I'm nothing more than a tool to them. And they've finally broken me. Now they're just going to throw me away.

Roderich tried to force those thoughts from his mind as he waited in the painful silence, his own mind pushing him closer and closer to insanity. Every positive thought was followed immediately by a grotesque imagining of how they were going to kill him. It was impossible to stay optimistic when the only things that came to mind were cyanide pills and nooses.

He knew he was going to die. Death was inevitable – he'd completely messed up this time. There were no second chances. In a few short minutes, Roderich von Wolffe would no longer be breathing. They were probably deliberating the method in which to kill the musician in the next room, fighting over what technique would be more agonizing. Would they go with the generic gunshot to the head or would they invent some elaborate scheme that ended up with Roderich begging for mercy? The anticipation was killing Roderich faster than whatever the officials had up their sleeves for him.

Worst of all, he was entirely in the dark as to what was going on. The propaganda men hadn't told him anything after the performance. One of them said something to Doctor Goebbels, and suddenly they all slipped away into a back room and Roderich was told to wait for his presumed demise.

I shouldn't have gone with a lullaby, of all things, Roderich said to himself, holding his head. This is the Third Reich, Roderich, not some gentle empire. They want music that makes them seem powerful and heroic. A lullaby is just too tender, too kindhearted for a regime of mass destruction and death. If only I could change the music to something more valiant. Then I wouldn't be sitting here waiting for them to come drag me into a back room.

It's such a shame I have to go this way.

I wonder what's faster, cyanide or a bullet. Does it hurt to be shot in the head? Whatever they choose, I'm sure it'll be excruciatingly slow and unbearable. I'd rather get thrown into Dachau or Mauthausen.

Oh, God, what if they do send me to a camp? I can't live like that! I don't want to waste away in a prison! Even just thinking about that makes me want to do myself in.

Why don't I kill myself before they can get to me? It'll be like a final laugh at the Nazi empire. They want me so bad and they'll never get me. So, what is there in this room that could end my life? Strange, I never thought I'd say that sentence to myself.

Roderich was not well known for his ideas – and his newest one certainly was a bit too drastic. He looked around the room, rather disappointed when he didn't find any guns lying around. With a quick glance out the window, Roderich figured that jumping wouldn't do much more than snap a few bones. For a moment he glanced at Marlene's case before realizing he didn't have the heart to hurt his innocent Stradivarius. Even snapping a string and trying to choke himself with that would hurt him more than any human ever could.

Perhaps if I broke the window and took a piece of glass to slit my wrists, Roderich thought, looking at the window in a morbid wonder. No, they'd hear the shatter before I'd even have a chance to hurt myself. They'd probably even save me just so they can have the pleasure of killing me themselves.

Oh, I've got it! My belt! Damn it, Roderich, you are an absolute genius! Roderich grabbed his belt, trying to unbuckle it as fast as he could. He'd almost gotten it when the door was thrown open, a man he'd never seen standing in the doorway. The man's smile faded when he saw Roderich sitting in a corner of the room with his belt undone.

"They…they would like to see you now," the man stuttered, his voice giving away everything.

Roderich was too embarrassed to say anything – he just nodded. Quickly he fixed his belt, grabbing Marlene's case and following the man into the back room. He went in with his head held high, refusing the higher-ups the pleasure of seeing him panic. If he was going to die, it was going to be dignified.

As dignified as one could be when they'd just attempted to strangle themselves with their own belt.

"Please, Herr von Wolffe, have a seat," the devilish voice ordered, the man it belonged to giving Roderich a cold grin. For a second Roderich considered being rebellious and starting a fight, but one look at the person before him sent him straight into submission. Feeling like he was in school again, he sank into the chair in front of the desk.

"I'm sure you know by now that we've been using your music for propaganda," the man said, grabbing a folder and removing a page. "It's come to my attention that the process needs to be legal. So, you can sign this and get more money for every performance or we can continue to steal from you. All you have to do is continue to write music for us, exactly as we say to." He put down a contract in front of Roderich, motioning for him to sign.

They're not going to shoot me? Oh, my God, I'm not going to die! Dear God, I'm alright. So, what did he just say about the contract? They're going to tell me exactly what to write? I can't let them control everything about me! What's next, they'll take away any right I have to speak?

But it's better than dying.

"And what would happen if I refused to continue working for you?" Roderich asked in a quiet voice, glancing over the contract. He wasn't sure how to feel about it; on one hand he wasn't going to be buried by tomorrow morning, and on the other he was going to be forced to write music exactly as he was told. There were plenty of things on the contract he didn't comprehend – but it didn't matter if he understood any of them, Roderich knew he was going to be forced into signing one way or another.

"We'd have to kill you."

Roderich glanced up. "You…would kill me?"

Doctor Josef Goebbels nodded, his smile mocking Roderich more than anything he could say. The infamous liar tapped the contract, his eyes saying everything for him. He didn't even have to open his mouth to make Roderich feel useless.

"This isn't going to be an ownership, correct? The music will still be listed as my own?" Roderich asked, looking over the contract for anything that said they could kill Roderich whenever they felt like they were done with him.

"Of course. You are the author," Goebbels said, his voice growing more impatient with every word.

Oh, God, this is bad. Roderich bit into his cheek, looking down at the paper as if it were a hideous demon trying to steal his soul instead of a simple contract. This is bad, this is bad, this is bad. If I sign, they're literally going to own me, and if I don't sign they're going to take my music from me illegally and claim it's legal. And then maybe shoot me.

Well, at least it can't get any worse than this. I mean, they could kill me right now, but I highly doubt they'd murder me in this exact spot. Bloodstains can't be easy to get out of carpet.

Enough of the joking around. What's the worst that could come out of me signing? All I have to do is keep making music, and I think Goebbels said something about better pay. So, I can live with this until the end of the war.

Can't I?

Roderich sighed, realizing he was probably making the wrong decision. But he was a desperate man on the verge of poverty. And to the musician, money was much more important than his own health. Reichsmarks couldn't buy happiness, but they could keep him far from Russia. In the end, that's all that mattered.

He signed his name on the line.

The second Roderich saw Goebbels take the contract back and lock it in a file cabinet, he knew he'd sold his soul. An immense feeling of guilt and regret crushed any joy that he had as Ludwig's comment about the path to Hell came back to mind. Was Roderich standing at the gates of Hell yet? Or was life somehow going to get worse for him?

"I'm rather surprised – I thought you would've put up more of a fight," Doctor Goebbels said, pulling out his wallet. "You artistic types are like that." He handed Roderich a much larger stack of reichsmarks than normal, his grin returning. "I'll call you later with details about the next recording."

"Danke, sir," Roderich replied, tucking the money into his own wallet. He felt empty inside, like some part of him was gone. The extra cash wasn't worth giving up all of his creativity. No longer was he going to write what he felt like – they were going to tell him exactly what they wanted and he would be expected to deliver.

"You don't have to call me 'sir,' Roderich. We're business partners now. To you, I'm Josef."

Something was very wrong about calling the devil by his first name.

The rain made a steady rhythm for Toris as he worked, shaping the scrap of wood into a wolf that could fit in his palm. All around him was absolute chaos. Sadik and Heracles were shouting at each other in Greek, Raivis was trying to stop the two from tearing each other apart, Eduard and Alfred were taking bets on who was going to throw the first punch, and Arthur was adding his insults to the mix without so much as a glance up from his Agatha Christie paperback. A thunderstorm raged on outside, rain hammering against the windows. Any minute now Toris was expecting Ivan to come out of his office and start yelling at everyone about something or the other. Just another day in Stalag XVIII-A.

It was absolute madness any given time in Barrack Two, pushing Toris closer to snapping. Some days he wanted to do nothing but scream at everyone, and others he was contemplating murder. To control this anger welling up inside of him, he took to searching for broken posts and planks lying around Stalag XVIII-A and carving them into little people and animals. Sometimes when he got angry enough, he'd carve a figure and call it whomever was irritating him, and then stab it repeatedly. It was a morbid form of therapy, but it worked.

"Sadik, I'll give you half of my Red Cross package if you slap Heracles right now!" Alfred shouted despite the fact that they were all in the same small room together.

"That's cheating," Eduard snapped, giving Alfred a hard shove. "I specifically mentioned in the rules that you can't use bribes."

"There's rules? I thought we were just taking bets on who was going to break the other's nose first. I didn't realize everything was so official."

Eduard shook his head. "They do this at least twice a week – we need some sort of law now. Don't you remember me telling you last week?"

"No. Why the hell are there rules for who's going to start a fight?" Alfred groaned.

"Because, people like you cheat."

"It's not cheating!"

"Don't you two have some better way to spend your time?" Arthur asked, flipping a page. "You know, Alfred, maybe you wouldn't be considered such an idiot if you spent your time doing something worthwhile instead of putting money on who's going to hurt who."

"Says the one reading some romance novel," Eduard muttered under his breath.

Arthur rolled his eyes, still not honouring anyone with his full attention. "I'm sorry you're so uncivilized in Siberia that you think The A.B.C Murders is nothing more than a 'romance novel.' But I can understand why you would think that, seeing as you've probably never seen a book in your life. Maybe if you Slavs weren't drunk all the time, you'd have some culture about you."

"Firstly, I'm not from Siberia. Second, I have seen a book. And third, Toris is a Slav too! And look at him being cultured in his lonely corner!" Eduard said, gesturing to the bunk beneath Arthur's where Toris was working. Alfred was the one to christen Toris' bed the "lonely corner" and it unfortunately caught on.

"Please don't drag me into this," Toris said with a sigh. "Just let me work in what little peace I can get."

"What are you making for your boyfriend today, Toris?" Arthur asked, leaning over the edge of his bed to watch Toris work.

"Feliks isn't my boyfriend. And it's a wolf," Toris muttered.

"Right. I've read enough 'romance novels' to know when two people are in love. The main character is always making something for the love interest, and you have enough figures to start a small army."

"I don't love him! He's just a good friend," Toris snarled, beginning the delicate process of carving fur into the wolf. "He asked me to bring him home something from the war, so I thought I'd make him these." He smiled to himself a bit at the thought of the cheery blond, wondering what Feliks was doing. Hopefully he was staying out of trouble – Toris usually was the one to stop Feliks' less than well planned ideas.

His thoughts quickly went back to the last night the two saw each other, a cold night sometime in October. Feliks found out about Toris' enlistment and came over to the man's house in tears, begging for him not to go. They stayed up all night talking, Feliks making plans for them to run away together and Toris killing them with reason. Soon they were nestled close to each other, laughing about things that happened years ago and making promises.

Their final goodbye was a bittersweet glance at the train station, neither of the two having the nerve to say what they really wanted to. And then Toris was taken far away to some Polish village with nothing more than his memories of Feliks.

"Look at that! Toris is smiling!" Eduard announced all too smugly, growing bored with Sadik and Heracles' fight. "Admit it, he's totally your secret lover."

"Feliks is the only friend I've ever had. I don't think I could love him. It would just be awkward," Toris shot back as his face went red.

"You're blushing," Eduard taunted, coming over to the lonely corner. He put his hand on Toris' shoulder like a father would, looking over his glasses. "You know you don't need to be ashamed of anything. We all love you for who you are, Toris. Even if you do have a secret boyfriend who you are denying being in love with."

Toris pushed Eduard away from him, wishing he knew when to shut up. "Just drop it," he snapped. "My relationships are none of your business. I don't ask you constantly about your love lives!"

"We only ask because we care about you," Arthur said gently, his voice drowned out by a clap of thunder.

"Could you stop caring?" Toris asked. "Did you ever think that maybe I'm sick of hearing about Feliks? Or that you're bringing up horrible memories?"

"I didn't think it was –" Arthur started.

"No, you didn't think! You never think about anyone else's feelings beside your own. So you keep laughing. Keep laughing while you remain blissfully ignorant of every damn thing that's happened to me."

"Toris, do you want to talk about it?" Eduard offered, losing his joking smile. Toris brushed him off, returning to the wolf carving. But this time he wasn't working carefully – he tore the knife into the wood, his anger blinding any logical thoughts.

"Toris?" Alfred said. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Toris replied through clenched teeth.

If only they knew, Toris said to himself. Then they wouldn't even think about talking to me. Are their families slaving away in gulags? Were they forced into the army by a charming conman who's now controlling their lives? Did they happen to get captured and end up at the same camp as said conman?! What are the odds that I'd get sent to the same camp as –

"Malyutka, were you just shouting?" Ivan asked, appearing from his office. The room went quiet, even Sadik and Heracles stopping their fight. He came over to Toris, his smile void of any real happiness.

Speak of the devil.

"Sorry, sir, I just got a little upset," Toris apologized, knowing all too well what was coming next.

"Is this for your friend?" Ivan took the wolf from Toris' hands, looking the figure over. "It's very pretty."

"Thank you, sir." Toris kept his eyes trained on the ground, refusing to look up at the man who'd gotten him dragged into the Soviet army.

All of a sudden, Ivan put his hand under Toris' chin and tilted his head up. "The storm bothers me. You will come sleep with me tonight, yes?" Even though it was meant to be a question, Toris knew it was a demand. He never got a choice.

"Yes, sir," Toris said softly, putting his knife down. Before he got up he stole a glance at the other men, a sort of last cry for help. No one said anything. They all watched him be dragged into the office, unaware of the pain Toris was about to endure. Never once had someone stood up to Ivan – why would they start now?

Ivan pushed Toris into his office, closing the door behind him. Toris instinctively began unbuttoning his shirt, wondering what he could've done to make him angry this time.

"Stop that," Ivan ordered, putting the wolf figure on his desk. Toris felt his heart sink – he was never getting the wolf back. "I am not punishing you tonight."

"…You're not?"

Ivan turned back towards him, indigo eyes flickering with a flash of lightning. His grin was suspiciously gentle, seemingly genuine. "Lay down with me, malyutka."

Is that what he wants? Strange, he hasn't had me sleep with him in a long time. Then again, why else would he be so…so nice to me?

Toris took off his boots, sliding into bed next to the man he loathed. Their relationship was almost humorous – Toris told himself he hated Ivan and yet cared deeply for the man, and Ivan loved Toris to pieces and took pleasure in beating him. Even though Ivan was the reason for the scars on Toris' back, Toris couldn't help but want him to be happy. Ivan truly was scared and alone most of the time, and he couldn't stand it. No one deserved to be alone.

"Malyutka, are you listening?" Ivan asked, snuggling close to Toris.

"Yes, sir."

Ivan stifled a laugh, putting a hand to Toris' face. "We are alone. You can call me by my first name."

"Sorry, sir, it just feels wrong." Along with everything you've ever made me do. "You're my superior officer."

"Call me Ivan, Toris. That's an order."

"Yes, sir – I mean, yes, Ivan." Toris couldn't stand calling the colonel by his first name; it felt too familiar, like they'd known each other forever. "May I ask what is it you wanted me for?"

"You are very good with stealth missions, yes? You can crack safes?" Ivan asked.

"I suppose. But I can't be all that good about stealth, because I got captured."

Ivan laughed to himself, running his hand down the side of Toris' face. "That does not matter. I need your help."

"Beilschmidt? Good God, did you stay here all night again?"

Ludwig ignored the man behind him as he pushed another pin into the map, taking a step back. Sure enough, the pins matched up with the hand drawn map of Vienna on his desk. Basch Zwingli was the saboteur he'd been chasing after for weeks now, no doubt about it. But his alibi was perfect – multiple trustworthy people saw him where he said he was – so how could he be in two places at once?

"Are you still on that kid's case?" Hochstetter – the new kriminalkomissionar from Berlin who was much too bubbly to be a seasoned Gestapo agent and had the most startling blue eyes – came over to Ludwig, looking over his work. He ran a hand through his sandy blond hair, letting a low whistle out at the sight of the map. "I swear, you're going to let this Zwingli boy eat you up. Just drop the case already."

"But I know he's guilty," Ludwig huffed, leaning back against his desk.

He knew Basch was guilty of every offense he'd ever been dragged into the office for.

But he didn't have the evidence to prove it.

The one piece he had to work with was a map, which fit perfectly into Basch's story. And after dozens of phone calls and investigations, Ludwig found that every single person on the map was one of Basch's customers. It didn't make any sense – was the gunsmith trying to frame his clients? Usually, criminals worked in a pattern with some sort of motive behind their actions. But Basch, he struck at total random, leaving the Gestapo guessing and him out of jail.

"I even used sodium pentothal," Ludwig said, thinking back to the night of the interrogation. "Not only did he stay conscious for a good three minutes longer than most men, he somehow avoided all of my questions and wouldn't shut up about Lake Geneva. I got him to answer one thing – when was his birthday? He always lies to me, and the one damn straight answer was his birthday."

Hochstetter choked on a laugh, holding his gloved hand up to hide his wide grin. "Some people are like that, where they aren't very compliant. Supposedly, it has something to do with the person's personality."

"So, if someone's a complete pain in the ass, they won't respond?" Ludwig asked, looking over the map once again. He was hoping Basch would have a shop he hadn't vandalized yet and he could set up a stakeout. However, every single building that was circled was already painted. Basch was already planning for his next group of victims.

"Listen, Beilschmidt, I like you, but you have to get better about focus," Hochstetter said, plucking the map from Ludwig's hands. "You get so worked up over one small detail that you forget to look at the whole picture. Think about who Zwingli is associated with."

"Absolutely no one. He's an irritating and short loner."

"Come on, he has to have some contacts."

Ludwig thought over the extensive research he'd forced himself through, trying to come up with at least one name. "The only person I can think of is his cousin, a man named Christian Kleiner."

"Good, good. Now, who is Kleiner associated with?" Hochstetter asked.

"What does that have to do with Basch?"

"You automatically assume that his closest friends would be the way to get to him, correct?" Hochstetter went over to the map on the wall, tapping the pin over Basch's house. "But close friends never would tell on their friend. Perhaps this Kleiner is a talkative fellow, though. And maybe he has a good friend, one he thinks he can trust with anything. So, who does Kleiner talk to frequently?"

"...Roderich von Wolffe."

Hochstetter stopped in his cheery tracks. "The Führer's musician? Are you serious?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Ludwig sighed, running a hand through his blond hair. "I keep close tabs on von Wolffe. He talks to Kleiner at least once a week. But he wouldn't know anything. From what I've gathered, von Wolffe is totally oblivious to the world around him."

"It could be a cover. There's a Spanish agent I met a while back, Antonio something-or-the-other, who plays dumb to catch criminals. I thought he was just an idiot – just like you think von Wolffe is clueless. I'm not saying you interrogate him," Hochstetter added, grabbing a red pin from Ludwig's desk and pushing it into Roderich's home on the map. "But you ought to pay attention to what he says, maybe try to work out a detail or two and build on that."

"There's the thing. He's too cautious with his words. You can tell when he talks; he picks out every word he's going to say carefully. Even talking to him about something as natural as his music makes him think over each sentence."

"So we just have to come up with a way to make him talk without thinking!" Hochstetter came over to Ludwig, his excitement fading with a glance at the man. "Maybe we should talk about this later. You need to go home and get some sleep. It isn't good for you to stay up all night working."

Ludwig folded up Basch's map, tucking it into his pocket. "Ja, I think I know that by now. I'll see you tomorrow, right?"

"For sure. And then we can set up our whole plan."

"Auf Weidersehen," Ludwig said, walking out of his office. He was so tired he could barely walk straight, thoughts of sleep taking over everything else. Ludwig hated himself for working so late – but he got fixated on one thing and wouldn't rest until it was finished.

"Wait, Beilschmidt! I've got it!" Hochstetter called after him, running down the hall and stopping in front of Ludwig. "We have to get von Wolffe drunk! My God, we've got to get him drunk!"

"Can we please talk about this later?" Ludwig asked.

"Ja, ja, ja, sorry, but I just had to tell you. If he's drunk, he'll forget about his words!"

Ludwig shook his head, looking down at the kriminalkomissionar like he'd suggested they jump off a cliff. "We don't even know if he drinks. What if he refuses our offer and gets suspicious?"

"He's working for the officials – he has to be an alcoholic or on some sort of drugs. Everyone working in the inner circle is. So, all we have to do is invite him for a few drinks, and then we have our answers!" Hochstetter was practically jumping up and down as he spoke, his smile getting bigger with each word. "We'll set something up when you get back. Right now, you need to sleep. Gute Nacht."

"Gute Nacht," Ludwig replied, pushing past Hochstetter and going out to his beloved Mercedes. Once inside, he sat there for a moment and thought over everything that Hochstetter said. Would Roderich really be a drunk?

He seemed much too uptight for that. Roderich von Wolffe was an aristocratic man, not some lowly alcoholic. Still, even the most straight-laced person made mistakes. If he played his cards right, Ludwig could get Roderich drunk. Then again, what if he knew nothing about Basch? It'd be a massive waste of time, time which Basch could use to his advantage.

"Who am I kidding?" Ludwig asked himself as he started on the drive home. "Roderich's probably never touched a beer in his life."

Roderich staggered out onto the streets of Vienna, grabbing a lamppost to support himself. His lavender eyes searched for the familiar names of the bars, even though he was mostly incoherent and wouldn't have been able to read. However, he shamefully knew the area well enough to remember where the best bars were – even when he was drunk off his ass.

"I told you to go home, Roderich. You could get hurt or in a helluva lot of trouble staying out here as smashed as you are," said the man who'd just thrown Roderich out, a young bartender who'd become well acquainted with the musician over the past year. "Go home."

"Make me," Roderich snarled. "You don't know th' sort of hell I'm going through now. 'F I want to stay out, I'll stay out as late as I damn well please."

"I just don't want you to hurt yourself or say somethin' you shouldn't."

Roderich managed a lopsided smile, walking off in the direction of the next bar. "I'll be fine, kid. I'm…I'm a drunk professional. And besides, it isn't even midnight yet. All the fun starts at midnight."

"If I find you dead in an alley tomorrow, can I have your Stradivarius?" the man called after him.

"Whatever. I don't need Marlene when 'm dead. My life's gone to hell anyway."

The contract from the day before was the whole reason Roderich was even out that night. He'd been sober for a week – which was extremely good by his standards – and decided selling his creative freedom to the devil incarnate was a perfect reason to go out and get drunk. At least this time he had the money for it, so he wasn't going to be without dinner for a few days.

Roderich pushed open the door to a shady little bar, one he'd grown to love. At first he hated the thought of being with people of a substantially lower class than him, but he quickly learned poor people were much more fun to drink with than the aristocrats. And this bar was the lowest of low – but the owners, a spunky Dane and the sternest Norwegian possibly in all of Europe, made it all worth it. For some reason, the duo attracted the best people Vienna had to offer.

"Drunk again? What the hell happened this time, Roderich?" Mathias asked when Roderich came inside. His smile seeming to light up the whole room, which was mostly empty, save for one resident alcoholic who Roderich knew never left the bar, a man with long blond curls in an expensive-looking suit, a man in uniform with a woman nestled next to him, a handful of regulars, and a man with sharp blue eyes. "Got to thinking about 'Lizabeta again?"

"Hell no. That bitch could be getting murdered and I wouldn't do a thing to save her lyin' ass. I got a promotion."

"Promoted to what?" Lukas said to no one in particular, his face hidden entirely by a thick book of poetry. "The Führer's favourite alcoholic?"

"I already was his favourite." Roderich sat down at the bar, looking over at Mathias. "Give me somethin' that'll absolutely kill me."

"Must've been a pretty good promotion," Mathias said over his shoulder as he grabbed a blue bottle and a shot glass.

"That or he's trying to kill himself again," Lukas added. "Remember what happened after Elizabeta? Found him half-dead out back."

Mathias handed Roderich the glass, his grin looking a bit more concerned than happy. "You aren't trying to kill yourself again, are you? I thought promotions were good."

"They are, they are. But I just gave Satan almost every damn thing I still enjoyed. But he can't take drinking from me." He downed the whole shot of whatever was in the glass to prove his point, paying no attention to how bad the liquor burned. To him, the burning was just a sign that he wasn't drunk enough.

"Satan?" Lukas looked up, blue eyes void of any real emotion. "Are you referring to Hitler or someone else?"

"Lukas!" Mathias hissed, giving the man a slap upside the head.

"It's that son-of-a-bitch, Goebbels," Roderich snapped. Had he been sober, he would've noticed that several people looked at him in varying states of disgust – only he wasn't sober, so it didn't matter.

But Mathias did take notice. "Hey, Roderich, don't say stuff like that. Anyone in here could be a Gestapo agent," he said without the razor edge he'd given to Lukas. "I don't want you to get shot."

"So what 'f I get killed? At this point I'm just waiting for that bullet. I've got a Gestapo man followin' me, a blondie named Ludwig. Damn, that's a cute name, Ludwig. D' you think he gets called Luddy?" Roderich asked. "I'd call him Luddy. He's a real cutie, you know. Like a way too big puppy. I think he's hitting on me, 'cause he keeps running into me and is always super shy. I dunno about you, but I'd kiss 'im if he wanted to kiss. But only, like, a sort of one-time thing, because I'm not into that."

Mathias glanced at Lukas before bursting out laughing, hiding his face with his hands. Even Lukas let an emotion slip, a faint hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "Oh, God, you are so smashed right now, Roderich," Mathias gasped through his hysterics. "I've never seen you so drunk."

"I've never seen myself so drunk," Roderich said proudly, running a hand through his dark hair. "But here I am."

"Would you care to go on about this Ludwig?" Lukas asked, actually seeming interested in something other than reading for once.

"Well, he's a lot bigger than me. And he's got a nice car. But he's also got a gun and I don't think he's scared to shoot me. But his eyes. His eyes are gorgeous. Like the ocean, but without all th' fish n' stuff. And sometimes when he smiles, his right eye twitches just a little bit."

"What's his personality like? Even if he is as handsome as you say, you got to take into account how big of an asshole he is. Like Mathias here," Lukas said, motioning to the Dane. "He's rather nice looking, but his personality is atrocious."

"I have a wonderful personality," Mathias muttered under his breath.

"He likes to lie t' people, a lot. But he said that he loved my company. Oh, and sometimes he can get real angry," Roderich added.

"…Remember what I said," a new voice said as the door was thrown open. "Tall, dark hair, glasses, drunk."

"Right."

Out of the blue, a young girl jumped up on the barstool next to Roderich. "Hello," she chirped, giving Roderich a little wave.

"Excuse me, dear, how old are you?" Mathias asked before Roderich could even say a word.

"I'm fourteen, sir. I'm here with my big brother."

Roderich looked over the girl, knowing he'd seen her somewhere. There was something painfully familiar about her braided pigtails and her big innocent eyes. Then all the pieces clicked together. "You're…you're th' girl who was paintin', aren't you?" he asked.

Her face went pale for a moment, a flash of recognition in her blue eyes. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"No, I remember you painting. You wrote some bad thing on the wall with a bunch of edelweiss. It was really pretty. You should be an artist."

"Sir, I really don't know what you're telling me."

"Don't harass the kid, Roderich. Sorry, dear, he's totally drunk right now," Mathias apologized for Roderich. "I'd save yourself before he starts hitting on you. One time he nearly made out with Herr Grumpy over here when they were both wasted," he said, motioning to Lukas. "I had to step in before things got serious."

"That was one time. And it wasn't my fault that someone kept spiking my drinks," Lukas growled.

Mathias stuck out his bottom lip in a mock pout. "I can't help it, you're just too cute when you're drunk."

"I am not cute." Lukas went back to his book, done with social interactions for the night.

"Once again, sorry you had to see that, kid," Mathias said, shooting Lukas a worried look. Lukas just rolled his eyes.

"Oh, don't worry, I'm fine. It's a lovely night tonight, isn't it?"

It took Roderich a moment to realize the girl was talking to him. He sighed loudly before answering with, "It's bloody marvelous. 'Specially when you're going to Hell. But you can see the North Star, so that's somethin'."

"Oh, my gosh, you're the contact?" Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "That was the recognition code, right? The mention about the North Star? I thought I'd really messed up this time. It's my first rendezvous. So, Basch told me that the bridge out around Klosterneuburg is the next target, and you have the explosives, ja?"

"Roderich, when the hell did you get involved with the Underground?" Mathias asked, keeping his voice as low as the girl's. The whole tone changed in a matter of moments, no longer joking and cheerful.

"I'm not underground. And what are you talkin' about, explosives and shit?" Roderich turned to the girl for an answer. "What are we blowin' up?"

The room suddenly went silent.

"Shut up," Mathias said, leaning in close to Roderich. "I know you are totally incoherent, but you have to be quiet. There could be a Gestapo man here right now, and if you blow this girl's cover, I will take you out back and kill you myself." He looked at the girl, who was as white as the snowy fields of Russia. "Don't worry about a thing, dear. I'll take care of everything. And Roderich, he probably will wind up passing out in the street somewhere and won't remember anything."

"…I ruined everything," the girl half whispered, half sobbed. "Basch trusted me with this, and I ruined it. He just looked like the description Basch gave to me."

"Shh, shh, it's alright," Mathias said, ruffling the girl's hair. "You can wait here until your contact comes. If you need to get out fast, we can help. And please, don't worry about Roderich. I'll take him home."

"I feel like you're leaving me out of somethin'," Roderich huffed, looking from the girl to Mathias. "This is my business now. I want to make something explode."

"Shut. Up," Lukas snarled.

"Why are you all tellin' me to be quiet? I haven't –" Roderich was cut short by a rough hand being clapped over his mouth.

"I am so sorry he's bothering you," the man with his hand over Roderich's mouth said. "I'll be taking him home now."

"Basch, I –" the girl started.

"I know, Lilli," he interrupted. "But it's alright. I'm going to go take care of it. Right now, I need you to go stay with Christian while I take him back. Make sure he knows we have to leave soon."

"Hold it," Mathias said, leaning over the counter to grab Basch's arm. The blond immediately reached for something in his coat pocket, the scratched wood of a Luger's grip panel barely visible. Mathias backed off, grabbing for his own pistol he kept close. "Basch, we're not going to do this again," he said in a low, dark voice that didn't fit him at all.

"Don't touch me, then," Basch shot back, putting the Luger back in his coat pocket. "You know how I am."

"Do you know Roderich? Because I'm sure as hell not letting a madman like you go out with him."

Basch started to drag Roderich out the door. "Ja, I know him pretty well. I'm just going to make sure he gets home."

Mathias nodded, finally understanding what was going on. "Right. Sorry about Roderich, he really wasn't intending to screw anything up. So, uh, I guess we'll see you next week, then. Auf Weidersehen."

"Auf Weidersehen!" Roderich said.

Basch practically carried Roderich out to the alley, slamming him up against the wall. Roderich was still too out of it to notice the pistol pressed to his temple. "How much do you know?" Basch snarled.

"We're gonna blow somethin' up, right?" Roderich asked excitedly. "I've never done somethin' like that."

"Ah, shit, you're honestly drunk, aren't you?"

Roderich nodded a little too enthusiastically. "I'm drunk ten days out of the week. No, that isn't right. How many days are there in a week? Thirteen? I'm drunk every damn day."

"That doesn't mean I'm not going to kill you now just because you're wasted. You could still remember something. So, any last words I can bring home for the family?" he asked as he cocked the pistol.

"I hate my family. They're a bunch of Jews, you know. Tried to raise me 's one." Roderich fully realized what he just said, putting a hand over his mouth. "Oh my God. You didn't hear that. I'm not supposed to tell anyone. Don't say a thing to Josef, please. Oh, God, they're going to kill me!"

"Josef who?"

"Doesn't everyone know Josef?" Roderich asked. "Josef…um…Josef…What the hell is his last name?"

"Goebbels?" Basch finished, intending it to be just a joke.

"That's right! Josef Goebbels! We're good friends now, we can call each other by our first names. I have a concert in two weeks with him. If he found out I'm a Jew-but-not-really-a-Jew, he'd kill me right there. And I don't want to die that way."

Basch took a step back, lowering the gun. "You're…You're that von Wolffe guy, aren't you? My God, I'm trying to kill Roderich von Wolffe. And better yet, he's Jewish!"

"What are you screaming about?" a different voice asked, the well-dressed man coming into the alley with the girl, Lilli, in tow. He caught sight of Roderich, his calm manner disappearing.

"Francis? Are we all having some sort of reunion tonight?" Roderich went over to the Frenchman, only to be slammed up against the wall again.

"The wrong man was Roderich? I thought it was just some drunk we ran into!" Francis came over to Basch, ripping the gun from his hands. "Put this away right now, and don't you dare pull it out again unless Adolf Hitler himself comes down this alley."

"Heil Hitler!" Roderich slurred, holding his arm up in a lazy attempt at the salute.

"And you," Francis snapped, turning on his heels to face Roderich. "You sick bastard, you could've destroyed everything tonight! Why would you jeopardize everything I've done for you?! I made you, von Wolffe! Or should I say, I made you who you are today, Edelstein," he said in a low voice. "Without me you'd be dead in Auschwitz. You'd be working to death in Mauthausen." He turned to Basch, blue eyes aglow with fury. "How could you not know this is Roderich von Wolffe?!"

"I don't know? I had this mental image of him, some strong Aryan man who wasn't wasted at eleven-fifteen and probably heading off to the red-light district afterwards! And this…this thing right here is a sad excuse for Hitler's musician."

"Are we going to the whorehouse? I don't have a helluva lot of money left," Roderich said, getting himself a sharp kick in the shin from Basch.

Francis paused for a moment before saying anything, still not shaking his anger. "Can I come to your house tonight?" he asked Basch, pulling his own gun from his pocket. He flipped it so he was holding it by the barrel.

"This isn't a good time to be making arrangements!"

"I'm taking that as a yes. Can you drive?"

Basch shook his head. "No, I can't, and what the hell does this have to do with what's going on right now?!"

"Well, it's time you learned to drive," Francis reached into his pocket and removed a ring of keys, tossing them to Basch. "I want you to get my car and pull it up to here. Then you'll have to get out and help me with…" he faltered, motioning to Roderich instead of speaking. "And act natural. We have a boche in our shadow." Suddenly, Basch seemed to understand everything, grabbing Lilli and running off into the night.

Francis came over to Roderich, his face softening for just a moment. "Oh, dear, I don't want you to end up like this. Please, tell me this is just a one-night thing. You're not an alcoholic, are you?"

"I'm sorry Francis," Roderich apologized, looking down at the street. "I'm trying so hard to be good. But I am a drunk. I am a worthless drunk. And now you're mad."

"Dear Lord, please don't hate me for doing what I'm about to do," Francis whispered, raising the butt of the gun above his head. "I am so sorry, this is going to hurt like hell in the morning. Even more than hangovers usually do. I hope you'll forgive me." And with that, he brought the pistol down on Roderich's skull and the musician fell to the street.

A/N: Oh, gosh, it's been a pretty rough week here. I'll try to think of something positive to say...

Numbers from Poland is a year old today! Is that positive? God, it's pretty hard to think of working on a story that isn't Numbers.

A bit of a history lesson here for you - boche is French slang used during WWII to refer to German soldiers. It's the shortened form of alboche, which is a portmanteau of the words Allemand (German) and caboche (head or cabbage, depending on what you feel like?) It's basically calling the Germans stupid. Thank you, Robert Clary, for teaching me all these wonderful French insults.

Thank you to exca314, idrinkwaterjuicesoda, EllaAwkward, Chizu5645, Swing-Stole-My-Heart, and Comix and Co! Thank all of you for supporting me and my story!

See you all next chapter!