(Toris)

The darkness and sheer chilling temperature of the barracks are what got to me first, then it was the other men that scared me half to death. They were like living corpses, thin, hair falling from their scalps, and grim looks of devastation and despair that flocked throughout the camp. This very place, where death walks on two legs, and inhumane things take place.

But work, work, work, they say, makes you free. If you work, they will let you go. But that is a promise they will never keep.

This bed is uncomfortable. There is no mattress, just wood. Wood that is currently breaking my back, and keeping me up.

Beside me is another martyr, and I have yet to know his name, but when he utters the word 'Mamusię' in his sleep, I recognise the voice, the tone. It is Feliks, my friend that was rounded up a month before I was. I sit up, barely avoiding the wooden frame above me.

It doesn't look like him. It can't be him. His face is sunken and hollow, and his once beautiful blond hair is only existent in clumps. No, it can't be him, but it is him, God, what have they done to him?

I lay back down, turning onto my stomach as I watch the beams of light travel across the ground. The sun is rising, signalling the start of a new day. Work makes you free.

A stocky German barks at us to rise, get up! And we do. Feliks seems to recognise me, and gives me little hopeful smile. "It's not that bad." He whispers, but I doubt it. His cheeks are hollowed, his eyes are beginning to sink into his skull, but they never lost their vitality.

The German is a prisoner like us, flashing around his green triangle. He had silver hair, and red eyes. His voice is loud and harsh, and we file into a line to do the morning routine that I have yet to learn, for I have only been here one day.


"Toris," Feliks shouts at me above the machines in the factory. "What are you doing here?" I sigh, my head beginning to hurt and my stomach gurgling in protest. Feliks gives me an understanding look when I don't answer him, and he turns back to the ammunitions he's stuffing.

"It just happened." I say after a short period in silence, shouting so that my voice will cut above the screaming machines. Feliks nods, biting his lip when he cuts his finger on a piece of sharp metal. I stop working to check on him, but he keeps working.

"Toris!" He shouts, pointing toward my post. "Get back or they'll whip you!" I do as I'm told, trembling slightly.

"But you're hurt!" I insist, watching him with nervous eyes, looking at the cut where blood is flowing steadily onto the bullets he's stuffing.

But he keeps telling me that, 'it's just a scratch.' or 'it's no big deal.' and I shut my mouth and do my job, stomach aching in my gut.


The next morning is no different from the first, I watch as the sun from the windows fades across the floor slowly. Beside me, Feliks is squirming, still in his deep sleep. His face contorts into a wince, and I frown. Damn, the things I had tried so hard to get rid of, his horrifying childhood and memories and nightmares that I thought I had annihilated. I suppose not.

I reached out to grip his arm firmly, trying to wake him up, make him aware, of his surroundings, not that they were any better than 1923 Poznań. That's where he was from, and that's where his mother was killed by a crazy drunkard. That's what his dreams are about, and I thought I had disposed of such anxious ideas.

I try the method that usually works, a tight hug, and whispering words of comfort, but he pushes me away with his arms. Tears are rolling down his cheeks, and his lips utter words of nonsense before I shake him awake. I pull him into another tight hug, and he relaxes, melting into my chest with harsh sobs.

He's gripping my shirt in his hands, clawing at my back with his fingernails, and I'm doing everything I can to ease his pain. He whispers my name, and I shush him, stroking his back with my hand, telling him that I'm here, everything's okay, even when I know it's desperately far from being okay.

He sniffles, looking up at my with red eyes. I smile back, laughing softly as I move my hand to stroke his sunken face with care. He's looks depressed, sleep-deprived, and too thin to be healthy. But still, his eyes give me hope. He might last a couple more weeks.

He seems to take an interest in my hair, looking at it with curious eyes. "Toris," he whispers. "Turn around." And I do, flipping over within the small confines of the bunk. His hands part my hair with caution, and his fingers keep picking things out of my hair. "Toris!" He finally whines, and I look over my shoulder at him. "You have really bad dandruff."

I gawk at him. "I can't help it!" He laughs softly and goes back, continuing to pick through my hair. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"Some of the guards said prisoners were dying of typhus. I'm making sure you don't have any lice, because they're the main carrier." I really didn't know what any of that meant, but I gave in and began to relish in the feeling of his fingers stroking through my hair. This man, this friend of mine, this crazy college student, was becoming my savior in this Hell.


(Gilbert)

It wasn't much of a surprise when I learned that my Bruder was also promoted to an Oberkapo. It was something I assumed would happen, because of his German nationality, and his stocky build. But when we had time off, we would sit on the dusty path and talk of this and that. Of our mother, of our history, of the ideas we had for our future, and, of course, the ideas of rebellion and revolt. We noticed how many prisoners to guards. We outnumber them by a large amount, but the prisoners just need a leader, and then we'll get out of here.

It was our break day, the one day that we get to enjoy the weather outside. But, of course, today was a dark day, clouds blocking the suns rays. My brother and I were walking around camp, just talking.

"What do you think Mutti is doing?" My Bruder asks, and I look at him scanning his face for any emotion, but he shows none. I sigh. Dad was like that too.

"I don't know," I answer, kicking some dirt around with the toe of my shoes, watching in amusement as it clouds, but falls back to the ground. Before my brother could respond, a couple of children ran to us, thin arms outstretched in silent bidding. None of them could understand German, and neither of us could understand the Romani, language of gypsies. Instead, we communicates with hand gestures. I placed a piece of bread in each child's hand before they stuffed their faces, running back to climb through the fence that separated their section of the camp.

Behind me, a man ran to me, and, as he smiled nervously, he held his hands out like the children. "Lebensmittel, ve?" He said, and part of me remembered this man from the uniform assignments. In my pocket sat the golden cross of his brother. I hadn't turned it in yet, but seeing this boy again definitely made me decide against it. My brother began to give the brunet bread as well, but I begin to think of something. When he began to run off, I ran with him.

"Warte, warte!" I shouted, and he stopped. I panted as I caught up to him. "Wie heisst du?" I asked, for I don't know any language but German. He smiles at me.

"Feliciano Vargas."

"W-Wo ist dein Bruder? Bitte.." I ask him, still panting softly. His eyes widen, and I think he remembers who I am. He looks scared, and I lower my head in shame.

"E-eh, er ist dahin. Komm." He says to me. His German is a bit rusty, and he still has his Italian accent in it. He leads me over, where the other man is sitting on the steps to a barracks, head in hands. Feliciano motions me forward, nibbling on his bread that my Bruder had given him.

I crouch in front of the man, coughing to get his attention. His head snaps up, growling at me. He whispers something to me, and Feliciano translates it. The man sure does use a lot of expletives.

From my pocket, I withdraw a large portion of bread and hand it to him, smirking when he takes it from my hands and beginning to nibble at it. He whispers something else, and Feliciano translates it as 'thank you'. But I'm not done there.

I take the crucifix from my pocket as well, and takes his hands from the bread. His eyes widen as I curl his fingers around the golden cross, and I smile as he stares at me. I stand, and ruffle the man's hair, then turn to Feliciano.

"Danke." I say, turning to walk back to my Bruder with more of a stride in my step.


(Alfred)

As his eyes roamed over the papers one more time, they lit in fascination, and determination. It was June 5, 1940, two days after the evacuation at Dunkirk. He was excited, his breath was coming in short pants now as he prepared his suitcase.

He kissed his mother goodbye that evening, hugging her tightly, wiping away her tears as his father patted him firmly on the back. He waved goodbye from the train as it departed from the station.


(Iain/Scotland)

It was bright... Too fucking bright. I can feel my eyebrows furrow together in annoyance, listening to my brother's voice, ringing out in the darkness. "Iain," I can hear him calling me, I can hear him, but I can't answer. "Iain." He says again, and my eyes finally pull themselves open.

Arthur, my kid brother is beside me, smiling softly. "You finally woke up!"

"Of course I did, lad." I began to sit up, rubbing my forehead to get rid of my painful headache. "Did you think I was dead?" Arthur looks me up and down, then crosses his arms with a cynical look.

"Well, you've been out for two weeks now, and you look like hell on legs." My eyes bulge.

"Two weeks?!" Arthur nods.

"Two weeks. What did I tell you about bailing out of a plane? Because you obviously didn't do it right." He surveyed my bruises, which I was now becoming aware of.

"I-I can't help it that the cockpit door got jammed! I did the best I could with the resources I had!" I argued, but he didn't look convinced. And when I began to speak again, he stood, preparing to leave.

"Sorry Iain, but I have to go. Work is calling." I blinked.

"Hey, what are you guys doing over at MI6 that's so goddamn important?" I asked curiously, hoping that maybe he would tell me this time, to no avail.

"Like I would tell you!" Was his answer, and he turned walking toward the exit to the infirmary. And I just smiled at my brother. He was a stubborn lad, but that's what made him him.


A/N: well, yeah, I'm really happy that I got the Arthur, Iain and Alfred parts in this chapter! Reviews are loved!

translations: (Mamusię: Mommy (Polish)), (Warte, warte! Wie heisst du?: Wait, wait! What's your name? (German)), (W-Wo ist dein Bruder? Bitte: W-Where is your brother? Please (German)), (E-eh, er ist dahin. Komm: E-Eh, he is there/He is over there. Come (German)), (Bruder: brother, Danke: thank you (German))