OOC: Remember, you begin either in Financial Bureau Building #132 or J's Bar across the street.
It is the year 249 A.H. (After Hitler), and in the two centuries since the ending of the Glorious War, National Socialism has prospered. New Germany now encompasses most of Europe, with Berlin at its center, and the Master Race, the Aryans, live in luxury while the lesser races have been safely cordoned off in their own sectors. Chancellor Oliver "Ol' Oli" Spencer soon plans to remove them completely, and bring the country into a new age. The Japanese Empire stretches from what used to be China to California, and the United Nations of North America - Canada, Mexico, and the old U.S. - though removed from the influence of National Socialism, will surely soon fall to a superior military and ideology. The breakthrough of Vril technology makes all people's (Aryan's) lives easier. It is a golden age.
Or is it? The so-called "lesser races" strain beneath the heel of the Party, and unrest like never before seethes throughout Germany. In a labrynth of tunnels built beneath Berlin over two centuries of oppression, the Freedom's Hand plans their attacks and search the nation for a book one hundred and fifty years old, an unbiased history of the National Socialist Party containing such brutal truths that it could tear the country apart.
Georg Kubizek sighed as he waited for his drink. The smells of the third-rate establishment known as J's Bar were oppressive, and the smatterings of non-Aryans he saw sitting around the bar offended him by their mere presence. Who were they to reap Germany's benefits, bearing their inferior genes and risking the populace with the ugly possiblity of cross-breeding?
The bartender finally sat the glass down, yet before he could remove his hand Kubizek locked his eyes on the man's, searching for any sign that he had put something in his drink. Seeing none, he turned away. Kubizek had entered the bar brazenly wearing the uniform of the gestapo, Germany's secret police. He knew the denizens of this place would not be welcome to a gestapo officer, for he strongly suspected this place to be the secret entrance to an underground Freedom's Hand hideout.
Kubizek looked across the street to Financial Buruea Building #132, and wondered about the people walking in and out. What were they doing? Were they bringing small complaints about taxation? Were they using the buildings Communication Stalls, the only way to make long-distance calls in the entire city? Or maybe, they were reporting suspicious activity by lesser races. That brought a smile to the hateful Kubizek's lips as he raised his glass to take a drink.