(*Author's note: This is my first actual fan fiction. I would like to hear any suggestions that you would like to make on how this could be made better. I just want to make a comment on the language that I'm using for this fic. Since I don't really know anything about the German language (and because I don't want to butcher it), I'm going to go English on everything. When talk is between two German speaking characters, the language is German- that sort of thing. I may try to fit some phases of German here and there (like on the Television show) but I can't promise anything. Sorry about the title- I know it's a bad pun, I just couldn't think of anything better. I think that's enough for an Author's note, don't you?)

Leaper, Don't Be a Hero!

He was pretty sure that he had been drugged. And kidnaped. Why was beyond him, but he was pretty sure that was the case. He had to have been drugged. His head wasn't injured, he was sure of that (at least, there was no pain), and yet, he found that he couldn't remember things. Important things, like his name.

That scared him more than he was ready to admit even to himself.

So far, no one had come to check on him in this curious light blue room. On one hand, he didn't mind because it gave him a chance to orient himself. On the other, his efforts at orienting himself only served to make him more confused. His mind was filled with a jumble of strange images. A banner with an odd crooked cross; men in black uniforms shouting and marching around with an almost hypnotic symmetry; an infuriating man, who was somehow a friend, smirking at him and stealing his cigars; a fat man saying something about prisoners . . . Those were the things that seemed familiar, an anchor to who he was. There were more images, disconnected from the others. Katie; Tom; Al- those names and the faces they were linked to didn't seem right. It was like they didn't belong to him. As if they weren't his memories.

But that was absurd, wasn't it? How could he remember someone else's memories?

He shook his head. This was getting him absolutely nowhere. He needed answers and he needed them now.
After scraping up his nerve, quite a feat under the circumstances, he opened his mouth to demand that someone, anyone, tell him why he was here, tell him when he could go home, tell him where home was.

But before he could actually voice his demands, a hidden door opened and in stepped in someone he remembered- not from his own memories- from the memories that weren't his. She was a tall graceful Negro woman wearing what looked to be a lab coat. She smiled at him and he stared at her warily. Though the memories of her told him to trust her, he didn't completely trust those memories. But he was reasonably sure about one thing, he knew her name.

"Hello Verbena."

The look of shock on her face couldn't have been greater if he had suddenly pulled an elephant out of his nose. Her face blanched ever-so slightly (with her dark skin it was hard to see) and she stared at him as if he were a ghost. "Sam?"

He took a moment to consider it. Sam. Was that his name? While he had no way to be sure, he didn't think so. He shook his head and felt saddened to see the hope leech out of her brown eyes. Whom ever this "Sam" was, he must have been important to her.

After a second or two, she had recovered herself, though a faint look of disappointment remained. Mainly, she looked curious. It made him distinctly uncomfortable to be the focus of her intense scrutiny. Actually, he was perilously close to fear. Maybe a little panic too. "All right," she began, her tone cool and professional, "What is your name, and how did you know mine."

He felt a bead of sweat form on his brow. "I don't know who I am. I was rather hoping that you would." When she made no effort to answer him, he continued, "As for knowing your name, I don't know about that either. I remember you, but . . ." How could he explain with out sounding as if he had lost his mind? Maybe he had already lost it; maybe that was why he was here in the first place.

"But what?"

"It's difficult to explain. I remember you, but it's not me who's remembering."

She looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"It is as if I have someone else's memories floating around my head."

"Do you know who's memories they are? What else do you remember?" She asked quickly, sounding more than professionally interested.

He licked his lips, a sick sort of knot forming in his stomach. "I don't know. I can remember many people: Katie, Gooshie, Al, Tina, Tom- other things. But they aren't mine. I know that."

The look of shock had made a second appearance, though not as pronounced as the first time. She stood, "I have to go, but I'll be back soon. Just sit tight." With that she walked back out the door and he was alone again.


As Sam's senses returned and the blue light of the leap faded, he immediately became aware of two things: he was holding a telephone and a voice in the receiver was shouting at him in German. How he understood what the voice was shouting about, Sam wasn't sure. Possibly German had been one of the languages that he had forgotten that he knew how to speak or maybe he was left with that much of the host's mind. Either way, he understood the words and he didn't like what he heard.

". . . General Boes is visiting you pathetic little Stalag and I want to make sure that you won't mess it up this time. He is very influential in Berlin, if you don't keep him comfortable, you can be certain that you will be shipped to the Russian front so fast that you won't know that you're dead until you hit the ground with a bullet in your chest! Do you understand, Kink?!"

"Um . . . yes, yes, I understand." Sam said nervously- why did he feel so nervous all of the sudden? Another "gift" from the host?

"Good. I'm glad that we have an understanding." he paused, as if waiting for something. "Well, I have better things to do than talk to you. Goodbye and Hail Hitler!"

"Hail Hitler." Sam replied automatically as the receiver on the other end hung up. 'Hail Hitler'? Where was he this time? Or, more importantly, when?

Sam looked around the office, for office it was, from behind the desk he sat at. His eyes were immediately drawn to the red and white Nazi banner in the corner and the picture of Hitler that hung beside it. Then he looked down at himself. He saw medals on his front, German medals, and mixed with them was a small pin that was embossed with an equally small swastika.

"Oh boy," he breathed. He was a Nazi. But how could that be possible? The second World War had ended be for he was even born. So, unless he was a Neo-Nazi, which for some reason didn't seem right, he was outside of his lifetime. Which shouldn't be possible. If it was true . . . well, his string theory was wrong and so was the whole Quantum Leap project itself.

But before rewriting his theory, he decided to investigate.

After digging through piles of papers and rifling through the desk drawers, Sam managed to find a calendar. He wasn't happy to learn that he would have to rewrite his theory after all. The date was September 3, 1943, almost ten years before he was born. With a tired sigh, he slouched down in his chair, confused and lost. What was he going to do? What if Ziggy couldn't locate him?

He found himself taking a sip of liquor not remembering filling the glass. First he glared at the bottle (Schnapps?) on the corner of his desk as if it were it's fault he had given in to the habits of the host. Then he stared at the glass in his hand with more than a little annoyance.

Great, he thought resentfully, not only have I leaped into a Nazi, I've leaped into a drunk Nazi. Deliberately, Sam placed the glass back on the desk. He didn't usually drink and he had no intention of starting now. But the glass did look tempting . . .

Abruptly, Sam stood. "Well," he said aloud, more to take his mind off the glass that sat invitingly on his desk than anything else, "I can't stay here forever. Maybe I can find out where I am. I already know when I am and it doesn't look like Al's going to turn up any time soon." He carefully avoided thinking about the fact that Al might never turn up. He was having enough problems with out that fear added to them. Besides, it didn't bear thinking about, Al always came through.

Sam walked over to a hat stand and took one of the grey coats that was hanging on it. After slipping it on he looked back at the desk. The idea that he was running away from a drink galled him, but he comforted himself by thinking that there was nothing more to be gained by hanging around. With that thought he turned and walked out the door.



(in about a week)