Basch fell back against the wall, his hip throbbing where Ludwig's boot was moments ago. Blood dripped from his nose, the back of his sleeve stained with gun oil and crimson. His palms were an angry red from being slapped with a belt so many times – thankfully they'd gone numb with pain. He knew there was going to be a bruise under his eye when he woke up tomorrow morning, his head felt like it was cracked in half, and his lungs didn't seem to recall how breathing worked, making him gasp.

But this was nothing.

"Why must I do this every week? Listen, Zwingli, you have a family to get back to." Ludwig sat back down at the desk, wiping the blood off of his knuckles with a once white, now rust red handkerchief. "Poor little Lilli is all alone in that house of yours. Who knows what trouble she could get into? It would be horrible if something happened and you weren't there to protect her. She's such a doll, your sister. It's a shame she's so gullible and let me into the house."

"Don't drag her into this."

Ludwig looked over at the broken man with a mixture of mock pity and amusement. "But I don't have any family. I could do this forever. It would be in your best interest to start answering my questions right now, before I actually get angry. So, I'm going to ask you one more time – why did I find a map tucked under a loose floorboard with buildings circled?"

Basch just growled at him.

"I hate to do this to you," Ludwig sighed, grabbing something Basch couldn't quite make out from a drawer in his desk. "But you're just so hopelessly intolerable that you leave me no choice. Before I force the answer out of you, would you like to explain this all to me one more time?"

"Why should I have to answer to you?" Basch spat. "I know I'm innocent, you know I'm innocent, and you're just making a game out of this because I won't talk! It's illegal to beat any man after he's given his testimony!"

"If you were really oh-so innocent" – Ludwig said the word "innocent" like it physically pained him – "then you would've answered my questions immediately. Liars try to stall for as long as they can." He glanced at the cracked watch on his wrist. "And you've been stalling for five hours now. I know you well enough to recognize when you're lying to me."

"I gave you my alibi and that's all you should need. I was at my house that night, with Lilli. I was nowhere near the road. You can ask my neighbours – they all saw me come home because they were having some damn obnoxious party and I told them to shut up."

"That's nice." Ludwig held up a piece of paper with a rough map of Vienna sketched on it. Several squares representing houses or shops were circled in bright red ink, with little symbols beside them. "So, where does the map fall into this?"

"Absolutely nowhere. That's a map of my customers," Basch replied, feeling a lump form in the back of his throat.

I should've been more careful. But I was reckless. I thought I could get away with it. And now look. I can't keep this up forever, at some point he's going to punch the answer out of me or ship me off to a labour camp.

"I don't like liars, Zwingli. Now, give me the truth and I'll stop beating you."

"Go ahead and snap my neck already! I refuse to drop to my knees and beg at the feet of a disgusting person like you." Basch swallowed hard as he saw Ludwig get up and walk calmly over to him. He held up his fists, ready to beat the Gestapo man to death, but Ludwig didn't raise his hand. He stood in front of him for a moment, blue eyes gleaming with a devilish delight.

Without warning, he grabbed Basch by the collar of his shirt and shoved him back up against the wall. Basch instinctively protected his throat before realizing Ludwig had taken a fistful of the man's blond hair.

Basch heard a sickening crack and black streaks tore across his vision.

He slumped to the floor in a blood-spattered and bruised heap, Ludwig's laughter making his head hurt worse than it already did. Basch let his eyes close, welcoming the gentle darkness. For the next few splendid minutes, pain was a non-existent thing and he couldn't hear Ludwig's taunting voice. But as all good things do, his little fraction of comfort came to a quick end when he felt something stab into his arm. All the aches came back, accompanied by an insufferable ringing in his ears. When he finally cleared the spots from his eyes, Ludwig was looking down at him expectantly.

"What did you do to me?" Basch asked, earning himself a sharp nudge in the side.

"When is Lilli's birthday, Zwingli?"

What kind of sick game is he trying to play with me? "August third," he replied with a smug grin, throwing a random date out there just to make the kriminalinspektor furious.

"…What?" Ludwig lost his intimidation for a moment, giving Basch another nudge. "What's your middle name?" he asked, sounding almost confused.

"You Gestapo men don't seem to know a whole lot about people. I have two middle names; Martin Johannes." He smiled, watching as Ludwig looked at something in his hand and then back at Basch, his eyebrows furrowed together. He seemed to be puzzled as to why Basch was lying – it wasn't anything new, so what was so confusing about it?

"Can people be immune?" Ludwig asked himself in a quiet voice, looking down at Basch.

"Can you go back to whatever circle of Hell you came from? And immune from what?"

Ludwig looked back down at him, his anger quickly returning. "Get up," he snarled. "Something went wrong. I'm going to have to finish the interrogation."

"What do you mean, 'finish?'" Basch asked as he pushed himself up. "There aren't any more answers to get out of me."

"Just get up."

Basch tried to get to his feet, but his legs refused to hold his weight. He tried once more, this time almost making it to a standing position before hitting the ground, hard. Ludwig was absolutely no help, grinning like a madman the whole time Basch struggled.

"Can you not stand up?" Ludwig asked, watching with too much enjoyment in his eyes as Basch fell yet again. "You're already on your knees," he started, putting his foot down on Basch's back to pin him to the floor – as if the man was actually going to muster the strength to stand up. "Now, start begging."

"Make me."

Ludwig dug the heel of his boot deeper into Basch's back. "I want to hear you beg for your life, Zwingli. I want to hear you cry out for Lilli. I want to hear you scream."

"Oh, sounds erotic. I guess since you Gestapo men can't go home to your wives, you got to find pleasure elsewhere, huh?" Basch tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a sick wheezing sound. Ludwig gave him a swift kick in the side as a reply.

"I'm a very lonely man, Zwingli. I have no fraulein to go home to, as you say. The only way I can get my satisfaction is by hearing others scream for their insignificant, worthless, useless lives." He pulled his gun from the holster on his hip, cocking it and pointing it at Basch's head. "Now, tell me why you did it. You have ten seconds."

"Firstly, I've already said I was at home. Second, that gun of yours doesn't scare me – it isn't even loaded. If it was, when you cocked it there should've been a louder click. But that's just an empty pistol, which doesn't tend to do any harm. Don't pull a gun on a gun expert."

Ludwig flipped the pistol over so he was holding the barrel, bringing the stock down into the soft spot between Basch's shoulder blades. Basch made the mistake of letting a small cry escape his mouth, Ludwig taking the whimper as a sign to keep hitting that same spot.

"Why do you think I'm going to believe that someone would be at their own damned home during an air raid?" Ludwig kicked Basch away from him, putting his Luger back in its holster.

"Why do you…why do you think…?" Basch slurred, watching in total bewilderment as his vision started to blur again. He struggled to push himself up, knowing he was going to black out soon. Basch couldn't let the dark get to him – who knows what Ludwig could do if he was out cold? "'S okay to beat people?"

Ludwig knelt down, a tiny smile on his face. "Ah, there we go. I was beginning to worry some people were unresponsive. You took much longer than anyone else I've seen, Zwingli, and I must say, I'm rather impressed at your strength. But it's all over now. You can say goodbye to your job, to your house, to Lilli."

"Th' hell are you talkin' 'bout?"

"Do you see this?" Ludwig held up an empty syringe, its glass gleaming in the pale lamplight. "A while ago it was full of something, which is now inside of you, called sodium pentothal. It makes miserable people like you tell the truth. Don't be surprised if you wake up on a train to Mauthausen, you traitor."

"What?" Basch rubbed at his tired eyes, hoping that he was hearing things. A drug that made people tell the truth? Surely Ludwig was just trying to scare him.

"Oh, right, I forgot – the best part about all of this is that you won't be able to remember any of it. Your last memory will be when I slammed your head into the wall. You won't remember when I told you how lonely I am, or when I asked you about your middle names. And I'll have another arrest to go on my file, bringing me a step closer to promotion." Ludwig patted Basch's head like he would to a dog. "Danke."

"You're…a dirty cheater," Basch groaned. "A no good Gestapo man."

"Oh, I know it. I'm a terrible human. All of us Gestapo men are. Gute Nacht, Zwingli."

The horizon was tainted a faint pink when the lonesome musician set out for the train station with nothing more than a small briefcase, a composition book, and a Stradivarius named Marlene. His well-polished dress shoes made a rhythmic click-click-click on the sidewalk as he walked, providing a metronome for his thoughts. All morning he'd been running A Lonely Winter's Lullaby over and over to the point of insanity – but he didn't want to even think of the consequences of a mistake. His choices were either drive himself mad with his own music or get shot for a little slip-up.

And to be honest, Roderich found neither of the two appealing.

I shouldn't worry so much, Roderich told himself. After all, the more I fret about something, the more frustrated I get, and frustration only leads to drinking. Drinking leads to lost time, lost time makes for more worry, and the whole damned cycle starts all over again. If only I wasn't a musician. Then I wouldn't have to worry about little mistakes that could ultimately end in my death.

All I'd have to worry about is when the draft notice shows up in my mailbox. So, it's either I stay an alcoholic composer at my wit's end or die a nameless soldier in some foreign country. Suddenly I don't have it so bad.

Danke, Hitler, for forcing me to be an alcoholic. Without you I'd be a happy, probably still married, sensible, not-in-danger-of-being-killed man. But you had to go and start up some revolting empire because you don't like a certain group of people. Well, now, did you ever think that the Jews and the Poles and the Russians and the homosexuals and the gypsies don't like you? Perhaps they want to go start their own little empire and invade everyone. And then I could go join their empire and not spend my days trying to drink my sorrows away!

Roderich sighed softly, shifting the weight of the Stradivarius case. Oh, what am I even saying anymore? I'm getting all worked up about something that's never going to happen. Everyone will stay scared as long as the Führer has them under control. Face it, Roderich, until the cursed war ends, you're going to stay a drunk.

Well, I suppose out of all the things to be in the world right now, an alcoholic can't be the worst. I could be off hunting down literally anyone with the Gestapo. I could be murdering innocents in Leningrad. I could be a propaganda man, lying to the whole of the German Empire that we're not fighting a war on the wrong side.

Shit, I technically am a propaganda man.

Roderich stopped and leaned back against a lamppost, letting that last thought sink in. He'd never thought of himself as a propaganda man, but rather as the one being used for propaganda. However, he was producing the music for the liars of the radio – and that made him part of the whole disgusting scheme.

Now I've gone off and ruined my day. Bravo, Roderich, bravo.

He took to running over his music again, trying to force thoughts of him being part of the deceiving, slanderous group of people the loyal citizens of the Reich loved to hear. Roderich played the song over and over in his mind, refusing to let a single error slip through the system. The world around him faded into nothing more than a backdrop for the music, a stage of sorts for his mental performance.

That is, until he ran straight into a young girl.

"Oh, dear, I am so sorry," he apologized, taking a step back from the little girl. She looked up at him with wide sea green eyes, her knuckles white as she held tight to a little basket with a blue bandana hiding the contents.

"No, sir, it's my fault." She quickly dismissed his apology with a wave of her free hand. "I should've been paying attention. I'm sorry."

"Are you alright?" Roderich asked.

"Yes, sir," she replied with an enthusiastic nod.

"What are you doing out so early?"

She quickly looked to the sidewalk again. "I was just running some errands. May I ask what you're doing, sir?"

"Going to Berlin, unfortunately," Roderich muttered.

"You're really going to Berlin?" Her eyes sparkled with childish wonder. "I've always wanted to go to Berlin, and my brother says that once he gets enough money he'll take me. But he already works long hours, and we can hardly…Oh, gosh, I'm sorry," she said, her face tinged with pink blush. "I talk too much."

"Nonsense. You're just a child, it's fine to get excited. I hope you do get to Berlin someday. But after the war's over, of course."

"Of course. You have a wonderful trip, sir," she said, turning on her heels and running off towards a cluster of ramshackle houses.

"Auf…" Roderich trailed off, his attention finally caught on something worthwhile. At the hem of the girl's dress were white streaks, the same colour of the ones on Roderich's coat. And he could just barely see a paintbrush sticking out from underneath the bandana.

That girl was the one who'd nearly gotten him sent to Gestapo Headquarters. She could've torn Roderich's whole life to pieces in an instant.

The first thought to come to mind was that he should chase her. He quickly decided against that after a review of his physical abilities, and instead decided that he would go search for her "art." Roderich checked to make sure the girl was out of sight before he went into the alley she came from, searching the brick walls.

It didn't take long for him to find what he was looking for – on one wall, the words "the only good Nazi is a dead one" were written in white paint that was still wet. Roderich stood there for too long looking at the girl's work. She obviously put care into every letter, even painting delicate little edelweiss at the bottom where one would expect an artist's signature to be. Her talent truly was art.

But on the other hand, it was horribly wrong. Anti-Nazi propaganda like hers was what sent people to concentration camps. As a matter of fact, that girl could be sent away for her work. Surely she had parents; what would they think of her sabotage? She mentioned a brother Roderich presumed was older, wouldn't he be worried about his sister? What about her friends at school, if she even went? What would go through their minds when they came to class every day and her seat was empty?

For what seemed like a century he looked at those eight words, questioning his morals. Was he going to be the one to turn her in? The Gestapo heavily encouraged turning on his own people – and he might be able to gain a bit more leverage with them. But at the same time, the girl couldn't have been older than twelve. It was probably nothing more than a game to her, to see how far she could push people until they snapped. She might not even know how serious the punishment could be.

Roderich smiled at the thought of the little girl, turning his back on her artwork for someone else to find. He could only imagine how happy she was with herself, getting away with a successful sabotage. Once again he started off on his journey for the train station, humming his cursed lullaby. It wasn't his business to be handing children over to the Gestapo. If they wanted the criminal so badly, they could find her.

She'd won the game this time.

"Good morning, Herr Commandant!" Ivan shouted way too loud for how early in the morning it was, giving Gilbert a lazy salute. "You wanted to see me, yes?"

"Sit down," Gilbert ordered. Ivan looked at him almost nervously, taking the seat in front of Gilbert's desk and propping his dirty boots up on the edge. Gilbert groaned softly, shoving his feet from his already chaotic workspace.

"You're acting too nice to me, sir. Usually you would've already called me a worthless Slav or mortar fodder." Ivan smiled, putting his arms behind his head. "So, what do you want? I have watches, radios, one of your guards brought me in some nylons, more vodka than any Russian needs, Sadik said he could make me a few knives, and I even have three Iron Crosses if you want to impress Frau Beilschmidt." Ivan listed off his hoard of items like they were something to be proud of.

"You're not here to talk about illegal activities." Gilbert sighed, grabbing Raivis' report. "And don't think I haven't taken note of everything you just said."

"Oh, sorry, sir. But if any of that interests you –"

Gilbert slammed his fist down on the desk. "I am not wasting my time with an infuriating man like you to talk about the black market I'm going to deny you have running in this camp. You better hope to whatever pagan god you have in Russia that I don't find any of those things you just mentioned in your barrack when we have the inspection tomorrow. Now," he said, opening the report to a page he'd added himself – one that a guard found tucked under Raivis' mattress. Along with it they'd found the Russian colonel's capture report, something Gilbert thought they'd lost forever. Obviously, Ivan had something to hide. "How did you learn to speak German so fluently?"

Ivan gave him another worried glance. "I just listened to other people."

"But when would you have been around Germans if you spent most of your life in Moscow? There aren't very many insane enough to go live with you Communist bastards."

"Ah, there's the angry commandant I love," Ivan said, the anxiety from moments ago disappearing. "I've been with Germans since '39. Two years in a country where you don't understand a thing sort of forces you to learn the language."

Gilbert flashed a small smirk – he loved it when Ivan was lying, as he knew better than anyone how to turn the own man's words against him. "Braginsky, you were captured on December 30th, 1939. Your birthday, if I'm not mistaken?"

"Some hell of a birthday that was," Ivan laughed weakly, the worry springing right back up again. "I turned twenty-four, went out to find some dumb girl who was willing to spend the day with a handsome soldier, and all of a sudden I found myself on a train to Wolfsburg."

"And I was not commandant here yet, correct?"

"Yes, the man before you wasn't half as fun as you are, sir. He actually let me get away with things. There weren't any screaming matches, I never knew the joys of solitary confinement, and he didn't even threaten to murder me once like you do. But then you came in with your broken leg and it's been wonderful," Ivan explained.

"Never mind my broken leg. This previous commandant – although lenient – kept perfect records of every one of his prisoners." Gilbert glanced down at the paper before him. "So, Colonel Ivan Leonidovich Braginsky, tell me why it is written here that you came into the camp speaking perfect German and claiming you had connections in Salzburg?"

Ivan, for once in the almost two years Gilbert had the displeasure of knowing him, was completely silent.

"Who are these connections, Braginsky?"

The Russian looked up, his violet eyes empty. "They are no one, sir. They are dead to me."

"They are not 'no one.' According to the paper, you worked in Salzburg as a young boy for a man named von Wolffe." Gilbert stood up, walking over to Ivan. The man kept his head hung, looking at his calloused hands like they were the most interesting thing in the world. "Tell me," Gilbert continued, grabbing Ivan's chin and forcing the man to look him in the eye. "Tell me what you were doing in Salzburg with a von Wolffe."

"…von Wolffe?" Ivan was blushing again. "Who is…?" He suddenly seemed to remember something, his eyes widening for just a moment. "I do not recall much of it, sir. I was young. Maybe five or six."

"That's not an answer, Braginsky."

"Sir, I don't want to answer."

"If you answer I will allow you and your men an extra hour of electricity," Gilbert offered. "And I will overlook any black market activities for the next month."

"That's not worth it," Ivan snapped.

Gilbert took a step back, willing himself not to explode. Sitting right in front of him was the next step in the von Wolffe case, and he happened to be the most frustrating man in the world. "Braginsky, please just tell me about von Wolffe. That's all I'm asking, no strings or traps."

Ivan lowered his eyes again, taking a deep breath. "I was an orphan. I had two sisters. I cannot even remember their names; it's been so long. But we were sent to these old women with dozens of little girls after my parents died. The women said they could take my sisters, but they could not take a boy. They gave me a train ticket and told me to get off in a city that I didn't know, that there would be someone there to take care of me. I was scared to leave the train. I should've got off in Poland, but I didn't. I should've got off in Czechoslovakia, but I didn't. And when the train reached Vienna, there were no more Russians with me."

He paused, screwing his eyes shut. "This horrible man got on with his son. The son was nice, much younger than me, though. I would say he was three. He tried to talk to me, but I couldn't understand him. His father told him to stop, to leave me alone like the filth I was. And for a while, the boy did. When his father fell asleep, though, he came over to me with a notebook and a pencil. He drew a little person, writing 'Roderich' above it, only I couldn't read anything but Cyrillic. We tried for a long time to understand each other's language. And by the time we figured out how to talk to each other, the train was in Salzburg.

"The boy drew a house on the page, and then what I assumed was meant to be me. He tried to copy Cyrillic above my name, making an arrow to the house. He asked his father something, and he yelled. Herr von Wolffe did a lot of shouting. But somehow I was allowed to go with the two. And then I lived there for two years. But I got so sick of Herr Edel…Herr von Wolffe, I mean, one night I jumped a train to Russia. And now I'm here."

Gilbert could hardly contain his excitement. He'd finally found the key to Roderich, and to believe it was through the most obnoxious man he knew. "What was that name you started to say? Edel?"

"It was someone else's name, sir, a man who lived nearby. He liked to shout as well."

"Can you tell me the rest of that name?" Gilbert asked.

Ivan shrugged. "We always called him Edelweiss, because it made him mad, but I doubt that's the real name."

"Good, good. When you were with the family, did they do anything special on Saturday?"

"I don't know. Roderich and I never stayed at the house on Saturdays – we were allowed to go explore the forest. I think his parents wanted time to themselves without us."

"Did they ever celebrate any odd holidays?"

"I really don't know, sir. I always kept to myself and did what I was told. If I wasn't working I was hiding in my room." Ivan sighed, looking up at Gilbert. "What did I do this time, Herr Commandant? I can't remember something that I've done to deserve this."

"What do you mean, 'deserve this?'" Gilbert asked, going back to his desk and sitting down. So far he'd gotten less than he would've liked out of Ivan, but at least he'd gotten somewhere.

Ivan tugged at his scarf, avoiding eye contact. "Who told you about Salzburg?"

"No one told me – it was on record. Record that one of your men stole, might I add. Would you please talk to them about thievery again?"

"They took it for a reason. Those were the worst years of my life, Herr Commandant." Ivan pulled his scarf down just enough to show off several burn marks. "That man, Herr von Wolffe, he took pleasure in hurting me. He had a glasswork shop, and one day I was helping him and he claimed he accidentally put a hot pipe to my neck, for only a second. It was not a second." Ivan put his hand to one of the scars, flinching at the memory. "It felt like an hour. He must've liked how I screamed, because he started to hit me more and more. He was rather fond of burning me."

"You probably were being a brat and deserved it," Gilbert muttered, scribbling down notes in the margin of the page. He wrote "Edel," and "something with Saturday," before closing the little report and putting it back in his safe.

"Sir, I deserve a lot of things, but no young child deserves to be burned for doing nothing but trying to help."

Gilbert looked up at him. "Did you just admit to deserving punishment? Braginsky, what's gotten into you?"

"I'm glad you know my life story now, sir. So I'm not in trouble, yes?" Ivan asked, standing up. "Please don't tell anyone about me. The only other one who knows is Toris, and he wouldn't dare to talk."

"I swear I won't tell anyone."

Ivan smiled a real, honest smile, something he'd never shown Gilbert. He was usually only grinning to be cocky or mocking – and strangely enough, Gilbert rather liked the true smile. The man's whole face seemed to light up, his indigo eyes gleaming. "Thank you, Herr Commandant."

"Oh, Braginsky?" Gilbert added.

"Yes?"

"You have a cute middle name. Leonidovich. I like that."

Ivan's face went red. "That's not my middle name. That's a patronym. It's my father's name."

"It's still cute," Gilbert said. "Can I call you Leonidovich?"

"I'd prefer if you didn't."

"Leonidovich, Leonidovich, Leonidovich!" Gilbert chanted, going up to Ivan and giving him a little shove.

"Thank you for making me angry again, Herr Commandant." Ivan pushed pass Gilbert and opened the door. "Talking about serious matters with you just doesn't feel right." He glanced over his shoulder, giving him his trademark smirk. "Auf Weidersehen, Hans!" And with that, he took off running.

"How do you know my middle name?!" Gilbert shouted after him, but the man was already laughing with someone else like he hadn't just told the enemy his tragic past.

"So, Zwingli, how do you feel about Lake Geneva?" was the first thing the beaten man heard when he awoke.

"I hate it with a fiery passion?" Basch moaned, scrubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Everything hurt, which wasn't much of a surprise, considering the previous night's beating. He blinked a few times to clear the sleepiness from his eyes, looking around the small office. Ludwig was sitting at his desk half asleep, with tousled hair and dark lines under his dull blue eyes. "What sort of question was that?"

"You kept mumbling about it in your sleep," Ludwig replied. "Kept asking for someone to save you."

"What does it matter to you? We must be getting to be good friends if you're so concerned."

Ludwig smiled to himself. "I'm not. I just wanted to know if there was some sort of dark backstory. But what does it matter now? You're going home."

"…I'm what?" Basch asked, too startled to say anything snarky.

"You heard me, Zwingli, you're going home. I checked with my superior this morning, and I technically don't have enough evidence to arrest you. Unfortunately, your alibi is perfect. And even though I'd love to take you out back and just put a bullet in your head for all of the trouble you've caused me, the Gestapo still has to follow some rules." Ludwig got up, coming over to Basch. "Can you get up?" He held out his gloved hand – was he actually offering to help?

Basch gently took his hand, praying it wasn't a sick joke that was going to result in even more pain. But thankfully, Ludwig didn't slam him to the ground again. As Basch shakily got to his feet, he noticed a small bruise on his forearm. Normally he wouldn't be so concerned about a bruise, but he didn't recall getting that one. And there was a red dot in the middle of the bruise, like he'd once been bleeding.

"Did…did you inject me with something?" Basch dared to ask, examining his arm. Sure enough, it looked just like the mark he got when they almost drafted him for the military but didn't get much farther than a vaccine.

"I have no idea where that came from."

"You're lying to me."

Ludwig shrugged, leading Basch out of the office. "I may or may not be. Good luck figuring out."

Basch couldn't quite remember when he came into the cesspool that the Gestapo men called their office, but it definitely wasn't what it looked like that morning. In each of the cells along the wall was a man who was either borderline insane, furious, or starving. They all looked at Basch with hungry, envious eyes, despite the fact that the man was limping and relying mostly on Ludwig to keep himself upright. How long had those men been in their cells? Long enough to go stir-crazy, it seemed.

One the other side of the wall were offices identical to Ludwig's. As Basch walked by one with the door slightly ajar, he caught an angry shout for money, and then shortly after there was a gunshot. Ludwig didn't even flinch; was someone being murdered a daily thing? Certainly they wouldn't kill someone in their own offices.

Would they?

"Ah, you're not going to be able to walk home this time, are you?" Ludwig asked when they got outside, and without even waiting for a response he added, "I'll drive you home. Just try not to bleed all over my car."

"I'll try, but with the shape you left me in, it'll be nearly impossible," Basch said as he slowly got into the car, still extremely wary of Ludwig's so-called "kindness." He still thought the man was going to kill him and dump his body on the side of the road somewhere, but Ludwig just started the engine and made another snide remark about Basch's injuries before driving off.

Basch never thought his first ride in a car would be when he was in an immense amount of agony, and he definitely didn't expect a Gestapo kriminalinspektor to be driving him home. He'd always thought he would finally save up enough money and be able to buy his own car. At least in a personal car he wouldn't be terrified to get any blood on the seats.

"Don't think you got away easy, Zwingli," Ludwig said, startling Basch out of his car reverie. "I'm not going to drop your case entirely. Personally, I know you're guilty. But like I said, my superior told me I would be in a great deal of trouble if I sent you off to a labour camp, you being a gunsmith and all. So, let me offer you a piece of advice – don't try anything. I rather enjoyed our interrogation last night, and I look forward to the next one."

"Ja, why don't we do this again? I'll probably be back in a week or so," Basch suggested, looking back down at the bruise on his arm. There was a tugging in the back of his mind, like he knew what happened but couldn't place it. He remembered a sharp stab in his arm, but after that it was dark. Did Ludwig use some sort of sleep-inducing drug? Better yet, what did he do while Basch was asleep? That question was much more terrifying than the first, as Basch's imagination went to dark places trying to come up with the answer.

"Here we are." Ludwig stopped the car in front of Basch's house, motioning for him to get out. "Take care of yourself, Zwingli. I hope to finally convict you some day and be on your firing squad."

"And I hope to see your obituary in the paper." Basch got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. As Ludwig drove off the front door creaked open, revealing a tired Lilli still in her nightgown.

"Basch?" Lilli asked like it wasn't her brother standing at edge of their small yard. "What did they do to you?"

Basch took a step towards her, not fully realizing how weak his legs were. The next thing he knew he was on his knees with his face in the gravel. Darkness crept back into the corners of his vision, the ringing returning in his ears. When his eyes cleared again, there were bare feet in front of him.

"I'm fine, really," Basch reassured Lilli as she helped him up. It took him a moment to get steady again, his legs threatening to give out. "Are you alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be? Oh, no, look at your eye." Lilli reached up, putting her hand on Basch's jaw. Tears were welling up in her green eyes, her eyebrows curved up in concern.

"What's wrong with it?"

Lilli smiled, putting her brother's arm over her shoulder. "You look just fine, big brother. I'm just happy you're okay. I was so scared last night; I thought you were going to die this time."

"Please, would Ludwig actually kill me?" Basch asked as Lilli helped him inside. She led Basch into their bedroom, the man collapsing on the bed almost instantly. It felt wonderful to lay down on something soft again instead of the cold floor.

"I have to tell you a secret," Lilli said quietly when she came back into the room with a wet washrag and bandages. "But you can't get mad at me."

"You didn't kill someone, did you?" Basch laughed. He expected Lilli to at least smile, but she kept a somber face as she washed the blood from Basch's face.

"It's worse. I went out and painted for you."

"…You did what?" It took Basch a moment to process her words, like she was speaking Portuguese instead of German. "You can't be serious."

"I am. It said 'the only good Nazi is a dead one' and I put edelweiss all over. It's rather pretty," she said, her voice full of childish pride. "It looks just like your work, you can't even tell the difference, except I make my 'a' different than you do."

"So what if it's pretty or looks like mine?" Basch put a hand on Lilli's shoulder, making the girl pause and look up at him. "You can't put yourself in danger like that. Please, Lilli, you're all I have left in the world."

"I know. But you haven't even heard the best part. I ran into some man on my way back. Or rather, he ran into me. And he didn't suspect a thing!"

"What am I going to do with you?" Basch sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hated himself already for getting snared in the Underground, and now he'd dragged Lilli down with him. If he got caught, the Gestapo could tie Basch back to Lilli, and both of them would be in serious trouble.

"Take me on your next rendezvous? I'd be a wonderful agent," Lilli suggested, looking up at Basch too hopefully.

Christian Kleiner was a very busy man. This was made evident by his beloved agenda, full of important events and meetings. The poor leather book was nothing more than pages upon pages of names and dates, riddled with bookmarks to keep track of the urgent ones. Every day something new was circled or underlined, usually listed under "birthday" or "Party meeting." By the looks of it, Christian must have never slept.

And he usually didn't. That agenda kept him awake at night worrying himself sick. He'd flip through it before he went to bed, checking flyers and mail to make sure the dates matched up. One little slip up could be the end of his citizenship, of his business, of his life. The book with "C.K." stamped into the cover meant everything to him.

And the dates meant nothing.

The book was an alibi, only to be used if the Gestapo caught up to him.

Christian Kleiner wasn't Christian Kleiner.

Francis Bonnefoy was Christian Kleiner to the world. Born and raised in Innsbruck – he actually grew up in the slums of Paris, where he learned how to lie, cheat, and steal – Christian Kleiner was your standard middle-class-but-almost-high-class Viennese man. He didn't have a hint of a French accent, save for when he got angry enough or careless. But for the most part, Francis had his alias perfected.

His job was technically listed as an accountant, and he was rather good with numbers, but his real occupation was a conman. He preferred to call himself a "master of the art of confidence," as conman had such an ugly ring to it. Francis' occupation was basically gaining the Nazis' trust, slipping into their records, changing a few things, and then pretending like nothing happened.

He was the man everyone in and around Vienna wanted to know, every criminal, every immigrant, every Jew. If the Nazi Party didn't take a liking to anything about them, they went straight to Francis. He'd seen them all, the black market enthusiasts who had a Gestapo agent breathing down their neck, the homosexual begging for Francis to hook them up with a fake girlfriend, the Polish woman with seven kids who'd just gotten a call-up to work at a labour camp, and his absolute least favourite, the half-Jew who knew they were going to be in Mauthausen in a matter of days.

And he could handle them all. The process wasn't that hard; the person who needed a few offenses erased from records or maybe a last name changed came to Francis, paid him with whatever they could, and Francis went to work, grabbed a few folders, seamlessly copied them and changed what needed to be changed, and slipped them back into the system. If the customer needed papers, he could provide them. Girlfriends were easy – he had a list of women willing to help, all he had to do was pull out the little black book and pick a name. He could even produce train tickets to Switzerland. His favourite was coming up with new names and helping to destroy accents.

But, as Francis learned the hard way, there was always an exception. Just when he thought the world was full of universals, in walked the most infuriating and desperate case he'd ever seen.

Roderich von Wolffe, formerly known as Roderich Edelstein, was slowly killing Francis.

He could come up with a last name in an instant. He could make new papers in no more than an hour. He could smuggle a family across the Swiss border in a day. But to erase everything, absolutely everything about a man's past simply because his father was Jewish? Francis wasn't doing little "touch-ups" on Roderich's life anymore. He was writing a biography about a man who never existed. And worst of all, he had to move faster than Hitler's men.

"I'm so sorry, dear, but I really can't get to you until Monday," Francis sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm so crammed for time now it's almost impossible to find just a minute to see someone." He glanced down at the agenda in his hands, his heart sinking as he read "von Wolffe" listed for tomorrow – he'd just learned of a new report on the man, written by some nobody in Wolfsburg. Thank God Francis had connections, or else something like a nobody's report could slip through the system.

"Please, I am not sure how much longer my husband has," the woman on the other end of the line begged, her voice choked out by a sob. Getting a call-up to report to a labour camp within two days or be forcefully taken was never easy.

"I know, I know. But it's just a matter of time management. I promise I can see you Sunday. Tell Herr Strauss I said hello, would you?"

"Of course. And if you can come any sooner…" the woman trailed off.

"I'll try. It's just two days; I know you can make it. And if the situation becomes urgent, you can stop by my house and I'll figure something out. Auf Wiedersehen," Francis said, trying not to seem like he wanted to kill someone.

"Auf Wiedersehen."

Francis hung his abused phone back up, tucking the agenda into his coat pocket. Every single day someone was calling him, begging for help. And he never refused a case, unless, of course, it was the occasional Gestapo agent. He rather enjoyed those calls, as he loved making up ridiculous stories to throw them so far off track they never got back on him.

Just as he was about to leave to meet up with another client, his phone rang yet again. Slamming his hat down on the table, Francis marched over to the phone and picked it up.

"Hello?" he said so quickly he forgot to cover his French accent and dropped the "h".

"Good morning, Christian," the rough voice of Basch said. "Do you remember our little agreement last week? Or are you so damn busy that you don't have the time for your cousin who got you to where you are now?"

"Basch? Oh, Lord, you sound awful. What happened?" Francis asked.

"I got beat up by the Gestapo, injected with something that I still don't know about, and told a stranger about the time I nearly drowned in Lake Geneva. So, ja, I'm fine," Basch snapped. "Now, back to the agreement. I risked my damn life for you and your business, it's time you do the same for me."

"Please, I haven't got the –"

"Time?" Basch interrupted. "Listen, you don't make a promise to me and then shrug it off. I got a problem and you're going to fix it. You, me, the bar, eleven-fifteen tomorrow. And a friendly reminder that I carry a gun at all times, so don't sneak up behind me. Oh, and I'm bringing Lilli on her first date. So, don't mess this up for us. I would hate for everything to go wrong for her."

Francis sighed, feeling rather offended that Basch showed up out of nowhere and demanded a rendezvous when he was so crunched for time. But what could he do? "Why would you think I would mess something up? I'm perfect, unlike you."

"Perfect until the moment you're told to do actual work," Basch added.

"You don't have to be so rude," Francis huffed.

"Just like how you don't have to be a dirty liar? It's my job to be rude. I'll see you Sunday. You better not be late."

A/N: Oh, gosh, sorry for how long this chapter is. It got kind of out of hand. So, I'll keep this short and sweet.

Thank you to SaoirseParisa, exca314, idrinkwaterjuicesoda, Chizu5645, EllaAwkward, Abc, Swing-Stole-My-Heart (wow, it's going be hard to get used to that…) and Comix and Co! You guys are all fabulous!

See you all next chapter!