Hi! Here's the next chapter.

Warning: Torture scene. Fortunately, I've never been tortured before, but that unfortunately means that I actually have no idea what it feels like, so the torture scene in this chapter is completely my speculations of how it may be like.

Chapter Fourteen

"This is ridiculous. This is the plane all over again!"

"I admit, it's dumb, it's probably not going to work, but he insisted—"

"He insisted! He insisted?! When did we ever agree that doing what he insisted is the right thing to do?"

"I never said it's the right thing to do; it's the only thing unless you want us to sit here on our asses and wait for a miracle!"

Lovino stopped pacing to turn and stare directly at Gilbert, his face calm but his green-golden eyes smoldering with fury—miles away from his usual vociferous tantrums. "I never said that was what we were going to do."

"Oh, so you've got a better plan, genius?" Gilbert sneered.

"Ugh!" The Italian threw his hands into the air in frustration, resuming his pacing. Gilbert resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Look—"

"No, you look." Lovino stopped abruptly again. "Mathias Køhler is probably the most wanted man since Bin Laden—"

"Okay, no, you can't do that," Gilbert interrupted. "These are two completely different men. Bin Laden's wanted internationally. According to the heads of the world, Mathias doesn't even exist. Bin Laden's a terrorist. Mathias… I'm not sure what he is but I sure as hell am not going to call him one. These are completely different cases and don't you compare them like that."

"Okay." Lovino agreed slowly. "Okay, fine. But you get what I mean. The Underworld wants Mathias and we all know that despite his mental disabilities he is a weapon."

"The Underworld wants to kill him," Gilbert reminded.

"There's a reason why they didn't kill him three years ago," Lovino countered.

"Well." Now it was Gilbert's turn to throw his hands in the air. "Too late for that I guess."

"What are they arguing about in there?" Nathan asked his sister, where the two of them stood guard in front of a closed door. "That's my room and I want to go in."

"They've looked the door." Emma shrugged. "They're talking in whispers though—"

"Harsh, furious whispers," added the younger brother.

"—so I'm not sure what exactly they're talking about, but every time they sound particularly angry, Mathias's name comes up."

"That's ridiculous," Nathan scoffed. "It's not like they can do anything about it. Mathias is already heading back to California."

"Yes, well…" Emma trailed off. "He did throw up an awful racket to go, didn't he?"

Her brother shrugged. "He is the Viking. He's probably used to getting what he wanted."

Emma was quiet. "I don't think he would have wanted to lose his memories like that. It doesn't seem like he wanted to forget."

"Maybe," Nathan said wisely. "Maybe he had no other choice."

"But sir, he is dangerous. Wouldn't it be better to just… execute him?"

"Yes," a different voice said. "That was the original plan, wasn't it?"

"No, that had never been the plan." A third voice, slightly accented, pleasant and cold. "It was simply what we told the rest of the Underworld to quell further rebellion. The death of the Viking will be devastating to his allies; destroys their fighting spirit. We need all the talent we can get, and Paradizo had always had a knack of unearthing talents."

"So we're just going to treat him like—like a common criminal?"

"Of course," the third voice sounded amused. "Because that's what he is—a common criminal. I want him transferred into the lab in Boston, but you can get a head start. To the rest of the world, the Viking dies tonight."

Mathias woke with voices ringing and echoing in his skull. For a moment he felt disoriented, as if he was still blindfolded in a white metal room, tied to a hard chair where he had thought he was to be executed. Then he noticed how tightly his hands were gripping the arms of his seat and heard the rumbling of an engine and realized that he was on a plane.

Through the open cockpit door he could hear Alfred's booming voice singing off-key with some pop song he couldn't identify and wondered briefly where they were going and why the plane, usually filled with some boxes and cargo of some sort, was completely empty. And judging by the fresh lemony scent and lack of general dust, the airplane had been recently cleaned.

His breathing and heart rate calmer, Mathias pulled up the shade of the window to watch as land cut into his view, blue sea lapping up sunny beaches and beautiful houses with a wonderful view.

Mathias blinked, observing the tiny cars speeding down winding roads. The awful singing cut off abruptly, replaced by uncertain voices. The plane dipped. They were going to land.

Mathias wondered momentarily why they were in California, but there were some things that he simply could not forget.

Reaching for his bag, he checked one more time all the equipment he had managed to fit inside—an impressive collection. But maybe he needed more guns.

It was like a scene out of a stereotypical spy movie, with the guards and cuffs and ominous lighting that peeked through his blindfold. Except now that he was actually in it, Lukas realized that it really wasn't as cool as it had seemed on television.

For one, that blindfold was really irritating. It made walking a strangely frightening experience, and the four guards who had escorted him to wherever he was now did not help at all. The moment he heard the grind of metal hinges swinging open he knew that he was in big trouble, and that thought was confirmed when he was pushed harshly into a cold, hard chair and his arms and legs were tightly secured. Unfortunately, the blindfold did not come off.

It made the wait feel much longer, and the longer each second dragged on, the more stressed Lukas became. He could feel his heartbeat quicken with each passing minute, his breathing patterns turning erratic and panicked; he felt cold all over, but when he clenched his fists, they were slick with sweat.

Be strong, Lukas. It was strange how Mathias had once mistaken Lukas's voice as his own conscience and now his voice was whispering encouragements to Lukas.

The silence was the worst part. He wished that the guards would chat a bit, maybe exchange a few gruff words, but they were silent and still as statues wherever they were positioned around the room, which that was why when the door opened and clanged shut again, Lukas found himself suddenly calming from the single, condemning sound.

"Out."

Lukas jolted from the familiarity of the voice. It was feminine and cold, commanding and deadly in its softness. He heard four pairs of feet march out of the room, the door clanged one more time, the sound echoing around him, and then they were alone.

"No doubt you know what is coming next." It was unsettling how familiar the voice sounded, but Lukas couldn't figure out where exactly he had heard it before. For some reason, he found himself thinking about Emil.

The woman approached him, her heels clicking on the floor. She stopped a short distance before him. When she spoke, she sounded like a schoolteacher introducing herself on the first day of school.

"I am Magyar." There was a short pause. "Whether or not you've heard of me it not important, although it may be better if you have. If you didn't, well, you'll learn to fear me soon enough."

The silence that followed was expectant, except Lukas didn't know how he was expected to respond. He couldn't think of anything sarcastic, not when his brain was still on the verge of panic and wondering why he knew the voice. In the end, all he could manage was,

"That's nice."

Magyar gave a low chuckle. Then Lukas felt hands on his face, tilting his head upwards and turning it this way and that as if Magyar was examining him.

"What is your name?"

Uncomfortable with the touch, he jerked away from her hands and did not answer. But he was tied down on a chair, and there wasn't much he could do as Magyar thread her gentle fingers through pale golden locks of his hair. The brush of her touch sent shudders down his back, but then suddenly the grip tightened and Lukas felt a painful tug as she wrenched his head up.

"I suggest you answer me, boy, and the truth, please, if you don't mind. You don't know what I already know, and we wouldn't want those ugly lies carving up your pretty little face."

She's mad, Lukas thought. Of course the interrogator would be a crazy sadist. They always were. And if he had to be completely honest, despite being surrounded by madmen (and women) in the past year, he still wasn't entirely sure how to deal with them.

"So let me ask you again." Lukas's eyes were watering from the ache building in his scalp. "What is your name?"

He remained silent, but only until Magyar gave another hard tug and he hissed. His scalp felt like it was going to peel off. "Sigurd Steilsson."

His father's name and his mother's maiden name. He never thought that his dead parents would be much good to him—especially when they were found with their throats slit from ear to ear—much less in an interrogation. Not that he ever thought he'd be in this position either.

Be strong, Lukas.

"Good." She released her hold, and Lukas couldn't help but let out an inaudible sigh of relief. "Why are you here?"

That dreadful question. There was no lie that would sound plausible, but he had to try anyway.

"I was hiking, and… I got lost."

"No." Of course not. It was a pathetic barely-an-attempt of a lie and both of them knew it. "You were looking for someone. Who?"

Lukas didn't know how to respond. He felt like if he answered that question, the seams would unravel and everything would spill.

He heard it first: a crisp sound that echoed around the room. Then his face was forced to one side and then the pain exploded in his left cheek. There was a faint, metallic tang in his mouth: he had accidentally bitten his lip when Magyar had slapped him.

"Answer me."

He could feel her get ready to slap him again; he could sense the oncoming assault the same way he could feel himself waver. Be strong, Lukas.

"A dead man."

Magyar paused. "What is his name?"

But Lukas persisted, "I am searching for a dead man."

"Why?"

"I need to make sure that he is dead."

"Why?"

Lukas's lip curled, even though his heart was racing at an incredible speed and he could feel his hands shaking. "Dead men belong to the dead. They have no place in life."

Magyar hummed an amused agreement. "Somebody else was with you: a boy. Who was he?"

"There was no one else with me. I came alone."

"My soldiers saw him. You told him to run. Who was the boy?"

"Somebody I picked up on my hike."

"How did he escape from a room with no exit save for a door blocked by guards?"

Lukas shrugged. "I was too busy trying to not get killed by your soldiers to notice."

"You are lying." Magyar's voice was deadly quiet, hushed as if she was sharing with him a secret that would get him killed. "Your name is Lukas Bondevik and you are looking for Mathias Køhler. You came with Emil Steilsson, your brother, but somehow, he escaped, while you did not."

Lukas's heartbeat stuttered.

"As I said, do not underestimate me. You do not know what I already know."

Please, Lukas. Be strong. For me.

He could feel her circling him, a predator readying to strike.

"And as for those lies…" She stopped behind him and leaned down so that her breath brushed past his ear in a murmur, gentle and tender and wicked. "We will have to carve them out of you, won't we?"

And it didn't matter how many times Mathias pleaded for him to be brave, when he felt a cold blade cut through the thin fabric of his shirt and leave burning trails of blood down his left shoulder blade, he felt something inside him shatter.

"When can we go to Disneyland?"

"Not yet, Feli."

"But you promised!" Feliciano whined.

Ludwig sighed. "I did not promise anything. I said 'We'll see', and right now, all I see is that we do not have the time or money to go to Disneyland."

"Then when can we go to Disneyland?"

Ludwig could not resist a sigh. "Not now, Feli. We have a job to do."

Feliciano visibly deflated, a note of a whine in his voice when he said, "But you said—"

"Feli, please," Kiku spoke, his voice soothingly calm, "Remember, we have a job to do."

"Oh!" the Italian perked up again. "The secret mission!"

"Yes." Ludwig nodded approvingly. "Does everyone remember their parts? Feli, tell me again what you're supposed to do."

"Disguise, discover the object, extract the object!"

"Okay." Surveying his two friends, Ludwig took a heavy breath. His expression was weary but he stood as straight and proud as he always did.

The uniform fitted him—Feliciano couldn't help but notice almost admiringly. It gave his broad shoulders a sharp cut and threw his perfect features into a harsh yet beautiful light. Feliciano felt awkward in his—he was never meant to be a soldier. He was an artist, and fidgeting in the too-baggy pants and too-heavy coat, all he wanted to do was to paint the perfect soldier beside him.

Running around all over Asia the past few months had been fun, but now all Feliciano wanted to do was sit down and paint.

"Feli." Feliciano jumped a little when Ludwig called his name suddenly through the silence that had settled into the car. "Remember, leave the talking to me. Don't open your mouth. And stay out of sight."

Feliciano pouted, but remained obediently quiet. He didn't trust himself to speak anyway, not without bursting into frightened tears, most likely.

"Let's go."

He gulped nervously, slipping out of the car behind Ludwig.

"Please be careful," Kiku called from the driver's seat. "And hurry."

Ludwig nodded grimly, a soldier steeling himself for battle. Feliciano closed the car door and turned to the imposing grey structure looming over them.

He remembered the last time he was here. The cuffs had been too tight, the guards escorting them too intimidating, and the thought of death had been too much to bear at the time. But he had been with his brother, and even though both of them had been on the verge of tears and both of them were cowards, there was a comfort in family that could not be found in friend.

Feliciano felt suddenly alone and afraid, even though Ludwig usually made him feel safe. He longed for his brother, his stubborn posture and colorful attitude, but his brother was dead.

"Let's go," Ludwig said again.

Feliciano couldn't do much more but nod. He took a shuddering breath, felt himself flicker, then fade, and now invisible, he followed Ludwig to the doorsteps of the Underworld Prison.

With enough pain, you can achieve anything.

Lukas had never truly understood the power of pain until he had screamed, begged, wept for Magyar to stop, for a bit of mercy, for somebody to come and free him from his chaffing bonds and dark, metal prison and that cold, brutal knife carving words down his back.

She had paused after the first word. "Tell me, how did your brother escape? Do you know where he is now? Where is he headed?"

Lukas had shaken his head. He couldn't think, he didn't know, he couldn't speak. Magyar asked him questions he could not truly answer. If only she asked something else, something to make this stop, something that could save him and not let his silence to condemn him.

When the knife had touched his skin again, he could barely feel it, but instead heard himself scream as the pain gathering in his back intensified. Be strong, Lukas.

"Where is Mathias Køhler? Did you aid him in his escape—or is this all just a coincidence that the man you are looking for here disappeared from this Prison just after your capture?"

Escape?

"I guess not then," Magyar had whispered. She withdrew the knife, leaving Lukas panting and sobbing and dizzy with blood loss, mind reeling at the single word he had not realized he had uttered. "You did not know that Mathias Køhler had escaped, so you took no part of their plan and you don't know where he is right now." She had paused, pacing, her victim trembling as she prowled past. "Do you know nothing at all, Mister Bondevik?"

Lukas had to force the words out his mouth, his throat raw and broken from screaming, his lips bloodied and torn when he had bitten down in attempt to suppress his pleas for mercy. "I do not know what you already know."

"No," Magyar had replied quietly. "You do not." She had stopped in front of him, and once again, Lukas wished that he could get rid of the blindfold. He wondered if seeing his torturer would make this easier. Somehow, he doubted it. "At this moment, I ask the questions, you give the answers—but it is true: I know much more than you, things about you that you yourself do not even know about. You are useless to me.

"But there are some things you can answer. A few simple questions—though perhaps more like confirmations—for you; just tell me 'yes' or 'no'."

Lukas had nodded, desperate for this chance that kept him—even if only for a short amount of time—away from that wretched blade.

"Your brother Emil: was he, or was he not, in the Australian Laboratory for a short amount of time?"

"Yes."

"Did you, or did you not, with the help of Mathias Køhler and Gilbert Beilschmidt, break the experiments out of the Lab, then proceeded to bomb it into nonexistence?"

And Antonio Fernández-Carriedo and Francis Bonnefoy and many others who had feared you and hated you so much that they whispered your name like you were death itself—but they had defied death the same way they defied you.

But all he said was, "Yes."

"Did Emil take something from us?"

Pain and shadows and a crippled arm, yes. But he knew that that wasn't what Magyar had meant.

"Yes."

"Good." Lukas could not see but he could hear the satisfied smile in her voice. "One last question." And then what? What would happen next, when he had become truly and completely useless to her?

"Was your mother's name Laila Steilsson?"

"Yes, but—"

"Good." Magyar's voice was a barely audible whisper, as if this confirmation was all that she had wanted. "Thank you, Mister Bondevik."

But why? What did his mother, dead for ten years, have to do with anything?

Remember her slit throat, a little voice in the back of his head whispered. Remember the blood. Remember the man with the knife, the man with green eyes and sorrow, the man who had spared your life.

But Lukas's thoughts were cut off by the cold blade that once more settled on his skin, sending a shudder through him that shook him to his core. However, the knife did not cut into him—not yet.

He felt Magyar's hand on the back of his head, threading through his golden blonde hair. Then she grabbed his blindfold and flung it off. Lukas found himself squinting despite the dim lighting, and for a moment, he thought that he had gone blind, because he simply could not see.

Before his eyes could adjust, however, the knife cut into him, and once again, he screamed, his eyes squeezed shut, his mind narrowed onto the fiery, relentless pain building up in the point of the knife. Once again he was breaking, begging, blind, a fool with no backbone, who could not even raise his head to look at his torturer in the eyes.

He did not know what Magyar was carving into him, and he didn't care. All he knew was that he was not made for this, he was not made for strength or bravery or heroics. He was weak, and Magyar knew it. She knew it, and she used it, and Lukas had let her.

He was losing too much blood; it had dripped down his chair and formed a small puddle around him. His head felt too heavy to lift, and when he finally forced himself to open his eyes, to see, he found his vision marred with black patches.

"Just a little bit more, dear," Magyar whispered, but Lukas could barely hear her. "Don't go just yet."

He was tied down. He couldn't go even if he wanted, for goodness' sake.

He could feel his struggles weaken, his eyes began to slide shut once more; he felt defeated.

Be strong, Lukas.

I'm sorry, Mathias. He let his head drop. The pain had become such a continuous, constant thing that he could not feel it anymore. He didn't have the strength to scream, or struggle, or plead. I can't.

Be strong, Lukas. For me.

For you.

"There." Magyar stepped away from him, tossing the knife away. "All done." She circled around in front of him, and he felt her fingertips brush his cheek, stained with tears. "Rest now."

Be strong.

Lukas's vision began to fade. He could feel himself slipping. But with a final bit of will, perhaps brought to him by Mathias's persistent voice, he raised his head and found himself staring at his tormentor. Blue eyes met green.

He could not speak but his lips moved, a final message for the devil. Damn you to hell.

Magyar smiled. He could see it through the darkness of his fading sight. His head drooped, his body sagged against his bonds. Only Magyar's soft hands on his shoulders kept him upright. The darkness pressed against him, suffocating him, pulling him under.

"Damn me to hell," Elizabeta Héderváry agreed.

The darkness surged over him, and there was nothing more.

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