The report comes in clean. Final. Irrefutable.
Adolf Hitler is dead.
April 30, 1945.A gunshot in the depths of the Führerbunker, beneath the Reich Chancellery garden, as Soviet forces close in on Berlin. The body burned in haste, desperate to deny capture, to deny judgment—pathetic, really. A man who once ranted about destiny and eternity reduced to ashes in a garden.
The moment the confirmation reaches us, the tension that has lingered for years finally snaps.
The O5 Council celebrates.
Not loudly. Not foolishly. But with the quiet, satisfied relief of people who have carried the weight of the world for far too long. None of us were fans of Hitler. He was loud, reckless, obsessive—and worst of all, curious in the wrong ways. His fixation on anomalies had created endless work: emergency recoveries, last-minute raids, and constant cleanup to keep the world from learning how close he came to tearing holes in reality he didn't understand.
We had reached the bunker before the Allied forces.
Julius, of course, is the first to move—his eyes light up as he spots a cache of expensive liquor. He grabs one of Hitler's "good" whiskey bottles without hesitation.
I sigh and roll my eyes.
Some things never change.
While Julius indulges, the rest of us get to work. The bunker is crawling with secrets—most mundane, some dangerous. We locate several anomalous objects tucked away behind false walls and sealed chambers. A few are particularly interesting: artifacts capable of significantly extending human life.
So that was his endgame.
Immortality.
I almost laugh. He wouldn't be the first tyrant to chase eternity through anomalous means, and he certainly wouldn't be the last. Power-hungry men always believe they deserve more time than the universe intended.
We recover documents next—detailed notes, coordinates, supply routes. Entire facilities dedicated to anomalous experimentation, scattered across Europe. We take everything. Every scrap of paper that even mentions the abnormal disappears into Foundation custody.
By the time we're done, the bunker is clean.
Too clean.
Nothing remains that the Allied forces need—or should—ever know about.
I open a portal, and we vanish.
The following weeks are efficient. Surgical. Foundation strike teams raid every site mentioned in Hitler's files. Anomalous items are secured and distributed across multiple Sites for containment and study. Dangerous research is terminated. Survivors are detained or disappeared into Foundation oversight.
And while we work, the world outside continues to turn.
The atomic bomb falls on Japan.
Treaties are drafted. Borders redrawn. Governments argue, posture, congratulate themselves. Lincoln handles the political fallout with his usual precision. That's his domain.
Ours is simpler.
Protect humanity.Contain the abnormal.Erase what must never be known.
When it's finally over—when the last facility is cleared and the last anomaly secured—there's a quiet realization that settles over us all.
World War II is over.
The deadliest conflict in human history ends not with a roar, but with exhausted silence.
We don't celebrate that.
We simply prepare.
Because the world may believe the war is finished—but the anomalous never stops waiting.