Dro: I like this writing at night thing. It gives me two extra hours to do stuff during the day. Anyway, have at this chapter. Not much to say about it other than it fulfills a desire a lot of you have been expressing for a while.

Chapter Summary: Feliciano is forced to face a bleak reality. Meanwhile, a long-awaited character returns.

Warnings: Violence; Language

Disclaimer: Blah, Blah, Blah, Yeah, Yeah, Don't own. Whatever.

He stared blearily up at the overcast sky that was now marred by thick black smoke and curling flames. He didn't feel like moving yet. The force of the blast had blown him back and over the edge of the building, and he'd fallen several stories before slamming into the roof of a appended lower level. He'd felt several of his ribs shatter, and he was sure several of the muscles in his back were heavily damaged. He'd be lucky if his spine wasn't injured too, seeing as he'd landed directly on his back. It was miracle he hadn't fallen on his head and snapped his neck.

He'd waited some time for someone to come help him, for someone to realize he was here, but no one had materialized, and he'd been forced to accept that once again, he'd been left behind by his friends and loved ones. It was a jarring realization, and he'd spent the last several minutes considering the implications of such a thing. How could it be that they hadn't noticed someone had been helping them? It wasn't. It would have been obvious that he had assaulted Yao's guards from behind. So why hadn't they come for him? Why hadn't they even checked? It wasn't like any of them to just leave an ally, so why had they this time around?

He didn't rise to his feet until he heard the helicopters and fire trucks approaching. He rolled over, grimacing as the movement tugged at the scrapes and bruises on his back. His shattered ribs weren't helping much either. But regardless, he managed to make his way over to the edge of the building and climb down the fire escape. He was only a block down the street when the police arrived at the scene, and he sighed deeply as he stumbled into yet another alley. Why was it always like this now? Why did he keep having to hide away in the shadows where no one could see him? He'd always been a person of the light. He loved to seize the day, to interact with others. And yet, he couldn't seem to get a hold of anyone here. They all kept slipping right through his fingers. What was it about this place that was so toxic to him?

Because that was what it was. Toxic. This place had already stained his hands countless times. He had lost count of how many men he'd killed already. And he'd only be here for a matter of days. How many more people would he gun down before this was over? Every death that came as a result of his actions felt like another pocket of infection that was spreading through his heart. How long would it be before his heart had turned black, before it started pumping poison through his body, before he underwent an irreversible change for the worse? It couldn't have been that long in the future. Not at this rate. Not at the rate at which he was being forced to act violently. Not at the rate that his friends, his allies—Ludwig—were wearing down his emotions.

And he was terrified about what would become of him when that time finally came. If he wasn't dead before that point. Because he had no delusions about his strength or his stamina. He could not win this on his own, and he had no present allies to speak of. If he got into a situation that he couldn't escape from alone, he was done for. So he had to be careful. Very careful. And so far, he'd done a very poor job of being anything close to that.

He struggled to keep his body moving. His lungs were failing to function properly, and he needed rest. His nation body could probably heal the damage. Hell, he'd never known it not to be able to heal something that was anything short of death, so he knew he'd be all right in the long run. But it wasn't the long run he was worried about. More of Yao's guards could easily be prowling around the city. Not to mention he had the cops to worry about too. He was sure his luck was about to run out, and when it did, he would be in deep, deep trouble. He could barely defend himself in this state. And he had nowhere to stay and no food to eat. And the weather was miserable to top it all off. If he was forced to sleep outside in this, he would no doubt become even worse than he already was. And his body was already at its limits.

Frustrated, he kicked a trashcan over, cringing as a wave of pain shot up his knee. He nibbled his chapped lower lip. He had never let his anger get the best of him before, but his nerves were wearing thin, and he was stressed beyond anything imaginable. Sighing, he continued limping his way toward no particular destination when something caught his eye. Out of the trashcan had fallen a newspaper. The wet ground was quickly ruining the pages—pages already stained with all matter of filth—but the headlines remained clearly visible.

As did the picture below them.

'Nations Enraged Over War Criminal's Possible Parole'

Feliciano didn't need to read the story. All he needed was the still clean and visible caption under the picture that clearly stated where this war criminal was being held. And the picture itself. He stared longingly at the picture. He had no idea where Ludwig and the others were now. Only that they were heading out of Berlin, and that he would never be able to catch them. The odds of him finding them now was dismal. And the odds of someone helping him—especially with his appearance—were equally dismal.

But this, this gave him another option…

He painfully bent over and let his fingers graze the face of the man in the picture.

Lovino.

Lovino stared up at the dull ceiling of his cell. He wished they'd agreed to let him paint it a different color, but they'd been adamant about "building code specifications" and "nepotism is not allowed" and all that other bull shit they frequently spewed via their arrogant lips. He had many urges to just break out and break their necks, but he figured that wouldn't be good for his possible parole. Plus, he had sworn to himself that he would pay his penance, no matter what it may have been. He had hurt his brother—irreparably so—and he had committed more atrocities than most human beings could commit to memory. So he deserved whatever they threw at him. As it was, they'd only thrown a century-long prison sentence at him.

But apparently he'd turned into a "good boy" since his time as Russia's little guard dog had passed. At least, according to the media. They had let him have a radio, so he could at least keep up with the news. Some of which had recently been about himself. They'd been evaluating his "behavior" in the years since he'd been tossed into his tiny little cell and left to his own devices for the most part. Apparently, his attitude had "improved." He would have laughed at them if it he'd been sure it wasn't true. But for all he knew, it was. He'd lost touch with himself a long time ago.

For a long while, his mind had replayed the last thing Feliciano had said to him. The speech itself was blurred and unclear in his memories, but the message was not. Feliciano had basically disowned him as a brother and vowed never to speak with him again. Which Lovino honestly didn't blame him for. Though at the time, he'd doubted Feliciano would live up to his vow. He'd figured his brother would shun him for a few decades, maybe a century, or perhaps a little longer. But for a being with the possibility of "eternity," forever held a very different connotation than it did for a human being. Feliciano would surely speak to him again, surely accept him again on some level. Lovino doubted they would ever recover the relationship they'd had before, and he knew very well that he deserved to have lost something so precious forever. But he couldn't imagine Feliciano sticking to that vow.

Not until Feliciano had disappeared.

It had happened just like that. One day, Feliciano had vanished from the house they had long-shared near Venice. Just vanished. Poof. Gone. With the amount of guards they'd had around them, even Lovino had been surprised his fratello had gotten away undetected. But he had. And that was the last time anyone had heard from Feliciano Vargas. The authorities had suspected Lovino several times of communicating with him in secret, but of course, he hadn't been, and thus, nothing had ever come from their investigations. All the while, he had sat by, almost hoping they found his brother. He wanted to know where Feliciano was. It was torment not knowing. And he'd known right from the start that that had been Feliciano's exact point. He had completely and utterly walked out of Lovino's life and off the face of the planet, and Lovino was never to know what had happened to him.

That was his true punishment.

He reached over and flicked on his radio, making sure to keep the volume low. He closed his eyes and let the normally redundant and boring news filter into his ears, blocking out all of his unpleasant thoughts. He'd been fine for four years. Surely he could deal with ninety-six more. Or less if they decided he was "good enough" now to be back on the streets. Though he heavily doubted that if the public's angry response had any weight on the decision. The guards and the lawyers and the judges may have been able to see that he had changed, that he had been tamed and broken, that he was now a horse with a lame leg. But the rest of the world could not. The rest of the world still pictured the ruthless assassin that he had once been, the one who had killed off their precious nations.

And in a way, they were right. But it was different than it had been before. He wouldn't have cared at all if he broke out right at this moment and slaughtered everyone in the jail. He wouldn't have cared at all if he massacred all of the new Italian government officials. But that was just it. He wouldn't care. Back then, in Russia's service, he had cared. He had just cared about the wrong things. All the wrong things. All the things that made him break his brother and betray his friends.

Now, he just didn't care at all.

And truthfully, he wasn't sure which one of those made him more dangerous.

But it was the same apathy that kept him from caring about merciless homicide that also kept him from amassing the energy to actually break out of this prison. Which he could have easily done at any time—he'd dissected every possible escape method and come up with at least ten foolproof ones about a hundred times now—but…he just didn't care about getting out of here. He just didn't care about anything at all.

Not a thing.

He'd mused that that quality must have made him a very poor example of a person. So the public was probably right about keeping him caged. What could a completely apathetic person really contribute to society? He had no desire to work, to make the world a better place. If he had his freedom, he would likely just sit on his sofa, eat pasta, and watch TV. Which was basically what he did now, just in a place with slightly lower quality amenities.

He yawned. Thinking about all this nonsense was really getting him nowhere. He shook his head. What was the point in worrying about his apathy? It wasn't like he cared that he was apathetic. He rolled over on his side, ready to let the radio lull him to sleep. But then he heard something. Something…frantic. He rolled over to face his radio, quickly realizing that it was a terrified newscaster on the air, ranting about some kind of terrorist attack. He listened closely, and he felt his stomach drop uncomfortably when he'd finally deciphered the news.

Berlin had been attacked? Thousands were dead? Bombs had destroyed major political and consumer centers? He swallowed, something long-forgotten and stored far back in his memory flickering like an ancient light bulb. This attack sounded an awful lot like…He gripped his pillow lightly. No, that fucker was gone. Long gone. This was just a coincidence, some stupid copy-cats trying to replicate a master of terror in a time that was still immersed in great paranoia. That's all it was. And nothing more.

"Reports have recently emerged that the bombing was done in a distinct pattern, one that almost appears to have created a perfect star-shaped path of destruction."

Stars.

Russia had bombed cities with bombs arranged in the shape of a five-pointed star.

It had been his signature.

And its return could only mean one thing.

Dro: Well, this should get interesting now that Lovino is coming back into the picture.

Next Chapter: In the midst of nearly everyone's emotional crises, we finally get to see what the largely-ignored Matt thinks about all this.