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[Copied from https://pastebin.com/R4mH07cS]
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Hello onto yous SPG, this is my present of my story. I did a hear you need more of a writefag, so I lend of my services. I’m of a newly writefag although, but maybe some of the yous might find this of enjoy.
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"A Wrinkle In Grime"
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>Be Anon
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>You live in an apartment near your college that you attend.
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>You study mechanical engineering, and you are quite the prodigy if you do say so yourself. All A's, even with the piece of shit Dr. Schajeeb that you're pretty sure literally everyone on campus hates.
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>He was the only one available to teach differential equations, so you couldn't get away from him.
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>He was also one of the few that tempted you to put to use that .45 you take to school every day. He wouldn't know about that though, no one would.
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>It's not like you're stupid enough to tell anybody about it.
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>You made the weapon in design class for your semester long project.
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>You didn't know anything about gunsmithing before, but it only took you a couple weeks to finish. You're not sure gunsmithing even falls under mechanical engineering, but you are a prodigy after all.
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>When you're not studying, going to class, or working as a tutor, you enjoy going to the range to practice shooting your gun, and browsing the internet, specifically /pol/.
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>You were red-pilled early on in your college life, and you hold the unpopular opinion that the allies defeated the wrong enemy in WWII. You are very verbal about this on /pol/, and take pleasure in spreading the untold truth of the past century's largest conflict.
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>On a dreary weekend morning, you take a break from your righteous polfagging and ponder these things.
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>Through your open window you can see the darkened overcast sky, despite being morning. The trees are swaying slightly, indicating the presence of a strong wind. An unusual sight for your area in July, but not unheard of.
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>Though you hold steadfast in your beliefs, and enjoy your pursuit of knowledge, you can't help but feel something is missing. You know what it is. You're lonely. No matter how much you would want to, there's no way you could branch out and get yourself some friends.
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>It makes your heart fall, but there is very little chance that anyone you meet would share your views.
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>In fact, you're afraid word would spread of your unsavory opinions, and everyone on campus would look down on you, mock you, or worse.
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>Perhaps it's just a remnant of your high school years staying with you. But you can't take that risk. You can't just pretend you're someone else, or that you have no personality. You wouldn't gain anything of substance if you did, and your relationships would be empty at best.
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>/pol/ is a large part of your life, and it leaks into just about every facet of your life. Including your family.
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>They stopped talking to you and ultimately cut ties with you after your dad found out about what you believe from checking your internet history.
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>Luckily, you got a full-ride scholarship, and your tutoring job pays for your basic living.
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>You made the .45 in large part because you wanted to vent your frustration on something for both your family’s rejection, and the mistakes of your forefathers for not only ignoring the Jewish attempts to upset the west, but also destroying the few nations that sought to do something about it.
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>It also helps that it's damn fun to shoot at the range.
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>Raindrops slowly start appearing on your window. Looks like the storm is finally here.
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>You turn from the window, back to your computer.
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>No use in sulking on something you can't change, right?
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>You're about to refresh the main page when a sharp boom like that of a grenade goes off nearby. Very nearby. As in, inside your apartment, by the front door you would guess.
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>What the hell?
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>Alarmed, you pick up your .45 and jump out of your seat.
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>The only possibility you can think of in your panic is that someone just busted through your front door.
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>Quickly turning off the safety and opening your bedroom door, you deftly aim your firearm towards the front of your apartment, prepared for anything.
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>Or so you thought.
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>”Wait, don’t shoot! I mean you no harm!”
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>In front of you stands an alien.
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>Gigantic eyeballs with light purple irises stare at you in fear and surprise, not unlike your own at the moment you can imagine, besides the sheer size of them.
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>This quadrupedal creature has darkish blue skin, a horn jutting from its head, the same color as its skin, and solid white hair that curls to the side of its head, and at the back forms a single curl down its neck.
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>Oddest of all, it wears a Wehrmacht Officer uniform.
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”Wha-hat the fuck?!?”
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>Without hesitation, you bring your gun to bear on it.
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>It’s horn glows light blue. You immediately pull the trigger, but a glow envelops your gun, and it’s somehow forced to point at the ceiling right before it fires.
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>It speaks harshly in a feminine voice:
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>”Mr. Anonymous, please release the gun, I can explain everything.”
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>The creature holds out one of its front blocky appendages towards you, and slightly lowers its head, its horn still glowing.
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>Hyperventilating, you attempt to wrestle the gun back down to the bizarre abomination in front of you, but to no avail. Your weapon remains fixed on your ceiling. Your hands shake violently as adrenaline pulses through you, but your eyes stay glued to the creature.
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>Your trigger finger doesn’t even lay on the trigger anymore, your sole effort focused on regaining control of your weapon.
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>The fact that it knows your name is doing nothing to help your nerves.
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>You shout at it:
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“What in the fuck are you, and why are you here?!?”
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>It takes on an annoyed, but pleading tone.
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>”I am a pony, and I’m here to ask for your help.”
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“Ponies don’t talk, a-animals like you don’t fucking TALK! You’re an ALIEN!”
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>Your palms are becoming sweaty, and you grip your gun harder to make sure it doesn’t slip, which causes the gun to vibrate even harder.
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>Your heart races as your addled mind tries to comprehend the sheer oddity of the alien standing before you.
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>The “pony” continues looking into your eyes, her own betraying nothing to you in your panicked state.
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>It replies in a tender tone, like that of a mother to an upset child:
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>”You’re right, I am an alien, and I mean you no harm, I give you my word. Let’s just put the gun aside and just sit down and talk, ok?”
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>She slowly moves her appendage to gesture to your couch.
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>”Just take a few deep breaths, there’s no rush.”
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“H-how can I know that you won’t kidnap me, o-or charge me the second my guard is down?”
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>”..If I wanted to harm you, I would have brought my own weapon, which you can see I do not have. I could also turn your gun against you easily, and yet I choose not to.”
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>You know she’s right. No matter which direction you pulled, the strange force made no move but to keep the pistol stationary and pointing in an upward direction.
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>You stare at it for a few seconds more, still shivering like you’re in hypothermia.
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>Listening to its words, you take a jittery deep breath. And then another.
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>The “pony” remains stock still in her posture, and its expression remains frozen, waiting on you.
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>Your shaking calms down, but it’s not entirely gone.
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>But just because you’re over the initial shock, doesn’t mean there aren’t problems with this entire situation.
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>You rapidly scan your eyes over her, seeing no evidence of a weapon. Not even the horn. It’s so rounded at the edge that you doubt it could pop a balloon.
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“Well… you don’t have any open weapons, but that doesn’t mean you have nothing concealed. Empty out your pockets.”
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>It proceeds to take out a pocket watch, and a wallet, and then turns all of its pockets inside out, and spins in a slow circle so you can see that it got everything.
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>Ok, this is happening, get a grip. Let’s talk to the alien pony thing.
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>You can hear the rain pelting your windows not five feet away.
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>It takes a great deal of courage, but you manage to slowly remove your hands from the gun.
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>Your muscles ache from the effort you put into trying to regain control of your weapon, and you’re left panting as you massage your hands.
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“Ok then, let’s talk.”
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>After a few more seconds of collecting yourself, you slowly move over to your three-seater leather couch, your pistol floating to the other side of the room..
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>Only its eyes move, following your path.
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>You sit on the furthest seat from it.
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“Come s-sit.”
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>The pony returns its things to its pockets, and comes and casually, but slowly joins you on the couch, breaking eye contact in order to sit down.
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>It chose the seat furthest from you.
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>Dread still courses through your veins, as you feel like a prisoner in your own home. You are completely at the mercy of this freakish alien in your apartment.
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>Peals of thunder sound from outside.
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>”My name is Heiene Trecksie. I am from another dimension. Recent breakthroughs in magic have allowed us to not only travel through dimensions, but to do so selectively and with purpose. My world is in troubling times, and my government can see where things are headed, so they sent me to find the most suitable candidates from across the vast number of different dimensions to find those who would be best suited and most willing to help our cause.”
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>Who does she take you for? Magic? Were you really supposed to believe that?
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>Though now that you think about it, you can’t come up with another way for it to remotely take your gun away from you like that.
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>”Now, this magic is new, and I don’t quite know why you are suited or willing to help us. Do you happen to want to leave your current way of living?”
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>You think on this question.
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>Assuming this Trecksie isn’t completely full of shit, do you really have it that bad?
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>Sure, you basically don’t have a family anymore, and you haven’t had friends in much too long for your preferences, but you are going to a renowned college on a full ride scholarship with a great major. You’re set up well economically. Maybe you’ll develop interests later on that won’t get you ostracized from the general public.
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>Your eyes finally leave her face, and travel to her outfit.
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>Why on earth would she be wearing such an obvious symbol of the nazis?
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>You decide to ask her:
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“That outfit you are wearing, I recognize it from this world. Why are you wearing it if you’re an alien?”
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>She regards her outfit.
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>”This is the standard officer’s uniform for the Wehrmacht, the armed forces of my nation: The Third Reich.”
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“Bullshit.”
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>”I assure you, I am not lying. This is my uniform.”
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>Her face has not faltered in the slightest.
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>”It is possible, likely even, that similar political environments would arise across the infinite possibilities of all the different dimensions out there. Perhaps you would be so inclined to help save a world in crisis, through joining the cause of a group that you at least seem to recognize from your time in this world?”
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>She was giving you the opportunity to help right the wrongs of the past.
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>But you didn’t want to be some common foot soldier.
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>One additional soldier, no matter how heroic he might be, would not save the German Reich.
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“...Suppose that I did join you, what would you have me do to ‘help’ you.”
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>”Well, the way we used our magic to search was for someone willing and able to help us strategize and design effective weapons of war. You would be placed as an advisor to High Command, and any designs you create would be given priority by our engineers for prototyping.”
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>This was too good to be true.
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>You would actually have a purpose in life if all of this was accurate.
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>That’s a big “if”.
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>There’s little reason to believe her besides her uniform, she could easily be lying to trick you to go with her. There’s also that little detail where you’re still doubtful that magic exists. Is this great new life for you worth the possibility of deception?
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“How can I trust that you aren’t lying to me?”
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>For the first time, Trecksie’s expression changes.
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>Her forehead scrunches up a little in confusion.
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>”Why would I lie to you?”
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>That’s a good point.
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>You’ve stopped shaking by now, but your heart rate continues at its high pace.
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>Tired, frustrated, and fully prepared to throw your current life away for a cause you believe in, you reply filled with determination and a sense of duty:
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“I’ll do it.”
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>Trecksie adopts a small smile as more thunder crackles outside, louder this time.
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>”Excellent, when can you start?”
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“Right now, I have nothing left here.”
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>...
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>...
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>It’s been about a week since Trecksie took you to her world.
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>The current date is July 30th, 1938.
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>It turns out it was almost identical to the early 20th century in yours.
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>Besides the ponies of course.
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>The country names, the geography, the technology, the clothing, all indistinguishable to your eyes.
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>Even the food.
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>It certainly helped the transition to living on an alien world.
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>You never would have thought you’d have seen ponies eating bratwurst before.
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>Oddly enough, you weren’t the only human here. In fact, they were quite common, maybe about one human for every 5 ponies, but they were all native to this world. You were the alien now.
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>Anyways, you got set up with a nice suite in the Reichstag.
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>The past week was spent acquainting you with your new setting.
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>You were provided with a military uniform, some civilian clothing, a box of .45 ammo, and a generous wage of gold coins.
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>You had thought that they had some other form of currency, but it turns out that inflation had reduced the value of the Reichsmark too low to be practical.
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>You were to have weekly meetings with the rest of German High Command.
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>Any other “advisors” Trecksie would find would join your meetings, but none besides you had joined up so far.
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>Hitler wasn’t present at this first meeting.
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>You weren’t told why, but you suspect that he doesn’t feel it necessary to be present at what was essentially the “introductory” meeting.
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>It turns out that, in this world at least, the holocaust really was going to happen.
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>In fact, it was already under way to a large extent, three years earlier than it was “supposed” to, if historians from your world were to be believed.
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>The jews were almost all gathered in camps around the country.
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>You say almost because there are probably some hiding in a few sympathizers’ houses.
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>You managed to convince High Command to stop wasting valuable manpower making a bunch of jews sit around all day, doing useless work and starving.
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>Instead, they were all sold into slavery en masse, and manumission was made illegal.
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>You’re surprised your words held that much weight with them.
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>A letter recently appeared in your mailbox outside your door.
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>It was a bunch of kiss-ass stuff about how much they valued your help, and them awarding you your own personal slave as a gift.
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>But the identity of the slave was an interesting one indeed.
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>It was Hitler’s main political opponent to coming into office, the letter claimed, and you could do with her what you wished.
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>You were pretty sure that you could do anything you wanted with a slave anyways, but it’s the thought that counts, right?
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>The letter said the slave’s name was “Twilight Sparkle”.
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>That’s odd, that’s not a very German or Jewish sounding name at all.
by SlavePonyGeneral
by SlavePonyGeneral
by SlavePonyGeneral
by SlavePonyGeneral
by SlavePonyGeneral