of bricks the sometimes pirates Company members rode on crashed into the dirt, breaking apart, thoroughly destroying the fourth wall, throwing the riders all about, into trees, dirt and trenches. Then it got bad, gun fire opened up, ripping apart nothing in particular.

“Fuck crossovers!” Snipes yelled, diving behind a rock, “You bastards already know we can’t die, we’re main-fucking-characters.”

“It’s ok, Snipes, Nazi’s are always disposable.”

“MIEN GOTT! DIE BRITAN HABBEN EINEN FLUGEN BEHALTER!” Was the unanimous cry from the opposing trenches as Snipes bolted towards them.

Snipes twin weapons, Casull and Jackal screamed in chorus as he fired them towards the gray clad enemies and their primitive rifles. Snipes didn’t even like to be shot at when he was one duty, much less when he was on an alcohol induced delirium of a vacation. Fuck Earthlings; they so had it coming.

A sudden knock woke him from his catatonic state. The gentle, rhythmic trundle of iron tracks sounded off like the clash of cymbals every few seconds. The wooden carriage bucked in time to the clash as streams of light filtered through the gaps in its construction.

He wasn't alone.

Men. Maybe two dozen. All clad in filthy garments made of either a wool or cotton stood littered around the carriage. The smell of dysentery and bodily odour was all too apparent. He kept still. His disorientation was total. How had he come to be here? Why was he here? Where exactly was here?... Nothing was clear. The fact that he couldn't recall where he had been before he went to sleep, troubled him most of all.

Something was lightly rapping on his right shoulder. Cautiously he turned his head, just enough to catch a glimpse at whoever, or whatever, it was. A man, tired, hungry looking with gaunt cheeks and hooded eyes and a shaved head sat beside him with his knees hugged into his chest. He spoke, but it was in a language Jager didn't understand. A sharp, throaty dialect, given a slight lisp by what appeared to be some sort of facial injury he had been given recently.

Jager made no attempt at communicating back. Chances where it would be a waste of energy, of which he had little to squander.

The carriage continued on its way. The trundle of the iron tracks eventually fading into the background. Twenty three men, including himself, and by the sounds of things they all spoke the same, indecipherable dialect. Another man. Younger, shorter, his face framed by a thin, black beard that ran from jaw to jaw and clad in what might have once been a nice woolen jacket gradually made his way through the three man deep crowd.

They were looking at him now, looking as though he were an outsider. For all he knew, he probably was, and by the hushed tone of their voice, he had some of the older men worried.

The younger man, whom moments before had been working his way through the crowd, squatted down beside him. A set of grimy spectacles sat across his nose. A few moments passed. Again the train jarred violently to the right, causing the carriage occupants to mumble aloud with distaste. It took a second before he registered the hand extended from the young man next to him. With a smile he offered a greeting, or at least what Jager assumed was a greeting, in the same tongue as the others. Like before, Jager didn't respond. A fact which puzzled the young man.

With an inquisitive look he changed dialects. This time it was more rhythmic and far smoother then the previous. But, like the previous, it still made no sense. It was though Jager had become a sort of challenge to the man. Like a crossword, or a puzzle sphere. By the expression on his mud encrusted face, it was obvious that he was determined to find a dialect that was compatible.

It took him two more attempts before he came close. "How about now..." he queried with an obvious strain in his voice. It was a rough version of basic. Similar to some of the more remote farming communities in the galaxy, communities that had gone generations without outside interference.

"Ha-ha!" The young man exclaimed, clapping his hands together as though he had just perfected his lifes work, "Englander!"

"HeT, HeT" the older man, whom first tried to open a dialogue with him, spat, waving his hand in disgust at the younger mans apparent ignorance, "Yankee, ???"

For a moment Jager contemplated the fact he may have very well gone insane. He had no recollection of how he had come to be on, what at least appeared to be, the train. He understood very little, if any of what the men around him where saying, though they all clearly understood it. But the contemplation was cut short by the younger man taking a grip on his arm and shaking him,

"I have it. Canuk!"

"Bah" The old man to his right spat, "What is a Canadian doing out here! This is your entire problem, Gregori, you never think things through!"

"Oh, shut up you old bastard." The younger man, apparently named "Gregori', retorted before turning his attention back to Jager, "I didn't see you board the carriage with the rest of us?"

"Uh.. yeah." Jager grunted back, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his index finger and his thumb.

Again the old man spoke up, "He sounds nothing like a Canadian."

"Oh, and you know what a Canadian sounds like, eh? Tell me, Valentin, how many Canadians have you met?"

"You watch your tone, child."

"Or what?! You'll go get the Germans?! Because I think it is a bit late for that, you gristly old bastard!"

"Both of you, Shutup!" An voice boomed from the crowd. Immediately Gregori sunk back on his knee's and the old man cast his head down and mumbled something in his native tongue. The crowd did their best to part for the large man whom had begun pushing his way through them. he stood at what would been seven foot, with large, broad shoulders. His chiselled head was hairless save for a pencil moustache that brushed against his top lip. "Can you not see that the last thing our comrade here needs is more of your pointless bickering. You are like a married couple!" he boomed in that same rough basic that the others hand stumbled across,

"Sorry, Bear." Gregori muttered remorsefully,

"Bah, Do not be apologising to me, Child. Be apologising to our friend here, Mr?"

Jager needed a name. Experience had taught him that names, or at least real names, where for friends, and even though they seemed on the level he wasn't about to give them anything that confidential. He was, however, at a loss. The cloud of disorientation that hung over the forefront of his mind prevented him from formulating any proper response. The hulking monster of a man knelt down and took a closer examination of Jager.

"You are partisan." He stated, motioning to the fissure that crossed the length of left side of his face, "I can tell. Shrapnel, right?"

Jager nodded in agreement. The exact cause of the wound escaped him for the moment, but he had nothing else to say to the man.

"H-aha!" he boomed, "Is great news! You are among friends."

"Maybe he's Czechoslovakian? Or Bulgarian?" Gregori pondered aloud.

"No matter. So long as he fights our enemies, he is a friend!" The large man shot back, pointing one of his large index fingers at the young man, "And if he is my friend, then he may as well be your friend to."

"Bah, what does it matter, Bear. He is trapped here like the rest of us." Valentin stated, motioning around himself, "Unless he can pull a miracle from his Canadian ass, then I doubt he will be any help to anyone."

Jager sat in his confusion. His situation was apparently dire. He was surrounded by strangers, who spoke a strange language, on a strange planet with no recollection of how exactly he had come to be there. He struggled to think of a time when he had been worse off, but none came to mind.

Snipes? Who was Snipes? Snipes wasn’t sure who the fuck Snipes was, but he was pretty sure he was somebody important. It didn’t seem to change the fact, however, that this Snipes character was lounging on the bar of some quaint bar in some incomprehensible part of the universe, there was also the good possibility that it was him. He wasn’t sure.

Yar.

Snipes twisted his head about, there was nothing familiar about this place, not even a little, except the two people sitting on each side of him drinking schnapps with him. He’d had run the bartender off because he refused to serve them the schnapps in one of the wonderful and large beer glasses native to the land.

“Guys, we may have a problem. We may be breaking reality.” Snipes mumbled.

“No, the writers broke reality.” Tanus murmured back at him, resting his head on the bar, “Wish they’d break it again, the guys with guns will be back soon.”

At the last sentence Snipes bolted off his stool and onto the floor. Ass first. Snipes glared at the ceiling and shook is fist at the author before clambering back to his feet. One thing seemed to be for sure. All the life had left this place, the party had moved elsewhere. Snipes wondered if he shouldn’t be trying to do something anyway.

“If you don’t get out of this world in the next 72 hours I’m killing all of you.” A voice from the heavens whispered.

“Holy fuck!” Snipes yelled, unholstering his weapons, “Who the hell was that.”

“It’s me, the bloody writer, how do you like imminent death for a plot device, pretty snazzy, eh?”

“I am so going to kill you.”

“Snippps,” Tanus moaned, “Stop talking to the chairs, you’re frightening the cabinets.”

Snipes growled and returned to his stool, not sure what else to do. Snipes leaned on the bar, propping himself up with his elbows. He lit another cigarette and groaned low and to himself. He was stuck staring at his reflection in the mirror. It was laughing at him. He picked up his tankard and brought it to his lips, drinking deeply of the far too sweet liquor; the mirror cracked, but he didn’t really notice it. Tanus to his left took a drink aswell, the mirror cracked again.

“Snipes.” Tanus said, sounding vaguely coherent, “I think we’ve drank reality to death.”

“That is far too possible for me to properly accept.”

Snipes sighed, “Merrick, any idea what we should do? This is stagnating. The writer said we have to get back to our reality in the next seventy-two hours, but I think he’s full of shit. Any better ideas of how to waste this time?”

“Boss battle?”

“Boss Battle.” Snipes echoed, “Yeah, I could go for a boss battle.”