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Urotsukidoji - Overfiend ‘44: The Hell Portal.	By : Nickamano Category: +S to Z > Urotsuki-doji Views: 1508 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Neither Urotsukidoji or any related materials are owned by me. This was created for entertainment purposes only, and I am not profiting financially from the creation of this story.

Chapter List
- 20
- 21
Epilogue.
The USAF 13th bomber wing consisted of six B-17 Flying Fortress bombers. They had been nicknamed the Miss Nightbirds and the front fuselage of each had been adorned with artistically and erotically charged paintings of provocative and brightly smiling Hollywood Succubae. Each wore skimpy, strapless sapphire brassiere and stockings, crimson stilettoes and a brightly alluring smile. Each sexy devil-dame featured cute bloodred batwings and glossy blonde shoulder length curls to go with their big perky bosoms, waspish waists and long Betty Grable inspired legs.
Inside the planes, things were no-where near as cute. Flying through a thunderstorm was playing merry hell with their instruments and the electrically charged and rain slick air was an electrocution waiting to happen, no matter how ‘grounded’ the engineers insisted their planes were.
The crew had been on tenterhooks all day and all night, snoozing when they could, only feet for their equipment. While their planes sat on the taxi runway in perpetual readiness, fuelled and armed and waiting for the order, just like their crews. And everyone hoping the camouflage netting that covered each would be enough to conceal them from the Stukas.
Since the order had been passed down the line, the result being the crews, wired on caffeine, stress and lack of sleep, took to the sky and made it to the outskirts of Berlin in record time. And as they with no other choice, flew straight into huge oppressive thunder clouds which hadn’t been forecast and weren’t reported beforehand. Almost immediately multiple, repeated lightning strikes started to play havoc with their instrumentation. Their visibility was almost zero and anytime they tried to descend below the cloud cover to see where they were, in relation to their bombing target, they were under-fire from antiaircraft guns and immediately had to pull back into the hellish thunderstorm again.
“Captain! This meter is completely wrong! I can't calculate the damned distance left!” The bombardier reported, his voice too loud and pitched with more than a little panic.
“Ah, we can't see the land because of these damned thick layers of cloud, can we!” The Captain snapped, realising he was going to have to risk the guns again.
And then an engine blew. It started as a flashing light on the instrument panel. Which had both himself and his co-pilot looking out of the side cockpit windows in time to witness the near portside engine suddenly billowing thick oily smoke, and then flames erupted from the intakes, dancing between the rotor blades until the three rotors slowed down to a horrifying complete stop.
“Oh shit!” The Co-pilot yelled, eyes flitting between the smoking engine and the instrument panel. “The number two engine has just cut out!”
The flames, fanned by the rushing air, blossomed for a few moments before guttering and then completely extinguishing as the Captain hurriedly flipped a switch in order to cut the fuel flow to the engine.
A second flashing alert on the instrument panel resulted in another panicked shout from the Co-pilot.
“The radio isn't functioning! Oh my God!”
“Don't panic!” The Captain shouted back, hoping confidence came through in his commanding voice.
They looked around at the other planes, but their loose formation had been all but decimated by the thunder storm. Planes were out of position or completely missing from view.
“What the hell do we do?” He muttered under his breath.
He decided, pushing forward on the control yoke while keeping a close eye on the altimeter and the airspeed dials, he took their Flying Fortress down beneath the thunder cloud and then levelled out again. Immediately, thankful for something to do, the bombardier started to make hurried calculations and observations, working out where they were, their height and distance from their target. Highest Priority - they had been told - Complete Destruction Essential.
The Captain was intent on his instrumentation. Nothing seemed to be reading right, the feel of the control yoke, the sound of the engines, even with one down, the feel of the throttle. Nothing felt the way it should have. His experience, his knowledge, even his conscience, were all screaming at him.
“Captain! There's a huge cumulus cloud up ahead!” The Co-pilot yelled.
The Captain, at first irritated by his Co-pilot’s apparent lack of calm under pressure, began to turn to give the man a talking to, but then the cloud huge and black and veritably bristling with lightning forks filled his attention. It literally hadn’t been there a second ago.

1944. The outskirts of Berlin. Headquarters of the Vrill association.

Professor Munhihausen had picked the name Vrill association at random, liking the way it rolled off the tongue. It had absolutely no meaning for him. Neither did the instructions of his benefactor, Der Fuhrer to bring forth some made up Pagan Nordic God from the afterlife, in order to do his bidding, or something like that. Munhihausen had a much grander design.
He was party to truths that few humans had ever been aware of - of three parallel Realms, of a Supreme Being and of a Lord of Chaos who was counterpart or opposite to the former. The opener of the book and the closer of the book respectively. None of this Third Reich nonsense, none of this Aryan rubbish. Though, admittedly, it had required the financing of the Nazi party’s war machine to construct his portal mechanism. Not that he had told anyone one but his son what it actually did. And Junior knew well enough to keep his mouth shut. The rewards, and even more the punishments, had ensured the boy’s loyalty and his obedience.
The Makai O-Raijuki, who had gone missing an hour or so earlier, had ensured the weather would be perfect, the right charge in the lower atmosphere, the right elemental specifications to weaken the border between the Realms. He was pleased that the ‘devil’, little more than a being from one of the other two Realms with a little preternatural power that Munhihausen had been able to make use of, was not here for this culmination of his efforts. The ‘devil’ had proved invaluable during the early stages as well as a purveyor of knowledge that had been essential. But this was his time. This would be the moment Der Fuhrer would bow down to him, as he drew the Lord of Chaos to his side and they could rule this Realm together.
And if Munhihausen could make effective use of his machine to open portals to the other Realms, then he could offer the Lord of Chaos the other realms on the condition he was left in charge of this one exclusively. It was a fair bargain. Why wouldn’t the Lord of Chaos agree to it?
So, up above them the thunderstorm raged, the Fuhrer was being escorted to his place of honour just above Munhihausen’s control station (for the time being) and the grunts down below were bringing forth the female-fuel and locking each of the thirteen into position within the spokes of his beautiful infernal machine.

Greta didn’t know what had happened. Only that her momentary hopes of rescue, due to the sudden and proximate din of shouting and gunfire, had been dashed.
Sometime later, they came for her unexpectedly. not long after the silence had reasserted itself. She knew something bad was about to happen when they pulled her out of her cell and walked her down the corridor. They traversed a short flight of steps, along similar corridors and up more steps until she was marched into a huge, dark, stone chamber.
Other women were there too, she recognised Frau Marquand standing in the line of pale naked flesh and then she saw her sister. She called out to Milena and tried to move toward her but she was grabbed, slapped across the face and hauled back into position at the rear of the line. She felt two more women pushed into line behind her and started to turn to see if she recognised anyone from her village, but the second she started to turn her head, a soldier grabbed her cruelly by the jaw and forced her head back around to face forward.
“Don’t speak. Don’t move.” The soldier snarled at her.
“We are German citizens!” She wept, half pleading, half protesting. “You can’t do this!”
She was struck again, an open palmed slap to her flat stomach and she folded forward but was instantly hauled upright again by the soldier, who glared at her.
“Don’t speak. Don’t move. You will not get a third warning.”
Greta wept quietly. Her inflamed, naked stomach was stinging and churning. She watched ahead of her as each member of the line was treated in the same way. They were swabbed between the thighs and buttocks; they were injected with a syringe of milky white liquid and then they were led over to another part of the shadowy stone chamber. Somehow, during the short journey from the front of the line to the other part of the room, the women seemed to be sapped of both strength and will. Greta assumed it was whatever was in the syringe.
Milena was next in line. She whispered her sister’s name, full of sorrow and regret and shame that she could do nothing to help her. Milena was given the same injection, cleaned up in the same way – that was Greta’s assumption it was some kind of disinfectant procedure, maybe after all of the rapes and abuses they had all been subjected to for… how long? She couldn’t even fathom how long they had been here? Days? Weeks?
She looked up at the ceiling of this vast circular chamber which she realised was an old theatre of some kind. She could just make pout through the gloom the stone theatre boxes, three floors of them and then a tall, high, domed ceiling with stained glass and a devilish swastika in the centre. And above the stained glass, dark thunder clouds. In was night time at least. Not that that told her anything.
She saw Halda Huber as well, just behind Milena and also a face that seemed familiar though she couldn’t place her.
The boy Greta had seen a couple of times was there with a clipboard, reading out numbers whenever he looked up and recognised whichever woman was put in front of him. She saw him eye Milena for an additional second or two, his eyes travelling up and down her attractive body. Before he assigned her a number, and then she was marched deeper into the gloom.
Greta watched in numb horror as Milena was pressed up against some kind of metal apparatus. It reminded her of a crucifix. Milena was backed into position. There were hinged clasps like manacles though larger and apparently specifically shaped. The first swung shut over Milena’s torso, beneath her full breasts. It covered the whole of her ribcage and stomach right down to her hips and pubic mound. The soldiers closed her into the harness and then one of them worked under her arm, tightening the bolts, locking her securely inside. A choker was locked around her throat and bolted to the halter style shoulder straps. Then there were more shaped manacles for her forearms and lower thighs, knees and shins. By the time they were finished she was locked into an almost-starfish form, arms down but well away from her sides, legs spread a metre or so apart. Completely disabled. The soldiers did something to her back which momentarily brought her out of her stupor enough to wince and give a little pained moan, and then she was handed over to four more men who carried her off into the darkness beyond the gloom.
The next woman was marched forward and bolted into her own identical harness and then another and another, until it was Greta’s turn.
Two things rose up in Greta’s drug addled memory, the first was a realisation that this harness thing, this apparatus, was the reason for all the measurements that the middle-aged boiler-suited man had been measuring them for. All those measurements, those numbers jotted down. And secondly was the identity of the woman she had recognised but couldn’t place. She was a nun, one of the sisters of the convent in the hills north of their village, she occasionally came to the village to barter honey and weaving for supplies. Sister… Sister Heide.
However, by the time the second revelation had sunk in, the drug had taken away most of Greta’s awareness, she was numb and tired, the only sensation was a tingling in her pussy. She was locked into her own harness, which was so tight she could barely breathe, she felt a series of sharp stings, like needles going into the flesh of her back which made her wince yet barely brought her out of her funk. And then she was carried over up some steps toward a massive apparatus that seemed to fill the space of the floor of the strange cylindrical theatre. She was hoisted up and locked onto what she recognised as a huge gleaming chrome wheel-spoke.
And then nothing happened. She hung there suspended and barely aware of anything, while around her the remaining women were locked tight into their own harnesses and then attached to the thirteen spokes surrounding the central wheel hub of huge glass ‘vials’.

Private Seeler, standing to attention on the ground floor with the rest of his unit, stared up at the infernal demonic machine with the thirteen captives. Women that they themselves had collected. Women from villages in both Germany and France, three German nuns, and four Jews, both German and French who had apparently passed the Professor’s tests.
A handful of the unworthy French and German captives had provided some fun for the rank and file, but these thirteen had been kept separate, fodder for officers only. And a whole load of the rest had been handed over to the huge guy in the coat who only the Professor spoke to.
Now the captives were all positioned and the professor appeared, up on the platform with his instruments, Seeler assumed making the final preparations. Someone had even mentioned that the Fuhrer himself was present, somewhere above them. Though Seeler dared not look up to see for himself.
“What is it? My God!” Someone muttered.
No one dared answer him. And Seeler decided he would have laid money that everyone else was just as terrified as he was.

Adolf Hitler sat uncomfortably in the cold, dank theatre box. The thunder overhead making him flinch and a bitter draft biting through his polished boots and making his ankles ache. It all made him squirm in his seat with annoyance and impatience. His uniform was too tight, he felt uncomfortable in this dark foreboding place, and his assigned too aides were not his favourites. Plus, this Munhihausen was obviously a madman, he didn’t like him and half hoped this venture would fail so he could have the man killed. In fact, he had informed his aides of just such a desire.
The only potential saving grace was the possibility of something real happening. He had always been passionate about all kinds of occultist things. Indeed, one of his deepest desires following his planned annexing the British Isles was to travel to Glastonbury, to locate the fabled Avalon and then search out the legendary Sword of Power. Owning and wielding Excalibur was a life-long dream.
This promise of Munhihausen’s that, given the resources (why did it always take money and resources?), he would be able to bring forth Adolf’s own favourite God into the world. And this was the only reason he was here on this most dreadful of nights – when he would much rather be warm and cosy in his Bavarian Chalet and enjoying the considerable carnal delights of the delectable Fraulein Braun, or maybe, better still the even more considerable delights of sweet young Geli… When she had been alive.
To wash the abruptly soured thoughts of the delectable body and talents of his, now deceased, half-Niece from his mind, Hitler rose from his seat and leaned on the edge of the box to shout down at the weird, freakish Professor.
“Now, let my God Astara Odin be brought forth!”
He sat back down. And then rose again, throwing an impatient fist in the Professor’s direction. Who hadn’t even looked up. Not once.
“Are the gates of Hell beyond even your abilities?! Munhihausen!”
Hitler, grumbling, sat back down with a huff. Bored, cold and impatient. He had enough on his plate and didn’t want to waste any more time here than absolutely necessary. He forced himself to think of Eva in his bed, waiting for him.
Intimately aware of the Fuhrer’s presence high above and over his left shoulder, Munhihausen senior sneered to himself. At the same time, he became aware of the reappearance of his son. His miniature doppelgänger in many ways, similar hair, long face, sharp chin, intelligent pinched features. Though in the white coat he wore, just like senior, junior seemed more like a caricature. And it suddenly irked Munhihausen senior.
He considered beating his son, but thought better of it. There was too much to do and the Fuhrer was watching. And no matter how deluded and foolish, the Fuhrer could still be dangerous. At least until the Lord of Chaos was brought forth. Then… Then it would be Munhihausen who would be the dangerous one. So instead the professor cursed under his breath as he continued his preparations; checking dials and readings, watching the pressure and power build-ups. And checking the status of the plugged-in beast Realm artefact. The Power Stone as he had designated it.
“Cowards... Don't they realise that only HE can give the Third Reich dominion over the three realms?”
Munhihausen turned to his son and growled an order.
“Now! Begin the process!”
Private Seeler couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His peripheral vision allowed him to observe the Professor’s boy running around like a headless chicken, throwing switches and turning valve controls and then a loud engine whir started up in the glittering infernal machine. The closest spoke on the mechanism to his position contained a very pretty young woman with short wavy blonde hair and Seeler couldn’t help but stare up at her, one of the thirteen sacrifices, as the machine started to come to life.
It really did feel like that, the whirring noise was rhythmically intermittent, like a heartbeat. And now other sounds started to add themselves to that beat, resembling the creaking of long dormant limbs, like it was stretching and yawning. Seeler was reminded of going to see the Hollywood version of Frankenstein. And it was as much the mad scientist and with his freakish instrumentation as it was giving life to a manmade monster. Though this one was much more real, much less toned down than any film, much more satanic.
And then the apparatus at the terminus of each of the spokes started to cycle too. Following the whirring noise of suddenly moving machinery, Seeler noticed the movement behind the girl in the crucifixion-like harness. Another part of the mechanism coming to life; thick, well-polished pistons connecting her to the spoke terminus directly behind her, pulled abruptly at the girl’s limbs. It forced her limbs to jerk up and back, away from her body, spreading her thighs wider and drawing her torso backward, arching her.
Beneath the blonde's pretty, slender buttocks a large gleaming chrome phallus suddenly swung down from its housing within the spoke’s terminus. Its trajectory was taken over by another piston and jointed limb and it was swung forward and upward, positioned just under the sacrifice’s bared vagina.
Craning his neck Seeler watched a small chrome pincer-like device that was positioned between the girl’s labia move suddenly, the rounded prongs of the pincer springing apart, drawing her vagina open for the metal phallus.
Seeler saw the girl give a shiver, obviously feeling it even though the funk of the sedative, and he couldn’t help but flinch in sympathy, watching the blonde as the phallus slowly manoeuvred into position. Pointlessly sympathetic, he listened with redundant dread at the sounds of the whirring and clicking of the mechanism.
Seeler could almost imagine the feel of the bulbous, steel-hard and ice-cold glans place itself precisely against her vaginal entrance, maybe completing little micro-adjustments to counteract her own drug-addled little struggles and shivers. And then the pain would set in as the phallus, following a series of audible clicks, began to cycle forwards and she would feel herself being penetrated, being stretched and slowly filled. That acute muscle-shocking chill as the icy chrome pushed its way deep inside her, stretching her vaginal walls until they spasmed painfully in unprepared exertion. And then what he imagined happened exactly.
Though he couldn’t see her face, by the way her head was forced back and the tightening of her jaw muscles, Seeler could picture her screwing her eyes shut and champing down with her teeth as her head was forced back by the apparatus, pulling backwards slowly, coiling its power as the foot long, two-inch-wide metal phallus swung up into her pussy.
She screamed at the searing penetration, obviously feeling it through the sedative. In his silent gut-wrenching horror, Seeler could imagine it, the friction burning her even though the ice-cold of the metal driving into her was numbing.
They all heard the twelve other voices, joining in this sacrifices’ scream, moulding the outburst into a chorus of multiple pitches and intensities but all thirteen joined in as the heavy, dense phalluses pushed firmly into them, right up to the depth of their cervixes, possibly even pressing beyond.
The thrusting began at once, deep and steady and continual. Pistons and programmed armatures working the phallus back and forth in a pre-set rhythm. Seeler counted the thrusts at around one-per second.
Again, he found himself empathising; imagining the weight and hard, solidity. Metal phalluses making all thirteen young women horribly bloated and over-stretched, terrorised, unable to defend or protect themselves. And it was never ending, over and over, an inexorable pulsing beat - in and out, in and out.
After thirty seconds or so the thrusts grew harsher, the piston attachments that connected the harness to the main apparatus began to jerk each of the sacrifices backward, dragging at their arms and legs and yanking their heads back at the point the rounded flange crown of the phallus slammed into the apex of their vaginas. And with each punching contact of metal crown-tip with sensitive cervix, sooner or later their sexual juices would begin to flow, involuntarily but flow all the same.
Each of the thirteen gave a cry timed to each thrust bottoming out. They couldn't help themselves. Seeler witnessed spittle flying from slick lips through gritted teeth or gaping mouths. Juices were indeed flowing, coating and streaming down the (probably by this time) body-heat-warmed metal. Still, the juices were practically sizzling and steaming. Seeler imagined that the sensations would mingle with the pain and fear, somewhere they would instigate the little lightning-flashes of unwanted sexual gratification, that would travel through their bodies, tingling erogenous zones, engorging nipples and further tantalising vaginas.
After another minute the Private, with his heart in his mouth, watched the main needles beginning to slide forward. Thick, veterinary hypodermic needles pressed forth and pushed into the muscle of their upper backs, each needle attached to a clear tube. The young women writhed in pain, the metal needles stabbing deep into their flesh. And at once he watched the tubes beginning to slowly fill with syringed bodily fluids.
And still the chromed phalluses hammered in and out of them, faster now, the mechanical velocities increasing, and still the thirteen sacrifices wailed and cried loudly to each and every one of those harsh, deep thrusts.
While in the centre of the infernal machine the huge glass vials already started to splash with collected fluids, already partially turned to ionised plasma within the massive clear dome-topped cylinders.
As the Private watched, the clear fluid mixture within the vials merged into a pale pink and then as it plasmafied, it deepened to a vermillion, reflecting the already drained amounts of blood from the thirteen sacrifices.
Arcs of dancing electric energy, had begun to bleed through the glass collectors, leaping and careening between the three clear tubes.
The mad Professor must have turned the accelerator up to full as the female sacrifices were suddenly thrown into the top gear, absolutely hammered into by the chrome phalluses. Their collected sexual juices now flowing freely, like rivers. And, Seely assumed, their fear and pain building exponentially as the end of their lives drew closer and closer. All that passion, and sensation, pleasure and white-hot agony abruptly transformed into plasma and collected by the spokes, along with the liquids, blood and cum and any other required bodily fluids.
The screams of the distraught young women filled the void of the hellish theatre, no doubt even reaching the impassive ear of the Fuhrer and his aides, watching the ceremony from somewhere high above.
And then the thirteen were brought to their own meagre and final sexual climaxes, the energy immediately collected as the mechanisms went into sudden final overdrive, drawing the last of the fluid and plasma out of the thirteen young women.
Seeler heard shouting from the control platform, the Professor shouting at his son, who appeared to be taking certain duties upon himself.
“What are you doing?”
“Papa! It's overloading!” The boy replied, almost pleading. “Something's wrong!”
“No, that's impossible...”
Seeler watched with increasing heartache as the sacrifices were forcibly arched back in their constricting, painful harnesses and were suddenly drained of everything, their blood, their pleasure, their life energies, life itself.
Their flesh shrivelled and appeared to crack. Dried out husks of once beautiful young women. Muscles withered and within a couple of seconds they were dry, granular, greying skin over crumbling bone. Only the lank pale hair, the colour even draining from that, was a clue to their previous sex and vitality.
Death screams faded into nothing more than an after-echo, playing across the cold dark stone. And then under the extreme pressure from the still pummelling overdrive piston-powered phalluses, the dried-husk bodies exploded in a crimson mess of flesh, gore and splintering bone.

The three pillar-like collection tubes emptied their stored fluids and energies a second later. The energies were absorbed into three horizontal rings of plasma, one heftier and wider than the other two. Then they began to multiply over and over, forming a kind of vast cylindrical waterfall of plasma around the core of the machine.
“My Lord of Chaos comes!” Seeler heard the Professor laughing.
And then all hell broke loose. The waterfall of plasma imploded forming a bloody fireball above the machine, whipping and spinning around its own centrifugal force; like a tornado, darkening and expanding. Up on the platform there were the sounds of screaming from the boy and the controlling machinery started to fall apart, pieces exploding, sheets of smoke and flame bursting in all directions.
Seeler’s unit started to waver, including the sergeant, and then they simply ran. Something in Seeler however stopped him and he felt a searing need to kill the mad Professor. So, he spun about, hefting his rifle and made for the steep staircase leading to the control platform.
“My Fuhrer!” Came a shout from above.
Seeler looked up and cried out. Forged from the plasma inferno that had been burgeoning above the infernal machine there was now a dragon, an actual real-life mythical beast. It was enormous and horrifying, rearing up serpent-like and filling the cylindrical shaft of the theatre. The Fuhrer’s aides were busy shooting at the beast, though their bullets merely vaporised, like meteorites hitting the atmosphere.
The Private could only imagine one of the aides would have dragged the Fuhrer to safety as the dragon slammed into the theatre box and everything within it turned into a raging inferno of flame.
In spite of this new horror, Seeler turned back and started up the steps. A large explosion engulfed the top of the platform and he heard yelling and screaming from both Professor and son. And then an officer from one of the other boxes shouted at the Professor.
The Private managed to get high enough onto the staircase to see what was happening, the heat was intense and he stumbled back a step, unable to get any closer. Instead he hefted his rifle, worked the bolt to chamber a round.
“Munhihausen? What's gone wrong?!” Came the voice of the officer.
“My Lord of Chaos...” The Professor muttered, seemingly shaken by his failure.
The boy was on the ground, a large threaded bolt had impaled him through the palm of one hand and he was cut, battered and burned in a dozen places. The mysterious artefact that the Professor had always prized so highly, and protected so diligently was now in the boy’s undamaged hand and he was staring at it.
“Your failure to the Fuhrer will not be tolerated!” Came the officer’s angry shout again.
The Professor just laughed.
The gun fired. Munhihausen Senior was struck high, the impact just enough to put him off balance and he toppled silently from the control platform, to be consumed within the brimstone inferno that was quickly spreading down below.
The infernal machine was now on fire too, metal melting, the power surging through its wiring and cables adding their own fuel as the fire spread to all corners of the floor of the theatre. The plasma dragon had vanished completely.
Seeler had aimed at Professor Munhihausen, just as the officer had fired and had watched in mute satisfaction as the madman had gone over the edge.
He turned his attention, but not the barrel of his rifle to the boy, who had already spotted the Private. The young teen had already drawn a pistol of his own and, clutching the artefact under his bloody arm, the boy shot the Private twice in the face and then ran, leaping over the body and sprinting down the steps for the concealed exit that led to the old sewer system beneath the city.
<><><>
“Brother? You hear that?” Megumi shouted over the thrashing rain.
“Yeah… You want to go back, and have a look?”
“Yeah.”
They had been flying away at a leisurely pace, enjoying the cooling rain and occasional tickles of lightning, which was why they had still been in range of the noise of aircraft in trouble. And knowing the timing of the American bombers Shaw and Bodie had called in, it really couldn’t have been anyone else. They put on a burst of speed and backtracked in record time.
The Flying Fortresses of the USAF bomber wing were staring to come apart, jostled and assaulted by gale force winds, the sheeting rain and continual bursts of lightning strikes.

Small fires inside the lead plane, beneath the cockpit and behind the forward gunner’s pod, was filling the craft with choking smoke. The gunner had already evacuated to the rear of the main fuselage and those in the cockpit were even seeing trails of the smoke venting out of tears in the plate coverings, a number of which had already come away; the incredible winds worrying at rivets, getting under plating and ripping it clear. More came away as the Captain and Co-pilot fought to keep the plane in the air.
The bombardier had all but given up. Aiming was impossible, again they were in the thick of all concealing clouds and they had no idea where they were in relation to their target. They had already decided the mission must be reported as a failure. The only plan now was to try and survive the next five minutes.
“What's this?” Wailed the Co-pilot.
He was staring at new flashing alerts on the console, even as his white-knuckled grip on the control yoke tried to regain a steady altitude.
“I don't understand!”
From their intra-com-radio the voice of the Bombardier suddenly clicked in. The radios, both internal and external, hadn’t worked in a while but now the Bombardier sounded loud and clear over the head sets. Though the news was not good.
“We can't control the payload door!” He yelled in utter shock. “Its opening!”
That was Megumi, quickly assessing the speed and altitude and knowing they were going to overshoot the Schloss at any second, she drove her fingertips through the steel-skeleton of the bomb-bay doors and dragged them open, then used a little of her plasmafied chi to short circuit the release mechanism. Then she whipped herself backwards away from the plane, allowed a sudden strong side-wind to haul her across toward another plane. Back under her own power, she grabbed the underside of the second B-17 and quickly repeated her makeshift manual bombing procedure.
Two of the six planes were too far out of range, a third was nowhere to be seen, but Megumi’s second and the one Jyaku had already forced to drop its payload were all within range of the Schloss. And soon there were bombs carpeting the entire area and utterly demolishing the large palace-like gothic building.
Megumi ducked under the raging storm. And joined her brother, looking down at the ongoing devastation as bombs struck the ground and exploded. She hadn’t been perfect in her hurried assessment, as bombs carpeted a wider area, ripping into the countryside as well as the surrounding outskirts of Belin. However, the Schloss was definitely obliterated. Nothing but a fireball, with more bombs vanishing into the flames and then adding their own four-thousand-pound load of TNT fuel to the raging hellfire.
“Well that did it.” Megumi said with a grin.
Jyaku, staring down at the raging inferno of flame and explosion gave an absent nod.
“Wonder if the bakery was destroyed. One the Americans was still laid up there.” He muttered to himself.
“Not our problem.” He shrugged finally. “Right, let’s get the hell out of here.”
“Back to our own Realm?”
“Why not…”
“We’ll go and check on Kuroko first…”
“Maybe I’ll go and pay Mimi a visit…”
“Ha! Course you will… Maybe I’ll go and see the Elder… Offer him a quickie.”
Jyaku laughed.
“Oh, he’d love that!” He said, shouting to be heard over a thunder clap. “Let me tell you now sis, I am not breaking you out of prison.”
“Oh, of course you will.” Megumi teased. “That’s half the fun!”
“No! I’ll be far too busy banging his granddaughter to waste time saving you.”
Megumi laughed.
“We’ll see.”

The End.
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Urotsukidoji - Overfiend ‘44: The Hell Portal.