WARNING: Seriously torture here, folks. Not necessery for the plot, mostly an inside look on what Borya got to experence while Alina and Sanji and them were on thier way.

And I must lewt ya'll know how much I loved writing in Ferdinand's accent. It's so sex-licious. XD

CHAPTER 5: IN THE LION'S DEN

Recap: "So, when do we leave?"

Borya's POV

It was hazy, after the building imploded. I couldn't see, I could barely breathe, and I had only one purpose on my mind – getting everyone else out first. In retrospect, I should have made getting myself out more important that getting carrot boy out. But hey, hindsight is 20/20, and I'm a sucker for saving people, hate them or not.

After that, I blacked out. It was probably from getting hit by something, since smoke cannot do anything worse to my lungs at this point. How long I was blacked out, I also don't know. And hour? Two? Ten? I couldn't tell. I guess it wasn't too long, though, because after two hours or so I'd expect to see Alina come bursting through the doors to rescue me. She was always one for punctuality.

When I came to, I was on my feet (surprisingly) up next to a wall. I could taste blood in my mouth and my forehead felt like someone had driven a hammer into it. I could feel a stream of cold, thick liquid running down my nose, which only made me feel worse about the mess I ended up getting into. I realized, after I regained a sense of balance and coordination, that my knees were bent and most of my weight was on my wrists.

Ok, so technically, I was not on my feet, I was hanging from the ceiling. I straightened my legs and managed to stand for a moment, but that was all they could take. My legs gave way and I fell completely to the floor, somehow dislodging the thing that was keeping me upright.

I groaned, stifling the urge to swear repeatedly, and sat up, links of chain cascading into my lap. My hands were bound tightly with thick rope, cutting into my skin and bleeding rather freely. Luckily, I was still in my shirt, pants and boots. Otherwise, I'd probably been an icicle by then; it was barely over freezing point in that little room.

The room was dark gray all around, and small enough that I could reach each corner with out taking more than two or three steps. A cell door stood in the corner opposite me; it was barred shut. I swore to nothing in particular about that – that was my once chance to get out of there.

The door creaked loudly as it opened to let someone in, and scared the crap out of me. I jumped up onto my feet, pressing my back against the wall, biting my lip to keep from shrieking like a little girl. That was one of my many bad habits that I really needed to stop doing. I released my lip with a heavy sigh. What I would do for a stiff drink right then…

I had closed my eyes unintentionally, and when I opened then, I swore again. My captor had the idea that captives had no right to personal space and was sticking his face so close to mine his nose was a hair's breathe away. He backed off at the sound and laughed; it was incredibly cruel and I bit my lip again to keep from telling him to shut the hell up.

He was a blonde haired, blue eyed German officer; all tucked up in his green-gray uniform and hat. I noted his hair was a little longer than mine – just enough to look uncut without looking sloppy. He accessorized with black knee-high boots and black gloves, a thin black belt around his waist and a black chain and swastika around his neck. He had the air of being a snotty, stick-up-the-ass gentlemen who knew nothing of what went on below the poverty line. He was made to be in that spot, I suspected; raised to look down upon people like they were dogs. My breathe caught in my throat when I noticed he was clutching daintily at a riding crop.

He finally stopped laughing at took his turn to stare at me. I must have looked a mess, bleeding and chained up like I was. I heard a clanking of metal and my chains retreated above my head, pinning my hands to the wall. The officer smirked, nonchalantly lifting my chin with the tip of his crop.

"Ah. A fine specimen, to be sure. Russian, I presume." He said, his milky voice ringing in my ears. I spat out a glob of blood, hitting his shoe.

"How do you know?" I asked, a snarl on my face. He chuckled and I resisted the urge to kick him in the balls.

"Your accent is not… 'vell… thick enough to be German. And your svearing is certainly Russian." He cooed, tilting my head to the side in inspection. "Auch! Such brutality. I must punish my subordinates for 'urting you so." His clear, blue eyes staring at my bleeding forehead, his lips formed in an almost mocking pout. His eyes then met mine and I could feel him almost looking right through me, staring into my soul. I winced, closing my eyes.

He was starting to give me the heebie-jeebies.

"Poor dear." He cooed again, and I opened my eyes slightly. I didn't want to but I had to know what he was doing. Thankfully, he was no longer invading my space but standing at a distance, contemplating his crop.

"Stop treating me like a child, you sick, twisted…" I didn't get to finish my sentence, he was so fast. I felt, more than saw, his hand collide with my face in the hardest backhand I had ever the fortune to experience. My face felt red and stung worse than my forehead, and a few tears sprung to life behind my eyes.

"How dare you, you ingrate. I vas being nice and you go and insult me like I'm some… 'ore you picked off ze streets. I vill not stand for eet!" I looked up at his face, which had lost any kindness it once had. It was a mixture of hatred, shame and anger, all directed at me.

I felt like I had done some good. Yes, I did. For a second. It seemed Mr. Cropbutt had noticed my smile, and he did not like it at all.

"You weibchen!" He snarled, using a word which, ironically enough, I happened to be quite familiar with. He then hit me again, this time on the other side of my face, and much harder. I shook my head to clear the stars, and tears, from my vision before I managed to find my tongue.

"Now, listen. I will tolerate being hit, being lieutenant-napped, and being tied up with awful ropes, but I will NOT be called a weibchen. Besides, it refers to a girl, and I'm much more of a man than you, you schlampe!" I spat back at him. His face lost what little color it had and turned to a look of pure shock. I was pleased with his reaction to having an insult thrown at him in his own language. It must have been surprising to hear a Russian speak so fluently in German. At least, to him it was.

"How DARE you! You are not fit to speak Deutsch, you slimy Russian vorm!" He regained some color and spat in my face as he said this. I spat back in his face for a reply. There was complete silence for a few moments, one equal contemplating how to break the other and visa-versa. All he did was stare at me with his hatful, beady blue eyes.

Finally, he snapped his fingers and my chain let loose, sending me to the floor in a heap. I got off the ground, in pain, and raised my fist to hit him. He slapped me even harder than the second time and sent me to the ground, cheek bruised and red. I groaned out loud, my head swirling around like I had had a few too many vodkas. I managed to gain my footing on all fours, my rope loosened enough for me to rub my face, when I felt a heavy boot shove me back to the ground.

"You vill alvays remember my name, you Russian vorm. You vill 'ave my name scarred so deep into your memory that you vill scream eet in your nightmares. I vill 'aunt your dreams forever, you filthy dog." He pressed his face close to my ear, whispering in his thick accent. I could smell sauerkraut and cigar smoke on his breathe.

"You know, I never actually learned your name in the first place, you stupid kraut." I spat at him, and he pressed my face into the concrete of the floor with his boot.

"You vill now." He snarled, a slight chuckle in his voice. I couldn't see anything; my face was pressed up so close too the ground, but I heard footsteps. Soft and feminine, two pairs of them. I suddenly felt my shirt being pulled up over my head and down to my bounded hands, exposing my bare back. I felt a cold hand press up against my shoulder blade and shivered.

"This von't 'urt vone bit. My name is Ferdinand Karte. I vant to 'ear you scream eet to the heavens, boy. Scream eet as loud as you can." He snarled into my ear. His cold hand left my back and I relaxed slightly, forgetting about the riding crop he carried.

I felt the cold leather strike my back and bit my lip to keep from crying out in pain. I barely heard him ask me his name, but my head was swimming to much for me to reply. I felt the leather on my back again, this time breaking skin, and I cried out. I couldn't help it. After the third strike, I blacked out completely; oblivious to what the rest of the world decided to do with me.

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Ferdinand's POV

I spat on Borya's bloody back, after twenty or so more swipes with my crop. I was furious with the man; he had forgotten my identity already. That ingrate of a Russian should have remember the father of the boy he called his godchild. I stared at the slim, bloody frame of the man I resented so much and stalked out of the room. I needed some coffee, and someone was going to get themselves hurt if they didn't get it to me right then.

My little subordinates, the little women who kidnapped Borya in the first place, recognized my 'I-want-coffee-NOW' face and rushed to find a clean mug. I collapsed into a chair, tossing my riding crop off to the side and propping my feet up onto the hunk of wood we called a table. Living in a bunker was no picnic; it was small, cramped, and completely made of stone in this dump. Plus, we stored enough gunpowder and paper work in the lowest floor that one misplaced cigar stub and we'd all blow up.

Not that that would be any problem as long as I wasn't there.

Once I had coffee placed at my feet I sat up and propped my elbows on the table. I was incredibly bored, after such a festival of torture. My eyes drifted to Borya's file and I scowled. That stupid man had the gall to call my son his godchild. I never asked him to be his godfather, and neither did his mother. I spat on his photo and stood, taking my coffee to my make-shift room.

I sat down on my bunker, donned my reading glasses and tried to read some in a book I was trying to finish. But Borya was still on my mind. He was quite fun to toy around with; he screamed even after he fell unconscious. I wanted to put my crop to his back more and more every time I thought about it, but I had to remind myself that if I did, he would die. And then, what's left to torture? Dead people certainly don't scream.

"Berta! Carla!" I called my subordinates by name this time, hoping they would be a little please to see me. Sadly, they weren't. It seems that I should have never had told them why I needed new subordinates. They would have like me so much more if I had left out the part about how my last two girls died. Now they were always so skittish and jumpy around me. It almost made me cry, it was so depressing.

"Can you ladies please see to our… guest, and make sure he doesn't die on us? I would hate to have such a pretty face go to waste, ja?"