Hi!

Warning: Weird pairing.

Chapter Eight

Very Important Prisoner.

V.I.P.

Mathias wasn't sure if he should laugh – because admittedly, it was a pretty good joke – or cry – because the person who had made that joke was so goddamn scary.

If he hadn't talked, Mathias would've been sure that the monster hanging from the chains was dead, but he spoke, and he had smiled, baring his teeth like he was hungry, and he had looked at Mathias, and those crimson eyes had gleamed with something that sent shudders down his spine.

"My, my." The voice was familiar too, in a terrifying kind of way that sent red lights screeching with sirens in his head. It was weaker now perhaps, a bit raspier and less lively, but there was the same edge that came with one who walked hand in hand with death. "Isn't it our dear Mathias Køhler?"

"You know me?" Mathias blurted out, only mildly surprised. He did not know how many times that had happened, but it felt like a reoccurring situation that he was unconsciously getting used to.

His confusion was reflected off of the stranger's face. "You don't know me?"

That's when Lovino decided to speak. "This guy," he nearly snarled, jabbing a thumb in his direction, "has short-term memory. So good luck if you're trying to get him to remember you."

"What?!" There was still a surprising amount of strength in this half-dead skeleton. "You never told me that!"

"I-," he paused. "I have short-term memory." He had forgotten what he had wanted to say, and for some reason, that had seemed like a reasonable substitute.

"Too late, buddy." The red-eyed man rolled his eyes, and for one moment he seemed to be standing with the pride a killer often did, back straight and chin high, defiance peaked in every hard line and angle forming this weapon of flesh. But then a wave of silence swept into the room, there was a weary sigh followed by the condemning rattle of chains as they pulled taut to hold their prisoner's weight while he sagged.

"Who are you?" Mathias asked almost timidly, just to break the silence.

"The name's Beilschmidt." If his hands were free, Mathias was sure the man would be speaking with more of a flourish, although his voice did a well enough job. "Gilbert Beilschmidt."

What a strange name, and just barely familiar, the same way it had been with Magyar. And then, because he was genuinely curious:

"How do I know you?"

"Oh, you don't know me." Gilbert Beilschmidt's voice was bitter. "But I know you. I've heard of your name three, four years ago, but didn't really care. I met you once on the streets, we talked, and then you – and the other one, Lukas, right? – was gone. But you helped me find and save my younger brother, and for that, I owe you one."

"You have a little brother?"

"Yeah, his name's Ludwig. He ran off with his two friends to Japan or China or Korea, I don't know. Haven't heard from him for quite a long time," and here, a bitter, broken bark of laughter that sounded half like a snarl, "Obviously."

For a moment, Mathias visibly pondered, and Lovino was about to ask Gilbert how he had gotten here when the tall blonde frowned. "I don't remember," he declared. And then he beamed widely before either Lovino or Gilbert could speak. "But that's okay! You're Gilbert, right?" Suddenly, for the first time, he seemed to notice the chains. "Why are you all tied up?"

Gilbert stared, then commented to Lovino, "He's nuts."

Lovino whole-heartedly agreed. But most of the people he had met were nuts, or bonkers, or something of the sort (and he had no doubt that Gilbert – if he could guess the reason to him being here – was no different), and he thought that perhaps he had already gotten used to it. It was difficult not to when your own little brother had lost his mind right in front of you, and madness had become part of him when he had watched himself be killed by a child. Perhaps he was mad as well, and that was why it did not matter to him that all that was left of this world were shreds of memories and broken shards of vivid blue sky.

"I like nuts, but I am not a chipmunk," Mathias argued, but his words were half obscured by the sound of metal screeching against metal as gears began to turn somewhere behind them, but discreetly enough that the distracted occupants did not notice.

Gilbert ignored Mathias, only repeating to Lovino, "He's nuts."

The Italian shrugged. "I guess I am too."

Behind them, the metal door of the cell slammed open.

Lukas woke at nine thousand meters above sea level to the sound of silence. There was something missing in the hollowness of the plane cabin, and he couldn't pinpoint what exactly, but he could feel the hair rising on the back of his neck, mind prickling with alarm.

"Hold on tight, boys!" Alfred called merrily from the pilot's seat, and the scene flashed momentarily to so many months ago, with Mathias beside him instead of his brother, in a quest of another part of the world.

Lukas blinked away the last shreds of drowsiness, and saw that the plane had stopped. In midair.

"What's happening?" Emil asked, but Lukas did not answer.

He remembered.

And for that one second, Lukas did not care about finding Mathias or meeting Emma and Tim and Nathan's contact in California as he wished for nothing more to be able to stand up and throttle the infuriating American in the pilot's seat because the world was silent around them, void of the usual drone of engines when gliding above the clouds, and the head of the plane was dipping, the body was slowly tilting perpendicular to the ground, blue sea glittering below them, and for one perfect moment, they were suspended between time and space and earth and sky-

And then the plane plummeted, towards the perfect blue below.

Vash Zwingli did not enjoy his job in the Underworld prison. He was trained to be a guard, yes, but that didn't mean he liked it. He'd much rather be a Trader – you'd make more money that way.

But if a letter addressed to you from Magyar (Magyar, of all people; how unlucky did you have to be to receive a letter from Magyar herself?) demanded you to haul your ass to the huge metal box in the middle of nowhere or else your sister dies a very painful death, you'd do it without too much hesitation. In return, Magyar had sent him another cute little message with a sweet little smiley face drawn after a short little message telling him what a "good boy" he was and offering him the location of the lab that his sister was held in, and then told him that he'd better be even better if he didn't want that lab to blow up. If only she knew he'd do anything just so she could stop sending him letters.

He knew it had been a bad idea to try to escape the Underworld. He knew it would never be successful, but he had hoped, and hoped, and tried so hard because Lilli didn't belong in this world of darkness and sin, and now Lilli was paying the price for him. He had known all along that it had been a bad idea, and now it was too late: he was on Hell's blacklist – or maybe gray-list, considering the fact that he wasn't dead yet – and Satan's second-in-command was keeping a very close eye on him. His only consolation was that Satan himself had yet to gone after him (although considering the fact that China had only really gone after the legendary 'Viking', Vash doubted he would ever be significant enough to be bothered by that Devil's spawn).

And because Vash was stubborn and bold to the point of rudeness, he was going to make China and Magyar and all those other monsters who ruled the Underworld regret it. Not that he was trying to get his sister killed, of course. That was the only problem with his plan: that the other side still had leverage against him.

That was when he met Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Charged for treason, the extraordinary man was sentenced to a slow, painful death, and although that did not sit well with Vash, it certainly worked easily into his plan. He knew Gilbert Beilschmidt – not personally, of course, but there was rarely anyone in the Underworld who had not heard of – in a much ruder name – 'the White Demon'.

Of course, it was one name amongst many others, some that had echoed since before the birth of the Underworld.

China, for instance, who toppled the heavens and raised Hell.

Magyar, a legend that exceeded China, but stood beneath him.

The Magician of the North, a mystery that had made stories of Magyar sound like fairytales.

The Viking, the beast of the Scandinavia who had warranted a personal execution from China.

The Prussian, a monster who had rebelled from the heart of the Underworld, a serpent who struck swiftly and silently, and never faltered.

Until now.

Vash had been one of the guards to escort Gilbert Beilschmidt into his cell. Three days later, he was one of the guards to escort him out of the Prison for a quick checkup. He was not part of the group to escort him back, but as a guard, he had free access to the computers, and it was not difficult to find the cell he was held in.

His execution was death by starvation. They gave him water, but no food, and it became real ugly real quick.

Vash took three days to freeze the cameras in the Prussian's cell – he wasn't a professional hacker by any means, but an annoying French acquaintance from too many years ago had cheerfully taught him the basics, and cameras just weren't that difficult to access, so with his amateur skills in nearly everything that included infiltration, Vash Zwingli decided to save Gilbert Beilschmidt.

…For his own benefits, of course. He wasn't taking pity on the man, that was for sure. And he most definitely was not excited to be meeting a legend face to face, not at all.

But either way, on the fourth day, Vash checked the cameras one more time, wrapped a small loaf of bread with tissue, hid it in his pocket, and volunteered to bring their V.I.P. his daily dose of water.

It had been only half a week, but the situation already seemed quite bad. He entered a cell that smelled strongly of urine and unwashed bodies, and was met with the sight of a white ghost against the metal wall, chin against his chest and face hidden in the shadows. The man was motionless and silent, as if he was dead, but Vash's footsteps roused him, and a shiver shimmied up the guard's spine when the Prussian raised his head a fraction, dull red eyes zeroing in onto the canteen in Vash's hand, and then growled.

For one second, Vash doubted his plan of helping this demon for future benefits, but his trademark stubbornness urged one step after another, forcing him to crouch before the bars that cut the square room so that three-fourths was a prison cell and the final one-fourths was a short hall stretching horizontally across the edge of room.

He gingerly placed the canteen on the ground, and pushed it between two bars to the other side, where the prisoner bared his teeth at him. The door was closed behind him – not locked, but secure enough, though he still found himself peeking over the shoulder as he took the loaf of bread out of his pocket and unwrapped it. When he dared a glance at the monster sitting across from him, he found him staring at his hand and the bread in it. At that moment, Vash realized just how human Gilbert was: no longer a wolf, but a beaten hound.

"What are you doing?" The question was born through silence, and it was harsh sounds scraping against starvation.

"Do you want this?" Vash asked, offering the bread but not daring to stick his hand through the bars.

There was silence, Gilbert never taking his eyes off the loaf that might just actually save his life, nearly drooling, but unsure if it was a trap. Understandable, since he didn't know Vash, and the Prison guard uniform did not help. In the end, the prisoner decided that it was.

"You're evil."

"No, I'm not," Vash answered simply, and to prove his point, he tossed the loaf towards Gilbert-

Only for it to hit the bars with a small clang and skitter back towards him.

Well.

That was that.

Gilbert snickered, and Vash felt his face heating up. "Do you want this or not?" he demanded, his short temper taking advantage of him.

"Oh, I don't know anymore," the pale man replied in an airy voice. "It touched the ground."

Vash very nearly took a bite out of the bread just to spite him, but thought better of it, choosing instead to reach into the cell so he could chuck the loaf at the other blonde's head. The throw was accurate and precise, but it slapped against the palm of Gilbert's hand instead of his face, and right away, he began gnawing.

"Don't eat too fast," Vash warned him.

"Yeah, yeah." Vash wasn't going to care if he started puking all over the place because he couldn't control himself. "Geez, whatever."

Gilbert crawled forward and snatched up the water, taking a heavy gulp to wash down the dry bread. Vash watched him eat, and when he was done, he spoke. "I am going to get you out of here."

The Prussian said nothing, observing him as he sipped at the water. Vash waited, and several minutes passed before Gilbert put the empty metal cup down. "Now why the hell are you going to do that?"

And then Vash looked at him directly in the eye, green meeting red and the dreadful words rolled from the tips of his tongue. "I need your help."

Gilbert threw back his head and gave a bark of laughter. "Might as well sell your soul to a devil, boy." But the grin on those lips was exactly that: the White Demon. "You'd be better off that way."

Vash rolled his eyes but otherwise remained expressionless as he stood, Gilbert watching his every move. "Fine." And in a small, cheeky act of sass, he pointed right at the albino and declared, "I choose you, Gilbert Beilschmidt."

The Prussian was quick to scowl. "I'm not a-,"

But the guard was already gone, and the cell door was locked once more.

"Was that really necessary?" Lukas nearly snarled at the American pilot, fighting the urge to claw that stupid smile off his face. And anyways, both of his hands were occupied, one somewhat supporting Emil, who was clinging onto his arm and wringing the life out of that limb, while the other soothingly rubbed the younger boy's back while he hurled into the public toilet.

"Aw, come on, it wasn't that bad!" Alfred looked like he was about to good-humoredly slap Lukas' shoulder, but then noticed the glare and quickly thought better of it.

"You're dismissed," Lukas told him coolly, and watched him exit the bathroom with a sheepish smile, heading to where Matthew waited for them outside with his stuffed bear. Then to his brother, who had stopped heaving and merely stood there, bent over the toilet bowl, panting heavily, he asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Horrible, but better." Emil groaned as he forced himself upright, stumbling to the sink to rinse out his mouth. Lukas waited for him outside, shielding his eyes from the Californian sun (wasn't it almost winter?).

"Are you… Mister Lukas Bondevik?" a meekly accented voice asked from the side, and Lukas spun around to find a dark-haired man peering at him with wide, dark green eyes.

"…Yes…" Lukas confirmed slowly, unsure if this was Emma and her brothers' contact or a trap. "And you are?"

"My name is Milen Dimitrov." The man offered a hand and a soft smile. "I was contacted by Miss Abel to be your guide."

Lukas relaxed and took the hand. "Thank you."

"No need." There was something about Milen that Lukas liked. Maybe it was the sharp contrast of the man's personality with everyone else's around Lukas: he was not overly annoying or noisy despite being cheerful and relaxed in his surroundings, but he wasn't silent to the point of rudeness either. There was nothing cynical or plotting in his gentle smile, and nothing mocking or fake in his tone of voice. Lukas was very comfortable with Milen – it was a pity the man was also an Underworld Prison guard. "So, shall we get going?"

"Wait one moment," Lukas said, just as Emil emerged from the bathroom, wiping his face with a paper towel.

Milen blinked in the direction of the boy, slightly bewildered. "Is he coming with us?"

"Yes."

"You're not coming with us?" The guard pointed at Alfred, who grinned and shrugged. Matthew was completely ignored.

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, of course not," Milen Dimitrov was quick to amend. "It would just be a bit more difficult sneaking him into the Prison. But we'll find a way."

With a quick goodbye to the Underworld pilots, Emil and Lukas followed Milen to a small black car, where they found themselves in the back seat trying to ignore the overpowering sense of fast food. As the vehicle backed onto the road and began to speed away from the public toilet they had stopped at, the guard began to share his plans.

"It'll be lunch break soon, and I volunteered to get something for the others, thus the smell, sorry." He gestured sheepishly at the pile of McDonald's takeaway sacs in the passenger seat. "My plan is to basically deliver everything in first while the two of you wait for a moment in the car, and while the other guards are having a small party, I'll come out and take you guys to the Prussian."

"Who?" blurted Emil.

Milen blinked at them through the rear view mirror. "The Prussian."

"We heard the first time," Lukas told him. "Who is the Prussian?"

The Prison guard was confused. "Don't you know who the Prussian is? Aren't you the ones looking for him? White hair, red eyes – I'm not mistaken, am I?"

"You mean Gilbert Beilschmidt?" Lukas tried to confirm, but Milen shrugged.

"Is that his name? That's pretty cool. We just call him the Prussian, or the White Demon, and all I know is that he's Prisoner #2874. And he's some kind of superman!"

"Is he now?" Lukas replied drily.

Their driver nodded vigorously. "We're supposed to starve him to death – orders from superiors, we've got no choice – but it's been nearly a month, and he's still alive!"

"That's cool and all," Emil spoke, sounding ever so slightly confused, "but aren't we trying to find Mathias?"

"Mathias?" Milen echoed the question.

"Mathias Køhler." Lukas was quick to jump in. "He's also in that prison, and we're looking for him."

"So are you looking for Gilbert Beilschmidt or Mathias Køhler?" The car swerved, and they were suddenly surrounded by trees, winding up a path over a small hill.

"Mathias." Although Gilbert might be a bonus. You'd never know when a life debt from an Underworld assassin would come in handy.

Milen visibly deflated, nearly hugging the wheel with an expression of despair. "I have no idea who that is."

"It's okay," Lukas assured him, "We'll find him."

"I'll have to get you to the computers then," the guard decided. "We keep all the prisoners' numbers and information there. There are pictures, so it shouldn't be that hard. The only problem now would be avoiding the other guards and getting to his cell, then we get him out, is that okay?"

"Yes." Lukas was relieved. "Thank you so much."

Milen's smile was tight, nervous. "Thank me when you've gotten him out."

Before them, a gray building loomed. It was only one story tall, but gave the impression of a giant. Lukas could only see two dark-tinted windows on its surface, most of the rectangular structure hidden behind the dense forest around it. There was one door, not very big or obvious, and the dark trees and heavy aura of the building made the small parking lot they drove into all the more claustrophobic.

Milen eased into the last empty spot, and flashed them a quick thumbs-up and a nod before grabbing the bags next to him and left the car. The brothers watched him stroll up to the imminent construction and disappear through that tiny opening in the smooth, metal grey face. Ten minutes, maybe twenty minutes passed; the car was silent, both Lukas and Emil barely seemed to be breathing, and then a small figure emerged again.

Milen Dimitrov approached the car and ushered them out, and the three followed the edge of the forest before cutting quickly through the open space of the parking lot, hurrying towards the entrance. Lukas could feel something staring a hole into the small of his back, and could only pray that no one was checking the cameras at the moment. The three of them shouldered through the single, sturdy metal door, and Lukas found himself staring at a dull, metal surface that ran horizontally towards left and right. From his left came the sound of loud voices and laughter as the guards enjoyed their lunch the best they could in such a gloomy place.

"This way." Milen beckoned quickly, moving towards the right, but Lukas found himself momentarily staring in the other direction where there was a patch of warm orange light against the metal walls, shifting with movement and shadows inside a different room where it didn't reek as strongly of cold metal and hopeless death.

"Lukas," Emil hissed, tugging at his sleeve, and it took effort for Lukas to turn away, towards a long hallway running a hundred meters or so to his right before a sharp turn somewhere. His limbs felt strangely heavy at that moment, and taking the first step in that direction felt like a step towards the gallows.

And it might as well be just that, as Lukas followed a guard into the stomach of the Prison.

A common man sees what you teach him and eats what you feed him.

A blind man sees the world in parallel to the constant humming of life and short bursts of light through eternal darkness.

A madman, however, sees the world in layers:

The first – the pure. The children, the dreamers, the hopers.

The second – the foolish. The common man, perhaps, and those who were led to believe that they were very clever.

The third – the cowards. Those who laugh and pretend while clawing at each others' throats and reaching for illusions that are mere wisps compared those who knew how to dream. He sees them often: powdering their faces, painting their lips, adding an extra ruffle to an extra layer of skirt; sliding needles into their hair, knives in their shoes, poisons up their sleeves. It becomes so easy to locate them in a crowd because they hid behind masks that render their eyes more useless than a blind man's.

And it was strange, it was wondrously strange, shocking even, when he found the biggest coward in the world. And that man stood beside him, and had watched him speak the words of maniac.

The man's smile was like a viper's, but somehow, it was soft. His face was sculpted granite, all sharp angles and ugly contours. A silver mask covered the top half of his face, hiding his eyes, and it was difficult to imagine that once (many times, really, but it all started with this once), he had kissed those cruel lips while drunk on something that had burned down his throat but drowned out the voices in his head and drenched the pain inside him so he knew and understand no more of the world in rightness; and it was difficult to believe that once (if only just once, but it wasn't. It wasn't.) he had peeled off that mask and closed his eyes against those horrid scars and milky, unseeing eyes, and had remembered years ago, how he had been young and handsome and proud and righteous, with bright, sharp green eyes – so different from that of his Liet's: an echo of deep, sorrowful emerald. It was awful to know that he had somehow not been disgusted as he slept beside this man who now pointed a gun at his head.

He laughed. "Isn't it funny?"

"What is?" Good-humored as always, but he hated that handsome curl of those lips. No longer young, but handsome nonetheless, even through a hideous mask, and always, forever proud.

But never righteous. There is no righteousness in Hell.

"This." He marveled at how he wasn't frozen in fear yet – madness did things to you that would always be a surprise, no matter how many years it grew in you. His voice was airy; his hand gave a dismissive wave, sweeping around him and gesturing at the entire world around them.

"Is it now?" His voice was dangerous, his hand was shaking. "I don't see how you can find your death so amusing, kitty."

Kitty. Another strange echo of a past he did not know, and somehow, it was reflected onto him.

"It's not my death that's, like, funny," he told the man with the gun. "But I do find one thing frankly, seriously quite hilarious. And ironic, really."

The man hummed in acknowledgement, not really understanding or caring about the words of a madman.

"Funny how a blind man should be the head of Hell."

He finally listened. The smile disappeared. Animals grinned until the final moment before they pounce. Beasts smiled until they show their fangs. "Funny how the man who knows the death of every single person in this world could not see the time of his own death." There was no humor in his voice.

And there was none in his own. "I don't need to see. I've always known."

"You're a lunatic."

He grinned. "You're a traitor."

The empty face was torn apart by a snarl punctuated by a growl. The shaking hands steadied, the gun angled and aimed, the silence was clear.

There was nothing more to be said.

"Goodbye, Sadık."

The gunshot pierced through the air, echoing in open space, and Sadık Adnan watched as the body jerked from impact of the bullet, blood trailing in single droplets as it stood still for one moment, then tilted, then began to fall, and then it toppled over the side of the building and disappeared from view.

Casually, he pocketed the gun and strolled to the side of the building, whistling a small tune to himself. Down through the air, at the end of a long drop, he watched the body of Feliks Łukasiewicz splatter and crack open onto the pavements below.

Hello! I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed, which had been a grand total of... 1 person! So thank you, Anonymous, for your wonderfully encouraging review. It's nice to know that at least someone is enjoying the story.

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