Dec 24th, 2026
The Weihnachtskollapsjahrswüten, the culmination of many smaller, violent outbursts brought on by adjusting to a far harsher world, is known collectively as The Rages. This night has been pieced together from journal entries and personal accounts, much of which is likely revisionist, aiming to reduce personal culpability.
Farming, though initially well-organized, presented a steep learning curve for most. The discipline required in both farming practices and consumption was often imprecise. Despite a broader familiarity with canning and food preservation techniques, critical errors were made, leading to significant losses from an already sub-optimal harvest. These challenges were compounded by the loss of essential services—power, water, and sewage—upon which modern agriculture and daily life heavily depend.
Fishing and hunting initially offered a semblance of relief, but as time wore on, the local wildlife learned to avoid the valley. Moreover, the river froze in a manner that hindered bank fishing without allowing for ice fishing—a frustrating predicament that further strained food resources. By mid-December, the community’s food stores were nearly depleted, prompting discussions around more perilous measures. The concept of looting, once considered a dangerous and desperate act, began to gain traction as a viable means of survival.
Travelers brought with them harrowing tales of cities like nearby Munich, where populations had been more than halved by starvation, illness, and acts of violence. Such stories prompted a quiet reevaluation among the community members; what they had once considered a blessing was now seen through a lens of skepticism, perceived as a curse. The stark reality was that there were simply too many mouths to feed.
Despite operating under a 'cooperative barter system' that theoretically imposed no obligation to share, the community's fragile solidarity was put to the test. Tensions reached a breaking point when a couple, who had managed to preserve a good harvest entirely for themselves, were discovered. The revelation of their hoarded bounty, kept secret from the rest of the community, led to their tragic demise.
Traditionally, temperatures this time of year lingered around the freezing point, but Christmas Eve of that year brought a cruel twist. Already grappling with an unseasonably cold season, the community faced a sudden and severe drop in temperature as arctic winds barreled down the Wetterstein Range, plunging the mercury to below -30°C. The wind's bite felt all the more vicious against the backdrop of what should have been a bearable, festive night.
As the cold encroached with relentless fury, people were forced into a grim, shared retreat indoors. Wood, historically reserved for the occasional cozy fire, now served as the lifeline against the freezing onslaught. But the quantity needed to stave off the unprecedented season had been severely miscalculated. Most found their woodpiles, thought to be ample, frighteningly diminished. Desperation set in, and furniture—tables, chairs, anything that could burn—was sacrificed to the fireplace in a dire attempt to preserve some semblance of warmth on what was meant to be a joyous evening.
A solitary shot pierced the frigid air, its echo a stark reminder of the desperation and lawlessness that had gripped the community. It was later discovered that the shot had been fired by a member of the militia, a group tasked by Oberstleutnant Müett Becker with the protection of the library. In a world plunged into darkness without power, books had become invaluable, the sole remaining vessels of knowledge and wisdom.
Understanding the library's significance, Oberstleutnant Becker had wisely stationed a soldier on the premises, supported by a hidden sniper, to safeguard this bastion of learning. The mob, driven by the desire to burn the books for warmth or out of sheer nihilism, was met with this warning shot. Mysteriously without origin, the shot served its purpose, dispersing the group without further incident.
The Wagner household, once vibrant with the lives of Tobias and Marta, had fallen silent since October, the couple's lives claimed by botulism from improperly canned okra. Their home, like many others, stood empty, a somber monument to the fragility of life in these trying times. On Christmas Eve, however, the abandoned structure was consumed by flames, drawing people from their shelters to form a ring around the fire, as close as their courage would permit.
As the crowd thickened, their collective body heat contributed to the warmth of the blaze, transforming a grim scene into a macabre gathering of shared human warmth. Christmas, in its most primal form of communal togetherness, was resurrected from the ashes of despair. Before long, another forsaken house was surrendered to the flames, amplifying the bitter-sweet solace found in the fire's glow.
Amidst this backdrop of shared misery and fleeting warmth, murmurs of discontent began to weave through the crowd. Voices raised in lamentation spoke of the dismal state of their Christmas, of lives marred by hardship, and of envy towards the imagined ease of the wealthy, secluded in their distant, unattainable fortresses. This night, marked by loss and the fight for survival, underscored the chasm between the haves and the have-nots, even as the community huddled together for warmth in the face of an indifferent winter.
Then, as if nature itself conspired to deepen the night's chill, the snow began to fall. But these were not the gentle snowflakes of a tranquil winter evening; hardened by the biting cold and hurled by fierce mountain gusts, they transformed into skin-tearing daggers. Each flake, a frozen shard, whipped through the air with cruel precision, turning the simple act of facing the elements into an ordeal of pain.
As the last of the embers began to fade, a voice cut through the cold night air, "Brachhaus Mansion—I've always wanted to taste a Rothschild."
Another chimed in, half-joking yet sinister, "I might not go that far, but I’d be more than willing to raid one, feast on their hoard." The murmurs of agreement were both terrifying and infectious. Within moments, a group was on their feet, their voices merging into a chant: 'To Brachhaus' and 'Iss die Reichen'—Eat the Rich.
On the periphery of the mob, two individuals engaged in a hushed conversation, "Ever had hounds set on you?"
"Don't you think they’ve had to eat their hounds by now?" the other speculated skeptically.
"Why would they, with their stockpiles of food, diesel generators, and solar panels to keep them running?" the first countered.
Joining the quiet conspiracy, a fourth voice interjected, steering the discontent towards a more accessible target, "You know, the Schröders aren’t far from here. Politicians, they’re no better than the rich. Perhaps even worse."
This small faction, united by a dark resolve, silently broke away from the main group, their departure barely noticed. Yet, as they moved, a couple dozen others, drawn not by understanding but by the human tide in motion, peeled off to follow. Unaware of the exact cause or destination, they were propelled forward by the momentum of those ahead, a testament to the chaotic pull of collective unrest.
Oberstleutnant Müett Becker was nearing his 60th birthday, a milestone that, before the fall, would have marked his forced retirement from the military. Now, with the world changed, retirement was the furthest thing from his mind. He felt released from any further obligation to the military, yet he recognized a deep sense of duty towards the community he now considered home. His unique skills were crucial for maintaining order amidst chaos.
Despite his short and sturdy frame, Becker was a bastion of strength. Approaching 60, he maintained a rigorous physical regimen, capable of executing a hundred push-ups and running a 10-mile course across challenging terrain without breaking stride. His appearance was marked by short, rapidly graying hair, neatly trimmed on the sides, and a distinctive, bulbous nose—often accompanied by the aroma of a savored cigar. While he attempted to blend into the background, his keen brown eyes, constantly scanning his surroundings, betrayed an acute situational awareness.
In the aftermath of societal collapse, with military communications in disarray and the power grid failed, Becker took decisive action. He rallied fifteen local soldiers and, equipped with three trucks full of weapons and supplies, he ventured into the heart of the community. It was there he founded the Hintergrundsicherheit. Under his meticulous training, these loyal followers transformed into his lieutenants, each tasked with forming, training, and leading a trio of dedicated men. This elite force, now 61 men strong, emerged as a steadfast defense against the chaos threatening to consume them.
Becker had ingeniously adapted the concept of Fußohren—vigilant children acting as the community's eyes and ears—from the Sherlock Holmes stories he cherished. These young scouts were pivotal in signaling the Hintergrundsicherheit at the earliest whisper of danger, facilitating swift action against any emerging threat.
The Hintergrundsicherheit's communication arsenal was nothing short of futuristic, with walkie-talkies engineered to endure the mountainous landscape's harsh demands. Equipped with solar panels, charging cranks, and kinetic energy harvesters, these devices were both waterproof and rugged, boasting an operational range of up to 5km under perfect conditions.
This network of well-drilled militia and discreet child informants endowed Becker's strategy with an aura of omnipresence and elusiveness. In a world upended, they stood as the invisible sentinels of order within a community endeavoring to regain its balance amid devastation.
On this tumultuous night, Becker’s radio crackled incessantly with updates. From the vantage of darkness, he could discern the glow of seven houses engulfed in flames, and an unsettling multitude of torches weaving through the streets. Though his military training had theoretically prepared him for crisis management, the reality was starkly different—predicated on resources far beyond their current means. Becker found himself grappling with decision paralysis, uncertain where to deploy his scant resources for maximum effect.
Then, a critical report pierced the airwaves: a formidable mob was surging towards the Schröder residence. Positioned not far from the locale, Becker made a snap decision, directing Brumheim to take up a sniper’s stance. In the face of encroaching chaos, it was a move born of desperation and strategic necessity—a gamble to protect what remained of their fragile societal fabric.
Götz and Irma Schröder were among the rarest of treasures in these turbulent times: politicians who genuinely prioritized the welfare of their constituents. The potential loss of either figure to the community's fabric was unthinkable, a blow from which recovery might be impossible. With this grim acknowledgment fueling his resolve, Becker hastened through the shadowed streets, his M320 Grenade Launcher Module ready, loaded with 40mm rounds.
In this moment of dire necessity, Becker was prepared to make the hardest decisions required of his command. If it came to a confrontation, he knew the stark visual of an exploding head might be enough to halt the mob in its tracks, forcing them to reconsider their violent course. Such measures were extreme, but Becker reasoned that the immediate shock and awe might spare more lives in the long run by dispersing the mob before further damage could be done.
The torches cast a stark, flickering light, illuminating the scene with an eerie glow. Götz Schröder stood on his porch, enveloped in a thick plaid fleece, the hood drawn tight around his face to leave just enough space for breathing and observation. In his hands, he cradled a Merkel RX Helix, its barrel laid across his forearm in a posture that spoke of readiness rather than immediate hostility—a clear statement of defense, not yet an overt threat.
Meanwhile, Oberstleutnant Müett Becker pushed himself to move faster, urgency lending strength to his strides. His radio crackled to life with the voice of Brumheim, confirming that he was in position, with a strategic overview of the impending field of engagement. The message was a beacon of hope in the tense night, promising a sliver of advantage in the precarious standoff that loomed.
The torchlight cast a stark, violent glow, illuminating the scene as two men boldly made their way up the steps, utterly unfazed by the rifle in Götz's hands. Becker's attention was riveted on these daring figures, so much so that the flicker of a Molotov cocktail being lit melded into the sea of torches unnoticed. The radio's warning cry came just a heartbeat too late; distance rendered Becker powerless to intervene. The flaming bottle arced through the air, striking Götz with brutal precision. Almost simultaneously, a gunshot split the night, the bottle shattering upon impact and immersing Götz in flames, then the bullet found its mark in his neck. Götz crumpled to the ground, succumbing to the inferno that swiftly claimed the porch. Watching helplessly, Becker was engulfed by a grim certainty: he had just witnessed the extinguishing of a life, Götz's final, fiery moments etched into the night.
Fury, both raw and unfiltered, coursed through Becker, fueled by the senselessness unfolding before him and his own agonizing delay. "Make an impression," he growled into the radio, his voice laced with a cold, hard edge of fury. Positioning his M320 grenade launcher, he locked onto the silhouette of a man audaciously circling the fire to enter the house. With a resonant thud, the grenade launched, finding its mark and detonating upon impact. The explosion was merciless, decapitating the assailant in a grotesque display of force. Simultaneously, the sharp report of a sniper’s rifle pierced the air, meeting another Molotov cocktail in its flight. The bottle shattered, raining down flaming debris on its would-be thrower. His screams cut through the night as the flames consumed him, his agony sparking a frenzied panic among those too close to evade the spreading fire.
The mob, once a unified force of vengeance, unraveled under the sheer brutality of the counterattack. Panic took hold, fracturing their resolve as they scattered into the shadows, their collective outcry fading into a disjointed cacophony of fear and confusion.
Irma burst from the doorway, her movements frantic as she wrapped a blanket around her husband in a futile attempt to smother the flames that had claimed him. Meanwhile, Becker, propelled by a mix of adrenaline and dread, shoveled heaps of snow onto the porch, fighting to quell the fire that threatened to consume everything in its path. When the flames finally sputtered and died, Irma, adorned in a delicate red and yellow dress that now seemed a cruel contrast to the tragedy before her, collapsed beside Götz. Kneeling in the snow, she surrendered to her grief, weeping openly over the senseless, agonizing end he had met.
It was a scene of raw, unfiltered sorrow—a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the devastating impact of unchecked violence. Becker stood a short distance away, watching helplessly as Irma mourned. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, a suffocating cloak of despair and guilt for his inability to prevent this tragedy.
What words could possibly bring comfort to a widow in the throes of such profound loss? Any attempt to soothe her seemed inadequate, a mere whisper against the howling storm of her grief. Yet the silence between them was a chasm too vast to leave unbridged.
Amid the horror and the grief, an unwelcome and intrusive thought wormed its way into Becker's consciousness: he found himself drawn to Irma, a woman steeped in sorrow before him. The realization struck with an uncomfortable jolt, a reminder that the body of her husband, was, in the most literal sense, not yet cold. He chastised himself, attributing this untimely distraction to the maelstrom of stress and guilt swirling within him. His life in the military had always been one of discipline and detachment, his few ventures into intimacy transactional and fleeting—nothing more than brief encounters at the Asian massage parlors dotting the highway to Munich.
The thought was abhorrent, a betrayal of the moment's gravity and the depth of Irma's loss. In a desperate bid to quash these unwelcome feelings, Becker resorted to a visceral form of self-punishment. He clenched his fist and struck himself hard across the nose, the sharp pain and the trickle of blood serving as a brutal penance. This act of self-inflicted violence was his attempt to anchor himself back to the grim reality before him, to silence the turmoil within.
Irma's gaze found Becker, her eyes searching his face as she spoke through her sobs, "So you're the ghost?"
The term echoed within him. Once, he had toyed with the idea of formalizing his role, perhaps becoming akin to a police department with rules and oversight. Yet, he had chosen a different path, one of shadows and whispers. To the community, he was part of the Geisterkraft—a spectral force, unseen, unregulated, yet undeniably present in times of crisis, though not always able to prevent tragedy.
The radio at his side crackled relentlessly, a reminder of the ongoing chaos, of lives possibly slipping away while he grappled with his own turmoil. How many others were suffering as he stood there, consumed by guilt and inexplicably stirred by emotions he deemed inappropriate? He resolved then to leave the unfolding crises to his team; tonight had already exacted a heavy toll on him. This decision, made in a moment of overwhelming conflict, would return to haunt him in the days ahead, as reports of the night's full toll came to light.
"You can't help him. Come inside. Do you have any alcohol?" Becker's voice, though steady, betrayed a hint of his own need for solace.
Irma, wrapped in her grief, nodded silently, allowing Becker to guide her back into the house. Under normal circumstances, his team would discreetly handle the aftermath, ensuring the dignity of the departed. However, tonight, their resources were stretched thin, demanded by crises erupting across the community.
Once inside, Irma settled into the center of the tea green sofa, an island in the midst of chaos. The fabric, soft and welcoming, contrasted sharply with the night's harrowing events. Becker positioned himself nearby, an unspoken offer of support hanging between them. He would be a shoulder for her to lean on, a presence of comfort amidst the storm of her grief. This much he promised himself, setting boundaries on the support he could offer, mindful of the complex web of emotions at play.