Taken by Berlin. Nicolas Scheerbarth

      TAKEN BY BERLIN

      Nicolas Scheerbarth

      Artcover: Giada Armani

      Copyright: BERLINABLE UG

      Berlinable invites you to leave all your fears behind and dive into a world where sex is a tool for self-empowerment.

      Our mission is to change the world - one soul at a time.

      When people accept their own sexuality, they build a more tolerant society.

      Words to inspire, to encourage, to transform.

      Open your mind and free your deepest desires.

      All rights reserved. It is not permitted to copy, distribute or otherwise publish the content of this eBook without the express permission of the publisher. Subject to changes, typographical errors and spelling errors. The plot and the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to dead or living people or public figures is not intended and are purely coincidental.

      Prologue – 2139

      For a long time, there has been silence over the mountain ranges of the Spessart... blue-grey, wave after wave under boiling air. There are still crickets, and sometimes a stick cracks.

      Between the peaks, there is a white-grey lane with a quadruple brink of rusty railings, a string that emerges and descends from the distance and the heat. In the silence, the binoculars buzzes... almost piercing... and immediately, the view of the old federal interstate with white lines and red symbols changes. The enlarged picture shows cracks, fractures, weeds optimistically growing green-grey in the fractures, next to them the spots repaired a long time ago, eaten by decades. Buzzing again, the binoculars dangle on the belt and...

      "Any observations, Rotter Klin?"

      "None, Rott-Leader. Everything's the same, no traffic."

      "Good, Rotter. Carry on!"

      Rotter Klin's gaze follows the broad back muscles of the Rott-Leader for a moment, visible as though he were naked under the tight-fitting, thin camouflage material, disappearing between gray-green, dry scraping scrubs. Klin lifts the electronic binoculars to his eyes again, turns them to the West, where the Spessart declines over lower ridges to Rinemain. Klin also wears the tightly fitting, grey-brown speckled camouflage-suit of his forces... some muscles, a big genital and a certain leanness around legs and ribs... on his feet, high, firm boots with a bulbous sole and protective cap, around the hip the wide instrument belt with mechanical revolver, pockets, snap hook, multi knife and a worn com-set including battery holder. The hood hangs down over a sinewy neck, a fleshy face reddened in the heat under two millimeters of short hair. On the round, red field on the left upper arm the swastika... the only visible sign.

      Chirping in the midday heat. The terminal. The face of another crew cut on the palm-sized LCD screen...

      "Nest to post 3! We've received word that the first control flight has been soared. Watch the sky, prepare to take cover. Report as soon as you see anything. And be careful! You’re dealing with a Renault nine one. They're faster than you think."

      "Post 3 to nest. Watch the sky, prepare for camouflage. Message visual contact. The heli is a Renault nine one."

      With a soft sigh, Klin pulls the hood over his sweaty skull and a pair of grey gloves over his rough hands. He steps down a stone ledge, sliding down the crumbly, steep slope, trudging to the left and taking a post next to a group of scrubby, dense shrubs. With broad legs spread, searching for support, he raises the binoculars to his eyes again and directs them to the road below.

      A silver reflection in the picture... red numbers dancing in the field of vision, Klin pulls the terminal out of the holster with his left hand, a beeping sound...

      "Post 3 to nest. Post 3 to nest."

      "Nest here to three. What's up?"

      "Movement on the highway. As far as I can tell, a little solar. But something pretty fast. A Lada, maybe. It's got this funny tail section. Light color. Wait, now I've got it on this road bend... 60 kilometers per hour. It's a Lada."

      "Roger, post 3. Message received... and passed on. Any more incidents?"

      "Nothing... that..."

      Klin drops forward abruptly...

      "They're coming" - he whispers hoarsely into the microphone. And dips to the ground, into the dust. "Fast heli from the west, right over the highway."

      He switches off, pulls the device under his neck and chest... cramped breaths, flattened to the ground... not a muscle moves... he lies flat, pressed to the ground where he fell. And... a rising drone, double rotors, jet engines... in mad speed like a silver flash from horizon to horizon.

      The terminal chirrups.

      "This is nest. Well done, three. No incidents with us. But he'll be back. They fly only to Würzburg. That's about 10 to 12 minutes. After that, we shall have at least one hour rest."

      "Roger, Nest, from 3. I remain in camouflage until the Renault is back."

      "And... nest again to three. The Lada..."

      "Yes? What?"

      "Just as we thought. Radio communication. We registered the sound. But no danger, a simple radio connection. He wasn't equipped, no sensors, just two people, trying to look like dirty city trash. They don't know anything."

      Klin says thanks, turns the terminal off. He lifts himself up out of the grey dirt, lost in thought, fingers playing over the thick bump between his legs, his gaze directed as if dreaming over the western mountains.

      Then the Renault flashes back. And all clear again. Klin climbs back up towards the more comfortable lookout on the steep slope, still in the shade and with a better view of the valley.

      "Nest to all posts!" whispers the terminal. "We now send you comrades from the Woodspeople with food and water. But hurry up. The canisters must be undercover when they come back."

      A silent presence suddenly appears, a hot body from nowhere... Klin shrugs... the Woodsgerman woman stands in front of him as though she had emerged from the ground. Germanic forest magic. The young runner... at most eighteen, with tousled, brown hair around her face, small sagging breasts and a bushy nest between the legs... naked as all Woodspeople. She does not even wear her combat quiver on this errand... effortlessly holds the clunky water canister away from her body as if it were an empty bag.

      The cheese bread is greasy, and the shredded sliced cheese is of blue-green color... a by-product of the cheaper methods of making milk edible.

      "What's your name?" Klin asks through a full mouth.

      "Herta, runner Herta, Rotter," quiet, but a pleasantly firm voice. "From Eckart's tribe."

      "No, no, no, no. Stay seated. It's all right."

      He drinks the fresh water from the canister... greedy, they don't have to spare it.

      "Been there long?"

      "Forever. My father did it. I'm. Yes, always."

      "Good?"

      "Yeae true! Always on the move. The people... our people... here, everywhere. Yeae true!"

      "You guys get around, don't you?"

      "Well, sure. We're alright here. Not Rinemain or anything. Not in the desert. Always in the woods. Up to the Dead Land."

      "That far?"

      "Yes. Dead Land is quiet. No wrong people. Is nothing. Even grows again. Pair of trees. Green!"

      "Say! And the border guards? You have no trouble with them?"

      "Nah. Don't do nothing. Lazy. Or scared. Not from the forest, but from us Woodsgermans."

      "You're still