The heavy wheels of the Reich private jet screeched against the tarmac as it touched down at John F. Kennedy Airport, once named for a president who never existed in this world, now just another militarized outpost of the American Reich. Outside, rows of patrolling American SA storm troopers—brown-shirted, jackbooted, and carrying MP 49s—guarded the terminal entrances and checked travel permits with grim efficiency. Their uniforms mirrored their European counterparts, but with a distinctly American edge: silver eagles and red armbands adorned with the swastika flapped in the humid wind of Queens, New York.
The convoy rolled slowly past checkpoints adorned with towering Reich banners. As the ramp lowered from the aircraft, SS-Oberst-Gruppenführer Imel Dietrich stepped down with the deliberate gait of power. His aide, Felton, adjusted his cap behind him, already scanning the airport for their ride.
New York City—once the symbol of American liberty—had transformed into a fortress of Nazi architecture. Marble government buildings lined Manhattan's avenues, each crowned with iron Reichsadler eagles gripping swastikas. The Empire State Building, no longer a beacon of innovation, now bore an enormous black banner down its face, flanked with red stripes and centered with the symbol of Aryan supremacy. The proud Statue of Liberty was long gone, replaced by a 300-foot statue of a stern Aryan soldier with a rifle at his side and his boot upon the globe.
Even in its grandeur, the city felt hollow, like a shell containing a wound.
"Go fetch the car," Imel muttered to Felton.
Felton nodded and walked off.
Imel stood quietly by a vending stall, picking up a folded newspaper written in both German and English—Der Amerikanische Beobachter. Headlines screamed about increased security at the Neutral Zone and "saboteur threats."
Suddenly, someone bumped into him.
A woman. Late twenties. Dark hair, plain dress, bold eyes.
"Sorry," she said.
Something hit the pavement.
Imel stooped and picked it up—a silver necklace.
She held out her hand. "That's mine."
He looked her square in the eye. "Then give me back what you took first."
Her expression flickered—then curled into a sly smile.
"You think the police will believe you? I'll just tell them you touched me," she purred mockingly.
Imel chuckled darkly. "Try it."
A brown-shirted American SA trooper approached, hand on his MP 49. "Is there a problem here?"
Imel didn't speak. He just stared at the woman.
The woman turned, smiling warmly at the trooper. "No trouble. Just a misunderstanding."
The trooper grunted, clearly disgusted with Imel, unaware of who he was, and walked off.
"You must be someone important," the woman said, tossing a wallet back into his hand.
Imel held out the necklace. "And you must be someone who steals."
Their eyes lingered on each other for a second too long.
Then Felton returned. "Car's out front, sir."
Imel turned and walked without another word.
Manhattan — SS Headquarters
The SS Headquarters tower loomed like a monolith, wrapped in iron and stone, built where the old MetLife Tower once stood. Inside, cold hallways led to warm nightmares—interrogation chambers, strategic war rooms, archives detailing every American citizen's bloodline and behavior history.
Obergruppenführer Adam Sand, a hulking man with a jaw like carved granite, paced behind his desk, reviewing reports on suspected rebel activity. He looked up in shock as his office door opened without warning.
Felton entered first.
Then Imel.
"W-what is this?" Adam asked, standing. "I received no notice of—"
"Official business," Imel cut him off, walking straight to the tall glass window that overlooked Manhattan.
Adam froze.
"The Reichsführer sent me."
The words hit like a hammer.
Adam's throat went dry. "Y-yes, of course… Heil Hitler."
Imel didn't respond.
Minutes later, the two men left the building and were driven through a city soaked in authoritarian glory and quiet dread, toward a five-star hotel reserved for elite Reich personnel. Behind polished doors and crisp uniforms, the entire city trembled with secrets.
Meanwhile — Downtown Manhattan, After Midnight
Agent Leo Debelfor sat at the edge of a smoky bar, nursing a beer and watching the conversations around him. His sharp features were worn just enough to blend in, his voice measured to avoid suspicion. Still, Red, a wiry resistance contact, took notice.
"You speak like a man who hates the Reich," Red muttered, swirling his drink.
"I speak like a man who's seen too much of it," Leo replied.
Red narrowed his eyes and left without another word.
Leo followed, waiting for the inevitable test.
As he passed an alley, two SA patrolmen jeered at him, barking for his ID. When Leo made a snide comment, they struck him across the face.
He retaliated. Quick, brutal, trained.
The fight drew attention fast. Sirens wailed in the distance.
From the shadows, Red reappeared. "Follow me if you want to live."
Leo didn't hesitate.
Brooklyn — Resistance Hideout, Mechanic Shop
The garage smelled of oil and gunpowder. Beneath its surface-level business, Emily, a hard-eyed resistance leader, stood surrounded by crates of stolen firearms and blueprints.
Red led Leo inside.
"This him?" Emily asked, unimpressed.
"He talks like one of us."
"Or a cop," she said, raising a pistol.
Before she could make a call, a sharp whistle blew.
"Raid!" someone shouted from the rooftop.
Floodlights roared on. Sirens closed in. The Nazi cops had them surrounded.
"Move the truck!" Emily screamed. "Get the weapons to the Neutral Zone!"
Red tossed Leo the keys and a map. "You drive. I'll cover you."
Leo fired the truck's engine. Metal scraped concrete as he blasted through the front barricade. In the mirror, he saw Red fall under a hail of bullets, still firing until his last breath.
Leo didn't slow. He drove into the night, heading for the mountains.
San Francisco — Three Days Later
Across the Pacific, the harbors of San Francisco churned with waves and steel. The Imperial Japanese Navy, led by Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto, had arrived with a fleet of cruisers and patrol ships. The changing of the guard from the disgraced General Imamura was underway.
Flags bearing the rising sun snapped over the Golden Gate Bridge. New orders, new eyes.
In his command tent, Chief Inspector Hajime Sugiyama reviewed the latest transmission from his agents: A known Nazi assassin had crossed into JPS territory.
Sugiyama narrowed his eyes.
"Follow him," he ordered. "Every step. If he breathes wrong—I want to know."
Denver — JPS Border
Sarah Lin tightened the last bolt on her makeshift radio. Hidden beneath a church basement, her fingers shook.
"This is Test Signal One," she whispered into the mic. "This is for those still listening. Still believing."
The signal burst into life—a voice from a lost America.
But someone else was already listening.
The Reich assassin, silent and cloaked, stood on a nearby rooftop, his scope trained on her window.
And far behind him, in the heart of New York's marble towers, Imel Dietrich stood overlooking the city that once stood for freedom, now gilded in swastikas. He lit a cigarette and whispered to himself:
"Everything that rises… will burn."