KARL'S ADVICE

Hans slumped in an old armchair, brooding. It was not like him to remain inactive and brood, yet lately that was all he had been doing. Some obscure TV program blared over the old TV set, however Hans didn't so much as acknowledge the sound coming from the box. Tired hands clutched at a newspaper, but Hans' brain didn't take in any of the words that his eyes read.

"You look like shit," Karl said quite bluntly, coming downstairs to cook the two some dinner.

"I thank you very much for that observation," he snarked back. Even his sarcasm didn't have its usual bite.

"Seriously, though. You want to see a doctor? I know one who owes me a ton of favours, and is quite good at keeping his mouth shut - which would be why he's still around, I guess, but that's beside the point -"
"I don't require medical assistance, Karl," Hans insisted, putting one hand up to stop his friend's rant. The latter raised both arms in a mock gesture of surrender at the fierce tone of voice. "OK, no need to bite my head off. I was just wondering."

Hans remained silent. "Here, I made lunch," Karl said, gesturing to the dining room table, where a delicious meal of chicken, potato salad and mixed vegetables lay. It smelt delicious, but for some reason Hans' stomach wasn't up to enjoying it.

"Come on," Karl urged, when Hans continued to sit in the same spot, not looking like he even heard what his friend had said. Karl knew he had - Hans' hearing was extremely sensitive for a man who spent a lot of time hearing obnoxiously loud guns and bombs going off. "My cooking skills aren't that bad," he quipped, trying to break the awkward silence.

"I'm sorry, Karl. I don't appear to be very hungry."

Eventually, he made himself take a few bites for Karl's sake. Then, he excused and went back to his bedroom. The blond shook his head sadly. Hans was acting worse than a moody teenager at present. What on earth was bothering him?

*scene change*

In his bedroom, Hans wondered why he felt so down. Maybe it was because he hadn't had a project to do with the Volksfrei for a long time. But somehow, he felt that wasn't it.

He had a nasty feeling he knew why he was feeling so depressed, that it might have something to do with a certain someone he'd been avoiding, secretly afraid of what she would say now that she undoubtedly knew of his… profession.

No, there was no way it could be related to her. He never allowed himself to get attached to girls. Not since that bitch had cheated on him and gotten pregnant with her lover's kid. After he'd promised her he'd marry her as soon as he got out of the orphanage. Now, he kicked at a nearby wall in frustration. What a fool he had been!

He was only seventeen years old at the time, anyway. He didn't know shit about anything, even himself. He didn't know why he was revisiting those memories. All they did was hurt him. He'd learned from that mistake, anyway.

Several hours later…

"It's that girl, isn't it?"

Hans started. "You scared the shit out of me," he admitted, watching Karl casually stroll into his room without knocking.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Despite being no brainbox, Karl knew his friend well enough not to fall for his distraction tactics.

"How do you know anything about that?" Hans asked sharply.

"You wouldn't shut up about her since that day you kissed her in the library, remember?"

Hans flushed, even more embarrassed by the fact that he was embarrassed. He had mentioned Monica to Karl a few times… but surely he was exaggerating how often that happened?

Apparently not, from Karl's calm, matter-of-fact gaze. "Does she know?"

Knowing exactly what Karl was getting at, the older man mumbled, "Along with the whole world, yes."

"I meant before you got busted."

"No," he admitted.

"Ah."

"She probably wants to skin me alive and have my bollocks for breakfast," Hans sighed.

"You don't know that."

"It's what the majority of people want. We terrorists aren't a popular bunch. Nobody appreciates our hard work or our admirable results, just because we bend a few rules to get there."

"I don't know, most women go for bad boys," Karl said lightly. "I should know." He smirked in a way that left no doubts as to where he obtained that knowledge.

"Too much information." Hans knew girls generally liked Karl, but that didn't mean he wanted to think about his friend in that way.

"If it'll make you feel better…" Karl pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "A little bird tells me she's organised a plane trip to the USA."

"Apparently she isn't 'most women'," Hans sighed.

"Well, her plane leaves in a few weeks. Until then, she's stuck here, right?"

"Right."

"You've got her number, right?"

"Yeah." They'd swapped phone numbers during another one of their library trysts, a few weeks before Hans' failed act of terrorism.

"Why don't you just give her a ring? See how she really feels?"

"You do realise she could have me arrested in a heartbeat, right?"

"Tony knows how to scramble the phone system better than anyone I know. He'll have the police hunting you down in Canada, if you like."

Hans stayed silent. Could he? Should he?

Hans finally spoke. "Why are you encouraging me to do this?"

"Look mate," Karl said to him. "Personally, I don't give a shit about that chick. She can fuck off to America and stay fucked off, for all I care. But I'm not having you sitting around, doing nothing but mope. I get it's too risky to call more Volksfrei meetings right now, and no point seeing as most of the boys that are still on the streets are trying to keep a low profile, but you gotta get your butt in gear. If talking to Monica will get you off your butt, even if it's to prove to her you're an exceptional terrorist regardless of whatever her standards are, I'll take that."

Hans sighed. "Fine. Just for you, I'll go talk to her."

He waited for Karl to leave. Then, taking a deep breath, he dialed the number.