Francis Bonnefoy knew that he was never truly much for ground combat.

His battlefield was the air above.

All of the open space of the skies gave him the freedom that he so craved, and also an escape from the carnage and constant bloodshed below.

But deep down at the heart of it, the real reason Francis fought from the air was so that he didn't have to see the light leave his enemy's eyes as they died. This was the real reason Francis had chosen to put his pilot skills to use for the Resistance.

He had been working with them in various capacities since the beginning, whether it was intelligence gathering or smuggling British troops across the border. He decided that there was nothing that he was unwilling or unable to do to aid the cause to free his people from German oppression, including putting his own life on the line. This he did frequently, much to the chagrin of his younger sister, Estelle.

Estelle, who was three years Francis' junior, would never let on that she fully supported her brother's dangerous work, because she did, but she protested the constant placement of himself in jeopardy. However, anyone who knew her at all would say that she was just as patriotic as any other Frenchman. She even protested the German occupation in her own little ways, most notably when she passed a German officer eating at a café and 'accidentally' spilled her glass of red wine all over the front of his freshly pressed uniform. Also, she took the napkin and made sure to rub the stain in, not out.

Secretly, she had always been particularly proud of that moment, more so than anything else she had done to resist. She wasn't entirely sure why, but she eventually settled with the fact that thinking about that incident gave her a glimmer of hope that even regular people like her could fight back in some shape, fashion, or form.

Hope was what kept her going through the long years of the occupation, and that hope spread easily to Francis.

But right now, hundreds of feet above the ground, with his plane's engine roaring in his ears and the cracks of gunfire in the night all around him, that hope was slipping away, and fast. He had lost the element of surprise, and he was running out of odds that said that he was going to get out of here alive.

It was supposed to be just a reconnaissance mission to get the lay of the land before sundown… But ever since the sun disappeared beneath the horizon as he had turned toward home, everything had started to go wrong…

A bullet crashed through the glass windshield, narrowly missing his head. He managed to duck just in time, but it was freak luck. Francis' hands were shaking now, and sweat began to prickle at the back of his neck and on his forehead. A massive crash on his left and a jolt to match rocked his small plane, nearly sending Francis spinning to the ground below. A swift glance over his shoulder confirmed his fear. The rudder on the left wing was mostly gone now, but there was enough left so that he would still be able to steer… At least that's what he hoped.

Francis leaned over and snatched his map from where it was pinned up on his right. His eyes skimmed over it as best they could in the moonlight before he balled the map up and threw it angrily against the console, cursing loudly.

He had so far to go until he was in safe air. He was running low on fuel and faith, and he honestly doubted whether his little plane would make it. With this rudder shot, he was practically a sitting duck. Might as well hold up a sign that says "Hey! Shoot me!" he thought to himself.

Another bullet tore through his plane, this time up from the floor of the cockpit by his feet. He jerked to the side, again narrowly missing the bullet.

Sweat dripped from Francis' brow and ran down his temple, tickling his skin. The distance on the map wormed its way back to the forefront of his mind, along with the growing certainty of just how deep in trouble he had become. Another bullet dinged against the cockpit, and Francis' left arm flew up instinctively in a feeble attempt to shield his head. His breathing became more ragged and shallow with each passing second, because he realized that every passing second brought him closer to the ground, and therefore his own demise.

And he would be truly alone.

There was one thing in the world that Francis feared more than anything, and that was becoming infinitely and irreversibly alone. So, to prevent this from happening, Francis surrounded himself with anyone and everyone he could. He was never known to ever be single for long. In his mind, as long as a crowd of people was near, he could never possibly be alone.

Oh, but how truly alone he was.

Outside of his sister, no one cared enough to actually know him. All of the girls loved to be seen on the arm of Francis Bonnefoy, and to say that they spent the night in his arms, but they never cared to look past the face that they called beautiful and see the lonely man who was buried underneath.

A red light began to blink just to the right of a set of fuel gauges.

Francis began to pale.

The fuel tank was leaking.

He cursed bitterly and slammed his fist into the console. "Pièce inutile de merde!" he shouted at his plane, which droned on loudly into the dark, unconcerned by his outburst.

He was starting to realize the very real possibility that he very well could die tonight. That this could be it, and he was afraid. But the thought of crashing his plane and surviving entered his mind. And at that, he was terrified. If he survived the crash, the Germans would surely find him and take him prisoner to be tortured for any information that he had. And he had quite a bit. But he would never talk, how could he? He'd be betraying his own people. But the thought of that even happening… And the possibility of…

Francis' eyes drifted down to his right, just between the side of the cockpit and his seat. In that little space was a pistol. One shot. It was only for use in the worst case scenario: If he were to crash behind enemy lines and the enemy proved to be too overwhelming to escape… Well, he preferred that to being subject to the enemy's interrogation in an attempt to extract anything they could from him. He wouldn't want to say anything, but he knew he couldn't hold out for forever. Every man has his breaking point. However, he wanted to make sure the enemy never got a chance to make it that far with him. Some might deem his plan the coward's way out, but he couldn't think of a more courageous and noble thing to do if faced with the choice. Ending it before it even had the chance to start was safer than risking all the things you know-along with the lives that are tied to it.

Francis' eyes lingered on the place where his hope lay if worst came to worst before he jerked his eyes back up to the night sky, adrenaline suddenly flooding his veins anew.

He wasn't about to let these German pigs shoot him down.

He was going to get himself home.

There was no way he was going to let them win.

Not now.

Not ever.

The next two hours were a blur. If you had asked, Francis wouldn't be able to tell you a thing about what had happened outside of "I flew my plane and tried not to die". He honestly couldn't remember. One thing stood out to him though, and that was the moment he saw the lights of the tiny little airfield that the Resistance had managed to hold on to.

When he saw those twinkling little lights, Francis couldn't contain his relief. He wept as his landing gear scraped against the runway, squealing and sending pieces of gravel flying in every direction in his wake.

After taxiing his plane under a hangar and killing the engine, he slumped over the wheel and took a moment to breathe. It was all over. He was finally back on the ground, safe.

After drawing a couple of shaky breaths, Francis sat up once again and checked his watch. It was nearly midnight. He sighed deeply and ran his still-trembling fingers through his sweaty hair before pulling it back and clamboring out of the cockpit. His face lit up with a huge smile when he heard the thud of his boots against the concrete.

To be on the ground again, Francis thought to himself, is a wonderful thing indeed.

Francis didn't live terribly far from the airfield. The house that he and Estelle shared was only about three miles from it. Due to the secretive nature of the airfield however, any rebel who wanted to get there usually had to walk from the next town over, then through fields and woods, before they reached the tiny airfield. Francis was one of the lucky ones who didn't have to walk for more than an hour to reach it. Also, there were hardly any German soldiers who were stationed permanently in his town, so it was easy for him to slip out unnoticed.

He had never been caught or associated with the Resistance, and that was something he was truly grateful for. Most anyone who was tied to the rebels was shot, minus a lucky few. He was safe, at least for now.

It was nearly one o'clock in the morning by the time he reached the front steps of he and Estelle's small house. The moon was shrouded in thick clouds, and the shadows reached their long, black fingers into every dark corner. Francis dropped his bag filled with his things on the steps heavily and turned the knob, and he frowned upon finding the door locked. Estelle always left the door unlocked until he got home at night, and she usually would be found sitting in their small living room on the sofa, reading a book in the lamplight, waiting for him to come home.

This locked door was strange indeed.

His interest piqued, Francis picked up his bag again, and with it slung over one shoulder, walked briskly around the side of the house to the back steps. A strip of yellow light bathed the three stone steps that led up to the back door. That light streamed out from the door, which was open about three inches. The door jam was broken to only splinters, and the deadbolt was down.

Estelle had locked the door, and someone subsequently had kicked it in.

Francis' heart sank like a stone.

"ESTELLE!" Francis screamed at the top of his lungs. His bag, which he had dropped to the ground the second he had seen the light on the steps, was long forgotten, as was everything that had happened over the past few hours. Nothing else in the world mattered more than getting inside that house.

He leapt up the steps in one jump and flung the door open. In his panic, he very nearly took the door off its hinges.

The next three seconds were the longest and most horrifying three seconds in all of Francis' life, and he would never forget what it was that he saw. Every detail was instantly seared into his mind's eye, and never would he close his eyes without reliving this night.

The kitchen was the first thing to strike him. It was completely torn apart. Cabinets hung open, the table was overturned, broken plate shards littered the floor. A drawer where Francis kept a pistol hidden was pulled open, and it was missing from its normal resting place.

All of this, Francis took in during the first second. At the start of the second, his eyes drifted up from the scene in the kitchen and beheld the living room.

It too was completely destroyed. The lamp was broken on the floor, and end table was turned on its side, newly missing one of its legs. The sofa where Estelle spent her evenings was disheveled, its pillows and cushions ripped and vomiting white feathers into the air. Smears of blood on the cream wall by the window and on the carpet were obvious to anyone who could see, and they screamed panic in Francis' mind.

The second of the three seconds had passed. The third would mark the beginning of the rest of Francis' life as he would know it.

He now saw Estelle.

Her body was in a twisted heap in the corner. From where he stood across the house, he could make out the blood and bruises on her face and arms. Despite the shadows, he could see her eyes. They were open. He could also see her clothes. They were ripped to the point that they were in tatters.

But what ripped his heart straight out of his chest was the fact that they were lying, scattered, on the other side of the living room.

Francis screamed. No, it wasn't even that. Scream is too human a word. The sound that came out of Francis' mouth wasn't human at all, but it was the wail of an animal who is dying. His feet began to move. He couldn't see where he was going though through his tears, but after a moment of stumbling and crashing into walls and cabinets, he came upon Estelle.

His knees fell out from underneath him, and he hit the living room floor. His arms grasped desperately at his sister, pulling her body close to his. "Mon petit moineau," he wept into her hair as he stroked it with a shaking hand, "Tell me, what happened to you?"

The very last thing he expected was for her to reply.

"There were five."

The sudden and startling way she said it, so matter-of-factly, it sounded as if she were commenting about the weather. The mere fact that she spoke-that she was alive-nearly made Francis drop her out of surprise.

"Estelle! Mon Dieu, you're alive!" Fresh tears of relief and joy cascaded down his cheeks. "Sister, I'm so sorry, forgive me…" Francis could no longer speak. He only wept.

Estelle, on the other hand, did not reply. Nor did she react in any way to her brother.

Francis very quickly reached to his right and grabbed a blanket that had fallen onto the floor. With it, he wrapped Estelle up and picked her up in his arms. "I'm taking you somewhere for you to get help," he whispered to her as he carried her out the door and into the night.

He would take her to see Adelina. She'd know what to do.

As Francis raced to the hospital, he had failed to notice the glint of something metal by one of the wooden feet of the sofa. The metallic glint of… could it be… A silver Death's Head.