Trigger warnings: mental illness, fire accident.

His basement was dark and stank of smoke and alcohol, the only substances to have graced his system for the last few weeks. But what he hated more was how damp it was all the time, how his sweat stuck on his dirty skin, yet failing to cool him down in the least. The lights were old and had only made the space hotter, even when he slept on the concrete in a useless attempt to feel its coolness.

His wrist still clicked from being broken and he hoped it would heal on its own, since he had no way to put on a cast. He had popped it into place, so it should be fine, right? Still, it hurt when he moved his good hand and the skin around it itched, a minor detail, save for the fact that scratching it sent jolts of pain right to his spine, too.

He had to be careful, now, before he got into deeper shit he wouldn't know to get out of, but he was so bored. So mind-numbingly bored. Sure, the first few days, he had been exhausted and terrified and trying to communicate with them, but no one would pick up the line. Then, his radio died and he lost any contact with the outside world. No idea what day or time it was, sinking into the endless darkness of a basement somewhere and into the much worse darkness of his own brain.

He kept his eyes open and eventually learned to make out things between the frail shadows, a weird yet useful skill, which would accompany him for the rest of his life. Of course, then, he didn't know that. So he looked over at the plastic chair he never used(plastic gets warm ridiculously fast) while his right hand traced the wall beside him. Thoughtless lines of movement, manifestation while he thought of other things, mostly music; he tried composing to distract himself, but nothing was quite right.

It's so easy to get bored when you can't keep track of time; in front of a clock, the minutes might still pass like an eternity, but, at least, you can see them pass. If he were there for a day or a year, it wouldn't have made any difference. The space was small and he'd paced it up and down multiple times, trying to count in his head, still not knowing if what he counted as seconds was too fast or slow.

Exercising wasn't a bad idea, initially, especially considering he had high chances of being shoved out of that basement with a machine gun at the back of the head. He tried doing some push-ups and crunches, but he was still badly injured and by the time his limbs stopped screaming every time he changed sides, his resolution was gone.

He stank. Everything in there stank. The walls, the floor, the torn up mattress. At least he had plenty of smoke still. And some of the booze the soldiers had left before locking him up. Sometimes, he'd strike his lighter, just to break the pitch black without the heat of the lamp. Just to remind himself he wasn't dead yet, floating into nothingness, even if he were practically buried alive.

They'd called him insane. You'd say people think of many terms as being synonymous to that; a psychopath, a sociopath, a maniac. Sadly, he probably wasn't any of that. Oh, how he'd love to hear voices, at least he wouldn't be so fucking alone. He imagined his mind would make up many interesting personas if it could. Talking to himself didn't cut it either, he already knew his life story and wouldn't bother repeating it out loud and he couldn't find anything to talk about with the (admittedly spot-on) impressions of his current acquaintances.

At least, there were no insects down there.

That night (or day, his internal clock was fucked up by then) it had finally started to get colder, so he'd laid on the mattress on the floor, his unmasked face buried in its dirty fibres. He was playing chess, a particularly good round; his opponent started out with d4 and one of his most common responses was Nf6. White typically responded developing one of his knights to the 3rd rank.

The trap came when white started out with Nd2. Here black would give up a pawn with e4 and then move Ng4, attacking the pawn on e5.

If white falls for the trap and tries to kick the knight off the g4 square with h3, white will either lose the game immediately or lose lots of material. But…even if white doesn't fall for the trap, black still has a lot of different options to keep up the pressure and there are still many attacking lines for Erik to attack and can easily get the material back that he gave up early on in the game.

Sudden light ruined his game and possibly fried his eyes, after such a prolonged period of darkness. He heard movements, and felt someone shaking him, before his vision started working again, splotchy and painful at the start, but slowly improving.

He groaned, mostly annoyed of losing his moves, rather than scared or angry.

"We fucked up," someone sounded pissed and ran around him.

"What?"

"Erik?" Who was it? He couldn't remember the voice. "Can you hear me?"

Then the frustrating face of Nadir came into focus.

"Ah, it's you," he merely said and tried to stand, leaning against the wall.

"Trust me, I'm as excited as you are."

He put on the military jacket he'd forgotten existed thrown in a corner of the room, as his mind started to remember what he'd last heard about the world.

"You said we fucked up," he turned to Nadir, "what do you mean?"

The Persian scratched his beard and passed him a small gun which he hid in his jacket.

"I knew you said we weren't supposed to attack their base, but they had ten of our men. The general is still alive, sadly, but his home should be burning up by now, with everyone but our guys inside."

The house of the general…what…?

Fuck.

"Mihrimah," his brain spat out.

Nadir turned on his way out. "I'm sorry, Erik. That wasn't the plan, I know, but her father…"

He had to act fast.

"I understand, daroga. It wasn't your fault," he shrugged, tying his hands behind his back.

Nadir raised his bushy eyebrow. "You sure? I know she meant a lot to you."

"It's all part of a war. She simply chose the wrong side. Don't worry about it."

He nodded. "I guess you're right. I better go, before they track me."

"Of course."

The idiot turned his back and Erik grabbed his gun, firing twice towards the ceiling. That threw him off, which gave Erik time to hit him on the head with the handle.

He contemplated over his unconscious friend for an instant, almost immediately deciding it would do no good to leave him there, in case the shots were traced. So, he picked him up and up him into the trunk of the jeep, which he drove into the general's ablaze house. He looked through the flames for a long time, shouted her name as loud as the smoke would allow him. He got scars that would never fade that night. Most were more than burns.

"Erik!"

It was her voice and he sprinted towards it without thinking. Her dress had caught on fire and her long black hair was charred; she was screaming while stretching out her arms to him. He picked her up and ran out into the night, as they both burned.

"Are you still alright?" He asked once they'd reached the door outside and she could run on her own.

"I'm fine," she whispered, even though she smelled…he couldn't even think of what that smell resembled. They ran towards the car, where Nadir had woken up, taken a hint and was already sitting behind the wheel, his foot on the gas.

The cocking of triggers. He didn't have time to turn around.

Mihrimah's eyes got wide, her moth fell open, but no voice came out, as her blood sprayed all over him from everywhere on her body. She gasped, a rattle that would haunt his every moment.

The scene played over and over, fresh blood falling onto him every time, her hennaed hands grasping him to save her.

"Erik!"

He shot up from his couch. Nadir was looming over him.

"A nightmare?"

He stood and his vision swayed. "Not now, daroga."

His plan returned to his mind as the image replayed. He had lost the first, he couldn't allow anyone to take away this one from him. It was time to get moving, so he threw on a coat and headed to building C, with two female voices playing his name in his head, both with an accent; a Swedish soprano and a Persian mezzo.