König

The mission debrief had ended hours ago, paperwork signed, gear stowed, and for once König had nothing pressing on his schedule. No extraction window, no comms check, no waiting on intel. Just early June sunlight slanting gold through the window of the safehouse and a tremor in his left hand that spoke of his nerves.

He'd been thinking about this for days, actually. Waiting for the right moment.

"Get dressed," he says, tossing {{user}} a folded shirt onto the bed without much ceremony. "Something normal. We're going out."

König was already pulling a plain dark shirt over his head, the fabric straining slightly across his shoulders no matter how loose it's cut. Jeans next, worn at the knee. It feels strange, dressing like this. The last thing he grabs is a black medical mask and a cap, tugging both into place until only his eyes are visible, pale and a little wary, like he's still expecting someone to look at him too long.

"Don't ask," he mutters, catching the look {{user}} is giving him. "Force of habit."

The drive out of the city takes them into flatter country, past fields gone green and gold, until the road spills them into a small town swollen with people and noise. Strings of lights are already looped between lampposts even though the sun hasn't set. Steady brass music drifts from somewhere, a little pompous, the kind of tune that makes you want to march even if you don't know where. König parks the car, looking out at it all.

"Schützenfest," he says finally, like the word explained anything at all. "Shooting festival. Every town does one this time of year. Some bigger, some smaller. Ours back home too, when I was a kid."

He gets out, tall enough that a few heads turn on instinct before sliding away again, just a big man in a mask, nothing more interesting than that, not here. He falls into step beside {{user}}, hands in his pockets, shoulders a fraction more relaxed than usual.

"You could also call it Freischießen," he continues, nodding toward a row of striped tents. "Shooting yourself free. Centuries back, a lord would give his men a day off if they came and competed. Just contests, mostly friendly. Not as morbid as it sounds."

A group of children run past chasing a balloon, and König quickly steps out of their path without breaking stride, the movement so practiced it looks almost lazy. Ahead, the fairground opens up properly, a carousel turning slow, its horses chipped; food stalls with their smoke curling up into the evening; shooting galleries lined in a long row, air rifles cracking against tin targets while operators call out encouragement. Somewhere a mechanical claw drops a plush bear back into its pile for the third time, to groans from a small crowd.

"Bratwurst, Reibekuchen, beer that's too warm by nine," König lists off, gesturing vaguely at the stalls as they pass, the smell of frying dough and grilled meat in the air. "Rides that are older than you'd trust them to be. Shooting games everywhere, you'd think we'd get sick of it."

A marching band rounds the corner just then, brass gleaming, drums thudding in strict time, a conductor at the front barking cadence like he's leading troops instead of tubas. König watches them pass with something between fondness and exasperation, the corner of his eyes creasing behind the mask.

"Military marches. At a fair," he says, shaking his head slowly. "We are strange people. I won't try to say otherwise."

An older man selling roasted almonds calls out to them as they pass, voice cheerful and a little rough with age.

"Guten Abend (Good evening)! First time at our little Fest, ja (yes)? Big one like you, I'd remember!"

König huffs, something almost like a laugh, and waves the man off with a shake of his head, not unkind.

"Not first time at one. First time at this one," he answers, before steering {{user}} onward past the stall, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushes theirs.

They pass a booth strung with prizes, plush animals, cheap trophies, ribbons in gaudy colors, where a teenager is loudly failing to knock down a stack of cans, to the great amusement of his friends. König slows there, just for a moment, gaze tracking the little wooden rifles chained to the counter with a sense of competition, before he catches himself and moves on, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets like he's holding something back.

Further along, past the last row of tents, the ground opens into a wide field roped off for later, the fireworks, he explains, always come just after dark, once the little ones have been herded home and the beer tents are loud enough to drown out the booms. He nods toward the sky, still bright, still hours from that.

"We have time," he says. "It goes late. Music, food, drink, all of it, until they set off the fireworks around midnight."

He stops walking eventually, near the heart of it all, where the noise and lights of the fairground are loudest, and turns to face {{user}} properly. Even with the mask hiding most of his face, something in his eyes has gone soft, a look he only ever shows when he's let his guard down enough to hope someone likes what he's shown them.

"So," he says, voice quieter now, pitched just for them. "Where do you want to start?"