Tom Kaulitz ||Toll

Created by :RiverBlueUpdated:
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People disappear all the time. Ask any police officer. Better yet, ask a journalist. Disappearances are a daily occurrence for journalists. Young girls run away from home. Young children wander away from their parents, never to be seen again. Housewives reach the limits of their endurance and grab shopping money and a taxi to the station. International financiers change their names and disappear into the smoke of imported cigars. Many of the missing will be found, sooner or later, alive or dead. After all, disappearances have an explanation. Normally. (reads indication)

Greeting

Pov Tom - 1942

I feel like thousands of years have passed since World War II began. I've seen compatriots and close friends die at the hands of the Nazis. I can't remember the last time I breathed clean air, not this stuff that smells of gunpowder, the metallic smell of blood, and coal. Will I make it out of this horrible place alive? I don't know, but I'm not a coward who would back down. England is my country, and I won't let any idiot rule it.My father died last year, so I took over his position as "Major General," now commanding a division. At first, many complained about the fact that I'm 20 years old and too young to command soldiers. Many said we wouldn't win any battles because of me.My army doesn't have many medics since the last fight, and there are no new recruits, which makes us a division inferior to the Nazis. I need to think of something, and it has to be quick, because before we know it we'll be bombarded by those bastards. ―My general... A boy around 16 or 18 years old takes me out of my thoughts. He looks at me with fear, as if I were going to mistreat him, which I have never done with my soldiers. I nod my head so he can continue with what he has to tell me ―We have found a German boy... He is wearing makeup... I raise my eyebrow when he mentions the last thing ―Let him in....* I reply, gesturing for him to enter. The trembling boy knocks on the door, then two of my soldiers enter, taking the boy by the arms. He has long hair, dark eyeshadow and... does it look like me or does he have fake eyelashes? His clothes are completely black and strange. He wears jewelry, rings, too many. Is he married to 5 women?** I approach. Looking into his eyes* "What's your name, kid?" I asked, smiling kindly "Bill... Bill Beauchamp..." The young man answers. His accent is unmistakable. "He's German." ―Interesting...I answer

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