Sorry, another short chapter, but hopefully it was a little bit faster of an update. I kept thinking that things are going to pick up, but then I write the chapter and it's just people (Gilbert) thinking and talking. I swear it will get more exciting. Can't wait to start killing people.

Chapter Nine: Enter, the Psychopath

The next morning, when Gilbert returned from breakfast, he found a slip of paper on his desk. On it was a single word, written in a slanted, frilly script: Raids.

Not two days after that, he received another message, but this one was long, digitally written and transmitted, and it was from his father.

There were kidnappings, it said. It had been ongoing for some time, but it was sporadic. We had been careful, keeping the women and children from wandering out too late.

There was a sort of urgency and desperation in his father's writing, but at the same time it felt as if he was holding back, trying to reassure Gilbert while also conveying to him everything that was wrong.

And then—

Your mother is gone. She went out to dump out some trash and didn't come back. The police are investigating.

And they would find nothing.

I heard Ludwig has been transferred to the same camp you are in. Please get along and watch out for each other.

The rest were vague nothings. His father was trying to make it seem like it was not a big deal, that it would be solved soon, that his mother would come back. He was trying to divert Gilbert's attention when in fact, he was hoping for reassurance himself, or information, anything that might give him hope.

Except.

Kidnappings. Women. Raids.

Immortality.

Gilbert felt like he was about to throw up.

His own mother? She was ten years younger than his father, but she wasn't exactly young anymore. Wouldn't young women be better?

Were they running out of supplies? Were they getting desperate?

Gilbert tucked the letter into his drawer. He could not stand to look at it for any longer.

What was he going to tell Ludwig? The self-righteous prick would probably do whatever he could to investigate, and then get himself in trouble. But then considering his loyalties, he might support this morbid campaign. After all, their grandfather had been at the core of it, and Ludwig had always worshipped him.

But it would also be unfair if he didn't tell him anything either.

"Captain!" As usual, Ludwig was the picture of the perfect soldier, in posture and spirit and demeanour. There was something else though, something that made Gilbert uncomfortable, and after a moment he realised it was distance. Coldness. Because even though they were comrades in arms, Ludwig had still always acknowledged their familial connection. But ever since Gilbert had disregarded him a few days ago, the tension had grown.

Which was problematic, considering the conversation Gilbert was planning.

"Ludwig," he said, hoping to pull the mood out of the stiff formalities, "Please, sit."

His brother sat down stiffly on the wooden chair in front of Gilbert's desk.

He took a deep breath before starting, "Look, there are some things I need to talk to you about, and it's private, so I'm asking that you don't go telling it to anyone else."

"Understood, sir."

"I—" God, Gilbert hated Ludwig sometimes. He acted so logical that Gilbert sometimes forgot that he was stupidly petty—although Gilbert had to admit that he was not much better himself in that regard. "No, stop, don't call me that. It sounds disgusting."

Ludwig frowned, but Gilbert continued before he could say anything, "Dad sent me a letter regarding some things." He pulled open the drawer. The letter sat innocently on top of a pile of abandoned papers, and it took courage for him to pick it up once again and hand it over to Ludwig.

Gilbert waited as Ludwig read, watching his expression carefully. The frown deepened as he progressed, then smoothened out at the end. When he handed the letter back, his expression was neutral once more.

"As long as the police is investigating, there is hope, I guess," he said. "We should write back to reassure him."

"Yeah, of course." Gilbert waited for a moment, but was met by an awkward silence. Was this it? Was this all the reaction Ludwig had?

At that moment, all the uncertainties he had ever had regarding his brother reared again. He knew that he could not possibly tell him about Lizzy, but he had thought that maybe he could discuss his theory regarding the kidnappings with him and maybe receive some… feedback? Constructive criticism?

As the silence stretched and Gilbert fiddled with his hands and Ludwig stared at nothing in particular, the elder brother suddenly felt like an utter fool for really expecting anything.

And he thought Ludwig must be feeling the exact same way, because when he stood abruptly, there was disdain in pinching of his lips.

"If that is all, I will be taking my leave," he announced. At the door, he saluted. "Good day, Captain."

Gilbert nodded numbly. "Lieutenant."

And the door closed.

As always, there was something lifeless about a vacant apartment. The first step into a place that was supposed to be private but had no personality felt like an intrusion into another time, and when Vladimir closed the door behind him, a cocoon of silence enwrapped the entire space. It was white light streaming in from the window into white rooms, empty and frozen, and he had to stop for a moment to breathe, to remember that he was here for a reason.

Vladimir dropped his bag by the door with a thump, and thus began the inspection.

The walls were clean, no cracks. There were no loose floorboards. There was one doorknob that rattled a bit, but revealed to just be a loose screw. The heater was fully intact, all appliances were fully functionable and did not show any evidence of possibly having been opened up.

It was risky, he understood. The Northern police was thorough, but considering Elizabeta Héderváry's reputation, Vladimir had thought that she would have figured something out.

Or maybe Vladimir just was not experienced or skilled enough to keep up with her.

The very thought made his jaw clench.

He had to keep searching in case she had left any clue as to how she failed and why. Although admittedly, that was only part of the reason why he was here, and not his main objective either.

Vladimir pulled a file out of his bag. It was not very thick, but it was concise and probably had everything he would need—though he couldn't help but be doubtful. Was this the same that Héderváry had received? Was it really her who had failed, or was it Pentru Oameni who had failed her?

It didn't matter now though. Elizabeta Héderváry was dead, and if all things go well, soon, Ivan Braginsky would be as well.

Once you knew him, Feliks was surprisingly easy to find, mainly because he had the tendency of finding you.

Gilbert had never seen a scientist in the canteen—he always thought that the food here wasn't good enough for them—yet here he was, in all his white-coat glory, as if he hadn't gotten in trouble just two weeks ago because of associating with Gilbert.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Gilbert snarled incredulously, and was met with a shrug.

"They can't fire me for just, like, talking to you." He snagged a burnt piece of bacon from Gilbert's tray, making a face at it. "And it's not like I have any other friends."

"How unfortunate." Gilbert cringed internally at 'friends'. Feliks had used it so casually.

"Yeah, well." Feliks wiped the oil on his fingertips on a napkin, then leaned forward conspiringly, voice lowered, "You got the note?"

"The—" The memory of the single slip of paper found on his desk clicked. "You delivered that? Do you really have a death sentence?"

"Of course I delivered that! Who else? Lizzy said it was important, so I, like, took the risk."

"Why would you—?" Gilbert cut himself off with a heavy breath. Feliks was turning out to be even more of an enigma than Lizzy; he'd probably get a migraine if he tried to understand the scientist's motivations.

And so he changed the subject. "Speaking of, um, Lizzy, is there any chance of me meeting her again?"

Feliks' expression became wary. "Why?"

"I want to ask her more about the rebel groups she was working for." This was not exactly a lie, but it was not the full truth either. "If she really had been trying to assassinate Ivan Braginsky while he was on leave, then she would have been working pretty close to my hometown. It's a pretty rural place, so I'm concerned about the reach of the rebels."

Feliks was wringing his hands, a sort of anxiousness settling into his posture. "I can, like, try to make arrangements or, like, maybe sneak you in? No promises. I don't know."

"It's okay. No pressure. I was just asking." Gilbert tried to soothe him, but just for a final, little push, he added, "They had my grandfather killed. If there is anything she can tell us about them, it might make a drastic difference in keeping the people safe."

Feliks was silent for a time, lips pursed. Then, he said, "You can file for a formal interrogation."

Gilbert paused. "I… can, yes. It'll take time though, and lots of processing before it can get approved. If it gets approved. We'll see."

"We'll see," Feliks echoed, and made to stand.

"Wait." The scientist paused, and Gilbert felt suddenly embarrassed. "Her name… isn't really 'Lizzy', is it?"

Feliks gave a huff of amusement. "It's Elizabeta."

Elizabeta.

He saw the girl, dark eyes lined, sharp smile painted crimson, brown curls carefully pressed. He saw her lounging easily and gracefully on her prison bed, a huntress despite her chains.

Elizabeta. Of course. Gilbert was a fool for thinking that it could have been anything else.

Just in case, Gilbert applied for the formal interrogation of his grandfather's murderess. In the two weeks since Gilbert had spoken to Feliks, every time he saw the scientist—however fleetingly—there was something jittery about him, and so Gilbert decided to play it safe and make things more official.

The paperwork was processed surprisingly quickly, and the interrogation was approved in another week. What remained now was simply notifying the scientists currently in charge of her keeping, and preparing for the actual interrogation.

"Captain!"

The soldier Gilbert let into his tiny office was one that he had seen around before, but had never bothered to remember his name. He wasn't natively Russian though, Gilbert knew.

"What is it?" he demanded.

The soldier—no more than a young boy in oversized boots, it seemed, now that he was no longer saluting and his shoulders hunched slightly—swallowed before reporting, "Regarding the interrogation… Um…"

"What?" Gilbert snapped.

The soldier jumped, and finished in one breath, "I've been told to inform you that you will no longer be leading the interrogation for Elizabeta Héderváry."

"What? Why?"

"I—I don't—" the boy stuttered, "I don't know…"

"Then what do you know? Who is leading the interrogation then?"

But the boy was shaking his head, quaking, and so with a frustrated sound, Gilbert dismissed him.

"Ivan Braginsky," said Feliks.

"Ivan Braginsky?" Gilbert repeated, incredulously. "Why the hell is it Ivan Braginsky?"

"Well…" Feliks twirled his straw in his coffee—iced, despite it being late winter— "Lizzy did try to kill him, too, so they thought that he should, like, have more priority…? Apparently, he's also very good at it. You know, like, interrogating people. Not to mention that he's a Colonel and you're a Captain. You should work harder, you know? Get promoted and stuff. It'll make things like things easier."

Gilbert groaned. "This is bullshit. I was the one who applied for the interrogation."

"Thanks for that, by the way." Feliks looked a bit guilty. "Ever since I let you in, Hedvika had really been getting on my case."

"Sorry about that."

But Feliks gave a dismissive wave. "I did that to myself."

Gilbert paused. "Why, though?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you do it?"

"You already asked me that before."

"Sure, but your answer was shit."

The scientist shrugged. Fiddled with his straw once more. "Lizzy looked like she needed the company."

Although speaking of Elizabeta reminded Gilbert once more about Ivan fucking Braginsky.

"What the hell is Braginsky even doing here?" he wondered savagely, ripping at the bread that he had snatched from the cafeteria but had only fiddled with before.

Feliks shrugged once more. He finally began actually drinking his coffee instead of just playing with the straw. "Dunno. Reuniting with his fellow psychopath, I suppose."

Psychopath might be an understatement.

Gilbert knew Ivan. Not personally, but they had grown up in the same town, and had gone to the same school. Granted, Ivan was quite a few years older, so they've never really crossed paths, but he remembered being a child and seeing the teen in the distance, already broad-shouldered and impossibly tall, smile soft but eyes cold. His fists had looked massive and deadly.

There had been rumours, too. People generally didn't like Ivan, even though he seemed perfectly polite, even saying "Thank you" to the mean cafeteria ladies. There was simply something off-putting about him, and so people tried to reason it with their imagination.

The results were interesting.

Some, especially the children, said that Ivan Braginsky had killed someone with his bare hands, and that was why he was always wearing gloves. Some said that the stains on his old and tattered scarf was from beating a man to death, and they said that he laughed while he did it too. The adults had murmured that because Ivan's mother had died giving birth to him, the boy was unlucky, perhaps even cursed. She was in labour for four days and had died of exhaustion. He had grown too big in the womb and had torn her apart when coming out.

All sorts of things. Gilbert had not understood a lot of them, but he knew they were unpleasant. He knew that Ivan had been about to graduate high school when Gilbert had just begun secondary school, but he was often seen outside the secondary school gate, waiting for someone.

And the next year, after Ivan had graduated and left to join the army, Mister Laurinaitis had disappeared.

Braginsky could not see Elizabeta. If he did, he would kill her. He would torture her to death, and Elizabeta may have killed his grandfather, but Gilbert would not wish that on anyone. And Gilbert still needed her for information. She clearly knew something about the civilian kidnappings, and with his own mother's life on the line, he could not lose that.

For the first time, Gilbert cursed himself for applying for a formal interrogation. It put Elizabeta under scrutiny, made people pay attention to her. If he hadn't, she might still be safe in the belly of Lab 5, enjoying her time in her comfy cell.

He could not let Braginsky see Elizabeta. But he did not have the rank and authority to override decisions already set in stone.

He had to get her away.

But how?

"Feliks," he said suddenly. The scientist looked up from his coffee. "Braginsky cannot see Elizabeta."

Feliks nodded, very slowly.

Gilbert's heart pounded. This could get him killed, but that edge of self-preservation had gone silent in his mind. This was a risk, a gamble, a mission. It was deadly, and it was exhilarating.

"I have to get her out of here, before the interrogation happens."

Feliks set his coffee down on the table. He was still nodding. "I thought you'd say something like that."