The door creaked open, breaking the rhythm of the night. Basch tore the cigarette out of his mouth, praying it wasn't Lilli behind him. But when he looked over his shoulder, it wasn't his sister standing in the doorway, but a concerned Francis in a blue striped nightshirt. He sighed, knowing Francis wasn't going to leave him be without saying anything.

"Are you…?" Francis didn't bother to finish his sentence, instead coming over and sitting down on the back step with Basch. "I'd never have thought you'd would smoke. But I guess I don't really know everything about you."

"I'm twenty now, I think I can make my own damn decisions," Basch snapped. "You don't have to be such a damn parent about every little thing I do."

Francis kept quiet for a long time after that, much longer than he normally went without saying anything. Basch wondered if he was offended or mad, even considering an apology for a moment. And then he remembered all the trouble Francis had caused him in the past and that night. He wasn't worthy of one of Basch's extremely rare and usually insincere apologies. No, he wasn't worthy of anything, not even his insults. After all, Francis had invited himself to Basch's home and brought a prisoner with him, albeit one of the easiest prisoners to handle in the whole world.

"Can I ask why, or is that too much?" Francis said, throwing Basch's train of thought off the track.

"Why what?"

"Why you smoke. It just seems so out of place for you." Francis paused, choosing his next words carefully so as to not get yelled at. "Ever since I've known you, you've always been the poster child of the family. You're not a lying thief like me, you don't cheat anyone, you're honest, and you do what's best for everyone. And right now, you're looking like me. I'm not trying to say that you shouldn't smoke, but it feels…wrong."

Basch didn't answer.

"You don't have to say anything, I understand," Francis said, giving Basch a tired smile.

"…No, you don't," Basch muttered. "You don't understand anything that's going on right now."

"You're right. I don't know what the hell has even happened tonight. But what I do know is that you're hiding something from me. You don't want me to worry. No one ever wants me to worry." Francis sighed, running a hand through his blond curls. "Honestly, everything was so much easier before the war."

Basch took a drag on his cigarette, the taste of smoke scratching at his throat. He'd never quite gotten used to it. "You're telling me. I turn around for one second and the next thing I know, there's some Nazi big-shot with a list of guns they broke and the parts they need to replace them. And this all has to be on a train to Russia in a day."

"There's so many round-ups going on that I can't keep track of people anymore," Francis admitted. "By the time I get to a family, they're all on their way to Dachau. I'm trying my best, but…"

"It's just too much?" Basch finished.

"Exactly. I get one person their papers and twelve others have already been caught and shot in the back. I'm lying to everyone, saying I can get to them on time." Francis held his head, hiding his eyes with his hands. "I'm a horrible person, Basch."

"And you think I'm any better? I nearly killed Roderich von Wolffe tonight. I've killed people in the past for overhearing things, for breaking my trust. At least you're saving lives, not throwing them away."

Francis looked up at Basch, blue eyes twinkling in the moonlight. "Don't say that. You're doing what's necessary."

"But still, every single time I've killed someone, I look down at them and I wonder what their life would've been like if they never ran into me," Basch said quietly, memories of the people he'd seen dead in alleys and ditches coming back to mind. "I always wonder about their families, what they'll think when they find their husband and father dead under a bridge. How many people have I made hate me?"

"I still love you, no matter what happens." Francis put an arm around Basch, letting his head rest on his cousin's shoulder.

"You've known me since I was two, though. You knew me when I was an innocent little kid who didn't have to worry about who has the nitroglycerin this week. I killed one man before I even knew his name! I didn't even know his name, Francis! He had photo evidence and he was going to the Gestapo. And…and I took him out to the river, put a bullet in his head and kicked him over the bridge." Basch looked up at the pale moon, feeling tears catch at the corners of his eyes. "It was so simple. And that's how it was with Roderich tonight, I thought that I'd do a hit-and-run. It would be a simple and clean murder. I was perfectly fine with killing another man!"

"And aren't you glad you didn't?" Francis asked.

"I…I don't even know what I believe. One moment I'm thinking it's the right thing, and the next I feel like I should turn myself in. I don't know shit about Roderich – he could be the nicest person in Vienna and I still would've shot him right there. And I guess that's what's really getting to me, is that all these people I've killed weren't just pawns, they were real people, real bloody people," Basch choked, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "They were humans, with real families and real lives. And I didn't know anything about them, except that they were a threat to me. Maybe if I'd gotten to know them, I wouldn't have…" he trailed off, letting his tears say everything for him.

"Oh, Basch," Francis said softly, pulling him into a hug. "Don't cry. You're just fine as you are now."

"No, no I'm not! I'm a monster! I'm a killer!" Basch cried out to the darkness.

"I don't think you're a monster. You've made some poor decisions, but who hasn't? And this is coming from the man who's been married three times in the past year."

"You've never killed someone! You've never stood there and looked at a dead body and thought 'I just did that!' You've never come home with blood on your shirt and boots and had your sister see you washing blood off of your arms! And all this because I'm trying to help people! I'm just trying to save whoever I can and I end up killing." Basch looked up at Francis, looking like he could fall apart. "I'm just trying to help. And all I can do is hurt. Face it, I'm doing more harm with the Resistance. I should just stay out of it all."

Francis couldn't think of a good counterargument. He only held Basch, providing the shred of support Basch needed in his life. For years Basch had done nothing but hold up other people; Lilli, the families that came through the Underground, even Francis.

And now he needed someone to support him more than ever.

"Can I tell you something, but you have to promise not to tell anyone?" Basch asked quietly.

"I wouldn't tell a soul."

Basch took a shaky breath. "I'm…I'm scared. I'm scared for Lilli's sake, I'm scared for yours, I'm scared for my own. I don't want anything to happen to my family. I don't want any of you to get hurt because of me. That's why I smoke – all the fear builds up to the point where I can't take it, and I need something to take my mind away from everything. I try to act like I'm strong, but really I'm just as afraid as anyone else."

"It's perfectly fine to be scared. Do you think Hitler isn't afraid that his whole campaign could fall to pieces if America joins the war? And what about the soldiers going off to war? I don't think every single one of them is brave. Everyone's terrified of something. The difference between people who stay scared for the rest of their lives and the strong ones is that the strong ones don't let their fears hold them back. They leave them so far behind that they can never catch up."

"My fear's already ahead of me," Basch said.

"I don't think so. Would someone who's afraid go out and blow up bridges for fun?" Francis asked with a half-hearted laugh.

"I guess not…" Basch looked down at the stone steps, the look in his eyes telling Francis he was really thinking. "Hey, would you tell me about who Roderich really is?"

"If you want me to," Francis said, letting Basch go. "I mean, you know me. I tend to ramble."

Basch shrugged. "We have all the time in the world."

"Don't say I didn't warn you. So, I like to think Roderich has two sides – the von Wolffe that I created, and Edelstein. Von Wolffe is just who you expect him to be; gentlemanly, strong-willed, a bit of a charmer, intellectual. This is the side he puts on for Hitler and his men, because it's what they want to see out of their citizens. I wrote him that way, knowing the Nazis would eat him up.

"But then there's Edelstein, his real personality," Francis continued. "Roderich Edelstein is a total catastrophe of emotions and fear, he's rather hopeless, lonely, and sometimes woefully desperate. He is scared every minute he's awake, thinking someone's going to find out about his Jewish family. And he's also gentle, talented, loving, careful, and more selfless than any man I've ever met. He'd take a bullet for a stranger.

"And Edelstein listens. He hangs on to every word you say, like it's your final one. Not only does his listen to people, but to the world around him. To Edelstein, everything is music. That's why he listens so close to everything, to see if it's music he could borrow for his own. I think he hears things differently than we do. Sometimes he'll stop talking just to focus on the sound of a car engine or the wind, and suddenly he has his little book out, writing a new piece. I can remember one time we were talking about an air raid, and he said, 'Those sirens are in the wrong key. They should try F major, it would fit much nicer.'"

Francis looked over at Basch, at his green eyes searching the sky for something he was never going to find, the glowing end of his cigarette, the way his blond bangs fell into his eyes. He'd never thought of his cousin as being afraid – he was the one to bring home snakes and get into fights. But just like Roderich, Basch had another side, one most people didn't get to see.

"Air raid sirens in the key of F major," Basch said to himself as he threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. "Sounds fancy."

"Oh, darling, those sirens are playing in the most atrocious key!" Francis mocked an aristocrat's whiny voice, sticking his nose up in the air.

"They should change to F major," Basch added in the same obnoxious voice.

Francis couldn't help but smile. "It would be simply marvelous in F major. Then, while the Brits are trying to murder us, we could think of all the wonderful dances we could be having."

"Wait here," Basch said, standing up and disappearing into the house. Moments later, he returned with a record player and a few records tucked under his arm. In a matter of seconds, a scratchy waltz floated through the night.

"May I have this dance?" Basch asked, holding out his hand.

"Oh, my, getting a little romantic, are we?"

Basch smiled. "For now, we're celebrating. We have the Führer's favourite alcoholic musician locked up in my basement and there's nothing the world can do about it. That deserves some sort of reward, other than crying and talking about the war."

"What a rebel," Francis said, taking Basch's hand. "I do love myself a bad boy."

Elizabeta watched as the searchlights ran across the bedroom wall, illuminating the mint green paint with a sharp yellow. She'd gotten so accustomed to the lights that she knew exactly when they were going to flood through the windows again, bleeding through the curtains. Every night she watched those lights until she fell asleep in Gilbert's arms.

She glanced over at the sleeping Prussian, a little smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Gilbert was nothing short of a Casanova, however, when he was asleep, he was somehow more charming. Perhaps it was because she could see Gilbert as he truly was – innocent and young. Working all day made him seem so much older, so much more mature, a totally different man from who Elizabeta fell in love with.

Her Gilbert was in love with the whole thought of war. It was the Prussian blood running through his veins, the same his ancestors had spilled in their numerous wars. Gilbert lived for the adrenaline rush of a battle, for the smell of gunpowder and the rumbling of panzers. He loved to tell his war stories in vivid detail, describing every minute thing about the battlefield. His favourite to retell was the invasion of Poland, about the feeling that swarmed over him when he stepped across the border.

"It was raw power," he would say, crimson eyes gleaming with a long buried exhilaration. "All at once, I realized no one could stop me. I was a scrawny little captain, but that day, I was the whole Wehrmacht. In my body was everything – the Heer, the Kreigsmarine, and the Luftwaffe."

He was so confident, so cocky, so sure of himself that he didn't see the grenade.

Elizabeta couldn't forget the day she got the notice about Gilbert being seriously injured in a skirmish with the Polish resistance. That was the day she left Roderich for good, leaving him nothing but a short goodbye note and her wedding ring. She took everything she felt she owned with her, packing up the letters she'd secretly exchanged with Gilbert, promises of meetups and when his next leave was.

All the way to the hospital on the German-Polish border, she wondered how a one-night stand had gotten so out of control. Gilbert Beilschmidt was her biggest mistake. And yet, Elizabeta was willing to leave her husband of five years for a colonel she'd met one lonesome night in Vienna. There was something about Gilbert that Roderich didn't have, something called adventure. He was an accident, sure, but he was an adventure. A bold, beautiful, different, electrifying escapade.

The man that greeted her at the hospital was not that adventurous colonel she remembered from the sinful nights. He was shattered. Physically, he couldn't hear out of his right ear, stitches ran up and down his body, and his right leg was in total ruins, thankfully intact. But something inside of him was broken when he was told he couldn't return to battle. A little piece of him died the day he was given his new orders for Stalag XVIII-A.

Now he wasn't running through fields of wheat with a rifle in hand, he was organizing reports. Gilbert stood at the fence every time a panzer division came by, watching with empty eyes and a sad smile. He wanted to be part of the world beyond the fence so badly, to run and shout and live again. Behind all the razor wire and guard towers, Elizabeta could see that he felt like a caged animal, begging to be set free.

"Oh, Gilbert," she whispered, putting a hand to the man's face. She could feel the scars under her fingers, subtle reminders of the life once lived. "What am I ever going to do with you?"

Gilbert's mouth twitched into a smile, the same grin he'd given her that first night in Vienna.

"Someday you'll get to go fight your war. They'll get desperate, start searching for cute colonels to raise hell in Russia," Elizabeta said, kissing his forehead. "And you'll give them all the hell they want."

She closed her eyes, thinking of how animated Gilbert got when listening to the news. He'd yell things back at the announcer, cheer, bring up war stories, and –

Crash!

Elizabeta instinctively reached for the gun she kept in the gap between the bed frame and the mattress, holding it up with shaky hands. Her heart pounded in her chest as she scanned the shadows of the room, half-expecting a pair of eyes and to be looking back.

"S-s-sorry, sir – I mean, sorry, I-I-Ivan," a stifled voice said in perfect Russian.

"Why don't you make some more noise?" Ivan snarled.

Elizabeta took a deep breath – it wasn't an intruder, but another one of Ivan's raids. And he must've dragged Toris along for the ride. Only a thin wall separated the bedroom and the actual office, meaning Elizabeta could hear anything that went on in the other room. What was he looking for this time? Cigars? Money? Papers? His final bit of sanity? Whatever it was, she was going to have to stop it yet again. Gilbert could sleep through anything, and Ivan's break-ins were no exception.

She got out of bed, keeping the gun at her side. Sometimes Ivan was armed; she didn't want him to have any advantage on her. Elizabeta slipped into the front room, going over to the door that connected their "home" to the office. Silently, she inched open the door, looking into the darkness. The searchlights went by right on schedule, outlining the two men huddled by the safe. Toris had his ear pressed to the lock, twisting it carefully, while Ivan sat next to him, talking quietly. On the floor were the remains of an ashtray, gleaming in the moonlight.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get so mad," Ivan said. Thank God Gilbert made her learn Russian – without it, she'd be completely lost. "I just really don't want to get caught on this one."

"I understand. I mean, with the papers they could unlock everything about Edelstein. And I had to go be dumb and break things," Toris replied.

Oh, my God, how do they know about Roderich? Elizabeta said to herself, feeling the guilt rise in her throat. What are they going to do with those papers, turn him in? No, if those papers were the key to Roderich, Gilbert would've already handed them to the Gestapo. So, if they aren't trying to get him caught…are they protecting him?

"Who would've thought a Russian would own his life to some pathetic Jew?" Ivan turned to Toris, dark eyes that were so painfully similar to Roderich's watching the man work. "Of all the people in this wretched world, why me?"

"I don't know. But still, I think it's nice you're doing this for him." Toris pulled his head away from the safe, putting in the combination. Both Ivan and Elizabeta waited with bated breath as the lock clicked and the door swung open.

"Thank you, Toris." Ivan grabbed a folder from the depths of the safe, pushing the door closed. He looked at the folder for a moment before pulling Toris into a hug. "Thank you so much, little one."

"I'm just doing what's right," Toris said numbly, too startled to say much more.

Ivan opened the folder, flipping through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. "He won't be needing this anymore," he said as he ripped it out, grabbing the cigarette lighter from Gilbert's desk. A tiny flame flared up in the dark room, eating away at the page. Ivan watched it burn until the fire was licking at his fingers, and then threw it on the ground and smothered the remains.

He stood up, going over to the open window. "You're so perfect, Toris. I shouldn't have ever dragged you into this with me."

"Oh, no, sir, I'm glad I'm in the army," Toris shot back all too quickly to be honest. "I wouldn't have met my brothers without it."

"You don't mean it. I should've just left you alone, gone back home. But this isn't the time to talk about that," Ivan added.

"It isn't."

The two froze, neither of them wanting to turn and face the inevitable. For an eternity they stood in the silence, waiting for someone to make the first move. Finally, Ivan groaned and threw the folder down on the ground, turning on his heels to face Elizabeta. "Well, look who decided to show up. I suppose you're going to report us to your husband?" he growled, stomping his boot down on the report.

"Gute Nacht, Frau Beilschmidt," Toris said shyly, looking down at his feet. He always was one of the humbler prisoners. "I'm so sorry if we woke you up."

"Why aren't you stammering?" Elizabeta dared to ask, walking over to the second lieutenant. Something was deathly wrong with Toris if he wasn't stuttering or trembling in the face of danger. Even something like someone shouting was enough to make him shake – so why wasn't he doing it now?

Toris smiled. "I'm not scared."

Before she knew what was happening, Toris had her pinned to the ground with a knife at her throat. She started to scream, but Toris clamped his hand over her mouth. He tore the pistol from her hand, tossing it to Ivan. The colonel nodded approvingly, grabbing the folder from the floor and walking over to Elizabeta.

"My, my, this must be terribly embarrassing," he scoffed, giving her a nudge in the side. "Getting held to the ground by one of my weakest and unthreatening men? No offense, Toris."

"None taken."

Ivan knelt down next to Elizabeta, thumbing through the folder. "This is all we wanted. A simple report on Roderich von Wolffe. No harm to you. But you just had to go and put up a fight," he said, shaking his head. "And now you're at Toris' mercy."

"Let me tell you a secret, Frau Beilschmidt." Toris leaned in so close Elizabeta could smell the warm, earthy scent of a field that clung to his uniform. "I. Am. Absolutely. Insane," he whispered, enunciating every word perfectly.

Elizabeta couldn't do anything to defend herself but shake her head.

"Oh, yes, I am mad. Something inside of me snapped a long time ago. Maybe it was seeing my family be dragged away to the gulags. Or perhaps seeing Nazis rip up my village." Toris gave her another grin. "And when people threaten what I love, I get rather defensive."

"Don't do anything you might regret, little one," Ivan ordered, going over to the window and swinging one leg out.

"I'm just planning to scare her, sir. Maybe a cut here or there."

"Well, I'll see you at roll call, then. Thanks for the gun, Lizzie. I'll return it when I get the chance." Ivan jumped out of the window, leaving Elizabeta with just Toris. He checked over his shoulder to see if Ivan was gone, and then immediately backed off of Elizabeta, putting the knife back in his uniform. She backed far away from the madman, pressing her back to the wall.

"Oh, m-m-my God, are y-y-you alright?" Toris asked, pulling away from the woman. "I d-d-didn't hurt you?"

"…What? Didn't you just want to kill me a moment ago?!"

Toris took a shaky breath to calm his stutter before answering. "I didn't want to kill you, and I never want to. But Colonel told me to get aggressive, and you were threatening him, so I had to do something. I didn't mean to scare you."

"What did you think you were going to do when you put a knife to my neck?!"

"Again, I really am sorry," Toris said, looking down at the floor shamefully. "I was just doing what was necessary. You're not going to tell the commandant, are you? And please, don't say anything about the knife. I know I'm not supposed to have it, but I paid good money for it and what else can I use to carve with?"

Elizabeta couldn't think of a reply. Was she really going to tell Gilbert? Yes, Ivan's office raids did need to be stopped and if Gilbert interfered there would be a better chance of them coming to an end, but at the same time, she was protecting Roderich's secret. It was a question of loyalty – would it be Roderich or Gilbert? Either way could end horribly.

"I'll let you go," Elizabeta said before she could stop herself. She didn't know why she chose Roderich – maybe after betraying him so much, the least she could do was keep his secret safe.

"Danke, Frau Beilschmidt."

"How do they say thank you in your language?" she asked, looking up at Toris. She'd known the man for so long, yet knew nothing about him other than his name. "I know you're not a Russian. Your voice is different."

"My language?" he said with a smile. "Oh, God, I haven't spoken my language in years. Ačiū, Frau Beilschmidt. Thank you."

"What language is that?"

Toris shook his head. "It's a secret. As far as you know, I am a loyal Russian citizen."

Ludwig marched up the steps to Gestapo Headquarters, balancing a box full of new files as he unlocked the door. Once inside, he blinked a few times to get his eyes adjusted to the void that was the hallway. Already he was imagining a killer lurking in the shadows with a knife, ready to slit Ludwig's throat as an act of revenge. Over the short month he'd been in Vienna, he'd made plenty of enemies. At least one had to want vengeance bad enough to wait all night in Gestapo Headquarters.

Taking a deep breath, he locked the door behind him and began the maddening walk to his office. He couldn't turn on the lights – it was early in the morning and the few men they were temporarily holding wouldn't take kindly to being suddenly blinded – so he had to walk in total darkness. Headquarters was a different place in the dark, and Ludwig was ashamed to admit that he was absolutely terrified of it. Even the click of his boots on the tile was enough to make his heart race.

"Good morning," a voice hissed from the shadows of a cell, making Ludwig immediately tense up. "What are you doing here so early?"

"Ja, do you have something for us?" another man asked.

"It's none of your business," Ludwig growled, walking as fast as he could without running towards his office. Once he was there, he could actually breathe again. The savages they kept locked up were normally pitiful – but they had an advantage in the dark.

"He's scared, isn't he?"

"Oh, absolutely terrified."

"I can't believe they're letting men like him run the police force."

Ludwig turned on his heels, looking into the pitch black for the wolfish eyes of a convict. "I am not scared of you. Shut up."

"Prove it."

"I don't have to prove anything to you," Ludwig huffed, fishing his keys from his pocket. He shoved the one labeled "office" into the lock.

"You're afraid of me, aren't you?" the devilish voice called. "You think I'm some sort of beast? That I might suddenly break through the cell and rip out your throat?"

"I am not scared of a lowly criminal like you."

"I don't believe you."

Ludwig put the box of files down, going over to the cell on the wall. He could barely make out the shape of a man against the wall, silhouetted by moonlight. "You should be the one afraid right now," he snarled, putting his hand on his gun. "I'm all alone in Headquarters. I could kill you right now and claim it was an act of self-defense. My superiors wouldn't even blink."

"But you won't kill me," the man laughed. "You're scared to kill people."

"And just where did you find that out?"

The silhouette shrugged. "I've been around, Ludwig Beilschmidt. Three weeks ago, you found my friend hiding a family of Jews. You got into a big fight with him, pinned him to the wall with a gun at his head. You said you were going to kill him right there. But you couldn't pull the trigger. Face it, you may pretend to be a cold Gestapo man, but you have too big of a heart."

"I wanted your friend to suffer," Ludwig shot back, his voice much weaker than it was moments ago. "If I would've killed him, it would've been a quick and easy end."

"Right. Stop lying to yourself. You're scared, Ludwig. You're afraid of killing someone. You don't want to live with that guilt for the rest of your life. Well, let me tell you a secret. Once you put a bullet in someone's head, it doesn't seem all that bad. The first one is always the hardest. Take it from an expert; I shot my first man when I was eleven. And I've got seven more under my belt."

"Which is exactly why you're being transferred to Mauthausen," Ludwig snapped, feeling an all new anger rise in his chest. This man was treating Ludwig like he was a child – and while Ludwig knew he was correct about most things he'd said, that didn't give him the right to talk so freely.

"I don't care. I'd rather be a dead man than a scared man," he said.

"And I'd rather be alive than be condemned as a murder and worked to death," Ludwig replied, turning his back on the man. "It's been a pleasure talking to you."

"Same. If I make it through this damned war, you should come visit me. Maybe I can teach you how to really kill someone."

"You're not going to make it out of this alive," Ludwig growled in a low voice, unlocking his office door. He grabbed the box of files from where he'd left it, looking over his shoulder for one last glance at the silhouette. "You're going to rot in Mauthausen. And I won't feel an ounce of sympathy."

"Good, I wasn't expecting any," the man hissed.

"Have fun working until you die." And with that, Ludwig slipped into his office and slammed the door. The temporary prisoners were quite possibly the most irritating men Vienna had to offer. They seemed to be unafraid of being beaten or shot for what they said, so they loved to call out anyone who walked down the hall.

They've all lost their will to live, Ludwig said to himself, going over to his desk. And I don't blame them. But to tell me I have a good heart? Does he even know who he's talking to? If I'd been the one to interrogate him, he wouldn't dare to move around me.

Then again, I couldn't kill that man. I could've ended his life right there, and I didn't. He looked so desperate, so achingly desperate. Maybe I really do have too big of a heart. But how can you look someone in the eyes and kill them? How can someone watch someone else's life slip away? I may be mean, but I'm not that cruel. I can't even think of the guilt that weighs down on you, knowing you took someone's life. I really ought to get over that.

It's probably a good thing I didn't go into combat.

Ludwig sighed, grabbing one of the new files. Thinking about murder wasn't going to get work done. He opened the cover of the folder, looking at the photo stapled to the left corner. The boy in the picture didn't look like he could be a criminal, with his doe eyes and bright smile. Everything about him was sweet and soft, not like the usual hardened convicts.

"Captain Feliciano Vargas," he read aloud, looking from the name to the photo. "It certainly fits. Convicted of…deserting?" Ludwig asked himself, rereading the lines where criminal offenses were labeled. Sure enough, deserting was listed.

Is that a crime now? I mean, if the kid wants out of the army, let him out. He looks like he six. And he's much too pretty to die at the hands of some madman.

…Pretty? Good God, Ludwig, you've got to start getting more sleep.

He signed his name on the bottom of the page, slamming the file closed and opening a new one. The picture in this one was nearly identical to Feliciano's, only this man had a bit darker hair. And he certainly wasn't as cheery, looking like he probably could kill someone without a second thought.

"Lovino Vargas, convicted of inciting a riot," he said as he signed his name at the bottom of the page. "What is even going on in Italy?"

Ludwig was about to grab another folder when the door to the office was suddenly slammed open, Hochstetter standing in the doorway barefoot and holding his jacket, boots, and tie. He looked like he'd just woken up, blond hair still tousled and face unshaven.

"Beilschmidt! You are never going to guess what happened last night!" Despite it being seven in the morning on a Monday, Hochstetter was smiling. Once again, he was way too cheery for the circumstances of being a Gestapo man, his grin and unkempt appearance making him look more like a young boy than a fully grown dangerous kriminalkomissionar.

"Sir, I don't have the time to play games," Ludwig muttered, figuring Hochstetter had something completely useless to say.

He came over to Ludwig's desk, slamming his hand down on the polished oak. "I know exactly how we're going to get to Zwingli!"

"That's nice," Ludwig said absently, carrying on with the criminal files. He'd grown used to tuning out Hochstetter's rambling, so used to it that he didn't even realize what the man said.

"Did you hear me? Basch Zwingli?"

Ludwig glanced up for a second. "What about Zwingli?"

"Not only did I confirm Roderich von Wolffe is an alcoholic," Hochstetter carried on proudly. "But, he is tied directly to Basch Zwingli."

"…Are you serious?"

Hochstetter nodded overenthusiastically. "I was at a bar on the edge of town last night, and I swear to the Führer himself that I saw von Wolffe come in, totally drunk. He was talking with the owners, and they acted like it was normal for him to be wasted. Then, Zwingli came in with his sister. He ended up taking von Wolffe out to the alley, where I guess he must've passed out, because some blond man who was also with them ended up carrying Roderich to a car."

"Was his hair around shoulder length and curly?" Ludwig asked, barely able to contain the excitement in his voice. He'd been working on arresting Basch ever since he came to Vienna – and he'd finally found his key.

"Ja. Do you know him?"

"That's Christian Kleiner, Zwingli's cousin."

"Oh, right, I have some things for you!" Hochstetter held up his jacket, shoving his hand in one of the pockets and removing two photographs. "Look at this!"

Ludwig took one of the photos from his hand, examining the little scene before him. Just as Hochstetter said, Ludwig could tell Roderich was drunk from the way he was leaning on Basch and his stupid smile. It didn't appear like Basch hated the man and wanted to stab him – he looked as irritatingly confident as he always did.

The second picture was outside of Basch's home, with Lilli holding the front door open, Basch keeping watch from the porch with a pistol in hand, and Christian carrying Roderich bridal-style. It all seemed so natural for them; no one looked concerned, no one seemed to be in a hurry, and Christian was even smiling. They weren't strangers who happened to run into each other.

"I'm pretty good with a camera, huh?" Hochstetter asked, taking the photos and two pushpins from Ludwig's desk. He went to the map on the wall, pinning them in the corner. "Now, all we have to do is find Roderich one night and interrogate. He's going to tell us everything."

"I just can't believe you found them all at once. Of all the places to be in Vienna," Ludwig said, pushing the files aside. "How did they all meet up?"

"I have no idea. The stars must've aligned perfectly for me. That or they arranged it all." Hochstetter sat down in the chair in front of Ludwig's desk usually reserved for criminals. "So, what have you got for plans?"

"Didn't you say you had plans? You knew exactly how to get to Zwingli?"

Hochstetter shifted uncomfortably. "I didn't really have anything. I was hoping you'd shove your plan in my face first."

"Sir, even though you don't act like it, you still are my superior officer," Ludwig said. "I wouldn't do something like that."

"Oh, right, sorry," he apologized half-heartedly, pulling on his boots. "I forget sometimes, since you're only a few months younger than me."

"Now, about the plans." Ludwig looked over the papers scattered on his desk, trying to find one good idea in the lot. "I think our best bet is to find von Wolffe when he's already drunk. Inviting him to go drink would lead him to be overly suspicious, and he likely wouldn't trust us enough to the point of drinking himself senseless. I don't want to ruin any ties I might have with him."

"Right. So, do we put men at bars and wait? That seems too time consuming."

"I was planning on studying his patterns to find the bar he visits most often. And even then, once we find out where we're going to find him, we still have to figure out when."

"That's easy," Hochstetter said, leaning back in his chair. "You said he had a concert last Saturday, right? And he was drunk on Sunday. All we have to do is find out about his next concert."

"Guten Morgen," Francis said as Basch came into the kitchen, disregarding the glares his cousin was giving him. "How did you sleep?"

"Don't go being all friendly with me. I didn't even invite you here, and yet here you are at my table, taking up my space," Basch snapped, sitting down opposite of the man. He seemed to have no memories of the night before, acting as hostile as ever.

Francis smiled – he should've know the kindness wouldn't last. "Well, aren't you just a ray of sunshine? And by the way, you're completely out of eggs. Don't you ever go shopping?"

"I was planning on doing it today, but you had to drag Hitler's favourite drunk musician into my house. And who gave you the right to go through my things? If you want something to eat, you're going to work for it!" Basch slammed his hand down on the table to emphasize his point, which did absolutely nothing to scare Francis.

"Why, I thought you would have it in you to share," Francis said. "After all, we are beloved cousins. Now, we need to talk about the state of our prisoner."

"He hasn't destroyed anything, has he?" Basch asked, thinking of all the damage that could be done in his basement. "Because, I will make him pay for everything and more."

"Oh, no. I've been up with him since six this morning when he started pounding on the door like a madman and you didn't do a thing. To give you a brief summary, he panicked when he woke up in your cellar and spent a good twenty minutes screaming at me to let him go, and then I got him calmed down and I told him everything he did last night, but didn't explain the whole Underground mishap. After that he spent the next two hours complaining about literally anything, and now he's spent the past thirty minutes sobbing and throwing up in your bathroom. So, I've been through hell and back this morning while you were sleeping."

Basch didn't say anything for a long time. And when he finally did speak, all he said was, "You know that you're not supposed to let prisoners walk around free, right?"

"I felt bad for him. After all, he's hungover and I didn't make things any better with the gun."

"What are we even going to do with him? He's nothing more than a drunkard who happens to be up there with the Führer." Basch got up, going over to the stove and grabbing the pot of coffee Francis had made. "And if my personal Gestapo agent comes over again and we've got the Roderich von Wolffe-Edelstein here with us whining about how he was held against his will in a basement for hours, he'll finally have something to convict me of and drag me off to Mauthausen."

"Again with the optimism! How do you stay so cheery, my little hedgehog?" Francis asked.

"Don't call me 'hedgehog' ever again."

"I can't help myself," Francis said with a mocking grin, reaching over and tugging at Basch's shirt. "You're just so prickly."

"That doesn't make me a hedgehog!" Basch swatted his hand away, obviously restraining himself from grabbing a kitchen knife and throwing a dead body down in the cellar.

"Oh, you're just no fun at all. Come on, hedgehog, laugh a bit! We have an acclaimed musician as our prisoner, which could very easily get us arrested on multiple charges! Even better, he probably doesn't trust any of us, even me," Francis sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We're on a thin line between life and death, Basch. If that Gestapo man you've told me about comes by, we are all getting shipped straight to a concentration camp, including Roderich. But at the same time, we could sell him out while he's still here. And then again, that would be basically asking for my own death."

Basch shrugged, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Well, shit, that just makes everything seem better. We need to come to an agreement with him, now. He can blackmail me; I can blackmail him right back. If he agrees not to talk, I won't talk."

"…You've already made him hate you, hedgehog. Roderich is selfless, but when someone puts a gun to your head, would you try to save their life? He'll go straight to the Gestapo, even if he says he'll keep his end of the deal. I've worked with him since 1933, and he will do almost anything to save himself, even though he's suicidal. Quite contradicting quirks, don't you think?"

"Oh, great, he's going to go behind my back and tell the Gestapo? And then he's going to kill himself?" Basch slammed the mug down on the counter, storming off for the door. "Well, two can play at this game. You keep him here," he ordered, throwing the door open. "If Ludwig – the Gestapo man – shows up, lead him straight to that bastard and tell him everything. I am not going to let some bipolar man get my family arrested."

"Will you stop and think about this rationally?" Francis snapped. Basch stopped, looking over his shoulder at his cousin.

"I'm thinking a lot more rationally than you are at this point," he snarled. "You're treating Roderich like he didn't just ruin the entire operation last night. We could all be in a jail cell right now, and you don't think turning him in first is a good idea?!"

"Do you even realize what is going to happen if you tell the Gestapo? Firstly, I doubt anyone will believe you, seeing as you're getting the shit beat out of you in their offices every week. And then you have to remember Roderich is tied directly to me. If you say something, they'll trace it right back to yours truly." Francis motioned to himself, pushing blond curls from his eyes. "And then I'll be dead. Won't you feel simply awful?"

Basch rolled his eyes and came back inside, letting the door slam shut behind him. He was just too easy to manipulate – he cared for his little family in Vienna far more than he was willing to admit.

Basch snatched his coffee off of the counter, sitting back down at his spot opposite Francis. The Frenchman couldn't help but smile at how concerned Basch really was. "I'm not doing this for you," he growled, face growing red with a glance at Francis' grin. "I just don't want him to snitch on me."

"Right. And you also didn't think I was a girl until you were six," Francis said.

"That's your own damn fault for keeping your hair so long!" Basch grabbed the nearest thing, a spoon, and threw it at the Frenchman. Francis caught the spoon mid-air and tossed it into the sink, sticking out his tongue.

"What are you, still six?" Basch asked.

"Probably. Speaking of children, can you remember the summer you spent with me in Paris?"

Basch sighed loudly, looking like he could use another spoon to throw. "And you thought it was absolutely hilarious to push me in the river? Ja, I remember walking home soaking wet quite well."

"That wasn't the part I was thinking of, but that was a good one on my part," Francis said with a bit of a laugh in his voice. "I was thinking of when I taught you the wonders of blackmail. And now here we are, fifteen years later, going right back to blackmail to save ourselves."

"It was with that kid, Jean? And we caught him stealing from the newspaper man when we were trying to steal from the man. You…oh, God, I can't believe I'm going to say this." Basch ran a hand through his hair as if to mentally prepare himself. "You were actually really smart, making that kid give us half of his earnings. I can't believe he didn't realize he was getting the short end of the stick."

"You called me smart?" Francis asked, too stunned to say anything else. "And you honestly meant it! Basch Martin Luther Zwingli thinks I'm smart!"

"Whoever is shouting can go kill themselves right now."

Francis looked up at the hungover musician, feeling all the liveliness fade from the room with him. "I see you're better now."

"So you're the one who kidnapped me?" Roderich said without so much as a glance Francis' way, going straight to Basch. "Rather short for my tastes." He paused for a moment, looking over the Swiss carefully. "Oh, I remember you. You're the one the Gestapo wanted for the vandalism, aren't you? Zwingli?"

Basch crossed his arms, refusing to make eye contact with Roderich. "And you're the one that told on me? You're a shit scapegoat, von Wolffe." The corners of Basch's mouth flicked up into a smug grin. "Or should I say, Edelstein?"

"You know, I normally would've tried to strangle you, but at this point I feel so dead on the inside I don't think I can do anything," Roderich said, sitting down at the table with them. He put his head down, looking over at Francis pathetically. "Was it really necessary to knock me out?"

"It's much easier to handle people when they're out," Basch answered for Francis. "Especially whiny musicians who shouldn't interfere in other people's business."

Roderich sighed and closed his eyes. "Of all the people I would think to be involved in the Underground, I never would've guessed you would be, Francis. And certainly not in a close relationship with that bastard," he said, motioning to Basch.

"This bastard is about ready to bury you out back with a bullet in your head. Don't go talking shit about me when you're a bloody worthless Jew –"

"Alright, since I can see that I'm going to be stuck with you for a while longer, let's get something straight," Roderich quickly interjected. "Hello, my name is Roderich Edelstein, yes, my father was a Jew, no, my mother was not, and yes, I was partially raised as a Jew. However, I am twenty-five now and can make my own decisions about what sort of life I want to follow. Surprise, I am no longer Jewish. Now, if you could keep your anti-Semitic insults and comments to yourself, that would be great."

"Since we seem to be introducing ourselves now, I'm Basch Zwingli. Say a word to me about my height again and I'll cut you. I am in the Underground, in a subsect called Vienna's Angels. I have ruined seventeen bridges and roadways, sent twenty-eight families to Switzerland, and delivered several important documents to England by way of my guns. The girl you were talking to last night, Lilli, is my adopted sister, and if you lay a finger on her you can say goodbye to everything you've ever loved. And that suave son of a bitch over there is my cousin," Basch added, gesturing to Francis.

Roderich sat upright again, holding out his hand. Basch grudgingly took it. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Basch. I'm glad it was you that kidnapped me and not some normal psychotic human."

A/N: Whoops, this chapter really got out of hand. Again, I'll try and keep this short and sweet.

Heer, Krigsmarine, Luftwaffe - the German army, navy, and air force, in that order. The Waffen-SS was also in there. Collectively called the Wehrmacht, each section had much more men than the Treaty of Versailles allowed. They controlled 3,898,000 square kilometers of Europe, which is a hell of a lot of land. They lost 11,300,000 men by the end of the war, most killed in action.

Thank you to idrinkwaterjuicesoda, everythingisdragons, Abc, CaptainAzenor, TrefleV, Swing-Stole-My-Heart, and Comix and Co! You guys are all awesome, and I appreciate the reviews/favourites so much!

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