Hello lovely readers! Once again, we're using canon/fanon names, but you'll see a new one in this chapter: Roma Vargas/Old Roma - Ancient Rome

Check out our cover art on Tumblr (twoscarypandas DOT tumblr DOT com)! There's more than one murderer in the midst - can you tell who?

Chapter Summary: Vosh introduces rookie cops Alfred and Matthew to the case that will change their lives.

Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia.

Chapter 1: Triple Homicide

Alfred isn't shocked to be called in for a meeting with the chief. They have them almost daily now, since the event that shook up the whole damn town. He is a little surprised to see Mattie there, as well as the too-somber look on Chief Zwingli's face.

Swallowing his usual chipper greeting, he plops down in a chair across the desk, lounging in its tight, square leather and looking around. There are crime scene photos and rap sheets hanging everywhere. What a mess. What a fucking mess this whole thing turned out to be.

Chief Zwingli, or Vosh as he is known to those who are not his subordinates, sighs and rubs at his temples. There is not enough coffee in the world to gear him up for this. At least his addiction of choice is a legal one. That's more than can be said for over half of the cops around here. He drops both hands behind his back, pacing in front of the boys. They're young; rookies, but not too bad for all that. God knows they need the new blood. He's hoping a few new sets of eyes will shine some light into the dark corners where this sort of shit goes down. Of course, this isn't the regular sort of shit. This is much bigger.

He stops pacing to stand in front of them, back straight and arms at his sides. "I've got new assignments for you. You had better be ready, because this is where the training wheels come off."

Alfred looks from Vosh to Mattie, slightly perplexed. Are they about to be promoted? Sweet! No more stupid rookie jokes! He grins at his friend and neighbor, leaning back in the chair and crossing one leg over the other. "This is about Bad Touch Gilbert, isn't it?" His eyes flit to the bloody crime scene photos pinned to the wall.

A bit of breakfast tries to slither its way back up Matthew's throat. He swallows and stares straight ahead at the chief, trying to ignore the pictures. The chief is pristine, from his perfectly straight blonde hair to boots so polished he can see his reflection in them. Vosh is a shining example of order amongst chaos. Mattie's own hair refuses to stay in any particular order, and his glasses are always getting smudged. In this line of work, however, that helps him. He's ordinary, forgettable. That's why he's been sent to slip in and out of places, gathering intelligence and helping them set up stings. But those were all in the nicer parts of the city - relatively speaking. If Alf's right, they're about to be tossed into the city's rotten heart. He swallows again.

Vosh nods curtly. "It's a damn mess, to be perfectly frank. Not a single reliable witness so far. Naturally, everyone heard something, saw something. They're chomping at the bit to throw one another to the wolves. Yet the crime scene's been trampled, there's enough DNA to arrest the whole damn city, and..." He shakes his head and turns to the mounted screen on the far wall. "Let me show you what we do have. That will be faster."

Alfred sighs, propping his elbows up on the chair arms and linking his fingers together so that he can rest his chin on the links. This case is all anybody's been talking about for the last two weeks. "Okay, Chiefster. Who's been gunning for this asshole? Like, the whole town?"

"Yes." An obvious answer for an obvious question. The screen comes to life, already loaded with his slides. Most of them match the ones papering his walls, but here they're displayed in all the gory glory of high definition. Vosh pulls out his pointer and jabs the tip at the first of the three faces that overlay a photo of the crime scene. This one is an albino; very hard to miss. "I'm sure you can both recognize this one. Gilbert Beilschmidt is his real name, though he's known by plenty of others. He was a major player at La Citta, and throughout most of the city; the closest to really running the whole operation since Old Roma back in the thirties. The Sunday before last, somebody took him out." He points to one of the bodies. "That would be him, minus his brains and a good portion of his skull. Close range shot."

Alfred whistles low under his breath, shaking his head in dismay. "That's a hell of a shot." Squinting behind his glasses, he takes a close look at the mess on the pavement, disregarding the blood that is making his stomach twist. "Right between the eyes. Somebody wanted to watch this guy go."

"It's a long list," says Vosh. "You'll be getting that soon enough. It's the other victims that might help us narrow things down."

He points to the second image, a young man with green eyes, an olive complexion, and dark hair hanging over his ears. "Heracles Karpusi. He worked as muscle for the Casino." The body is further back in the crime scene, and there's an EMT with him in the frame. "First shot took out some ribs. Second to the head got messy. He bled out when they took him to Mercy, died on the table. Got himself a lover at the Rainbow who's pretty beat up about it. Better yet, he's got a short list of enemies and just one at the top."

"Hah! Saddy, old pal, you fucked up this time!" Alfred slides down in the chair, shaking his head as he smirks to himself. That bastard. It's about damn time Sadik got into it far enough for someone to slap cuffs on him. "I've been waiting to take him down for years, just for being an obnoxious bastard."

Vosh glares. The kid's going to get himself killed running into something half-cocked one of these days. "There's always complications. We took Mr. Adnan in within the first few days, but we couldn't hold him. There's just not enough evidence."

He points to the last face on the screen, this one an old, stern-looking man with a braid of grey hair falling over one shoulder. "I bet you're too young to know who our third vic is. Most wouldn't recognize him anymore." Vosh can still see it, though. He's stared at that face in the archives, in old newspaper clippings, in the only museum in town. The eyes haven't changed; they're still just as blue and hard. It felt like a piece of history died when he closed them that night. "Hans Beilschmidt. They used to call him the Barbarian."

Alfred looks from the picture to Mattie, then back to the picture. The man is old-ish, but not even close to ailing health if those broad shoulders and sharp eyes can speak for the rest of him. "He looks familiar. Didn't he own the dry cleaner's around the corner? No, no... Wait, no! The book store! Right, Mattie? He owned that book store- Wait. No. That guy's not the book store guy. Um..." He shrugs. "Don't know him."

Mattie sucks in a breath. He's seen that face before, but it's only now he realizes who the man really was. "Th-the bar. He owned the bar. But he's..."

"That's right," says Vosh. "Which is why I'm not sure if he's an outlier or the connecting piece of the puzzle. He was Old Roma's partner, back when this city was alive and bright. He's also Gilbert's grandfather. Which brings us to Ludwig."

The screen changes, showing several candid shots of a blonde man with his grandfather's eyes. He looks powerful and strong; certainly not one to be tangled with. "That would be the last surviving Beilschmidt," Vosh explains. "He's Gilbert's younger brother. Sibling rivalry is always an obvious choice when this much power is involved. Ludwig seems to have taken over the casino crowd these days, and he's got the Italians on his side."

Another set of pictures appears, these of brothers much more clearly related than Gilbert and Ludwig. They share chestnut hair that curls on just one side and bright brown eyes, but where one always smiles the other always frowns. "Feliciano and Lovino Vargas." Vosh hears Alfred snort and rounds on him. "What? You think they look like pushovers?"

"I think they look like prostitutes," Alfred laughs, waving a hand at the two flamboyantly dressed partyboys who seem to be having a good time in every picture. They're cute. Very, actually. Ludwig's a lucky man if he's got both of them playing for his team. "They're adorable. Like kittens or something. C'mon, look at them! They practically scream air-head rich boys!"

Vosh scowls and pulls up a different crime scene. This is a close up of two men, bullets in their brains and a pair of gaping wounds that split their cheeks from ear to ear. The bodies are in rough shape; there are letters etched into their chests and bruises so deep you can see the impression of the gun butt that made them. "That would be some of their suspected work. The mouth wounds are Feli's signature. Not that we can ever hold him to it, seeing as the Italians manage to win over practically every cop, lawyer, and judge they encounter."

Alfred is shocked, horrified by the picture, and he turns away to keep himself from hurling. Mattie is white as a sheet. "Okay then." He giggles nervously. "How do we, ah, deal with them? Or do we have to? What've they got to do with this?"

The headache has only gotten worse. Vosh rubs his temples as he replies, "It's very likely you'll run into them. They are...charming, in person. Charming enough to make you forget this." He gestures to the image, though he's seen it enough times that whenever he encounters the brothers, his vision is filled with mangled faces. "They are Roma Vargas' grandsons. La Citta is technically theirs by inheritance, but Gilbert's been running the show for a long time. That's plenty of motive. But for this one, they barely make the top five list. This," the picture changes again, "is Ivan Braginski." The image is of a pale man with such light blonde hair it seems white. Everything about him is cold, especially the strange violet eyes. "You might've heard him called Ivan the Terrible or Poison Ivan."

Matthew takes it all in, a little at a time, growing steadily paler. Paler than the man on the screen. These are big names; dangerous names. He has yet to encounter any of them, but he has met their lackeys in other parts of the city and heard all manner of tales. He thought a lot of them were exaggerated, but after all of this he's not so sure.

Beside him, Alfred only nods. He's always been able to take things in stride, smiling through their worst days at the academy and on the force. "I've seen that guy. He's like some big mobster dickweed." Leaning back in his chair, he sighs, taking in the thought of, perhaps, dealing with this motherfucker. Or sisterfucker, as the case may be. No one seems to be quite sure what's going on there. "He's a jerk. Isn't he, like, about guns and stuff? Not ponies?"

"No one is running the horse races anymore," Vosh replies. "I'm sure you recall the one thing we actually managed to get done in this god forsaken district. Murder, gambling, drugs, prostitution? Not a problem according to the council, but apparently if you get some animals involved they'll send out the big tanks." He shakes his head, trying to clear the bitterness from his voice. It was a good thing. The thing that had led to his promotion. Some days he thinks that promotion was more of a punishment, though.

"Yes, Braginski is an arms dealer. Though he appears to prefer blunt force," Vosh continues, pulling up another brutal crime scene. You cannot tell by looking if the poor soul is a man or a woman, or if that bloody pulp was ever even human. Vosh remembers the bastard shrugging when they questioned him, telling them to show a picture of spaghetti to the Italians and send him some vodka. "Braginski is one of our chief suspects on this case. Several witnesses reported that he followed the elder Mr. Beilschmidt out of the Silver Stein – or rather, out of 'Vodka Now!' Mr. Beilschmidt's death was most convenient; Braginski bought the bar from the city for a fraction of what he allegedly offered the deceased. The lawyers are still trying to argue out how he managed that one when Mr. Beilschmidt left the Stein to his grandsons."

Alfred raises an eyebrow. "That dive? Dude, that one's easy. I know one of Luddy's men. Ludwig was practically raised in that bar. It's like friggin' purgatory for him. He never wanted it anyway, it was that albino brother of his. Besides, from what I hear, the bar was going under."

Well. It looks to Vosh like he was right; Alfred will be useful after all. When he pays attention, that is. He offers Alfred a notebook. "Cite your source. I'll look into it. For now, we have more to cover."

He brings up the next image, this one of a dark-skinned man, his face nearly hidden by the hood of his sweatshirt and his eyes covered by a white mask. Smart move, damn him. He's never been able to get a clean image of the man's face. "Here's your friend, Jones. Sadik Adnan. There's all manner of death threats between him and our second vic, Mr. Karpusi. It is no secret he got into a fight with Mr. Karpusi the night of the shooting - and probably every night before that when they were in the same vicinity. They both worked as muscle for La Citta, but Adnan has worked for others in the past; in fact, we have reason to suspect La Citta is not his only employer right now. Unfortunately, as I told you, we had to release Mr. Adnan due to the lack of evidence."

Alfred nods. "Saddy is... possible. It's really hard to link him to Gil, though. I mean, they were buddies. Plus, according to the late Heracles, Gil didn't mind him freelancing, as long as nobody found out, because they usually spent the money together. Went to that dealer that practically lives behind the casino and... you know. Got themselves a good time."

"Therein lies the problem. There's a flaw in every story. We're missing pieces, and I don't like it." Vosh turns to his rookies, clicking his feet together and eyeing them seriously. "That's why I'm sending you in. You'll be dressed as civilians, undercover. Try to blend. I need new eyes on the situation." "Eyes that haven't been paid to look the other way...yet," he adds to himself, then continues:

"Ask questions, but be subtle. Make friends. You're not total fools, I should hope, so I trust you know not to go waltzing up to any of the big boys and announce you're taking them in. Watch the dealers, too. They're like fingers, reaching into everything that happens around here. And Yao Wang is the hand." The screen changes one more time to an Asian man with long, black hair and a smirk. "He doesn't tend to get his hands dirty like the others do, but that family has been a step ahead of the rest of us for longer than I've been stationed here."

Mattie barely pays attention to the drug lord. He's still focused on the fact that Vosh really is sending them there, right into the heart of this mess. He tries to keep his hands from shaking. Just how are they supposed to navigate all of that? He's been undercover before; he's good at slipping in and out unnoticed. But this isn't just skirting the edges anymore. This is walking into a hornet's nest. "Um, s-sir, you can't mean to send us...I mean, not that I – we - can't do our jobs, but this is...maybe someone with more experience?"

Alfred, on the other hand, stares at the picture in shock for a moment. Yao Wang looks like he's maybe 26? 27? Not the seasoned druglord he's supposed to be. But he's snapped out of it when Mattie asks his stupid question. He whips around and grins. "Oh, C'mon, Mattie! We can handle this, piece of cake! We're the good guys! Good guys always win!"

Vosh speaks over the optimistic Alfred. "Of course I'm not sending you in alone. You'll be working with one of our veterans."

There's a knock on the door. Right on time; what a miracle. Granted, that is probably because this meeting has already run fifteen minutes late. Vosh opens it to welcome the last of their party. "Lieutenant Kirkland, come in." He steps back so a short blonde man can enter, then gestures to the rookies. "I'll introduce you to your new partners: Officers Alfred Jones and Matthew Williams. You've met, I believe?"

Arthur blinks blearily, at first wondering if he's seeing double. Then he blinks again, and he stands up a little straighter. "Well." He clears his throat, first eyeing one, and then the other. Fine ass on that one. And the sweetest little mouth on the other. "Well, well, well. Right then. Ah... Let's bring them up to speed?"

The chief's head gives a violent pound. He's hoping to try some of the herbal tea his sister made for him; anything to help. "Already done. Unless you've anything to add?"

Arthur clears his throat again. These two are going to be distracting. "No, no. I trust you have informed them of everything they need to know, Chief. Very thorough, you are. Ah..." He reaches a hand toward the cute one. "Pleasure to meet you." His eyes flick toward the handsome one. "And you, of course."

Mattie ducks his head in greeting, blushing at the way the older officer looks them over. Kirkland's eyes are bloodshot. There's something off with him. He reaches out to take the offered hand anyway-

"Awesome!" Alfred takes Arthur's hand before Mattie can. "Three Musketeers, man! One for all, and all for one!" He blinks, looking toward Vosh. "What does that phrase even mean, Chief?"

Gallons of tea. Gallons of tea, and just FIVE MINUTES of peace! Vosh probably won't get either. "It means you look out for one another." He looks at all three meaningfully. Look out for one another...yes. And report back. He knows there's a leak in his ship, several; canon-sized holes, all of them. He just doesn't have the people or the money to weed out the bad ones and fill in the spaces. He has to take what he gets. "Now get ready. I want you out there by this afternoon. Get a feel for the place before night hits and it comes awake."