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Title: The Edge of the Night (1/5?)
Series: Hogan's Heroes
Pairings: None
Rating: PG
Beta: frauleinfrog, who despite not watching the show still happily took it on.
Notes: Supernatural AU (not the show)

Summary: The Great War brought the kin out of the shadows when, launched into bloody warfare, they cut through entire regiments like scythes. Two decades later, they are expressely banned from all military organizations. But there's always an advantage to men who make their own luck, and the Allies can't afford to lose this war.


It is not gunfire I hear but a hunting horn
Keith Douglas, “Aristocrats”

March, 1942

The camp was poorly constructed.

Colonel Robert E. Hogan, shot down three days ago near the Hammelburg oil refinery, gazed around the wide dirt compound and thin-walled barracks with apparent disinterest. Behind him stood Sergeant Kinchloe, the only other member of his crew to be so unluckily captured immediately after landing. He could only hope that the rest of his men, unknown to him and borrowed for this one-off mission, were already homeward bound. A truly crazy mission, on London’s part. The kind only a truly crazy officer accepted.

But looking around at this camp, laid out without any thought to anything but the most practical concepts – exacting military planning and tradition dictating straight rows and clean lines of sight – he began to feel more confident about the possibilities. From what Hogan’s detail-oriented gaze picked up, there was absolutely no acknowledgement of the currents and rifts in the land, no attempt to use or block them. Even the crudest ever-present channels, easily doused and so strong that he could feel them even through his boots, were completely unaddressed. Even the standard use of building placement to create the simplest of defence wards had not been attempted. Whoever designed this camp had had their heads in the sand, or worked with a bluff certainty there would be no need for such precautions. Hogan suppressed a grin.

This way, Colonel,” announced the fat sergeant who had met them on disembarking in the amp, gesturing. Like all POW camps, what Hogan had seen of the guards so far suggested the usual; they were men deemed too old, injured or incapable for the Front. Hogan allowed himself to be directed up the steps of the porch of the building with the dusty sign reading Kommandantur by the blimp-like sergeant, noting the windows and doorways under lazy eyelids as he did so. No sigils or wards, no even half-hearted mounting of salt-soaked ropes or iron bands, no charms nailed up. It reaffirmed what the camp’s layout had already told him: no one here was expecting to deal with any kind of kin inside the wire.

Which was exactly why he and his XO had been selected.

The interior of the Kommandantur consisted of an outer and inner office; in the outer a gangling boy who looked barely old enough to drive was pecking unevenly at a typewriter. He glanced up as they entered, but the disinterest in his gaze suggested he was used to such interviews. Nowhere near twenty, and already more acquainted with the enemy than most of the men at the Front. Dressed in civilian clothes, he was likely someone’s son, cousin or nephew. The fat sergeant ignored him, simply walked across the creaking floor with his rifle held in a lax grip and knocked at the inner office door, his back to the prisoners. Even with two armed guards behind them, it was extremely sloppy.

There was a muffled answer to the sergeant’s knock, and the man opened the door and then stepped back to direct them in with his rifle. He used it more like a policeman directing traffic than a guard threatening potentially dangerous prisoners. Either the man was a trap, or he would be an extremely easy acquisition.

The Kommandant was an older man whose uniform proclaimed him to be a lieutenant colonel, small and crabbed with a bristling salt-and-pepper moustache and wire-frame glasses over sharp grey eyes. Yellow-stained fingertips and a twitching habit of licking his lips suggested he was an ardent smoker; his crooked posture and the deep lines etched on his face hinted at an old injury. The cold crackling aura surrounding him, like ice snapping under a heavy weight, told Hogan it wasn’t a natural one.

As the Kommandant looked up, Hogan stiffened to attention and heard Kinch just behind him doing the same.

“Hogan, Colonel Robert E, US Army Air Corps. Serial number 328-29-710.”

“Kinchloe, Sergeant James R, US Army Air Corps. Serial number 331-49-261.”

The Kommandant nodded slowly, pale eyes pinning him with surprising gravity for a lieutenant colonel. But then no one without considerable strength of will could survive a curse strong enough to still be biting years later. Likely as not the man had run into it in the trenches of the last war, a gift from the Witch Squads.

“My name is Ackman,” he said in gritty, heavily accented English. “You will be the ranking prisoner, Colonel. You are the only officer interned in this camp; perhaps you will find the men have forgotten how to live with officers.” Hogan raised an eyebrow, but it seemed to be just a simple statement; Ackman continued on too soon to imply a threat, “You will find discipline strong here. See that your men do not step out of line. If you do not break regulations, we will all get along with greater ease. As we may all be here for several years, that seems desirable.”

“I’ve heard some different reports, sir,” quipped Hogan with a careless smile, letting it reach his eyes.

“I expect so,” returned Ackman dryly, glancing down at the paperwork on his desk. Sharp, straightforward, and severe. There would be little manipulating this man, however bent his back was. Hogan’s smile faded, only a ghost of it remaining while he descended into his previous blankness.

Ackman didn’t look back up, just turned over a page. “Very well, Colonel, that is all. You will find the roster of your men in your office. You should know, only sergeant Schultz and myself speak your language.”

The fat sergeant behind them snapped, or rather rolled, to attention.

“If you need to see me, you may put a request in through him. Dismissed.” The lieutenant colonel looked up to salute his superior, possibly understanding the rankling irritation of being dismissed by an inferior in rank. Hogan returned the salute, swivelled, and marched out of the room.


They had come in knowing it would be a long time before they even had a chance to catch their breaths. Kinch knew his job well enough, though, and Hogan could trust him to be taking note of anything that needed attention while his superior began trying to sort out the state of the camp.

The first thing which became abundantly clear was that the camp had developed an island-nation mentality. Each barracks seemed to have worked out its own routine and order, none of them interacting with the others more than necessary. With no officer, no one man of a rank senior enough to greatly distinguish himself from the others, internal discipline across two hundred men of different nations and services had proven impossible. The poor sergeant who had been acting as senior POW was pathetically happy to see an officer, probably for the first time in his life, and vacated the luxurious privacy of his quarters with a big smile on his face.

The second thing which became clear as Hogan began the tedious but necessary process of interviewing his men, was that while their determination and resolution regarding the war held strong when tested, morale was almost non-existent. Locked in a stalag in the middle of Germany, far from the major highways, cities and borders, even temporary escape was nearly impossible while ultimate success was so far unheard of. It would be useless to simply announce the terms of the mission he had been saddled with; he would need results before any of the men would be willing to commit to anything more serious than tunnel-digging or guard-taming.

The third thing which came out a week into his tenancy as senior POW was that, confident as the lieutenant colonel apparently was in the Luftwaffe inspectors and questioners’ ability to weed out undesirables, Hogan and Kinch weren’t the only ones to slip through their net.


“How many?” asked Hogan, quite plainly, when Kinch came in at the end of the week and closed the door behind him with a significant look.

The sergeant grinned, and took a seat in the second chair Hogan had procured for his interviews. “I’ve counted five so far, with a possible sixth. Two of them in this barracks.”

Hogan blinked. “I caught LeBeau – he always knows when you’re behind him, or when anyone’s coming. Must have ears and a nose like –”

“Like a wolf,” agreed Kinch quietly. “The other’s Newkirk. I’m not sure what’s up with him, but that slight of hand isn’t natural.”

Hogan’s lips crooked upwards. “He’s cheating at cheating?”

“You could say that. That, and he’s got an undue influence on the attitudes of the men around him. Could just be charisma, of course, but I think he might be giving them a bit of a tug. May not even know he’s doing it, but the slight of hand’s something else.” Kinch paused, considering, then moved on. “In any case, he obviously got past both the RAF and the Luftwaffe interrogators; must be immune to the standard grab-bag. I understand how LeBeau got himself past the French – they would’ve been desperate enough to check a little less carefully then they could – but I have no idea how the Krauts missed him.”

Hogan shrugged. “As long as they did, that’s all that matters. They’ll both come in handy; we’ll get started with them right away. At least if they become inter-aware, we’ll be able to trust them to keep their mouths shut about it. Who else?”

“Olson, barracks 9. I snuck out for a breath of air the other night, and I wasn’t the only one. He was out, too. I saw him fade right into the side of the barracks when the patrol went by.”

“Influence?” asked Hogan keenly.

“I’m guessing Dryad, but I could be wrong. It’ll depend whether he can do it with anything other than wood. Then there’s Kelly from 12, who smokes like a chimney and leaves his matches burning too long.”

Hogan stiffened, eyes hardening. “Keep an eye on him.” The last thing they needed was a Goddamn fire-starter going flame-happy.

“Already am,” replied Kinch dryly, then went on in his reporting voice, “And Williams, 18, feels wrong. Don’t know why, I haven’t seen anything suspicious. But it’s there all the same.”

Hogan nodded. “Alright. Keep looking.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “None of them’re Drinkers, did you notice?”

“I doubt they could get by on this diet, sir. They’d have snapped long before now, with catastrophic consequences. Even LeBeau must have a hard time on boiled meat twice weekly. And even if they managed to find or Influence a friend, with this many guys living together, no way could they keep that secret for long. And God help any man caught with – caught like that,” finished Kinch, glancing over his shoulder at the door behind him.

Hogan didn’t have to nod; they both knew exactly what the consequences of soldiers being labelled kin were. Knew it didn’t matter which side caught them. Their own men would tear them to pieces just as readily as the enemy. Probably along with the poor bastard caught with teeth in his throat, given average ignorance relating to anything inhuman.

“The second thing we’ll do is get them transferred to this barracks.” Hogan tapped his fingers on the desk thoughtfully.

“What’s the first, sir?”

“Get my box off the truck, will you? It’s under the bench right up against the passenger side where I was sitting. Don’t look, just feel for it. I think we’ve waited long enough. It’s time to get rid of Ackman.”

Kinch grinned conspiratorially. “Yes, sir.”


LeBeau, broom in hand, stopped in the middle of sweeping up the empty mess hall to glance across a table at Newkirk, wiping the table. “Et bien, what do you think of the new colonel?” he asked after glancing around, leaning forward on the end of the broom handle.

Newkirk looked up at him without stopping wiping. “Bright as a new penny and keen as bloody mustard. ‘He’ll have us lookin’ for our arses by the end of the week. You heard him the other day nattering on about ‘is tunnels and caches. As if we’ve just been sittin’ on our ‘ands for the past year. It’ll end in the cooler for all of us, mark my words.” Newkirk went back to cleaning, tone light-hearted but face shadowed. LeBeau didn’t have to smell the concern to recognize it.

“It’s his job to stop that,” pointed out LeBeau, without moving.

Newkirk shrugged, didn’t look up. “Sure. How many officers d’you know who’d stick their necks out for a pair of corporals? For a whole camp of ‘em? ‘He’s safe so long as he only gives the orders, doesn’t carry ‘em out. Never gonna get caught red handed, is he?”

“You have no optimism.”

“Maybe I’m just realistic. No one sticks his neck out for the likes of us ‘cept ourselves, and all that means is more of us get the chop,” repeated Newkirk stubbornly.

LeBeau opened his mouth to protest and then shut it again and began sweeping industriously. A second later there was a heavy creak on the floorboards outside the door, and a guard pushed it open and glanced in, watching them suspiciously for several seconds before closing it again.

“Maybe he can make a difference,” said LeBeau quietly.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”


Dinner was, as usual, a disgusting slop. Even on a Sunday, one of the two nights of the week meat was added into the cabbage and potatoes with a stingy hand, LeBeau hardly felt full. Hardly felt the gnawing hunger he had lived with for more than a year now abate. He would have escaped long ago, slipped out when the dogs were loosed at some alert or the other, if it hadn’t been for Newkirk.

Left to himself the Brit would land himself in the cooler sooner rather than later, and it wouldn’t take too many trips to break him entirely. To burden them with a second Erwin. LeBeau shuddered at the memory of the bright scent of blood, thick and vibrant in the air even from across the camp – even in his memory it was delicious, captivating, intoxicating. It had been Newkirk then who had dragged him into the latrines where even his keen nose couldn’t pick out the scent, teeth aching and fingers clawing as he shuddered to fight disaster.

Newkirk, who was now standing beside him in front of the colonel in his tiny office. The man smelled of cigarettes and cologne – expensive, discriminating – and of confidence and enthusiasm. The kind of daring that the Americans were so famed for, the devil-may-care attitude that took most of Europe slightly askance and seemed to stick in Newkirk’s throat. But he must know, as much as LeBeau did, that the attitude was real. The colonel was no coward faking bravery and ingenuity; he truly was what he seemed.

Behind him his XO Sergeant Kinchloe was making some sort of list on a pad of paper, attention apparently fully focused on it. It wasn’t actually, of course; the man was curious and watchful under a strangely thick smell of dirt – had Hogan set even his XO to tunnelling?

But there was something else. LeBeau had been in the office before, when Hogan had brought him in for his turn at a ten minute interview a few days ago. There had been nothing unusual in the room then, nothing but what appeared to be there. Now, there was something else. Something had been brought in, something packed with a number of highly unusual things all crammed close together and hidden under the bed. LeBeau sniffed unobtrusively; there were several metals, the most familiar of which were copper and gold, as well as gunpowder, sulphur, wood, rosemary, thyme, willow herb, meadowsweet, and several other herbs he couldn’t identify.

There was also, he picked out suddenly from the complex web of scents, pure silver. It was like reaching into a box of straw to find a razor. It drove the rest of the scents from his mind as instinctive terror pounded painful and jagged through his heart. Set all his instincts screaming at him: get out, get out!

He didn’t move, but he smelled Newkirk’s irritation and uncertainty shift abruptly to fear: the Brit had picked up on his own emotions. Still, he didn’t scent any fear or suspicion from either Hogan or Kinchloe, and certainly neither of them was armed; it didn’t seem that they had been found out. Maybe Hogan just had expensive taste in possessions. Maybe it was just a coincidence that the only two kin in the camp had been called in for an interview, together. They did spend most of their time together; it wasn’t so farfetched.

Newkirk, probably coming to the same conclusion, came down from his spike of fear without ever having shown any evidence of it. LeBeau could feel his friend tugging gently at his own less easily-dispersed fear of the danger that was sitting in the hidden box, calming him.

“I have something I’d like the two of you to do,” said Hogan without preamble, unaware of the entirely wordless dialogue going on between the men in front of him. “You’re both on KP this week,” he added, not quite a question but not just a statement either.

“Yes, sir,” said Newkirk after a pause. And then, more boldly, “We should be there now, sir. The Krauts don’t like us showin’ up late.”

“Then I’ll make it short. I need you to pick up a few things for me.”

Newkirk glanced at him, and LeBeau didn’t need his nose to read Newkirk’s thoughts: I bloody told you so.

“What kind of things?” asked LeBeau, before Newkirk could answer.

“Five tin cups, a cup of salt, some vinegar, and some wine. Doesn’t matter what kind, although a good brand’s always preferable,” said Hogan, with an easy grin.

LeBeau fought to keep from starting. It didn’t take a genius to see what was going on here, or at least what seemed to be. With the contents of the hidden box, and the ingredients Hogan had requested…

“A man can get in serious trouble for nickin’ supplies from the kitchen, sir,” said Newkirk, with a hard look. LeBeau bit his tongue to keep from snapping at the other corporal; Newkirk didn’t know about the box. Was missing a crucial fact.

“I’ll take care of that, corporal. Just bring me the things.”

“That’s an order then, sir?”

LeBeau closed his eyes. Only Newkirk would goad a new officer rather than try to get on his good side. Especially one they shared a barrack with. And, if what he suspected was true, one who was considerably more dangerous than most.

“Only if you refuse it as a request,” said the colonel, still with apparent good nature. It was more patience than either of them had expected from their experience of officers.

“We’ll do it, sir,” put in LeBeau, before Newkirk could work himself into more trouble.

“Good. You’d better get going then. Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.” They saluted together and hurried out, LeBeau kicking Newkirk in the shin when he began to speak as soon as the door closed behind him. “Don’t say anything. Just do what he wants.”

“But –” Newkirk grabbed his coat, hastily shucked off when Hogan had asked to see them, LeBeau following suit.

“Do it. I’ll tell you why later.” Later, when they could get away from curious ears.

The compound wasn’t really cold enough to warrant coats, but they were a habit, and more importantly they provided extra space in which to hide the items the colonel had asked them to steal.

Ostrowski and Sutherland were already there when they scrambled in, and gave them dirty looks before going back to their washing. LeBeau hurried to the other sink, Newkirk following him, and they began to wash and dry the plates and cups. He didn’t see the cups disappear, but by the time they had finished the washing Newkirk was slightly more padded around the belly than his thin frame could account for, and smelled of tin.

LeBeau took care of the salt and vinegar while putting away the dried dishes, while Newkirk took up a mop and began to clean the floors. There was no alcohol kept in the mess kitchen; the Kommandant kept his wine somewhere in his quarters and his spirits in the liquor cabinet in his office, while the officer’s club’s bottles were locked in their own cabinet. It would have to wait for another day.

They finished the cleaning as quickly as possible, LeBeau’s pockets inordinately heavy with the stolen goods which would earn him two weeks in the cooler if he were caught with them, and hurried back across the now-dark compound under escort.

The colonel was alone in his office when they entered, sitting behind his desk looking at a clipboard. He raised his dark head as they entered, glancing at them appraisingly. Newkirk kicked the door shut with his heel and strode forward to produce the five cups from his pockets with showy, if hurried, mannerisms. LeBeau, with no aspirations to the title of magician and the trouble that could cause, simply took his goods out of his pockets and thumped them down on the table.

“There’s no wine, or any liquor, in the kitchen, sir,” he said, as Hogan looked over the supplies. “The Kommandant keeps his in his office and quarters, the rest is locked in the officer’s club.”

“I see,” mused Hogan.

“Well, if that’s all, sir,” said Newkirk discourteously, half-turning to leave. Hogan looked up with sharp eyes.

“But you’re still one item short, corporal,” he said in light protest, eyes entirely serious. Newkirk stared.

“You can’t be serious, sir. Break into the officer’s club, and their liquor cabinet to grab you a bottle?”

LeBeau, well-acquainted enough with the other man to read what’s bloody wrong with water? on the tip of his tongue, stepped on Newkirk’s toes before he could say it.

“I’ve heard glowing reports of your light touch with locks, corporal,” said Hogan, ignoring Newkirk’s attitude. “Mostly glowing with indignation, mind you, but glowing none the less. I’m sure it won’t be any trouble for you.”

“No trouble lifting the stuff, sir. Only when the Kommandant throws me into the cooler for a bleedin’ month when it’s reported missing. You’re not the only man in camp who knows about me light fingers, sir.” Newkirk’s tone was full of irritation and bluster. His scent was full of fear.

“Not too many risk-adverse men in war, corporal. But I can tell you if you get caught, I’ll do my best to get you out again.”

“Bloody swell. Sir.”

Hogan narrowed his eyes. “I like my men to have opinions, corporal. I like them to share them with me, if they consider them to be valuable. You’ve shared, and I’ve given my orders. I want that wine. The sooner the better. Sergeant Kinchloe is ready to make a diversion for you, you can run out and get it tonight. That is an order, corporal.”

Newkirk twitched, but saluted all the same. “Yes, sir,” he said, stiff as a board. Turned, and left. LeBeau glanced at Hogan; the colonel was watching Newkirk storm out with considering eyes. He almost immediately turned them on LeBeau, though, LeBeau catching sight of bright intelligence there before the colonel loosened into his former easy-going posture. There was no sign that he had ever been anything but loose and relaxed.

“Good work, corporal, I’ll keep you in mind for all my future kitchen-raiding excursions.”

“Yes, sir.” LeBeau, recognising a dismissal when he saw it, saluted and slipped out.


Newkirk was standing by the window to the left of Hogan’s quarters, Sergeant Kinchloe at the door with a couple of the men, when LeBeau emerged. He didn’t even have time to step over to Newkirk, never mind warn him of his suspicions about Hogan, when a fight broke out by the door.

It was quite clearly staged, all shouting and stomping and no real punches or scuffling, never mind emotion. It brought the guards quickly enough, though, a pair of them slamming through the door with their guns held at the ready. The punches started flying then, wide and ineffective, as the men swept at each other in motions that gave off all the look of a fight without any of the feel of it. When LeBeau looked back to the window, Newkirk was gone.

The fight took nearly five minutes, and Hogan himself restraining his XO, to break up. LeBeau, uninterested but unwilling to give away the false nature of the conflict, stood at the edge of the ring and shouted with the rest of the men as the guards threatened them all with reduced rations and confinement. It hardly made a difference – with his lack of height he couldn’t see past the men in front of him.

By the time order was restored and the guards marched out, the window was opening and Newkirk hopping back in with flushed cheeks and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He had clearly sprinted straight back across the compound, and probably there as well. And now he stood with his spoils in his hand, triumphant and leery at the same time. Typical.

Hogan had returned to his quarters in order to demonstrate that everything was under control, and Newkirk disappeared inside. There were, at least, no raised voices. LeBeau finished changing for bed, going slow to wait for Newkirk. But when the Brit immerged he only gave LeBeau a quick, terse smile and walked past towards his own bunk.

He still smelled of fear, but also now of just a hint of satisfaction.


LeBeau had intended to pull Newkirk away after roll for a very necessary conversation about Hogan.

He didn’t get the chance.

Ackman, as always, presided over roll call, standing by with his crooked back and walking stick and smelling as always of old malignity, of dead-air and crypt-dust, to receive Schultz’ response of “All present.” He received it as usual this morning, men already tensing in expectation of the dismissal that would come momentarily.

It didn’t.

Ackman stood, crooked and bristling in the grey morning light, all cold fury and lemon-sour indignation. “I have been informed that there was a disturbance in this barrack last night, just before lights out. That alone would have been reason enough to cut your rations for two weeks. However, a more serious charge has been brought to me this morning. My aid, Lieutenant Lundt, has informed me that a bottle of wine has been stolen from the officer’s club. It is clear that the brawling of last night was meant as a diversion for one of you to slip out and steal the wine. I am hereby reducing your rations by one quarter for two weeks; further, you are all confined to barracks for one week. The man responsible for the theft will receive one month in the cooler. Step forward.”

LeBeau could feel Newkirk shivering beside him, although the man was staring forward with an impassive expression. He reeked of terror, thick and metallic as liquid tin. A week or even two cut off from all contact with others, from all life and emotion, would cut into him much worse than any other man in the camp. A month would quite simply kill him.

“Sir, I protest,” said Hogan, tone serious and strict. There was something else going on there, though. He wasn’t truly serious, or at least, he was being deceitful about his feelings. LeBeau blinked as he figured it out: the man was checking, calculating. Testing Ackman to see how much he could get away with. LeBeau wasn’t sure whether he should be impressed or indignant. “You have no proof any of my men were responsible for this theft – if there even was one. Maybe the lieutenant made a mistake.”

“There was no mistake. Was there, corporal?” Ackman turned abruptly to look at Newkirk, pale eyes sharp as a crisp winter sky. Newkirk had pulled his tricks often enough – too often – on the guards for them to be forgotten so easily. Only luck and LeBeau’s quick nose had kept him from having other thefts pinned on him before now.

“Wasn’t me, sir,” whispered Newkirk.

“Really. Because the guards reported that you did not participate in the brawl last night.”

Newkirk licked his lips. The stupid fool was going to do it.

LeBeau stepped forward, clicking his heels. “I confess, sir. C’étais moi – I stole the wine.” Beside him Newkirk stiffened. LeBeau projected confidence just as loud as he could; the last thing he needed was his decision prompting Newkirk to make the stupid self-sacrifice.

Ackman turned to him, lip curling. “You, corporal?”

LeBeau shrugged, not intimidated. “It’s been more than a year since I last had a sip of wine; you aren’t French, you wouldn’t understand. Ask your guards – I’m sure they didn’t see me at the brawl either.” Of course they wouldn’t have, all the wide British and American shoulders had been blocking their view.

“And where is the wine, then?”

“In the colonel’s office. I hid it while he was breaking up the fight; I didn’t think you would search there.” As long as they didn’t ask him where in the colonel’s office it was…

“Very well,” said Ackman, eventually. “You will spend one month in the cooler. Colonel Hogan, I ask that you find the wine and bring it to me. The rest of you are confined to barracks. Dismissed.” Ackman saluted, ignoring Hogan’s protest, and walked away in his usual stiff gait.

Newkirk turned to him, all guilt and contrition and anger. “Louis –”

The guards grabbed him before there was time for more. He shrugged, smiling bitterly. “Looks like you were right,” he muttered, glancing at the colonel who was watching him with dark eyes. It was some comfort, at least, that the Yank didn’t look too pleased by it.

It was only when they threw him in the tiny cooler cell that he remembered he had forgotten to tell Newkirk he was almost sure Hogan was a sorcerer.


( 3 comments — Leave a comment )
Mar. 16th, 2011 12:32 pm (UTC)
Okay, I am suitably fascinated. I look forward to the continuation!
Mar. 17th, 2011 04:32 am (UTC)
:D Next chapter should be out in the next day or two.
May. 18th, 2016 09:56 pm (UTC)
This is really fascinating and Hogan as a sorcerer? Perfect, that's absolutely perfect. I love this entire AU. I can't wait to see what you do with this world and the characters.
( 3 comments — Leave a comment )


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