You emerge from the inferno of your crashed jet, the flickering glow of the flames behind you casting you in silhouette. You take a step towards the woman with the rifle, the deck of the aircraft carrier illuminated by the smouldering wreckage of the Blackbird. Instead of meeting your advance, the woman calling herself Rip Van Winkle cowers before it, her glowing blue eyes wide with horror. Clutching her antique flintlock musket to her breast as a child would a comforting toy, she looks almost on the verge of tears.
Relishing the opportunity to play with your meal, you reach for her, only for your hand to explode into twisted, torn meat as a salvo of bullets rips into you. Rip's troops are trying to defend their commander. The withering hail of gunfire barely slows you down; your body mends and knits itself back together as fast as it's torn apart, splintered bones sprouting anew, scraps of flesh pulling themselves together and wounds closing.
When you finish littering the deck with the corpses of her soldiers, you find the woman herself trembling, curled up into a ball in the corner, her tears rolling down her freckled face. You grin monstrously at the sight, drinking deep of the perverse pleasure her terror inspires in you.
Steeling herself, and with a desperate cry, the Nazi woman raises her musket, but you're already upon her. Lashing out with a gloved fist, you drive it into her cheek, sprawling her out on the deck. Your fingers wrap around the tender pale flesh of her throat, and scooping up her rifle, you lift her bodily into the air.
You level the musket at her, but rather than pulling the trigger, you place the tip of the barrel against her breast. Her eyes wide, she struggles to speak, to beg, but your hand grips her throat tight enough to reduce it to a muffled whimper. You press the rifle barrel into her, forcing it slowly into her body. With a faint wet tearing sound, her skin gives way, and you slowly push the barrel deeper into her flesh. She gasps in