The two story house in a residential area of Berlin was quiet. It almost always was. Occasionally, on Saturdays, raucous laughter would break the calm, and the inhabitants' holidays were just as loud as their neighbors'. But these days only served to assure the other residents that those living in this taciturn house were human, or as close to human as they could be.

It was a stoic house. Painted a pale, forgettable shade of blue, it seemed to fade into the morning mists and grey winters. The shutters were a sterile white, as was the door. It was a government owned property; little did the neighbors know its inhabitants could be considered government property as well.

Inside this reserved residence lived two brothers; the younger was just as reticent as the house, placing the boisterous elder in stark contrast. The pale paint matched the younger's eyes while the white shutters matched the elder's skin. The mailbox read 'Beilschmidt.'

The elder was a drinker, a partyer, some called him a madman. He was known to bring around two foreigners on Saturdays and sometimes a policeman would bring around the brother on Sundays. The across-the-street neighbor swears that the brother once came home wearing only a shredded pillowcase, he also swears that the pale man leapt from the roof of the house, smashed into the concrete, and lived.

The neighbor's wife saw the younger drag his brother's broken body into the house afterwards, but she'll never say it.

On the weekdays the elder Beilschmidt donned a floppy sunhat to protect his pale skin and walked his brother's three dogs. He was albino; his hair so pale it was white and his irises a frightening red. His younger brother cared for him fiercely.

The younger was tall, blond, with blue eyes, all in all good looking. He had no friends, if he did, no one ever saw them. The only friend he had was his older brother. The younger walked his dogs on the weekends; he had a government job during the week.

The brothers were government property; they were personifications of countries, one past and forgotten, the other modern but just as ignored. The government had little need for such beings, after all, the world is run on science and rationality, it does not need divine anomalies like the brothers Beilschmidt.

But the government grudgingly respected the younger brother, the modern Germany, and so they paid him to deal with all other modern personifications, all except one. However, they did not respect the elder, the former Prussia and the fallen East. And so the elder stayed at home, upset by his reliance on his brother, but in a way he knew his little brother relied on him, not only for security and strength, but also to listen.

The house was quiet. But if one looked up the stairs and turned their head ever so slightly to the left they could hear it. Radio static and a steady buzzing, a pulse, a beat that had never left this house since the elder brother had brought it in. The sound was unnerving, disturbing if listened to for too long, when the older brother had brought his friends over for the first time they left after just a few minutes, visibly frightened by the noise.

Neither of the brothers minded it, the radio station hadn't been changed for almost twenty-three years.

Call sign UVB-76, the younger lovingly called it UVB.

UVB-76.

When the younger worked his brother would take the radio from the study and place it next to him on the couch as he watched home videos and re-runs of M*A*S*H in English. The younger Beilschmidt had bought him the German copies of the show but his elder never watched them, he had complained that all the characters were voiced by the same man, even Margaret Houlihan.

The radio buzzed and pulsed through the brothers' meals together as they discussed their day. The older brother retold his favorite lines from that day's episode or reminded his brother of the happy times they had together in front of a shaky camera lens.

The younger brother would smile and laugh quietly before he asked what supplies they would need for the coming week. The meal would end and dishes would be washed before the younger gathered the radio into his arms and carried it carefully up the stairs and into his study to finish his paperwork.

The study was warm. A golden light filled the room from the seemingly ever lit fireplace. Books lined the walls, leather spines of every color stood at perfect attention in the shelves. The brother placed the old radio beside a framed photograph of a man no one had seen for thirty-one years.

He was tall, taller than the younger brother, with light hair, somewhere between blond and strange ashy color. His face was round, stereotypically Russian, and his nose even more so, hooked and large it was the subject of many snide remarks by a culturally-lacking American. The black and white photo did not capture the eyes that were so blue they were violet. A smile just barely played on his lips, but it did not reach his eyes. Only one person could remember a time when it truly did. He stood in his stiff military uniform with his hat tucked beneath his arm posing for this photograph so many years ago.

Dark ink trailed in lazy loops, a name sprawled itself across the photograph, the name of the man for whom the radio buzzed. And every so often, sometimes in the dead of night, sometimes when daylight shone brightest, it came. His voice, garbled and muted, it paused the loud bleating pulse and spoke.

So, hi, again... Uh, I haven't been on in months and I just started working on this... Turns out I really love RusGer, anyways, the chapters will be short and the language is intended to be very quick. UVB-76 is an actual radio station, go on, look it up! It's probably the creepiest thing you will ever listen to but there is just so much to write about it! Hope you like this! Comment and reviews are really appreciated!